Passionate about writing and storytelling my whole life, I helped create a critique group several years ago and continue to be actively involved.  I completed my first novel, Bobbing for Watermelons in 2008 which became a finalist in the 2008 Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers Colorado Gold Writers Contest. A short story, “Apartment 3B” was included in the literary anthology, Cacophony. As an illustrator, I combined both art and writing by creating a greeting card company that I owned and operated for ten years.  Currently, I am the Visual Designer for the Northern Colorado Writers Association and part of the Creative Team for their annual writers conference and in 2011, the Pacific Northwest Writers Association asked me to be a judge for their annual writing contest. I am currently working on a nonfiction book about Folsom prison. You can read about it at Folsom’s 93. I live in Colorado with my husband, twelve-year-old son, and each day, I make time to write and read the works of authors everywhere.

Read an excerpt from “Apartment 3B”:

Apartment 3B will forever be etched into your brain—the gray door at the other end of hall with the gold number and letter.  You’ll think of it every time you count, and automatically say “B” after three instead four and whenever anyone mentions anything about an apartment, you’ll think of it.
As you sit on the floor in your own apartment down the hall, surrounded by boxes, because it’s moving day for you, you’re thinking about the occupant of 3B.  You have always thought about the occupant of 3B since you moved in two and half years ago.  He is in fact, the reason you took the dank apartment in the first place.  It’s not because of the lake view, because there isn’t one, or the hardwood floors, because really, it’s just blue shag, but it’s because you saw him carrying groceries into his apartment and he smiled at you as you walked towards your future place with the building super.  You decided then and there to take the apartment, even though you hadn’t seen it yet.  Suddenly, you had visions of little kids dressed like the ones in those Ralph Lauren ads running around, the beach house, the minivan—the whole works in just that brief flash of a smile.
You still haven’t ever talked to him.  There have been so many times that you’ve almost knocked on 3B, but didn’t because of many what ifs, that went through your mind whenever you had the urge to talk to him, and would end up talking yourself out of it.  Every morning and every evening you pass his door because that’s where the stairs are, which you didn’t have to take, because the elevator is two doors down, but there was the chance of bumping into him on your way down the stairs.  You always imagined it in your head happening like that, and you’ll be wearing those tight jeans that your best friend Betsy says slims your thighs, and your hair will be swept up in cute clips like the how the models in Vogue wear them, because you’ll actually be having a good hair day, for once.  But it seemed that the only times he came out when you passed by was late at night when it was laundry night and you’re wearing your ex–boyfriend’s boxer shorts that he left behind by accident and the holey Guns N Roses shirt, along with your oversized, outdated glasses that add ten years to your face.  You just pray that he thought you were just the old lady from down the hall, who really does listen to heavy metal.
One night you both were doing laundry.  He arrived first and was reading Newsweek (which impressed you) and you were grateful that the effort you put into your looks (just in case) may not go unnoticed. Unfortunately, the Pakistani cab driver from 2A, who came in after you was first to notice and now you’ve had to tell him six times to not touch your socks as you fold your clothes.

©2005 April Joitel
Printed in Cacophony