Words by Britt

"While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone." Pablo Nerudo

New short story “Stefan” published by “Red Fez Mag.”

Stefan has a secret he’s learned to live with, but all of that changes when he meets a certain someone one random night in the city.

Read on to learn more about Stefan and a character I brought back from a past story.


https://www.redfez.net Issue:109


Off the Menu: Part I

It’s been a year since I’ve eliminated gluten and dairy from my diet.

Removing both gluten and dairy from my every day routine was not as challenging as some would suspect. Don’t mistaken me, eating clean definitely has its challenges, which I will get into in Part II.  But the transition to omitting the foods that were causing harm to my body, felt like a no brainer.

Let me explain.

When I was nine-years-old, I lost my aunt to breast cancer. She was 42-years-old with a husband and two young boys. Shortly after, my grandmother followed her unfortunate path. She also passed away from breast cancer. At such a young age, cancer and the fear of either dying from it, or losing another loved one because of it, hung over my head like a black cloud. It felt like the women in my family were cursed and it was only a matter of time before the curse caught up to me.

I was twenty-two when I first noticed something off about myself.

At that point in my life, I worked Tuesday – Saturday full time as a hairdresser. I also bartended Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights. Then Sundays and Mondays, I styled hair for a photographer and his models down on 18th and Broadway in NYC. I worked like a mad woman, which was why I ignored the symptoms and changes I was experiencing.

Throughout the day, during random hours, I felt light-headed and nauseas. It felt as if I could pass out or collapse right there on the ground. The only way I felt better was when I would lay down, or eat a hungry man’s portion of food. But day after day, I experienced these symptoms all over again. I felt sick and weak, as if I were slowly withering away.

It wasn’t until three years later, when I was twenty-five-years-old that I decided to see a doctor. And sure enough, my blood work came back abnormal. I was working as a platform artist at the IBS hair show at the Jacob Javas Center when I got the call from my doctor. She told me to leave what I was doing immediately. She informed me to go straight to the pharmacy where she had already filled a prescription. She instructed me to pick it up and take the pill right away.

It turned out I had hypothyroidism, aka, an under active thyroid.

I met with my doctor the day after and learned I would have to take a tiny pill called Synthroid for the rest of my life.

Quick lesson:

The thyroid is a small, butterfly-shaped gland situated at the base of the front of your neck, just below your Adam’s apple. It’s responsible for all aspects of your metabolism, and for maintaining the rate at which your body uses fats and carbohydrates. It helps control your body temperature, influences your heart rate, and helps regulate the production of proteins.

Hypothyroidism results when the thyroid gland fails to produce enough hormones, or in my case, when it fails to work at all.  There are several different reasons why one’s thyroid fails, such as medications, auto immune disease, pregnancy, etc. But none of those reasons applied to me. There is no proof of it being genetic, however several of my family members also suffer from hypothyroidism.

I was not happy about having to be dependent on a pill for the remainder of my days.

I found an endocrinologist, a doctor who specializes in thyroid disease and other things. I went in for blood work every three weeks for him to check my hormone levels to make sure they were up to speed. Thankfully, after six months of tests, the doctor was able to regulate my medication.

When taking the pill, along with a strict exercise routine and better eating habits, I began to feel better. The dizziness and nausea spells subsided but never left for good.

I carried on. In the midst of a busy work schedule, I quit bartending and went back to school as a full-time student. I was tired all the time, which wasn’t anything new. At my yearly endocrinologist appointments for checkups, I would tell my doctor how I felt in terms of tiredness. I would tell him, it felt like I had a small block of energy per day, and then once I exerted that energy, I felt weak and frail with nothing left in me. I had to force myself to keep going. He said, with such a busy schedule, it was natural for me to feel that way. My levels were normal so what else could it be? And so, I trucked on.

Until, the day my aunt approached me with some news. I was twenty-eight. It was fall, my last semester of undergrad. I was in the process of applying to MFA programs. My aunt Rose, my father’s sister. The same aunt who lost her mother and sister, my grandmother and aunt to breast cancer. My warrior Aunt. She’s had cancer at least five times and fought like hell to survive. She has always been my hero, my champion. Not only is she a single mother who raised three strong children, she is the foundation of our family. Our oracle, one with all sorts of knowledge I’m certain one can only learn from the gods. A story teller; my aunt always offers her wisdom, support and direction.

Which was why, that day when she handed me a piece of paper that stated she carried the BRC II mutated gene, I did as she said and took it to my doctor.

Unfortunately, my OBGYN at that time was on the verge of retirement. I can only assume, she was not up to date on the latest BRCA II mutated Gene study. She dismissed the paper I handed her. Told me that because the mutation was on my father’s side, meant I had nothing to worry about.

Boy was she wrong.

And when she retired five years later when I was thirty-three, I was smart enough to hand that same piece of paper to my new doctor, who took the mutated gene that ran in our family seriously. She had me tested that same day. One month later, sure enough, I was also diagnosed with the BRCA II mutation gene.

Quick lesson:

Everyone is born with close to 20,000 genes, which is basically a blue print for your body. For example, genes contain the information that determines the color of your eyes. They also contain information that affects how the cells in your body grow, divide and die. The information in your genes are inherited from both your mother and your father.

In terms of the BRCA gene, every person is born with two copies. One copy from each parent. If one of your parents is a carrier of a mutated gene, then your chance of containing that mutated gene is 50/50. Which is something my first OBGYN should have known off the top of her head.

Each copy of BRCA in your body is there to help repair DNA-breaks that can lead to cancer and the wild growth of tumors. BRCA genes are known as tumor suppressor genes.

But when a gene becomes altered or broken, it doesn’t function correctly. This is called a gene mutation. Also known as BRCA I mutation and BRCA II mutation. I have BRCA II mutation, which means I am at high risk for breast cancer, ovarian cancer, and other things like melanoma and pancreatic cancer.

Most woman have to wait until they turn 40 to get screened for cancer. But because I am now proven to be at high risk, I am cleared for screenings twice a year.

At first, my diagnosis felt like a death sentence. I thought, I was right, the women in my family are cursed. My worst nightmare had come to life. I sat in a chair across from my doctor in her office in a state of terror as she told me to “get my ducks in order.” Start thinking about having children now. She handed me a card with a surgeon’s number on it and told me to consider the double prophylactic mastectomy, explained how I should have my ovaries taken out by age 40. Because 40 is when my chance for cancer peaks.

I have two sisters who I immediately informed of my results and urged to get checked for the mutated gene. One sister came up positive like me, the other sister, negative.

That same month, I had my first breast mammogram and sonogram. I met with a surgeon and saw a genetic counselor, who also suggested I “get my ducks in order.” Talked to me about considering the surgeries since there is an 85% chance of me getting breast cancer in my lifetime, and a 40% chance of ovarian cancer, which believe it or not, ovarian cancer is something they may not be able to detect, even with a screening.

My head was spinning. Thankfully, my screenings came back normal, which gave me time to think. To do my own research and allow all the information to settle.

There’s a community called FORCE – Facing Our Risk of Cancer Empowered. I reached out to a couple of ladies who were eager to share their experiences with me. Both who contained the BRCA II mutation gene.

One lady, in her mid-thirties had gone through with the prophylactic mastectomy – the surgery to remove all your breast tissue to prevent cancer before getting cancer. She said it was the best decision she ever made. For years, she had watched her mother suffer from breast cancer. They wound up curing the breast cancer, but due to the radiation and chemo, her mother developed leukemia and was not able to survive that. She said, having the prophylactic surgery puts her mind at ease.

The second lady from FORCE that I spoke with is a breast cancer survivor. She’s in her early forties and went for her screenings regularly. They caught the cancer early. She underwent chemo and they removed the tumor. And then right after, she had the double mastectomy. She told me that she wished she had gone through with the prophylactic surgery so she could have avoided getting cancer in the first place.

I let both stories sit with me. My family was worried that I was going to make a rash decision. But I knew better. And I never do anything I am half certain of. What I needed was time, and thankfully because of my age, and ongoing screenings, I was granted it.

One thing I came to understand and quickly was that being a carrier of the BRCA II mutated gene did not guarantee I was going to get cancer.

So what could I do to prevent cancer from hijacking my body?

Eat good and exercise, right?

I already did all of that. And I still didn’t feel good. I still got those dizzy/nauseas spells and I was always very tired.

I went back to the doctor and got every test they allowed me to take: CBC, Cardiac diagnostic test, stress test, head MRI, etc. All in which came back normal.

Then what was wrong with me? Something was. I knew it. I felt it.

So finally, I sought out a metabolic specialist and nutritionist.

I sat with him and told him about my symptoms, about my under active thyroid and BRCA II mutation gene. It was clear he knew in-depth knowledge about both. He explained how the food I eat could be effecting the way I felt. How our bodies are built like machines and it’s important to properly maintain the machine/our bodies with the exact care it needed.

We proceeded forward with the tests.

That same day, he called me back in the room and showed me the results.

Indeed, something I was eating was attacking my immune system. Everything on the screen was bright red and flashing “body heading towards critical condition.” Very scary stuff!

We had to figure out what exactly was hurting me and the only way to do that was through the elimination diet. A cleanse.

For a month, I only ate certain meats and vegetables. I was taking a 300 billion milligram pro biotic, drinking a metabolic shake that cleaned out my intestines, along with a powder to put in my water every morning. I stayed clear of gluten, dairy, soy, egg and other things. After a month, we slowly re-introduced one food at a time, gluten, dairy, soy, etc.

Very quickly, it was clear, my body rejected gluten and dairy. Based on those results my doctor suggested we take a biopsy of my intestine to check for celiac disease, but I refused. I had enough surgeries to take into account, I didn’t want another one added to the list.

I would simply avoid eating gluten and dairy. Especially if it decreases my chances of getting cancer.

Quick lesson:

Gluten is a protein that is planted with wheat, barley and rye. It is meant to help foods maintain their shape and act as a sort of glue that holds the food together.

Unfortunately, the proteins in gluten are gut irritants. It’s like a paper cut or a nail digging into the lining of your intestine, which causes inflammatory, discomfort, and many more irritable symptoms.

And also, because gluten is an added ingredient (some would say preservative, cough cough,) added to wheat, barley and rye, which is found in many types of foods, even ones you wouldn’t suspect, people with a gluten sensitivity like me, when consuming it, your body may not recognize the foreign object, or know how to properly break it down to digestion.

That was the case for me. My body had a great deal of trouble digesting gluten and worked on overload to try and process it but couldn’t. So instead, it stored gluten as fat, all while using all of my energy to try and break it down, which in result led to my fatigue.

Dairy is milk, cream, butter, cheese, yogurt. Basically, everything that comes from business organizations established for harvesting and processing animal milk. My body has trouble producing enough Lactase enzymes to break down the Lactose. It doesn’t have the same effect on me as gluten, however, I avoid it at all costs.

You can’t control your body and how it wants to function. But you can control what you feed it. I am lucky that I listened to my gut and kept on top of my doctor about the mutated gene that runs in our family. I am happy I was smart enough to listen to my body and take action when I knew something felt wrong.

And thankfully, I am feeling much better. I have more energy and I no longer get those dizzy spells.

I am grateful for my aunt, Rose. The guardian of our family.

I am grateful for science and for how far we have come.

A year-in-a-half later, I no longer see the mutated gene diagnosis as a death sentence; I see it as a blessing. I think of my late grandmother and aunt, and wish they had the same opportunities offered now. I go for my checkups every six months and when time comes, I will get the surgeries I need to prevent cancer from coming. It scares me to know what lays ahead. But I am at ease when I think of my family, when I think of my grandma and aunt, knowing, I will be brave for them.

Late morning

When you are far away,

farther than home,

and your brightness is fading

like color on leaves:

can you still hear me

calling you?




New Poem Published by “Ground Fresh Thursday Press.”



Reading at the New Rochelle Street Fair 9/10/17



Above the Mark: Part I

Sophomore year in high school there was this teacher, Mr. Martello who taught American literature. He had this energy about him when reading Emily Dickenson or something jarring from Edgar Allen Poe; his eyes would brighten and he’d sway his hands as if conducting an orchestra. He taught me about Emerson’s lead in the transcendentalist movement and Thoreau’s adventures living at Walden Pond. He once handed out a picture of 35-year-old Walt Whitman standing in a field of grass wearing a black-top hat with a hand on his hip. He then spent the entire hour sharing stories about the war and how Whitman sought out hospitals in D.C to help the wounded. And how Whitman was one of the firsts to change the style of poetry, breaking away from traditional formats; no rhyme or meter. Like a man soaring through the sky and flying as if he were a gust of wind, Whitman wrote freely!

I was fascinated with Mr. Martello. Not in a romantic kind of way, but in a way in which I wanted to learn as much as I possibly could from him. Pick his brain and all that.

It was clear, Mr. Martello was cautious about me approaching him every day after class. At first, he always made sure to stand on the opposite side of the desk. He wouldn’t maintain eye contact for too long. And sometimes, he quickly packed his briefcase to shorten our discussion, suggesting he had somewhere else to be.

But as I kept approaching, asking questions about Ezra Pound and imagism and Sylvia Plath’s role in confessional poetry, Mr. Martello eased up, realizing my intentions were strictly platonic and geared only towards learning.


My mother, some would say was sweet and kind and caring, but I knew the real her, and trust me, she was no saint. She was evil. Criminal-like even.

Growing up as the youngest girl of three older brothers was like being raised in a hermitage. While my brothers played football and hockey and were allowed to do whatever they pleased, other than school, I had little contact with the outside world.

After dinner and on weekends, my brothers watched TV or played video games, while my mother made me clean the bathrooms, vacuum the bedrooms, and pick all the weeds out of her garden. She made me set and clear the table and do the dishes every night. She made me make mine and my brothers beds each morning. She only let me watch an hour of TV before having to go to sleep. She let me read, but first she had to make sure what I read was appropriate by her standards. I often daydreamed about my favorite passages from The Bell Jar, The House on Mango Street, and A Farewell to Arms, while being forced to read the slim religious pamphlets and hymnals my mother forced upon me.

It felt like my mother had fastened a tourniquet on my imagination. And after
she refused to let me go to junior prom with Matt Alvey, the leader of the French club who spoke the language beautifully, almost poetically, I had had enough of her. She must be stopped. And since my father never stood up for me, and my brothers barley acknowledged my existence, it was up to me to figure out a way to end this monstrosity so that like Whitman, I too could be wild, carefree and dive head first into the breeze.

It was a Friday after school in June. While all the other girls in my class were at the hair salon getting ready for the dance, and Matt Alvey, who I was sure at the moment was retrieving Becky Silverman’s corsage from The Flower Pot on main street, I pretended to do homework at the kitchen table. But really, I was making a list, coming up with different ways to enact revenge on my mother.

An entire page of my history notebook was dedicated to the things my mother loved. She loved church and all her stupid friends. She loved gardening, all the colorful flowers circling our house. She loved lighting candles, especially the vanilla-smelling ones. She loved styling her hair and bought expensive products she’d never let me use.

The question was this: What did she love so much that it would devastate her if I took it away?

It was just her and I alone in the house that night. Dad was having dinner with my Uncle. Who knew where my brothers were. My mother was upstairs doing God knows what. And I was eating a chunk of cheddar at the table when it came to me:


There was a half-bottle of bleach in the laundry room left over from washing my brother’s sheets last night. Before I could give it a second thought, I dropped the cheese on my plate and ran to retrieve it. Pulling the cabinet doors open, I immediately found the bottle. I read the warning label: Caution – do not drink. If ingested, seek medical attention immediately.

What if I slipped just a little into my mother’s tea? Just a little bit every day. For weeks. Maybe months. What if I didn’t contact any medical help? People die all the time and sometimes no one knows the reason.

I ran into the kitchen with the bleach tucked under my shirt.
“Mom,” I yelled from the bottom of the stairs. “I’m making tea. Do you want some?”         
“Sure. I’ll be down in a few.”

My heart began to beat through my chest loud enough for me to hear it. Grabbing the teapot off the stove, I filled it with water, then placed it over the flame. Reaching into the cabinet, I took out a green mug. I poured some bleach into it, tapping my foot in a frenzy while waiting for the water to boil. Suddenly, I heard the thump of Mom’s feet making their way down the stairs.

I couldn’t do it.
I thought of Esther from The Bell Jar. I kept seeing the image of her body floating atop the water. Her perpetual desire to end her life. I had barely begun mine. I wasn’t ready for it to be over.

As fast as I could with shaky hands, I took the mug and dumped the bleach into the drain. I rinsed the glass with hot water, then filled it with soap, and then rinsed it with hot water over and over again.

By the time my mother made her way into the kitchen, the green mug had been placed in the dishwasher along with the other dirty dishes that needed to be washed.

“Steph,” she said. “What’s wrong? Why are you sweating?”
I turned to her. “I feel sick.”
“Go lay down on the couch,” she said. “Geez, you’re such a burden.”


Above the Mark: Part II

          Today in class Mr. Martello told us all about Margaret Fuller. How she was born in Massachusetts in 1810 to a lawyer/politician father, who’d been disappointed she had not been born a boy. Yet instead of sending Margaret into the kitchen to cook with her mother, or out in the yard to beat-out the rugs, wash clothes and clean glass lanterns; Timothy raised his daughter in his den, homeschooling and educating her with a laborious course study.
          At three-in-a-half-years-old Margaret was reading and writing. At four, she knew arithmetic. Before she reached five, she knew English and Latin grammar. Timothy brought his daughter up to read all sorts of books from ancient history, political philosophy, travel, biographies, novels, all the great European authors and playwrights, and so on.
          He had told Margaret, “To excel in all things should be your constant aim. Mediocrity is obscurity.”
          At age ten, Margaret was learning French. At eleven, she was studying Italian and attending dance school with an exhilarating sense of how alive she really was.

          In the forty years of her short-lived life, Margaret Fuller excelled as an author, editor, journalist, literary critic, educator, advocate to the Transcendentalists, social reporter, women’s rights activist, and political revolutionist.


          It was Friday night and I was stuck home with a list of chores my mother left for me to tend to. Meanwhile my brothers were binge-drinking at the pep-rally for their big game tomorrow. And my parents were out to dinner with their church friends like they were every third Friday of the month.
          I was sitting at the table with my laptop, filling out college applications. My top three choices were: Berkeley, Stanford and Harvard – all three having a concentration in American Literature after 1865. I knew I was ahead of the game, only being in the tenth grade, but I didn’t see the harm in starting the process early. I had the grades to get into any college I wanted. At least that’s what Miss Sherman, my guidance counselor had told me.
          My parents, on the other hand, said they expected me to stay home after graduating high school. Unlike my brothers who were going to North Eastern – all three of them. My parents wanted me to attend community college, get an associate’s degree, then meet a nice guy and marry him. I balled my eyes out right then and there. I told them I wanted to go away to school. They told me, if I left, I’d be on my own. They would offer me no financial help for tuition, or for a place to live.
          But I had a plan. And other than that, Miss Sherman said she’d help too. She was really ticked-off when I told her my parents intended to marry me off at twenty. She’d said, in this day and age? That’s ludicrous. Then her and I sat at the computer and began researching all the different types of grants I could apply for. She said I could probably get a scholarship.
          I glanced at the clock on the microwave: 7:30. I expected my parents’ home after nine. That gave me plenty of time. I slapped my laptop shut and made my way up the stairs to their bedroom. First thing I did was flip the top of their mattress over. I was hoping to find the thick envelope full of cash I’d been skimming off-the-top over the past several months. But this time, when I flipped the mattress over, there was no envelope.          
          The mattress plopped down against the bed. Where could the money be? I began poking around their dressers, looking under piles of folded clothes, rummaging through their sock drawers, their underwear drawers. I still couldn’t find anything.
          I opened the wooden chest below the window. It was full of stacks of photo albums and some clothes. A pair of cut-off jeans with a red heart stitched on the side and the name Nellie sewn in the middle was folded on top of one particular photo album. I reached in, pulling out both the album and shorts.
          I knew Nellie was the sister my mother had lost years ago. I pulled off my jeans, slipped the shorts on to see if they fit. They were a little loose around the waist, but I kept them on anyway. I sat beside the chest and opened the photo album, which was full of pictures of my Aunt Nellie. Her and my mother looked an awful lot like twins. I had to look real close to make sure I could tell them apart.
          Aunt Nellie also looked like a ton of fun. A whole page was full of pictures of her and my mother in flashy scarves, puckering and posing like models into the camera. I peeled a picture off the page to get a closer look. Was this really my mother? I’d never seen her smile that way before. Her lips were red, her eyes wide open, her grin stretched ear to ear. I wondered if she’d be a different mother, a better one if my Aunt Nellie were still alive.
          I continued flipping through the pages, stopping when I got to Grandma Ethel. It was way before the lung cancer caught up to her, and she still had a head full of salt-and-pepper hair. In the picture, she was sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette in her hand, her face scrunched into a sourpuss. She looked like a real bitch. That’s probably where my mother gets it.
          I smacked the album shut and stood to change back into my own jeans. No sooner had I slid them up my legs, I noticed another picture face down on the floor. I leaned over and picked it up. It was a photo of the six of us at the shore. I’d forgotten all about the times my family and I had spent at the beach; we rented a house there every summer. The picture was of us sitting together on a picnic table, barbecuing outside by the water. I’d been sitting on my father’s lap, eating a piece of corn. My brothers sat beside my mother. I remembered being so annoyed with her that day; my brothers being ten-years-old and still, my mother cut their chicken into tiny squares for them to eat. Not much has changed, I thought, as I tossed the photo onto the floor.
          I kicked the chest with my foot, threw myself onto the bed, and screamed into a pillow. I sat up and threw the pillow at the dresser. I jumped off of the bed and ran over to it when I spotted my mother’s jewelry box. If my parents wanted to be sneaky and hide their money from me, I’d just take something else.
          Inside the box I found a row of rings. Slipping one on each of my fingers, I held my hands out in front of me to see which one I liked the most. The silver one with the coral-pink background. The white face of the woman in the foreground. If I remembered correctly, it was the ring Grandma Ethel had given my mother in the hospital before she died. My mother used to wear this ring all the time. She slept with it on, even showered with it. Then one day, out of nowhere, it was no longer on her finger. I thought she might have lost it.
          Well, here it is. And it’s mine now. My mother would be devastated when she couldn’t find it.
          Tomorrow after the game, I’ll have one of my pathetic brothers drop me off in town. I’ll have to pretend to be getting a manicure or something, but then, once he drives away, I’ll switch directions and walk straight to the pawnshop.

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