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Mielikki

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Mielikki 2

Confined

"Everyone has a fear. No not everyone. Every living thing on this planet. Not just on this planet. Billions of galaxies away from Earth there is a creature alive and breathing that fears as we do. It's amazing to marvel at and analyze, it is also one of the few instances where everybody in this world or universe has something in common. We are limited. We are confined. Our potential is shortened by our fears. I used to wish for a world with no fear. Where everyone was free from their shortcomings and we could truly set our mind to do anything we wanted. But now I realize that would unleash complete and utter chaos to our world. Sure plenty of people would try to do good, but there would always be the bad. The bad would be inevitable and unstoppable, like an eager dog ready to attack a squirrel. Taking off its leash would give it the power to snap the squirrel's neck in two. The result is much more gruesome than if the leash was left on and the four-legged pet had admitted defeat as it does now. But I still wonder what it would feel like? To be rid of dread. To never be stopped. To not be confined. That's my fear. Being trapped." "What are you doing with my diary? Give it back!" Liam jumped off the bed and ran off laughing his annoying little head off. With a groan and a grunt, I reluctantly get off the fluffy mattress of sleep and chase him down the stairs. I pant and try to gasp for air as I ran in circles around the kitchen counter. I probably looked like a dog chasing its tail, that's how bad I wanted my diary back. It was supposed to be a private, safe place to confide in my deepest darkest thoughts. I also secretly hoped it would become something like Anne Frank's diary after I died. But now it was just a beacon of embarrassment being signaled out to the entire world, by none other than my horrid brother. We run around that counter without a stop until our parents come in. Then we both know we have to look civilized, but even then I am practically fuming with anger like a train engine is fuming with steam. "Mom! Liam took my diary! Tell him to give it back!" "I did not!" "You did too!" "No, I didn't!" "God! You're such a liar!" "Enough!" That shuts me up. Seemed to work on Nate too. "Liam, give Cece back her diary." I give him a sneer and stick out my tongue when Mom and Dad aren't looking. I know it wasn't mature, but he crossed a line. A very big one. "Fine, but at least I don't have claustrophobia!" "Oh shut up!" I yelled back as he very forcedly handed me back my diary. After that, I ran up the stairs and slammed my bedroom door behind me. I clutched the diary to my chest as my breathing began to go back to thumping at a normal rate. I don't have claustrophobia. No way. At that moment my phone started vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans. I pull it out to see a FaceTime call offer with Jenny, Kennedy, and Haley, my three best friends from school. I rushed over to my desk and propped my phone up against a jar full of pencils, and then patted down all the frizzy strands sticking out of my hair before I entered the call. I ask, "Hey, what's up?" Jenny responds, "I was wondering if ya'll want to go shopping at the mall today?" Haley almost immediately squeals with excitement, "OMG everything will be on sale, because of Black Friday too!" "Totally, I saw this red jacket a few weeks ago and I have been dying for it," Kennedy chimes in. I wasn't so sure, it has always been crowded everywhere on Black Friday. I heard on the news somebody died because they were run over by a crowd on Black Friday. Since then I've always made a point to not go out then. But they all noticed my hesitation. "We understand if you don't wanna go, Cece. With your claustrophobia and all." There was that stupid word again! "I don't have claustrophobia. I was just thinking about buying those jeans with the stars printed on them. What time should we meet?" "5:00 should work, right?" We all agreed and hung up. What had I done? I was so blinded by the thought of disproving the thought that I had claustrophobia that I agreed to face it head-on. On top of that, I only had thirty minutes to prepare. I found some breathing exercises online and stashed my pockets to the brim with peppermints. It turns out they calm the brain. "Mom, can I go to the mall with Haley, Kennedy, and Jenny?" "Sure but be careful! I know big crowds can bother you." I grunt. There it is yet again! "I'm fine Mom!" I slam the front door and go to meet my doom. We all agreed to meet in front of Nordstroms. But it was on the second floor which meant I would have had to take the escalator. The first thing I do is plug my earbuds into my phone and turn on meditation music. The music acted as a drug that calmed and numbed my ears from the surrounding sound. Everything was going well until Johnny's Rockets put up a "Free milkshakes for the first twenty customers" sign. Not long after the entire crowd ran toward the Johnny's Rockets stand, so now I would have to fight my way past the current of people who were over the top eager for a chocolate shake. The rest was all a blur. I tried to dodge around people to reach the escalator, but I almost instantly ran out of ways to dodge them. Then a particularly angry man with a coca-cola can smashed into me, and I collapsed taking the coca-cola with me. "Watch where your going girl!" "Teenagers," he mumbled afterward.  I began to hyperventilate my eyes were stinging from the soda and I was stuck crawling on the floor. All I could see were feet and legs for a long time. Tears began to stream down my face. This was not how Black Friday was supposed to go. I was supposed to overcome my fear, claustrophobia. But now all I had done was succumb to it. I was confined like the rest of this world. No matter how desperately I didn't want to be, it was inevitable. I should've known that. But there was no way Cece Hallen was going to die like this. I wiped the tears off my cheeks with my shirt sleeve and continued to crawl through the crowd until I finally found a silver platform. I stood up at that point and stepped onto the escalator. I got a chance to look down at what I had been through. I still don't understand how I made it through. There wasn't a single free gap of space in the food court. There were what seemed to be hundreds of little heads all stuck together in a giant wave. But after that, I didn't look back. I just looked forward.  I may be confined like the rest of this world but in a situation where I need to overcome my fear, I now know I can. After that though, I couldn't wait to get home, and I would probably never drink coca-cola again. But first I had to buy those jeans with the stars on them.

fnq7fp

Meg's Heritage

A cold hole filled Meg’s belly and despite the delicious food she struggled to eat much that morning, realising for the first time at ten years old that something was vacant from her life. A rhythmic, unified “Krishnarpanam” emanated from grandpa with his contrasting brown skin and white hair down and everyone down to the baby clinging at mothers blouse. It penetrated Meg’s ears as she perched on the rattan seat soundlessly and beheld all that was in front of her; the cinnamon aromas warming her nostrils, genuine smiles and laughter and the musical sounds of the Bengali-English mix being shared across this meal, this table, this family.. As her friend Samira talked incessantly about the party she was going to that day her dad faced her, asked questions and listened intently. Nothing seemed put on for Meg’s sake. It was not the food or the love or the family that caused the hole in Meg’s belly, it was all of it. It was the belonging that Meg was missing. Meg was staying at her neighbour and best friend Samira’s house for a day while her parents were out of town. After breakfast, Samira’s mum took the girls to her bedroom and together they all got dressed for the party. ‘I don’t want to wear a Sari’ Samira protested. This was countered with something Meg couldn’t understand and a short discourse later Samira sighed and held out the Sari for her mother to help. The yellow daisies on her baker-girl’s dress seemed underwhelming to Meg now but Samira’s mum did paste a bindi on the middle of her forehead and they all wore stacks of bangles. In psychology it’s called perception bias, the magic 8 ball says “all signs point to yes”, but Meg prefered to think of it as the universe directing her into her predestination. And that day with Samira’s family was the beginning. The party was nothing like her own family’s gatherings. There was singing and dancing and nobody had too much to drink or started arguing like her uncles usually did. Rather than just sausage sandwiches there were all sorts of brightly coloured and aromatic curries, freshly made breads and finger foods to die for. Everybody sat and ate around a single long table and after eating the kids got up and ran around the yard playing hide and seek - one thing that Meg noted was exactly the same. Tucked under her blanket that night she wondered to herself about what made Samira’s family feel different. It felt so warm and inviting while at the same time she had this empty place inside her that she couldn’t explain. *** At fifteen, Meg and Samira were still friends at home, but at school they hung out in different crowds. Samira was studious and never flaunted the rules. She was solid and sure of herself. Meg took risks, always trying to fit in and to her study seemed like a waste of time when she could be enjoying herself. At times when Meg felt like she needed some down time from her obstreperous friends she would retreat to the library, still being the quietly observant type she thought to herself that they wouldn’t really notice her absence - and they didn’t. It was here, between the pages of a book which smelled slightly musty despite only being a few years old that she found an old bookmark with the words of Max Ehrmann’s “Desiderata” and there it was again, that empty hole inside of her belly. “You are a child of the universe, no less than the stars and the trees …” pondering over these words she carefully placed the bookmark into one of her own books and into her backpack. At home she read it again, it all seemed to make perfect sense to her, except the feelings it set in motion. “Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans” she read, and realised perhaps this is why Samira is focused on her studies; preparing the way for her own future success, committed to something greater than her own individual and instant pursuit of happiness. Unable to sleep, Meg typed into the search bar on her laptop “Max Ehrmann”, discovering that Desiderata had been influenced by Max’s Christan Faith, as well as his later distancing from this faith. Meg thought back over the stories her grandmother had told her, the loving God she depicted from her own childhood memories of Sunday School. Always holding steadfastly to her faith, Meg couldn’t understand why her grandmother had never passed the rich depth of her God on to her own children. Why did this familial culture, generations deep, die out in just a generation or two? The bookmark was another arrow pointing out the direction of her life, though she didn’t yet know it. *** It was a Post-Christian world that Meg had grown up in. Almost two thousand years existed between the birth of Jesus and the birth of Meg and for almost all of that two thousand years, Christians had managed to pass on their beliefs to the generations which followed. The same way Muslims, Hindus and other faiths pass on their customs and beliefs. But in just a couple of generations Christians had managed to turn against themselves. I suppose we could call them Secular Christians. Yet unlike secular Jews, secular Chritians have an attitude of abhorrence toward their own history. Secular Christians miss the beauties of the meadow because of some of the weeds. They are intolerant of those they surmise to be intolerant. It was exactly these thoughts that Meg was inundated by in the wake of 9/11, as the world fought over whether to hate muslims or to love them, creating a divide between Muslims who practice peace and Muslims who practice wrath. The same people who fought for the rights of Muslims to be respected and for freedom of religion, were the people who continued to dismiss practicing Christians. The same people who celebrate Christmas, christen their children and pray at funerals. The same people, Meg learned, who were living off the good works of Jesus who invited the world to turn from it’s diminishment of women, the disabled and the poor. It was the good work of Jesus who taught us to love everyone equally, eventually bringing equality into western law, even if it did take two millennia. Meg was twenty-three when her nan died. As she cleaned out nan’s wardrobe, which still contained her grandfathers clothes twelve years after he had passed, she came across an old newspaper clipping on the death of her great grandfather: “William Robert Murphy, 1/3/1902 - 12/08/1968, passed away peacefully at home from heart complications. Bill was born in London and emigrated from England to Fitzroy in northern Queensland at age six with his parents. He lived his whole life on the farm that his father had purchased from his brother. At 23 he married the girl from the farm next door, Una Smith, and together they share five children; Sue, Matthew, Robert, Neville and Cheryl. Bill, as he was known, was a hard worker waking at 3am every morning to milk the cows and he never missed a Sunday at the local Presbyterian church, which he helped to rebuild after it burned down in 1937. Bill was a loving family man and took on the care of local boy Jeff Boscas at aged 12 after both of his parents were killed in an accident. The community of Fitzroy was blessed to have Bill amongst it’s residents as he could be relied upon in all sorts of emergencies. He saved several people during the flood of 1918 despite his young age. Bill was active in the community and his beloved Church until his death and will be greatly missed.” Meg was faced with her own familial history and a curiosity arose. As she stepped into the humid air and stood on the footpath outside the Anglican cathedral her nan never in Meg’s memory attended - but professed to be a valid member of, having converted from Presbyterianism after marrying her grandfather - the grandeur of this old building penetrated Meg’s soul. Stepping inside she felt awash with peace as the thurible held by the pastor and being swung about her nan’s coffin sent a faint wave of earthy smoke through the air. Despite losing her beloved nan, Meg felt warm inside her belly. *** ‘Why has this happened to me?’ Sarah wailed to Meg in their shared flat later that week. ‘I’m always careful’. Meg listened as Sarah explained about the broken condom. She didn’t even know the guy's name and now her period was late. Knowing she couldn’t provide for a child emotionally or financially, Sarah also knew she would end this pregnancy. A few wines later and tears had changed to an ironic laughter as the girls reminisced about the losers they had gone home with. Understanding all too well the grey area between empowering women to embrace their sexuality and over-sexualising to the point that it felt obligatory to sleep with someone by the third date, the girls agreed; one-night-stands were never pleasurable enough to warrant. The night after Sarah took the medication, they lit a candle and Meg, upon Sarah’s request and for the first time in her life, prayed for the three of them, Sarah, herself and the baby. After Sarah fell asleep, Meg called Ben, their friend from Uni who she knew was a Christian. *** She wasn’t sure what to expect when she stepped into the building that Sunday morning. This building looked nothing like her nan’s cathedral. It was modern and slick. She wasn’t searching for the answers on how to live a better life; she didn’t think she had this life thing down too bad. What she was searching for was that warm feeling inside her belly and a sense of belonging to something greater. What she got was a sea of smiling warm faces, warm hugs and the laughter of children as they ran between the mingling adults. As everyone moved into the main area, Meg followed. Inside it was dark, with strip lights up the aisles like a cinema and a stage with stage lighting of various colours creating enough light throughout the entire space that she could still see all of the faces around her. People were already swaying to gentle guitar tunes, some of them had their hands held into the air. Meg started to wonder if this was really going to help her find what she was after. But then the music started and immediately reverberated through her entire body. The power was in the people, sharing together shamelessly their love. Somehow Meg knew it was love that they were all emanating and though she didn’t really sing that day she felt every bit of peace and love within her soul that was being shared through these people. And then someone stood up the front to pray, asking God to be with them all, to open their hearts and minds to receive the message without pre-judgement. She said ‘we are all imperfect’ and Meg heard people agreeing ‘Amen’, to that sentiment. Together they came to ask something greater than themselves to intercede in their lives and help them to be a better person. To never stop learning how to be a better person. As the Pastor spoke that day, he talked of the love of Jesus. That Love is the one great rule of the bible. He read Jesus’ parable in Matthew 21 and then explained; ‘The Christians who say “I’m doing the right thing because I openly believe in God” yet live without this love are not as luminary as those who practice love without being Christian. Love should not be reserved’, he goes on, ‘for those who we believe are doing the right thing, or those we believe are worthy, but love should be freely given to all. We are all sinners and regardless of whether we believe in God and practice his laws, all are worthy to receive compassion and grace. This is the practice that all Christians must strive toward.’ *** It wasn’t immediate, Meg’s transformation. She still had a lot of confusion and doubts. Why did Christians hate the LGBTQ community? Why did they protest at abortion clinics instead of helping women before an unwanted pregnancy occurred? Was it really wrong to dress sexily and go out drinking? And yet, as she continued to search for truth she discovered things she had previously never noticed; Vinnies, offering financial support to low income earners to pay their bills, food banks being held every week all over the country by Christian organisations, and as Meg gave her time to help others she noticed something else - the volunteers weren’t the same people who were judging and protesting. These people had love and were trying to practice what they had been tight through the bible, leaving judgement to God just like the quiet and peaceful Muslims in the wake of 9/11. As she spent more time with her new friends, Meg noticed that at the beach as other girls were worried about how they looked in their bikini’s, worried over their boyfriends looking at others and took about a bazillion selfies from every angle, she and her new friends from church were just enjoying the beach and each others’ company. She began to feel as though she belonged somewhere for the first time in her life. When she chose to spend her nights in, she enjoyed her weekends and was far more productive. As her relationship with Ben began to turn into something more she noticed that the as they got to know each other, not having sex made things far less complicated. When they decided to take that step - despite remaining unmarried - they had such a deeper and more meaningful connection between their bodies knowing that there was trust and love, something far greater than lust. Death, birth, marriage; these are the moments we turn towards The Something that we ignore for the other 99% of our lives. Is that considered weakness, or is it instinct? Meg wondered as she explained to her old friends her decision to get baptised. These days there are people in the world who believe that anything and everything is possible. Nobody laughs at the healing power of crystals or a chant sung by an ancient medicine man, but the pastor down the road seems like too much of a stretch. After all - the power of the medicine men and the crystals is the same thing as universal intelligence, universal intervention, Creator. Maybe everyone is scared of giving up the liberties they believe are making their life happier. “Through discipline comes freedom” wrote Aristotle, who despite being a critic of religious faith, acknowledged its importance in the socio-political role. Meg was experiencing this freedom. With an open mind and a lot of research she came to understand that most faith’s taught the same core principles. It wasn’t important aligning to one. What was most important was aligning with one. Through discipline comes freedom. And the easiest for Meg was that of her familial heritage - Christianity.

f7p0ou

Just One of the Boys

It is a slow walk up to the batter's box, the last out of the little league game, unless Shane can make something happen. Waiting for the umpire to sweep the plate clean, he sees his teammates packing up, they don’t expect much. Shane longs to prove them wrong, to show that he deserves to be part of the team. He takes two practice swings and then tries to find the balance in his batting stance, his weight back, his front leg cocked, ready to step into the swing. He feels his new cleats bite into the soft dirt and rocks a little bit to make sure they stick. He can prove to everyone he is enough of a boy to be on the team. The blue sky stretches out to the horizon over the park, and a late afternoon breeze ruffles the grass starting to grow into the dirt infield. His slight, slender frame is lost in the jersey and pants. He twists his grip tight on the leather handle of the aluminum bat. The noises of the game dim, his attention on the boy on the mound. If only he could get a hit! His legs quiver slightly in anxiety. Shane says his mantra Ryan taught him, see the ball, and follow through. The pitcher is in a stretch position, and looks over his shoulder, and then into his wind up. S ee the ball, and - the ball is coming right at him! He dives back to avoid getting hit. Thwok!  “ Strike one”  He steps out of the box and looks at the pitcher. He has to be over 6 feet tall, how can he be 12? Fear of failure courses through him. He should not be here, he can’t hit a pitch thrown that hard. Down the third base line, the 3rd base coach is giving hand signals. Shane looks down at the coach, but the meaning of the signs jumble in his mind, he is too nervous to pay attention. He nods and steps his right foot in the back of the box, looks out at the two base runners, one on first and one on second, then at the fans lining the foul lines.  Shane knows everyone in the park is watching him, most know him by his old name. Being the center of attention is hard any day, but today especially, when he is being judged on who he is. The noises of the game become louder interrupting his thoughts. The shortstop on the other team has his hand raised, two fingers up, “Any base,” he yells.  The opponent’s dugout is chanting, “Hey batter batter, hey batter batter, Sa-wing batter!” “Easy out, easy out!” from the first baseman. Shane looks over at him, he is a big, red face boy, with a mean grin. Shane knows to be wary of that type. He steps his left foot in the box and gets in the batting stance he has been practicing everyday this month.  The pitcher leans over, gets into his set position and then looks at the runner on second base.  Shane can not get his legs to stop shaking. He needs to focus, see the ball. What if he strikes out? He will be laughed at, probably kicked off the team. The pitcher goes into his motion and throws. Not seeing the ball, Shane swings, awkwardly.  Thwok, into the catcher's mitt. “Strike two “  The sound of his shame is the other team's cheers.  The first baseman yells out, ”She missed it by a mile, swings like a girl!”  The other team breaks into laughter. “Throw the heater, Billy!” From the dugout Shane hears a familiar voice. “Shane, come on Bro! - you got this! Just make contact!” Ryan yells. One more strike. He is not good enough to be here, only on the team because of his brother. Ryan is the star center fielder, pitcher and best hitter. Younger than Shane by 12 months, Ryan’s life has always been easy, everyone wants to be his friend, first pick for every sport. Too energetic to sit still for class, all the teachers love him because of it. Ryan talked to the coach, after encouragement from Mom, and Shane was brought on the team to help him fit in through the transition. Without Ryan’s aura of protection his life would be a lot worse. It is bad enough already. Shane is built for books, not sports. So far his limited baseball career has been as a pinch runner. Ryan has worked with him, showing him how to use the inside foot when running the bases, and to keep his hands up when he slides. But even with the testosterone he is taking, and exercises, his shoulders and arms are not as strong as other boys.  Coach brought Shane in during the last inning to play first, and did not expect he would have to hit. But, the inning has gone well, a couple of lucky singles and two errors has made it close. Shane looks out at the short, yellow-topped fence in the outfield and imagines the feeling of a walk-off home run to win the game. Down by two, with two men on, two outs, two strikes- a home run and he would be treated like a hero, carried off the field on his teammates shoulders! The fulfillment of his wildest dreams, proving he is just as good as any boy. As if Shane has ever, could ever, hit a home run. It is all on him, and he is the worst player on the team. He steps out of the batter box again. More indecipherable signs from the 3rd base coach. The grip of the thin bat handle feels good in Shane's hands. This is the bat Ryan picked out for him, light and small for a quick swing. Shane gets back in the box. The too-big batting helmet wobbles a bit on his head. Sweat drips down his back. He can't remember his mantra. It doesn't matter, he is going to swing as hard as he can. Pulling back his bat back even further, ready for the pitch, and then- The pitcher spins and throws to second to pick off the runner, and the throw is wild! The ball goes into the outfield. The third base coach’s arm is a windmill, sending the runner home. Shane steps back, and is right behind the umpire when the throw is late, and Jimmy scores! Shane screams in excitement, has his arms out to hug Jimmy, before he remembers Jimmy will not even talk to him. He drops his hands. Jimmy threatened to quit the team when Shane joined. Jimmy stops in front of Shane, grins, then lifts him up in a bear hug! Shane might as well have scored the run himself; lighting streaks of joy shoot through his body. And then he is back down and Jimmy looks him in the eye, “You got to get on base, Shane. You know you can't hit, take the walk! Your brother is up next- we’re going to win this! Just get on base! “ Jimmy slaps Shane on the butt and runs back to the dugout to wild cheers. Thrilled, Shane re-focuses on his new directive. He steps back in the box and looks back up at the pitcher, the count is 0-2. All he has to do is not swing for four pitches, and hope the pitcher doesn't throw even one strike. The plan does not make sense, but Jimmy talked to him! The pitcher is back in the stretch position and throws it hard. Shane closed his eyes, so only felt the wind as it rushed inches from his forehead. “Ball” Shane opens his eyes and looks out at the pitcher. He looks rattled, kicking the rubber, and stomping.  “You got this Pitcher! Just get it over the plate! “ He hears from the opponents dugout.  “That -girl- cant hit! She had her eyes closed! “ Shane looked up at that one, it was the first baseman. Screw him. But, he should probably look like he is going to hit the ball. He gets back in the batter's box and tightens his grip on the bat. He puts a little swagger on the bat, to make it look like he was going to swing. Shane keeps his eyes open as the pitcher rears back from his stretch, and throws it in, hard and fast. He sees it! And he knows it is low and wide.  “Ball” He wasn't scared that time, he saw the ball, and his instinct was right, it was outside! Shane’s confidence is growing.  2-2 count, he only needs to take two more balls, or, he can swing, and get a hit. The pitcher is in his wind up again, Shane vows to keep his eyes open, and sees the ball go wide and low.  “ Ball three”  3-2 count! Shane steps out of the box. This is it! Shane glances back at the dugout and sees his brother Ryan. “You can do this Shane! You can get a hit- you got this! Shane sees the rest of the team shouting his name too. If he can get on base! A walk, or a hit! Shane would fit in with the rest of the guys. This is what he has wanted his whole life, just to fit in. It has been so hard to be just one of the boys, when he was born in the wrong body. He knew since he knew anything, that he was a boy, and was so confused about how he was in this soft girl's body. It took a while to talk about it, and even longer to convince his family. He has been Shane for 9 months now and this is the closest he has been to fitting in, well, ever. He can't let his team down. Shane imagines the feeling of connecting with a solid hit on the ball and watching it go, flying over the short fence in right field. He commits to take an active role in this chance for glory. He is going to see the ball, and follow through.  He steps back in the batter box. He can be the hero.  The pitcher goes into his stretch one more time, and then throws.  Every instinct Shane has says this pitch is right down the middle. Shane swings with all his might and connects! He takes a few steps toward first base, and then the ball heads foul, outside the first base line. “Straighten it out Shane!” He hears Ryan, and then the whole dugout is calling his name, “Shane, Shane, Shane! “ He picks up his bat, and gets back in the box.  All his emotions build inside of himself, he is shooting sparks from his fingertips, and can not feel the ground. Rarely has his new name been spoken, never yelled, and now they are cheering for him! One more time, His hand twists on the handle of the aluminum bat, it waves slightly behind him, the tail of a cat ready to pounce. The crowd is going wild, the players are cheering, and the pitcher rears back, and throws- Shane sees the ball, oh, it is hanging in the air- He swings and connects, in play! Shocked at first, it takes a moment before he remembers to run.  He hit the ball!  The hard grounder goes right to the first baseman, he picks it up, steps on the bag, and starts running to the dugout. The game is over, they lost. Shane doesn't even make it to the base. He does not want to turn around to go back to the dugout, because he knows what is going to happen. The ‘girl’ lost the game, could not get a hit.  He wants to run off into the street alongside the park and just keep going, away from this failure. But he hears Ryan calling his name, so he finally turns around and jogs back, legs full of lead and disgust at himself. He joins his teammates in a loose circle around the Coach. “You guys played a great game, that team has the best record in our league and we should have been blown out!” Coach says. “ And we need to talk about- where is he? “ He looks around. “ Shane!” He moves from behind the Coach where he was hiding. Here it comes. “Shane! You get the game ball! You took the best pitcher in our league to a 3-2 count, made him work, and then got your bat on the ball! You are a ball player Shane! “Coach grins, and hands Shane a dusty, torn baseball. Joy and connection overwhelm him, and he doesn't know what to say. He holds the ball in two hands like the priceless jewel it is. He looks over at his brother, the only person who can understand how this makes him feel, and hopes Ryan knows the right thing to say.  He does. “Let's go for ice cream!" Everyone throws their mitts in the air and the loss has now turned into a win. The team yells and screams, and Shane does too. Just one of the boys. 

avym3a

Nature Medicine

“Now Malcolm, what did we say about assumptions beforehand?” “To not make assumption first but to hear things out and depends on the situation to let things play itself out.” “Very good, because in some scenarios or a sudden event, if you let its natural course take its role, itself will play it out in its own time naturally.” Ocho, ocho, ocho! “Sounds like you are a receiving a cold?” “I have been sick a little bit and I feel cold.” “Luckily for you I am making some tea.”  The kettle cried out loud as if a baby child was ready to eat as the winding cold whistle outside the windows. “I will prep you some to attack this cold and please continue on as I prep the tea? “Ok” “Now Malcolm, tea is a healthy remedy that helps the body relax and releases the inner sickness that sometimes lay dormant.” “I could see that, I have never been a big tea drinker, the only tea that I have drank was sweet tea.” The doctor roars with laughter of deepen joy in the stomach of laughter that came out like a hyena. “Ha ha. Sweet tea is a just an everyday candy drink. Now I am giving you some hot green tea with a splash of Tequila and mint leaf.” “What, you giving alcohol?” “No, I giving you natural medicine that will combat that cold and open up your mind so your body can relax digest all the remedy that you need. How is school going for you Malcolm?” It’s good, I am making good grades and enjoying football. I have been making most of the tackles for the team and won the defensive player for two weeks in a row.” “That great and good job, here is the tea and let it settle for a little bit and then sip it slowly.”  “Football has been helping me and releasing those inner angry in me and plus it makes me feel good that I am helping our team get closer to win district and give us the chance to make playoffs for this year.” “I am glad that you are releasing your anger in a better output, but have you been tackling on what is causing you to get so angry with so much it built up that you explode hard on the field so aggressively, and where are you letting it build up?” Malcolm felt some wetness in his hand and look down and saw that he squeezed his hand so hard, his finger cut into his hand. He did not put to much notice into and did not want to rise worries into the doctor and continue on as normal. “Well honestly Doc, I have been struggling with the everyday things some time. I feel so much pressure of life in general, I have to be the perfect son being an awesome athlete, be a straight A student, and be the overall popular person in town that has every figure out and line up for the future. But really, I did not have it. I am lost of what I want and the sense of general that I want to take.” “Take a drink from the tea.” “Mmm thats dam good tea, very soothing on the throat.” “Good.” “But anyway doc, everybody believes that I can get a football scholarship and go on to be a great player and make something of myself, but I just want to finish out football at high school and go to school and be a geologist that studies and research different variety of nature’s volcanos, artic glaziers, and see the different parts of the world that I learn more about the earth. And everybody keeps on pushing me to be something that I am not. I love football and the things that come with it, but my true passion it academic learning. Mmm tea is so good.” “I understand Malcolm, this is the first time you have really have expressed your full thoughts and emotions on the matter, I am proud that you are not keeping this bottle anymore.” Sip sip. “With the half the year over and all these letters of potential of scholar offer coming, it’s hard to tell my folks about what I want and I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.” His drawn face of disappoint that he may give showed through his cherry face. Malcolm always got this way when he felt pressure.  “Remember this Malcolm, your parents must be proud of you of what you have accomplish and they will always be proud of you, don’t let your fears and in secures direct you in the wrong path, because you feel pressure to. Talk to your parents about this and let them know entirely of the road that you want to pursue. It’s okay to not follow the norm and adventure out on your own of a whole new different path. That’s how people expand and be successful in their own way of life. Do you want to pursue and what will make you happy?”  “Doc, I just want to go to school and be a geologist, meet a beautiful woman for who I am and not what I can do, and just live a simple and normal life.” “That is more than reasonable enough and a simple general direction also. On these letters…” “Here doc, I brought them here.” A handful fell into the doctor’s hand. Sip Sip. “Is the tea helping Malcolm?” “Yes, my throat is not scratchy or my I can breathe through my nose much better.” “Good. I see that you enjoy the tea and you sound much better. You have a different variety of offers of schools from Division I to III football program in the state, and couple from out of state.” “Yes, I have look through a couple of them and put them to the side, because I felt down and my mind started to race some form anxiety and worry.” “I understand what you are saying, but if you want to make that lead charge of your life, then you must dive into this and do your research of what you desire and take hold of it. Lets take a look into some of these programs and see what they offer academically along with the offer of scholarship money that they can financially provide in aid. After going through 10 different program of academic of research and learning most of what can do the doctor and Malcolm narrow it down to 3 schools. “You like these academic programs that we have selected down to, if you did not, say something, it’s your life.” “Doc I am happy what I decided and have a better idea what to say to my parents.” “Now I do have some advice to think about and maybe to use. Have you thought using football as a way of transport to get where you need to and use it as much as you can? I understand that you love the sport and want to end that chapter, again think about it, use their financial aid to pay for your schooling and you can use your position as a football player to build credibility on your campus and gain more public relations to expand yourself.” Sip Sip. “Like the sound of that, but I am tired of football, and I want to remember it for the love of the sport, not turn it into a business of wins for the school.” “I understand that you have your own agenda of personal views of the sport and how it is manipulated for the others and things itself. Use your love of the sport to transfer one love to another potential love for your life goal that your pursuing. You can gain so much more through this talent that you have and use it to your full ability. Just think about it Malcolm? I know that your family is wealthy but average everyday people of working, in which is no problem at all. Your family will anything to help you and will put everything on the line to make things happen, but you can help your family much better if take this opportunity and run with it. “You do make sense of this and I will take your advice.” Malcolm finished the second cup of tea and lick his lips off. “Got to get every drop of it.” “You look so much better and your cold looks to be gone as the wind also.” “I sure do feel much better with the tea and getting everything off my chest. Well Doc I must get home after 2 more hours than I suppose to. I am sorry for that and my parent’s money also.” “Malcolm the pleasure was mine and don’t worry about today session and the money, this one is on me. Here are some teas you help you in general, since you enjoyed them.” “Thanks doc, how some Tequila with that?” As Malcom grinned with slim smile of come on doc pretty please. “Malcolm get on home son.” “Alright Doc laters!” The doctor wave back at Malcolm as he pick up his bike from the yard and rode off to the pastern field. Ocho Ocho! The doctor thought to himself. I think I need a cup of tea myself. 

r63few

Can he see me?

“You’ll never know unless you try.” She shrugged, already grabbing her stuff to leave. I huffed, going back to my computer. The first time I saw him was only a few months ago. When a summer afternoon breeze drifted the curtains open to my window, and I saw him. A brunette, with glasses and a book in hand. Resting his arms on the windowsill, and the breeze seemed to ruffle his hair. I was left dumbstruck for a moment, he seemed so perfect, completely surreal. After a while, I realized myself drifting to that window. Watching him, reading, listening to music, once I even caught him in his bathing suit. I tried to look him up, but the devilishly handsome brunette, with a killer six pack, didn’t show up well on Instagram. All the other searches were either too far, or way too fake. Therefore, my sister needed me to bite the bullet. After catching me staring out the window, or stretching myself over to catch a glimpse. So, every time I complained or said just about anything about him, my sister would say the same thing. “You’ll never know unless you try.” Did she mean ask him out? Hell, maybe she meant just going and talking to him. It didn’t really matter. It could have been a simple tease to get a rise out of me, and make me shrink back to myself. Yet, everytime I looked at the neighboring door, or thought to ask my parents about the house. A stubborn bubble caught in my throat, the dam never letting my words pass. Maybe it was for the best. “What’s for the best?” I jumped, almost crashing my computer to the floor. My sister was incorrectly perched in the doorway, looking at me as though I’d grown a second head. “You were muttering to yourself.” “Sorry, I was just thinking out loud,” I apologized, reorganizing my school papers that were strewn around my bed. “Are you still daydreaming about a big, handsome boy over there?” she teased, and I threw wadded paper at her. She laughed, and slipped past the door, coming to rest back on the bed. “Where’d you even go?” I asked, remembering her previous leaving. “Well I got sick of your love drunk eyes gazing at the window,” she laughed, already bridging her own papers around her. “I had to go throw up.” I rolled my eyes, restraining myself from glancing one last look at the window. Not only would it bear any difference, but it wouldn't help the onslaught of teasing from my little sister. He just seemed so different, even in the slight glances from the window. It almost didn't feel real, like every time I saw him was a trick of light. I had never seen him outside of the house, not running, or even in their front yard. “You know, why don't you just ask mom?” my sister suggested, once again pulling me from my thoughts. “I mean, I could, but like what if she thinks I’m being creepy,” I said doubtfully. “Yeah, I think we passed creepy a while ago,” my sister berated, and rolled my eyes for what felt like the fourth this hour. Part of me, a very large part, wanted to keep it to myself. Ignore my sister's teasing and leave it as a mystery, but I knew I would regret it. Leaving it would only let more wonders manifest to me. My mother, Erica, was the next option. Maybe she had some answers, and could finally pull back a little more of the curtain. *** “Mom, did you ever meet the neighbors when we moved in?” I asked, pouring the egg into the whisking bowl. We were making pancakes the morning after the conversation with my sister. Usually, cooking breakfast was the last thing I wanted to do on a sunday morning, but I needed information. “Which ones? The Thomposons?” my mother interrogated suspiciously, mixing her own bowl that rested in front of her. “No, the other side. You know, like the ones that face my bedroom window,” I replied innocently. “I don't believe we have.” she paused her stirring, looking up to me in suspicion. “Why?” “Oh you know, just curious.” I shrugged it off, trying to let it be. If she didn’t know anything, there was no point in continuing to ask her, and start making it a problem. Or worse, she starts getting suspicious and asks my sister. Though curiosity was eating me away, and I wasn’t ever one to be considered patient. “So, you never knew their son?” I asked simply. “To be honest, I didn’t even know if anybody even lived there. I mean, just look at it, all dirty and creaky. I thought for sure it was abandoned.” she replied. “Why would you think a man lived there?” “Uh,” I hesitated, was it really worth telling her for information. “Well, sometimes I can hear him playing music, and on occasion I see him reading by the window.” “Oh, the guy your sister was telling me about,” she offered. “She already told you!” I groaned, annoyed. Of course my rat of a sibling couldn't hold it to herself, it was probably eating her alive. “Well what does she have to say about it? She’s only told me about your little staring problem,” my mother said, hiding her pestering behind a genuine curiotsy. “She always says the same thing, ‘You;ll never know unless you try.’” I mocked, throwing my hands in frustration. I was getting nowhere, there was still a cute guy out my window, and I had nothing else. “Why don't you go say something,” she suggested. “Just go and be yourself, that way you learn more about the neighbors, and talk to the cute boy.” “It’s hard mom, I mean, what am I even supposed to say?” “What do you think Tanya? He’s not another boy from one of those old stories.” Mom referenced my bookshelf in my bedroom, most of which were romance novels. “He’s a real guy, you know, he isn’t gonna climb through the window himself. Maybe your sister's right, you’ll never know unless you try.” I bit my lip, trying to hold from some nasty comments about her own social problems. “I realize that,” I argued back. “I was just wondering, you know.” The bowl of whisked eggs was long forgotten, but my mother still seemed to be on task and dragged it from my reach. I still felt more lost, maybe more so, I just wanted to know who he was. Yet, nobody had an answer, or an explanation. “I’m just saying it might be good for you,” Erica persuaded, her tone soft and caring. “I know this move has been hard on you, but staying in the house all day isn’t going to make it any better. You’re going to be going to school in the fall, and there will be tons of people there. Just go talk to him, what's the worst that can happen.” I smiled, she was trying her best. Maybe, in the afternoon, I could go and talk to them. Yet, for now I still had to make breakfast, and make sure those eggs were really scrambled. *** Turns out, thought and execution were two very different things. Everytime I wanted to go over there, something pulled me back. The front room wasn’t clean, my friend from our old town had called, I wanted to make lunch for everybody. Something just had to come in the way. This seeming curse, or procrastination as my sister called it, just took over the other things. Though everytime I noticed the boy in the window, it was like another stab to the heart. He didn’t even notice me, I mean probably nothing more than a creeping window girl. Everytime, I noticed something new about him. His hair was always in a slight swoop to the left, and it was more of a slight red when the sun hit in the evening. The boy only ever read one book, though everytime I crammed to see the tile, it was always just out of sight. Throughout the summer, the days began to stretch. Begging for myself to meet with him the next day, then the next, or maybe next week. Days on the calendar began to scratch off, and the big mark for school was fast approaching. Then, I had school in the morning, this was my last chance. I didn’t know where he went to school, to be honest I didn’t even know his name, but I wasn’t going to risk him going to boarding school far away. So that morning, I had taken out the baking supplies, pulling together a lovely batch of cookies. Stalked myself up, pulling on a coat, as the September winds were coming in, and walked to the house. My feet seemed to drag, pulling my invisible restraints back to my house. But no, I had to do this. This was my final chance, I needed to just know him. His name, his school, his insta name, anything. Then I came in front of the house, it seemed just as my mother had said, old. There was ween covering the lawn, and I wasn’t even sure if the porch would be able to support my weight. I doubted myself all the way to the door. Could this be the right house? Maybe there was some special back entrance? Yet, I stood in front of the door, begging the wood to hold my weight. I knocked, once, twice, held my breath for a moment, no one was coming. A separate part of me wanted to knock again, bang hard enough the door fell on its own. For what though, a boy, was I really going that crazy. Then the door opened, revealing an old lady with a crooked smile. Her hoobly form came with a heavy moth stench. In my shock I almost dropped the cookies, but caught myself. “Hi ma’am. I was just wondering if your son was here?” I hesitated, it wasn’t like we were eight and asked him to come play. I definitely should have planned this. “I’m sorry!” she practically yelled, scaring out of my socks for the second time. “I don’t have no son!” “Oh, sorry, I was talking about the boy in the upstairs bedroom. I live next door, and I just wanted to,” I paused, thinking over how to approach this. “Talk to him, you know, he seems to be quite a nice young man.” The lady looked as though I had grown another head, her eyes wide and tracing me. Her hands were shaking on the grip of her cane, and the other resting on her lower back. She looked as though she could fall over and die if the wind blew too hard. “Oh, I see you brought cookies,” she deflected, making me switch carefully to the new topic. “Yes, I was hoping to bring them to him,” I offered, trying to get us back on track. “No, I already told you I have no son, or man. Nobody lives in the house but me,” she argued, hungrily glaring at the cookies. “Right sorry, the boy you know. He lives upstairs, he reads that book” I was growing far too frustrated to be handling this with any patience. “My son long gone, died,” she stated simply, as though nothing was wrong with the omission. I thought I heard her wrong, there was no way the boy was dead. I must have seen him everyday for the past three months. “He read books all day, but now they grow dusty. I can get myself upstairs to clean them.” I stared agape for a moment, was she just a crazy old lady, or was she onto something. “Right, well. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” I apologized, but the woman jumped. “Wait, leave the cookies,” she begged, I sighed and dropped them into her hands. *** When I arrived back at the house, I was still shaking with questions. Frustrating bubbling over everything, this meeting was supposed to fix the problem, not make it ten times worse. I heaved down on my bed, huffing from undeposited anger. Then a wind caught through the room, and I noticed him resting on his windowsill. I watched him closely this time, not caring about his abs or clothes. Instead how his skin, even from far away, seemed to be ghastly pale like I could see his bones if I squinted. I trailed over the rest of him, the hand holding the book, conveniently hiding the title, was so fragile. Then the wind gusted again, leaving the curtain to block my view. But when he reappeared, something new happened. He was looking dead at me, for the first time ever. The boy's eyes were milky white, with the slightest bit of color and a heavily dilated pupil. He looked unnatural, and for a moment I thought I could look right through him. Though, he was staring right at me, and if I blinked I might have missed it. But, sure enough, I didn't. He winked, smirked, then was gone. My shock chilled over me, like an ice bucket was spilled down my spine. Like a breath of breeze he disappeared, leaving his book resting on the windowsill, opened to the beginning. Then as the wind gusted particularly hard, it snapped close, and I saw the title. All it read was, ‘I see you.’ 

6j4afi

Predicament 291, No More

Everything seemed perfect. Maybe too perfect. You could blame it on my naivety. Maybe through some childlike wonder. I used to think things were happier then. I used to feel like my family was together, like nothing could tear us apart. Laughter filled the house, we would tell jokes, play games. The fun was never ending. I remember when my brother Andrien and I would stay up half the night and listen to records, just the two of us. We would think about the endless wonders of the world. We would get lost in the music. We would tell stories of different scenarios, these characters that we made up in our minds. How they would get themselves in predicaments and how they would prevail. Sometimes we would mock their voices or reenact their scenes. Even if our parents thought it weird, we knew we could understand each other. As if we were in our own world. The world seemed a lot less scarier with Adrien around, I felt like I could do anything. It's as if he built me to be ten feet higher than I actually was. It was simpler times, nothing between us. Nothing could stop us. We were happy. So, what happened? I wonder over and over again. How could he leave me? How could he just go away so suddenly. It was as if he were dead. “Adrien Beckwith is no longer one of Jehovah’s witnesses.” Those were the words any witness wanted to hear. This was as close as you could get to a death sentence. It meant that any contact and any mention of that person would cease to exist. It was as if they never existed in your life. The calls, the laughter, everything that made us family, gone. This was our life now, Jehovah above all. I didn’t even bother to hear the announcement, I waited in the car and cried. I loved my brother Adrien more than anything. I buried my head further into my hands, hoping that they would absorb my tears and make me feel whole again. Maybe to give me some sort of comfort. My big brother was another victim of the world. The only hope for him was to repent or to come back and accept Jehovah’s help. To be forgiven. Our family of five was now four. Our house of laughter seems broken. It was like a huge elephant was in the room. Like something was barely holding us together. I could tell this tore my parents apart. This was something that wasn’t supposed to happen. The well respected congregation elder, or authority figure, someone who did for others, heard their problems and who protected the congregation. My father. The good christian wife, meek and submissive. My mother. Then the three upstanding witness children, obedient, pioneered or like missionaries. We were the examples of our congregation. The need to be perfect was always there. To uphold our standing. My brother Adrien was a very well respected brother in our hall or place of worship. He always did what he was told. Pioneered, Helped out in the hall, and made an outstanding effort. He was on his way to Bethel(our headquarters where people volunteered).He was on his way. Then of course my brother Atoine, he is the walking Bible. Nothing can go unnoticed around him. Everything he does has to be in line with scripture. He’s not as down to earth as Adrien is. He’s also seen as an example in our congregation. Sometimes I wonder what toll Adrien’s departure will have on him. It seems as though he has already moved on. To try to forget. Then there’s me, the youngest and only girl. The one that sets a fine example for christian sisters. At least that’s how they put it in our congregation. I am a pioneer, I have prgressive spiritual goals(progressing in the organization), I am mild mannered, I try my best to please my parents and people in our congregation. Never a complaint, never a single mutter. Perfect. And to top it off, I have the wonderful spiritual man my parents adore, although we’ve only been dating for a year, Lionel seems set to spend eternity with me. So, if everything was so perfect, why do I feel like I am drowning. The world that was so beautiful as a child, seemed to just turn on me. The colorful wonder of a child, diminished in gray. The world that my brother and I built, erased with reality. The pain of growing up, the constant changing of times. Things that were perfect back then, were now filled with sorrow and a bleakness that suffocated the memories we had. The people around me who once were my source of comfort, their faces seemed distorted. The smiles they carried seemed as if they were plastered on their faces. Their words, once empathetic, felt rehearsed. Everything around me seemed fake. It feels like I am in a different world, trying to claw my way out. I feel like I am in a cage, and without Adrien, I feel lost. I feel like I am just floating here waiting for the end. I long for those days, the days when everything was so happy, and simple. I wish I could bring him back. I wish I could give him a hug and beg him not to leave. I wish I had control. But I don't. I don't know if I will ever see him again, but it hurts. Maybe my family can forget, but I can't. I see everything differently now. What if this all isn't true. What if everything we were taught wasn't real. If he could be discarded like nothing, then how? Or was he not good enough? I don't know, the more I wonder, the more it hurts. The more I realize that maybe things aren't what they seem. Maybe there's another life out there that I never knew. The world, a world that was viewed with disdain. That world seemed more appealing, more hopeful, and meaningful. The forbidden life, the life of freedom, seemed better than this. Where do I go from here?

kc4bdb

Drive-ins

“You wanna do something fun?” Jody said. “What did you have in mind?” Mickey asked. “Let’s get everybody together and go to the drive-ins. It’s the last one and they do the dusk till dawn special. There’s like 4 or 5 movies. Everybody from school is going.” “Alright, let me make some calls.” It was the Labor Day finale at the Northfield Drive-ins and it was always packed. Anybody who was anybody from school was going to be there and Jody wasn’t going to miss it. They never caught a whole movie in all the years they’ve been going. There were too many people to see and the concession stand to hit up or just make out sessions that took a good half hour of the movie. She caught bits and pieces of some but the movies were the last thing on most of their minds. Social status was at stake. Mickey had called up a few people and told them to load everyone up in the cars and meet up in the trailer park. This was the meet up spot where they gathered all the things they would need for the night. Junk food. Check. Blankets. Check. Alcohol and cigarettes. Check. Two cars rolled up around a half hour later. Sean in his 1989 Mercury Sable along with Chuck and Rakim and Konrad and Alegra pulled into the driveway with his 1970’s Blue Jeep CJ7. “We leaving soon?” Chuck asked. “Yeah, we’ll be headed out soon,” Mickey said. “We get there too late we won’t get a spot in the back. That will suck so can we move ass please?” “What’s up your ass Chuck?” Mickey said. “Don’t mind him. He’s fighting with Mandy at the moment,” Sean said sitting on the trunk of the Sable and taking a sip out of a flask he pulled out of his pocket. “What’re you doing Sean? Don’t be pulling that out in the daylight. Mrs. Schultz is nosy as shit and will call the cops on us if she sees that. It’s bad enough they’ve come up to my trailer multiple times this year,” Jodi said. “Alright alright. I’ll put it away.” “Can we just go already? Sean I’m riding in your trunk. I don’t have any money,” Chuck said. “Whoa hold up, why you get to ride in the trunk?” Rakim said. “I told you I ain’t got no money,” Chuck said. “They gonna know your fat ass is in the trunk because you’re gonna weigh the ass end down. I should go. I won’t max out the shocks.” “Too late bro. I called it first.” “I didn’t hear you call dibs.” “Fuck dibs. That shit is lame.” “It’s lame because you didn’t call it.” “Alright ladies, knock it off. Chuck you take the trunk when we get to the pull off. Rakim ride up front with me,” Sean said.  The group loaded up all their stuff for the night. Mickey and Jody piled into Sean’s car and they all hit the road. It wasn’t a long drive from the trailer park but they made a stop about halfway there so Chuck could hop out the back and into the trunk. They rolled up to the line of cars waiting to get in. Kids were running around behind the large screen on the playground waiting for the first movie to start. Chuck was yelling from the trunk asking what was taking so long. Long line. They yelled into the seat. Sean rolled up to the booth to pay and the guy taking the money was standing outside. He looked into the car and looked toward the trunk and looked back in the car. “Just the four of you?” The attendant asked. “Yup,” Sean said. “Alright, that’ll be $13 bucks each. Cut your lights as you’re driving in.” They dug out their money handing it out the window. He gave them a program of the movies for the night and they moved inside. As the car moved along the rows you could see blankets spread out and people eating concession stand popcorn or waving glow sticks around. Sean drove all the way down to the last row and turned in to find a spot. “Get one near the way back,” Rakim said. As they made their way past the cars they could see every click in the school. You had the Jocks who were out waving their hands, talking loud and throwing footballs. The Preps who were sitting in lawn chairs sipping whatever was in their red Dixie cups acting like no one else existed. The nerds who were actually here for the movie, tucked away safely in their cars. The freaks were laid out on the hood of their cars, smoking cigarettes and blaring some kind of metal music. The party crowd was doing just that, clanging Dixie cups and drawing as much attention to themselves as possible while the night was still young and the cops hadn’t started patrolling with their flashlights yet. “Yo, everybody is here. It’s poppin’ tonight,” Rakim said. “There’s a spot back there next to Mick and those guys, they’re cool we’ll park next to them,” Sean said pulling the car around and backing it in so no one would see Chuck get out.  After the car parked Chuck emerged from the trunk. “I love that fresh drive-in smell. Sean, your trunk stinks by the way. What do you put in there? Hey, somebody get me a beer,” Chuck said slapping Sean on the back. Jody opened her door and looked around. She loved the drive-ins. The first thing she did when she got out of the car was take a deep breath. There were so many smells. She could smell the popcorn, the oil from the fries and onion rings from the concession stand. The exhaust of the cars.  The fresh night air. This was the place to be. She broke out the blanket so she could secure a spot with Mickey for the night hoping Chuck wasn’t going to steal the blanket and pass out somewhere later in the night like he did almost every time they came here. The last two lots were where the high school kids parked. It was so they could make out, smoke weed, drink or engage in sexual activity without bringing too much attention or disrupt the rows of cars in front of them which were full of children waiting for the first movie which was always a Disney flick. The attendants would walk the back lot early with their flashlights. The teens had learned not to give them any reason to come back and by the end of the second movie or the beginning of the third they were too tired to walk all the way back. Besides the young kids had gone home so the parents would complain less. Jody had just lain down on the blanket with Mickey when the queen bitch herself Becky and her group of over makeup’d minions strolled by. Becky was the head of the cheerleading squad and prom queen and whatever stuck up title stuck up girls like that coveted. Jody wasn’t any of those things but she was pretty and this threatened Becky’s crown. Jody could say that Becky didn’t bother her but that would be a lie. She did care. She didn’t want to take the small digs; the underhanded comments that she subjected the rest of the high school population to. But she did, as did everybody else. I don’t think anyone knew why they just accepted it. It was like acknowledging gravity or some other force that affected you but you just brushed it off as a normal thing because it was just a part of everyday life. “Hey Jody, love those sandals, so bohemian,” Becky said standing at the end of the blanket chewing gum. “Thanks Becky.” “Hi Mickey, you look good, have you been working out?” Becky said glancing at Jody. “Uh, no. Just 6 ounce curls,” Mickey said with a chuckle. “You’re so funny, you always make me laugh. I’ll see you guys later, tah tah,” Becky said walking off. “Tah tah,” Jody said making a vomiting sound. “Don’t entertain her. She’s hitting on you. Why can’t you throw your arm around me and make out just to throw it in her face?” “What like this,” Mickey said trying to kiss her. “Yeah, you’re way too late to that party Romeo,” Jody said blocking his kiss with her hand. “Alegra, you wanna hit up the snack bar?” “Yeah, I want some Rolos and popcorn,” Alegra said. “You boys want anything?” Jody said. “They got Vodka?” Chuck said. “Jesus Chuck shut the hell up.” “Looks like someone’s raggin’ it,” Chuck said. “I will straight up smack your face off if you say one more stupid thing.” “Thing.” Jody ran at Chuck who was bracing for an impact as Mickey grabbed her behind. “Let me go,” Jody said struggling. “Calm down. Chuck just does this to get a rise out of you. You and Alegra go down and get some snacks. I’ll get Chuck to settle down,” Mickey said. The two girls navigated down in between cars and groups of people to the small little shack that was located in the center of the sea of cars. The fluorescent lights from inside made it glow in the darkness drawing hungry movie goers to the smell of grease and sugar. “I’ll meet you in there, I’m gonna hit the bathrooms,” Jody said to Alegra. Normally there was a line of about 5 people waiting to get in but at this moment she was in luck. The bathroom was empty. This was a sign of from the drive-in gods. Jody walked into the stall and closed the door and sat down to pee. She was wiping when you she heard some voices come into the bathroom. “Did you see those sandals? They were so 1970 yuck.” Becky said. “Yeah they were like dirty hippie chic,” Makeup minion one said. “Hello, Jesus called. He wants his sandals back,” Makeup minon two said. “Bitch, that’s gold. I’m stealing that. I want cheese fries. One of you two order. I can’t stand talking to those mouth breathers,” Becky said fixing her hair. Jody sat there and part of her wanted to get up, swing the door open and smash Becky’s face into that mirror. But again she didn’t. She just sat there waiting for them to leave. “Hey what took you so long? I’ve eaten a ton of this popcorn,” Alegra said her mouth full. “I was waiting for some bitches to leave.” “Forget them, let’s get back and have a good time tonight,” Alegra said putting her arm around Jody as they walked back to the car. Over the next couple of movies Jody relaxed. She had a couple drinks, they listened to music. She even smoked a few hits off a joint. She was feeling good until Becky and her two stooges sauntered back into her orbit. “Hey, we had some extra beer, thought you’d want one,” Becky said holding her arm out with the offering. Jody was hesitant but had enough of a buzz that she let her guard down. She took the beer and cracked it open. It sprayed all over her. That bitch shook it up before walking over. Jody wanted to hit her and normally she wouldn’t, she would do what she had always done, nothing. But maybe it was the weed, or the buzz but she felt her hand move, as if her arm had a mind of its own and before she knew it her knuckles were imbedding into that soft cheek and she had tackled her onto the cool grass. She grabbed Becky by her hair and was slamming her head into the ground. Jody could see the bobbing of flashlights as the local cops showed up and dragged her off Becky. She was taken away and put into the cruiser. As she sat there in the back seat with her hands cuffed behind her back she thought: Best night ever. 

5o6ap9

MASKing my nostalgia

I am unashamedly a child of the 80's. After speaking to a good friend, he told me that I should start writing short stories and articles featuring different 80's toys/ cartoons, etc. So, with his encouragement and that of my wife, I set out to write this series. So with that in mind, here we go…"back in my day"... To get things started let's go where illusion is the ultimate weapon. Mobile Armored Strike Kommand. Otherwise known as M.A.S.K. Seriously? Kommand...with a "K". I guess it makes the anagram complete, however there are plenty of other "k" words that I think could have been used. Knights (too British sounding for a US 80's kids cartoon, sorry UK) Um..Killers? (Definitely would not be approved by the censor board.) Kittens? OK, perhaps Kommand is not so bad. M.A.S.K. holds a special place in my heart. I even included it in a chapter of my book entitled "Stuff in My Attic", in the coming weeks, I will share various insights and stories behind the beloved toy line. For those not familiar with M.A.S.K. it is an cartoon and toyline produced by Kenner in 1985. An amalgam of GI Joe and Transformers, about a covert specialized military team that operates vehicles that convert into other vehicles. Each operative wears a helmet (mask) that performs a variety of technical wizardry. Of course no 80's action cartoon would be complete without the inclusion of the forces of the "bad" guy. GI Joe had Cobra, M.A.S.K. had V.E.N.O.M. (Again with the anagrams...oh Kenner, you sneaky devils!) It stands for Vicious Evil Network of Mayhem. Mayhem here being Miles Mayhem the leader of the baddies. Today, I would l like to take a closer look at the first M.A.S.K. toy I was able to own. "Condor" piloted by Brad "Chopper" Turner, part-time rock star, and agent of M.A.S.K. Brad's vehicle was a green racing motorcycle that converts into an open-top attack helicopter. First show appearance was in episode 1. His Hocus Pocus mask projects realistic sometimes "hard light" holograms. In preparation for writing this series, I watched a few episodes of the old cartoon. Wow. It kinda holds up. Sure, it has a campy 80's vibe to it, but that is half the fun. This particular toy paved the way for my love of the cartoon and toy line. My parents soon bought me other M.A.S.K. and V.E.N.O.M. toys. The first releases of the toys had slightly smaller masks that were often one solid piece. (No holes) When an executive made the assumption that the masks could easily be made a choking hazard, they enlarged them and included holes into the design. I had the first series smaller helmets on mosts of my figures. Speaking of figures, you may notice (hard to tell on some pics) that the figures don't have the articulation of their GI Joe cousins, or the level of detail that you would think by today's standards. This is due to the smaller nature of the figures. Instead of the standard 3 3/4 inch figures that most toylines used. Kenner opted to go smaller to make the vehicles more portable and affordable. Good thing too, as financially savvy parents were able to stock up on this fantastic toy line. I remember playing with Brad "Chopper" Turner for hours, showing my grandparents (and anyone else who would listen) that my motorcycle could change into a helicopter! In my 40's I appreciate these toys all the more. (Now if I can afford to get some!) The box art was/ is phenomenal, the concept, the camp factor, it all adds up to a ton of enjoyment. This time we continue our look into the M.A.S.K. line of toys from Kenner from the 1980's. This article is somewhat short however the subject is special to me. Read on to find out why. As a young lad in 1985, I was keen to "keep up with the Jones'" and collect as much as I would be allowed from the major toy lines that really appealed to me. M.A.S.K. was no exception. I had told my parents about them and my mother bought me Condor. (Which we looked at last time.) So when Christmas rolls around that year, imagine my surprise when I received Thunderhawk with the leader of M.A.S.K. Matt Trakker I remember opening the wrapping and I can remember I sat in my pajamas with a large gaping mouth in shock at how I was one lucky boy to receive such a prestigious gift. (I also seem to recall that I also had received so many GI Joe figures that year that my parents couldn't even wrap them all but that is a story for another time/place.) The box art was great showing Thunderhawk in action on the front. Accented in the classic M.A.S.K. red and white. It was a sight to behold. In addition to being a what could only be described as a classic red sports car (Z Type 85 Camaro) with gull-wing doors, it was the leader of M.A.S.K.'s signature vehicle. It featured heavily in the cartoon and perhaps featured the easiest vehicle transformation of any toy of the line. With a push of the button, and a pull on the running boards, the sports car soon would be in "jet" mode. The rear spoiler would pop up at the same time as the doors, exposing the turbo thrusters. By pushing on these thrusters, one could release the bombs that would be found on the under carriage. Undoubtedly, these are the easiest parts to lose, and if you happen to find a complete Thunderhawk for purchase, it can increase the price greatly to have these small bombs included. The graphics on the car scream 1980's hip. A purple high tech looking graph with a lightning bolt that represented speed, the car/jet was the epitome of cool. Looking at the leader of M.A.S.K. himself, Matt Trakker with Spectrum Mask. Just like the rest of the toys in this line, he would have different helmet versions. (Shown below.) However, it does surprise me that this particular toy line varied from the other toys of the time because you would only see one maybe two iterations of the "leader" character. (Optimus Prime, General Hawk for example) M.A.S.K. however gave us 7-8 variations! (Action packs included...more on those later.) The Spectrum mask allowed Matt to hover/fly, read various heat signatures, analyze various materials (such as how much of a particular metal was in a rock wall) among other things as the writers saw fit. Truly a weapon fit for a leader. Many years later, I found my Thunderhawk (mostly complete) and was shocked to find the real rubber tires were still intact and stickers in good condition. (A rarity as many would dry rot away if not properly stored.) I found Matt Trakker and his mask Spectrum and proudly told my 8 year old son of the great times I had with that toy as I presented it to him. He played with it for a while, and I am sure that when my ex and I divorced, she left it in the house she abandoned to be disposed of. It is now probably sitting in a landfill somewhere. Sigh....oh well. At least my son got to share in my childhood if only for a brief time. When I was younger I was a poor student and my parents certainly were concerned with how it made them look. They tried to bribe me with toys on my wish list if I made the honor roll. One of these most coveted toys was the Boulder Hill playset for the M.A.S.K. line of toys by Kenner. This toy was at the top of my list. I remember working so hard all semester for it. I did my homework nearly every night. (I had a hard time doing homework.) I tried really hard to do well on my quizzes and tests. I never worked so hard up until that point. I just kept thinking I would get Boulder Hill so my M.A.S.K. guys would have a headquarters to fight the evil force of V.E.N.O.M.! I pictured putting the bad guys in the cell, and making the boulder roll off the mountain, crushing vehicles. I imagined many hours of playtime with this toy at the top of my list.  I did not get the Boulder Hill playset. Ever. I was two grades short of making the “B” honor roll. (Mostly “B’s”) I was not even that far off of the 2 grades, I remember receiving a C and a C+. Don’t ask me which subjects they were because I cannot recall at this time. I do remember being devastated. I remember crying. I remember thinking from that crucial moment, “If this is what life is like when I try hard, I don’t want to try hard anymore. There is no point.” Ah the intricacies of a youthful mind full of ignorance. What are you nostalgic for? 

uo4n3d

"Me."

“Are you coming tonight?” a deep masculine voice asked over the phone I held in my hand. And that begins my story. I should’ve said no. I had no reason to follow this guy and his girlfriend to see a movie I didn’t care about. But drowned in self-delusion, I went ahead and said, “Sure, why not?”. Self-delusion? You might ask. For you to understand that, I have to put it into context. Allow me to illuminate you. The guy who I was just talking to over the phone is named Robert, and he has this girlfriend named Berdine. Berdine is this extremely beautiful, immaculately complexioned… okay, let’s take that again. I was getting ahead of myself there. Berdine is this blonde, average-heighted girl with eyes as blue as the sky and skin as… somebody freaking stop me! Berdine is a girl. A girl you can tell I have a demented crush on. As a matter of fact, I’ve had a crush on her since we were both coming-of-age teens in high school. It all began when I first saw her, really. She was a transfer student in my first year, and the first time I saw her walk into the class, I was hooked. You see, in high school, I captained the football team (or soccer, depends where you’re from), and here in Germany, football is a very big deal, so I had massive recognition on campus. Most of everybody knew my name. I was also good in math, winning bronze for the school in some national mathematics competition that was held every two years back then (don’t know if they still do that). And, the fact that I was voted face of the class in my final year suggested that I wasn’t that bad looking, as well. So, why did I just feed you this worthless, self-absorbent piece of information? Well, so that you can fully understand what I’m about to tell you next. So, I decided I was going to talk to Berdine. Because that’s what you do when a pretty girl catches your eye, isn’t it? So, the next day during one of the breaks, when most of the other students in the class had gone out to do something, I got up from my seat and walked over to Berdine’s. She was writing something in a book. Something I couldn’t be asked about. The conversation (if you want to call it that) went as well as drinking seven bottles of Jack Daniels and somehow trying to solve math problems. “Hey,” I said, sitting beside her. “Hi.” She replied, without looking. Girls can start out tough sometimes, that’s what I’m thinking at this point. So, I forge ahead. “I’m Daniel.” I said. “And you are?” “Berdine.” She said, still not looking. But, I’m thinking, she gave me a name, right? That’s progress. “What’s that you’re writing?” I asked, peering. “None of your business.” She snapped. Oh, red flags already. “I know. That’s why I asked. So I can know more about your business.” I said. “Well, I don’t feel like sharing.” She said. At this point all systems in my body are telling me to get the hell out of there. But I’m Daniel, one of the most popular names on campus. No way I’m letting a newcomer stand me up like this. So I press on. “You’ve got an edge.” I said, faking a chuckle. She was either done scribbling god-knows-what on the book, or she was irritated by my presence (most likely the latter), because she packed it up and as she put it into her bag, I noticed a sticker of a footballer on its cover.  “You like football?” I asked. She paused and sighed. “Yes.” “Well, I happen to be the captain of the school’s football team.” “Good for you.” “I don’t suppose you know where the field is. I could show you if you like.” “I can handle myself well, thank you.” She said, slinging her bag over one shoulder and getting up from the seat. “Are you going to the cafeteria?” I asked. She made a please-leave-me-alone face. “Yes. Can I pass, now?” “Sure,” I said, shifting my legs to the side, allowing her room. “I could walk you down to the cafeteria,” I said. “I’m good.” She said, before leaving the classroom. What the hell just happened? Did this girl know who I was? Never in my life had a conversation with a girl left me feeling this enraged. To soothe my injured ego, I went home and shared the experience with a friend. He said that she didn’t know who I was yet, as it was just her second day, suggesting that I give her one or two weeks, and in that time she would have fully understood the person she stood up and, in his words, ‘she’ll come running back’. So, I decided to wait two weeks. And you wouldn’t believe what happened in that time. In the two weeks, while I doltishly and ignorantly waited for her to ‘come running back’ like my friend suggested, Berdine won gold at a national spelling bee, was the face of a very popular campus magazine, and was going to represent the school in a regional race competition. In other words, she got big. Really big. Oh, and she began dating my close friend, Robert, who had a great voice, and was the most popular musician in the school. He sang at almost every prom and major get-together party. Turns out, Berdine loved music. What? It was like a movie script gone wrong. No, you couldn’t possibly write a script like this. And when I confronted my friend about it, later on, he looked me in the eye and told me, “Then she wasn’t meant for you.” I swear I was this close to caving his round face in with my fist. At this point, a normal person would’ve just accepted his loss and moved on. That’s why I did the exact opposite. And when I say opposite, I mean complete and total opposite. I fell for her even more. Oh my goodness, Daniel! What the hell is wrong with you? If anything like the above just crossed your mind, then your brain still functions normally—and you probably shouldn’t be reading this thing I like to call a book—If not, well… hello friend. For some weird reason, the fact that she was now on an almost similar level of popularity as me drove up my love interest. Now, that would’ve been fine if she didn’t already stand me up once when she was basically a newcomer, and she that she now had a boyfriend. I mean, if the former wasn’t enough to get me to realize that Berdine was a dead end, the latter surely had to… you know what? I’m dumb. Established. Let’s move on. Now, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Every minute of every day she was in my head. And slowly, but surely, my ‘love interest’ grew into infatuation. I thought I was hooked before, but now I was really hooked. You know that common idea of the best friend of the guy ending up in bed with his girlfriend? That’s the stunt I thought tried to pull; the lie I fed myself that helped me sleep at night. So, I began to befriend Berdine. Being cheesy, funny… you know, the stuff that keeps you in the friend zone. To cut this laborious tale of heightened stupidity short, in the end I ended up forming a trust triangle with Robert and Berdine, being the misfortunate third wheel, the guy whose presence at times was as noticeable as a stunt double in a big action flick, still hoping that he if plays his cards right, somehow the girl of his dreams would leave her severely blistering relationship, realize she was dumb for choosing any other person instead of him and… I need help! The guy still hoping that he if plays his cards right, somehow the girl of his dreams would leave her already perfect relationship and fall blindly into his arms. Now, the question in your mind would most likely be, ‘Daniel, if you berate and slate yourself like this over your past foolishness, why do you still let yourself be swayed by this girl named Berdine?’ Well, my perspicacious reader, have you heard the story of the drunk who knows drinking is terrible for his well-being but can’t get himself to stop, until one day, in his drunken state, he waltzes into the middle of a highway and gets run over by a truck? Nah, me neither. But I hope it’s a good analogy. I knew I was just lying to myself, but even if it had been more than a year now since we graduated high school, I still jumped at the opportunity of seeing her again. When you’re hooked, you’re hooked. That’s why at the start of all this, I said my decision to follow my friend, Robert, and his girlfriend … Berdine, was one drowned in self-delusion. But, due to a chain of very fortunate, yet unfortunate, events, it would later turn out to be a somewhat good decision. Okay, back to the original story, it was summer, and this new motion picture had come out which everyone seemed to be raving about. (I, for one, wasn’t a movie person. I was more into games and gyms.) Most universities in the country were on holiday, so Berdine had this wonderful idea that the three of us go see the movie together to revive old memories (I told you I was part of their trust triangle, right?). So, that night I wore a pair of black ripped jeans, white sneakers, and a furry, white sweater on top of a black, body-hug shirt that outlined my muscles. I even donned a chain and a pair of rings I had bought a few months back, which I saved for special occasions… you know, cool kid look. I was ready to blow Berdine away. Robert drove us to the cinema in his car. On the way, we caught up, talked about our new lives in our separate universities, I couldn’t stop looking at Berdine as she talked. Turns out, the both of them were still dating, somehow, even if they now schooled at opposite ends of the country. Is that what true love is like? Anyway, we got to the cinema, bought tickets, bought snacks to move the mouth, and sat in the waiting area, because we arrived about fifteen minutes too early. But, barely ten minutes later we heard someone exclaim, “Berdine?” in shock. We turned to the source of the sound, and see a tall, burly guy walks towards our table. “Andrew?” Berdine exclaims in equal shock. “You know this guy?” Robert asked, completing the triangle of shock. According to what Berdine went on to explain, Andrew was the reason her father transferred her to my school. Turns out they used to date before, but a series of mistrust and mistreatment culminated in an eventual split between the two. A split which Andrew didn’t take well at all. His actions got so over the top, that Berdine’s dad had to pull her out of the school. I’m guessing he’d heard the stories of the lunatic ex-boyfriend killing the girl and then himself. ‘If I can’t have you, no one can.’ I guess you already know where this story is going. So, Andrew walks over to the table to talk to Berdine, but she seemed terrified by his presence, so Robert stepped in to help her, and well, you know how that always ends up. He and Andrew exchange heated words, and when words weren’t enough to convey the level of hate they had for each other in that moment, a fight ensued. Both men punched, kicked and threw each other all over the place. In the ending moments of the fight, Andrew grabbed a fork and stabbed Robert in the neck, before Robert retaliated by grabbing Andrew by the head and smashing his face into a wall, breaking his nose in the process. Security come rushing in just in time to stop the fighting from dragging on, and both boys are taken to a clinic, then a station for questioning the next day. In the end, both of them were put on community service for a week, and we never watched that movie on the big screen. Berdine and Robert said they did their own mini watch party some Saturday night, but I passed on that one. Seeing what became of Andrew, what over-the-top infatuation could do to a person, opened my eyes to a new light. I didn’t want to end up like Andrew, fighting random guys at public centers over girls that didn’t care as much about me as I do about them.  So, I began to distance myself from Berdine. I still talk to her, but just over the phone from time to time, and It’s taken me a while to acknowledge that Robert was probably the guy for her. I mean, someone ready to take a fork in the neck for you? Talk about true love, ha-ha. I guess this is the point where I try to force some kind of contrived moral lesson out of this disjointed story. So here goes nothing: Going out of your way to hang out with friends may have a defining payoff in the end. I think that’s about right.

cujebd

Canine Salvation

Liberation day has never been my friend. For starters, it’s never really meant much to me; I mean I’m as patriotic as the next guy but have never felt the need to exhibit it ostentatiously. Second, despite my best efforts, I’ve never actually found an annual liberation day tradition that doesn’t make me want to tie myself to an anchor and jump in the ocean. Also, the firework aspect of it is a real turnoff for me. I have no problem with people expressing themselves but setting off pyrotechnics in the sky is just a waste of time and money. Call me crazy but disturbing the neighbors (and especially their dogs) with loud noises while blowing off my fingers is not my idea of a good time Growing up, my folks attempted to initiate their own family tradition for us (ranging from events at the local stadium to neighborhood barbecues) but, despite throwing countless ideas at the wall, nothing ever really seemed to stick. That is until we one day received an invitation to spend LD at the Ross estate. The Rosses were family friends we had known for more than two decades and, despite a few hiccups over the years, we had remained close. Theirs was in a decent neighborhood & the house next door looked like it could very well have belonged to an A-lister trying to hide from the paparazzi far away from la la land. My folks had asked if I wanted to tag along and admittedly I was a bit apprehensive initially but ultimately opted in. As we pulled in, I was suddenly reminded of the origin of all that apprehension. The matriarch of said family looks better than anyone that age has any business appearing. You’ll be fine, Brad - the voice in the back of my head - kept telling me, Just focus on the canines. You see, the Rosses had a long history of their house featuring beloved dogs they absolutely adored. From the original black lab to the energetic corgi to the two they currently cater to: a great dane and a sheepdog. They’ll probably never win best in show but they were the sweetest companions you could ever hope for. As the welcoming committee came out to bark at us, I helped schlep in the watermelon we had brought for them. Some of the new additions to the house were an enclosed fence in the front yard (presumably to contain the pets) and what appeared to be a dog house in the backyard that had no business being that big. We convened in the backroom overlooking the backyard and the dogs, Jack and Chloe, joined us. Doing my best to pretend she didn't exist, I preoccupied myself entirely with the dogs. Jack was the new kid on the block so I hadn't actually met him until a rencounter with Mr. Ross on the trail a few months prior. At the time, he didn’t appear all that friendly as my attempts at petting him were met with barking. This time, however, for whatever reason, he appeared to be in a more amiable mood as the petting was met with no discernible objections. Maybe they slipped some xanax into his kibble or something. While Mr. Ross began firing up the grill, Mom began chatting it up with Mrs. Ross as the yentas did what they do best. As for me, I found Chloe in the foyer and began playing with her, anything to fend off unwanted thoughts. She was clearly getting up there in age but was more than happy to play with any willing participants. With no one else in earshot, I actually took the time to explain to her how lucky she was to not have to deal with certain human situations. When you have four paws and fur, people couldn’t care less whether you have an SO or not. As a human male, however, your mom never shuts up about it. It was honestly difficult to discern whether she was able to comprehend any of what I was saying but regardless, it was nice to have someone to talk to who couldn’t judge you even if she wanted to. Because judgment is a foreign concept to her, as it should be to the rest of the human race. After an indeterminate amount of time, she dozed off and I headed back to the living room just in time for dinner. My folks are not big meat eaters but they have no idea what they were missing. To this day, I have no idea what he did to those hot dogs but, whatever it was, the end result was a treat impossible to beat. That’s why it almost seemed like a waste when they fed the leftovers to the dogs but I still thoroughly enjoyed the one I had. Just put it out of your mind. In addition to those carnivorous delights, we were also treated to spaghetti and the sweet sensation that is the American watermelon. When all was said and eaten, I finished my can of sparkling water and made a beeline for the foyer. The meal had reached its natural conclusion so, naturally, we were all determined to get as far away from that room as possible. At that moment, we were essentially outlaws fleeing the scene of the crime.  Through some sick twist of fate, I ended up in the front room, the piano looming large over the figurines and other various tchotchkes dispersed throughout the area. Chloe was there in all her cuteness but still napping soundly in the corner. I suppose being 91 years old in dog years will do that to you. Frantic for something else to do, I didn’t have to look far. After being provided with a tasty treat in the form of a strawberry popsicle, I couldn’t help but notice the giant bookshelf looming large over the rest of the room. There was nothing particularly intriguing but it didn’t really have to be, did it? All it had to do was kill time and it was particularly adept at chronological homicide. I pulled out the first book I found and dove in. Admittedly, it got off to a bit of a slow start but, after the first few pages, it started picking up. The whole thing was written as a satire that proved to mostly fall flat but it was sufficiently engrossing which was all that mattered. After a bit, I came out of it and started looking around. You could tell there were kids living here solely by the fact that random household objects were strewn about in the most random places. I briefly browsed through the paper and left it on the table. It was just more of the usual: dumb people doing dumber things. By the time I meandered back to the front room, the dog had gone MIA. I looked out the window and there she was, trying to turn a squirrel into her next meal. I wasn’t supposed to leave without telling anyone but these were exigent circumstances. Cracking open the window just enough for me to squeeze through, I went after her. Initially, it was not going well. Despite my incredible feats on the track team, I was nowhere close to catching her. After about five minutes, however, I caught a second wind and my feet went into overdrive. When I finally caught up with her, we had made it all the way to the lake a mile and a half down the road. There she was, munching on her evening snack and wagging her tail contentedly. I waited until she finished and picked up the leash. I half-expected her to resist and try to deviate from the path but she went with me willingly. In fact, not once during the entire walk back did she attempt to pull away. As we traversed our way through the trees, I could see the sun taking its final bow just below the horizon. There was something strangely reassuring about knowing liberation day was coming to a close and also something ironic about the fact that, even on this day, our canine companions were not able to run free. As we passed the miniscule creek we used to go fishing in as kids, I started to think people might recognize Chloe. This was her neighborhood, after all, and Mr. Ross walks her periodically so it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility people might notice she was seemingly being walked by a complete stranger. But no one’s neck consisted of rubber that day. In fact, if anything, they seemed to deny our very existence, preferring instead to bury their noses in their phones or pick up after their own pets. Anything to avoid genuine accountability. Sometimes, apathy really is the best medicine, albeit in small doses. As we turned back onto our street, my thoughts couldn’t help but drift to whatever awaited us within those hallowed walls. Would we get caught trying to sneak back in like an 80’s kid just getting back from a wham concert? Honestly, they were so engrossed in their own gossip, I’d be shocked if they even noticed we were gone. I opened the window and she jumped right on through. For an old girl, she was surprisingly agile. After crawling through right after her, I began composing my faculties while attempting to lift myself up off the floor. Fortunately, no one else was in the room, indicating our absence had flown under the radar. I gave the room a once-over and Chloe was sitting there in the corner, tongue out and tail wagging. As I rose to my fett, I stumbled upon an old tennis ball under the piano. I looked at her and back at the tennis ball. This went on for a good, long while. Finally, I threw it to her and she promptly caught it with her teeth. I said drop it and she let it go to the floor. It rolled back to me and I picked it up. I looked back up at her and she was still sitting there panting, looking quite content. Slowly, I came to realize that, by Jove, I think we’ve got something here. Thus began the start of something beautiful, something no one could have foreseen. After losing all concept of time, the adults pulled themselves away from their indulgences just long enough to venture over to the front room and find us still playing fetch. They took the opportunity to inform me that my folks were ready to go, “But who’s going to keep playing fetch with her?” “Don’t worry,” responded Mr. Ross, “I can sub in.” I looked out the window and, sure enough, darkness was gradually permeating the sky. They’re not particularly keen on driving at night so if they were adamant about leaving, I felt it only fair to respect their wishes. It’s okay, Brad said to me, You can go now. Realizing she was in good hands, I handed him the tennis ball and followed the folks out the front door. As we said our goodbyes and headed for the CR-V, I surreptitiously moved over to the window to see if he had followed through and, sure enough, he did. That was all the catharsis I needed. Climbing into the backseat, I began continually staring out the back window until the pineapple-colored house had faded from view. As we departed, it all slowly began to sink in. At the end of the day, I was that same hyperactive dog, forever chasing a squirrel he could never catch.

pfyzgd

A LEGACY

➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢➢ A LEGACY Mary Cahill Kurpiewski When I was growing up in Port Richmond, a blue-collar section of Philadelphia near the Delaware River, my mom was always so charitable and religious that I look back and marvel at her examples. The only thing I could not understand was her reluctance to give money to beggars. In the 40´s and 50´s we called homeless people who asked for money...hobos! The rude Mrs. Brennan, our neighbor, referred to them as ´bums´. My mother would say, ¨...if these unfortunate people are hungry, give them food. If you give them money, they will just drink it up!¨ I was not fully aware of the reason for this, but I guessed it was because a couple of her brothers drank a lot and she forbade any alcohol in our home.   My dad was having a rough time for awhile thinking he might be laid off from his job. One of my aunts suggested ´welfare´. Well, you might have thought he was shot with an arrow. He almost went for the woman´s throat as he shouted, ´Welfare? I don't accept charity! It´s stupid to even suggest I would accept it!´´ After the upset woman left, my dad gave me a sermon. “Never accept charity or let anyone know you´re giving them anything close to charity!¨ I was confused. My mom said to give them food, my dad said to give them something without them knowing it. Okay?? I really never thought of charity again as a kid. It was just too stressful. As an adult, I donated to my church and volunteered my time. I really never gave cash to any homeless people directly. But one day I saw this woman in the supermarket. She wore shabby clothes and was quite disheveled. She pushed a shopping cart and walked up and down each aisle. The poor woman looked at many things but put nothing in her basket. As she went outside, without any purchases, she just stood in the phone booth. I realized she was hungry and had no money to buy anything. As I approached my car, I leaned over. I had a twenty dollar bill, my only money until next pay day, rolled in my hand. As I stood, I caught her eye and asked her if she had dropped this bill. Excitedly, she said, ¨Oh, yes, I think I did!¨ As she eagerly took the bill, she thanked me and rushed back into the store. I think I did as I was instructed so long ago, I indirectly gave her food and she didn't know it was from me. I felt better! Once I was in a fast-food place having coffee. At the next table there were three teens with Down Syndrome. They seemed to be enjoying their time together. They were sharing a few bags of fries and taking turns slurping from the same soda. A fourth friend entered and asked if he could join them. He reached for a fry. They said they didn't have any more, so they began putting their change together but couldn't come up with enough to buy more. The friend began taking coins from his pocket and re-counting. As they concentrated on the task at hand, I leaned over and tossed a ten dollar bill under their table. I then asked them if they had dropped the paper on the floor. As they glanced down, one of the girls shrieked and said to me, ¨Thanks so much, I think I must have dropped it!¨ They all immediately rushed up to the counter and came back with plenty of food for everyone. Over the years, I have done my little act many times. The lesson my mother and dad had instilled in me was stretched to the limit at times when I wasn't sure where the ´found money´ would be spent, but I always felt good that the receiver did not realize they were taking charity whether or not they wanted it. Last week, as I was looking for a parking spot outside a shoe shop, I tried to get as close to the entrance as possible since it had been pouring rain all day. I spotted an elderly gentleman sitting in the corner on a ledge under an awning. He was trying to keep his worn clothes as dry as possible with newspaper. I went into the store and kept thinking about him. I decided to forget about the shoes and give him the money instead. I hurried to my car and wondered how I would get the money to him since he was back so far against the wall. As I looked in my rear view mirror, I saw him struggle to get up. I backed up just as he started his feeble walk to cross in front of me. As he passed, I rolled down my window and tossed a tissue with the money inside. I hollered to him, ¨Sir, I think you just dropped a note or a piece of paper on the ground!?¨ He shrugged his shoulders, and stooped over to pick up the bill I had just tossed. He walked back to my window and with a warm smile on his lined face, winked and said, ¨God bless you, Lady!¨ I said, ¨I´m sorry, sir, but it was just lying on the ground. It's not from me!¨ He winked again and hollering over the noise from the torrential rain, he said, ¨The rain has been coming down for hours and this money is dry as a bone and the tissue smells as sweet as you! God bless you for your sweet charity!¨ I will never forget that moment---”Mom, I think he was going to drink it up--sorry! And, sorry to you, Daddy. He knew it was charity but was grateful just the same.” ==================================================================== LOOKING FORWARD ---I still do my little ´wrap and rolll' gesture and it makes me, I think, feel better than the recipients as I try to carry on my parents’ ‘LEGACY’. ====================='===============================================

zhyg1l

I Remember

I remember. You were so good to me. I sat on the floor, in awe of you, combing my fingers through the long weave of the shag carpet. Discovering the patterns of sienna mixed with the varying tones of brown. Like tiger stripes in a dry savannah. Your voice was like a song. Talking and laughing as the sound of the dishwater cascaded from your hands in a splatter, to the plate in a high pitched rattle, and the pots with the peal of a bell. I can hear the faint Canadian Midwest, and even fainter Scottish accents on your Southern California voice. I wonder if when I grow up, I’ll sound like you. Behind your voice was the constant drone of afternoon television. There were the slaps and arguments of your “stories”, and the nasal cuckolding nag of the talk show hosts in their red power blazers and high shoulder pads, that screamed to the audience at home “I am the expert”. The adult world seemed like a very frightening place, full of serial killers and husbands jilted at the altar. It seemed there was a lot of suspense, and not much time for fun. But you. You were my safety in a confusing world. Your sister. She would explode into the aging mobile with her continental accent. It was as if The Queen herself had made her entrance carrying bags of expensive gifts and food. Ours was never good enough. She had to bring scallops and champagne, and itchy clothes for me that were too tight and too formal for the high desert. “Jenny darling, we never say butt!” She would command in her faux British accent, “You say your derriere or your tush!” Her husband was a high ranking accountant in the oil industry. He was also a Freemason. He would come in the door and wink at me, then we'd do hand gestures, similar to sign language. It was our little game. Our way of telling each other “I love you”. They had lived in such exotic places as Sri Lanka, India, and Indonesia. When Gaddafi imposed communism and nationalized the Libyan oil industry, they had to leave everything and flee for their lives to Tunisia, and then Spain. All outside executives were public enemy number one. Her children hated her for abandoning them to military schools when they were only boys. She displayed the same glamourous, vain, and gold-dripping voice with them as she did with all her friends and relatives. No love, just petty laughter and commands. They went on to great things as adults, but never got over the pain of never having true parents. When they sold their mansion in Sedona, she came for Thanksgiving, where she called out without remorse: “I have these lovely ivory bookends- that I don’t know what to do with! Would anyone care for them?” We all sat as silent as a tomb, with dropped jaws, but no one was really surprised. Your husband. What can I say about my grandpa? Well, he wasn’t really my grandpa. Your first husband was an abusive alcoholic. You had to hide from him with your children at your mother’s house. Later, your eldest daughter followed in your footsteps by marrying a man who would knock out her front teeth. I loved my step grandpa so dearly. He was tall, loud, and very German. He had served in the US Navy in WW2, and it seemed his whole identity rested on that fact. He had a machine shop at the back of the property where he was always repairing things. I imagined that was how all grownups worked. I didn't know that people bought anything new. If a hinge broke, weld a new one, if the phone had a bad connection, splice together old wires to make a new phone cord. If you need a new fence post, make it yourself. That was what men did. The shop was his world, and in there, sometimes storms broke loose. If he was repairing something in the vise, he might ask whomever his victim was to go in and take it out for him. They might open it up to see the thing fall to the ground in two pieces. Then he would attack whoever it was, and blame them. When in actuality, the item was so cleanly sawed, you knew he had set you up. But the beating was so severe, you believed it was you who did it, and were apologizing profusely by the end. There was the black man on his Navy ship during the Second World War. The only one stationed there. He bragged laughingly about hanging him over the side of the ship. For years I thought he meant that they built him a swing, but as a teenager, the finality and the horror of those words hit me like a bullet to the chest. Could the man who baked me cookies and drove me to school have been a bigoted killer? Your son. My daddy. A great man. Piggybacked between two abusive fathers, and a saintly mother- a woman whose laughing voice was like the peal of a mountain spring over little rocks. You raised him well. He is quiet, a man of many thoughts and few words. Grandpa signed him up for school with the wrong last name, and when he corrected the teacher, saying the surname of his true father, he came home to a beating so terrible, he still tells the story of it with clouds of bitter revulsion in his throat. He just wanted to be loved as a boy. He wanted some man to be proud of him. But he was thrown off the property at fifteen years old. The year was 1967, and he had heard of people travelling along route 66, so he hitchhiked clear to Massachusetts. Later he ended up along the California coast, in the mountains of Northern Arizona, and even as a very young fisherman on the Kenai Peninsula. I would sit in rapt attention, as he would tell the stories of his journeys. I was so excited by them. They were my folktales, and later, my aspirations. By the time I was fifteen, I had run away and done my own travelling. He found me at the shelter, and gave me what I thought was a stern look of disgust and disapproval. But then I saw him put something on the bed. It was his old metal pole framed pack that he used when he was hitchhiking as a boy. Inside was a red sleeping bag, water, and his Sherpa-lined corduroy jacket. God I loved that man at that moment. My daddy was so good to me. After he left, I began crying, and saying over and over “I want my dad. I want to go home.” They called my parents, and I went with them. My mom screamed at me and threw me by my hair, but my dad and I had an understanding. And later, I would use those gifts he bestowed upon me in the youth shelter to have my own adventures as a young woman. I moved away very suddenly at age eighteen, and ended up over a thousand miles away on the wind swept Oregon coast. It was here that I rode a Coast Guard ship up the mouth of the Columbia River, as it navigated the treacherous bar into the gray, and unmerciful Pacific Ocean. It was also here that I followed in your footsteps, and married a man that I would quickly grow to fear. A man who day to day held my life in his hands, and made this fact quite clear. Around the time that I was giving birth to your great-granddaughter, the one you wished you could have lived to see, massive wildfires were scorching the valley where Grandpa used your savings to buy and build the family homestead. Soon, there was news that everything was gone. Just the driveway, the water tank, and my memory of you is all that remains to this day. I brought my daughter to see you when she was eight. You had been dead a decade, but you still live in the red earth, so rich in granite, that the ground glitters with tiny crystals every day in the sunshine. That’s where you live. That’s where I remember you. Your voice has been silenced, but I can still hear its silver peal in the scattered light of the tiny crystals that will forever sparkle in the hot sun of the California desert.

6zmaw4

Lucid

Salt-ridden winds came in like curtains from the coast, layering every surface touched in a sheet of translucent stone. The roads were undrivable, the air was unbreathable, the townspeople of Seafarer were trapped as salt accreted over their sea-side homes. News stations covered the story, broadcasting juxtaposed images of a once vibrant destination, flooded with sun-kissed teenagers and elderly with skin like Tuscan leather, to a now barren landscape where white blankets of salt and rain profusely swept over. It was unknown if any survivors remained. Thankfully we know of one family, the Saldon’s, made up of Peter, a Botanist and his wife Lily, a horticulturist. They met in university and fell in love, shortly after, having two children, Maxwell and Daisy, two-years apart. Peter is a lanky man with an airy disposition, who walked as if each of his legs were pogo-sticks. Lilly grounded him. She was much like an old oak stump that refused to move. They put their minds together, converting their home into a living and breathing ecosystem, with foliage blossoming from every corner, the floor covered in a thin film of primordial water, vines crawled along the walls and thick twine dangled from room to room, along the ropes traveled all sorts of animals: Iguanas, Chameleons, Tarantulas, everyone was welcomed to play their part. Unfortunately Maxwell and Daisy were left to their own devices as their parents spent every waking hour busily maintaining their home, life could not be sustained without it. Daisy grew incredibly bored of being trapped indoors. One day, she decided to fall into a dream and not wake up. She slept enveloped in silk with a soft and pleasant smile, for who knows what wonders she dreamt. Maxwell was left all alone, often spending the days looking out through his bedroom window, watching as salt storms rolled in from the sea. Eventually, even that pleasure came to an end as each layer of salt turned the translucent stone opaque. Maxwell had nothing to look forward to left but the night, in hopes that he would finally dream a dream as pleasant as Daisy's. For an unknown reason, Maxwell was unable to dream of anything other than the mundane world he lived in. In his dreams he would reenact precisely what had happened the previous day. Despite reading everything from his parents library, which had now been taken over by a new species of moths, he was unable to sustain the phantasmagoric dream he wished for. His dreams would begin vividly, with scenes pulled directly from the book he read as he fell asleep, but slowly those spectacular images would dissipate and reveal his uneventful life. Somehow, in Maxwell's preoccupation with dreams, he made a discovery. As he laid in bed staring at the glowing stars against his ceiling, he felt the heaviness of sleep, yet rather than being lulled into it, he fought the sensation, and rather than waking up, he kept his eyes shut. In this limbo betwixt sleeping and dreaming, he had entered a dream between dreams. A lucid dream in which he had full control. In Maxwell’s lucid dream, life was the same, of course. Daisy slept peacefully and unbothered. His parents nervously ran around fending off critters and clipping overgrown ferns. Maxwell saw there was nothing left to do but leave. Yet wasn't as easy as Maxwell thought. Because the dream was unforgivably realistic, he had to carve his way out with a silver spoon. And because his parents had their own minds in the lucid world, they would sometimes notice him carving the stone and ground him, sending Maxwell to his room. It’s not as if the grounding would be forgotten in the following dream, no, things would carry over. There came a point where Maxwell's waking life and lucid dreams converged, making it so that one was virtually indistinguishable from the other. Eventually, after some time, Maxwell had reached the end. He squeezed himself through a narrow opening and couldn’t believe what he saw. Everything was covered as if a spider came and wrapped the entire town of Seafarer in its silken web. With salt and rain blowing from every direction, Maxwell walked along a towering crystalized salt wall where the sea-side shops used to be. As Maxwell roamed through the town, something peculiar caught his attention, there was an old man seated on a wooden bench, facing the grey ocean as storms brewed and rolled onto the shore. The old man had a large porous nose and wore a twine colored jacket along with a golfers-green walrus cap. “Hey you!” he shouted in a hoarse voice. “What are you doing here!” Maxwell was startled and hid with his back against the cold salt wall. “Get out of there, kid!” Maxwell came out from behind the wall about to run back home but before he could the old man said, “Hey, don’t run! Come over here and take a seat. Don’t worry, I don't bite.” The old man schootched over as Maxwell sat on the far end of the wooden bench. They both faced the roaring ocean. “You see that?” The old man said as he pointed at the broad sea. “That’s the enemy.” “What do you mean?” Maxwell asked, unsure of what he was pointing at. “That! The great ocean. That’s the enemy!” The old man exclaimed again. “I don’t understand what you mean, mister.” The old man paused and then asked, “You go to school, kid?” “Yeah. Well, I used to, before the storm.” “Hmm, you do look familiar…” he said as he scratched his grey beard. “Listen, If I were you, kid, I would forget everything you’ve ever learned. You see, school doesn’t teach a thing. That ocean,” pointing once again at the vast open sea “that’s where you learn your lessons.” “The ocean?” “Bingo! Yes, that's her name. That tumultuous beast. The ocean will teach you everything you’ll ever need. Life, death, love, and hatred, it’s all in there. If you stare long enough, like me, she’ll eventually gaze back.” “Why are you here?” Maxwell abruptly asked. “I’m doing what you’re doing, kid, dreaming. You know us old folk still dream too, well, some of us.” “As Yeats once said,” The old man licked and smacked his lips, "But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” So don’t you tread on my dreams! They’re all I’ve got left.” The old man cocked his head back looking at the grey clouds above. “Do you know when the storm will end?” Maxwell asked. The old man continued to look up “Hmmm” he thought. “Well, the storm never does end, does it? It just keeps rolling in. It’ll never stop. And if you think it stopped, just know, there’s an even bigger storm somewhere far away, getting larger and larger, and when you thought everything was all good and sunshine, there it will be, ready to wash over everything you love.” “So the storm will never end?” “Yeah, but don’t worry about it. By the way, what’s your name kid?” “Maxwell.” “Well Max, call me Charles. You know you ask a lot of questions. That’s good, real good. But don’t expect everyone you ask questions to have the answers.” Maxwell and Charles watched as massive clouds formed along the horizon, slowly making their way to the shore. “Do you have a plan?” Maxwell said, breaking the silence. “A plan?”, Charles cackled. “Forget plans Max, plans don’t get you anywhere. Understand? Plans just get in the way. I used to have a plan, me and my wife, a splendid plan but guess what? Life’s got a plan of her own, and if yours don’t match hers, they're as good as toilet paper.” “Does your wife join your dreams?” “She used to." Charles paused. "She and I would share all our dreams. We took our dreams as guides through the world, to hell with plans. Now she’s in a dream of her own, and I’ll surely be joining soon.” “My sister is in a dream of her own too.” “Is that so?” Charles asked, turning in Maxwell's direction for the first time since they began speaking. “Yeah, she dreams all day. I wish I could join because she’s always smiling when she’s dreaming, I don’t remember her smiling that much before, so whatever she’s dreaming about must be nice.” The old man smiled and laughed. “What’s so funny?” “Everything’s funny! Life’s one big long joke and we’re all just waiting for the punchline.” The distant sea became less clear and Maxwell rubbed his eyes. “So what should I do if the storm never ends?” Maxwell asked. “That’s a good question!”, Charles said and then continued. “Well, it can stop, in a sense.” “I thought you said it never stops?” “I say a lot of things, doesn’t mean I’m right. But it all depends on what you’re looking at. If you look for rain, rain will look for you. If you spend your life just trying to float by then the storm does indeed never end.” “You know, I don’t remember a day of bad weather when me and Missy were together. Even if it was pouring cats and dogs, all I ever saw was her.” “What do you mean?” Maxwell was beginning to doze off, struggling to listen as Charles talked. “Well, when you love something or someone, that’s all you see. You see? The storm still does its thing but it doesn’t matter, what you love matters.” Maxwell imagined the things he loved: playing with his friends, snow cones during winter, afternoons on the boat. “That’s not love, Max! Those are things you like. See, you don’t always love what you like, and you don't always like what you love. You can only love one thing at a time, no exceptions to the rule.” The old man continued. “When you love something, everything else disappears. Even the idea of love. The man in love is as good as blind, he doesn’t know up from down, he doesn’t know a thing. In the same way he doesn’t even realize there’s a storm. See what I mean?” “I think so.” Maxwell said as the old man began to fade away. Maxwell could feel himself slipping from the lucid dream, his eyelids peeled back and revealed the stars plastered against his bedroom ceiling. A ray of light shined against Maxwell's face and he turned to see the storm had vanished. He saw clearly through his window. A sunny day, things were back to the way they were before. His home was no longer filled with plants and creatures. Daisy was well awake and seated at the breakfast table with their mother and father. “Rise and shine sleepy head!” Lily said with an endearing smile, serving him a big plate of pancakes. “Eat up, the bus will be here at any time.” Maxwell quickly ate and rushed outside. Seafarer was bright and lively. The sky was cloudless, the ocean was rolled in with soft waves. He walked along to the bus stop and a sharp yellow bus pulled up beside the curb. The bus doors folded and as Maxwell walked up the steps he was greeted by a familiar rusty voice. “Hello Max! Ready for school?” Maxwell looked up amazed to see the old man in the same golf-green walrus cap.

4ennau

Can't Miss It

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” The voice that came through his phone's speakers sounded so different than Emily’s did just minutes ago when she'd asked to watch Minecraft videos. How had she changed so much in just a few short years? Emily was only 3 then, her hair was shoulder length. Sharon had put it up in pigtails that morning. They bounced along with Emily as she implored him to wake up. He was glued to the small screen, replaying the video from four Father’s Days ago. How had he forgotten about that yellow flower dress? It was her favorite. She bawled when Sharon told her she was too big for it and that they were donating it. She begged, pleaded , for them to let her wear it again. They had to pry it from her hands, like they were separating her from her best friend. He really liked that dress too, now that he thought about it. The video ended for the fifth time, Emily freeze-framed in midair, one fist pumping as Dave slowly began to rise from the bed. He didn't restart it, but he didn't close it out either. He just stared at her infectious smile and that gap between her front teeth that had all but disappeared in the years since. How many times had she screamed out Daddy! over the years? Every time he got home from work. Whenever she'd fall and would need the magical power of a Daddy kiss on her booboo. At 8 AM on weekends he had to audacity to still be asleep. It all seemed so normal back then, as if none of it would ever fade. He never considered that her excitement and innocence might disappear; it never seemed possible. Like she would remain 3 for the rest of her life, adorable and loving and full of life. She was still wonderful and precious, but the adorable things he loved so much when she was younger had already begun to fade. The unintentional mispronunciations, excitement over every innocuous thing, and love of Paw Patrol were slowly replaced by a desire to watch Minecraft videos and shows on the Disney channel that had just a bit more maturity in them than Dave would have liked. How had he missed her growing up? He was there the whole time. Then again, maybe he wasn’t. He thought back to that Father’s Day four years ago, to the breakfast Emily had helped Sharon make for him. The Lakers played the Celtics the night before. He'd spent the entire meal checking the box score of the game, worrying about his fantasy lineup. He couldn't even recall if Emily had eaten with him or not. There was always some game for which he had to check the stats. Fantasy lineups he had to adjust. And if it wasn’t sports, it was Candy Crush. Or Angry Birds. Or whatever the newest game was. How much time did he spend on his phone? How much had he missed? He didn’t even know anymore. He’d originally opened his Photo Gallery to delete photos and videos to make room for a new game. Instead, he tapped the Home button and swiped up to open the apps list. What game was he playing this morning while drinking his coffee? While Emily was trying to tell him about something a YouTuber named Stampy did in his Minecraft world? Candy Crush. He found the game and looked at the icon as if it caused him, forced him , to play. He blamed it, hated it . He pressed his thumb on the game’s icon - hard - as if trying to crush the game out of his phone. He felt the quick vibration of the secondary menu popping up and smashed “Delete”. His chest felt a little less tight. He went through the rest of his app list, first removing the games that he felt took up the majority of his time. Then, he went back through and deleted them all. He checked the time on his phone. 2:47 PM. Emily would be getting out of school soon. And when she walked out of school, bounding to his car as he waited in the pickup line, she wouldn’t find him swiping through his phone or launching a pixelated bird at terribly constructed buildings. She’d see him recording her. Capturing every possible moment of her innocence, her wonder, her beauty. How many moments had he missed over the years, thinking them to be normal, everyday occurrences that wouldn't someday disappear? Now that they were gone, he could never recapture what he'd missed – but he could ensure that he never missed anything again. It began innocently enough. That day, when Emily walked out to the car from school, she squinted and ducked her head to look into the passenger window. “Are you recording me?” “Yep! You look so cute in that outfit. Great job picking it out!” Emily smiled. "Thank you! Are you taking a picture?" "No, baby. I'm recording you. You're on camera." She laughed. "Why are you recording me?” Dave would come to hear that question countless times in the coming days and weeks. Breakfast in the mornings. Soccer practices. Watching videos of people on the other side of the world playing Minecraft. Nights spent cuddling up to Mommy on the couch watching America’s Funniest Home Videos. Everything was recorded. At first, Dave’s phone sufficed. Since he’d wiped out all non-essential apps, he felt he had quite a bit of room for videos. It didn’t take long for the device to fill up, though. So, Dave invested in external hard drives, terabytes of treasured-memory storage space. It became a regular habit, dumping the mass amounts of short videos from his phone onto the external hard drive to make room for more. Emily viewed the regular recordings as fun, even playing up to the camera when she saw it – like an A-list actress flashing poses on the red carpet. For a while, even Sharon got in on the fun. She'd long chastised him about being on his phone too much before; now, she praised his newfound desire to be involved in Emily's day-to-day life during late night discussions in bed. Dave finally felt like he was doing right by his daughter, his family. Six months after he first recorded Emily’s walk out of school, Dave decided to install a closed circuit camera system for the house. He figured there was a treasure trove of memories occurring when he wasn’t around. For the first time, Sharon seemed less than thrilled about the idea. When he told her that he’d already purchased the equipment, she questioned the necessity of even more cameras. She also questioned if he was taking this whole thing a bit too far. He didn’t understand; didn’t she praise him just a couple weeks ago for this? “Don’t you want to remember all of the wonderful things that Emily does when we get older?” Sharon spoke slowly, raising her eyebrows. “Yes… but not to this degree. You haven’t stopped recording us, recording her, for months now. I know you mean well, but if someone else were to see this, they’d find it a bit… creepy.” “ Creepy ?” Dave snapped back. “I don’t mean that I feel that way. Just…” “I can’t believe you’d turn an act of love like this into a negative thing. Creepy ?” “Don’t turn this around on me! I’m not saying it’s creepy, I’m just wondering if maybe you’re taking this a bit too far.” She didn’t understand. If she did, she wouldn’t question this; in fact, she’d be helping install the cameras. Dave shook his head and walked out of the room. It was time to pick Emily up anyway. Emily didn’t question him like Sharon did. Well, she did, but in the way a 7-year-old questions everything. “How do you watch the videos?” “Can you post my dances to TikTok?” “Wait, what if I’m getting dressed?” To her last question, Dave reassured her that he only had the cameras in the common areas of the house – dining room, living room, kitchen. He would never invade her privacy like that. And so, with Emily's approval, Sharon relented. The cameras were installed by the next day. The house settled into a new normal, though Sharon no longer praised him for recording everything. Even with the cameras installed in the main rooms, Dave still recorded Emily using his phone whenever possible. What if the overhead cameras missed something? For her 8th birthday, he and Sharon reserved a section of Chuck-E-Cheese. Knowing that he would be recording all day, and with so much to capture, Dave brought his laptop and external hard drive to the party. When his wife noticed the bag Dave threw in the back of the car, her eyebrows shot up as her gaze went from the bag to him. “Tell me you’re not really bringing all that.” “I’m going to run out of space before the party ends. I’m just bringing it so I can offload the videos and clear space.” She threw up her hands and exhaled. “Whatever.” He wasn’t backing down; this was the first birthday since his epiphany. He would be able to look back on this day and remember it 50 years down the road as if he were back here with Emily. He’d even be able to show Emily later on. She’d like that. From the moment they left the house, Dave had his phone recording. Even when they walked in and Emily got lost in the crowd of screaming kids, he kept recording. Not even the whispers of other parents, overheard as he walked by, affected his resolve. His phone remained trained on Emily’s every movement. He captured everything. The 4 consecutive baskets scored at the basketball goals. The 1000 point skeeball shot. The near-jackpot on the spinning light machine. The camera saw it all. The drive home had an odd tension to it; Emily was too tired to talk much, and Sharon rode in silence, staring out the passenger window. Dave’s one attempt to talk, a “that was pretty fun” comment meant to test the waters, was met with a telling “mhmm” and the back of her head remaining turned towards him. That was ok, she’d be fine in the morning. Dave smiled at the thought of how much footage he’d captured. The years passed, with Emily growing as fast as Dave and Sharon grew apart. By the time Emily turned 10, Sharon requested marriage counseling. The counselor worked with Dave, trying to understand his obsession with recording Emily. “So, Dave, you say that you don’t want to miss anything. I can understand that desire. How often do you watch the recordings?” “Well, I haven’t watched any of them yet. They’re so I can look back in my later years.” “So you’re focusing all of your attention on recording everything, but you’re not paying attention to what’s happening in the moment – nor are you watching the videos at all?” “That’s correct.” “Do you not see how that might be a problem?” Dave shook his head. “No, because even if I'm not seeing everything now, the camera does. I’ll have a lifetime of memories that I can look back on.” To his side, Dave caught sight of Sharon holding her hand up, pointing at him. She had her eyebrows raised as if to imply “see?”. How could she not appreciate the work he’d put in? She would be able to watch these videos too. One day, she’d thank him. The session ended without any resolution. They didn't go back. The distance between them only grew as Dave developed a fear of missing out on any little thing Emily did or said. By the time Emily turned 14, even she had begun to question him about the recordings. Sharon must have gotten to her, he thought. That was the only explanation. She'd always loved being on camera. Now, instead of flashing Hollywood A-List actress poses for the camera, she began to complain about its presence. “I’m just going to get a bowl of cereal Dad. No memories going on here.” “Baby, you know I have to record everything.” “No, you really don’t Dad.” So now it was two on one. They would both understand one day. They'd appreciate being able to reminisce in high definition after time had passed. Dave understood this, and so he didn’t stop despite their protests. Emily began to ignore it, staring at her phone and ignoring him. Even when he pushed the phone in her face, feigning a Hollywood interview, she just turned her head and walked away. Sharon barely spoke to him at all, camera or not. The situation came to a head one evening after the family’s dinner of chicken cordon bleu and steamed broccoli passed in tense silence. Dave’s phone was set up to record Emily eating. His attempts to engage the two of them were met with sounds of chewing. After the table was cleared, Dave heard Sharon call from the living room. “David, I need you in here.” “Should I bring the-“ “Just get in here.” The curt responses and cold shoulders from the moment he returned from picking Emily up from school had hinted at an upcoming “talk”. These were occurring much more commonly. This was his cross to bear, though. He'd endure until Emily graduated high school; then, things would calm down. They'd appreciate the years-long labor of love he’d undertaken. He walked into the living room to find both his wife and daughter sitting on the loveseat in such a way that there was no room for him. He sat on the couch opposite them. Both wore jackets, Emily sporting the pink jacket he’d filmed her shopping for just yesterday. They both had shoes on their feet, unusual in a house where the rule had always been “shoes off when you walk inside”. It even was Sharon’s rule; she always fussed at him when he forgot. “We're leaving, David.” “Ok… where are you going? Should I record America’s Funniest Home Videos tonight or-” “No, David. We're leaving . We can’t take this anymore.” Dave’s eyes widened, realization setting in. “You mean.... no. Wait. No!” “We’ve already made arrangements. Dad will come pick up some of our stuff tomorrow." She paused, a pained expression on her face. "I love you, but I have to get Emily away from here. Away from you.” Dave’s chest tightened. Away from him ? Why would she need to be away from him? There was no one in the world who loved Emily more than him. “But, why? I don’t understand.” Sharon sighed. “That’s the problem. You have no idea what you’ve done to me, to our family, to your daughter . You don’t realize how obsessed you’ve become. I can’t talk about what goes on in our house outside these walls because everyone would start calling you crazy. I have to cover for you when people see you with that damn phone pointed at our daughter all the time. I can’t do this anymore.” His stomach felt as if the bottom dropped out, a sinking feeling taking its place. His life, everything he held dear, was crumbling in front of him. “What, is it the cameras around the house? I can take those down! I can, I can…” His eyes darted back and forth as if trying to probe his own thoughts for ways to hold on. “It’s too late, David.” “But… but, but you can’t just take Emily away from me like this!” Emily’s voice was soft, softer than he’d heard it in years. He’d long grown used to her sarcasm, the verbal manifestation of her teenage rebellion. It was the complete lack of it that cut to Dave’s core. “Mom isn’t taking me away, Dad. I… I want to go.” His body turned ice cold, starting in the center of his chest and radiating outward until his entire body shivered. “Em… baby. Why? What did I do?” Emily looked to her mom as if to get permission to respond. Maybe it was to strengthen her resolve. Dave wasn’t sure, but her eyes remained locked on her mother as she responded. “You already know why, Dad.” When did she get so old? So mature? Wasn’t she just 7 years old? How did her voice change so much? Dave watched as the two most important women in his life walked out the front door. He didn’t bother pulling his phone out to record; in fact, the thought didn’t even cross his mind until after the door creaked shut. It didn’t bother him that he hadn’t captured this moment; it was etched into his memory, perfectly preserved as he'd long presumed only a video camera could capture. This particular memory would remain with him for the rest of his life - no camera necessary. The sound of gravel crunching told him that they were truly gone. He was alone with nothing but his thoughts – and his cameras. The blinking red light of the living room camera reminded him that his worst moment had been recorded, preserved for all time so he could relive this pain in stunning HD . He doubted he'd ever watch that footage. He was truly alone, his family gone. All he had left were recordings. Maybe in the coming weeks and months he'd open those files. Right now, all he wanted was to be with them, Sharon and Emily. Spend time with them. Enjoy their company. The files contained mere recreations of his loves; they couldn’t hug him back, couldn’t commiserate about their day at work or school. They couldn’t love him back. The videos could only taunt him with the sounds of so many “I love you” declarations that he’d missed in the moment to make sure they were preserved for later. All he had now was a 7-year-long record full of videos of the beautiful life he'd lost. He had no interest in watching any of them. 

0ocdat

Honeybees and Flora

The energetic and bold honeybee is greatly talented in many activities for their survival. Buzzing from flower to flower, collecting residue of yellow pollen and nectar. Yet, their only defense is their stinger: and with the use of that comes their death. Flowers are gentle, colorful, and move only with the titillation of the wind. Their beauty, their talent, is worth boasting about, although they would never be able to. Each, in their mutualistic relationship, receives only what they need--nothing else, and certainly nothing less. This is you and I. ________________________________________________ Last week was the first round of the talent competition. You explained it to me like this: our school likes to be quirky and different, so instead of just one talent show, we have two. The finalists from the first week’s talent acts will move on to the second week. Each year, there’s a new theme. This year’s first round was to sing a song--one that’s already been written by a famous artist. You were in the choir, and being one of their most stellar vocalists, it was no question whether you would join or not. Now, exactly a week after the competition, the results are being released. The sign covers half of the announcement bulletin board. A tight crowd has formed a ring around it, shoving their heads into the small spaces between each other to try and get a look at the content. I stand back. “Is that Alice Willows?” I hear a voice buzz from behind me. High pitched and loud, I know that it is from you. “Are you gonna go up and look or not?” You look at me from the side, and I chuckle. “I’d rather not get into that shit-show.” But I’m too late: you’re already weaving through the crowd faster than a sewing machine can weave a sweater. I want to follow you, but I don’t. You’ll come back with the results soon enough. For now, I stand there patiently. I hear the shouts and the gasps, the Oh, I expected that ’s and the Wow, that’s a shocker! ’s. Although I’m confident that you at least were a runner-up in the competition, I am not sure that you’ll be able to advance. After all, only three out of all of the competitors do. The wall I lean against is cold against my heating skin as anxiety rises from the pit of my stomach. I know that you won’t care much if you weren’t chosen--but I don’t want to see you upset. Through the crowd I see your gleaming face running towards me. I’m too perplexed to realize that you are going to body slam into me. No, it’s not a body slam. You’re hugging me. Even though I’m not someone that likes to be hugged--I’d much rather high-five--I know this means good news. We don’t even have to say anything. “I’m guessing you did well?” I laugh. “I made it,” you say. Your smile fades into furrowed eyebrows. “Alyssa Davis did too,” you admit. That nasty bitch. I’m not surprised people voted for her--it’s no telling what hissy fit she would’ve thrown if she didn’t make it. She’s spoiled rotten. “We’ll just have to see the next part of the contest,” I say. I mean it to be comforting, but your face began to twist like a lemon. “Yeah, I guess,” you say in a tone I’ve never heard uttered from your mouth. Your yellow seems to have faded. *** The day passes like stones erode by the gentle flow of the river. Throughout our entire last period, which we share in art class, we wait for the announcement that will bring the next competition. It was so hot in the classroom that my thighs stuck sweatily to the metal of the chair. Not only was I mentally uncomfortable, but physically as well. We hear the beep on the speaker, loud and obnoxious. Each student, even those roaming the hallways, stops their movement to listen intently. The sound in the room is still--it seems as though time has stopped. “Good afternoon Jessertorn High School! Please listen in for the following announcements.” We hear the microphone switch from the secretary to the principal. “Amazing performances were given last week at the first round of the talent show. All of you did so well: it was very impressive. We are so proud of all of you. Now for the honorable mentions:” They run through the list of names. “Carly Johnson, Frank Williams, Liam White, Sammy González…” Each time they begin a new word, I feel the anxiety rush through me like I’m an opening dam. They list the names of all those who have moved along to the next round, which is only three. Alyssa Davis, Darius Hill, and Kayla. Even though I already knew that Kayla had advanced, it was still a rush of pride to hear it said out loud. “Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for: the announcement for next week’s competition.” There is a musical break, but nothing loud enough to drown out the ringing already happening in my own head. When they come back, the voice is of a man: like a sports announcer on a 1960’s radio station. “ Next week's task is something that blends the worlds of academics and talent together. We don’t believe that you can be your best without a little challenge.” I hold my breath. “ Next week, you will be required to write your own song and perform it.” Gasps move like gusts of wind throughout the room, and whispers of disbelief emanate from the mouths of their owners. Write their own song? “Good luck to all competitors, and remember to have fun. If you’d like to drop out, please notify Mrs. Spangles as soon as possible.” _______________________________________________ Bees are not easily scared; they’re willing to visit any flower, land on any piece of wood, and fly towards any human. But when they are agitated, they are sure to sting. This minor sting will cost them their entire lives, because they cannot escape the skin of their victim without becoming a victim of self-destruction. Their organs will be pulled out along with the stinger. A bee can sting a human or an animal if that being had startled it in some way. However, the bee cannot, and would never, sting a flower--they need it for not only success, but also survival. ________________________________________________ “I don’t think I wanna do it,” you said to me, “I can’t write to save my life.” I knew that this wasn’t you. This was an apprehensive, unpoised sludge of you, like the clear liquid that replaces red blood inside of bees. This wasn’t the Kayla that I was familiar with, but I was willing to bring that Kayla out of you. I shift on the seat at my kitchen table. After school, we’d rode the bus home together as usual, and had made conversation that had nothing to do with the competition the entire way through. I would have never guessed that you’d be forfeiting. Not from our hilarious, yet slightly mean, jokes about Alyssa Davis. “No,” I say. “Why would you? You’ve already come this far.” While walking to the window, you take a bite out of your freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. “You know I can’t write. I’m not doing it.” You say it as if it is a fact. Frustration bubbled inside of me like an unstirred pot of oatmeal. “You were amazing last time. You have to. And if you don’t do it, you’ll be proving Alyssa right.” The words come out of me haphazardly, each one bumping into the next. “I don’t give a shit about Alyssa!” You raise your voice and it permeates through the walls of my house, echoing like we’re trapped in a metal chamber. You quiet down. “I don’t understand why you care, to be honest.” I realize that my pot of expectations have overflowed. You were never supposed to see it, and I’m worried that I’ve ruined our friendship. I take a long, deep breath. “I just don’t want to see you disappointed when you realize how amazing you could’ve done.” The air surrounding us is stiff, like our limbs against our bodies. We soak in the somber silence, each of us too afraid to share more of our thoughts. The sun hides behind the clouds outside, bringing a new darkness about my kitchen. “I could write it for you.” The words leak out of my mouth like a running faucet. “I mean, I don’t have to. If you don’t want.” A smile creeps over your lips. “But I could.” _______________________________________________ Just because honeybees and flowers are similar in their goals--to stay alive and reproduce--does not mean that they can achieve their goals in the same manner. A bee is able to fly across the meadow, while the flower stays in one spot for its entire life. However, if a bee attempted to produce its own nectar, it would fail miserably. Success means working together. ________________________________________________ The next day, after school, we decide to accomplish the task that has been taunting us for the past twenty-four hours: writing the song. We had pretended to ourselves, and to each other, that it would be an easy process. “You know what, I think I’m gonna try and write it myself,” you suggested. I couldn’t see why not--you were good at everything else you’ve ever done. Or I had seen you do. You take a sheet of paper from the pile and stare at the blank page in front of you. It’s terrifying--unmotivating--to see the white of the page stare back at you. It feels like looking into the eyes of a person, but the pupil and the iris are missing. “What are you thinking of writing it on?” I ask. “Oh I don’t know,” you answered. “Maybe friendship.” You begin to scribble some words down on the paper. I smile, thinking that I have been rid of my responsibility of writing. You are the star singer--and you can be the star writer as well. But after just two lines, your hands come to a halt. The pencil drops and rolls across the paper in defeat. I half-expect it to start dripping red. You stand there for a moment, pursing and sucking your lips. I hang my head over the paper to catch a glimpse of what you have written. Bees buzzing in the meadow, Flowers blooming in the meadow. Two lines. “I know it’s terrible,” you say. I laugh nervously, because there is no use in lying. But underneath the nerves is a hidden hope--you have gifted me an idea. *** That night, we went back to my house to begin the writing process. I was always the more musical one out in our duo, but you were louder, so people tended to listen to you more often. This is the reason why this operation came so lightly to us. We had always combined our efforts to reach our goals. Your natural ability to tune into any melodic mood was an asset to my sub-par, but still superior in comparison to you, songwriting skills. If there was an issue with wording, or if the creativity did not materialize in the way that we had hoped, I counted on you to add your own interest into it. We got lost in the pattern--the therapy that was the methodical process of songwriting. You tried a few times to construct your own lyrics. You said you wanted it to be touching, but it ended up feeling gross. ________________________________________________ It is well known that bees pollinate flowers; it is obvious that, without bees, flowers would not be able to reproduce through means of cross-pollination. In fact, many of the species that we accept to be essential to our food sources and food chains are only vitalized as a result of the bee’s pollination. Without the bee, reproduction would be impossible. Without the artistry of the bees, we would be deprived of the sweet indulgence that is honey, nor would we have colorful flora that adds beauty to our quickly industrializing world. But just as important is the effect that flower pollen has on the livelihood of bees: without their natural powders, the ambrosia of honey would not materialize. Without the steadfast nature and consistent production of pollen, the ambition of the bees wouldn’t have much purpose. ________________________________________________ I spent the next few nights perfecting the melody of the song. Switching the tuning, tweaking each detail of every note. Quite often, I would stop to think about how blissful the process was. Writing, crossing over the lines with my finest pencil, writing again, repeat. It’s therapeutic. And it took me all through the night, shuffling between my favorite lines and stanzas. You, a bee buzzing by my mellow meadow Allow me my shaking petals to lend you Lend you some nectar, dipped in shallow Into the lucky hive for some honey love By the time the sun began to rise above the horizon of the great plains on that third night, my final touches had been made. My work was ready for you. I would have to run the lyrics and songwriting over to your house by tonight to get it to you in time for you to practice. I really hoped that nobody would know it was my writing. If they did, there would be no way that you would get out of this without a disqualification. ________________________________________________ The combination of the work achieved by the bees and by the flowers produces an exquisite result: the luscious nectar that is golden honey. This feat is irresistible, just like the flower and the bee are to each other. Honey is able to make anything sweeter; any food from stale bread to overripe bananas, mushy apples to cottage cheese. It adds its own special flavor, bringing success to any dish that once was mundane. _______________________________________________ You jumped up to the stage, proud and confident, locs of hair resting upon your shoulders spread wide. Excitement glittered off of the eyes of each person in the audience, mesmerized by your presence. Alyssa was coming off of the stage after performing her own song, titled I Can Do It All. Ironic, because she forgot her lyrics halfway through and ended up stumbling on her words. The only sound in the entire auditorium was that of the clicking of your heels against the wood. Nobody dared speak a word--if somebody needed to cough or sneeze, they held it in. Your voice would come first, triumphing like a trumpet during the coming of the gods. Honey rods, dripping sweet Petals and buzzing bodies meet My written words transport through the air like fluffy clouds, floating and admirable. Your personification of my careful chorus, the way you have made it your own, is something that I could not have crafted with words alone. Passion exudes from your mezzo soprano voice, vibrating the hearts of those listening. And I’m not excluded--tears begin to flow down my cheeks. I scan the audience for dismissals or disapproval, biting my lip harder when I come across a blank expression. I wondered how anybody could not feel overwhelming emotion by the sound of your falsetto. Fleeting and falling, Petals come to cushion me. Land on the faithful flora; Nectar mixed with faint humming. The consonants roll off of your tongue like dribbles of morning dew off the petals of a flower. It sounds like I am listening to the song for the first time, despite having written it myself. With each line, a new humbling surprise emerges. Your interpretation of the song is something I would have never thought of. Instead of my solemn imagining of it, you have created an upbeat, yet mesmerizing, solo masterpiece. Nothing else can explain it except for two words: pure talent. _______________________________________________ The bee has its own purpose--it’s own calling. It buzzes around, traveling to different places and experiencing different things. But the flower is rooted to its home: where it was born, it is comfortable enough to stay. It does not enjoy, or rather, suffer from, the same wanderlust as the bee. But the bee does not wish to stay in one place, just as much as the flower does not need to leave its home spot. Unlike flowers, which can live off of solely solar energy, bees must take sustenance from external sources. ________________________________________________ There was a short band sequence before our principal, Mr. Matthews, stepped on stage to announce the winner. “Didn’t know I’d be offering a free concert.” Everyone chuckled. “Now for the winner of the competition’s second round.” A pause, and then he cleared his throat. “Kayla. Kayla Allen.” The audience’s enthusiasm penetrated the air as they erupted into claps and hollers. You were swarmed by your classmates and your parents: the recipient of high fives and hugs, photos and chants of your name. I stood on the sideline, watching as people hummed with excitement surrounding you. The space surrounding me was filled with nothing but my own fulfillment.   When you glanced at me, you looked frightened of what my reaction would bring. Did I appear to be a volcano, molten magma breaching the thick covering of my rocks? You eyed me like a glass edging the table, waiting for it to fall and eventually crack, sending pieces of itself flying across the floor. But I wouldn’t, and it would be a few minutes until I could express how perfect of a moment this was for not only you, but for me as well. Many others in my situation would have been bitter--even regretful. I know that you would have never imagined a win, but this was my plan all along. I’m the flower for your need for nectar, and you’re the honeybee that gets to bring it back to the hive.

j7ku36

Perceptions of Concurrence

Life is not linear. We are born from the spirit realm and return when life has gone full circle. The only passing of linearity in our lives is the tangent lines that touch at individual points of our circular lives... A first tooth... A first kiss... A first kill while hunting... All tangent points in our lives. One memorable tangent point in a young man’s existence is the notable passage to manhood from adolescence. Being Native and Christian, I, Rob Ambrose, have a duality to my nature and received the rights under both banners. First was the Confirmation in the Anglican Church and First Communion. Next was the rights of passage for a Native male. I was undergoing a vision quest. During my hungrily, thirstily, and sleeplessly induced vision, I became timeless and seen my past, present, and future concurrently. Mathematically, what was happening is impossible as a functional line in geometry is planar and extends from a point to positive and negative infinity. When three lines intersect at a point, concurrence occurs. The past, the present, and future are all one when in spirit form. When the three phases of life are concurrent, you are not mortal. You have entered the spiritual realm and The Great Maker will fill you with needed knowledge. To make matters more complicated, one cannot find a straight line in your life, even though we measure time progressively. Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, hours become days, days become weeks, weeks become months, months become years. Years are numbered progressively, yet every year is a repetition as seconds again progress. Day becomes night becomes day. I just come back to base camp after four days. It was early night, and the Elders were waiting around a fire. The Elders asked me to have a seat near the fire and brought me bannock, beans and cheese on a plate with a bottle of water. I quickly consumed the food and rested. They asked for a recounting of my vision. I told them the following in a daze of exhaustion: “I saw a man wandering between two villages. The man was prominent within the community of authors. He carried books with him and told me he helped publish writers. He had a Misi-Kinepikw hiding in his shadow, unseen, and unheard to him. It followed the man everywhere he went as he went from village to village.” “The man seemed to interact with my family members and collectively they shook a fist at me like they were angry. They turned their backs on me and ignored me after telling me I was wasting my time. At one point they inverted a cross hung on the wall and laughed, telling me again that I was wasting my time.” “There were two buildings in the dream. One an apartment building in Winnipeg that Death haunts and the other an office building in Toronto where dreams go to die. The first building seems more relevant to me as I get the impression I’ll live there in the future. In the apartment I saw a trophy case with many awards placed in it. I also heard a baby crying in the apartment. I noticed a beautiful woman smile when I turned to get a glimpse of the child.” “I think Death is a sign of you dying in the building. Perhaps you will live there for many years with your family. Perhaps you take your own life. I’d say some in your family have driven you crazy for your beliefs. I’d avoid those you saw in the vision, they only wish you harm.” said one Elder as he sat chewing on a piece of bannock. “You must defeat the Misi-Kinepikw and not fear the man. If he truly doesn’t see the serpent, he isn’t part of the problem. The Misi-Kinepikw just knew that you may approach the man to help you. He may be the trigger for your family to turn their backs on you.” said another Elder as he slowly stirred the coals of the fire with a partially charred stick. “Your family scorned you because they feel you are wasting your time being Christian and writing. They turned on you and poisoned your life with the Misi-Kinepikw. If you avoid the ones who scorned you, you will avoid a lot of the struggles they can put before you. They may want control of your powerful destiny.” said a female Elder outlined by the flames of a rekindled fire. “Yes... Those who have poisoned you bit deep like the Misi-Kinepikw decided. You should avoid talking about writing in front of them if you can’t avoid them.” said the first Elder who was deeply contemplating. “You must overcome fear of failure to find the path of success. If you fear yourself, you will gain fear of others.” declared the female Elder as she took a sip of water and secretly thought I wouldn’t fail. “Written works will heavily centre in your life, making you a prominent person in society, so the great evil has claimed a piece of your life through the selfish people around you. The serpent has stung but not completely rid you of your existence or we would not have seen your future at all.” said the Elder Shaman. “The woman could be a lover. Maybe it was your mother, young and beautiful when she had you... I believe it means you will find a young lover who reminds you of your mother.” said the female Elder, wondering if romance was in the air. “Perhaps the inverted cross means you are in Hell, or they want to send you to Hell. You come across as a decent person. You havn’t been involved in crime. They might blame you for other people’s actions. The Misi-Kinepikw has them fooled. You bear the sins of others.” said the Elder Shaman who happened to be Christian as well. After they gave advice on what my vision meant, we all went to bed and slept till morning. I returned to Winnipeg with the new name Kitchi, meaning Brave. To unbend my mind, I started writing to understand perceived reality… To fact check life. I write a lot. I keep a journal that I write in daily. My brothers and sisters snicker every time they see me with it. The journal helps keep me on track so I do it, anyway. My unbelieving family continually condemns me as a waste of time. A written off failure of the highest order who only thinks of Himself. Here I thought Christians put God above themselves and always tried to keep Him in mind… The whole copilot thing… Jesus is my salvation. Because of my newfound faith, I am told I am crazy. Which is what? A mindset? A tortured reality? I sum it up as an existence without substantiation. They pushed so far that I lost my job, lost my girlfriend and all of my friends. The Elders warned me to stay away from those who didn’t want my success, but they are hard to avoid when you live with them. I eventually had enough abuse, and I had to be hospitalized. I underwent in-depth psychological testing. Turns out I was schizophrenic and placed on medicine. One thing they taught me in the hospital was how journaling can be used for mental health. After stabilization, they released me to wander the public, a free person in a free country, with what the new voice journal dubbed undeserved free money. In this case, Employment Insurance was earned as I worked almost forty hours a week previous to my hospitalization. When this temporary supplement ended, I proudly went back to work at a new job. I also put my name in at an apartment building near the job site. My life is still straight and true as the arrow used to pierce the apple on William Tell’s son’s head. For the same reasons, I refused to let my Misi-Kinepikw above me and dared not bare my head to my brother ever again. As with the intended purpose of the second arrow, I refused to break and give in, even if I failed. In flight, the arrow flexes and bends or it would snap with the pressures of stress caused by the dynamics of flight. I guess I’m used to flexing by now; I barely skipped a beat before moving on to rekindle my life. I hoped to be deserving, as deserving as those with apparent disabilities. The physically disabled who seem to stand out in our society as disadvantaged are already fully recognized. Mental illness, the unseen, unheard cry for relief, not believed as a real illness must become the past belief of our society. We must become able-bodied like our kindred, confined to wheelchairs and crutches no more. So I wrote a novel with the intentions of getting a real bonafide traditional publishing contract one day to gain a voice for the unseen sufferers. Ironically, my life coincided with guarding books and patrons at the Millennium Library in downtown. It was as if things were rolling into high gear. It was reassuring now that I had started a book. I took it as a sign I was on the right path. This posting would not be permanent but I would continue as a security guard for some time. As a bonus, I got the apartment of my dreams. Yeah, the one from my vision. I still remember the first day here. I opened up the door and pure sunlight had flooded the place from the non-curtained window, revealing rich laminate flooring in all the rooms except the bathroom where they laid patterned linoleum. There was a pass-through from the kitchen to the dinning room above the counter and kitchen sink. It would make serving food and collecting dishes convenient. They had painted all the walls standard white, and the suite had a storage closet, too. Finally, part of my vision had come true. Later, guarding the gang infested apartment building I had transferred to, I had another breakdown and went on long-term disability. I came to believe that the Misi-Kinepikw closely tied my faith and conviction of writing to my breakdowns and what would give me the perseverance to continue with my dream would be its defeat. I wrote often now that I was able and started a website to promote myself. While writing often consumed my free time, I also scoured the Internet for publishers. I saw a picture of an office building one day and remembered the second building. Now full of bright, intelligent faces from the website that proclaimed them the premium force behind modern publishing. Certainly a tangent point that would make me noteworthy, maybe break me out of the circular depression I felt I was in. One of them, Ron Patois, a literary agent with international connections, could make someone like me an overnight sensation. I already had a crude, sketchy, well-intentioned book that was rushed off via a web form’s synopsis. Too late, I remembered the Misi-Kinepikw. Although I had not really stirred the wrath of Ron Patois, I had awoken the Misi-Kinepikw and it bit. It drove me crazy and as a result my doctor re-hospitalized me. I guess I finally had met the powerful man from my vision and he was indeed a publishing agent, but uninterested. I realized only I could change my predicament. Long ago dumping my full plate into the alley’s dumpster when recommitted, I grew weary and worn down, for a while forgetting the book of my dreams, and concentrated on poetry to heal. I rekindled a collection of poems, called A Collection of Poems for the Inspiration of Modern Man . While writing poetry, I attended my father’s appointment for an MRI. When loading up my grandchild-less father after the appointment, I looked up and noticed Ron Patois. He was jogging away, so I smiled and wondered if I could still sway his opinion when I realized to enter short story contests could gain momentum. Seven contests later and not even a long-lister in them led me to conclude that maybe the dissenters in my family were correct in assuming I was wasting my time. I clung to faith like Jesus at the Last Supper when Judas’ betrayal caught up to him and the Centurions hauled him away for crucifixion. Perhaps it was time to turn my back on the dissenters; To become Son of Man. I hadn’t lived at home for years. I had been crucified upside down like the Rock for the last time. Struggling mentally for years now, I came out of my shell through a mental health worker. I spontaneously made random friends on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Soon I found the indie publishing movement on Twitter through #writerslift and commercialized my website site. I pulled together some cheaply crafted eBook versions of my poetry collections and put them for sale online. Sales were slow but started rolling momentum as weeks became months. I now have several eBooks with a small profit. Have yet to meet the woman and am in my mid-forties. Maybe I already met her and lost the opportunity when I let her slip away, but still I waited for my future wife. I must be in the right building. I feel like I belong, satisfied with where I am, and it’s affordable on long-term disability. Still struggling mentally, I gained momentum after cutting family loose. I was awake one sleepless night and saw a documentary on PBS entitled Poetry in Motion 2.0 . The documentary featured different poets from the 70s and 80s who preformed their work for the camera. One such poet was the notable Amiri Baraka who caught me off guard with a piece that was recited with a saxophone playing. Death stalks the stairs of a certain building was all I heard as the saxophone created a cacophony to keep the listener jumping. Death? Why here? Was I about to die as lonely as the wind? I had a roof over my head, plenty to eat and a new mental health worker who seemed quite interested in me continuing my writing endeavours. I tried to think of places to meet women... The coffee shops... The local bars... The park right across the street. Then I realized that none of these conventional ways were acceptable because of COVID-19. I did what the unconventional do. I Called on the power of the Internet. At first I thought Internet dating was a joke as I only met women who wanted gifts of cellphones, prepaid cards, and access to my bank account. I wouldn’t give in and try them out, they only amounted to gold diggers. Women who looked for affluent men with big padded bank accounts. Then a hit to left field turns into a fumbled play and an eventual home run as I finally cash in on a writing contest. When I intended to spend the fifty dollars earned on a King Can of Budweiser, I got dressed up and headed to the local vendor, not knowing the bar had recently reopened to a diminished capacity. I was standing there when a former friend, from another tangent point, came along and we reacquainted. He mentioned we should go to the bar. I decided it would be worth it to have a beer in the bar and followed him. I walked in behind him and was surprised by who I recognized... An old friend was playing pool all alone. She was looking fine, dressed to the nines, wearing tight jeans and a halter top. Her tanned, toned body was definitely muscular and very appealing as she leaned over the pool table to make a shot. She pulled her brunette hair back into a ponytail and I envisioned her leaving with me. I blushed as memories came flooding in. I was already in love with her. When I saw her eyes, I instantly felt an undeniable attraction. An old country song came on... Tight-Fitting Jeans ... I knew it was time to make my move. I walked over and asked her if she was playing alone. “What are you waiting for? Get a cue and join me. Hurry!” she ordered. “Okay, if you say so.” I replied meekly as I went and grabbed a cue from the bar. When I returned to the table, she asked, “What are you doing here?” “I came for a beer with my old friend.” “Is that all?” she asked as she took a shot at the balls already in play. “Yeah, I finally won a writing contest.” “Really?” she said as she pointed to the corner pocket and sunk the four-ball. “Yeah.” I sheepishly replied, hoping to hide the nervousness I felt at meeting her. We played two more games of pool and finally sat down at a table to talk. We had a couple of drinks and I told her of my hard won victory. When we talked of ourselves, we stared deeply into each other’s eyes and I could sense the kindling of a flame. The rest is history. The girl of my dreams led to family, complete with three children, fame, fortune, and knighthood. The greatest tangent point I had ever encountered pulled me out of circular dullsville. I had taken a chance, hit on my dream girl, and left the local watering hole with whom would become my wife.

f2n4sc

Back In The Day

Judith Robinson Back In the Day          Back in my day, things were a lot less complicated. We lived in a small town where when the sun came up, we rolled out of bed in our pajamas and ran downstairs. I can still smell the beautiful lilacs and peonies blooming in the yard. We started our day of playing, with our gang, and dog, who ran with us where ever we went. In those days dogs were allowed to roam free and if someone was bitten people accepted the blame. We played until sundown when the street lights came on.          We played games like red rover, baseball, and many more. We had a vacant lot next door and a park with a baseball diamond across the street. The park had a creek running through it with tunnels at both ends. We spent many hours walking through the tunnels to find out what was on the other side. In the spring the creek flooded, and we would go swimming.          We took swimming lessons at Lake Shamineau and trips to Dower Lake for swimming and sitting on the beach. We always had a summer picnic at uncle John Imgrund’s lake cabin. It was a fun day with lots of sunshine, swimming, and a picnic lunch. Eventually, the 4 th of July came around, which always meant fireworks! We would park the car as close as we could and sit and watch the beautiful, colorful, noisy display that followed. Next came fall, a beautiful season! We all sat and admired all of the beautiful colors. Playing in the fallen leaves was always fun. We got out as much as possible, as the prospect of a long winter laid ahead.          Christmas always meant two parties: my dad’s family and my mother’s family at my aunt and uncle’s spacious lake home Baycliffe on lake Minnetonka. Lutefisk was always a Christmas tradition at the family gatherings. I can still see all of the adults sitting around the big table laughing and enjoying lutefisk. After dinner, we opened our presents, which was always fun! Baycliffe also held lots of other great memories, we had lots of great Christmas’s there. It was always fun to play hide and seek. I even remember Uncle John participating in the game by pointing out where someone was hiding. We would then try to settle down to sleep in sleeping bags in that first room on the right when you came in those big doors! Wumpy was another great part of visiting with you and your family. My memories of him are few, but I know that he was a big part of your family. It was always fun to come and play with our cousins. Your mom always took great care of everyone! She always enjoyed visiting with her sisters and their families! Christmas at my dad’s mom’s house was different. We started with Christmas dinner, which we ate in Grandma’s dining nook. We always had food fights where food was splattered all over the walls. This fun was followed by the opening of gifts, and we all got something nice from Grandma Theo. Christmas was always a great time, and the memories would keep us going during the cold winter months to follow. The Minnesota winters are brutal, even so, we ventured outside! We went sledding down the alley in the back of our house and built snow forts in the snowbanks on the corners. Those of us who lived in the city walked to school. We dressed warmly and walked carefully. We always made it to school and back home again safely. We always knew that spring was on the way! The ending of playing outdoors slowed down when we entered junior high! We went from one classroom to many classrooms. When we started 9 th grade, we officially started senior high. This was a time to start thinking about our futures. Between the ages of 14 to 16 years, we started to learn how to drive. The cars back then were not as fancy as they are today. You needed a key to get into the car as well as start it, and the headlights were controlled by a dimmer switch on the floor. We also had to learn how to drive under winter conditions. I remember driving in blizzards and sliding into ditches. The fun times that came with learning were: school dances, sporting events, and other types of competitions. We also used to drive up and down the main street listening to the current hits of the day. I remember that in 1971 one of my favorite songs was Baby Blue by the band Badfinger. I unexpectedly had the privilege of having Joey Molland as a passenger while I was driving for Uber. I have since rediscovered his music and listen regularly. Eventually, the learning and fun and games were over with. We then had to go forward and make the decisions that would shape the rest of our lives. Things have changed so much over the years. Phones were mounted on the wall and we dialed three numbers. Today children are started with cell phones early, and almost everyone has one. We do so much on our phones, such as: ordering fast food, groceries, and clothing of all sorts. Considering that we are in the middle of a pandemic this is a great option for use. For those of us who are not computer users, they can do a lot of what can be done on a computer on their phone. Between computers and cell phones it is easy to keep in touch with relatives anywhere from home. Cars are another thing that has changed. In the new cars you don’t need a key they start with the push of a button. They also have sensors that alert you to a car or something else that is too close to you. They also have sensors that have you check the backseat before you leave the car. Also, when you sit in traffic for too long the engine shuts down until you step on the gas again. I just hope that this pandemic ends and that the children growing up today can have some good memories to look back at.

xd5o16

A pie in the face

Times were simpler decades ago- as I ponder why, a dusty photo album appears inside my mind. After pulling the cobwebs, it opens- the film covered pages turning fast. That old album smell and that crinkling sound takes me back- a time without smart phones- and the best times of my childhood. My soul becomes flooded with overwhelming bliss. Summers were full of laughter and play. I ran through tall weeds, arms outstretched, eyes closed. I caught bullfrogs near the pond. I roamed with cows in the field. I grimaced with the sharp bite of gravel beneath my bare feet. When the sun went down we watched from a screened in patio- the sound of crickets lulled everyone to sleep. I remained awake. I focused on dreaming- until I resorted to counting sheep. When the sun came up I rose to muffled chatter- the strong scent of coffee. My eyes grew wide. Pancakes with syrup and a perfect square of butter that did not melt.  "What do you want to do today?" Uncle Ron asked, the most cheerful man you'd ever meet- a proud man who lived life to the fullest. He loved to plan adventures. "I've always wanted a pie in my face," I replied through a mouth full of pancakes. "I see," he replied, gazing at Aunt Dixie. She was as country as one could be- a charming southern belle anyone would befriend- with natural beauty and a sweet accent that made birds sing. Aunt Dixie made me feel warm. Uncle Ron made me feel free. "A pie in the face?" He repeated, as he rubbed the top of his bald head. I giggled and shrugged. I reminisced on being home. My brother and I watching kid shows where the lucky ones swam in slime or had pies smashed in their unsuspecting faces. Idyllic film noir separates the past and the present. Country living aged a person backwards just as much forward. The gang of neighborhood kids from the city would have laughed. "What are you- on Double Dare?" My brother and I watched religiously. We created backyard obstacle courses and spent hours role playing- switching between host and contestant. At home we did this for a living. It was a right of passage for nineties kids. Yoyos. Pogs. Hackey sacks. All obsolete now. Drinking from the garden hose is practically unheard of. I can attest that it causes no harm. This era of living is just a pinch of greatness those born in the eighties experienced; before the start of super technology. We received the gift of life before the world became a wifi signal. We still rode in the back of pick up trucks. We walked around the mall. We received information from encyclopedias. We had to memorize phone numbers. We took pictures with plastic little boxes that we crossed our fingers would turn out. ​ In the country we chased the sun, caught fireflies at night. We gathered rollie pollie bugs and weaved in and out of the trees with our flashlights. We did not watch TV. We were living like all kids should- but something was still missing. "Hear that Dix? This girl wants a pie in her face." Aunt Dixie smiled, her eyes sparkling over her cup of coffee. The summers remained long until it neared time to go home. Back to reality. Back to where I either didn't exist or was the butt of many school yard jokes. Thoughts of leaving brought on a sadness that could never be explained. I moped my way through the formal dining room- where sat a grand piano I desired to play. I danced my fingertips across a long dinner table. My brother and I often hid underneath it- concealed by an overlong cloth. I stood in the window facing the front yard. A forrest of trees hid us from the rest of the world. This house was like a secret. A time capsule of memories like no others. A time when I was young and free of worries. A place where time stood still. I watched a couple deer walk in the distance- a common occurrence, along with turkeys. The wildlife felt just as welcome as anyone. I slipped outside and walked the gravel path to the end of the drive, kicking up dust with each step. I knew the summer days were coming to an end. I tried desperately to hold on to whatever I could. Down the road I saw a turtle and gently picked it up and set it in the grass. I walked down into the creek and followed it until I grew bored. I knew I'd have to strip down later to check for ticks. A dilapidated structure further down the road called Big Foot's Cabin stood before me. It was barely holding up, yet lively events and weenie roasts.. bon fires and light shows still took place. I could smell the toasted marshmallows. The door creaked open as I entered. This was my first time inside alone. I shook off my fear and realized it was exactly as it was left. Dust covered furniture standing on its last leg. An antique wood stove with ashes still intact. The musty smell was uninviting but I sat anyway. There was no one else here in this very moment. I thought of the cabin's inhabitants years ago. My aunt and uncle teased me- saying the namesake was because Big Foot owned it and he would gobble up anyone he saw come near. I personally liked to envision Laura Ingalls and her family living here. In the quiet outskirts of southeast Kansas. A trail of history I could say I relived. I made my walk back and slipped inside the house. I realized it was quiet- I peered into the kitchen- where my vision became disturbed- white everywhere. The culprit- Uncle Ron, was holding a plate of smashed whipped cream and he plopped what was remaining on my head. After my initial shock. I joined in with the laughter and chased my brother with whipped cream covered hands. I took a bath that night and sat with my sticky hair for an hour- even as the water ran cold; little did I realize that would be the last summer before I went to junior high. A heard a knock on the door which woke me from my trance. "Did you save any pie for us, Jenny?" I smiled as I turned the water to hot and went under the bubbles. I closed the album and reminisced. I am no longer in the country. I am no longer an adolescent. I am looking at my phone. The time is 8:48AM and the temperature is 42 degrees. Uncle Ron has been gone for thirteen years now and Aunt Dixie has been gone for ten. I would go back at any given second- to reexperience the simple life before the breakdown. Before politics divided us left and right, before social media and uber rides. Before everything was offensive, and having an unpopular opinion made you oppressive. Before our kids became better at technology than us. Before works of fiction became college courses. I can still hear Uncle Ron laugh as I fling whipped cream off my face. Aunt Dixie hurries to collect towels to wipe away the mess. Back then..all I wanted was a pie in the face. 

2i6me6

Droogs

The homeless man outside Michael’s car window interfered with a rule of his: to not make eye contact, whenever possible, with homeless people. When he did, they were suddenly human and not just fixtures of the landscape, not just a bush with a cardboard sign propped in its branches or a mailbox with a too-big hoodie draped over it. When they became human, Michael started wondering all sorts of pointless things, like where did they use the bathroom? and where did they get all those layers of clothing? and where did they sleep? Surely it wasn’t always on a park bench wrapped in a newspaper, like Michael’s imagination insisted. Then he started thinking about what would happen if he were homeless, if he and Alice and their Joey somehow ended up on the streets, and how would he provide for any of them, when providing was hard enough to do now? Always a messy thought process, and an upsetting one. Better just to stare straight ahead, give them the profile. But the left-turn light refused to change, and this man was testing Michael’s patience. He blotted Michael’s vision like a bug, and Michael could swear that a faint dirty smell was coming from the man, seeping through the cracks of the car and into the upholstery. Finally he turned, unable to transform the man into a streetlamp, ready to shake his head at him, meaning, no, sorry, I don’t have any spare change, and even if I did I can’t always be giving away my spare change, but he took one look at the man’s face and flinched in his seat. The seatbelt drove him back down, locking him into place. It was the eyes. The man had these fantastically blue eyes, almost unnaturally blue, the same color of those vivid new headlights Michael had seen on some cars. In their glare, Michael was frozen. He was reminded uncannily of a boy he had known in middle school, an older boy who lived down the street—surely, this wasn’t Charlie! He and Charlie had been decent friends, despite the age difference of a few years, but more than that, they had done things—just silly boy things, really, nothing out of the ordinary, but still nothing he would tell Alice. Michael peered through the car window, not bothering to be subtle, and the man stared back at him. The eyes did look remarkably like Charlie’s, but Michael couldn’t remember any other details of the boy to compare him with the filthy person standing in the median. Middle school was a decades-old haze, and each sensation could pair with half a dozen memories. Shame, for instance, a creep of heat in his cheeks, was easy to recall, but did it belong to the memory of him passing gas in the cafeteria or his being picked second-to-last in a dodgeball game? The searing sense of pleasure that still, Michael would admit, made him tingle to recall—did it stem from one of the days of early self-experimentation, alone in the house for the hour between school letting out and his mother coming home? Or was it attached to the few times he and Charlie had fooled around—because that’s really all it was, fooling around, just two kids finding out what felt good and what didn’t? Michael’s eyes strayed to the sign that maybe-Charlie was holding. Hungry and tired Family to support please Give what you can God bless . The words were stacked haphazardly, sliding around the cardboard in a poorly assembled tower. Were these things Charlie would write? Were these his grimy hands clutching the sign? It was impossible to say, but Michael looked back into the face and felt something extra and unusual, both harder and more intimate than such an interaction warranted, pass between them. And then the blare of a horn was tearing its way through the back of Michael’s car, and he remembered that he was in the turn lane still, that he had to get home to Alice and Joey, that dinner was probably already on the table. He jerked around in his seat and pushed his car after the line of receding bumpers, maybe-Charlie’s image shrinking in his rearview mirror until he turned and the man flew out of range of the mirror’s rectangle. Later that night in bed, Alice asked him where his mind was. She had a knack for reading her husband, and she said she could see he was far away. He fumbled for his words and finally muttered that he had seen an old friend today, keeping his eyes on the open book in his lap. Alice immediately responded that, oh, seeing old pals was always fun and she hoped it was good to see him again. She liked this answer; it enabled her to disregard whatever depths she mistakenly thought she had seen in her husband’s eyes. Michael was often quiet, but his quietness this night seemed somehow differently weighted to Alice, as though he were hiding money problems or an affair. Relieved, she started to discuss her day in more detail, relaying a less-than-pleasant interaction she had had with Joey’s preschool teacher. Michael’s mention of his friend shrank quickly into the horizon of their conversation. Michael tried to keep track of what his wife said, but in his mind he and Charlie were at the Landmark, its vertical sign glowing in his memory like a lighthouse. They bought tickets for Frogs but snuck into A Clockwork Orange instead because of all the nasty things they had heard, sitting near the back and sinking low in their seats when the flashlight of the ticket-checker swept through the aisles below them. They watched the movie for a while, giggling at the characters’ crazy makeup and lingo, but they both knew sneaking into the theater wasn’t the real transgression. Within minutes, Charlie’s hand was under Michael’s shirt, sliding against the panel of his chest, his fingers cold enough to make Michael’s heart stretch skin and bone. Horrifying images started to flash onscreen, so Michael closed his eyes and focused on Charlie’s breath tickling his ear, saying: We’re droogs aren’t we? We’re droogs.

zfhjvo

Keira's Invention

Keira tried to fight the frown that was wrestling for control of her face. She didn’t want to look like a grouchy child on national television.             “It’s cute. Really Keira, and I look forward to seeing what you do with your future, but-” Here came the truth following his lie. “It’s just not possible. Trust me, I’ve been in the energy business for decades pushing the technology to its limits,” he stopped to drink water from the table in front of him, “and this just isn’t feasible.”             “Perhaps, Michael, the only thing you’ve pushed to its limits is yourself. This is possible. My results already show that.” Keira fought the impulse to swear or fold her arms across her chest. She had to be taken seriously. If she looked like a bratty eight-year-old no one would take her invention seriously.             “I’m sorry Miss Omura but I have to agree with Michael. We have industries with the best scientists in the world testing the technology in laboratory conditions, you do not. You are an incredible young woman-”             “Do not infantilise me, Jonas. There are many reasons your scientists have never found a better alternative to fossil fuels. The foremost of those reasons is that their jobs rely on it. Why should the world put its safety in the hands of men like you who profit from destroying it with oil and gas? Your industries are subsidised because they are long past the point of worth. Renewable energy was strangled in the cradle several times by corporations like yours to keep the money rolling in.” Though she had not crossed her arms or frowned Keira’s voice had become a growl.             “Eloquent as your tantrum is Keira, it’s clear that you can see we’re right. Lashing out at us because your home-made toys look better than they are in heavily edited YouTube videos just goes to show you’re not quite the child prodigy you pretend to be.” He was smiling. Michael Boyd, CEO of the biggest oil conglomerate in Europe smiling with his fake teeth and his spray tan and the suit he’d bought with money made polluting.             “I look forward to proving you wrong. Can I ask one last question before this is over?” She’d been saving this for the moment they crossed the line.             “Sure,” Boyd smiled as if she’d asked for a lollipop.             “What percentage of the 70-billion-dollar clean-up bill for the panama spill is being paid by your company? It’s completely responsible. Is that reflected in its commitment to the clean up?” She smiled. He smiled.             “Well, I think this interview is over. Wonderful meeting you Keira. Good luck.” Michael Boyd stood, smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes. He straightened his tie and walked away.             Jonas Fernandez, Acting CEO of the second biggest fossil fuel producer in Europe smiled as if Michael’s departure had been awkward. He held up his hands, thinking he was being winning. Sadly, Keira knew plenty of people watching the rich man dressed like a rocker would think he was being genuine. You had to be there in person to spot the signs of a sociopath.             “You’re married aren’t you, Jonas?” Keira asked. She looked at the wedding ring on his finger.             “Yes.” He smiled to the camera. “Six years now.”             “Is that your assistant backstage in the black pinstripe uniform?”             “Yes?” He looked very confused, and his cheeks were starting to flush as his fingers gripped the black pleather of the studio chair.             “Maybe you should give her more time to shower in the mornings so that she doesn’t come to work smelling of your aftershave. Also, it looks like she needs a new skirt. Hers has a silvery mark on it as if it had snails sliding across. Does the assistance she provides you often end up slimy?”             “Enough!” shouted Jonas. He leapt out of his chair and pointed a finger at Keira. She smiled sweetly back at him. Realising cameras were watching his outburst and the end of his marriage Jonas stormed off with more steam than Michael Boyd.             “We have a few minutes left of the panel, don’t we?” Keira asked the presenter.             “Eight minutes Keira,” said Johnathan Morpurgo who was smiling but red in the face.             “Do you have something that can plug in but requires a lot of power?” she asked. “I have a new working model of my designs that I would like to demonstrate for the audience if that’s alright?”             “Well, we can’t exactly have dead air, can we?” Johnathan said, his voice nervous. “Show us how it works please.”             Keira asked for her suitcase to be brought in from backstage. The metal suitcase was covered with stickers of her favourite television shows, films, musicians, and mechanical diagrams.             The studio audience were dim faces in the crowd, hard to see because of the stage lights on her. Despite that, revealing her new work was nerve wracking. More so than facing down spoiled, self-important man-children.             As she unpacked the odd device from the suitcase Keira explained the problem with traditional green energy devices. Wind turbines only work when there’s wind. Due to friction windmills also destroy themselves slowly as they turn, requiring maintenance. Solar panels need sunlight but lose efficiency outside optimal temperatures.             Half of those problems could be solved by combining currently available technologies. Keira lifted out what looked like a living room fan because it had been. She was given a studio light and handed the plug, which was dusty.             She plugged in the studio light and flipped a switch on the body of the device. Sadly, the results weren’t instant.             “As you can see it’s less impressive with artificial light but all of the bright lights in the studio are powering the solar panels on the fan blades. The fan blades then turn, keeping them from overheating. On a windy day that momentum generates energy as well as maintaining solar generation efficiency. The problem of degradation caused by friction has been solved by creating free floating fan blades suspended by magnetic levitation like a mag-lev train. Without friction the only cause of damage to the materials are weather meaning this device could go years longer without maintenance. That saves a fortune which makes production of these devices more cost effective than traditional wind and solar tech. Both of which are already more energy efficient than fossil fuel technology.”             The host nodded to words in his ear and moved into camera with a big smile. He put a patronising hand on Keira’s shoulder. His smile wasn’t so dissimilar to that of the oil executives.             “I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got time for now. Thank you to Keira Omura for showing us this wonderful new technology. Thank you to Michael Boyd and Jonas Fernandez for being here with us today. Now it’s over to Ellen Summers with the weather forecast.” Johnathan Morpurgo pulled out his earpiece and removed his microphone. He frowned at Keira before looking away at the audience. “I hope you enjoyed that. Your little thing there probably just lost me my job. They’re both already threatening to sue.”             “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” she argued.             “Telling the truth isn’t always the right thing to do Keira. Someday you’ll understand that.” He looked at her. If that was the case, she never wanted to grow up.             She packed her device back into the suitcase as her parents ran to see her. Her mum hugged her, smiling ear to ear. Her dad kept packing the device into the suitcase. He looked worried about something.             “You were amazing. You really kicked ass,” said her mother Nabiya. “That first one that walked off called you a little bitch. I almost punched him.”             “They want to sue us,” said her father, Keita.             “For what?” asked Keira’s mother. “Telling the truth? Being awesome?” She looked at the studio audience beyond the lights and waved. “Hello. Oh my god. Keira. Does my hair look alright?”             Nabiya tilted her head to show Keira the braids wrapped with gold bands she’d taken hours with the day before at the barbershop. Keira smiled.             “You look beautiful as always mom.”             “I knew it.” Nabiya winked. “Hey.” She nudged her husband. “You look really handsome as well.” He smiled but Keira could see he was worried. Jonas and Michael were clearly as spiteful as they were fake. Keira’s parents drove her home, a four-hour journey. Their electric car, Japanese of course because Keita insisted, was almost silent so Nabiya’s exited talk all the way home bounced off Keira as she tried to sort through the consequences of the interview.             Back at their house there were endless messages waiting for them. Family had called to say how proud they were. Keira had emails from her dad’s side of the family asking for links to the video of her big television debut. Keita had to translate the message because her Japanese was still basic. She could read hiragana and katakana, but kanji were beyond her.             On her YouTube channel, followers had posted messages of support. There were a few trolls of course. She flagged as many abusive messages as she could be bothered to before logging off.             “Time to get some sleep Keira,” said Keita. “You still have school tomorrow.”             “Half-breed? Wow. Who the fuck wrote this? Well of course they voted for him.” Keira saw her mother was scrolling through comments on her YouTube channel. She’d warned Nabiya not to.             “Mom. Leave it, please.”             “Why should I? People like this think they can just say stuff like that and log off.”             “First rule of the internet mom. Don’t feed the trolls. They want a reaction.”             “You are so many kinds of smart.” Nabiya closed the window on her browser. “Your father is right. Time to get to bed. Your brains and beauty sleep.”             After brushing her teeth and washing Keira went to bed. Looking up at the scaled constellations in glowing stars on her ceiling, she tried to remember pi to a hundred places because it always put her to sleep. Keira was woken by screaming. She shot upright in bed and jumped to her feet. Running downstairs she saw what looked like smoke through the frosted glass of the front door. Keita was on the phone, telling the police that people were on his property and they’d started a fire.             “What’s happening mom?” Keira asked.             “Idiots. Same as always. They got our address somehow. Those CEO assholes I bet.”             “Don’t say anything they really can sue us for Nabiya,” said her dad, covering the mic on the phone with his hand for a moment. “Yes. Please come as fast as you can.”             There were a dozen people outside their house. Some had placards. GlobAl Warning is A lie. Save Oil Jods. God has a favorite color. Some of them were actually spelled correctly.             The smoke was from a paper bag of dog shit that had been set on fire. As Nabiya began filming them on her phone at the window, eggs hit the glass.             “That’s it. I’m getting it all on camera assholes! Keira, how do I live-stream this? I want the world to know who they are.”             Explaining that you needed an application to live-stream, she watched her mother’s raw fury and her father’s pained depression. Nabiya was looking out of the window when Keira started crying. Keita hugged her, saying that the upside was she didn’t have to go to school. Some of the trespassers were charged with criminal damage. Apparently, there were no laws against the racist abuse they began chanting just before the police arrived. Both oil CEOs tried to sue her for defamation. Jonas’ case lasted a week. Michael’s was thrown out after two hours.             The assistant that had the odd stains on her suit eventually went public with accusations of coercion against Jonas. He denied the whole thing and countersued. Keira publicly apologised for any harm she might have caused Ariella Giovanni.             A year later the green energy subsidiary created by the two unveiled a wonder of innovation which seemed very similar to Keira’s work. Her pay-out from the patent violation case was enough to start her own company. Her first hire was Ariella as her head of marketing. It took years for Ariella to come to terms with Jonas’ abuse and the hatred of people who stood up for him and called her a liar.             Keira had to sue several fossil fuel subsidiaries for slander when their stooges accused her of fabricating results or stealing her technology. Yet again the pay-outs were funnelled into her work.             Growth was slow. Keira relied on celebrities buying her technology to power their mansions for a while which was good for publicity but not sales. She needed government contracts to really make a difference. She didn’t want to compete with other green industry companies. She wanted to compete with the likes of Jonas and Michael.             She refined her designs. She created models which could be integrated into ship architecture. She worked with cargo ship manufacturers to create ships running on renewable energy. No engine leaks would pollute. It was slow. From design to manufacturing roll out took years.             In the end the shipping solution proved a faster way to alter humanities carbon footprint. She made connections with other shipping giants who didn’t care how their ships worked and were happy to look green for their advertising campaigns.             One shipping magnate was a manufacturing tycoon as well. He, they were mostly old men, offered Keira a deal to mass manufacture her designs for a share of her patent. They haggled long and hard for several weeks until both would be satisfied in the short and long term.             With a mass manufacturer in her corner, she could finally compete with the big fish. Keira was twenty-two. Six months later she received her first government contract to supply Germany with five thousand models for the grid. That many would supply up to half a million households on sunny or windy days, more if gusts blew on bright days.             Instead of absorbing the profits herself Keira used them to lower the price. There were other interested governments looking to cut their carbon emissions to meet the 2015 Paris Agreement which many of them looked set to fall short of. The United Kingdom were negotiating the cost of two thousand units but were struggling to convince communities that their hilltop would better suit her turbines. If the other option was a nuclear power station or a coal powered plant Keira couldn’t see the problem.             On home soil in the US interest in coastal states had been wavering for years. Claims were made but budgets were tight. Keira went on local TV to make interview after interview but wondered if racism was once again holding her back. Some of the same lawmakers who vetoed her products were the same that propped up draconian policing policies. As her mother said, if it walks like a Nazi and talks like a Nazi, it’s probably a fucking Nazi. They weren’t all Nazis, some of them were just assholes.             Next came the biggest order of Keira’s life so far. The Communist Party of China threw itself a congratulatory propaganda party after ordering seven hundred thousand units which were going to sit in the Gobi Desert in the north. Keira didn’t care about the pat on the back they were giving themselves. That order took her business to the next level and them some. She had to buy out other manufacturers to keep up with the order.             Eventually Keira put Ariella Giovanni in charge of marketing in the US. She wanted to focus on development. The next push was to increase the range of light frequencies her devices could convert to usable energy.              Johnathan Morpurgo invited Keira for an interview on his own talk show at the age of twenty-four. He’d let his hair go grey and the laughter lines on his face were clearer in person than she had noticed watching him on TV. He had jowls and if he looked down his chin began to roll back towards his cheeks. He looked happy.             “It’s good to see you again,” said the presenter. He shook her hand, careful to keep his face in shot and not turn his back to the camera.             “Thank you, Johnathan. It’s good to be here. I see you still have a job.”             “Yes,” he laughed awkwardly, throwing his hands up. Some of the studio audience laughed with him.             “White men always land on their feet. Like cats.” Johnathan nodded and smiled. His teeth were whiter than they had been last time. It was almost uncomfortable to see them straight on.             “You’re doing quite well yourself Keira, aren’t you? Do you have a suitcase with you today?” He laughed, though none of the audience got the joke.             “Not a suitcase Johnathan but I do have a new prototype to demonstrate to you.” Someone wheeled in the box which rolled smoothly on the studio laminate. Keira thanked the woman who was already running out of camera shot. She gave the pitch as she unclipped legs with rubber feet that would clamp it to the floor.             “The whole thing weighs just eight kilograms, sorry, seventeen point 6 pounds. It can fold out and be unpacked or packed in seconds. It’s as tough as the models that sit on hilltops, and it will generate enough energy to power two to three average houses every day. In good weather you will be able to sell energy to the grid and make an income for yourself. It can be mounted to the roof of your house or sit in the garden. We really pushed the limits for this one.” When Keira plugged in the studio light as planned the light was blinding, almost as bright as the smile on her face.

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A Quiet Sort of Happiness

Crack. That was the sound of my heart breaking. I can feel the fissures forming, the lines running through the middle in jagged formations. I’m happy for them, I really am, but their happiness came at a price. I was the one who paid it. I can hear the crowd roaring in my ears, but it feels muffled and muted as I stare at the two people on the platform in front of us. Tears start rolling down my cheeks and I can’t stop them. My first thought is to panic, I don’t want people to see me crying right now but then I realize. It doesn’t matter. I am in a crowd of thousands, shadowed by the voices and bodies of others. No one is going to notice a skinny boy with puffy eyes, facing what he had known was going to happen. In fact, I was the reason for the euphoric smiles that were seemingly glued to the faces of the couple on the platform. I had known this was going to happen, I had made it happen and yet, I couldn’t fight the title wave of feelings that came to drown me. I couldn’t stop the anguish and the sorrow that came to take me away, so I let it. In this situation a hero would push their way out of the crowd in tears only to bump into the person who would then change their life. I was not a hero. I fell to my knees and sobbed. I attracted the attention of those around me, but no one reached out to help me, I was not someone to be helped, that was not my role in this world. Months have passed and my two best friends keep me close, ever so thankful for my help. The urge to burst into tears is always present when I’m around them but by now I’ve had plenty of practice keeping it all hidden. After all, being friends with the hero is hard and loving the hero’s soulmate is even harder. For a while I contemplated destroying their relationship, I knew I had the power to do so. They were in a fragile stage right now. They were falling in love, and I was their closest confidant. I was there when they accidently brushed hands, when they bumped into each other at the turn of a hallway and when they stuttered and stumbled around each other’s beauty and strength, falling deeper and deeper. They trusted me when they ran into misunderstandings. When they cried over one another I was the one to offer a hug and a piece of advice. I could ruin them if I wanted to. I could break their connection so completely that they’d never be able to speak again. I could…but I can’t. The truth was that I loved them. I loved her for her determination and poise, her wit and elegance. I loved him for his courage in the face of danger, that unyielding smile and his uncanny ability to sympathize with even the vilest of criminals. I loved them in two very different ways and the fact was that they were good people. They deserved to be happy, and they deserved a friend who could look at them without feeling that familiar twinge of regret, without needing to quickly turn away in fear of revealing tears spilt in sadness over their blossoming love. So, I decided to leave. After many tear-filled goodbyes, I set off with no destination and no time frame in mind. This is the point in the story where the supporting character leaves on a journey far away and comes back years later with renewed strength, ready to pledge their fealty to the hero. I just hope I don’t come back an even more broken man than I already am. They had asked me why I wanted to leave, and I choked up, unable to speak. How was I supposed to tell them that their best friend was unable to stand by their side without feeling like he was going to drown from their overwhelming happiness? Thankfully, when they saw my inability to speak accompanied by tears, they nodded, accepting that I needed this trip. They did not know a single thing about why I was leaving and even though it would greatly affect their lives they just hugged me. Hugged me! They told me that they wanted the best for me and that if this was what I needed then I should have it. Their words only served to make me cry more. They thought I was crying from happiness because they were so understanding. If only they knew how guilty that made me feel… It wasn’t easy walking away from all I had ever known but after a tough few weeks I found solace in my time apart from the ever present pain. I recognize that running away from your problems is never the answer, but this wasn’t me running away. This was me finally beginning to breath after being suffocated for so long. This was me thinking about me instead of thinking about them. I found a safe haven at an inn surrounded by nothing but vast bodies of water and lush green. After spending three months there I realized that I had not cried once. So, it came as a bit of a surprise when tears started to fall from my eyes. I had been sitting on the porch of the inn as I saw the two kids of the inn keepers playing around in the grass. Suddenly, the younger one fell and landed on a patch of rocks. I got up, ready to help when I spotted the blood, but the older sibling was already crouched beside his sister. He was whispering soft words of encouragement as he cleaned her wound and that was when I felt an unexpected wetness on my cheeks. I had done that too, once upon a time. I did not fall asleep until late that night. My confusion kept me up, the same question circling in my head over and over again: why had I cried seeing those two children? I did not find an answer that night but soon I would. Very soon. The next day I saw them playing again. They were enacting two totally different stories but had somehow brought them together. Such is the imagination of kids, I guess. The little sister was a wild princess on a journey of epic proportions, she filled the sky with laughter. Her older brother was the CEO of a company designed to make time travel possible. Though, he had stopped his act for a few minutes when his sister was too occupied with her own act to pay attention to his. He had stopped walking as he saw a poppy at his feet and he crouched down, taking a closer look at it. With his sister’s loud laughter in the background, he started to smile at the flower, seeming to be in his own world, oblivious to his sister’s noise. In that moment his face was one of utter tranquility. After admiring the flower for a bit longer, he took in a deep breath and looked off into his sister’s direction. That look on his face stayed the same as he walked toward her, ready to resume his act. He looked content. Both siblings looked happy but had achieved that happiness in two totally different ways. Her way was bold and exuberant, almost seeming to outshine everything around her with its eye-catching display. But her brother had managed to create a world of his own in a quiet moment of admiration for the smaller things in life. It was a quiet sort of happiness, and it was beau- it was the answer. That was it! All my life I had been living in the radiance cast by my two best friends and it blinded me, making me stumble in the dark. I’m in the same position as that brother but instead of creating my own happiness I tried to live in theirs. I didn’t have to be on the pedestal like my best friends to be happy. Standing in that crowd, while my friends look at the people below them, I can gaze at the sky in all its beauty. The next day I left the inn to return home. When I arrived, I was immediately greeted with one big hug from the two most important people of my life. You would have thought years passed by the number of times they said, ‘I missed you’. They made remarks on how much happier I looked, and I couldn’t help but giggle. They had no idea how right they were. That twinge in my chest? That dreadful mix of regret and sorrow? It was all gone. Well, maybe not all gone. Seeing them together still made me a bit wistful but I don’t mind it, it was a reminder of sorts. When we made our way out onto the streets, a different friend on each side of me, I was struck by how happy I was. Even though they were beside me they leaned forward a bit so they could see one another. They were trying to discreetly sneak a peek at each other but were failing miserably, causing them to laugh as their cheeks started to flush. It was always noisy with them. Endless cheesy compliments followed by jokes followed by laughter… It used to make my heart ache but now, it was sort of endearing. They were my idiots. I think the pain will always follow me but for once, I welcome it. So, when my two dearest friends caused commotion after commotion with their sappy love, I stepped a little behind them and I smiled at the faces I’ve known all my life, I smiled at the starry sky above me, and I smiled at the familiar bustle of the city streets I call home. My face now matches the boy’s face from the inn, a face of utter peace as I finally find my own quiet sort of happiness.

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Emma's Gift

Emma’s Gift I had no believable excuse for saying no, so I agreed to teach a summer school class for high school freshmen. The announcement came out in the Spring/Summer issue of the City Civic Arts Newsletter:  ’Scapes: Land and Sea. Learn to draw the world around us. For young artists interested in taking their drawing to a higher level. Explore a variety of subjects, developing an understanding of form, composition, line, light/shadow, perspective, and color. Tuition: $20 + $15 supply fee due at first class. Starts July 5 th: ─ 11:00 to 12:30 – City Library #205 Instructor: Ted Wilson By the middle of June, twelve students had signed up.   *                   *                   * I parked my jeep and walked upstairs lugging a dozen totes for art supplies. I had made sure that sketch paper, colored pencils, and other drawing materials were already in the locked classroom. Four boys and four girls were waiting when I walked up. The boys wore cargo shorts and tees. Three of the girls wore shorts that would have been too short when I was their age, about 20 years ago. The fourth girl, who was standing apart from the group, wore a long skirt and sleeveless blouse that bared her thin, freckled arms. I said, “Hi. Are you here for Mr. Wilson’s drawing class?” They answered yes, practically in unison, and I said, “Wait here. I’ll see if I can find him.” I looked around and then said, “Oh. Here I am.” They responded with the groans my silly greeting deserved, while I unlocked the door, and let everyone in. There were twenty-five desks for just twelve students so I told them to take whatever desk they wanted, first-come-first-served. They grouped in the center of the classroom, except for the slight, red-haired girl in the skirt and blouse who took a desk in the back row. While they got situated, I put the totes on my desk, unpacked the roll call sheet, and wrote my name on the whiteboard behind my desk. An email informed me that all the fees had been sent in, so I didn’t have to collect any money. I learned that an anonymous donor who called himself, or herself, Patron of the Arts had paid for Emma Garibaldi. The note went on to say she was “Socially Challenged” staying at Child Protective Services awaiting assignment to a foster family. “Transportation is a problem, so there may be tardiness or missed classes.” The remaining four students, three girls, and a boy drifted in greeting their friends as though it had been years, rather than just a couple of weeks since they’d seen them. I looked over what would be my workspace for two days a week for the next six weeks. There were large second-story windows with plenty of north light and a view of the city park that surrounds the library. I spotted several kinds of trees that would serve as models for scenery backdrop, or even subjects themselves. An expanse of sky was visible and, with any luck, we’d have a variety of summer clouds to talk about and replicate. At slightly past eleven O’clock, I got attention by tapping the desktop and announcing that it was time for roll call. I told the class my name was Ted Wilson, and that I taught classes at Claremont College of Art and Design. I mentioned that only twelve years earlier I had graduated from the high school they would soon be attending. Blank stares told me the class did not see this as the fascinating connection I’d hoped for. So with that nice try out of the way, I said. “OK, now for roll call. Please say “Here” when I call your name. I paused, and then said, “Would anyone like me to go over that one more time?” I smiled and they laughed. The kid who laughed the loudest had a visored cap on his shaggy head and Rawlings baseball mitt on his left hand. I looked toward him; “So, what’s your name?” He said, “I’m Eddie Gallagher and nice goin’ on makin’ it through high school. I sure hope I do.” I chuckled at the way he said it, and the others all roared. I guessed they had been laughing at Eddie’s clowning around for most of their lives. His good humor told me I had made a connection and broken some barriers.  The rest of them all answered here when they heard their name, and then we passed out the supplies and the tote bags. I saw Emma Garibaldi’s shoulders relax, and at least the beginning of a smile when she realized that there was one for her. So began that first day. All my students except Emma were from families that took education seriously – even a summer school class that had no academic credits, and no real relevance to career planning. Young students are told that an art class may be useful in developing an appreciation for the finer things. Additionally, that drawing represents an intellectual challenge and an outlet for creative energy; just what every kid needs, or so they say. There are no bad reasons for learning, but I always hope for some student who possesses not just a desire for status or talent for illustration, but that mysterious capability to convey feeling, insight, and passion through art.    Years ago, on a high school field trip to the DeYoung Museum, I got emotional and weepy-eyed in front of a painting titled Starry Night . Our teacher, Mrs. Havens, seeing my embarrassment said, “It’s OK, Ted. It’s not unusual to see tears in the presence of Van Gogh.” This only ensured that I had the tag Teary Ted hanging on me the rest of the semester, and beyond. All the same, I can still choke up seeing some beautiful leap of imagination or some exquisite surprise. It doesn’t happen often, but it did that summer session - and from a wonderfully unexpected source. I still don’t know how Emma got to our classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but she was always waiting when I arrived, no matter how early. I asked Gayle Snow, one of the popular girls, and she said she had not seen Emma arrive either, but she’d heard that her dad was in jail, and nobody knew where her mom was. She said, “I try to be friendly, but she acts like she’s in another world. She’s like autistic, or something.” Gayle’s friend, Julia French said, “She’s weird and lives at Juvie, that’s all anyone knows”. I said, “All right, that’s enough. Let’s try to make this part of Emma’s life the good part, OK?” There was no answer in words but as the girls walked away, they nodded, telling me they understood and empathized - good kids, at heart. Emma kept her seat in the back row as though being ignored was something to hope for. When I asked to see her work, she leaned forward covering it with her forearms and elbows with her long, rusty-red hair falling across her shoulders. Treating her in any special way only seemed to emphasize her painful dissimilarity, so I limited my communication with her to a good morning smile. I never knew what she was thinking…not until that last day. The summer went by quickly, and everyone got much better with pencils, chalk, and sketchpad. We had a lot of fun in the process, but the last day came at the right time. With just a couple of weeks of summer vacation left, my students were concentrating on the upcoming challenges of high school and the intrigues of adolescence; not so much on improving their ability to draw landscapes. The final exam was no exam at all. I wanted the last day to be fun. The kids filed in and watched me write the assignment on the whiteboard: Draw a picture titled: “ A Place I love”. Following a suitable period of wisecracks and joking around, the kids got serious and began thinking and drawing in earnest. We had the room until two O’clock, so I told them to take all the time they wanted. I walked around, watching the drawings develop. The ones doing seashores employed a method for realistic-looking back-lighted breakers and waves I’d taught early on. The rolling, grassy hills all had some version of the bending dirt road and lonely tree I‘d used for demonstration. The students had learned well, but they were drawing places they loved to draw, rather than places they loved to be. I had hoped to see what came from the heart, as well as from the head and the hand. Emma was absorbed in her work, using every item in her art supplies tote. What I knew of her life seemed so hard, with no rewards, no joys, no family, or friends to counterbalance the hurts. I was dying to see what had come to mind that she was working on so diligently. Time was up and I walked around the room commenting. The drawing quality ranged from not bad to good, to damn good: all except for Emma’s…her’s was sublime. She stood up, hesitated for just a moment, and then walked to the front of the class holding her 14X16-sketch paper masterpiece. With everyone quiet and watching, she held it out like a gift. It was neither a landscape nor a seascape. It was the interior of a room employing perfect lines and vanishing points. North light streamed in from large windows creating soft shadows and depth. Trees and clouds were visible through the windows, and there were people at desks hunched over their work; one of them with shaggy hair and a baseball cap. At the front of the room, she had drawn a whiteboard showing the assignment I’d written almost two hours earlier; just a scrawl with “love” the only word legible. I had planned to say something about the importance of art and artists in helping us understand our connections to our fellow humans, and to the world we share. No need. My teary eyes told my students all they needed to know. The End

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Braiding Bonds

The sky is patchy with sparse, moonlit clouds. The pavement, wet from showers earlier in the day, glistens with the reflections of orange lamps and the locks on bay doors shining either red or green. At two in the morning on a weeknight, most of the city is dormant; but on the outskirts, far from any residential grids or common businesses, the warehouse yards are alight and churning out their goods like machines. Not every warehouse is required by its company’s customer demand to run through the night, but Henry’s does; and if it’s meant to be a machine, it’s one that desperately needs some maintenance. There are three things Henry wants you to know about the night shift at Beischel Appliance Co. One, the day shift crew is full of assholes. So often, so many issues that are meant to be resolved by the end of the day, be they items that can’t be scanned to their outgoing orders or weekly forklift maintenance tasks, are left with a colourful little sticky note saying something like, “X ISSUE NEEDS TO BE FIXED BY MORNING, THANKS,” with an annoying smiley face. If it happened one or two times a week, Henry wouldn’t mind so much, but the constancy and the fact that these tasks should be effortless for the day crew irks like an itch he can’t get rid of. They’re also terrible at housekeeping; Henry is always finding loose papers and bits of packaging on the ground or hiding in corners, garbage bins filled well past the point of containing waste and dirty dishes in the break room sink. He’s beginning to think they’re just lazy. Two, the night shift crew is full of assholes. The warehouse supervisor has very clear favourites who he’s willing to protect from any minor infractions they commit, while bringing down his authority like a hammer on the rest of the team. The safety officer is on sick leave almost more often than not, which sounds like it should be funny. There’s a guy that’s almost always late by half an hour or more in the evening, when everyone else has been threatened with termination over too many tardy clock-ins. There are admittedly a few guys that Henry respects for their work ethic, and the lady at the front desk is nice, but he’s not going to get too comfortable any time soon. Three––and it’s not specific to Beischel, but it belongs in the discussion––the night shift kind of estranges you from the world you’re used to. If your life is centred in the time zone you live in, working while everyone else is asleep and sleeping when everyone else is awake radically changes your social life. Gatherings may be entirely impossible to manage, and contact with friends and family diminishes to the smallest corners of the day when your waking hours overlap. Your workplace essentially becomes your new social life––and Henry can confirm that it is, indeed, hell. Does the night shift at Beischel have any upsides? Well, it has one pretty sizeable one: it pays better than the day shift. Since making the switch from early bird to night owl is a big commitment for many, employers incentivize new hires with a little padding in the paycheck. That’s speaking Henry’s language. He couldn’t care less about his company or his crew, if he’s honest with himself; having a secure job (and an easy job, at that) with good pay is the chief of his concerns. As soon as he saves up enough, he’s moving to the coast to pursue his real goal: a self-made career in music. He mixes lofi and EDM beats on his computer, publishing under the pseudonym, “Kairos.” He hopes to begin adding live recordings of guitar and piano, maybe even the occasional vocal track, to keep his tunes feeling authentic and fresh. But music is a side-gig at the moment; his free time is limited and his equipment is cheap. For now, warehouse work is a humble but steady way to reach the checkpoint he’s aiming for. Henry crosses the threshold from the dusty, brightly-lit warehouse dock to the cool dark of the outdoors. His steps on the metal stairs ring through the lot. There are no trailers coming or going right now; it’s one of those blessed lulls in business, when the whole team can breathe a little. On the topic of breathing, Henry’s come out to do just that, though not of the fresh night air. He reaches into his pocket to withdraw a cigarette and a lighter. His face glows for a moment, then he pockets the lighter and exhales his first puff, the cloud of grey dissipating in the darkness. The breathing continues, the smoke flows in and out, the thoughts clear. The sounds of machinery and beeping scanners become background noise through the concrete walls and metal doors. It’s just Henry and the night. “ Henry ?” Henry’s body jolts and he skitters away from the stairs, raising his hands against the whispering assailant. His eyes take a moment to adjust, but the shadowy figure emerging from under the steps takes on a familiar shape: his younger brother, Harley. “Thought you didn’t scare easily,” Harley says with a half-grin as he straightens from his crouched stance. “Harley? What are you doing here?” Henry hisses, fiercely adjusting his high-vis vest. “How did you get here? It’s the middle of the night!” Harley holds up his hands in placation. “I know, I know. I’ll be up for school tomorrow, don’t worry. It’s just…” As Harley pauses, no longer with that easy grin, Henry notices his brother’s posture is off; he’s supporting most of his weight on one foot in a lopsided limp. And though his face is mostly shadow, what isn’t is a streak of dark red near his temple, trailing down to his neck. The same colour patterns his unsteady hands. “...I didn’t feel like heading home,” Harley finishes. “That’s all.” “What happened to you?” Henry asks, his anger and confusion giving way to concern and more confusion. He walks closer, turning his brother to the light to see him better. “Are you alright?” Harley winces and recoils slightly when his shoulder is touched. “I… got roughed up a little. Some guys from my school. I guess I was talking smack, got what I deserved.” “What were you doing out so late? And how did you get here?” Henry asks again, looking around the lot as if expecting to find a car, even though Harley doesn’t own one. “I biked here,” Harley answers, pointing to the stairs, whereunder Henry can see the dark outline of a bicycle. “I borrowed Dad’s. It looks nicer than mine.” “You biked all the way out here? It’s a forty minute drive!” Harley shrugs in a nonchalant way, as if it had been a leisurely trail ride and not an hour and a half of grueling offroads and highway shoulders, while substantially injured. Henry crosses his arms. “Why didn’t you just go home?” “Ah, you know… I’d probably wake up Mom and Dad. Don’t want Dad mad that I scuffed his bike up when I rode into a mailbox. Also…” He scratches his head, looking unsure of how to go on. “I technically wasn’t supposed to be out, because of my final exam tomorrow. And they’d probably ask me about all this––” He gestured to his battered self. “Don’t want to stress them out further.” “It couldn’t be more trouble than biking all this way,” Henry says. He’s having a hard time picturing what Harley’s difficulty would be. “I think it would have been best to go home.” Harley lets out a tense sigh, eyes trained on the ground. “It’s a different kind of trouble. You know… I don’t really talk to Mom and Dad. Like, talk talk. It’s always weird.” Henry almost opens his mouth to say, Well, it’s not like we talk very much, either , but the instant it comes to his mind, it feels too real. To voice it would be to admit the cruel reality that they as brothers have become very distant––and not for Harley’s lack of trying. Henry always had ambitions. He wanted to strive for bigger and greater things, and to do that, he needed to be older. So he grew up. But the brotherhood that he and Harley shared as children, the camaraderie and joy, quickly became too childish; it was beneath Henry, and Harley himself became a reminder of the juvenile life Henry wanted to leave behind. They grew distant over the years; Harley’s attempts to appeal to his interests and find some common ground were fruitless, and Henry had been blind to the hurt he was causing in his neglect. He took for granted his little brother who idolized him; and in this moment of clarity, seeing that brother before him, injured and exhausted and pleading with his young eyes, he feels remorse. “I just figured you would understand better. Between us… bros.” Harley makes eye contact for a moment before dropping his gaze again, and Henry detects a fluid shimmer in his brother’s eyes. Henry hesitates for a moment, then steps forward and puts his arms around Harley. The teenager is shaking, and his grip is tight. The two embrace, alone in the empty night, but together.

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The Day I Surprised the Priest

                              The Day I Surprised the Priest Back in my day, in my neck of the woods, most of us went to Catholic school because that was what was available. It didn’t matter if you were Christian, Jew or whatever, you probably were educated by ladies in black robes and white wimples. My brother and sister went off to those magical, mysterious places every day, one called Fifth Grade and the other Seventh. Although lately Bobby had been sick and stayed home, Sara still  left just as the theme for The Arthur Godfrey Show played on our old radio. I wanted desperately to go to school, too. Of course, that was before I learned that my sister wore that white blouse and blue jumper everyday because she had to, not because it was her favorite. I was less enthusiastic when it became clear that my usual uniform of red boots, jeans and black cowboy hat, with a Gene Autry six-gun and holster, was not considered to be appropriate classroom attire for little girls. But, I didn’t know that on the day in question. That day, Mother put the old card table with grey steel legs out on the porch and unfolded the matching chairs with their blue seats. My job was to wipe ubiquitous New Mexico dust from the stuccoed tops of the waist-high adobe wall, and put our pet tortoise in a box in the bedroom. Someone important was coming, but no guests could go in the house because my brother was quarantined with Scarlet Fever. It wasn’t like when the ladies of Alpha Phi came. Then we started a day ahead of time, making little currant cookies flavored with Mother’s precious bottle of quince brandy and polishing all of the silverware to its brightest shine. It was my job on those days to use an old toothbrush to get the Wright’s Silver Cream into every nook and cranny of the carved fork handles so that Mother could rinse away the dark tarnish in water too hot for my hands. On Alpha Phi days, while we listened to Andy Devine or the Lone Ranger on the massive tube radio in the corner, I sat beneath the mahogany table, polishing the legs with their brass-capped feet. No, it was not like that this time. It was not the ladies of Mother’s sorority coming today. It was a mystery, a secret. We had already washed my mop of white-blonde hair, the mark that had the neighborhood kids calling me Guerra, local slang for Blondie . Now it was time for me to get dressed for company. Clean jeans and striped tee-shirt were not enough. I protested the dress. It had ruffles around the shoulders, and a bow that tied in the back. I hated it. “Why does it tie in the back? No one can see it there!” I stomped my foot in four-year-old rage. “Because it does. Stand still. How did you get this knot in your hair already!” “Because I did.” “Don’t talk smart!” “I want to wear my hat.” “Little girls do not wear cowboy hats to greet the priest.” “I do.” “No, you don’t.” “What’s a priest?” “The man from church.” “We don’t go to church anymore.” “We don’t go now because your brother has been sick, and we can’t. But that won’t keep you from going to school.” School! Oh, how I wanted to go to school. Maybe could wear clothes like Bobby wore to school. You know, blue jeans and a white shirt, like normal people. I was a lot younger than Bob, but because he was sick so often, he wasn’t growing much, and we could wear a lot of the same clothes, especially boots. I thought that was good because clothes cost a lot. We kids looked forward to a Christmas Box from older cousins sending the clothes they had outgrown each year. Mother was embarrassed that she couldn’t buy us new things, but the cousin’s clothes were new to us, weren’t they? Boots, though, were another matter. Our cousins apparently wore shoes. Useless things we thought. How do you keep from getting shoes filled with sand when you were hunting rabbits in the arroyos? No, we needed boots! So, twice a year, Mother loaded us into the ancient  ’32 Packard, and we drove south to Juarez, Mexico, an all-day trip back then. We always needed boots, bed linens, and for my sister, beautiful embroidered blouses with long pleated skirts, because she competed on a square-dance team.  For the kitchen, we got great square boxes of crackers, bags of piloncillo , the Mexican cones of raw sugar, six months worth of flour and lard for tortillas, and Mother’s precious two bottles of Crema de Membrillo, a kind of brandy made from quinces. We loved the trip along the Rio Grande, a route so perilous in the past that early travelers had named it the Journey of Death, Jornada del Muerto. But we traveled on US 85, speeding along at 50 miles an hour, because the highway was paved, unlike most New Mexico roads. We stayed in the Hotel Sylvia where one wall of the restaurant was made out of blue bottles. It was beautiful, we thought.  Bobby and I wandered the streets under the supervision of big sister Sara,  while Mother shopped. Juarez was a safe town back then. There were vendors for elotes , corn on the cob on a stick, which we sprinkled with powdered chile. And, we bought, for a penny or two, little flat cardboard containers of caramel about the size of the palm of my hand. But I digress. The subject was the visit from this unknown quantity, a priest. I was ready in blue-checked dress with white ruffles, trailing belt tied back in a secure bow, much to my irritation. Red boots with the white-stitched cactus pattern were polished to a high shine. My cowlicks, which normally stood upright like a built-in feathered warbonnet, were wetted down, too.  I expected something dramatic. Instead, here came a dusty black Buick with the chromed airflow holes in the hood. It was just like Mr. Simms Buick that parked three houses down from us. Boring! My bubble of excitement grew flatter when a young man dressed all in black got out of the unexciting car. He looked kind of like the two high school boys who lived down the street. I got all dressed up for him? Mother opened the blue-painted screen door, hinges squealing in protest as usual, and offered him a cup of tea. I squirmed impatiently, knowing that there would be many minutes of polite chat before any business was done. How was Bobby? What a pretty cat. Was Sara doing well in school.? So sorry that she had broken her fingers playing baseball. Maybe he had an old glove she could use. Did you see that the Baca’s, up the road, had a television? It is amazing. You can see and hear people just like in a movie. They finished the tea. Then an Our Father , and a Hail Mary , and he turned to me. “What is your name, young lady?” What the heck? He didn’t know? “Cornelia,” I answered. He made a little mark on a piece of paper. “And where do you live?” Priests aren’t very smart I thought, but answered politely. “Here.” “Oh. I mean, what is the address here?” The house number was written on the outside of the house in big black letters. So, priests are not smart and don’t see well. Okay. “Seventeen twelve Ridgecrest Drive,” I said, patiently. “And what city is this?” Sheesh! “Al-bu-ker-ky,” I said, pronouncing it slowly, the way we had to talk to Mr. Colt, who was not right in the head. “Ah-hah,” said the priest, as though he had never heard the name of our city before, and made another mark on his paper. “Would you like to play a game with me?” He smiled like this was some big treat. What kind of game could this guy possibly play? I thought about the games we had. Monopoly? No. It takes too long and I hated it anyway. Pirates and Travelers ? No. Too complicated for this fellow. Hmmm. Mother gave me that look . “Okay,” I said. “What do you want to play?” “I brought one with me. I show you a picture, and you tell me what it is.” By this time, I was leaning forward, kicking my feet under the card table, impatient to get back in normal clothes and outside doing something─anything . “Okay.” He opened this little kid’s picture book, the kind that has an apple for A and a balloon for B. We went through the whole thing, F for frog. L for lion. You know what I mean. He was surprised that I knew the names of the letters as well as the objects in the pictures. He stopped at N. “Are you reading the letters, or have you memorized a book like this?” “Both, I guess.” “Can she read?” He asked my mother, not me. I was offended. “Well, yes. Her brother has nothing much to do during the day, since he has been so sick. They have been reading together.” “And I know what viz means,” I said. He gave me a curious look. “You know, in Robinson Crusoe?” He still seemed puzzled. “We don’t have any of the usual readers, so they are reading Robinson Crusoe, and had to look up the meaning of viz.” “Ah,” he said, hesitating like he didn’t know what to do next. But, he rallied and went on. P for peach. S for sock T for tiger. Then came U. In my alphabet book, there was a picture of a little kid reaching Up. But in this book, there was a picture of a parasol. Uh-oh. Now what? Do I tell him his book is wrong? I hesitated, twisting a lock of my hair, as I always did when stressed. “What is this?” He asked again, grinning like the neighbor boys did when they were making fun of me. I shrugged in confusion, not knowing how to let him down easy. “It’s an umbrella,” he said, smiling. It was surely meant to be a kind smile, but it looked like gloating to me. “An umbrella is for keeping the rain off.” That was the last straw! No more humoring this guy. “It’s a parasol, for keeping the sun off the abuelas , the grandmothers, so they don’t get sunburned,” I said. “Parasol starts with a P. And why would you want to keep the rain off? Skin don’t leak!” Mother was disappointed. I had blown it. So, it was a surprise when a little card came in the mail saying that I had passed the test and would be admitted to First Grade at St. Vincent’s Academy in September, lunch provided, mass at 6:30 a.m., uniforms required. trouble operating because of too few employees.

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The Head of The Table

Eddie's father was gone almost six months now. It was hard to believe it was that long since he died. It was hard to believe that the man who had so firmly guided the family had left them almost six months ago. And, it was hard to believe his mother had absorbed this latest blow. Eddie's father was once a giant, although certainly not in size -- he didn't top 5’5” but his authority was never questioned. His word was the law and his approval represented the pinnacle of success. He wasn't an easy man to please. Eddie had endured plenty of spankings when he was young and groundings when he was older, but his father loved his three sons and adored his wife. The cancer that weakened him before Eddie's eyes was a cruel demon that sapped his father's strength and finally his ability to live. In the months since then, 1948 turned into 1949. Fall had turned to winter and winter had slipped into spring. Eddie's mother at first had seemed to shrink under the weight of her sadness, but then with the lengthening days had summoned some secret store of will that gave her the ability to go on. Her sons needed her. Eddie didn't trust it, though. He lived in fear of her breaking down. He couldn't bear for her to suffer. So, Eddie never mentioned his father in front of her. He pretended as though nothing had changed. Privately, Eddie wistfully thought back to the years before. The years when his biggest disappointment was striking out at a pickup baseball game. He remembered when Friday nights were for going to the movies on Fordham Road, not for going to synagogue. He remembered when he only went to synagogue for the High Holidays and he and the other kids were shooed out when it was time for the Kaddish. Only those who'd lost a family member stayed for the mourner’s prayer. He once snuck back in to see what the fuss was. He listened as the congregation intoned the Hebrew prayer he had never heard before. Now, not only did he stay for Kaddish, he, too, intoned the mourner’s prayer that he had come to know by heart: “ Yiskadal v’yiskadash shemay rabba… ” Six months had passed and Passover was now upon them. Eddie loved Passover. In years past, the entire extended family came to their apartment for a Seder, the traditional Passover ritual. His mother spent days preparing brisket, potato pie, gefilte fish. She bought matzoh, sponge cake, and Manischewitz Concord Grape wine. The house was scoured even cleaner than usual. "Cleanliness is next to Godliness," his mother would say. The large folding table was opened and set down the two steps in the sunken living room. Chairs were crowded around it so that there would be room for all. The best dishes sat on a soft white tablecloth edged in lace. Candles glowed in their brightly polished silver sticks and the house was scented from caramelized vegetables and roasted brisket. His father would lead the Seder using the Haggadah, the book that guides the readings and the prayers for Passover. The grocery store gave Haggadot away for free “Compliments of the Coffees of Maxwell House.” Sitting at the head of the table, telling the story of the Jewish people’s exodus from Egypt, his father would recite the prayers and perform the ancient rituals. The fact that it was the same, year after year, made it all the more meaningful. Eddie worried about what it would it be like this first Passover without his father to lead the Seder. Would they even celebrate or should he just pretend it was a day like any other? When his mother started making plans, calling all the relatives to invite them, Eddie was glad. When his mother started cleaning and cooking in the days before the holiday began, she almost seemed happy. Eddie took out the large table and began unfolding the chairs. All of the aunts and uncles were coming. Eddie's mother, Rachel, was the oldest daughter and second oldest child. She was the matriarch and the soul of the family that had journeyed in groups from Poland to the Lower East Side more than thirty years earlier. When there were celebrations, it was to her home they came. When there were troubles, it was to her they turned. During the depression, when things got really hard for her siblings, her nieces and nephews came to stay for months at a time. This year, her Passover tradition would go on as usual. Uncle Sam, Uncle Jack, Uncle Moe. All of the imposing Uncles with their wives and children came into the apartment. They were skilled laborers, tailors, printers. They had calloused hands and stooped shoulders. They spoke English with a Yiddish accent and still held many old school beliefs. Children were to be seen and not heard. Children should respect their elders. A smack on the bottom for a minor offense was appropriate. To them, Eddie was still the little kid who routinely got into trouble. They looked at him reprovingly and eyed him warily, as if they expected him to act out at any moment even though he was now almost twenty. It didn’t matter that he worked full time and, like them, was supporting his family. Eddie had decided it was easier to steer clear of his uncles at these family gatherings rather than be made to feel, once again, like the errant child. The sun was setting and it was time to begin the Seder. The family moved to take their seats. Uncle Sam, as the eldest, walked towards Eddie’s father’s place at the table. Rachel came out of the kitchen holding the Seder plate. "No, Sam," she said quietly but definitively. "Eddie will lead the Seder. Eddie is the man of this house now." Eddie took his father’s seat at the head of the table. He put on his yarmulke and opened the Haggadah. He began by asking the traditional question of Passover: "Why is this night different from all other nights?"  

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Prime of Life

Admonition “Primrose! Just what do you think you are doing, young lady?” Great Aunt Jane’s stentorian voice blared along the landing. Primi’s hand fell limp from the doorknob. “I’m… sorry, Aunt Jane. I just wanted to…” “You know perfectly well you are forbidden to enter Great Uncle John’s office. It is off limits. You are seven years old and you know my rules. Now go to your room. I do not expect to see you until suppertime.” Hot tears welling, Primi ran down the landing to her own room, slammed the door and threw herself face down on her bed, sobs racking her lean frame as the late afternoon sun streamed in through the south-facing window. Primrose Lovelace Byrne, Primi to her school friends and family, had lived with her Great Aunt Jane for as long as she could remember. Blonde, pretty and tall for her age, she had no parents, and only vague recollections. Aunt Jane had explained that Primi’s parents had died, when she was three years old, in a road accident in a place called Monaco, on one of their filming trips. Primi’s father had been an actor; her mother a movie director. They had never been short of work and Primi enjoyed watching their films online, far more than Great Aunt Jane did. Blinking away tears of frustration, Primi reached for her iPad and resumed the movie she’d been watching, The Haunting by the Lake . The man she knew to have been her father stood before her on the screen, his loose cotton shirt open almost to his waist, exposing his six-pack and chest hair. The camera panned out to reveal the ghost, a rather poorly made-up fellow with black around his CGI-reddened eyes, the lights throwing his face into long shadows. Primi switched it off again, tossing the iPad onto the eiderdown. The movie could wait. What Primi really wanted to know was, what was in Great Uncle John’s office, that Great Aunt Jane so badly wanted her never to see? The house was enormous, with three storeys and a couple of acres of land. Great Aunt Jane spent a lot of time outdoors tending her beloved gardens. Primi preferred indoors, wandering the hallways and landings, getting to know housekeeper Mrs Holliday’s routines so she could avoid her. Primi knew her way around now. She loved the four staircases - the grand one from the main hall, the discreet carpeted stairway near the guest bedrooms, and the two stone stepped service stairwells at the rear corners of the edifice. Following her learned mental map, she could pop up anywhere, anytime, secure in her unpredictability. Great Uncle John had been an antique dealer, Aunt Jane had told her. He bought and collected old things; objects that came with a story. There had been no internet at that time, so he’d done something called auction by mail. He’d put advertisements in newspapers, showing what he had to sell, and invited buyers to bid what they were prepared to pay, by a cutoff date which the bidder’s letter postmark had to be before. Then he would write to the highest bidder and accept their offer, if it was above the lowest price he could accept, after which he would mail them their purchase by parcel post. Great Uncle John had died on the day Primi was born. Aunt Jane had never said much about his death, just that she missed him very much and they had been very happy together. “He got sick and passed away,” was as much as Primi could get from her great aunt. Primi was a bright child. Not just in the sense that every parent and guardian considers their child or ward to be a cut above average. Primi excelled in mathematics, routinely finishing her assignments with half the lesson left and all her answers correct. Her teachers had grown used to preparing extra challenges for her. Before long, she was setting her own challenges and vying with others to match her. Opportunity Now a confident, poised eleven-year-old, Primrose continued to enjoy the freedom of Aunt Jane’s house, having explored every corner of every floor to the satisfaction of her youthful curiosity. The attic rooms with their cobwebbed windows, stacks of junk and creaky floorboards fascinated her for a while but, eventually and inevitably, their appeal waned. Great Uncle John’s secret, undiscovered office ate at Primi day and night. She just had to know what was behind that door. Aunt Jane spent longer and longer tending her herbs and plants, waking as dawn broke, returning to the house only to eat and, at weekends, to check via Mrs Holliday that Primi was safe, fed and gainfully occupied. From Primi’s school reports, Aunt Jane had ascertained that she continued to lead her peers in mathematics, to the extent that she was ready for challenges a year or more ahead of her grade level. The child had matured beyond recognition, Aunt Jane thought, since coming to live with her. Primi did not fail to notice her great aunt’s gradual relaxation of the surveillance that had stifled her so, through her early formative years. If only adults understood the stifling, suffocating effect upon children of bedtimes, curfews and stupid household rules. Why was it so hard for adults to comprehend that children were the future of the world - that the young would be calling the tunes, after the old had faded away? However were Primi and her peers going to learn to run the show, if grown-ups kept stopping them doing everything, at every hand’s turn? Primi knew where Aunt Jane kept the key to Uncle John’s office. The key rack, with labelled keys on hooks, was fixed to the wall behind Aunt Jane’s desk, in her housekeeping room behind the kitchen. A quick glance through the window, to confirm Aunt Jane’s presence in the southern herb garden, and she was away, light and lithe of step, pattering across the stone flags, through the heavy wooden door, into the centre of Aunt Jane’s controlled universe. Primi knew she should not be in here. She had better hurry, before Aunt Jane caught her. Feeling incredibly naughty, Primi reached for the key labelled ‘John’s office’. A rather ordinary, grey, metal key, with a green plastic tab, she eagerly gripped its wicked heaviness as she hastened toward the forbidden room. The key turned easily, as if the lock had just been oiled. Primi hesitated, turning guiltily behind her, in case Mrs Holliday or Great Aunt Jane might suddenly have appeared on the landing behind her. She saw only the dark, polished balustrade, the drugget carpet with its varnished oak borders and the wood panelled wall with its recessed doorways. Primi swallowed and twisted the doorknob. With no resistance that she could detect, the door swung smoothly open. Inevitability propelled her forward and she was standing in Great Uncle John’s private office. Her first impression was that it didn’t look as though no-one used it any more. In the centre of the room was an oak desk, tall and imposing, with a brass-cornered blotter and a heavy, leather-bound volume upon it. A heavy, wooden swivel chair sat importantly behind the desk, with a lumbar cushion, compressed and indented from everyday use. It was as though Great Uncle John had just left, and may return at any moment. The next thing Primi noticed was the safe, standing in the corner, between the diamond leaded window and the oak panelled wall. It was enormous. She knew it was a safe because it had a large combination lock wheel on its dark green metal door. She had seen combination safes before, so she knew this one was unusual. Normally the numbers went up to one hundred. This one had smaller divisions around its edge, counting all the way to two hundred. The knurled wheel was cold to her touch. Gingerly, she moved it clockwise. It felt oily and heavy, with a light clicking behind as it turned. What was the combination, she wondered. What was inside? Her attention shifted to the desk, dominating the office. The blue leather-bound book sat square on the blotter. Primi tiptoed around to the chair side of the desk but she did not sit down. That would not be right. The chair, she was sure, would still be warm from the presence of Great Uncle John. She could see his indent in the cushions. It was his chair, not hers. The cover of the book was heavy. As soon as she tipped it over, Primi could see it was a diary, of the journal (rather than engagements) type. She leafed through the pages, her interest piqued. Uncle John had evidently been interested in mathematics. There were entries about prime numbers - she’d learned about those at school, how they were like DNA fingerprints that showed familial relations between numbers. Skimming through her great uncle’s entries, Primi detected an interest in length of life, a topic he had returned to, again and again. Uncle John had mused upon his own inevitable death. “Pray tell me, dear old Father Time, shall I attain my twentieth prime?” Primi had learned the first twenty prime numbers. She’d become fascinated with primes. In an earlier class, she’d been duped by a bored teacher into thinking the only notable fact about primes was they could not be divided by anything except one and themselves. How wrong she had been, she now saw. Prime numbers are the very building blocks of mathematics and of logic. All modern cryptography is based upon prime numbers. Without them, we can forget secure online banking and encrypted text messages. Primi knew that the twentieth prime number is 71.  Great Uncle John had not attained his tentieth prime. He had died in his fifties - she must ask Aunt Jane exactly how old he had been. Almost ready to leave, Primi flicked forward through the desk diary. Reaching the last page, she held her breath. There was a sort of poem. In youthful bloom of primeth prime, The num’rals whirl, ‘tis come the time. The key shall count thy summers gone, And those of she foreprimely born. Complete the key as goes this rhyme, With next the common primeth prime. Take heed - ‘twill yield a single time, Till primeth prime again align. Primi read it twice. It didn’t make sense. She flipped the heavy cover closed and crossed back to the tall, imposing safe. Again, she spun the combination dial. It was the same heavy, oiled clicking, spinning slowly to a stop. “Primrose!” Oh, no. Caught in the act. Great Aunt Jane was there, in the doorway, arms folded. “Explain yourself, this instant. What are you doing in your Great Uncle’s office, and what gives you the right to be in here?” Coming of Age Primrose was seventeen. She’d never been into Uncle John’s office again, after the last time. Aunt Jane had grounded her in her room for a whole week, only out for meals and a fifteen-minute daily walk around the garden, with Aunt Jane holding her hand, as though she was five. The intervening six years had passed cordially enough. Having punished Primi, Aunt Jane had not referred to the office incident again. Primi felt comfortable in her great aunt’s company. The old lady knew her stuff. Primi was studying Further Maths and she was surprised by how much Aunt Jane knew about the subject. Primi had felt inspired to research prime numbers for the elective part of her course. She had learned about Bell numbers, Leyland primes, illegal primes and - by far, the most intriguing - Primeth primes. The title of the last list chimed in her memory, from her great uncle’s rhyme, on the very last page of his diary. Primi had won Great Aunt Jane over, although she had been sceptical at first. “Aunt Jane, if we could just look at Uncle John’s diary again, I’m sure I could make sense of the last page. Don’t you want to understand your husband’s last written thoughts?” At that, Aunt Jane had shot Primi a glance as vitriolic as it was brief. Then she had mellowed. “All right. Let’s take a look.” Combination “Look, Aunt Jane. It says, ‘The key shall count thy summers gone.’ I’m seventeen, so the first number in the combination must be 17. Then, it says ‘those’ - that’s the summers gone, or the age - of ‘she fore primely born’. That’s you, Aunt Jane, because the gap between our ages is exactly fifty years, which make you sixty-seven, a prime number. And that’s not all - Uncle John’s rhyme talks about primeth primes. The prime numbers start with 2, then 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19 and onward. So, 2 is the first prime. The primeth primes are prime numbers whose place in the sequence is itself a prime number. So, the first primeth prime is 3, because it’s at position 2 in the list, and 2 is a prime number.” Great Aunt Jane nodded. “OK, I get you. You are 17, which is the seventh prime. A primeth prime. I am 67 which, if I am not mistaken, is the nineteenth prime - another primeth prime. Are you saying that makes our age difference special?” Primi smiled. “It’s Uncle John saying that, not me. You should know him better than I do. Now, the combination fo the safe. We’ve got 17 and 67. Uncle John’s rhyme mentions the next common primeth prime. I think he meant common in the sense that it applies to us both. So, when will be the next time both our ages are primeth primes? I’ve checked; the next two primeth primes with a fifty-year gap are 59 and 109. That gives us the last two combination numbers.” Again, Aunt Jane nodded, more slowly this time. “Well, I hope I’m still around at 109. Now, you have to spin a combination lock four times clockwise and stop at the first number, then three times the other way and stop at the second, and so on. I guess it makes sense that it goes up to 200, because the usual 100 wouldn’t be enough -“ Aunt Jane stopped and caught her breath. Primi egged her on. “Don’t be scared, Aunt Jane. It’s what Uncle John wants us to do. I mean, wanted us to do.” Both women snapped around to the leather chair, conscious of an almost imperceptible movement in the shadows. If interrogated at that moment, both Primi and her great aunt would have sworn they glimpsed, in their peripheral vision, a wiry man in a blue-grey suit, sitting back in the leather chair, regarding them with interest. There was nothing, of course - the chair was empty - although Aunt Jane was privately sure the man had been her late husband, and Primi was equally sure the cushions had been moved since she’d last seen them. Primi reached out and turned the safe’s dial, the familiar oily click beneath her hand. Four times clockwise to 17, then three times back to 67, twice round clockwise to 59, then once back to 109. The dial locked. The two women glanced toward each other before Primi reached out and pressed the heavy brass handle. The safe door swung open. At first, both were sure the safe was empty. Then, Primi noticed the small, brown envelope. Impatiently she tore it open and read the note on the card inside. Dear Primrose, your great Aunt is safe until the next time. Twelve years later Primrose was twenty-nine. Her great aunt was seventy-nine. Soon after they had found the note in the safe, Aunt Jane had explained that her husband, Primi’s great uncle, had chosen her name. When the doctor confirmed they were expecting a little girl, Primi’s parents had asked the family for name ideas and had settled on Uncle John’s Primrose. Neither woman had been able to fathom what Uncle John had meant by his handwritten note in the envelope. At twenty-nine, having completed a Ph.D in mathematics and secured a lectureship at Cambridge, Primi felt she should be looking after her great aunt. However, the old lady didn’t seem to have aged a day since they’d opened Uncle John’s safe, whereas Primi herself was feeling decidedly dilapidated. Her shoulders ached when she got up in the morning and her knees cracked from time to time. She’d noticed one or two grey hairs. For all the world, she felt more like someone over forty than under thirty. When next the primeth primes align When Great Aunt Jane turned one hundred, she still looked and felt exactly as she had done at age sixty-seven. Primrose, aged fifty, boasted thinning white hair, bony hands, drooping, wrinkled jowls and a bent back. She felt more like a woman in her eighties than one of fifty. Both women had concluded what was going on and had discussed it many times. All that mattered to them was that Primi should make it to 101 - she was obviously ageing at twice the normal rate, while Aunt Jane stayed fixed in her late sixties. Uncle John’s note made perfect sense now. What was special about 101? Well, as Primi had worked out, and Aunt Jane had agreed, Primi was ageing at two years for every one. The next time their ages would both be primeth primes would be fifty-nine (101 in apparent terms) for Primi and one hundred and nine for Aunt Jane. The elder woman made it her business to look after the younger, in her dotage. The funeral over, Primi walked from Aunt Jane’s grave with sorrowful recollection. The safe had opened the second time, 42 years after the first, to the same combination. Instantly, the years had fallen from Primi, and in the same moment, Aunt Jane had breathed a relieved sigh, a seraphic smile on her lips, and passed on.

83uvr9

The Shade Tree

With work gloves on, he used the short-handled shovel as a cane. She held tight to the one-and-a-half inch diameter trunk to keep herself upright. The sugar maple was no more than three years old and no taller than she. They were over-dressed. Both in style and for the weather. The day was balmy and thick with the high summer sun. He wore dress shoes, brown pants, a tucked-in buttoned-up checkered shirt and a brown cardigan. His driver’s cap shielded the sun from his bald head but sweat still made his glasses slide down his nose. She had white thick-soled orthopedic shoes, navy blue pants, a light blue blouse and a white sweater. Her white hair shone in the light. Cars rushed by, one hand on the wheel, one hand scrolling, drum beats and bellows echoing through the streets. The couple had stopped noticing what passed by years ago. Or, having seen it all many times over, no longer had need to take notice. They were focused, anyway, on what they had planned their week around and towards – planting a sugar maple in the front yard. He worked slowly but confidently. Not so much digging as scraping, little by little, layer by layer. The hole grew wider and deeper. The morning grew longer. The pile of excavated earth grew higher. From a small wheelbarrow, she would sprinkle a compost mix in with the dirt. They grew tired and walked the slow path to the porch to eat lunch - white bread sandwiches. Bologna, Duke’s mayonnaise and individually wrapped American cheese slices. They ate the sandwiches that she had made and drank the sweet iced tea that she had brewed. He said, “I think this side is the face,” point a shaking hand towards the tree that sat in its pot before them. The side of the tree facing them was fuller and wider. “It looks like it.” “We’ll turn it so as you can see it from the road.” “And towards the south.” Back at the hole, refreshed enough, his short-handled shovel found a rock. The yard is full of them. A rock farm, he used to say. Shrub and garden beds around the house were lined with years of rocks that they had pulled from the ground. A few big enough to sit comfortably on. He hoped this wasn’t one of those. It had been years since his back and arms would let him toss around large stones. His prior self would quickly pry and leverage any rock from the ground and roll or flip it to wherever he thought it stood out. Today, he worked with the care of an archeologist, finding first the edges and slowly brushing and sifting away layers of dirt. After circling the top of rock, he knew its shape and thought he could manage it. He worked his way down and around the bowling ball size stone, moving his hole slightly from where he had planned. That was okay. Working his shovel under, the rock finally made its first move. A slight shift. He smiled and knew how much energy it would take and that he had just that much left. Back and forth, around and under, he took small shovels full.  Like a child’s first loose tooth, it slowly became dislodged and finally rolled into the bottom of the hole. The man exhaled. Even though the task was very nearly too much for him physically, it was necessary and still almost not enough for him mentally. If he could still dig a hole for a tree, they wouldn’t be digging one for him. The woman left the hole and returned with long, worn straight handled shovel. On opposite sides of the hole, they raised the rock inch by inch until it perched at the top, resting heavily on both shovels crossing underneath it. Together they tipped the shovels and the rock towards the lower side of the hole. It rolled out and down to a slight sag just in front of the hole. There, the rock immediately began to settle and start its long, slow journey back into the earth. “The good thing about rocks is, once you get them out, the hole is empty!” he said as he pulled from the hole one last scoop, leaving enough of a home to hold the root ball. They tipped the tree over. He held the bucket, she held the trunk. With soft hands, she held strong while he struggled to pull off the bucket which was wedged with root growth. Finally free, together they loosened the tightly bound roots. They lowered the tree into its final resting place, straitened the trunk and turned to make sure that the face was to the road and to the south.  They took turns backfilling the hole and gently stepped a ring around the tree. While he kneeled to pack a small berm to catch water, hurting his knees, she dragged the hose to let the long trickle start. He smiled to himself. He could still do it. He was still a strong man. He could still do anything. She stood and watched as the water soaked deep into the hole that was not there earlier in the day. The roots that had been bound and dry were outstretched and getting wet. The leaves felt the sun from a new angle. She watched as a breeze made the leaves dance. She smiled to herself as the canopy at the edge of the sunny yard gained a few new members. Less lawn, more habitat. Exhausted for the day, they stood and looked the tree. It stood confidently in its new home as it became the home. The small rock, still dirty, served as a marker and compliment. The water started to overtop the berm and flow down towards the rock. “That’s good.” He said. She turned off the water and they took one last look at the tree before the walked back to the house. They each knew they would never stand together in the shade of this tree but that isn’t why they planted it. 

1i3vnu

Those Days On The Island

“Listen, could I just…walk around the community for a few minutes?” She gestured toward the gated community they stood in front of. The security guard turned down the music emanating from his booth and looked at her, brow furrowing in some combination of confusion and skepticism. She couldn’t blame him—anyone who wanted to actually live here would’ve called the leasing office. And she wasn’t trying to live here. She already had. Twenty years had gone by since she’d last seen it, and the place looked exactly the same. At least, she thought so. To be honest, she didn’t remember the details of the life she’d lived inside that community. After all, she had been only twelve when her family packed up and left the island for their shot at the American dream. She did remember the island in visual and emotional snapshots: As a bright sun, a clear sky, banana leaves, and happiness. Or at least freedom. Happiness was never constant, but the island had been a time before the baggage and pain of life had set in. She had probably always remembered the island in that way but only realized it consciously when her therapist of late asked her to conjure a memory of feeling light. Without hesitation, she had skipped back past two decades of her life without a single pit stop, and thought of a moment on the island. She had been reading that day, on their back porch in the late afternoon sun. Beyond the porch was a grassy expanse with a badminton court off to one side of it. It was a peacefully still afternoon in her memory, but as evening arrived, the children of the community would come out to play. And she would join them as she always did. The guard’s voice brought her back to the present. Blinking to refocus, she saw him peering curiously at her. With an apologetic smile, she hastily reached for her phone and scrolled through, looking for the faded photograph she had taken a picture of. Holding it up to him, she explained, “I used to live here. Uh, in 1998.” She pointed to the little girl in the front, her dark hair braided on either side of her head. Behind the girl and two other children was a large pool, and behind that the two-story buildings of the residential complex they were standing outside of. To be fair, it looked like any residential complex in any number of countries, with a banyan tree in the background perhaps suggesting a tropical locale. But showing him this picture was plan A through Z, so it had to work. She hadn’t planned to come here and had made no prior arrangements to get into the gated community. Not even when they announced that this year’s company summit would be on the island. But when her plane landed and the balmy island air touched her skin, some new emotion stirred and she knew she couldn’t leave without seeing her childhood home. The security guard finally relented—after she gave him all the American dollars she had on hand—and let her go in with a warning to leave as quickly as possible. She agreed easily, her face spreading into a relieved grin. How terrible if she had come all this way and been turned away! ‘Next time, make a better plan!’ she chastised herself. With some strange sense of muscle memory, she made her way past the first row of houses and straight to the swimming pool that had housed many of her childhood waking moments. Her feet carried her with a buoyancy she did not recognize. It was around lunchtime and the pool was empty and quiet. She sat down on the ledge surrounding the pool area and let her mind reach back into its arsenal of memories. The memories were all of play and pranks under a blue sky. Making up elaborate stories of mermaid kingdoms in the pool, writing secret admirer notes and noisily running away as the recipient opened their door, or playing hide and seek in the vast recesses of their little residential community. She knew there had been unhappiness too. And outside the gates of this little community was an often harsh, less-privileged world, a fact that the younger version of her had been oblivious to. But in the context of the next two decades of her life, she knew the time on the island had given her something special: A visceral memory of what it meant to be light. To be free. She was just beginning to understand how much she had lost her way in the years since that time. She didn’t know how or when the burden had lowered itself onto her shoulders. Perhaps it was the first time she looked at herself and noticed she looked nothing like the blonde, straight-haired girls who got asked to the school dances. Or when she wrote about her island origins for her diversity college essays but never mentioned it once during her college freshman orientation. By the time she was a management consultant ordering fancy French wines on the client’s tab, her island origins were just memories of a dream she’d once had. They had no place in her quest to become as American as possible. And yet, in the last decade of high-functioning distraction, the exhaustion at the end of the day seemed a little deeper, a little more existential. She was living some version of the American dream, but the person she had very deliberately become was unraveling. She was unbecoming everything she’d carefully constructed. And she did not necessarily know what was left after it all fell away. But now she was back here on the island, every little thing seemed bathed in the childish lightness of twenty years ago. As she sat there among the trappings of her childhood, the psychic burden that had become hers over the years began to loosen. So much had happened since she’d seen the island last. And yet, even today, it seemed to bring out the truest part of who she was.

pgr6pq

Hot Dogma

I had a friend who was a competitive eater as the result of being a Jehovah’s Witness. Because of his religion, Ben wasn't allowed to celebrate holidays like Easter or Christmas, or even his own birthday. Ben had to stand in the hallway as the rest of us celebrated our pagan rituals, like the fertility rite of hunting for colored eggs, tree worship, and blowing out candles endowed with wish-granting magic. So, Ben got his kicks by becoming a competitive eater. That Friday Ben and I were walking to the cafeteria. We were both very excited because it was the day of the big competition. The Foot Long Hotdog contest. For us at Emerald Isle Elementary, this was our Super Bowl. Our two fastest eaters were finally going head-to-head after weeks of insults, threats, and bets between both camps. Now, it was time. Ben versus Bradley, the eating competition of the millennium. “Did you bring the dollar?” said Ben. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got it here in my pocket.” Behind a glass divider, pillars of steam rose from stainless steel vats as the lunch ladies prepared our food. We got our foot long hot dogs and tater tots, and pushed our trays down the line to the cashier. “That’ll be a buck twenty.” I gave my money to the cashier, but Ben had a free lunch card in his wallet, which he flashed like an FBI agent as he walked by her. The tables in the cafeteria were arranged into long rows. We sat as far away from the teachers’ table as possible. Beside us, three boys were having a chocolate-milk chugging contest. The referee told the racers to put their money on the table, then instructed them to open their cartons.“On your mark, get set...chugg!” Both boys were chugging, but the one with spiky hair slammed his empty carton on the table first, and collected the money. Chocolate milk chugging contests were good sport, but nothing could distract us from the challenge ahead. The lunchroom was beginning to fill up. We had some boys on our side of the table. Some of Bradley Mitchell’s goons sat across from us, but I ignored them. “How you feeling, Champ?” I said. “Hungry,” Ben said through a mouth of tater tots. “Good,” I said. “It’s a sure thing. Just do like we practiced.” “Here he comes,” said one the goons. Bradley sat down. “Hope you said your prayers, Jesus Boy. You’re going to need all the help you can get.” “Shut your mouth,” I told Bradley. “Your breath smells like a foot-long turd.” “What’s the matter, Tallon? Jesus Boy can’t speak for himself?” Ben sat like a statue, staring down Mitchell, just as we discussed. “He doesn’t have to speak,” I told Bradley. “He’s about to be crowned Eating Champion of Emerald Isle.” I reached into my pocket and slapped the dollar on the table. Mitchell put his money down, as did others. The referee was a loudmouth kid whose father was a boxing nut. He picked up the money and said: “Alright, both of y’all are professionals, so I expect a good, clean race. I don’t want any shin-kicking under the table, or any other funny stuff. You guys got that?” They both nodded. “Protect your plate at all times, and at my signal, come out chewing. Racers take your mark, get set….eat!” Mitchell picked up his foot-long and took a bite, then another, and another. Ben was still sitting with his hands on the table, staring at Mitchell. The kids at the table stared at Ben with a kind of fascination. Is he going to eat? Ben turned to me, and when I nodded, he picked up his foot long. Ketchup and mustard swelled up from the bun. He took his first bite the way heavyweight fighters punch when going for the knockout. His fingers directed the foot-long through his lips and down to his stomach. A gasp arose from the spectators. Bradley was fast, but Ben was like a hot dog eating machine. When Mitchell glanced up and saw that Ben had already caught him, I saw fear in his eyes. “That’s right, Mitchell, you’re going down!” Mitchell’s goons began chanting, “Brad! Brad! Brad!” and pounding their fists on the table. There was an electric feeling in the air. Bradley was munching down fast, but still had a few inches of hot dog left when Ben crammed the last of his foot-long into his mouth. I pumped my fist in victory, then pointed my finger in Bradley’s face. “We win! You lose!” I reached out for the money, but the referee said, “Wait!” I gave him a look, then turned to Ben. Something seemed off, but I didn’t know why… Ben’s eyes were glassy and his face was turning red before my eys. He grabbed his throat. Somebody at the table said, “Uh oh.” Then Ben opened his mouth, and gasped like a fish. His face trembled. Everyone at the table looked on. I knew that Ben was choking, and I was immobilized by fear. I couldn’t move. Then someone said, “Slap him on the back!” I struck his back with my hand three times. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp! B ut it didn’t help. Suddenly, Ben shot up from his seat and began punching himself in the stomach, again and again. When that didn’t work, he leapt like a dolphin, bellyflopping onto the table, sending silverware and trays flying into the air, and clanging and clattering back down. He threw himself upon the table again and again. “Reach in and pull it out!” someone said. “No way!” another said. “I’m not sticking my fingers in there!” Finally, Ben planted his hands on the table, opened his mouth wide, and began to push. It looked like his face was giving birth. One of Bradley’s goons said, “I can see it!” Soon, we all saw something: a tapered tip poking out. There was a slick, peeling sound as the hot dog slowly slid out of his throat. It hung there, seven, eight, nine…ten inches of meat dangled from his open mouth before… Plop! There, in the center of the table, sat the foot long. I stared at it—everyone did. It was fully intact, without a single bite mark on it. “Holy crap!” someone said. “He swallowed it whole!” “Like a snake!” said one of Bradley’s goons. I didn’t want to look up, but when I did, Bradley was cramming the last bite of hot dog into his mouth. He indulgently blotted the corners of his lips with a napkin and raised his fists in victory, the jerk. “Bradley wins!” said the referee. "Damn it!" I said, then turned to Ben. His face was wet with tears and sweat. A long, thin rope of spit connected his chin to the table. He looked disgusting. He disgusted me. I was staring at the saliva rope when Ben caught his breath. “What’s wrong with you?” he shouted. “I almost choked to death, you jerk!” “Me?” I said. He’d never spoken to me like that before. “How is this my fault?” “You’re not my friend!” Ben said, “You were just using me!” Then he stormed off toward the exit. A teacher tried to ask him where he was going, but Ben yelled, “Leave me alone!” and marched by her. “Looks like your golden boy choked, Tallon.” When Bradley said that, something inside of me snapped. “Choke on this,” I said, then picked up the foot long and slapped Mitchell across the face with it. Bradley’s eyes got big, and he jumped up like he was going to come across the table. Of course, he didn’t have the guts to do it. That was the thing I hated most about him: No guts, even after someone slaps his face with a wiener. I picked up my tray, carried it to another table, and stared into a sad puddle of ketchup until the lunch bell rang. They say the true test of sportsmanship isn’t if you win, but how you handle losing. I tried to convince Ben to compete again, but he said that his near-death experience was a sign from God, and vowed never to participate in another eating contest again. Which was sad, because it was the only exciting thing left in Ben’s life that wasn’t against his religion.

4slab8

Crying out loud for the voiceless

_Crying 0ut loud for the voiceless_ It a matter of time... Zama the most genius and passionate young one she was so beautiful and dedicated she seemed to have a very bright future ahead of her. "growing up from drastic family implications made me realise that you have only yourself to fulfill your heart desires" said Zama. Made the wonders till grade 12 where she got 6 distinctions and made it to Unirvesity of KwaZulu Natal pusuing her Degree initially every thing went well for Zama and her friends... lucky for her that the least part of the spirit and moral from her is from the friend's side *. Here is history has no black pages...hear my story. When we all grow up it a thing for everyone of us that we want to live a life of comfort and luxury and yes that wise enough.and i always believe Education is a better safeguard than standing army just because some bosses their way up. Important role of Education To gain respect from the society one should be educated, to live a happy and prosperous life one need to study. and Education is what we put into action and knowing about the fact of life. From where i grow up some people says,my knowledge of Education is nonsense others call it lofty but impractical but to those who have looked inside themselves this nonsense makes perfect sense and to those who put into practise this loftiness has roots that go deep * it still remains that Education makes a good dynamic balance They always says "Good work forever pays" the very Beautiful Zama was recognized where she scored 100% from the practical test, that opens many doors and drawed more attention it was really the start of something good.she was very fond to almost every Lecturer they liked her so much not for only one Mr Nyawo who asked Zama to see him in his office Midday Zama went to the office thinking it about school work but it tends to be the other way around and very unusual "Zama I've been looking you every single day and you are Amazing ...you are one of kind" Zama says it okey and did not see what coming for her Next day Mr nyawo called in "Wake up sleepy head...i need to take you out for breakfast be ready" As it goes she woke up and ironed the most beautiful Morden dress and it suited her. "You look very stunning my love" ohh babe "you look great too,you 're the most handsome guy i've ever met and you smart hubby" Love is blind they say... her friends tries to warn her that Mr Nyawo is of bad news she replied "People must learn to mind their own staff...no offence but i am enjoying the moments" Busy with that and denying the fact that Mr Nyawo is really not as good as he tells to people, if i can tell you that the Truth carries so much power and yes, we're terrified...scared of the truth but in our minds we make this thing up,that it would ruin everything when really that's just another lie...The truth carries so much power and it's never wrong, never! Not for little while Mr Nyawo did it again... and it unlucky for you because he uses that against you every move you take from his Module throws you down and for good because he's connected so you can't do anything except taking his orders ..All hell broke loose between Zama and His Lecturer right in times of test week. All her modules were Outstanding except for that of Mr Nyawo pity that was a Major subject ...Zama suffers for almost 2years being his sex machine just because she won't afford to fail and dragged out of the institution The tension between the two continues until Zama got pregnant,the academic results came negative...Monday monday," baby i did Pregnancy test and it came positive " yooo sorry darlings that's not my problem and please don't ever come back here not for only Zama we have many facing this daily others threaten to be killed while others are under unstable mental condition Let make sure that no one of us is running circles in the mist... Talk the world will Listen it a human right for every one us to leave our homes and return safe,let's fight with parasites trying to misuse power over education Women are tired souls they are going trough hell and back on their own,life is really showing flames They are all desperate one can say and no one is rescuing.80% of women's are manipulated every single day,if not in drugs it alcohol and some go through GbV. And we are unlucky because boys of our age are reckless and full lies all they know is just fame and showing off Here Another one doing his matric playing around- "Doing Matric brings a lot of unncessary pressure and stress so one need to de-stress...Sya invited his Okuhle to come spend the night,it was friday after writting their last exam paper.Sya started smoking and drinking Sya setted and filled the table with every kind of beer and cigars it was more like a Celebration or pens down sort ...they had fun all went well until Sya overdosed and he was too drunk here comes Amahle very drunk they had sex unprotected under the influence of alcohol once more when Amahle falls pregnant Sya said " i did not sleep with anyone and i have no child you are too ugly to Carry my child" As all happens and happened let's it from happening we are young and beautiful none of us deserves what's happening now....i swear we 're being punished for the sins that we can't even remember but as it goes,Let's Spread Shout out you will heard * We ere here making memory into memories, ideas into essays ,life into literature and Education into light....we all have bright future ahead of us and very successful i am adamant that the world somehow will change To be continued....

y5vxo2

Goodbye Artemis, Goodbye Icarus

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; . . . Gaze no more in the bitter glass. ~ W.B. Yeats, “The Two Trees”              The sun stretched out over the sky with a ferocity akin to the thrashing wings of lore. All the daylight poured into the decaying garden, and affected it faster than did the approaching night. Scorched, wilted, brittled, shorn of all life.            Young Luther writhed from his bed with little energy, like out of some monastic order after a long day’s labor repressing the floors with wax—except it was a prison for him and not a sanctuary. He got up and saw the garden through the window. It was once a delightful garden. Today it looked more like a garden of deadness than delights. Stepping into the closet, he did his business and just glanced at the mirror before closing the door. He made his bed. He had to sleep in it again tonight.            Lethargic as ever, he stumbled into the kitchen and had breakfast. So much to do, so much time, and so little desire. Or maybe too much. The clock ticked.            A cloud was crouching into view over the garden as Luther descended from the house into it. He dropped into the beach chair heavily and lit up a cigar next to the rosebush. Then he opened the news on his smartphone. It bothered him. As much for its nature as its character—or the lack thereof in both. The news was most assuredly lacking in both.            A few old tatters of paper lay next to the ashtray, some crumpled under the table. Luther yawned nervously and moaned at the sky as he stretched his neck. His body crumpled as he pulled his knees close to his chest. His phone fell off the edge of the chair near the table. Luther jerked quickly in a spasm and groped for the phone in the grass, wiping off all the dew onto his shirt. He resumed reading, staring in his typical trancelike state, but promptly swiped off into the other more stimulating staples.            Bored, he popped up from his leisure in a restless state, pricking himself on the thorny outgrowth. The rosebush rustled as he caught his balance in its embrace. It drew blood from his temple, just missing his eye. He rushed inside for some gauze to stop the bleeding. The sun had just started out before he cut himself and blazed onto the shrub’s outreaching arm. A shriveled rose fell from its grip.            At last the bleeding stopped. Usually Luther spent his days moving mindlessly between the garden and house as though they were no different—as though they were as indistinguishable as West Egg from East Egg, separated only by ashes. One in the same. Now he had escaped inside and saw its reality staring at him in the mirror.            A discolored outline of blood was dried in a stream down his face. He dampened a tissue with his wet hands and cleaned himself up. He dried his hands with a towel and buried his sweating head into it. Looking up slowly, exhausted, he saw himself say, “El Bosco, El Bosco, omnis effusus labor. All your labor’s poured out . ” He looked again as if in reply, “What have I become?”            Angrily, he snapped away from the mirror and threw down the towel. He stormed into his room and slammed the door. Crumpling down into a ball by the wall, he started to cry. First softly, then profusely. He wailed in lament and tried, in failed attempt, to once again repent. It seemed as fruitless as his garden, as fruitless as his loins. Because he still had in his possession that deathly power of man’s stare. Oh, brutal agony of mortal memory! Pluck it out! CUT IT OFF! He flailed his arms in a fit of demonic rage, tearing his clothes, tossing about like a tempest, roiling his body in a frenzy, and throwing himself upon the ground stark naked.            He descended almost alike into madness, still wailing, still repeating ferociously, “Cut it off! CUT IT OFF!” And he continued like that for an hour onwards until, suddenly, it stopped. It was quiet . . . except for a soft lingering cry. He rolled to his side, staring vacuously into the distance, and then . . . went silent. He looked like to dead. Until his lips moved abruptly, his diaphragm heaving for air to say: “My God, my God, why have I forsaken you?” Life went silent. The sun turned in the sky, escaping over the landscape and flooding across the garden into the room. His body felt warmed by it.            And then, it happened. Like to a lamp from light to night, he flew up to his feet with abandon and threw every object in sight soaring through the window. His phone was solid enough to shatter the old-paned window into the garden, landing on the rosebush and falling down into the mud. Luther gained newfound liberty while he madly threw another object, his inkwell, from off his desk. And then he threw another and another and another. If a monster he was, a happy monster was he! If it was madness, there was method in it. He found his computer, his television, his night-lights, his old devices, his new devices, and chucked them all squarely beyond that gaping hole of a window.            Everything but his books and four things remained in that house: keys, a wallet, a typewriter, and a suitcase. And to all these things he went. He filled his suitcase with books and carried them in loads to and fro, dropping them in the backseat, filling them to the car’s rooftop so that they began to spill over into the front seats. The typewriter went into the backmost part of the trunk—as precious cargo as it was—even more precious than himself perhaps, so he thought. And then he packed his suitcase with every clean bit of clothing around and set it directly into the trunk, holding the encased typewriter against the enclosed side. His wallet went into his front-pocket. The keys into the ignition. And straightaway, he was ready to take off from there. Then he remembered something.            He got out and walked behind the house to that old garden. He looked out toward the horizon and saw the sun dipping away from the innocent moonlight. The waxing moon stood resolute, ready to overtake the work of the sun’s harshness and ground our young Icarus firmly on the ground, dissolving, not melting, any residual repression into the bright shiny substance of a morning dew. Luther stepped toward the rosebush and chair. Pensive, he squatted to his knees and saw the scorched rose all shriveled on the ground.            Directly behind the rose, one could see a muddied object protruding from the ground, almost akin to a be-winged rocket ready to lift off into the sun. Luther reached his palm out for the rose but stopped short, clenching his grasp. He looked up and his eye caught a red glimmer of the moonlight within the tree. He reached his hand deep into the rosebush and plucked the sprouting rosebud. Holding it out at arm’s length and turning away from the tree, he beheld it gently against the moonlight. All desirously, he kept it in the air . . . then raced it to his heart and clutched it deeply there. For the first time in his life, standing in the stillness of moonlight, he felt quite sure that he had found the meaning of love.            Luther tarried a moment longer. Then he strode to his car and took off into the night . . . toward the eternal vehicle of flight and that pure light of renewal, in which no Fall exists and but one tree stands .

7j7wl1

Her Sense of Beauty

Morning arrives. Sunlight spots a fracture in which it can poke through the blue and white linen curtains. It highlights several bottles of prescribed medications atop a painted white nightstand. A carafe of water within reach, with the flowered glass fitting over the carafe’s top. From my garden, I place freshly picked red roses in a mason jar and tie a red satin ribbon in a bow, around its center. Will she notice? Probably not. All that I do has been for her, but it soothes my discomfort and offers her an opportunity to feel the beauty of simple things. My mother, a beautiful woman, a classic beauty. Facially she adorns high cheek bones, with wide almond shaped eyes, and a chiseled square bone structure. Her value as a woman was placed in her beauty. An Ashkenazi Jew, her nose was hooked and overshadowed her timeless features. A simple procedure changed her ethnic appearance. Beauty, the frontrunner in which opportunities are born, could take this 1950’s housewife, from ordinary to extraordinary. My mother embraced her external beauty and wore this honor demurely yet with an emboldened sense of self. She would encounter jealousy and anger and depression as her beauty brought challenges. She would shop incessantly for beautiful clothing, only in the highest of fashion boutiques. The sales help came running when they saw her arrive and would fill her dressing room with outfits while they remained in the room, assisting her with the changing of each article of clothing. They tended to her as she glanced at herself in the tri-fold mirror examining the fit, the look, the color against her skin, the lay of the garment, flattering or not. The staff seamstress would be called in to recreate the flow of the fabric to increase the possibility of the sale. Her husband sat outside the dressing room on a comfortable sofa patiently waiting, always a warm smile on his face, observing as she fashioned each outfit for his perusal. He was always treated like a king, being offered wine or pastries to keep him content. The staff hoping to drain him of all his money. She often heard, “ I wish he were my husband, angering her, as she felt her attributes were overlooked while his were revered. Competitive in nature she was always felt embattled when people seemed to like him more then her, which she believed he somehow gained at her expense. All of this was an outgrowth of her desires to continue offering an alluring image of couture and beauty which she believed people came to expect from her. Her beauty as a woman, was met. She felt she had achieved the outward appearance that she was hoping for. She had received attention from men, some notable, and she won the recognition from woman who once belittled her appearance. She even took a lover. She went on to live her life surrounded by beauty. Beautiful homes, designer furnishings, ornamental gardens with reflecting pools, lots of big jewels, stunning yachts, and luxury automobiles, but she found that her external beauty had a lot of trouble relating to her internal beauty. A quick procedure was not available to fix that. She felt so satiated outside and so barren inside. Why do I feel so alone and sad; I am loved by family, other than my dad Daughters translate to weak, while sons translate to strong As I am a female and for that fact, I will always be wrong Was her life’s work all for nothing? Did she miss the point of beauty? As the decades flew by, she started to see her beauty fade. Her internal beauty had always been in second, or third place with not a lot of success in scoring more internal points. She tried and she tried, making her plight sad and rigorous. She visited psychiatrists, psychoanalysts, a psychotherapist (he tried to seduce her in session), and social workers. MSW not LSW. For an LSW in her mind, needed more education to counsel her. She annihilated friends that had inner and outer beauty. The jealousy was too much to stomach. She refused to call it as such, but it was hard core envy. Deeper and deeper into depression she would fall, making her anger lash out at others. No matter how hard she searched for an answer to her lacking internal beauty, she would come up empty. She started to accept the notion that all this internal nonsense was someone else’s doing. Her husband wasn’t romantic enough, her son not nice enough, her daughter-in-law not respectful enough, and her daughter didn’t give her enough attention. Her friends, they were to be watched for all possible betrayals. If they made plans with one another, was she to be left out? Did they talk about her behind her back? Her own sister would recite, Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all, while listening to all her tales of woe. In the 1970’s she learned about the theories of victimization. She discovered that there were many types of victims, and the term was being used differently than ever before. Identifying with the concept, she labeled herself as such. She embraced and readily shared her new self-proclaimed victim status. “That is what was wrong with me. I have been victimized my entire life. How could I have not seen this before?” And now, that she has found an answer to her sadness and her depression, she blames everyone who encounters her for making her angry or sad. It’s just never her fault. Parental love is not guaranteed, my father was the one who could not see For he believed he had no appeal and daughters forced that fact to be revealed Sons would make him a manly man, satiating desires for his life plan His approval could have filled that gaping hole, instead we shared a broken soul So, with this mother, I endured . She allowed the world to work for her. She wouldn’t do simple things as she didn't possess tolerance for mundane chores. They were beneath her. She wouldn’t balance a check book, or drive a car, or shop for food, or clean her own home, or cook her own meals. There would always be someone to do it for her and place blame on that individual if something went wrong. That became her way of life and her rationale for lacking internal beauty. With the years flying by she still held onto those good looks. She had a face lift in her 50’s to be sure that she carried that image for the next 30 years. But one remarkable day as we were driving along the highway, she noticed the beautiful deep greens on the trees that surrounded the road. Her comment was the leaves are so beautiful . Surprised by her noticing something as simple as greenery, a true oddity for her, she continued, look at those flowers, they are so gorgeous and the sky, look how blue it is. I never saw such beauty before. Those phrases were repeated over and over, again and again. From that day forward, she noticed the world around her. Her new perspective was both startling and wonderful, but equally sad. The discovery of simple beauty was at a very high price. While her judgment and senses and highbrow sense of self were waning, it signaled the failure of other systems. She could not taste delicious foods or smell a rose or remember that she has a new great grandbaby. Each moment was brand new, just like she liked her things. Nothing old, nothing repeated, up to the minute, fresh. Each time we would go anywhere, she seemed to have acquired a new sense of beauty and appreciation. She embraced nature along with items she once turned her nose up at. She found beauty everywhere and in everything. She paid homage to all things great and small, natural, or unnatural. Her memory started slipping further, and her behaviors became increasingly odd. She didn’t know how to use simple items or even understand their purpose; placing keys in the oven or using a tube of cortisone to brush her teeth. She lost the ability to understand her cell phone and eventually progressed to the point of not knowing who I was. Lashing out aggressively in deep frustration, with her words now gone, she could only express herself through primitive behaviors. Perhaps nature was signaling to her as the end is near, see me, as we are one. See me for who I am, for perhaps I am truly beautiful.

zickmz

Dirty plunder

By Dumisani khumalo The rain pitter-patter panning out asphalt bare long trenches ,drenched wet , and dug out craters in the road .The rubber tyres floated up and,down and sideways ,the power of air in them pulling heavy weights of cars ,like demons come up in them ,and brought them out of the road,sending them up high and afloat ,up and down and sideways, with the full water lifting up the air,and pulling them out of the road . The drownings in river s brought victims out naked , water half way to the torso of man as to the diameter of the radial tyres ,increasing the size and width of potholes , muddy water splashing out of them in it's natural strength. The potholes were like pot pans made of silver ,mud out of them splashed in ,a red and rusty mud pool of clay clamming ,impassible ,opening up here and there and everywhere, like sores of the napalm bomb ,that pulled and stretched the skin of the faces of refugees during the war of liberation, and at the roadside , stretched the cost on travellers in their search for food ,the ruthles truthless happening , wondering and laughing at themselves. He looked left and some looked right,on the side ,as the black ,dark bituminous emulsions lost contact and adhesion with the grinding diety of corruption that was following the tracks,.The dry dust bowl on a windy day taking its sediments out of the road. Strips of dust dunes , craddling stones ,burst tyres and blasting tones raised heads ,raised confusion from motorists ,travellers bobbing heads ,and stuck to the road side for hours on end ,and on busy days ,for days on end ,before luggage and baggage would be carried to their destination,. The market on the tarmac got a mind of its own ,and made many of them friends ,deals struck, for a dime or a dollar ,in the local dead currency ,or the green back ,as the broken up and cracking boulders made favour turn heads ,a rushing out of the .rubble creating more troubles with the law when soil was sold as land to construction companies. They carried sand with handy men in providence ,, placed it inside the holes , pebbles at the edge of the road too ,as gabbage , the turning of wheels ,  ,racing on the muddy puddle , messing the side of cars ,their wheels,and on a very dry day ,dust came as high as the wind could carry it ,into the coughing covered faces , in the car that could barely see where they were going. opening up to the vagaries of corona , sounding scary with the continuous coughs ,as one with a chock,TB, slurry pneumonia ,made , the stats real of where people were going to town for ,if not for their needs . The scattering of stones to the windshield , breaking them for repair was a cost.  Luis felt the pain in his heart. The innocent do when answers are not coming. Some of the cars turned around when on traffic accidents started happening , some cars stopped right in the middle of the road when a pile up ensued , stopping more cars ,slow at a snail's pace drives .demanding cash and  wanting many more favors paid for the ride. To get to town took two hours .One and half more than sitting in the dark abyss of the early birds cry taking pursuit of work a day earlier,and staying out on the town until Friday evenings .Some drivers devised a way of making people sleep over in their cars ,to the office ,to the market ,where poor government was discussed in mid sleep,,at emptying pockets that Luis had. Where was the money going .What stopped the works on the road.  Answers were a new ministry ,new contract ,open tenders ,to small minds to talk in their friendly parliament, of ,who was wrong ,why were people quiet with red mouths..They looked at each other ,big heads turning and searching around in fear of who was asking and talking too much . Heaps of sand with outgrown weeds by the roadside looked like the backbone of the city .The skeletal formation of the mounds were on the left hand side ,tumbling up and down ,and pushing to the right ,on on coming traffic.The heaps were coarse , compact ,no one attempted to put big boulders out of the road ,or trees ,grass ,weeds that grew out wild ,stones starting to create hiding areas for carjacking initiators , with youth hiding behind the mounds , making a touting ,with absconders from home , victims of aids , of corona , of a better living to be made in Town from their living in rural areas . It was unnecessary to make stops ,as the police came ,motor inspectors to hound them .The youth to rob them. The stops ,road blocks , breakdowns ,peeked at rush hour in the Town..The police wanted to get their bribes .They could not afford to survive , the economy, bending rules ,their shoes ,torn uniforms ,testimony of old ways mankind made and had in him in the time things were worn out.This took from them their pay packs . It was a prerequisite that ,a uniform worn , got you hired ,so you bought it ,or you got fired, because you did not have one . The parade was losing colour in fading uniforms, inspection visits, brought all forces of arms to reason , compromise, no officer did not take money back for the inspector , and stayed by the cash cow on the roadside.  Luis saw big ,eyelashes ,long nails , at the parade ,after paying his fine .The  good woman prospects that came , in broad daylight,,gave his soul to the pulpit of corruption , in the church ,many women afforded the trip abroad. Women had the power not the racism or tribalism . Pushing cars out of holes ,the one mending tyres ,the tree brunch fetcher ,to help them out of their burdensome hole on a rainy day or his way out to pay touts who hollered for a penny less or a penny more ,and stopped any carriage,rules of law and good governance  demanding at undisignated places ,and carrying bags ,came with a charge .and a price. Cash and carry was the labor force, . Squatters settled by the road side,first ,.on fires ,for smokes , food ,,and made noise and started interests to people who preyed on others on the side of the road .First as security to travellers ,then as pirates who did,to them things that ,took their valuables and the sheer needs of the stomach ,goods ,money. Children came into the road in the morning to play ,and pretended to fill the holes and brought out the begging bowl.. Some children were born by the roadside in time as distance became compromising .The brave children you met , became more vivid when you met them in town at the wind screen side to beg and ask questions. The girl child was compromised ,on the destiny of the travellers .Some asked for food ,some asked for money ,until milk packs with fuel in them put them to sleep,and they survived in it . The stones ,sand ,drifted away and piled stone ,no one had the ability to change the course of things.  Corruption was eating like a rat at the fabric of society , the reason wealth, not war , brought the countrys independence, no one would claim to enjoy it ,in the wicked whispers .The youth , grew up ,without a hope. On the other side of the road,a lash green grass had grown trees ,bringing them to height held up in the soil that ,got dry ,as cars took the short way from the rough and tumble , bushes bringing trees ,and growing them to cover land.. Land needed access and that access was closing clogged up activities made by man and his interests , the weather pointing a condemning four fingers at him ,while he pointed one at his enemy who allowed poverty ,hunger ,and image of his arch enemy to fight him blind. Luis had his enemy,lat him ,his lack of cash. Honesty was rare and when one came by it ,honor was, rare it was worth to keep the feeling of peace and tranquility,, with it and the government claimed destitution to donors to get the their backs green in foreign lands . When they were left alone ,without their honest friends by the roadside and their home A place where they could erk out a living than to relay on handouts ,they were chased when donor visits happened. They were out i making frame and vendor stalls ,and made them to attract truckers who started draining big haulage trucks by the road side for resale..They were desperate as they walked out of their heavy trucks .Their mouths betrayed them ,and they were looking for a way out of the mess ,,thinking of their children's honor, not in themselves as the corruption was.  The children to fend for and their relationships ,t their future, building ,was happening at the road side., desired. Broken down cars were not collected and became habitat , accident damaged cars , scrap heap, metal foundry, became the roofing,ttenting ,yawning ,from trucks ,on dug out trenches . Plastic empty containers moved out, there was no filling station anywhere close ,,and plastic containers were hidden in the bush ,,brought out, priced with their sunken bottoms, the pump price remaining the same .The sunken depression the normal profit made at the same capital rate of the green back. Day break ,desperate motorists looked ahead ,brow beaten and calculative , arguments starting over and r over on speeding ,bumps,humps , overcrowding,corona ,masks ,and there was the woman always sitting at the front ,as a woman can,,do her thing to the police officers . Every driver loves a woman and every woman loves her man for his car ,as he loves his car like her,  However she  rots from the head ,like a fish and a man's from the heart ,like a dish . Luis lost his cardinal looking points ,he drove out in a rush, , threaded a way out in the bush ,dirty traction gaining speed, and plunder increased the wonder , the size ,the width of cars ,when the water splashed out of them,or when dust came into them ,all was not well in the dirty plunder 

7strip

Whitewater

Ella’s room was dim, illuminated only by the rising sun through the window and a melting wax candle still lit on her bedside table. She rubbed the crust off her eyes and watched the candle burn beside her. This week it rained every day until the paint peeled from the exterior walls of her uncle’s beach house. Ella stayed inside for six days. She did yoga, she meditated, she rubbed essential oils on her wrists until her skin turned red. When she was done with her exercises, she cleaned the house. She wiped the windows until they shone and reflected her face. She stared at herself. She stared at her blue eyes and bushy eyebrows, the features she shared with her uncle. She went back to bed. She woke up. This morning was the seventh day of staying inside. Ella told herself that it was nice to get away from the noise. Her childhood was spent moving from city to city, following wherever her uncle went for work. She never liked the sour smell of factories and how the view outside her window was filled with silver buildings and narrow sidewalks with dying weeds seeping through the cracks. Her uncle knew she was unhappy, so when she turned eighteen he let her live at their beach house by herself.  Ella had always liked it at the beach. The air was fresher and cleaner and she could run for miles on the shoreline whenever she felt anxious. No need to worry about second hand smoke or cat-calls of men twice her age. It was calm and quiet until that peacefulness turned into boredom and Ella longed for the white noise of cars honking and people shouting in the streets.    Ella missed the city especially in the quiet mornings such as these. During these mornings, there was no noise outside to make her feel as if the world was passing her by. No sounds making her want to put her shoes on and explore where they were coming from. So Ella continued to lay in bed, watching the candle burn until there was nothing but a pool of liquid wax and burnt wicks in a cylinder container.    When the candle died, Ella pushed the covers off her body and got up. She slept in her running clothes to help her future self stay accountable to the plans she made the previous night. Last night, she promised herself she would run the next morning. Three miles, specifically. She could lay in bed and do nothing for the rest of the day, but three miles must be completed beforehand. When Ella finally got out the door, the tide was low and the sun was up in the sky. She contemplated running barefoot. She recently read a book that told her running barefoot was more natural, and she didn’t want to get wet sand all over her shoes. Ella stared at the sand for a while. She decided to run with shoes. She started her stopwatch. It told her she had travelled 0.0 miles. She ran. The seconds went up. Ella ran until the large rocks at the end of the beach gradually got smaller and smaller until they were all dunes of bright white sand.    Ella got sunburnt for the first time while lying next to the dunes. She watched the trail of her uncle’s footprints grow longer and longer as he walked to the shoreline to go fishing. He told her that he’d be back in thirty minutes, but even at six years old she knew to not take his words too seriously. Ella laid on her stomach, sticking her hands in the soft white sand and poking at crabs with her fingers until she got bored and fell asleep. She woke up to her uncle's hand on her shoulder and a stinging pain where his palm was. She cried later, not from the pain, but from how gross and foreign her peeling skin looked. Her uncle made jokes about how she resembled a moulting lizard. She stuck her bottom lip out at him. He laughed and rubbed aloe on her shoulders. She pretended to be mad.    ‘Nostalgia is a bittersweet thing’ Ella thought. It was hard to imagine being six and having the superpower to fall asleep anywhere. To trust the world not to harm you. She couldn’t imagine laying at the beach like that now. Someone could steal your stuff, your wallet, your clothes. Your things could blow away in the wind, or someone could take pictures of you in an unflattering pose. Not that Ella thought herself remarkable enough to the point where strangers would want to take pictures of her. But it was a possibility. There were always possibilities.    Ella bent her arm towards her face. Her watch told her that she had run half a mile so far. It seemed like much longer. She breathed heavily and felt a cramp forming in her lower abdomen. The cold weather made her inclined to drink less water. Her nose was stuffy too. Another byproduct of the cold. Ella used her pointer finger to close one of her nostrils. She inhaled as much air as she could through her mouth, and exhaled sharply through her nose. She blew a snot rocket onto the dunes, leaving a tiny wet hole in the side of the sand. Ella smiled and her stomach flushed with warmth. Nobody saw that. It was disgusting, but no one was there to care. She was alone. No one could see her legs awkwardly chafing against each other, or her arms pumping almost theatrically to propel her forwards. She could strip naked if she wanted to. The running made her feel alive, like a predator chasing its prey. She was on a quest she told herself. She was hunting. Hunting for what? A voice asked. She ignored the voice. She ran. She ran to the boulders between the shoreline. She watched the whitewater splash and spray as they hit the gray rocks. Almost as if they wanted to move them, a collective effort leading to nowhere.    They took family photos on this rock, Ella and her Uncle. She was eight, two summers after the sunburn incident. The tide was higher and the ocean looked more like a lake. He wore a simple outfit: jeans and a white blouse. Her uncle’s skin was tan and his eyes formed wrinkles when he smiled. His blond hair was long and fell to his shoulders. Ella thought he looked like king Triton from Ariel, minus the beard, mustache, and mermaid tail. When Ella got bored of watching her uncle smile and pose, she climbed to the top of the rock and pretended she was Ariel. She even sang the “Part of Your World” reprise when she thought they weren’t looking. The photographer and her uncle laughed when they heard her sing. The photographer pointed his camera at Ella. She was blinded by the bright yellow light. She squinted until her eyes were sore and filled with a velvet red. When Ella opened her eyes, her uncle wasn’t laughing anymore. He had slipped and fallen into a puddle where the rock had eroded and filled with water. He stood up, revealing a wet splotch on his bottom. He took off his coat and hastily tied it around his waist. The photographer was now only laughing at him. Ella crossed her arms and smirked. She felt as if she had won something, although not sure of what.    Ella’s euphoric feeling of happiness went away as she thought of her uncle falling. Where her stomach once flushed with warmth now filled with heaviness. She wished she could tell her childhood self to be careful at the things she laughed at. Ella remembered the night when their faucet wouldn’t turn on. She and her uncle were in the apartment’s kitchen. He fidgeted with the handle, motioning it back and forth slowly, then with increased haste and anxiety. The faucet squeaked in protest, but not a drop of water came out. Ella giggled from the kitchen table, thinking his franticness to be funny. Following that incident their electricity went out at random times. Whenever her uncle caught Ella messing with the AC, he’d slap her hand away. “open up a window instead if you’re hot” he’d say. Ella would nod, but tiptoe to the AC on winter nights after her uncle had gone to bed. She thought it to be a game. Ella had not seen her uncle smile with his eyes squinted since those photos. It looked genuine. But at the apartment, in the city, she never remembered him being happy like that. He woke up, went to work, came home, ate dinner, and disappeared to do whatever he did in the evenings while Ella sat and entertained herself with dolls and TV shows. The more Ella ran, the heavier she began to feel. She would do anything to see him smile like that again, even if it was a fake one in a picture. She would sing the “Part of Your World” reprise as a full grown adult in a mermaid tail, if only to give him a semblance of joy.    Ella decided that the beach was too loud. She ran to the nearest boardwalk. Her watch told her that she had now run 1.25 miles. She wanted to run to the market, just to get away from her thoughts. So she ran. She listened to her footsteps pound against the ground. She listened to the different sounds her shoes made on the sand, wood, and finally asphalt. Each had its own rhythm. Half a mile to go. Ella can hear a song in the distance. A female voice and an acoustic guitar. The market was getting closer. ¼ of a mile to go. By this point, the smell of fried seafood had become so profound, Ella felt as if she might gag. She arrived at the market place and decided to stop running. Even though she was dressed in bright pink leggings and a neon green t-shirt that said, “Sunday Runday,” Ella still feared that people would think she stole something from their stand. Ella breathed with her mouth open and walked into the crowd of people swarming around different tents. She then closed her mouth because her breath smelled bad. Ella observed. Each tent had their own small business or company trying to sell something. There were fruit stands with all kinds of exotic colors and shapes that Ella couldn’t pronounce the names of. There was a seafood stand with lobsters boiling on display and fish hanging from the top of the tent. She looked away from that. At another stand there was a man selling flowers and handing out honeysuckles to children. Although they didn’t look ripe, the children took them in handfuls and ran back to their parents with smiles on their faces.  Ella continued walking and stopped in front of a pottery stand. The designs were almost mandala like and the longer she stared, the more captivated she became. The one she was most intrigued with was a gray pot with white engravings of fish scales that molded into a flower. She never thought to put a fish and a flower together. She followed the creases with her fingers and pretended she was solving a maze. “Are you gonna buy something?” asked a deep, raspy voice. Ella looked up. In front of her stood a beer-bellied man in a red flannel shirt. He was at least six feet in height and three hundred pounds in weight from what she could see. He was fat but in a strong way, like a discus thrower. Ella thought the man looked like a squishier Rock but with actual hair and white skin. She brushed that thought away and snapped back into reality. “No,” she told him, “I was just looking at the pot because I thought it to be pretty, that’s all,” she explained. The man scowled, “well if you’re not going to buy anything you best be on your way then.” He crossed his arms. Ella nodded and walked to the sidewalk. She began to feel self conscious about her shirt and the sweat stains under her armpits and lower thighs. Suddenly, it seemed like everyone on the street was looking at her. Ella walked down the road and into an alleyway. She sat down next to a garbage can and dialed in her uncle’s number on her phone. The phone rang. With each ring Ella grew more and more anxious. She watched the seconds go by on the screen. She wondered if her uncle was walking to the phone at this very moment, or if he was watching it ring and deciding if he should pick it up or not. The phone rang three times and then a fourth. The fifth time it rang, her uncle’s automated voice messenger went off, “Hi! Sorry I’m not at the phone right now. I’m probably at work or I just didn’t want to talk to you *queue forced laughter* But seriously, I’ll call you back later. Ciao!” Ella placed the phone in her lap and looked up at the brick building in front of her. She studied the lines in between the cracks. They reminded her of the ceramic bowl. Ella didn’t know what to do, so she got up to run again. She looked at her watch and realized that she forgot to pause it while she was walking around the market. She checked her mileage. She had run 2.5 miles, but the watch said it took her 40 minutes, which she knew was a lie. Ella felt like turning the watch off and walking home. The run was basically ruined at this point. She stared at it for a while, and then started jogging in the direction of home. She didn’t turn the watch off. Time didn’t matter now. As long as 3 miles showed up on her wrist by the time she got home, she’d be satisfied. As Ella ran away from the market, she didn’t feel so self conscious about her bright clothes or sweat stains. She was moving by too fast for most people to notice anyway.    Ella decided to take the main road home. She remembered all the times her uncle told her not to. That the road was too busy and she could get hurt “People drive hooligans in this state y’know” he’d always say, even though he was a native Virginian. But he was not here. Ella could do what she wanted to. So towards the main road she ran. Her feet pounded on the pavement once more, getting warmer the faster and further she went. Ella felt energized, fueled by the excitement of being alone and doing something against the rules.    Ella turned into her neighborhood the exact same moment a car was turning out. The car’s tires squeaked against the pavement and brushed against the side of Ella’s calf. Startled, she jumped into a ditch on the side of the road. From there she watched as the car accelerated forwards at top speed, not even bothering to check if the person they almost hit was alright. Ella was furious, “I hope wherever you’re going, it’s really important!” she shouted. But they couldn’t hear. Their windows were up and they were already turning down the main road when Ella finished her sentence.    Ella climbed out of the ditch and began crying. She was tired, sweaty, exhausted. She looked at her watch to check her miles. She had finally reached three, and would probably get some extra tenths of a mile in, since the beach house was towards the end of the neighborhood. She checked her calf and noticed that her skin was red, but other than that no damage was done. She ran to her house without pain. Ella thought of how nice it would be to lay inside her warm bed again, to watch the candles burn and fall asleep with their scent. When Ella got to her house, she sprinted up the steps and turned her watch off.    The sun was still high in the sky when she got to her room. Ella crawled underneath her covers and threw them over her head. It was quiet. She layed on her back, but her phone was in her pocket, making it uncomfortable to lay down. Ella put her phone on her bedside table and got another candle from under her drawer. She lit the candle with a match and turned on her side to watch it burn. It smelled of lavender and salt. She realized that she was laying in her running clothes yet again but she didn’t care. She was too tired to care. Ella closed her eyes. Thirty minutes later her phone vibrated. It was her uncle. But Ella was already asleep when he called. 

ur906c

I am Genesis

CW: Polyamory and some adult content Earlier “You are not to see those girls anymore. Do you understand, Genevieve? I will not have our family’s reputation tainted by your behavior any longer. It is unacceptable. Your mother and I have had to clean up your mess and do damage control for the last time.” Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The clock on my father’s desk was the only noise in the room until the thrum of the air condition kicked on. It saved the wretched thing from being swept off the desk onto the floor. Its only purpose was to serve as an intimidation piece. It just grated on my nerves. “Genesis.” “Excuse me?” My father reared back in his leather chair and stared at me in confusion. “I go by Genesis, not Genevieve.” He stood and leaned across his desk. The vein at his temple throbbed as his face reddened. “Enough!” He pointed at the door. “Go to your room and don’t come out until dinner is ready. The Millers will be here at seven with their son, Josiah. You will wear a dress, and you will act like a lady and behave yourself or so help me, I will freeze your trust fund and void the lease on your apartment. As a matter of fact, you are to stay here until further notice.” The only thing missing was the bang of a gavel on his desk. His final word was law. He sat back down and began typing on his computer, effectively dismissing me. My younger brother stood by the door in the hall when I came out. My father wouldn’t stop until he had a boy to carry on the family name, and now poor Jamie paid the price. “Well, what did he say?” “I’m banished to my room until further notice.” He followed me out the front door and to where I’d hidden my motorcycle behind the horse barn, afraid my father would see it and have it carted off. “What are you going to do?” he asked as I put on my leather jacket and helmet. I knew my brother would never betray me. He and I were as close as any siblings could ever be, with only one year separating us. “I’m going to the apartment, pack my things, and then I’m going home to my girls.” ***Six months ago*** The event planner had outdone herself this time, and I had to admit the vineyard made a beautiful venue. A soft, slow tune played over the speakers as the bride and groom danced their first dance. The song spoke of love and forever. They stared into each other’s eyes and shared a kiss. I knew it was all for show. I wanted the real version of that, but I’d resigned myself to being alone. My desires didn’t conform to society’s norms—nor my father’s. My parents had set me up on dates countless times. Men in all shapes, sizes, and colors lined up, jockeying to win the hand of the Williams’ infamous wayward daughter—to be the one who tamed her. What they didn’t understand was men had the wrong parts. Maybe if my father had thrown a few of the elite females in there, I’d have been a little more agreeable. But the real problem was no one else understood the urge to share my heart with more than one person. I’d tried to date, but each time I’d broached the subject of adding a third, they’d hit the door so fast I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye. So, I stopped. I clapped with everyone else when the song ended. A new tune started, and the bride shared a dance with her father— our father —and the groom with his mother. The photographers snapped dozens of pictures, and everyone smiled and hammed it up for the cameras. I rolled my eyes. The next wedding would be grander because everyone wanted to outdo the other. The designer chiffon bridesmaid dress mother had insisted the bridesmaids wear scraped against my skin, and I resisted the urge to hike it up and scratch. It wouldn’t go over well. Father had already warned me to be on my best behavior. I eyed the large table of appetizers and decided a drink was in order. My parents had spared no expense for this wedding. They had plenty of friends to impress, after all. As soon as I could escape, I would. It was not that I was opposed to weddings; it just brought to the forefront the reality that I was alone. I didn’t even have a plus one; It wasn’t allowed. Plate and drink in hand, I searched for a table in the corner tucked away from everyone. Considering my sister was the bride, it would be in poor form for me just to leave, but I could hide away here until the chance came up to slip out. “Excuse me. Would you like some champagne?” a soft feminine voice asked.  When I looked up, my breath stalled in my chest. Wisps of black hair framed a heart-shaped face and a pair of stunning blue eyes. She left me speechless. “Are you okay?” Her brows drew together in concern. “Oh, uh, no.” “You’re not okay, or you don’t want any champagne?” She pursed her lips as if trying not to smile. “No champagne. Thank you.” I mentally shook my head. Leave it to me to sound like an idiot. “Okay. I’ll be back around in case you change your mind.” As cheesy as it sounded, her bright smile lit up the room. I had to know who she was. “Wait! What’s your name?” “Silva.” She gave a slight bow and another smile before turning to circulate the room with her tray. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her for the rest of the night. As the guests thinned, so did my patience. Even though I’d picked the most obscure corner, men still came to my table and stopped to chat or ask for a dance. If my father got wind of my rudeness to some of them, he’d have my hide, but I didn’t care. For most of them, it was only a game. Who would be the one to break the wild child, to win her affections or just pop her cherry? I had news for them all. None. I wasn’t interested in men. Never was, never would be, much to my father’s dismay. When I’d had enough and no longer spotted Silva, I plotted my escape. None of the guests even glanced at the kitchen. The help were beneath them. They didn’t care where the food or service came from, only that it kept coming, so I waited until some of the wait staff came out with more trays and slipped through the door. The tone in here eclipsed the one on the other side of the swinging doors. Dishes clanged, and silverware rattled. People bustled around the kitchen, but it felt more festive with the cheerful banter and smiling faces than the frigid wedding outside. No one noticed me at first as a chef called out an order, and people hurried to do his bidding. They worked like a well-oiled machine but had fun doing it. I spotted Silva whispering to another girl in the corner, heads pressed close together. Silva reached over and pushed the other girl’s dark hair behind her ear in an intimate gesture. My heart sank. Of course, someone like Silva would have a girlfriend or lover. As if she felt my eyes on her, she turned, and her face lit up. She whispered something to the other girl. She took her hand and led her over to where I stood frozen. “Hey. Did you need something?” “Uh, no. Well, yes, I was looking for the exit.” Silva laughed. “Had enough already?” “You have no idea.” “Well, our boss just told us things were winding down out there, so we can go if we want to. You’re welcome to come with us. We were talking about heading to a new bar down on Fifth Street.” I looked down. “I don’t think I’m exactly dressed for a bar.” Silva ran her eyes up and down my body in an almost physical caress, and I shivered. “Actually, I think we’re about the same size. I might have something you can wear in the car.” “Okay.” I followed them to the parking lot. Silva unlocked a red Jeep Wrangler. “Oh, and this is Alejandra, my girlfriend.” Alejandra winked a hazel eye at me. “And you are…?” A flush worked its way down my body from my head to my toes. Somehow, I knew my life was about to change. “Genesis. I’m Genesis.” ***Two Hours Ago*** I ran my fingers through Silva’s hair, loving the silky texture. Her head lay in my lap as we relaxed on the couch watching a mindless show and enjoyed each other’s company. Sundays were our rest days. Sometimes, I’d take each of them for a ride on my bike, but we usually hung around the house. Silva and Alejandra’s boss allowed them to take every Sunday off unless he had some big event and needed their help, but that wasn’t often. We’d use the day to lounge around and do nothing. Well, it usually ended up in the bedroom doing something . It was my favorite day of the week. “Alejandra! Come lay down with us.” “I’m coming.” She walked into the living room, arms ladened down with popcorn and beer. “We needed snacks.” She set everything on the coffee table. Silva picked up her feet for Alejandra to sit down, then plopped them in her lap. I leaned over and placed a soft kiss on Alejandra’s lips. “Thank you, baby.” “Hey! What about me?” Silva poked out her lip in a pout. I bent over and popped two quick kisses on her lips, causing her to laugh. I’d never been happier in my life than when I was with them. We’d hit it off right away, and as some would say, it was meant to be. It hadn’t taken long after the first night we met at the wedding to realize they were looking for a third, and I was looking for them. Occasionally, we’d go out on a Saturday night to a nightclub or bar. People were always watching me, and I’d ended up on social media on more than one occasion; the rebellious daughter of the Williams tycoon seen out kissing and hugging two other girls. I’d even made the news once after punching a guy who thought we’d be into fulfilling one of his orgy fantasies. My father hadn’t been happy. I couldn’t care less. The doorbell rang, and Alejandra jumped to her feet. “I’ll get it.” I continued running my fingers over Silva’s scalp. She hummed in approval, and a flush of heat went through me. Maybe I could talk them into hitting the bedroom a little earlier tonight. “Uh, Genesis. There’s someone here for you,” Alejandra called from the front door. Silva sat up, and I walked to the foyer. Bruce, my father’s driver, stood in the doorway, glaring at Alejandra. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Your father wants you at the house immediately.” I sighed. Whatever it was this time, I’d rather get it over with and get back home. I had an apartment I hardly ever stayed at anymore. Alejandra and Silva already had a house when we’d started dating, and I’d rather be with them. Moving in was just a formality. “Tell him I’ll be there in an hour.” “Your father has given me strict instructions, and I must insist you come with me.” My temper flared. I was tired of being told what to do and who I should be. “I don’t give a shit about your instructions. I’ll go, but on my terms.” He huffed and turned, pulling out his phone before he’d even reached the bottom step, no doubt telling my father of my refusal to ride with him. Silva wrapped her arms around me from behind. “I don’t like it, Genesis. Let one of us go with you.” “No. I don’t want either of you exposed to that toxic, dysfunctional mess. I’ll go, see what he wants and be home before dinner.” Alejandra wrung her hands. I pulled her to me. “Hey, it’ll be okay. I promise.” “I’m just afraid this will be the one time you’ll decide we’re not worth the trouble.” “Hey, now. Don’t say that. I would give up the world for both of you. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” *************** My father stood on the steps as I rode past the house, his red face and clenched fists a testament to his anger. I revved the engine and smiled. It was time I lived my own life without the shadow of being the disobedient and headstrong Williams’s daughter. I was going to live the way I wanted, and with whom I wanted, whether my father liked it or not. As I rounded the curve, I shot up my middle finger. My name was Genesis, and I didn’t ask for permission or forgiveness.

mr1je6

The Attendant

Clink – Clack, clack, clack. Clink – Clack, clack, clack. The same monotonous rhythm continued. As designer leather shoes scurried across the worn concrete, a sea of grey, black and navy-blue suits passed in hurried succession. The air felt dirty, possibly of tar. He raised his head wearily as the carriage doors hesitate together. The heavy wheels groan to a start, then speed up with urgency. Distracted faces fly off down the dark tunnel. Clink – clack, clack, clack. Clink – Clack, clack. “Sh** – some help here!” His attention snapped to an annoyed face and hips bumping against the jammed turnstile. “Why don’t you guys get these things fixed, I’ve got a fricking train to catch!” He apologised and pressed the release button and the inconvenienced passenger rushed down the stairs, without acknowledgement or thanks. Another Monday. Turnstile 3 had always been sticky and jammed unpredictably. Every time number 3 captured a helpless passenger, the verbal exchange was not pleasant. But that was not his fault. He was there, “in case”. “In case of what?” he had once asked his supervisor. Surely there’s more to this job than sitting on a stool and watch as people unnoticeably pass. “In case number 3 jams of course! Or if someone tries to jump the turnstile instead of paying, that’s your job. Now sit there and don’t screw anything up.” It seemed easy enough, but he discovered after a week that dealing with people, especially rushed ones, was seldom easy and hardly worth his time. Perhaps this was why his supervisor sat behind 2 inches of clouded, scratched glass, mainly reading the paper, but occasionally catching an eye over the action. The gritty, peeled white walls and dark grey bars made him feel like a guard in an overcrowded prison; only these inmates wore tailored clothing and sharp hairstyles holding even sharper mobile technology. Freshly brewed coffee in hand, ready to start the day. He clutches his coat closer to his heart and adjusts the scarf around his neck. Others do the same, searching for comfort in the cold of June. A crackled electronic voice echoed from the speakers, “Platform number 2. 7:15 - All stops to Central - Delayed” A disappointed chorus erupted from the passing men and women. “Are you kidding me, why can’t you guys get these trains running on time?”. An angry gentleman asked. “What do you guys get paid for?”. Another annoyed woman scoffed. As the mob of heads descends downwards towards their phones, clicking away at the screens in their hands, he started to realise it wasn’t his fault, he knew that. Still, whenever something happened in this station, angered words were darted his way, along with other nasty comments. He remembered once trying to help an elderly woman down the stairs. All he got was a wack from her bag full of groceries, “What? You don’t think I can do this myself?”. He had been taught his whole life to help the elderly. Another time he requested to assist a young boy who had dropped his toy, the mother had recoiled, “He is okay... please don’t touch him!”. What an odd thing to say he thought. He was never going to hurt the child, let alone touch him. “Umm... pay attention, a little help here!”. By the sounds of it, number 3 had captured another passenger. He snapped over to the attention of the incident and walked over to push the release button. The trapped passenger pushed the metal bar, but it was jammed. He knew she wasn’t pushing hard enough, so he approached her. The passenger looked at him wearily, she had the look of a fox caught in a trap. He tried to assist, extending his arm to force the turnstile around. She resisted and forced away from him from her. “Don’t touch me you dirty Sikh, or I’ll choke you with that headwrap of yours!” Many eyes direct their attention to them. A crowd begins to form. Again, he was only trying to help. Such rudeness and intolerance shouldn’t be accepted but he was used to it. Tough skin was all part of the job. The woman managed to free herself. He stood there in shock as she hurried away, not looking back.  He returned to the sideline, confused about what he did so wrong, waiting for another incident. The crowd got bored and continued with their morning. He wasn’t so lucky for this one time his supervisor had been woken up from the commotion outside the box office. He overheard and approached him with an enraged expression, a rosy sea flooding his face. “Did you just assault that lady?” He looked at his supervisor with disbelief. How could he ever do something like that? Of course, he didn’t assault her. It seemed like whatever he did someone from somewhere accused him of some repulsive act of violence. He didn’t know how to respond. “What do you have to say for yourself, if you want another job, go back to your shithole of a country!” He was so mad. He froze. It was as if time had stood still and the flowing traffic of people had slackened their paces down. He blanked out and completely forgot what to do next. He had enough. A strong urge to beat this guy up was all he could think about, to make him suffer as he did. To hurt him with more than just words was an understatement, he wanted to really hurt this guy. But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t because people like him were never meant to win against them. He needed this job. He excused himself and left the office. He walked into the bathroom and was greeted by a foul stench of vomit and faeces. As he fixed the lock on the door he walked over to the faded mirror. His reflection showed a middle-aged man with a head wrap and a tilak on the forehead. His eyes start to cast as waterfalls and his tears as rivers, plummeting down towards the earth, soiling the hard ground. His head lifts and his mouth starts to form the words; Āpaṇī śāntī nū rakhō* *Meaning “keep your peace in Punjabi

nfcqxy

THE NEIGHBORHOOD PICNIC

Driscoll Street was preparing for the annual Independence Day picnic. The different streets of the neighborhood were permitted to reserve picnic tables to spend the day with their neighbors. Some folks would wander around the big park known as Creedmoor Rest for quite a period in the hopes of meeting new friends and old and making themselves known as well. Such activities were proof positive of a friendly, cohesive neighborhood.          Driscoll Street was a part of this active, cohesive neighborhood. Like any other street, it predominantly consisted of adults and children. The adults spent the majority of their time working their jobs, doing the household chores or child-rearing.          Yes, two distinct demographic groups accordingly to age and responsibilities constituted Driscoll Street or the neighborhood society.          As the adults were responsible for the children, let’s get a quick glimpse of the second group and their backgrounds.          Some children were withdrawn. For whatever reason, they felt ill-equipped to deal with their peers.          Some children, the library gang, spent much of their time reading and carrying around books. They often occurred in small packs.          The heavy thinkers were philosophical and spent much of their time contemplating ramifications. These were the chess players.          Similar to the heavy thinkers, but simpler, were the chronic board game players, to include a deck of cards, of course.          The sports kids were in a league all their own. Always full of energy and ideas, they lived for games of active sports. Some were very imaginative and creative. Overall, most showed little concern for detail. During the summer months the boys would start their play with throwing their shirts in a pile to allow breathing room for their own sweat. At quitting time, one by one any shirt would be grabbed and donned as they all left the park.          The mothers of Driscoll Street became very familiar with all the boys shirts as sooner or later they would be washing and ironing them.          Any of the boys could belong to the down, dirty and bloody group, whether they desired membership or not.          There were a few that were loners. Belonging to no group, they were often troubled in their attempts to deal with coming of age and being in control. Oh, the taste of control!          The young girls were in their own world of dolls and sidewalk games. Being little trouble at a younger age, most were gathering strength to cause havoc as young ladies.          Just a few days prior to the picnic, the fellas, still yet to pull on their chosen shirt, were having an “en-route” group conversation.          “Well, he’s stupid, just stupid,” one chimed in.          “Don’t call Joey stupid. He knows he is. He just doesn’t need to be reminded that he is, so lay off, you scumbag!          “The problem with Jimmy is that we all know he’s a scumbag, but the difference is we all don’t keep reminding him that he is. We all need space to think and plan,” Darren insisted.          “Then what’s the difference?” Mark ventured to ask.          “Think about it, man. Would you rather be stupid or a scumbag?” Jack asked Mark.          A member of the heavy thinker group might be of help right now!          “Neither,” Mark quipped. “Proves my point, then. You’ll grow up to be neither. Maybe you’ll grow up to be a milkman like your old man,” Jack said assertively. “Yeah, a smart old milkman,” Mark nodded. “You would do yourself better to be a gangster along with Joey. Now that makes for a great job! There’s good money to be made . . .” Jack bragged with the wink of his eye. “Folks need to be protected.” Jack was a few years older than his street friends. There was a covert reason for this. When it came to hiding or laying very low, Jack was your young man of the street. Mark had been practicing for two weeks for the egg toss and the 100-meter run. The various races would go on through most of the afternoon. No charge to compete with a silver dollar going to the winner. Mark was scheduled for the egg toss listed early on the roster. He and Susan came in second out of about thirty contestants. Lucky for Mark, the egg broke as Susan attempted the catch. Good old-fashioned fun. That is how Susan described it years later to her fellow nuns at the convent. The pressure was now on for Mark to win the 100-meter run. Jack had made him a bet that he wouldn’t win either event. A very daring bet considering that Mark was the fastest runner in the neighborhood. Loser gives winner a silver dollar, cut and dry. The picnic food was ready to be served by the middle of the afternoon. The serving lines moved fast as each was handed the same standard plate. The short, orange shorts that Mrs. Gull had squeezed into gave her the look of a walking card holding a croquet mallet at the mad tea party. The mallets would often awaken during the game and would be replaced. All Mrs. Gull needed was the nine of hearts on her shirt. She commanded a square shape. She may have eaten the tarts, but for certain she had eaten the big slice of watermelon hand picked off Mark’s plate. She felt it her duty to swipe the watermelon slice and keep walking without missing a step. She assumed the kid to be just another nincompoop in a picnic area ubiquitous with them. About an hour later, the announcement for the 100-meter run was made. The contestants lined up and most were nervous. Donald, Mark’s training coach of two weeks, knelt down in front of Mark for last minute words of encouragement. Mark didn’t hear any of it. He was panicking, as the race was about to begin with Donald still kneeling in front of him. “You can do it,” Donald smiled and messed Mark’s hair. “It’s pizza on me next Saturday and a silver dollar, too, if you do!” Mark began to sense that he was being set-up. Well great. That’s just great. It was all that raced through Mark’s mind. Mark placed fifth. It was an upset! “Jack, how could you pull that underhanded trick on me?” Mark asked. “Had no choice. I owed Donald fifty cents and he needed it for tomorrow. Now you owe me a silver dollar. Just give me a buck and I can give Donald what I owe him. I’m an honest man, always pay my debts.” The music and dancing were getting pretty close to getting underway in the early evening. The day had worn them out and the bored children meandered throughout the picnic area purposely yawning to alert parents that responsibilities were summoning them. Once parents delivered their children back to the house where the baby-sitter awaited, the parents were free to return to the picnic dance for a few hours of stretching and merriment. Mark’s older cousin, Diane, had agreed to baby-sit for them. “Thanks, Diane.” Have them in bed by about 9:00 pm. “Sure thing. Have a good time.” The children had no intention of being in bed by 9:00 pm. If Mom and Dad could stay up late, then so could they! Jack left from the picnic dance when he could see the car return. He would see Diane in just a few minutes. Tradition is the soul of both family and community. Is it not? It is, trust me. The shenanigans are a branch of tradition. The baby- sitters would attest to that. They would also attest that both parents and children each held their own tradition of shenanigans. The parents were well aware of this as they had once been children themselves. However, the children were not aware of this as it had never occurred to them. They considered themselves to be the new pioneers. Neighborhoods usually change in small ways over time and occasionally their personality and character do also. As with marriage, for better or worse. Some neighborhoods just disappear entirely, seeming to metamorphose into something ethereal. They continue to exist, but only as sheer memories for a select few. Driscoll Street and the immediate neighborhood had moved forward in time by twelve years. We are at Mark’s house during a Sunday afternoon family gathering. The house and neighborhood haven’t changed much, but people and relationships had. Sarah, Mark’s fiancee, had a question to ask Mark. “Is that man, Jack, a relative of yours?” Sarah eagerly asked. “Not by my blood, thank my lucky stars. Jack is married to my cousin, Diane,” Mark said with embarrassment. “I ended up with Jack as my cousin-in-law. Is there no justice?” “Mark, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to say that he is a real jerk. He’s stupid, too,” Diane insisted. “Which first?” Mark smiled as he asked. “A real jerk,” she laughed. “I agree. That is the general consensus,” Mark said as he laughed. Well great. That’s just great. “We totally agree on something, then,” Sarah soothed. “It could be worse,” Sarah rationalized. “My sister ended up married to a real jerk. He had a flat tire one night and he borrowed a tire from my mom’s car. My parents found out about it the next day when my mom left the house to go shopping. She saw that the car was missing a tire. She knew that she could not make it on only three tires. Think that scored him any points?” “No, guess not,” Mark replied. “Guess we ought to nominate him for the “Nincompoop Club” along with Jack?” “Why go for something fancy, Mark?” Sarah questioned slyly. “Why not just the plain Poop Club? I collect the annual dues for that. So, you owe me one crisp hundred-dollar bill and one silver dollar for a tip, which doubles by the day.” Well great. That’s just great. “Silver dollars can be hard to find. That can be a tall order!” Mike pleaded playfully. “Better get started right away. Might I suggest checking with Jack for some pointers,” Sarah suggested.

9l5w3h

A Lesson Learned

A Lesson Learned 1,450 Words The young man stood nervously before the Synagogue doors. Hesitation shed, he entered. Within, spread a hallway of alternating black and white tiles; the walls painted with symbols of Judaism, the Torah, the Menorah, the Mogen David or Star of David. The boy directed his steps to the far end of the hall where a plain wooden door sat open, if not inviting. The boy entered. His shoes tapped upon the highly varnished floor. Two wooden chairs and a sofa that matched the white draperies and a very handsome desk completed the inventory of furniture. A design meant to inspire calm and assurance, but to young Cooper Eissfeltd, the effect was chilling. A voice sounded behind him. “Well, will you stand there all day, boy? Sit!” Cooper Eissfeltd took the couch as a matter of habit. He watched surreptitiously as the tall, grim figure of his father, Rabbi Jacob Eissfeltd, clothed in a black as suited his disposition, moved purposely to his desk. “You called me for Abba?” the boy asked timidly, head sunk between his shoulders in fear of the wrath that waited. “Your school has called,” Jacob began, his voice sharp and onerous, without sense of the consternation his belittling attitude caused in the boy. “But my grades are ex . . .” A heavy fist found hardwood. Pens jumped, as did the youth. “Do not interrupt! This is not about grades but your moral conduct. They say you have been fighting. For one whom your Mother calls so sensitive, you seem determined to earn yourself the belt, the gartl.” “But . . . but the other boys pick on me. They call me Jew.  I report them to the teachers but nothing happens. The bullies only get madder and then they want to fight with me.” Jacob rose and came to sit beside the boy, his manner neither warm nor paternal. There was anger in his eyes and Cooper trembled. “It is not the fighting that offends me. Let me tell you of the Judenrat.” A confused Cooper Eissfeltd raised his head with a questioning look. His Abba had used a word for which he had no translation. “I begin in 1933, with the German army sweeping through Poland and the Soviet Union. S.S. leader Reinhard Heydrich, who would eventually be responsible of the final solution, ordered local Jewish populaces to form Councils as a liaison between the Jews and the Nazis. These councils of Jewish elders, the Judenräte, he charged with the orderly deportation of their own people to the Nazi death camps. To these men fell the task of distributing food and medical supplies in the ghettos, and for communicating the orders of the Nazi beasts. Orders which as you might expect the German animals enforced through cruelty and terror, beatings and executions.” Jacob paused, eyes distant and moved. The boy, always moved by the oft-heard stories of the Holocaust, sensed a greater force at work in his father. A passion beyond the continued message of hatred and revenge, a lesson he had best learn, for failure to learn always ignited the temper of the older man; a temper furious as any storm. “What make you of that, boy?” “They were good men without choice, trying to make the best of the trials God had placed upon them,” the boy answered. The father shook his head. “Yours is one opinion often held of the Judenröte. But, the Jewish leaders of the day were of two minds about what they called participating Jews. Some saw it an unavoidable evil that permitted Jews a forum to negotiate better treatment from their oppressors. Others viewed the Judenröte as collaborating with the enemy. Many refused to volunteer, as the Nazis termed it, and these brave men were shot for their defiance or sent to the death camps themselves. After which, those behind them in line agreed to serve. Am I making my point with you, Cooper?” The young Eissfeltd shifted uneasily on the sofa, peering into the black eyes of this father. He knew two things. If he answered his father, as his father desired he should answer, hours of hard prayer would follow. If he failed, there would be a beating under the gartl and the lesson would begin again. He remembered what he read of the rabbis of the Talmud, in the book of Pirke Avot, The Sayings of our Fathers, when they said: ‘Wise men, be careful with your words, lest your students misinterpret your words!’ ” “They, the other boys, hate me not because of who I am, but because of what they have been told about me. The lies of the elders.” “What lies, Cooper Eissfeltd, separate the chaff from the wheat!” The boy stumbled. The father grew angry and his stern voice rose. “Say it Cooper.” And the boy bowed his back and shouted, “Sinat chinem; senseless hatred.” “Hatred is learned, Cooper. It is a choice, not a preordained condition. The Torah teaches that habit precedes reason, people can learn what is right from doing what is good. You have embarked upon an endless circle of animosity, and do you know why?” Suddenly, the light shone through the shadows for the young Cooper Eissfeltd. “It is not that I am Jew that they continually fight with me, it is that I go to the teachers.” “Yes, my son, yes!” Jacob thundered. “As the Judenröte, you have collaborated with the enemy. Is that not how the other boys see their teachers?” Cooper trembled, and said, “Yes, of course. I must settle my own battles!” Jacob nodded. “Moses spoke unto the people saying: Arm from among your own men those that will go against thine enemy and execute the vengeance of the Lord” “I understand Abba! If attacked, defend yourself, but be an army unto yourself.” “Be a Samson, not a Judas if you would earn respect, among others. I say to you, running to your teachers is cowardly in the sight of the Lord. We are Jews, Cooper; we do not run. We stand and we fight; with honor.” Rabbi Eissfeltd rose and approached the boy. He touched him affectionately upon the top his head, towering above him while unbuckling the thick leather belt from about his waist. “The lesson is learned, but I must assure myself it is remembered!” Footsteps drew the eyes of the boy from the room; only there was no room. There was no boy there was only the man that boy had become. A driftwood of society, a derelict in tattered rags muttering through cracked and bitten lips, a black beard streaked with white and matted with dirt, thick as a nest of worms . Rocking on oddly buckled legs, he watched the world through watery eyes that stabbed outward with red-rimmed vile dredged from a bottle and poured into a soul sunk lower than the setting sun . And he saw a girl, a poem composed of flesh and blood. Idle as the day’s end, she leaned contentedly against an ancient willow, plucking leaves, dropping them into the Boston Public Garden’s slow flowing pond . A gust of summer breeze billowed her chiffon dress . She soothed it flat and seductively fingered her blonde hair back into place . She sighed . A delicate breath that floated across the water where it touched the joyless figure crouched in the shadow of Lagoon Bridge. The day retired in a scent of folding flowers . Objects dimmed . The moon rose in a steady climb, a silver ball drawn straightaway up an invisible ladder as from inside his worn and dirty winter’s coat, as out of season and out of place as the man himself, the stalking vagrant drew a sharp and tarnished blade. Pulling absently at the bowed branches of the sagging willow, the girl advanced, passing from under its emerald embrace and moving towards the gray granite bridge sheltering a black menace madman who sang, “Sweet naïveté, closer to the shadows and nearer my God to thee.”  The quiet wind slackened and drew still . The crickets ceased clicking, and a croaking bullfrog fell silent . The girl entered the underpass . Gloved hands drove from the darkness stifling her screams and dragging her beneath the concealing footbridge . By a single, savage thrust, she died. The offended moon slouched behind a cloud; darkness reigned, and the boy gazed upwards with unseeing eyes and asked, “See, Abba, I have learned. Do not ask for help, fight your battles as a man. As the whole of the world turned against me, have I turned against them. Thank you Father, you taught me well.”   

r08rkg

Mother knows best

The weather was cold as always but I kept finding it hard to care about my body now, I can't say I have insomnia but sometimes I find it hard to fall asleep with this crazy secret hanging over my head. Sleep had left me for so many nights and I find myself always looking out the window imagining maybe just maybe if my secret was revealed it won't render me homeless, penniless, friendless, and without a family. Yes, my secret is not that I committed murder or got someone pregnant, my secrets sound pretty trivial compared to the consequences that come after it is revealed. My name is Oscar Simmons, caramel clear skin, chubby-cheeked, black curly hair I most keep in an afro, bright blue eyes I got from my mom. I might sound like a narcissist and probably vain but I am dark and proud, I just have an issue with growing beards like it seemed to have skipped my line of inheritance so I am hairless body-wise. Back to my secret, when I was younger my family which consists of two older brothers Alexander being the oldest, and Jamal the middle child, me the last child, and then my parents always had a family night where we watched movies play games and sometimes tell crazy stories. During one of these nights, my mom decided to pick the movie we were going to watch which was related to shoemaking. kinky boots. I was just 10 and it fascinated me when I watched the movie, After his father's demise, Charlie Price (the main character) inherits the family business, a shoe factory in Northampton, England. He is not interested in shoes, and the factory is in such dire financial straits that he must lay off 15 employees. However, a fortuitous encounter with a transvestite cabaret singer (the support character) inspires Charlie to save the factory from closure by producing erotic footwear, much to the chagrin of the workers. The transvestite cabaret singer fascinated me beyond belief. I remember hearing my father scuffed. "Oh please this is just another way to destroy the younger generation" I listened quietly as my mom had given him a response. "Oh Gerrard stop these judgemental remarks of yours it's not like you understand their feelings or something ". my older brother who seemed to be closer to my dad looked at my mom then spoke words that rendered her speechless. "Mom dad is right, they just want to deceive the younger generation into believing that wearing a woman's clothes as a man is a normal thing". "What if one of our kids comes out to you saying they are gay or transvestite, then what would you do?" She asked. My father looked at the three of us and said in the calmest and scariest voice. "None of my sons would ever be an abomination because it doesn't run in our blood and if any of them makes that mistake of saying he is one then he should be ready to die by my hands" "Gerrard stop spurting things like this do you know that killing is a sin" My mom told all of us to go to bed and through the night they argued. Then I didn't put much thought into his words because being straight runs in our blood means I can never be gay then. I first found out about my sexuality when I was 13 and my best friend then kissed me during an excursion in the toilet. I didn't hate it but I became scared of my family, my father's words were like a mantra that kept reminding me to not indulge in being the real me. when my best friend and I got to sophomore year in high school, he told me he was gay and was ready to show it without a care only for a week later he looked lifeless and broken. I was worried about him but he never said anything about what was wrong with him till one day we didn't go to prom and I stayed over at his house since his parents travelled. "Ossy I want to run away" he whispers. "Why?" " I can't stay in a place that I could die at any given minute" he sniffed then I noticed he was in tears, all the emotions he had bottled in broke out and he told me that when he made up his mind to come out his cousin was caught kissing a boy and he was beheaded before the family. He said his parents had invited every member of the family and he couldn't even help his younger cousin. "I can't be here anymore or I swear I would be the next victim" I was shaking in fear because I knew if I get exposed then I am dead. "Where will you go?" I asked. "Away from here and Ossy please do not stay too long hiding or you just might suffer the same fate" with these words he packed all he could and broke his piggy banks and showed me his bus ticket out of the state. I knew he was right so I didn't stop him and I pretended not to know about his running away. After months of searching for him they declared him dead without his body found, people went to the funeral but I refused to go and people believed I was grieving. I stop being playful, always avoided staying together in the same room with my family. I don't drink so that I don't reveal too much of my true nature. My mom became worried about me but my dad said I was just being a teenager and that I would outgrow it like my older siblings. After the burial, my mom started acting weird that I was worried maybe something had happened she always found a reason to invite me out. one of these weird days she dragged me along with her to get some groceries when my dad and older brothers were busy being their toxic masculine selves. when we got to our destination she ignored the grocery shop and dragged me to get her nice clothes according to her. "Ossy, how does this look on me?" she stood in front of me with a green bodycon gown and black boots heels, twirling around in it. it fitted her body well, but I felt like I would be better worn with brown sandal heels and maybe a small brown bag would fit it. "oh mom it looks great on you maybe change the kneel high boots with brown sandal heels" she smiles then winked at me then went off to change. That day when we got home she told me to keep the five dresses she picked and some makeup products she bought using my skin to try the foundation shade. I stared at her weirdly but she ignored me, I dropped them at the back of my wardrobe. I felt the urge to try them on since they looked like they could fit me perfectly. She kept buying clothes she won't wear for a month but kept them in my room giving the same excuse. "I want to surprise your father during our dates" my wardrobe was now almost filled with female clothes and she also installed locks in my room saying I would need my privacy. I didn't understand my mom nor her intentions but I didn't complain. one day, while everyone was out of the house leaving me behind. I was bored not doing anything when suddenly I remembered the clothes in my wardrobe maybe I could just try it a little then look up how to use makeup on my face. that was my downfall. I couldn't stop once I started. I lock my door then play my rap music to the loudest and begin my parade in front of the full-length mirror mom bought and had placed in my room. she never stopped buying new clothes and keeping them in my room without asking for them, I started suspecting she knew I wore them but she never said anything to me about it. it's been a year and a half since my best friend ran away and since I knew about my love for cross-dressing, I always hope that he is fine and eating well. That afternoon before graduation, I dressed up in the new clothes mom bought and left in my wardroom. nobody was home and I forgot to lock my room door then began to dress up. when I was done, I wore the wig after my makeup was done. I took some pictures then suddenly I heard Jamal asking if I was home, it was then I remembered I hadn't locked the door so I rushed to lock the door before responding to his call. Graduation is tomorrow and tomorrow is the day I out myself and run for my life, I saved enough to get an apartment and feed myself. I had saved about 5000$ by working part-time jobs for the whole year and a half. You might wonder how many jobs I have done. Well, I worked as a waiter in hotels and restaurants, I worked at a spa where I got paid better than the other jobs 100$ monthly and tips ranging from 20-100$ from customers. I have packed up my belongings, clothes, passport and id, laptop, and phone then the documents I need to enrol on college. I just left behind my old things so that they won't notice I had escaped them. Knock! Knock! The soft knocking woke me from my thoughts, it was past midnight and who could come to my room at this time. "Ossy baby boy?" My mom's soft voice came from behind the door, I rushed to push my box under the bed then I open the door. She looked behind her to see that no one was awake before walking into the room then locking the door. "Hey baby, I can't remember the last time you let me into your room" She said with a smile as she pushed my hair away from my face. " Mom, why aren't you asleep yet?" I asked as she smiled at me sadly. "I can't sleep" She paused as if contemplating deeply before she spoke again. "Do you have something to tell me Ossy" her stare was deep and sad. I felt a pinch in my heart, oh no mothers and their emotional blackmail. I shook my head instead of responding verbally. "Ossy I know you to know what you are hiding " She turns off the light and opened my bay window then she sat down also telling me to seat beside her. "I will trade a secret of me in exchange for a secret with yours, what do you think?" She kept whispering and I nodded. "Okay your dad and I divorced a few days ago but he said I should keep the reason a secret but I can't anymore" She explained to me that he had been cheating for some time and she was only still married to him because she wanted me to leave high school first. I was shocked speechless but she decided to continue then what she revealed last blew my mind. "I am not your older siblings mom they are from some of the women he cheated on me with" She then let everything sink in before smiling at me then asked what I was hiding. "I will still love you no matter what" She held my hand and rubbed my cheek with an encouraging smile. I was too scared to say anything but I knew I had to face it since I had already packed everything that belongs to me in this house. "I am gay" I whispered with my eyes closed rightly I do not want to see her disgust or hate. It was quiet for a while I couldn't stand the silence so I opened my eyes to look at her. The moon softly lightens up her skin, instead of anger, I saw sadness and tears rolled down her eyes. "I'm sorry mom" "Oh my poor Ossy has suffered, oh how I wish I was able to lessen your pain and fears" She pulled me into a tight hug then kept rubbing my back. I was shocked at her reaction so I was slow to respond to her hug. "I knew it, we need to leave here tonight," She said after a while of crying. I was confused. "Tomorrow is my graduation mom" " shh, we leave tonight for your safety, pack up all your gadgets into your backpack and forget to take your clothes" She instructed then suddenly we heard footfalls coming towards my room and the shadow stood there for a while as if trying to hear us. My mum signalled that I should stay very quiet, the shadow belonged to my father. What is going on?. After about 20 or so minutes he left so my mom quickly whispers. "We are following the back through your window before he comes back." This was when I noticed she held her purse in her hand and running shoes on. Following her lead, we climbed slowly down and once our feet touched the floor she pulled me towards the car about a block away. Just behind us, we heard a bang and shouting. "Get back here you fag" it was my father's voice but mother pushed me into the car and the keys were already placed in the ignition and she immediately started the car. We could hear gunshots as we drove away, my heart was still pounding widely as I looked at my mom in shock. "He found out from your stepbrother Jamal this morning and he didn't tell me but I heard them when they thought I was asleep," She said not taking her eyes off the road. I was scared of telling her and now she saved me, so there was no how I would have graduated because he was planning to end me before dawn. "Where are we going? " I asked once I had calmed down. "As far away from here as possible, I have a house I purchased a year and a half ago in New York " Does my mom see the future or what? "Remember Tony Mendoza" She continues, my best friend why would I not remember him. "He is the one taking care of the house, yes I was the one who helped him run away. He had explained what had happened to me so I didn't tell anyone and just helped him that's why during that time I travelled. So he is waiting for you" Her words shocked me and made me excited. I guess I now have a family and a future. We drove away from our past and into our future.

kuuo3l

The River

My town was next to a river, a winding, never ending river that was wide and deep. We weren't allowed to go near it, some of the people in my town say if we were to go too close we would drown and be in pain. Maybe I should have listened because I did drown, but didn’t die. Would I be sorry for leaving to the river, maybe. I did not die, I had fallen in, I had hit the bottom of the rocky river below, it was deep and cold and the rushing water swept me away, I emerged from the water, I was nowhere near home and my bones felt stiff from the cold. I kicked and clawed to the side of the river and pulled myself up, I had cuts and scratches littering my body, but everything felt different, the sun felt warmer and the grass felt softer. Everything looked and felt so new. I stood up, nearly falling over before I looked back at the river and then around me. There was a dark forest on the side I was on and a bright field on the other side of the river. The river didn't change, still fast, still cold, but that's fine. I began to walk towards the dark forest. In my town I was told that the forest represented “femininity in the EYES of a young man, an unexplored realm full of the unknown”, but what did it mean for a girl like myself? The forest also represents other things like mothers and life, but also temptation in life, guess the temptation to go see it was overwhelming.  I began to run faster and closer to the forest, the forest didn’t seem all that dark, but felt warm and like life was really thriving. It was so different then the river, the river was fast and cold, but the forest grew slow and felt warm. I climbed some of the trees, falling down some and hurting my tailbone, scraping my knees and hands. Others I would make to the top before a bird would come and peck me down, or a squirrel would jump at me or even a bug crawling on me, but I met a dove. I walked further in, the forest didn’t seem to end and it got dark, so dark you could hardly see your hands in front of your face, but I had my dove with me when small lighting bugs began to drift closer to me, I followed them and there glowing butts, my dove next to me, chirping sweet words along the way and pecking me on the cheek. I followed them out of the forest, I was in the bright field I had seen earlier and the same river there, I followed the lighting bugs until they drifted away and left me in a field alone with my dove, I glanced around before my eyes caught the sight of the moon and stars. I laid down in the tall grass and watched the stars move across the shy, and then the sun came back, but my dove was gone. I was alone again, but in the bright field, I walked back to the river, fast and cold, but I didn’t fear it, I walked alongside it, letting it guide me. What did a river represent? My town made it seem like something to fear, something dark, but looking at it and being near it, it was scary, but it was exhilarating. I followed it for what felt like years, but grew to only feel like seconds. My legs grew tired, but soon grew used to the pain, my hair began to grow longer so I pulled it back. I followed the river for who knew how long before I saw my town, I walked to it, it looked the same, the people were the same, but I didn’t feel the same and looking at myself I wasn't the same, my hands rough, I was taller and I could see more, feel more, and my hair was long, but not the same color I had when I left. I was in pain after going to that river, but not that type of pain. I felt out of place when I looked around my town. Maybe it was good that I went to the river and I wasn't sorry for going to the river, the river was something scary and something that went by fast, but I don’t regret going to the river and falling in. I may have fallen in the river, maybe I did get scratched and bruised, maybe I didn’t regret going to it, but I did not die, I did the opposite when I fell in the river, it was cold and then warm, it was dark and then light and I did so many times, maybe I shouldn't have fallen, but I don't regret it, and don't regret my dove I lost along the way. As I walked around my village I saw kids running around before they ran up to me, tugging at my hands and clothes, they asked question after question and then came the question about the river, would I tell them to stay away from the river like I was told? It did hurt, but not that way, but it was worth it. My town was next to a river, a winding, never ending river. Everyday I would watch children go to it, some pick their feet in and some tiptoe nearby, some fall in and some jump while some walk alongside it, they all come back to the never ending river with the town. I miss the river, I miss the forest and the lighting bugs, I didn’t miss my dove as much, but I appreciate that dove, but I had my turn, I had my time in the field and forest, I had my time to climb the trees and watch the stars and moon and that is just fine with me.

1vb2nh

mmmmmmmmmmmmm

Carrio was spending a few weeks at her grandfather 's. Her mother, and brother, and sister, were there. Children always love to visit their grand parents. Carrrie was having a nice time, till one morning, in hor play, aba broke a pane of gloa. in tho bed room window. ' Oh, dear !' she exclaimed, bursting into tears, ' it's grandpapa's window ! What will he say?' Grandpa wa» away that day. He had gone t" the city, early in the morning, and would not return till night. Carrie sought hor grandmother, and confided her trouble to hor. 'Oh, grandma!' she said, 'I've broken grnndpa'a window ! I'm sorry ! Don't tell him I did it ?' ' How did you break it?' inquired grandma, quietly. ' I was running round the room,' Carrio answered, ' nnd my foot slipped, aud I caught at the rocking chair to keep me from falling. The chair rocked, and the buck went agalnot tho window. Don't tell grandpa, will you?' ' Hut grandpa must know it,' was tho roply ; . there must lw. a new pane of glass Bet.' • Well don't tell him I did it, urged Carrie. 1 What shall we tell him ?' said grandma. ' Tell him tho chair rocked against it,' Carrie answered. ' Hut he will want to know what made the chair rock,' said grandma. ' Tell him one of tho children did it,' said Carrie, • let him think it was Albert or Emma; don't tell him I did it.' ' But don't you sec my child,' interposed Carrio's mother, who hnd not yet spoken, ' don't you sco that this would not be honest ? You do not want to throw the blame of breaking the window upon your brothor of sister, when you broke it yourself, do you ?' 1 No,' said Carrio, ' but grandpa will scold at me if lie knew I broke it. • I don't think he will,' grandma remarked, ' I think tho best way will bo for you to tell him the truth, yourself, as soon as he oomes home.' ' Oh, I can't tell him ?' Carrie oxelaimed. ' Hut he will see that the window is broken, when he goes into tho bedroom,' said Carrio's mother, ' he will inquird how it waa done, and we shall have to tell him. It will be much better for you to tell him yourself, beforo he knows anything about it.' I Carrie saw tiiat this was reasonable, but it was a long time beforo sho could make up her mind to do what her mother and grandmother thought was best. At last, after a long crying spoil, and a groat many earnest endeavor, to find some other way of getting out of tho difficulty, Carrio said, ■ Well, mother, I'll tell grandpa myself, when he eomeo home.' ■ That will be tho liest way,' said her mother, smiling. That smile encouraged Carrie wonderfully. She wished that grandpa would come then, so that she might tell him at once, and have it over with. Hut ho would not bo home beforo sunset. He did not come that evening till after dark. Carrie drew her little chair closer to grandma's when she heard the carriage drive into the yard. • He's come,' she wbisperod, and her hand trembled, as she laid it in grandma's lap. ' Yes, dear,' grandma observed, ' and his little grand daughter need not be afraid f> tell him the truth.' Grandpa wont to the barn and took care of his horses. Then he came in and sat down in the comer near the fire. ' And you're up yet, my little girl,' he said kindly, addressing Carrie. Tho teurs came into Carrie's eye*. ' Tell him now, de»r,' whispered grandma. ' Yes, grandpa,' Carrie said, ' I—l sat up to sco you.' Tho child burst into tear*. ' Why, Carrie, what's tho matter?' inquired grandpa, in surprise. ' Grandpa, 1 sobbed the child, ■I ye broken your bedroom window.' And Carrie bid her face in grandma's lap. • Broken my bedroom window!' said grandpa. ' Ah ! how did you manage to do tbat r' Carrie explained the matter as well as she could for crying. Grandpa listened attentively and said, when she had concluded: • I am sorry you met with such on accident, my child; I must, set a new pane of glass there to-morrow.' And grandpa drew a chair to tho table, and sat down to cat his supper. How poor Carrie's heart was lighted. 'Grandpa didn't blame me a bit. He only pitied me,' *he thought. And ten minutes after she was sound asleep in her bed. The next morning was clear and frosty, bnt Carrie was so anxious to see with her own eyes the mischief she had done remedied, that grandma bundled her up in a worm hood and «hawl and sent her up into the bedroom where grandpa was setting a pane of glass. She came out again when the work was done, with sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks. ' Telling the truth was the best way after all, was'nt it, Carrie?' • Oh, much the best,' Carrie answered. ' I mean to tell the truth always.' I LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE IT

m46pxl

A strange case of the shattered Window

Ike had a nasty hangover the moment he woke up. He and his pals partied hard the previous night. He gingerly got on his feet and made his way downstairs. Madison, his housemate and close friend is busy making omelette in the kitchen. He easily notices Ike trudging towards the fridge to grab a soda. "Can't believe you're already up." Madison called out. "Uh huh.."Ike sounded, as he made due with a milk drink, when he couldn't find any soda.  "Dude, you were real high, when you dropped in yesterday"continued Madison. After Ike had drained the contents of the bottle and he left for the bathroom. "I understand the fact when you ain't sober you try crazy stunts, but that don't mean you outta go about breaking windows just to get into the house. I mean you could have just rang the doorbell for me to let you in" He said. "What?" came the cry as Ike head popped back into view. "Whaddya mean 'What' didn't you break the window of your room last night?" "I broke no windows yesterday. Not even to get in." Confused, Madison still pushed his argument. By adding the story of the previous night "I was dozing, when I heard the sound of windows breaking. I hurriedly got a bat and found my way to your room, where the sound came from. On reaching there I found you snoring on your bed. And your window broken." "So you concluded, that while in my stupor I was still able to climb to the first floor unassisted, smash my window just to get in for a shut eye. Jeez" said Ike, bewildered. "Yeah. You know you've done a lot crazier things" said Madison. Ike rushed up to his room and found truly, his windows were broken. The broken window left spaces wide enough for an elephant to sneak into the room undisturbed. Its no mystery, why Madison thought he was responsible. "When I came in yesterday" continued Ike "I had my keys on me, I came into the house as anyone with dignity would." "I did not see you before going to bed, and I stayed up late last night. The next time I saw you was after the window incident" Madison argued as he reached the room. "I definitely came in while you were already asleep. My window getting smashed in, probably happened while I was in bed. And no, the noise of the breaking glass couldn't have woken me up. Hell! even if a bazooka was fired in here, that wouldn't make me stir. If anyone had half of what I had last night, they wouldn't either". Alas, Madison admitted defeat. Ike had a good point in this debate. But, who then could possibly have broken the window. He would have kept on trying to make sense of everything, had the food he left on fire, not gotten burnt and engulfed in flames. "There's no need calling the cops, they'd just warn us and ask unnecessary questions, that will get everyone worked up" said Ike as he munched his way through dry cereals, several minutes later in the kitchen after getting cleaned and dressed up. He silently cursed Madison for burning breakfast. "Yes, but still if it was a way to threaten us, they'd get the message the cops are now involved"said Madison as he also munched dry cereals. He silently cursed Ike for drinking all the milk. Jodie, a friend of Ike and Madison walked into their midst. "What's up gents! " She hollered, heading for the fridge, she did not see what she wanted."You guys are out of soda, what do spend your allowance on." "Ike's room got broken into" announced Madison, trying to stir the conversation away from his fridge. "Wow. They took anything? you guys phoned the cops?" she questioned clearly amused, sitting beside them. Suddenly, her face frowned a bit "Are you guys on diet or what?" She said noticing the plates of dry cereals. "No. nothing was taken, and we haven't called the police. We can barely explain ourselves how it started out." Madison said, still trying to prevent Jodie from noticing anything else odd about them. "So shoot… I'm listening" she said, balancing her hand under her chin and drew closer to them. Ike narrated all that transpired prior to her appearance. Jodie listened carefully till the narrative drew a close. "All I can say is someone probably broke in, to rob thinking no one was in. Maybe he got startled by seeing Ike and fled" she suggested. "Or probably some smart guy was tryna send us some message — could be a threat" Madison joined in. Ike shook his head in disagreement, calling others attention to himself then said, "I wanna add something. That was my room. I got nothing valuable that is worth breaking a window for. Besides there are much richer folks around, why ain't their house burgled.." "And as for the threat" Jodie interrupted "the only person that's at loggerheads with Ike is Mr Morton, the school custodian. Ike is the only one who still calls him the 'janitor'. I cannot see Mr Morton going about threatening people by breaking their windows." The three agreed it was indeed a conundrum, what happened to Ike's window. They started off their engagements for that day. Ike pay wasn't enough to get his window fixed and his dad will never give money away without first finding out WHY. So he relied on wood and cardboards for the meantime to replace the window. During classes he shared his case with several of his pals, who gave several outrageous explanations. Some connected it with UFOs, witchcraft, and even top secret government experiments. "Hey, I heard a new horror movie is getting aired on Netflix, you guys got a subscription right?" Hearing this, Ike turned and saw the question came from Jodie. "Um yeah." he managed to utter. "Cool. See you then" She turned to leave, but she noticed Ike was downcast. She nudged him on the shoulder "I went up to Mr Morton. He seems to be the only one who knows about stuff like windows and all— since he cleans them. I gave him your address, and he promised to check it out" "Oh that was kind of you letting my enemy know my lair" Ike replied chuckling. "Yeah right. Tell Madison 'bout our plans" She added while briskly walking to her next lecture. It was already getting dark when the trio settled in the sitting room, and Madison has fiddled the connections that would enable them watch the film. Coca cola drinks, pizza and popcorns were set up on the table for refreshments. Then they sat back and streamed the show. The movie started out boring, then it got to a part where 'a Female character opened her door to welcome a visitor, only to realize a hybrid of an old woman and a centipede on the doorstep asking "Could you please help me find my glasses, I can't find them" while stretching an appendage towards her'. Then, Knock! Knock! was heard from the front door. That sound rattled them. They wondered if it was still the old centipede–woman at the door. Ike bravely got up and opened the door, there he found Mr Morton. "Ah it's you" Ike greeted, in a flat tone then, ushered him in. Madison and Jodie welcomed him and invited him to sit with them. But seeing a 'centipede-like old woman eating another human' deterred him from accepting the offer. Mr Morton then followed Ike up to his room, where the broken window was. Mr Morton sighted what remained of the window as well as the shards and frames. He picked them up and observed each one. While periodically asking Ike questions "You saw the rock used to bust it?" "Nah, was asleep by the time. If it were here I could have seen it while cleaning" "Then it could be a bat or a stick. Something like that" "Possibly. But Madison's room is next to mine, and when he rushed in he saw nobody about. So, he assumed I did it" "He saw nobody… Hmm if it weren't a projectile. Hard to imagine somebody climbing up here to bust a window and disappearing into thin air in matter of seconds" "Anything is possible." "I got an idea what happened… all I need now confirmation". At that point there was 'crashing' sound downstairs just as they heard a loud scream as well. Alarmed, Mr Morton and Ike dashed out and made their way to source of the racket. The couch were Madison and Jodie sat was empty, the junk foods sprawled on the floor, another window was thrashed. The TV was the only thing unaffected. Ike and Mr Morton were confused, till Jodie slowly emerged from her hiding place, holding a broom in defensive stance. They then observed Madison do likewise, from under a table. When asked what happened duo explained while they focused on the movie. At a bone chilling scene, the window behind them suddenly got smashed by someone — or something. "It was real scary, I mean breaking two windows can't be coincidence. Someone's out for trouble" said Jodie. "Yeah. Whether y'all like it or not the police must hear of this" Madison said "Has the old man found anything?" The question drew the others attention to Mr Morton who deserted their group and was already investigating the newly broken window. Aware of their stare, Mr Morton broke away from his enquiry and strode towards them. "I have checked about. Didn't find any stone, and Nobody's on the street. We heard no car speeding off, did we?" Impatiently Madison asked "You implying the window broke on its own?" Mr Morton smiled "Ever heard of Spontaneous Glass Breakage?". The group said No. "It seems the windows.." he began "that is fitted around the house came from the same company. The breakage could be caused by nickel sulphide inclusion during manufacturing or while the glass is framed it's edges get nicked, even when installing the window can be a cause . It could be anything" "You sure of that?" Ike asked, slightly not convinced. "Sure. In my many years I've seen glasses shatter for no absolute reason. I know a window expert who'd come check em all on Saturday. Before then I'd advise you all not to stick too close to windows" The Three thanked him for his presence and he bade them goodbye. As soon as Madison closed the door he sighed. "I bet you, windows breaking on their own is not the only thing he's seen." He added jokingly. Ike was about laughing when he realized he was too close to an intact window and shifted himself a bit from it.

bw6k8e

The Fair

I felt lost. The deafening wailing that announced the beginning of a new ride on the roller coaster, distorted voices shouting something I could not understand and loud music as thick in the air as a physical obstacle. Somebody took my hand, I was so dazzled I did not even look who it was. The mass of people, chatting, laughing, shouting, pushed me, somebody pulled me through the stream of bodies. Sometimes I succeeded in focusing on a face but I recognized no one. So I retreated further into myself from this sea of noise and strangers. I followed my guide meekly, numbed by the smell of grilled mushrooms, cotton candy, sausages, fish and fries. After what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of years, my eyes had grown so tired that I closed them. Instantly, the whirling roller coasters, the dancing colorful lights and the jungle of posters and signs receded into the background. Occasionally, a particularly bright light made it through my closed eyelids as I stumbled over the cobblestones, struggling to keep my balance and holding on tight to the warm soft hand of my guide. Eventually, we came to a halt. I was exhausted and felt like life was flowing from me, sucked into the liveliness around me. I lost the warm hand for a minute and while panic was building up inside me, someone shoved a cool plastic cup with beer into my hand. I took a sip and slowly forced myself back into being present. I was standing shoulder to shoulder in a circle of people who were all clad identically in jeans, black t-shirts and leather jackets. Somebody screamed something into my ear. I did not understand but I forced a smile onto my face and nodded. Somebody offered me some food but I was too repelled to eat. How could people enjoy this? I took another sip of the light tasteless beer. Its characterlessness, its simplicity was soothing. “Hey! Do you remember Sam?” This time I understood. I also recognized the voice although it was much more high-pitched than usual. I turned to my left and looked at Jess. She had been my best friend since kindergarten. I deliberately stopped the flood of memories (camping trips, the first beer, school) that threatened to drown me and instead followed her hand that was gesturing towards a huge guy. “Hi, Sam,” I yelled. I had no idea who he was. The evening dragged on with beer, one word conversations shouted at the top of our lungs, beer, roller coaster rides that made me want to throw up, beer that did not relieve that feeling, fried unidentifiable food, beer, endless strolls trapped in the slow wide stream of people, rolling over the cobblestone street of the historic city center. I buried my face in my hands. I felt nauseated. I breathed deeply and slowly, sitting on the cold street. The noise, all this noise, had receded as we had entered the side street. I was waiting for Jess who was in line for one of the smelly porta potties. The smells and sounds had changed but they were no less oppressive. I had forgotten the names of five childhood friends and not recognized them. Last year it had only been three. I pressed my forehead against my cool fingers. How had I felt at peace here? Free, entertained… or had I never felt this way? Was I romanticizing my youth in retrospect? Or had I really perceived it as pleasurable at the time and only now could see that I did not enjoy it at all? Eight years of living in another city, far away, meeting different people, realizing that there were alternatives to spending every weekend drunk at the only club for miles and miles. But I still came back every year for the fair. Tradition, said my Mom, her eyes clouded with memories of decades of fairs she herself had experienced. I came back for the sake of my Mom, for Jess with whom I had less to share each year but towards whom I still felt a warmth that no amount of distance could completely dispel. I liked the pre-partying for the fair that always took place in the same friend´s garden. I liked to hear my old friends talk as they always had, to get sucked into their lives that were as familiar to me as my favorite novel. I liked that nothing ever seemed to change their sense of fashion, their opinions or their daily life. It soothed me. So I became a watcher, gazing intently at the drama unfolding when we came across an ex-partner that was greeted with a cold nod of recognition by the friend group. We ran into old teachers, the lady from the grocery store, the guys from the next town's soccer team. I, naturally, still could do the dance, put on a disguise and pretend I was just like them. People, especially my friends who knew, were not fooled and sometimes glanced at me inquisitively, sensing that I was not telling the whole story, but they always let it slip, satisfied with what I gave them. I wondered when I truly had left my home town for good. I wondered when I had lost this connection to my friends here. I wondered when the idea that changed my opinions a little too much to go back had entered my life. I had not realized it at the time and now it was too late. It was irretrievably lost. While I laughed with Jess, drank with Sam and took a last roller coaster ride with Henry, even when we stumbled towards the party-tent, our arms intertwined, I could not help but think what my best friend Anna whom I had met in my intro to sociology class would say. I could picture Nick, my boyfriend, laughing when I would tell him about the heated conflict at the beer booth kindled by the local soccer team´'s recent defeat and some teasing comments from out of towners. Or maybe I would not tell him after all. Suddenly, I felt weirdly protective about the past, these people who knew as well as I that I had “moved on,” whatever that meant, but who let me in, tolerated me, the new-old stranger, because it was the fair weekend. The weekend when you hugged old acquaintances and had beer with your entire school, because it was tradition. I smiled while I felt the loss of this life with a pang that made me uncomfortable. I never wanted this life to begin with, but now that it was gone for good, the bittersweet sentiment of being a tourist to the fair in my hometown overwhelmed me. Now that I had refused this place, I had to make a new home for myself somewhere. I looked around me with the fond but stern look only a good friend can have. I took it all in. Then I shrugged and for the first time this weekend, I felt relaxation washing over me. I was free to go, I would find something that suited me, but for now… I would have another beer with Jess who hld up the tarpaulin and beckoned me inside with a smile.

omq2yd

The tree house was collapsing

Mama said her life has been filled with sadness. When Grammy and gramps got divorced she thought she had done something wrong. Later on she learned that some things in life just don’t go well together and that her parents were one of those things. Lately mama has been sadder than usual, crying all the time and sometimes for no reason at all. Daddy says it’s something that happens to women when they get older, something to do with hormones. I hope I never get hormones when I get older. Lenny (short for Lenard) and me are almost ten years old, we are twins, but not the kind you can tell just by looking at us. Mama says it’s ‘cos God knew she couldn't handle being pregnant twice so he gave her a two for one special. Daddy built us a tree house when we were five years old; it was made out of old pine boxes and has a bamboo roof. I love that old tree house; it’s where Lenny and I have spent most of our time playing. At least it was until Lenny fell out of the tree last summer and broke his leg. The doctor said it will take some time to heal. Lenny hasn’t been able to play in it for a while since he can’t rightly climb up the ladder. So I decided to redecorate it with pink pillows and call it my castle. My friend Shireen and I play princess princess in there every chance we get. I don’t know why mama cries all the time, Aunt Emma says it’s ‘cos mama feels like her whole world is falling apart. I can’t imagine what that must feel like. I think it would be as if the tree house was collapsing. I think it’s ‘cos daddy works so hard for us and comes home late at night. Last week daddy came home very late and I heard mama yelling at him that he smelled of cheap perfume. I thought it was kinda thoughtful of daddy to make himself smell nice for mama before he came home. She just didn’t appreciate it I suppose. Grownups are kinda weird I guess. This weekend I'm going to stay over at my friend Shireen and Lenny is going for a sleepover at his friend Dug (I think Dug is a strange name to give a kid but what do I know) Grammy says we need to give mama some time to herself as daddy is also going for a sleepover at his friend Suzie. I dunno how long daddy will be gone, mama didn't say also she didn't seem real happy about it. She doesn't seem real happy about anything lately. Summer has always been my favourite time of the year, we used to go to the beach and build sandcastles, I always hated the sand part though, it seemed to stick to your body and get in-between your toes. Lenny loved it, especially when he tried to make sand balls and throw them into the ocean. The water was always icy cold but the joy of riding the waves was worth it. We haven't been to the beach for 2 summers now, Grammy keeps promising to take us but I think she just says that to stop us from nagging her. When mama was little and Grammy and gramps split up, he went to live with a new family in another state. Mama says she got to see him once a month but as she got older decided that it's best to let him get on with his life without her, after all he had a new family to take care of and she had us. I never did get to meet him. Sometimes I wonder if he is still alive but I dare not ask mama. I brought it up in conversation once and she got mighty angry, then Grammy cried.  I never understood why but knew better than to bring it up again. Today is the last day of school and then we are going on a summer break. I am going to miss my friends, they always say they will come visit during the holidays and never do. Why do people say things they don’t mean, I will never understand this. If I tell Lenny I’m going to play hopscotch with him, then I do it. Sometimes I tell him I hate him, when we have a fight but I always say sorry afterwards and I always tell him I didn’t mean it. He can be a bit of a bully at times, for instance he knows I don’t like it when he pulls my hair but he does it anyway.  Mama says it’s a boy thing and I should just ignore it or better yet, don’t antagonize him. I had to look up the word antagonize in the dictionary. It said; “cause someone to be hostile” Then I had to look up the word hostile. I don’t see how him pulling my hair while I did nothing was being hostile but whatever, it’s a boy thing I guess. Shireen and I would never pull each other’s hair but I figure it’s the same as girl’s things. Like Lenny and his friends would never play tea party with us because he says it’s a girl thing. My teacher Mrs. Spreckley says that we must read books during our holidays, otherwise our brains will become lazy and our thoughts will turn to mush. I always thought our brains were already made up of mush, that’s why we have a strong hard skull to protect it. I suppose when I am ten I will learn all about these things and then I will understand. At any rate, I don’t want parts of my brain to be mush so I am going to the library before I leave school to see if I can find some books to read. Mrs. Spreckley said I could take as many as I can carry. She is so lovely, she has a big smile and a gentle voice. She never gets angry like daddy and never gets sad like mama. I don’t think she has ever cried. I want to be like her when I’m grown up, her smile can make you feel warm inside. Lenny says he has no time for reading, he wants to build an enormous fort at the bottom of out treehouse and everyone will be so impressed that all our friends will want to come and play. I said that sounds like a great plan especially if we ain’t going to the beach again this summer and least we won’t get bored. Maybe the fort will make mama happy too and she and daddy won’t have to spend a lot of time yelling, they can come and play with us and all our friends just like when we were little. I think that would make them real happy and Gammy can make us some cool lemonade to drink in the hot sun. Daddy can bring his friend Suzie with and we can all be one big happy family. Yeah, I think this summer is gonna be a good one.

r6cba6

Distortion

Andy pulled the blanket over his head, wrapping himself up like a mummy, despite the warmth of the night. His fists were tightly clenched around the blanket, holding it firmly in place on top of him. Small, salty tears somehow managed to squeeze out through the corners of his eyes, even though he had them squeezed shut so tightly that they ached. “It’s not real, it’s not real…” he repeatedly muttered to himself, over and over. Like he could somehow convince himself if only he repeated it enough times. He tried hard to convince himself that what he had seen was only a figment of his imagination. But he knew that the terrible violence he witnessed had indeed happened. He could feel it in his bones. Andy might have only been nine years old, but he was wise beyond his years. He instinctively knew that he needed to tell somebody about what he had seen. But who could he tell? He thought about waking his parents. But they would never believe him when he described what he had seen. Not with everything that had happened over the last couple of years. And besides, if he went into his parents’ room and woke them, his dad Roy would be angry with him. Again. Andy couldn’t take that, not right now. He thought about calling 9-1–1 to report what he had witnessed. However, Andy felt that it would likely lead to a bunch of trouble. He would need to slip into his parents’ bedroom to get his hands on one of their cell phones, for starters. And his mother, Liz, was such a light sleeper, he knew that there was no way he could get one of their phones without her waking up. And while she would certainly be more understanding of being woken up than his father would, Andy didn’t dare chance it. Andy knew that he had an appointment the following morning with his psychiatrist, Dr. Chapman. He knew that he could tell her what he had seen from his bedroom window tonight; she was always so kind to him. And more importantly, she had always seemed to believe him when he told her things. Not like his parents. But Andy didn’t think that he could wait that long to talk to someone about what he had seen. It was just too much for his young mind to handle. He decided that the only answer was to tell his best friend, Ike. Ike would know what he should do; he always did. Ike was missing an eye from repeated trips through the washing machine. Despite having gone through countless spin cycles over the years, his white belly was now more of an ashen grey colour. Ike was a stuffed penguin given to Andy by his Aunt Clara when he was only about two years old. Andy and Ike had been through so much together. Andy sensed that he was probably too old to have a stuffed animal as a friend. But he couldn’t bear the thought of not having Ike in his life. Ike was the only one that seemed to understand him. Andy desperately needed someone like that in his life, even if it was only a stuffed penguin. Ike was his lifeline, the one thing that kept Andy from slipping entirely over the edge.  Andy released his iron-grip on the blanket, flailing his arms around in a panic, desperately searching for his friend. Ike had managed to slip down the bed next to Andy’s knees, trapping himself between the sheet and the blanket. Andy freed the faded penguin and pulled him in close to his chest. Andy was squeezing Ike so tightly that the stuffing threatened to spill out of his ageing seams. Thankfully Ike was able to keep himself together. Andy managed to muster up enough courage to force his eyes open, now that he had Ike in his arms. He pulled Ike up near his face and began to whisper to him, keeping his voice very low for fear of waking his parents. He described in vivid, gory detail what he had seen out his window only minutes earlier and asked Ike what he should do. With his head cocked to the left and staring intently into Ike’s one remaining eye, Andy whispered, “Okay, Ike, that’s what I thought too. We can tell Dr. Chapman tomorrow. Of course, mom and Dad will never believe us. But Dr. Chapman will believe us, and she will know what to do.” Andy laid back, still keeping a grip on Ike. He did not - could not - close his eyes. He was too afraid. Andy knew that with his eyes shut, his mind would keep flashing the images that he had seen out his window over and over. He was sure that sleep would not be coming to him for the rest of the night. Yet old-man sleep can be clever sometimes. Because somehow, despite the overwhelming sense of terror that Andy felt vibrating through his entire body, he drifted off for a few hours of deep, dreamless sleep. Andy suddenly jolted upright in bed, wondering what the noise was that he had just heard. He was bewildered, not even aware that he had fallen asleep. He squinted his eyes as the bright early morning light streamed through the same window that had brought him so much horror just a few short hours ago. He blinked a few times confusedly, and then he settled his head back down on his pillow, realizing that the noise was coming from the kitchen. It was just his parents doing something in the kitchen. He was sure that it was his mom, as his dad would have been off to his job at the bank long ago, judging by how much light was shining in. Andy couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his dad still at the house when the sun was up, especially on a weekday. As he lay in the bed, he could not stop his thoughts from racing back to the night before. He had gone to bed, as usual, kissing his mom goodnight and then heading up to his room. Their deal was that as long as he was in bed by 8 pm on a weeknight, he was allowed to read in bed for up to 45 minutes before his mom would make him turn off his light. Andy loved having this time alone to immerse himself in the make-believe worlds of books. For Andy, reading was a way to escape his daily life. Not that his life was so bad. He sometimes felt guilty about wanting to escape life when he knew that he had it pretty good. He had heard about some of the real  problems that other kids at his school had. His parents were still together, unlike so many of the other kids. They had an incredible home in a brand-new development. The house was spacious and tastefully decorated. Andy did not know how much money his dad made as one of the so-called “big shots” at the bank he worked at, but he suspected that it was a lot. At least, Andy hoped that he earned a lot, as he was not around the house very much. Despite all of the good things he had going for him, Andy still felt the need to escape his life. This feeling started when they moved into this house. And the stories in books were a perfect way for Andy to forget about things for a while. The thing was, sometimes, when Andy looked out his bedroom window, he would see things. Things that should not be happening in a nice neighbourhood like this. Things that 9-year old boys were not meant to see. Things like what he saw last night when he woke up in the middle of the night. How he wished he would have just stayed in his bed instead of getting up and looking out that window. And really, he knew better than to look out that window. Especially in the middle of the night. But Andy also knew that he had no choice. He had  to look out the window. Looking out his window was like picking at a dried scab; it was something he did, even though he knew that he shouldn’t. He couldn’t help himself.  Andy got up and pulled on pair of pants and a t-shirt before heading downstairs to the kitchen. “Morning champ,” his mother sang happily. “You sleep well?” Andy nodded ‘yes’ vehemently like he was trying to convince her. Maybe he was also trying to convince himself. “Yeah, I slept great!” he lied, not wanting to worry her. “Excellent, you needed the rest. You want some cereal for breakfast?”  “Sure. The chocolate one?” his face pleading. “Oh, okay. I suppose it’s alright. You know that I can’t resist that look you give me.” She laughed playfully, pulling out a bowl and the cereal for him. He had a big grin on his face as he pulled open the fridge door to grab the milk.  “You need to eat fairly quickly and get your school bag packed up. You have your appointment with Dr. Chapman first thing this morning”. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I had forgotten.” Andy lied to his mom for the second time of the day, all before breakfast. Andy was quiet and reflective, even more so than usual, as his mom drove him to the doctor’s office for his appointment. She glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror while stopped at a traffic light. “You okay?” “Yeah. Still just sleepy, I guess.” Another lie. It seemed like once he got started lying to her, he couldn’t stop. He was dismayed at how effortlessly lies seemed to fly from his lips. The truth was that he was imagining the upcoming conversation with his doctor, trying to figure out how he was going to explain what he had seen the night before. Last night he was sure that she would believe him. Ike had been very convincing. But now that he was about to face her, he felt a lot less confident. His mom pulled into the parking lot of the small medical office building, pulling right up near the front door. She reached into her purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, handing it back to Andy. “Like usual, just have them call you a cab to get you to school after your appointment. I have to get to work,” she instructed him. “I know, Mom, I will.” She leaned in towards him for a kiss. He gave her a quick peck on the lips, telling her to have a great day as he hopped out of the car and headed into the building. Once inside, he knew exactly where to go. After all, he had seen this doctor so often lately. He started seeing her shortly after they had moved into the new house. He felt like that was when all of his troubles began, but he didn’t understand why. Because other than the new house and neighbourhood, everything else was pretty much the same as before. Upon arriving at the entrance to his psychiatrist’s office, he pushed the door open gently. He was still deep in his thoughts, trying to figure out how to tell the doctor about what he had seen the night before while looking out his window. He was greeted warmly by the friendly receptionist. He liked her, feeling that seeing her was always the highlight of coming here. She told him to go on in as Dr. Chapman was ready for him. He took his usual place on the comfortable recliner as Dr. Chapman greeted him and took a seat in a chair facing him. After getting the pleasantries out of the way, the doctor asked Andy how he was feeling. He told her that he was glad to be here, as he had something urgent to say to her. She leaned forward, listening and watching him intently. Andy pulled Ike out of his school bag, perching the old penguin on his lap. Andy described what he had seen through his bedroom window. The doctor’s facial expression never changed, and she never interrupted Andy by asking him any questions. Instead, she let him get the whole story out. Once Andy had finished, she asked, “And do you think that what you saw last night actually happened?”. He cast his eyes downward. “Yes, of course, it really happened. I saw it.” Even though he was not looking directly at her, Andy had noticed something. There had been a very subtle shift in her body language. Andy was very observant with these things. He could very plainly see that she did not believe him. “So if you thought that sort of gruesome violence was happening, why did you not get your parents? Or call the police?” “Because I did not think that they would believe me,” he answered without looking up at her. Then added, “but I thought that you would.” “I believe that you believe that what you saw was true, Andy. But - if it did happen, wouldn’t there be visible signs of the tragedy this morning? It sounds like there would need to be blood all over the place and that the bodies would still be there...” she trailed off. Andy shrugged his shoulders, “I guess. I don’t know. But I know what I saw!” “Okay, Andy,” she replied, “Thank you for sharing with me. First, I will need to have some follow-up discussions on your particular case with some of my colleagues. And then later I will speak with your parents so that we can come up with the best plan to deal with your experiences. In the meantime, try to make sure that you get enough sleep. It seems to me that you might be sleep-deprived.” “Yes, ma’am.” Andy stuffed Ike angrily back into his bag, heading back to the reception area. He was mad at himself for letting Ike convince him that the doctor would believe him. The receptionist asked him if he wanted her to call him a cab as usual. He nodded glumly. Even the good-natured receptionist could not improve his mood right now. Getting into the cab, he gave the driver his home address instead of the school address. Andy had done that entirely on a whim and without even understanding why. He had never done something like that before. The cabbie nodded and drove him home. When he arrived, he took his keys from his bag and let himself into the quiet house. He did it as quickly as possible before any of the neighbours spotted him. He worried that they would likely wonder why he was there on a school day and possibly contact his parents. He went into his room and sat on the edge of his bed, holding his head between his hands. He was so unsure of himself, wondering if he was  losing his mind. He kept seeing all of these horrible things happen, but only when looking out his bedroom window. And no one ever believed anything that he told them about what he saw. Instead of believing him, they sent him to see various doctors. Maybe there was something wrong with him? Was he crazy? Perhaps they were going to put him away in a mental hospital? He had seen those on the television a couple of times, and he thought they looked like horrible places to be. He did not want to go to one. Suddenly, it hit him. He knew what he had to do. The only time that he saw these terrible things was when looking out his bedroom window. It wasn’t him  that there was something wrong with; it was the window . He jumped off his bed and sprang open his closet door. Rummaging through it, he found what he was looking for; his baseball bat. There was simply no stopping him now. He took the bat to the window, striking it with all of his strength. It took a couple of hits before the first crack appeared. Then, with the next blow, the window exploded outward, raining shards of glass onto the roof of the front porch. Andy didn’t stop there. He kept beating at the window frame until every tiny shard of glass had fallen, all of it scattered on the porch roof, glinting in the sun. The brilliant sparkle of the glass in the bright sun did not fool Andy. He knew that the truth; that particular window had been very dark indeed. Andy walked back to his bed and smiled. The window was gone. And his problems with it. He took a long glance at Ike, realizing that it was finally time to move on. He pulled Ike out of his bag, looked at him solemnly, hugged him tightly, and then tucked him up on the top shelf of his closet. Despite his young age, Andy had already learned a crucial lesson that so many of us fail ever to realize. We all have windows that can distort our view of reality. But, sometimes, you need to muster up your courage and smash through those windows to see how incredible the world and the people in it can be. Sometimes you need to break things to move forward. 

fzoajo

Confessions. Wanna listen?

Content Warning: Suicide attempt The stars and moon look beautiful together. Uh...I'm sorry I know I'm being both crazy and wierd at the same time. Cause who's crazy enough to be awake at midnight looking through the window just to compliment stars and moon. But some nights I'm just not able to sleep and looking at the night sky gives me some nostalgia cause no matter what my situation was I always looked up to the sky. This is my escape and my solution. Now I remember that I forgot to introduce my self to you. Well me... I am a k-pop trainee in a company at Seoul. I am both appreciated and criticized for my dancing and singing skills. Some people love me and some...uh don't even want to see me but... well yeah all in all I have some value here. However, 5 years back my situation wasn't even near to this, honestly. That time I was recovering from a heartbreak that my crush left the school and I knew I won't meet him anymore and the most unbearable thing ~ I can't even share that with anyone. My parents would kill me if they knew I had a crush. So after he was gone I went to the bathroom and cried cause after all he was my first love. My heartbreak was accompanied by my lowering grades and my parents scold me a lot. I didn't have any experience of a situation like this before and I wasn't even old enough to handle this I was just 10 years old. So, I... tried to commit suicide . I took a blade and brought it near my wrist. You know what I felt? I felt butterflies in my stomach and that's when I realised I was not ready to die. Then I changed my mind, I made some cuts on my hand with it. When my mom saw them on my hand she asked me how did I get hurt. I couldn't tell her I was trying to kill myself. So I told her I fell on the ground when I was playing but those cuts didn't look anything like that. They looked intentional . She still believed me and I really thank her for that. Since then I was even more careful about not letting anyone know what's really going on in my life and in my mind. I chose not to trust anyone and keep everything a secret my dreams, my pains and my thoughts even now no one knows about it except me. In school, I wanted to do good but my grades were so stubborn that no matter what I do they won't go up. I also lost a lot of friends but it was good cause they were all fake and seriously fake friends feel more like baggage than friends. So, I had to enjoy everything alone. It was lonely but I chose it for myself, I shouldn't complaint. I wanted to become a singer but I didn't sing so well. All these things made me feel more worthless. I left myself. I was upset from my own self. I hated myself. I couldn't torture myself physically cause people can see it. So, I used to demotivate myself I used to repeat all those negative words that I heard from others- " You're ugly, You're worthless, You're fat, You can't, If you think you can become a singer you're so wrong" . I was convinced, I was very much convinced but there was something that would tell me that I'm lying to myself. If I have a bit courage and stand by my self I can do it. But it was like a butterfly. I saw it with my eyes closed and when I opened my eyes it was gone but there was just colors left on my hand. Like it was telling me to find it and I chased it madly. I wanted it cause it was so beautiful. I didn't know what I had to go through to reach it but it was all worth it. I don't say that I hate all the people who made me feel bad but now I know them. Now I know who I can trust. The wind here feels good. So, I'll let it all go with it. Not the memories they are too special to lose, but the hate and the pain I have been carrying all along. I believe the wind is a better carrier than me and cause I all to it now I feel a lot free. The night knows everything I shouldn't try to hide anything from it and I hope it will be silent like always. I had been running since a long time. I feel like I need rest but where I am right now is not my destination I don't even know how far that is. I have too many doubts about my future but I keep moving forward cause I still that butterfly in my dreams. Time changed, people changed, situations changed things keep getting harder sometimes I lose patience and sometimes I lose breath but I keep going on. I love what I do but as I spend more days the more questions I find in my mind. But now I believe in my self I don't hate myself and I have confidence that if I try I can I ask what's next, does it have an end. Maybe...not it's endless like love. It hurts sometimes a lot. It made me leave my comfort zone ,leave my place , leave my past behind. When I have it I don't fear anything. If someone asks me will I ever give cause it's too hard then I'll say I am never gonna give up on it. We have talked a lot now I gonna go nd try to sleep. I hope you were not bored of it. Anyways it's life and things happen we should learn from it. No?

ulyskx

What would the neighbors think

Growing up in small town Arkansas, I ran those streets. My parents didn't pay attention, or care where I went or what I did. Momma was too busy socializing over at the neighbors As long as I kept my doings quiet and stayed out of the town gossip, I was pretty much free to do as I pleased. Like any self-righteous teenage girl, I had my habits. I'd go down to the stores on the main strip figure out just how to get what I wanted. How I went about that just depending on what kind of day I was having. There was a lot of don't ask don't tell. Especially from the dirty old store owners who would give anything to see a young girl's ta-tas. It never matters that I didn't have money, always ended up with what I wanted. Just so long as it didn’t get back to Momma or her friends. Momma and her friends used to sit at an old card table in Ms. Betsy’s trailer drinking their coffee and telling the town gossip. I got to hear it all over dinner. Seems my friend Jenny was caught sneaking out with some boy and now the whole town was sure she was pregnant. The whole town didn’t know that boy was her cover when she wanted to see her girlfriend. They’d really flip if they knew she was a lesbian. “what would the neighbors say?” Momma asked me that almost every day for one reason or another. It’s like right or wrong didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the gossip table. Everyone in town wanted to be at the gossip table. That was the one time you knew you weren’t the subject. One day I was coming out of Old. Mr. Jimmy’s shop with my ill-gotten goods and MS. Betsy herself strolled on my. Her Sunday style hat was flopped to the side on her head swayed with her hips, side to side, until she saw me. Then she just stopped and stared. With the little bag of goodies clutched in my hand, I looked up at her. “Hey, Ms. Betsy.” My feet water to run, but I felt stuck all at the same time. Like the sidewalk was full of wet cement. “Now Lacy, you know Jimmy’s shop isn’t an appropriate place for a young girl to be! “Her brows pinced ugly and her lips picked like saying the words tasted like sour milk. Well, nobody asked her to say them. “What sort of things would a girl like you even need in there?” Yeah, that was her church voice to go with her Sunday hat. “Nothing big, Ms. Betsy. Just some incense and stuff. I like to make my room smell pretty.” Maybe that would call her off. Smelling good is something good for girls to do, right? Not like she had to know about the other things I got, or that Old Man Jimmy had given them to me for letting him look at my breast. Ms. Betty and Momma would never let that go. Momma might even send me off for being the talk of the town! Ms. Betsy looks like she was going to say something else. That pucker was back. I could hear my momma’s words in my head. “What would the neighbors say?” I almost stuttered, but I’m a proper belle. “Well Ms. Betsy, it was nice to run into you. I’ll for sure tell momma hi. Got to go help her with supper. Bye” I took off. I know she stared down my back, but she had nothing to go on and I wasn’t about to give it to her. I ran down the back roads all the way to the house. I knew Momma and Ms. Betsy would talk. I just had to talk first. I ran in and gave momma a peck on the check before dashing to my room to stash my goods. She smile and patted her check like always. The smell of coffee and cigarettes clung to her every move. She tried perfumes, but then she just smelled like perfumed cigarettes and coffee. “I saw Ms. Betsy in town. She says hi.” “That’s nice, dear. Did you have a good day running with your friends?” “Sure thing momma. I picked up some incense for my room.” Incense are cheap. She won’t ask how l, even though I didn’t have any money. “That’s nice dear. Go ahead and start washing those potatoes, will you?” I walked over to the sink and began running some cool water with just a bit of vinegar to get them clean. The phone rang. Momma answered with her normal cheer. My stomach dropped all the same. What if Ms. Betsy said something? I listened like a fly on the wall and washed my potatoes until Momma hing up the phone. “Ok. Let’s boil some water for these bad boys.” I’d done it again. Another day free. All I could think of is what I’d do tomorrow. Tomorrow I had to help Jenny. She wanted to get out and see Sam but she had been caught with Zach so I knew her momma wouldn’t let her out alone. If they knew Sam was really her girlfriend they might lay off on this whole “I bet Jenny’s pregnant” rumor that was going about. Although, the “Jenny’s a lesbian so she must have had parents” rumors would have started. The only thing Jenny’s parents didn’t have to give her was money and none of our parents gave us that. Her parents were even nicer than mine. Still, when I went over to help spring her, Jenny looked like a kicked puppy. “The neighbors are talking about me and Zack. My momma is talking about having to send me off if I don’t straighten up “ the sardonic look on her face using the term “straighten up” made me want to both laugh and scream. Jenny couldn’t tell them either way about any of it or she would be forced to go live with her grandma in the country. We would have to fix this. I just didn’t know how. All the gossip table wanted was gossip. It didn’tmatter what or on who. It was like their cocaine. All the thoughts started running through my mind. I knew we could get the light off Jenny and she could see Sam. I just had to figure out how. “Come on Jenny, let’s go down the strip. We will figure something out and the rest of the crew wants to meet up. What do ya say? Some window shopping?” “Psh. Lacy, like you EVER just window shop. You know Ms. Betsy saw you coming out of old Man Jimmy’s.” I felt my face heat up and my whole body dance like popcorn on the stove top. “There is no way they really know how I get that stuff. They would have sent me off well before now. Ugh people stress me out. I bet we can get some booze today in stead. Old man Bobby has been throwing me the eyes. Let me borrow your crop top and jacket.” I went straight for Jenny’s closet and dug around until I found her hot pink belly shirt and bedazzled denim jacket. I changed and buttoned the jacket half up to slip out of the house. “I got us. What are you feeling today? A little beer or whiskey?” “You really think old Bobby is gonna let you pull of whiskey?” “You bet my sweet tits I do.” “Whatever, I’ll go bit I’m not walking in. I don’t want that sneeze thinking he is getting a two-for” We snuck out Jenny’s creaky old back door and down the side roads to Old Bobby’s liquor store. That was where I always got all my liquor up to that point. Sometimes I’d show the girls and sometimes we’d use the five finger discount method. Today, I was just gonna show a bit. Not like I cared. I didn’t understand why mend would give so much just to see them. I saw them every day. They weren’t much. Undoing the jacket, I slipped I’m the store while Jenny stood lookout. He’d never do it of there were any other customers inside. “Hey, Mr. Bobby. Wanna make a trade today?” I put my hands behind back and pushed my perky girls high and to the front. “Oh now Lacy, come on up to the counter, sugar.” He leaned forward and folded his hands on the counter top. “You are looking awfully nice today.” He licked his lips and traced the outline of my right breast without actually touching me. I felt a little shiver course through me but I stuffed it down. Man, I wanted that whiskey today. “I’m just hoping to score a bottle of good whiskey. You up for a trade?” “Good whiskey, huh? Let me make you a little different deal. You come on back to this room and take that tiny top off. Let me get an extra…good look and I’ll get you an extra good bottle. But don’t you go telling nobody. I can’t do this for all your little friends.” The spit in my throat was thick but I swallowed it anyway and nodded before I followed him to that back room. He stood looking down on me as I took my shirt off. His hand shifted quickly to the bottom of my bra. “A real good look now, Lacy.” His voice rumbled as he cupped my breast and slid my bra out of the way. I tried to move back but he put one hand behind my back to keep me still. The cement settled in my stomach and my feet. When he pulled his hand back , I fixed my bra and pulled my short back on as fast as I could. He just turned and grabbed the whiskey. He handed it to me without another word and I ran out the door, grabbed Jenny by the arm, and just kept moving. We didn’t say a word until we came to the car graveyard. Then I just screamed out my frustrations in a growl and opened the heavy glass bottle of amber liquor. I pressed the bottle toy lips and swallowed hard before I handed it over to Jenny to do the same. I shuddered with the burn and growled again. “That old bastard touched me this time.” The first words I actually spoke since walking out that door. “You let him?” “Didn’t get much choice.” Jenny just watched her feet as she kicked a rock around the dirt. I snagged the bottle back and took another swig. “We could make him pay, ya know? You didn’t tell him to touch you. I could, like, I dunno, write ‘pedo' on his door ‘while everyone is sleeping.” I kicked a rock over by one of the old cars. It clinked against the wheel. Jenny took the bottle and tipped it up again. She shivered and grunted with a big gulp of fire. “How would we get our liquor? What would the neighbors say?” “Nothing about us if we do this right. And they will have new things to talk about, instead of me being ‘pregnant'.” Jenny squished her face and stuck out her tongue. I felt the knot in my gut release a smidge and I laughed at her crazy face before I took the bottle back again. Our plan set, we hid out until dark to do our deed, fueled by liquid fire. We were going to get the light off Jenny and Mr. Bob wouldn’t touch anyone else. That wasn’t the deal. I woke the next morning to the noise of the gossip table. Momma and her friends were extra loud. Seems someone vandalized Bob’s liquor. People said they saw two kids, but nobody could tell who they were in the dark. They had worn hoodies too. They said the kids spray painted bad things on the doors and windows. Now, the gossip table wanted to know why. Had Mr. Bob been doing shady things? Of course he had but they didn’t know the extent of it. Now they sat here guessing. At time passed the neighbors kept hounding Mr. Bob. Seems I wasn’t the first girl to get the good liquor. Jenny got out of trouble when nobody caught her and Zach anymore and her belly never got any bigger. She did start having more sleepovers though. It’s amazing what the gossip table could miss while they were looking at others. I guess those were the days when I could do anything. All I had to keep in mind was “what would the neighbors think?” and then make sure they never did.

mzvau0

Burning Man

The house is its own nightclub. Bass-driven music hypnotizes all the young men and women into obnoxious huddles and scenes. I probably fit my own stereotype but I never understood why others fully choose theirs. Shifting through the crowd I see Charlie and Max wearing boat shoes, no socks for some reason, and a size-too-small polo. That’s only on my left. To my right, three girls, who I also went to high school with, wear far too much makeup that glows with each passing of strobe light. Just like in the cafeteria, just like in gym class, they had their eyes glaring and arms folded at the pathetic sight of living before them. The majors being studied have leaked out of the lectures and latched their facets to all the faces. Again, others see me this way too, at least I think.  “Jacob! “Jacob! To your 1 o’clock!” The music can only be so loud, “Oh hey!” “Hey!” “What’s up Margret?” “I’m good! How about you?” “I’m alright. Just doing me,” taking a sip of my drink. “Where are you at right now?” “A basement?” I hate small talk. She laughs a little too hard, “I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed.” “And neither your hair. I thought you hated being a redhead.” “Believe me I do but I can’t keep dying it. I was blonde in the fall actually…” How many people are even here? 50? 60? And no cops? It’d be pretty interesting if this were that type of night. Or better, someone who “wasn’t invited” crashes the party. Everyone wants the same thing whether or not they realize it. And yet, people have either the audacity, pride, or maybe just respect, to pick and choose who can and cannot join in. Is this how it starts? No, this has have been going on long before, it took only recent time to decipher it. It’s funny ― hilarious that amidst this realm ― she is still talking. “ … God I’d kill myself if that were my hair. She’s one lighter flick away from setting herself on fire.” “Yeah, I know what you mean.” “Oh, that’s right! Doesn’t Sarah go to school with you?” “What? Sarah who?” “Sarah! The girl ―” “UH-OH WHO LET THIS GUY IN THE HOUSE. WHO? WHO? C’MON NOW!” A sneak attack hug checks me right up against a window. A simple shoulder tap would’ve been much better. “Hey what’s up Anthony!” Even in the blue hue, his body is well-defined, similar to that of a gymnast. “ALL IS WELL, ALL IS WELL JAKE!” Why is he yelling, “You seem like you’ve been working out? You look good.” He laughs, “AH JAKE MAN YOU ARE ALWAYS ONE WITH PEOPLE! ISN’T HE, ISN’T HE MARG?” She’s still standing here, “Remember we were all on the student council together?” “Yeah and ―” “OF COURSE! JAKE, REMEMBER FOOTBALL TOGETHER?” “Yeah! Though, I was always a bench player ―” “MARG, YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT THIS KID TRIED. THERE WAS AN OPENING SPOT AT KICKER AND JAKE HE DECIDED TO SHOOT HIS SHOT. REMEMBER THAT THIS IS JAKE AND HE NEVER SNIFFED A DOWN. SO, WHAT DID HE HAVE TO LOSE, HE’S JAKE…” I guess I have to ask myself why I’m here. These people are good people without a doubt. I know because none of them have ever wronged me. Do I have to like them because of that? Whether it was some homecoming after-party or pictures at prom, I just felt they were always staring at me. And not in the sense of appearance but more like an energy presence. They wore Nikes while I wore knockoffs. I was never on the same frequency or vibration as these guys. And I’m somehow here now probably due to an unconscious curiosity or insecurity of mine. I focus on the window until the reflection of the basement morphs into a revelation of outside. There may be a balcony outside. “... JAKE STEPS UP RIGHT. HE STEPS UP AND NOT ONLY DOES HE MISS, HE KICKS THE BALL DIRECTLY AT MR. PEARSON. HE WAS JUST MINDING HIS OWN BUSINESS BY HIS CAR UNTIL BANG! JAKE CONCUSSED HIM IT WAS SO BAD.” “Jake!” “He looked at me the wrong way Margret.” “You meant to do that?” Embarrass myself in front of 58 teammates and the entire coaching staff? “No, no I just ―” “MARGE OF COURSE HE DIDN’T! AND FROM THERE ON OUT THAT’S WHY HIS NICKNAME WAS K58.” “K58?” “58th string kicker Margret,” finishing my drink, “It’s hot in here. I’m going to just catch some air.” “UH-OH DID JAKEY HAVE TOO MUCH TO DRINK?” The alcohol blessed me with enough alacrity to laugh back. With some shifting and excusing, I get to the balcony doors. Someone faintly calls me but not in time, I’m already outside. Amazing how centimeter-thick windows and 4-inch walls dictate it all. The soft cricket chirps, cicadas roars, and the ear soothing lack of man-made sound helps my borderline drunkenness. I take a chair, sit down, and ignite a cigarette. I don’t smoke but the moment feels right. Inhale. Exhale, “Night is not so dark really.” Inhale. Exhale. Inhal ― “Yo Jake!” I’ve been alive too long, “Hey Chuck! How’s everything?” “I do what I do you know me.” The door slides open again and out comes two more, Anthony, and a girl named Maddie. Objectively beautiful but fits the same story as the rest. “Jacob! No way!” “Maddie, I never thought I see you again.” “What are you doing out ― ah you smoke?” “It’s a metaphor.” “What?” How do you not get that reference, “Just a joke. You are where right now?” “Alabama.” “Ah, you in a sorority?” “Yeah, Alpha Delta Pi.” I wonder what the ancient greeks would say about us. I bring Chuck into the fold, “That sounds fun! Chuck, you still working that investment banking ―” “Jake! Jake! You wouldn’t believe it!” berates Anthony out of nowhere. He’s now officially drunk. “What?” playing along. Slurring violently, “It’s Maddi,” he whispers as Maddi is two feet away, “Didn’t you guys date?” Damn his voice knows who to kill night, “Yeah we did for a bit senior year. Remember?” Maddi avoids eye contact, forcing a laugh, “Yeah, yeah….” “What even happened?” I appreciate Chuck’s directness, “She cheated on me.” “WOW! THAT’S BAD MADDI! THAT’S REALLY, REALLY, REALLY…” I was so happy. I never should’ve been in a relationship and yet decided to along like with everything else. She gave me an out. “... REALLY, REALLY, REALLY…” Chuck, still tall and lengthy though his eyes seem different. Not unhealthy but his eyes look like Anthony’s, and Margret’s. Amazing how we would slap each other with cheese slices in lunch, team up on a petty teach together, but haven’t spoken words in years. “... I MEAN WHO WAS THE GUY…” Chuck and I are like a lot of others though. We didn’t face a fallout. Life kind of did life if that makes sense. People come and people go directly or indirectly. “... Oh c’mon Anthony quick being a dumbass…” What is it that does this to us? Something occurs between the ages 14 and 20 that makes everything the melting pot most life is today. An investment banker? A marketer? Too many “ers.” School? The drinking? Maybe, the drinking and school? Either way, people kill themselves without a rope, a gun, a balcony no in days. Just get a bad teacher, a lot of homework, and societal judgment. “Jake?” “Huh-what?” “You good?” “Yeah, just zoned out Chuck.” “Jacob,” steps forward Maddison, “listen you know…” Finally, I see her eyes. They are blue and that’s all. “... but we are good now?” I smile, “Maddison it was high school and we were children. Don’t worry at all ―” “OH BIG SOFTY ―” “Jake no!” “AHHHH YOU DICK!” With the butt end lit, I put my cigeratte out right in between Anthony’s eyebrows. Someone needed to shut this guy up! “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?” “Screw you, Anthony! Screw you! You smell like cat liter, your hairline sucks, and I cannot stand the volume of your voice man. Jesus Christ we are two feet away and you are screaming like ―” I knew what would happen. Anthony’s intoxication and muscles team up to pound a dozen punches to my face, kidneys, and chest. Chuck is helpless and Maddison just cries in horror. He grabs my collar, gassing me with his beer-breath, and pushes me off the railing. Thank God for asethtics. The drop was maybe six feet, if that, and the bushes keep only some scratch marks on me. “Jake, Jake!” calls out Chuck and Maddison, “Are you okay?” My breath is short and I sense the outflow of blood from my nose. It’s warm and painful. I look up at the three, and for some reason, I laugh. I laugh and laugh hysterically. No need to say goodbyes. No need to walk back inside for small talk. I live only a mile down and the night is perfect for a walk.

fvryru

Hesitation

Chiro stared out his window at the stars above, his shoulders slumped. A grimace marred his face as he didn't let himself think about the suitcase still open on his bed where he hadn't allowed himself to pack just yet. He looked out at the town he had called home all his life, coming alive with the night and the people living slightly less in fear with the officers who terrorized them during the day at home with their families should they have one. He had been preparing this for three years. He had made sure his grades were perfect. He had learned the language despite limited opportunities. He had somewhere to go. So why? Why was he hesitating? He heard the door open, and he turned to see Claudia step inside. He gave her a greeting smile before turning back out the window. "So you're really gonna do it?" His big sister asked, her hips swaying as she walked over and leaned at the windowsill next to him. She noticed his downcast expression and followed his gaze towards the birch leaf spirea bush below. She bent down and plucked one of the white flowers and spun it between her fingers. "Penny for your thoughts?" Chiro offered out his hand, and she put a penny into it. He inspected the coin for a few minutes before heaving a sigh. "I hate it here." He said, gesturing out at the town. "Every time I go outside, the more I start looking..." he shook himself. "It's only a matter of time before the police come after me." "Well," Claudia tried, "I've heard they're more equal opportunity shooting people for no reason these days or getting there at least." Chiro scoffed. "Says the one that still looks white." He pulled slightly away. "I know Mamma still thinks I shouldn't go. She'll probably track me down and drag my ass back here eventually." "Nah, she's still busy burning down the hotel again for the insurance," Claudia replied, rolling her eyes. "At least that'll give you a head start." Her tone became serious. "I'm happy here, Chiro. Richard and I know our lives are here, but if you really don't think you belong here, why should you stay?" Chiro just shrugged listlessly. "What if I get there...and it's nothing like I imagined?" He asked. "What if everything I've been imagining and hoping for years is a lie and it's just as bad or even worse than here!" Claudia narrowed her eyes. "Worse than here? Come on, Chiro, I might be content here, but I'll be the first to admit a hellhole." She shrugged. "And come on, it's just college. Worst case, you drop out or come back here. You might get a long 'I told you so' rant from Mamma, but at least you can say you tried." "Why are you so determined to get me to go?" Chiro asked, and Claudia went quiet, crossing her arms and holding out her hand expectantly. Chiro huffed and gave her back the penny. She grinned at the return of the small coin and explained. "Richard is looking forward to a family dinner without something going horribly wrong. I'm pretty sure he's got a whole party planned for when you leave. He's still pissed you ruined our wedding." "He's the one who took advice from a spiteful thirteen-year-old!" Chiro shouted in exasperation despite laughing, and Claudia laughed as well. "I know, I know, and yet he's still determined." Her laughter subsided. "But in all seriousness, I don't want you to throw your whole life away because you got cold feet. You were kinda scaring me before you actually got a drive in life, so you shouldn't give that up." Chiro thought about those years walking around, not sure of his place in the world or why he should even be alive in a world that didn't seem to have any purpose for him. Maybe if he left, he could find that purpose without fear of being murdered. He brightened a bit. What did he have to stay for? Surely Mamma would understand eventually, even if she was stubborn, and that might take a decade or two. And if she turned out to be right, he knew he had somewhere to come back to. "Can you help me pack?" He asked finally. "I know I'm going to forget something as usual, and you're much better at that than me." "Oh yeah," she nodded, "Remember that time you left your deodorant at the cabin, and then we had to go on a road trip?" She gagged. "I still haven't forgiven you for that." She walked into his bathroom and pulled out the toiletries, and put them in a bag that she placed on the nightstand right next to his alarm clock. "Don't you forget this." Claudia helped him pack, and she nearly banged her head against the wall as he didn't sort things exactly as she would for maximum efficiency. "If you want room for all of your clothes, you have to be as careful as possible with folding," she explained, only to get smacked with a pillow. Chiro grinned mischievously, and Claudia grabbed her own pillow. "Oh it is on, you little twerp!" Screams came from both siblings as they bounced on the bed and dodged around each other and their blows. As usual, it ended in a stalemate, and they laid on the bed next to each other. The comforter pulled haphazardly on top of them after it had fallen over in the scuffle. "Don't worry too much, Chiro," Claudia assured him sleepily. "Everything's gonna be a-okay!" Chiro glanced back out the window at the night sky, where it was blissfully quiet. It wasn't often that it was silent, even from where they lived a fair distance from the main sources of noise from the small city. It only served to remind him that he didn't belong here, despite the fond memories. Perhaps even if he could live here without being killed, he wanted more out of life than to follow in the footsteps of his parents and burn down a hotel for insurance occasionally. He turned on his side and continued to stare out at the sky. What would the stars be like on the other side of the world? He supposed there was only one way to find out.

mawo74

This Life is Mine

     “But looking in the mirror, I see someone that I don’t recognize!”      Yuki’s entire life had all been an illusion.      She had grown up in an isolated village. It was surrounded by deep, dense woods that stretched on for miles. The closest settlement was two days away. Yuki lived with her mother, Yana, in a cozy, two-story townhouse.      Their village had been isolated for so long that it had long since lagged behind on modern technologies. No microwaves, no TVs, no Internet, no nothing. Cobblestone paved roads, clay ovens, outhouses near the edge of the village. Yuki would spend her days studying or running errands for her mother, buying bread from the bakery and sweeping the floor of their house.      Yuki had been so happy and content with her life. Mother loved her dearly, and encouraged Yuki to study hard to become the doctor she wanted to be. Despite not having any friends, Yuki was as happy as could be.      Or at least, that was what she thought.      One day, Yana introduced her to some children around her age. Vint and Regen. Vint was two years older than Yuki, and was extremely stern and hardworking. Meanwhile, Regen was…a little annoying and sarcastic at times, but fun and supportive as well. Regen was one year younger than Yuki.      Yuki often found herself studying or playing(on the rare occasion) with Vint and Regen more and more often. One day, Regen took Yuki out to the outskirts of their village, where the farmers lived. He introduced Yuki to the head of the guardsmen that protected their village from wolves. Sir Nicholas, a powerful hunter and warrior that had once taken down a massive grizzly bear.      Nicholas taught Yuki how to use a sword. How to defend herself if she ever ran into wild wolves in the forest, or just any dangerous creatures. Yuki extremely enjoyed her lessons with Nicholas.      But then one day, Yana pulled Regen aside to have a talk with him. And the next day, Nicholas was…gone.      Yuki sobbed for hours over Nicholas’s death. The man had felt like her father to her, the father that Yuki had never known. His demise really hit her hard. Yuki had reached her lowest point.      Which everyone else used to its greatest potential.      One day, Vint heard Yuki practicing her singing in the bedroom. Vint complimented her excellent voice, and suggested that Yuki try out in the annual village talent show. Yuki agreed and performed.      Everyone fell in love with Yuki’s voice.      Yana encouraged Yuki to keep practicing. Yuki happily obliged at first, happy to spend more time singing. But it was at a point where she spent more time practicing singing than studying that Yuki finally noticed the extremely subtle, but now noticeable, changes in her life.      Her studies had shifted over from about science, physics, and math to more about etiquette, language arts, and politics. Yuki didn’t understand the sudden shift. She asked her mother why her studies had changed, and Yana responded very vaguely and dismissively.      Yana started hosting more and more concerts for Yuki to perform at. Yuki quickly became a rising star in the village, known by the eldest grandmother to the youngest child. Yuki felt happy that her songs brought joy to the villagers, but something was missing. Something felt empty inside her.      When Yuki was 14, Vint became more cold and distant. More than she had been before, anyways. Vint stopped hanging out with Yuki and Regen as much, and often sparked furious arguments with Yana. Yuki didn’t understand why; she couldn’t even understand what they were saying half the time! But when Yuki turned 15, Vint disappeared one night and never returned.      Yuki, again, was devastated by the loss. Vint had been her best friend and also like a sister to her. But Regen…although he showed some signs of sorrow and regret, many times he almost looked smug . As if Vint’s disappearance had accomplished one of his goals or something. Yuki quickly knew that something was terribly wrong.      There had to be a reason that Nicholas dropped dead, and Yuki suspected it tied in with her mother. Vint’s disappearance seemed too suspicious to be a coincidence. Both Mother and Regen looked satisfied after she disappeared. Yuki didn’t understand why. She wanted answers.      But she never asked. Yuki stayed in line, and played the obedient child. She went on with her studies, which were mostly politics and etiquette by then, practiced her singing and performed at concerts.      Leading up to this day. May 15th. The day of Yuki’s seventh birthday. And the day of her biggest concert yet.      Yuki had practiced the songs over and over again. She had every note, every word, every verse memorized perfectly. It would be the biggest moment of her life yet.      “Are you done yet, Yuki?” Regen’s voice called from outside the dressing booth. “The attendants are waiting for you!”      “Almost!” Yuki replied. She finished tying her hair into a long braided ponytail, and straightened out her dress. But as Yuki passed by the mirror, she noticed something.      Yuki knew exactly what her personality was, and how she looked. Bright sky blue eyes, cheerful beaming smile, slightly disheveled short hair, and a bit of a rebellious attitude. One who wanted to become a doctor so badly in life.      But instead of that, Yuki saw a quiet, reserved, and obedient girl. With light dulled eyes the color of the sky covered with light cirrus clouds. Long, perfect hair gleaming in the light of the lamp. A ghost of a smile on her face, evidently forced and halfhearted.      Looking in the mirror, Yuki saw someone that she didn’t recognize.      Something stirred deep inside Yuki. A semblance of her past self, suppressed by the oppression of her friends and family that Yuki herself hadn’t even realized. A new question arose: What could she do? How could she regain her old self? Why would Yana and Regen and in the past, Vint, do this to her?      Most could not be answered right then. But there was one that Yuki had a solution to: one she could convey directly yet subtly to her manipulative mother and ‘friend.’      “I’m ready!” Yuki called. She stepped out of the dressing booth, and behind the deep red curtains that hid her from the eyes of the people. The curtains lifted upward, as Yuki stepped into the spotlight.      Yuki closed her eyes, like she did at every concert. A flicker of hesitation arose within her, but Yuki quickly snuffed it out. She was doing this. It was time to show everyone that Yuki would not be controlled.      “I’m not your pet, not another thing you own,”      “I was not born guilty of your crimes,”      “Your riches and your influence can’t hold me anymore,”      “I won’t be possessed,”      “burdened by your royal test,”      “I will not surrender,”      “This life is mine!”

4hhvnm

The waif

"RANI! Get inside at once." Dida's must be the loudest bellow in the neighbourhood, I thought in my ten-year-old head. "Come on in and help Phoolmati prepare the chapatis. How do you expect her to roll out so many for the entire household without help?" I loathed Dida's ear-splitting timbre. I loathed Dida. Period. Yet I had never dared ask why dada wasn't asked to help with the chapatis or other household chores. After all, dada was older. Damn Daddy! Leaving his family at a time like this. "Did your father pass away?' Piya had asked with the cruel innocence of children. I had simply shaken my head trying to step away - as discreetly as possible - from the strong mustard oil stench uncoiling from her two mouse-tail plaits. But Piya was my only friend in that wretched town. The rest of my classmates, mainly boys, would mimic my "Convent-bred" accent and the way I would chew my food with my mouth closed. "Like a cow chewing cud!" they would laugh. "Come on in, lazybones. Phoolmati's hands look like sandpaper with all that flour on them, just waiting for madam to saunter in. Hurry up, please!" I tried slinking into the kitchen as invisibly as I could. "Wash your hands and feet. And thoroughly please!" There was no escaping my grandmother's chameleon eyes. "Careful, didi. You will spoil their shape!" Phoolmati, shaping the dough into perfect little moons, had been admiring her handiwork. "Hurry up the two of you, will you?!" Dida growled. Damn Daddy! I cursed silently for the thousandth time. It was Amma, red-eyed and weak with crying, who had made the announcement. It was his choice and we had to support him, she said. "Renunciation, my food!" Amla aunty had spat the betel leaf she was chewing into the hexagonal tiles of the floor of our house. I found myself edging away as betel drops landed in the vicinity of my newly-bought slippers. Slippers Daddy had bought on my tenth birthday. "You might call it renunciation, but we know what it is." One could hear triumph tingling her throat. Everyone knew that Amla aunty was deeply jealous of Amma. Only Amma didn't believe it. Amma had always been good at denial. She had steadfastly maintained that Daddy would return soon. But when she was unable to pay the house rent for the third month in succession the truth had hit her like a blow. The truth was Dida's house, now Anil mama's, some fourteen hundred miles away from the place dada and I had always known as home. "But… but… why can't we stay here?" I had stuttered when Amma broke the news. The next morning I ran off to tell Soma, my best friend from school and also my neighbour. Soma, squeezing my hand had said that her parents fought all the time but always made up in the end. Her concern baffled me as the previous day we had quarrelled like cat and dog over, what now seemed, something so trivial that we forgot about it the next day, the way only ten-year-olds can. My world had changed in a single day. Rajiv chacha – that's what Soma called Daddy – would return soon, don't worry. Soma's mother, setting down steaming poha and tea on the dining table, ran her hands over my hair saying I need not worry. I returned from Soma's home smiling and optimistic that evening. Dida's house – actually a villa - in the heart of the city was a creamy white quadrate hemmed in with gardens and guava orchards. My brother had christened the rather contemplative edifice Twelve Oaks. But the house didn't have a single oak tree, I had protested. It was from a book he had read which was later made into a movie, he said. Dada, the Hollywood buff in the family, had skipped his math tuition to watch Gone with the Wind at the Odeon with his cricket club friends two days before Daddy's departure. When Daddy had waved his hand from the tonga in his sinuous saffron robes I felt trapped as though by unknown shadows inside a dark room. I had not waved back. The journey to my mother's natal home lasted two days. It was Radha mami who greeted us at the door. Did I just say "greeted"? She had swung open the latch and stood at the door, as though guarding the house against fresh intruders. Then, spotting the disheveled trio at the doorway, she had pivoted in a movement reminiscent of a peacock's graceful strut. Years of training in Indian classical dance had left their imprint on my aunt's gait and figure. Phoolmati had been ordered to lay out freshly-rolled puris to be eaten with hot potato curry and curd. Lime pickle – dada's favourite - was fetched from the pantry and placed at the centre of the table. The dining room appeared different from our last visit. The table had been moved to the centre, right beneath the ceiling fan. Amateurish pen and ink sketches executed by Anil mama during his "artistic" phase had exited the walls to be replaced by family photographs. By "family" I mean Rajesh mama's family. My favourite was the one depicting Radha mami with her arm around Sandeep. I was about to ask when he was getting back from boarding school but didn’t. "Please wash your plates after finishing up. Phoolmati is off for the day. Susheela only comes during the evenings." Her brusqueness punched my ears. The strain inside the dining room was stretching like a wire on an obstinate fret. "Dida!" My grandmother's reflection on the polished marble acted like a salve. I rushed towards where she was standing. "Not now, not now please, I haven't had my bath yet." At least she sounded friendlier. Not friendly, just friendlier. "Was the journey satisfactory?" The last was directed towards my mother. Everybody maintained a studied silence. Daddy's disappearance would be discussed later in the evening, behind closed doors. "Rajiv will return of his own accord you wait and see." Dida's voice was sounding strained, a rope gone threadbare. Anil mama, having just returned from the court, looked fresh in his off-white pyjamas and kurta. Feeling irrationally angry with the quartet assembled in the living room I opened the room door brushed by guilt. "When a man leaves it is usually the wife's fault…" I could hear Anil mama slurping over his tea. "I mean, how could you not have seen it coming? Surely…" The living room door closed on its own. This was to become routine. Spurted conversations punctuated by silence. And arguments. The following evening, pushing the door slightly ajar I scampered inside the kitchen, which was not a great distance away from the drawing room. Of the quartet, Anil mama possessed the loudest voice. "I have spoken to the Principal of The Pine School. He said he is willing to take Rani from the next term." I found my snobbish little heart sinking. Phoolmati's brothers went to The Pine High School. "Are you crying, didi?" Phoolmati, the same age as I, addressed me as didi or "older sister". "The smoke is making me cry," I replied, not altogether untruthfully. Never having rolled out chapatis over a blazing hearth before, I hated every moment of the exercise. "But why The Pine High School, Anil?" "I am sorry Nandini, but I can only afford to send one of your children to a good public school. You know that I had to fall at Mr. Dave's feet for your son's admission to the Boy's High School." The privileges of being enrolled in a school with English as the medium of instruction far outweighed those of vernacular schools. The British, having departed from the country decades ago, had left behind their imprint of superiority. Dida's voice was gathering force. "You must realize, Nandu, that Sandeep's boarding school fees have gone up. You should have thought of all this before leaving Rajiv. His college would have given you a decent job, of a library assistant or a clerk maybe, if you had only asked. But practicality was never one of your prime assets." Her next words had me swallowing invisible tennis balls. "What you don't realize… what nobody of your generation realizes is that the husband is the boss, whether you agree or not. Tell me Nandu, when you were teaching drawing at that school, weren't you required to obey your boss even when you disagreed with him?" The conversation was short-circuited by Phoolmati's mother Susheela. "Mataji, the flour canister is almost empty. Did you want me to fetch flour from the market? I was still fluffing chapatis over the mud-baked hearth under Phoolmati's expert guidance when Amma summoned me to the dinner table. "Have you washed your hands?" Dida bellowed from the dining hall. "And don't forget to serve everyone water before you sit down to eat." I hated her once again. Dada and Anil mama had finished their dinner by the time Amma served me mine. There was little left of the delicious-smelling mashed pumpkin cooked with fennel and mango powder that I had helped Phoolmati prepare. "When are we going home, Amma?" My mother looked away as if she hadn't heard. Dida woke me at six the next morning by tapping me on my shoulder and announcing in that loud voice I had come to detest. "Get up! I have been up long before you." Rubbing sleep from my eyes I visualized striking her apple smooth face hard enough to leave an impression of my miniature palm. Daddy always said my hands resembled a monkey's paws. Damn Daddy! Flicking the irreverent fantasy like a speck of dust I rushed to the dining table to see Dida cascading piping tea from a clay teapot onto large clay mugs. Her face was set in a mould of censure. "Knock thrice and no more." She jerked her peppered head towards my aunt's and uncle's bedroom without looking at me. "Also," her booming vocals stunned my ears, "tell your brother to go for a bath if he wants to get to the mela nice and early." The mela was the fair held during Diwali, the festival of lights. It was midday by the time the Twelve Oaks' denizens – minus Dida and Anil mama – climbed into the grey Chevrolet with Ramdeen at the wheel before setting off towards the mela on the river bank. The plush sand felt like silk under my feet. Although the Yamuna was calm and unrippled, a fierce breeze kept tickling my back with its icy nails. Amma flung her huge red stole around me as I climbed into the boat that dada had hailed. The boatman, a sturdy young man with a large moustache, steered the vessel away from the river bank. Sweating as he pushed the oars against the wind he stopped and let his boat anchor mid-river. "Look!" He was jabbing a stubby index finger towards the waters licking his humble boat he had named 'Jaan'. We looked. A line appeared to be drawn inside the waters. The dark side was the Yamuna while the light side was, he explained in a voice thick with betel and tobacco, the Ganges. Viewing the holy confluence at such close quarters the little party fell silent. "This is where," said Radha mami whose long tresses were blowing out with the breeze making her look like the goddess Durga I had seen during the Durga Puja festival, "the three rivers – Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati – meet." But where was the third river, I asked. "Saraswati has been inundated by the other two, so you can't see her." I couldn't help admiring her fingers tapering like okra from Dida’s garden as they reached for a pair of sunglasses from the expensive-looking handbag on her lap. She had a rather exquisite name for them- Ray Bans or something. Looking like a film star she appeared unmindful of the heads turning in her direction. She allowed me to look through her exotic sunglasses. The banks and rivers appeared pink and purple. The descending sun made the sand and the trees blush. Suddenly the world appeared beautiful. The banks were swarming with scantily clothed mendicants, mostly in saffron. Would Daddy be amongst them? I stared at dada inquiringly who refused to meet my gaze. Instead, he steered me towards a stall where a reed-like man in a dirty white dhoti was busy dipping hollowed-out crisp balls in a container filled with sallow water before handing them out to waiting customers. "Here, try these gol-gappas ." Dada thrust a crisp perforated ball into my hands. I swallowed the savoury in a delicious sweet-sour crunch but did not dare ask for more. At the next stall a small and dark woman from a nearby village was selling plastic dolls in pink and blue satin frocks. They were nothing like the ones Daddy would buy for me during Diwali yet the little things in bright dresses held my attention. "Careful!" exclaimed the stall-owner. "These are delicate pieces. One squash and poof!" she blew into the air ounding her rather ample mouth I bought a cheap little doll with the two rupees Dida had given me. Hugging my latest buy to myself I refused to let go even after Ramdeen herded us inside the Chevrolet. The rivers and sands turned into little specks as we approached the city. "What have you decided to call her?" Radha mami laughed as she delicately pushed back a lock behind her right ear. "Your doll, I mean. Have you seen the way she's been clinging to it, Nandini? A little mum already!" I decided to call it Soma, after my best friend from the hometown that seemed to have disappeared from life. "I have instructed Phoolmati to heat some water for your bath. Don't take forever because she cannot do all the chapatis by herself." Dida barked her summons near the entrance door. Damn Dida. Damn Daddy! "Crick!" The sound made me sit up in bed. Exhausted from the day's excursions and evening duties I had spilled onto my bed late that night. Soma! I held her up against the meagre light sneaking from Dida's bedroom. The mosquitoes chorused about my ears unconcernedly as I sobbed myself to sleep. When Dida came to wake me in the morning she placed Soma in my hands. "I heard you crying at night and fixed her by blowing into this, see!" She unscrewed a cap underneath the Soma's cheap little headgear. "Now come and get the tray. Be quick!" I no longer hated my grandmother.

3of525

I Remember

My thoughts race through everything and nothing at the same time. I lay in bed thinking of each bedroom I had and its layout in the house I grew up in. My mind travels through the years connecting random memories to the next. No rhyme or reason to where the thoughts began or where they are going.  I think of living in base housing, the first home I lived in that I have any concrete memories from, and I remember nothing of the inside of the house. I remember the carport being connected to the neighbors as is customary in military housing. I remember playing with the stereo, and dancing to the theme song from “Saved by the Bell.” I remember pretending to be asleep when I heard people at the door the night my dad came home from Desert Storm. Yet, no other memories stand out about the inside of the house. I remember walks around the track at Hiller Park. I remember going to Catholic school for kindergarten. I remember learning how to spell my name and instantly deciding it had too many letters and I was never going to go by my full name. It was hard to spell and hard to say. I was five when I made the official decision to henceforth always be called Gabby, never Gabrielle. Unless of course I was in trouble, which honestly happened more often then not. I remember my dad deploying and being gone for what felt like years, but in reality was less than one. I remember we went to Disneyworld for the first time when dad got back from Desert Storm.  I remember Sandy, the best dog ever (at least until I had Duke). I remember learning that Sandy was short for Sandringham because my parents loved England. My mom always said she would go back to England in a heartbeat and often joked about stowing away on friends' travel plans. I remember we always went on at least one family trip a year. Going to Louisiana where the majority of my family was born never counted as a trip, it was simply going home. I remember Uncle Martin’s house in Raceland, Louisiana. You had to turn at the street with the brick wall of the old post office. I remember his garden. The horrible smell of the sugar plant but loving getting stalks of sugar cane. His pickled cucumbers that no one else ever had the recipe for and that I haven’t had since 1995. The freshest vegetables that even I would eat because it made him happy. I remember always wondering why he had a picture with a matador and bull, and never getting an answer. I remember the smell of old furniture and learning that it was my dad’s home without being where he grew up. The camp as we always called it that took a car ride and a boat ride to get to but was the best place ever. I loved swinging on the hammock that was fused between two trees, no storm was going to take that thing away. Learning to swim by running and jumping off the end of the dock, but always having to wear a life vest because I was never a strong enough swimmer to be left on my own in the channel. The 1950s style of Aunt Alice’s place always felt cheery and fun yet from an old school magazine at the same time. The salty smell in the air was never thick or detested as a kid, but always refreshing. Shoes were rarely if ever worn. I remember my grandmother’s house, the layout, and the smell. The water was always the worst, it smelled like bad eggs. I remember laying on the rough carpet watching “Johnny Quest.” My great-grandmother, Baby’s house was right next door. I never knew her real name, it was just always Baby. I never remember being allowed to go inside her house until after she died. She had a lot of old things I wasn’t allowed to touch. My sister was named after my grandmother, but my sister hates her first name and has always gone by her middle name. I remember always thinking, I’m not calling her by her middle name because she doesn’t even say it right. If she at least said it right, I would use her middle name, but since she won’t I’ll always call her by her first. Going to church and Monsignor Farrell telling me that he couldn’t call me Gabby because I was named after an Archangel. We would always have the conversation either before or after mass almost every Sunday until I was seven. Growing up in a Catholic church was interesting, different, and special all at the same time. At one time I knew every inch of the church, parish hall, and even the convent that is no longer used as a convent. Even though I didn’t attend the school after kindergarten, until they added new buildings, I even knew that like the back of my hand. The Parkway house as my family came to call it. I remember almost everything. The ugly, burnt orange shaggy carpeting. The slant of one room that was originally a garage that had been closed in and converted to a den. I remember getting in trouble for playing in the concrete as it was being laid. The threshold held my name, scribbled using a stick I found. It wouldn’t surprise me if it is still scrawled there. The cherished bay window that I spent many days laying in adding pillows trying to find the most comfortable spot. I remember helping my dad and uncle build the “big” shed outback. I remember digging and building the pond in the back right corner and laying the concrete stones. It was always my hideaway in the summer because the branches from the trees would hide me when they were heavy with greenery. I remember the rope swing that I spent day after day climbing, swinging, and falling off of. The treehouse that of course had to become unsafe as soon as I was old enough to go up there by myself. The yard never looked the same after that huge tree came down after Hurricane Katrina. So many memories are tied into that house. I still dream of it as home when I’m restless and dream at night, even though the details are never exactly right. I have two older sisters that never wanted to share a room with me. I felt rejected at the time but considering the age difference, it’s understandable. What teenager wants to be surrounded by a sibling still in elementary school. For many years I shared a room with my middle sister. I remember how she kept the room tidy. Mostly so she could tell when I got in her things. I remember the bunk bed that had a bigger mattress on the bottom than the top. I would always try to slide down the metal “C” of the frame even though it never worked, and I almost always got hurt. I remember when my sisters finally had enough and needed their own space my parents made me my own room in the three-bedroom house. They took the side-by-side walk-in closets of both my sister’s rooms and made a tiny “L” shaped room just for me. It was the best thing ever. I finally had my own room! Except since it was originally designed as two closets, I was never allowed to have a door because there was no ventilation, but still it was mine! I remember going to the BX on base and picking out the wallpaper that went along the chair rail. Of course, it was unicorns. My absolute favorite movie was The Last Unicorn , and as such, I had to have unicorns in my room. As my oldest sister grew up and moved out, I was finally able to have a full-fledged bedroom. I remember the summer days of imagining I was Harriet the Spy (notebook included) trying to solve mysteries in the neighborhood. I remember the park down the street being built it being spooky because the back of the walking trail went close to the wooded area that always seemed to be so much cooler than the rest of the trail. Walking the trail four full times equaled a mile, and I walked many miles on it. I remember getting older and finding fewer and fewer reasons to wander the wooded area. Fewer and fewer reasons to ride my bike anywhere and everywhere. Fewer and fewer reasons to swing and slide at the park. Fewer and fewer reasons to walk to the water and feed ducks old bread while lounging on the old pier reaching out into the Back Bay. I remember finding fewer and fewer reasons to be a kid and more and more reasons to grow up and become an adult. If I could go back to the simplicity of what I remember the thing I would remember the most is to enjoy it and never ever wish to grow up faster. 

d100ag

Dinner and No Movie

Damn, I really need to be studying. My stomach already aches from the lack of food I've eaten but, seeing the D in my Psychology class just made me feel even worse. Like the true avoidant I am, I quickly close out the Blackboard app. As if a coincidence, I get the warning text from T-mobile that my phone bill will be due soon. I had almost forgotten about that. Shit, I got to make up something to tell my mama. My stomach turns even more at the thought of how selfish I am. My mom had just lost her job right before I went off to New Orleans for college, and here I was spending the money she scraped up for my phone bill on some boy. I admit that I am a fool, but I couldn't help it. I loved him, and for once, I have someone consistent in my life that hadn't left my side. Seasonings blend in and marinate the air with the tangy aroma of chicken that intermingles with biscuits' buttery scent. I can smell the faintest hint of apple and cinnamon as the cooks got to rolling with the apple pies—my stomach grumbles. I couldn't afford an apple pie this week if I wanted to make sure I had enough bus fare to make it back to campus. "Uh uh, Nah, baby! This ain't what I asked for. I asked for spicy, not mild." "That's what the ticket said, ma'am." I am knocked back into reality by the uproar at the counter. I fan myself with my hand, surveying the scene around me. The restaurant is animated, filled with various characters. A mother shushing her unruly child as she complains about her order, construction workers grabbing handfuls of ketchup packets discussing get rich quick schemes, older women with big church hats coming in for their after-church lunch. And there is Liam, my boyfriend, in line buying us lunch.  Liam who always seemed to know what to say and how to say it. Liam, who kept me grounded for the last two years. Liam who is the only one that cares about me. Liam, who I loved with every fiber in my being. Liam, who I had forfeited my dreams for to come live in this city. I shifted on the hard seat in the booth. I wait patiently for Liam. Ugly thoughts began to cross my mind again. Liam who didn't have to make any sacrifices. Liam, who called me stupid in indirect ways at times. Liam, who gets angry when I didn't spend my money in "correct" ways. Liam, who refused to get any job since working fast food, was "beneath" him. Liam, who is buying us lunch with my money. My eyes narrow at him at the register. What is this? The 6th time this weekend, I had to buy food for the both of us. How many times this month? I take out my phone to look at my calendar. It was nearing the end of September. Three weekends, three meals each weekend, two days. My God, I have bought this motherfucker food eighteen times! I was not even counting August, the snacks, and the gifts. I didn't calculate the bus rides we took and the fees of dates I paid for with money my family entrusted with me for school supplies and extra items. I didn't tell them where my money was going. My mother would drag me by the hair back to Mississippi, especially since she was pinching pennies and sucking in her pride to ask my extended family for my school expenses.  In an instant, I feel a mixture of shame and anger. Am I really so desperate and stupid for someone to love me? I sacrifice bits and pieces of myself. I turn on my phone's front camera to catch a look at myself. The dark bags and circles under my eyes are a constant now. My hair is dry and has minimum life to it since I cannot buy new hair products. A scarf is tied crookedly around my edges to make me feel somewhat pretty. It isn't working. My shoulders sag. I haven't felt pretty on my own in a while. I usually never feel pretty unless Liam tells me so. Lately, ever since I cannot afford things that make me feel pretty, his comments have become scarce and scarce. Often more, it's criticism. My eyes fall on his back that is still away from facing me, while I sit at the booth waiting for him to return. He smells. He smells of sweat and dirt. I know he does because I could see the woman behind him fan her nose in annoyance. I know it's him because I smelled him on our way here. I know it's him because my roommate complained when he got me from my dorm two days prior. Suddenly, I feel like he has no right to tell me that I'm pretty or not. His hair is stringy; that cap is dirtier than my Auntie Mary's floor. And seriously, girl, has he even taken a bath this weekend? You haven't seen him get in the tub since you been crashing at his parent's house with him away from your dorm? My eyes pan to the window next to me, and I look out at the gloomy scenery of Elysian Fields. The clouds hung low in threat as if it would rain. The sidewalks of his neighborhood are crumbled by construction work. The RTA bus zooms by, signifying that another wouldn't come for another 45 minutes to an hour and a half. It looks like we're walking back to the Villas. I can already feel the humidity as I let out a sigh. The walk back would feel like an eternity, especially with my backpack and recent backpain. I'm sore already from walking here already. Of course, Liam told me I complained too much, and he walked ahead of me. For a brief moment, I hate him. I want to leave. I want to call my mother right now and tell her what's been going on. How I've been low in spirit, broke, and dejected since arriving at college in the city. For a moment, I think of my dad and how he is probably turning over in his grave at the things I've settled for since he passed away. A lone tear slides down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away. What did I do ever to deserve this? I wonder if I could do this for the rest of my life or if this is a temporary situation. I've seen several couples struggle on Facebook and then come up together. I have been holding onto the slim hope that that would be us. But can I wait forever? Or Should I even? I barely had any friends because he took up all of my free time, and the friends I did make he judged harshly. I wouldn't dare tell my friends back home of my struggle. I feared being judged and told to "dump him" for a better dude. But I don't want to be lonely again. Loneliness is a death sentence to me. Ever since my dad died, I couldn't help but feel this way. In these past five years, I have felt unprotected without him. Was it so bad that I wanted to feel safe again and loved? My mother never seemed to want to talk about my dad anymore. She'd rather scream and constantly try to fill his place with failed relationships.  I hate her for it, yet I wonder if we aren't so different after all. "Hey, babe. Sorry it took me so long. Had to get some apple pies?" Startled, I look from the window to focus back on him. He now had two boxes of tenders, drinks, and-- "Apple Pies?" I ask, confused. He passes a quarter and nickel back to me. I'm supposed to have more change than this. All the money I would have until Thursday. Today is Sunday.  Thursdays were like Christmas. My grandparents would send me $30 via Western Union, and relief would settle in my heart. Fridays on the 15th of each month were like my birthday. My work-study would roll in, and I'd feel semi-rich. For a little while, at least. Lord God, why did you have to give me a broke white boy? "I thought we were just getting chicken." A nervous tremor is in my voice. How in the hell would I be able to get back to my dorm without bus fare later? A one-way Bus pass was $1.25 back to my dorm. Even then, I would have to walk fifteen minutes in the dark down the street because I did not have $3 to get a one-way pass to switch to the other bus. "Well, I decided to get apple pies for my parents. I hope that's cool. I'll ask if they can drive you home to your dorm." He quickly adds.  I'm lucky. His parents rarely took me back to my dorm. Usually, Liam and I would have to take the bus back or prepare for a very long walk. Like I fool, I fell back in love. My Liam always knew exactly what to say and how to say it. "Sounds like a plan. Thank you, baby." I smile, kissing him on the lips when he sits beside me at the booth. "Now, let's try to eat this fast so we won't get rained on." I loved him with every fiber in my being. Sometimes loving someone that much will hurt with every fiber of your being. One day, I would find that out the hard way. But, not today. I was okay now and back in love with the one man who hadn't left me. Even if he isn't consistent in his passion, he's still here. I should be grateful because a girl like me doesn't have that many options.  I open my box of chicken, smiling like a damned fool .

ve138q

The Man in the Mirror

How often do you look at yourself in a mirror? Sure, you may check to see how far a certain shirt comes down your waist, or maybe you check to make sure the part of your hair is in the right spot, or maybe you’ve been hitting the gym more frequently and want to see your progress. Perhaps you want to see if that shirt still fits from your 20’s. But this is not what David was tasked with. He wasn’t supposed to look at his body, he was supposed to look at himself. David couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. He wasn’t sure he ever had. David’s life was ruled by habit. And he wasn’t in the habit of looking at himself in the mirror. He told himself it wasn’t necessary. He knew what he looked like, essentially, and fortunate enough for him, society hasn’t yet placed a burdensome expectation on his gender to paint his face before leaving the house. David lived an efficient life, or at least he tried to. He’d taken to shaving in the shower because the hot water opened his pores better. And he brushed his teeth while doing other things; filling the coffee pot, scratching his dog, or just even scrolling through his phone. He arranged his life like an organized person would a desk at work. He tried to create as much efficiency as possible, understanding that efficiencies are not inherent in things, but created out of will. He arranged his days so that he could limit time, in David’s words, pausing.  It wasn’t that David thought there anything inherently wrong with pausing, but he found that once he started to pause, to idle, it was hard to get going again. If he was just able to keep going, keep moving, then he would. But the minute he paused, he’d have to take a moment to get started again. What David hadn’t realized, though, is that there is power in the pause. Great and terrible power. Pausing allows us to stop and look around. It lets us reorient ourselves to our surroundings. Rather than just plowing ahead, day in and day out, the pauses help us stop, slow down, and ask questions. At least, that’s what his therapist told him. David started to see a therapist at the request of his sister. She told him it would be good for him. She didn’t like how he seemed so laser focused on everything other than himself. “You don’t even know who you are.” She’d told him. “Of course, I know who I am.” He’d rebuked. “David, you’re my brother, I love you, but you have no idea who you are. You know who you were . Whether you can see it or not, you’ve changed.” David wasn’t sure if he believed her or if this was just another problem she was trying to find so that she might come up with a solution. When they were kids, she’d done similar things, inventing a problem in her head and then coming up with a solution for it. One time, when they were in middle school, she’d arranged a whole family intervention with their parents because she’d thought they were getting divorced. She’d invited their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a few cousins who were around. There were 15 people there. And then, when their parents walked in, his sister just started talking about how she knew, just knew that they still loved each other, and that they could work it out. They’d have the support of the whole family behind them. Then she started asking the other relatives to tell them how much their marriage meant to them. David couldn’t remember who was more shocked, his parents, or the rest of the family. Nobody had any idea what was happening. His sister had kept it all to herself. He remembered the look on his mother’s face going from shock to concern to confusion. Looking at his father with a silent, “ did you know about this?” face. There were other instances, too, of his sister inventing problems. There was the time she decided that bookstores were wrecking the planet, and so she camped outside a nearby bookstore and handed out flyers, printed flyers, mind you, extolling the hazards of printing too many books, of the deforesting in all parts of the globe. There was another time where she tried to convince David that the local newspaper in town was out to turn the city against the mayor. She got a job there, imagining herself going undercover, trying to catch the nefarious media executive in a plot to bring down a local government over a personal vendetta. What she ultimately discovered was that the mayor had been skimming funds to build a swimming pool in his back yard, which was the exact story the newspaper had published in the first place. And then she had begged David to go into therapy. After several weeks of daily phone calls from her, he stopped and thought about it. It was an hour a week at most. And insurance would probably cover it. So, he might as well try it. And, if he was being honest, he did feel a little stuck in his life.  A little like he’d reached a dead end. Maybe talking to someone could help with that. And so, after a month of his sister pleading, David found a therapist. His first few sessions were nothing like he expected. His therapist, whom he was instructed to refer to as Al, was just trying to get to know him. He asked about his upbringing, parents, his sister, what school was like, and his current job. At the end of the third session, David said that he wasn’t sure the point of all of this. “What do you mean?” Al asked. “It’s just, isn’t therapy supposed to be where you talk about your problems?” “Do you have problems you’d like to talk about?” He followed up. “I don’t know. I don’t really think about stuff like that.” “What do you think about?” “I just keep going. I try to just do what needs to be done and then move on to the next thing.” “Why?” He prodded. “Why?” David thought for a moment. “I guess because it’s hard to get back going when I stop.” Al wrote something down in a yellow legal pad he kept on his lap. He used one leg as a table, with his ankle crossed over the other knee so that his legs looked like an uppercase T. “David, do you know who you are?” “Huh? Of course, I do.” “No, not superficially. I mean, what makes you, you . What motivates and drives you? What do care for. What do you strive to be?” He paused. “Do you know what makes you you?  Do you know who you are? If you’re constantly moving from one thing to another, do you ever stop and think about why? Or about who’s doing all these things?” David sat and looked at him. He wasn’t sure how to respond. “I have a homework assignment I’d like you to do this week before our next session.” Al said. “I’d like you to look in a mirror for three straight minutes. Don’t do anything else. Just look at your face for three minutes. Set a timer on your phone. And then after the three minutes is up, I want you to write about who you see. Bring it in and we’ll talk about it next week.” And this is how David found himself finally looking at himself in a mirror. He’d set the timer on his phone for three minutes, as instructed, and then set it face down on the counter next to him. He had a small notebook on the lid of the dirty clothes hamper in front of the toilet behind him. David looked. First, he studied his face. There were a few wrinkles there, but his face still looked like his face. His hair was still dark, almost black, the color of black coffee in a ceramic cup. He had a good amount of stubble on his face. He hadn’t shaved for a few days. His beard was mostly dark as well, but he counted nine white hairs growing from his chin. He looked at his skin. It glistened from the oils his face constantly produced. He’d had a small acne problem in high school, but now, he thought, the oil was probably helpful to keep his skin looking young. He looked at his mouth. He wasn’t smiling. He let his lips go slack, letting them rest where they would. His expression was blank. It was the expression of someone who is trying to fall asleep, except his eyes were open. His eyes. That’s where he looked next. They were brown, and the dark pupils in the centers were small. The lights above the vanity mirror were bright enough to keep his eyes dilated. Those eyes, his eyes, had seen much, and they’d seen nothing. He wasn’t in the habit of using them for looking. His eyes, as was the rest of his body, were for doing. But now he wasn’t doing. He was looking. And what did they see? They saw a man. David never considered himself a man. Society might, based on his age, but he wasn’t society. He still felt like the same person he’d been in school. It’s a strange feeling, he thought, for society to put different labels on you at different times in your life, but to feel like the same person you always were. Looking at himself now, he understood. He wasn’t the same. Not even a little. The boy David was still in there, but the boy had grown. He’d seen more of the world. He’d been part of the world. He’d worked for a decade, now, at the same job, earning money and spending it on food and clothing and car payments. Saving, wherever he could, for a retirement when he was… What? Older . He thought to himself. He looked at the nine white hairs on his face. He was older. Retirement was closer than it was two minutes ago. His youth, farther away. For a moment, David thought about the things he still had to do that day. It was garbage day, and he needed to take out the trash. And his dishwasher was clean and full, so he needed to unload it. But he quickly shook those thoughts away and went back to the mirror. Went back to himself. Out loud, he spoke. “What do you want?” He listened to his voice. He watched his mouth move. This person in the mirror seemed to be asking him. What did he want? Was he…happy? Is that even a legitimate question? Should that be a goal? To be happy? “Are you happy?” The man in the mirror asked him. He stared into his own eyes. He was curious. Who was this person? If he met this person on the street, would he recognize him? He thought about other faces he knew. His sister. His friends. His coworkers. He closed his eyes and brought each of their faces to mind. He could see them in great detail. But his own face was a mystery to him. What an odd thing; out of all the faces he could recall, he knew his own the least. He could recognize hundreds of people in a crowd, but would he recognize himself? The alarm on David’s phone rang. His three minutes were up. He ended the alarm and put his phone in his pocket. He slowly turned and sat down on the closed toilet seat and grabbed the small notebook already open to a blank page, an efficiency he’d created in a previous life. Who am I?  He wrote. He sat there, with the afternoon sun coming through the windows in his bathroom. He sat there, not doing anything else. Not trying to accomplish any tasks, and thought about the question he’d already written. Who am I? He put the rest of his life on pause. And he sat in that pause. There is power in a pause, he thought. He was a bit frightened of it. Who was he? David grabbed the pen and started to write.

wf8ydw

Mother and Mum

The walls shake as the thundering screams erupt from the living room. The cat ran outside ages ago, it’s like she senses the storm before we others do. Days like this often happen when she hasn’t slept well. From the bright and early sunrise you can tell she has a cold sort of stare in her eyes. But someway, somehow she always seems to surprise us, time upon time we fail to avoid it, and time upon time I witness mum fight for me.  Most of the time I manage by hiding under my bed, and it’s almost like she doesn’t even realise that I could be home (if she had realised, you would’ve known), but my sister and mum don’t do that. They continuously put up the fight, and they never back down until there’s no other choice.  If I told anyone about it they’d barely believe me, I think. She seems so warm and loveable at dinner parties, at birthdays, at gatherings. You would never in a million years be able to tell what happens as soon as she couldn’t sleep last night.  But here I am, trying to block out the barbaric sounds coming from the other side of the wall by tugging my thin fingers into my earholes. Mum screams at Mother to stop as my sister’s cries tear at me as if lasers were cutting through my senses. And this is exactly the reason I don’t manage to stay under my bed some of the times - when my sister screams like that, my heart begs me to do something. She turns on some serious alarms within me, and I leap out from my safe space, pull the door open, and I sprint through the hall and into the large room designed for the perfect family, where what looks like a play is taking place. A play written with dark, dark humour. Instantly I let my tears fall, and before I know it I’m tearing the two people apart, forcing Mother to let go of my sister.  With all of my might I pull her off of my sister, and as my left hand holds tight on Mother’s shoulder, I pull my right hand pack, pump it into a threatening fist, and punch her right in her fake face. Mum is tearing herself apart in the corner, but I continue. I put up the fight that I never knew was in me - and obviously neither did Mother. I don’t stop hitting her until her nose is bleeding, and she’s crying. She doesn’t even try to hit me back, and when I think she’s about to do so, I distract her with another punch aimed at her mouth and crooked front-teeth.  My sister now has her hand on my left shoulder, and wants my attention. I kick a bruised version of Mother right in the stomach (I have no idea how my leg reached that high, but it did), and I push her away from me. Her fragile self falls down to the floor, comforting her smashed face. She deserved every one last bit of it.  I turn to my sister and hug her, both of us drowning in our own tears. Mum is now standing in between me and my sister and Mother, not being able to decide where would be best to be. Mother does not look intimidating lying on the floor like that, not in the least.  But I won. I really put up that fight, and I won, and I was able to help my sister. Mum feels bad that I saved my sister and that she didn’t, but I don’t think she feels bad for Mother. She shouldn’t. Mum, my sister and I have been lying in my room for a couple of hours, holding each other. I think Mother’s been washing up. We have to leave soon anyway, but none of us three want to get up. In here we’ll always be three against one - if Mother decides to enter, that is. And in the midst of our silence and thoughts, is when we hear a knock. None of us answer, so after a moment the door opens ajar, and Mother sticks her head in. She’s not bleeding anymore, but she is looking very bruised. Wonder what she’s planning to blame that on.  ‘Come on, let’s go.’ She says in a calm voice, like nothing ever happened. Us, lying tight in my bed, stare at her without making eye-contact until she retracts herself from the room and closes the door again. We share another silent and calm moment, this time full of mental preparation before we all leave the bed and quickly fix ourselves up. We have all of our things in my room already - this is barely the first time this has happened.  With Mum first, we move towards the door. When we open it, we walk quietly out of it and see Mother sitting on a chair in the dining room.  ‘You ready?’ She says again in a calm voice, as if having forgotten the previous scenes of horror. We nod anxiously, and together, once we have our shoes on, we step out into the sun and move slowly towards the car.  I don’t know what it’ll be today - we usually first find out once we’re there and she has to use it - but I suspect she’ll be working hard to make a suitable excuse for the marks I left on that thing she calls her face. I never knew I had it in me.  The dynamic between us has definitely altered to a whole new level, and the tension is palpable even as we stroll awkwardly down the driveway. I’ll have to feel this new hierarchy in different situations first, but I think it’s safe to say that I’m pleased and satisfied with my actions and where they led me.  So as we reach the car, open it, and sit ourselves down, I gasp at the heat within the vehicle, appreciate the summer day, and continue to prepare myself mentally to act completely civil and casual at my cousin’s birthday - which we’re already fifteen minutes late to - and I can guarantee you, the rest of my family, and probably also Mother, will be doing this too. 

6fertj

The last day on Earth

It was a beautiful day in a small tourist town. A young man was seated at a prime location staring out at the party-goers with disdain. As he was about to voice his anger A huge pile of appetizers and various drinks lined his table. Slightly appeased by the food he began to eat. His broad shoulders slumped back in annoyance. The man who was of tall stature leaned on the table in annoyance as he stared at two similar looking men with dark skin and black hair. Both were strutting around like peacocks. Something James could never understand. They had promised a fun, business-free vacation. However, that was not the case. He was pissed. This was supposed to be a nice family vacation instead it was a work thing. James stood angrily eating at the fancy resort wishing that the day would end. He even wished his brother would just disappear. His father and elder brother were hustling the corporate executives for more money and it was disgusting. As James was about to leave a boy in a mangled suit ran past. He quickly turned back set down and pretended to be reading a menu. A group of security ran passed leaving James grinning. “Are you alright” “Yeah thanks for not sealing me out” “I'm alan Hellinger” “James Black” “Oh dear our parents hate each other let's be best friends,” Alan said happily shaking James' hand. James and Alan broke bread scarfing down the spread of food. At first, James wasn’t sure about Alan but after a few jokes the two hit it off. They spent the next hour pranking the staff. It was as they were leaving the pool area that trouble began. An older man began to tell Alan he was going to hell for thinking that way. At first, James was confused until he saw the pride bravely on Alan's wrist that stood out against the proper black suit. Alan was about to reply when James pulled Alan into a tight squeeze. “My boyfriend here didn’t ask for your opinion so why don’t you go perv over the little girl's bikinis,” James said easily pulling Alan away. Unbeknownst to James, Alan was grinning like a mad dog. James was holding his hand tight. “Do you think we’d make a good couple” James chuckled smirking. “I’d say so” the two were having such a good time just enjoying each other's company that when dinner time came they found each other goofing around in the buffet hall. Neither caring what their respective families would say. The two were scarfing down the buffet when a load crash caught their attention people raced to the windows. Curiously James ran to see what all the commotion was: huge mentors slammed onto the ground. Cars slammed into each other as people panicked. In the distance, James could see a tornado starting. Alan pulled him away from the window as a rouge tree flew into the glass sending every onlooker flying. Alan drug James away from the chaos out into the underground garage. Frantically he looked around. “Find lot E” “Damm it James wake that pretty brain of yours up we need to go now” “Go where the sky is on fire and I'm pretty sure it's the end of the world” “Well even more reason not to die here,” Alan said, shoving James down the hall as the whole building began to shake violently. Alan finally found the vehicle he was looking for; A giant tank of a Hummer stared back. “Get in,” Alan said climbing into the driver set. James looked around at the crumbling building in terror. “Do you even have the keys?” He asked climbing into the beast of a car. “Yes, I lifted them this morning right before we meet that part of the reason I was being chased” “And the other reason?” “I was going to tell everyone that I’m Gay and that my father is the biggest homophobe alive, hopefully tanking his stocks for all time,” Alan said looking relieved. James slammed the door and buckled his seat belt as a piece of the roof collapsed in bouncing off the dash.     Chuckling nervously Alan punched the gas speeding out of the building right through the ticket station. The scene of the streets was pure and utter chaos. Dead chard bodies, hellish fire, and panic injured people were everywhere. The concrete street was splitting and in the distance, water splashed and fail as the moon showed its face in the middle of the day. Frightened Alan began hyperventilating and muttering to himself. “Breath,” James said softly, gripping the wheel. Weaving in and out of traffic Alan drove, making a mad dash for a hill in the distance. “We need a place to hide,” he said confidently. His blue eyes burning with determination. “The beach should be safe from fire,” Alan said choosing as he drove towards the beach that’s bridge was disappearing due to the rapidly rising tides. “Hide?” James said, confused as he looked out into the distance there appeared to be nowhere they could possibly begin to hide. “Yea I’m hoping if we can ride this out we’ll be okay,” Alan said sounding unsure and fearful. “You think it's warfare?” James said, looking at the falling debris. “No it’s too sporadic,” Alan said, shaking his head. “You don’t want to know what I think it is” “Tell me” “I think it’s the end of the world” “Why would you think that?” “I follow this guy online he use to work for NASA and about a year ago he saw an anomaly in the sun's rotation, no buggy right” Alan laughed. “Than one in the moon then boom he’s gone, then this shit” “Did he say what to do or what would happen” “He said where screwed life on earth goes bye, bye” “Oh” was all James could manage. The bridge in front of them was gone taken out by a meteor. Grunting Alan slammed the gas pedal down. With a made leap of faith, they cleared the gap the back tires struggling to get traction. The two exited the car watching the water eat the land around. Fire danced on the rising water glimmering like stars. The two stood there staring in disbelief. Defeated they slumped to the ground watching the fires burn in the distance. They had survived the end of the world as they knew it. No government, no police, only each other and what they chose to do with themselves. The thought was delightful and short livid. “You know what I’m glad I meet you” “There is no one else I’d spend the end with,” James said fondly resting his head on Alan who wrapped an arm around him. The blue sky became a toxic purple and orange as the sun exploded and all life on earth ended as the ozone layer tore to shreds. A pop traveled through space leaving behind a void of silence where the human race had once been. The universe became silent as it had been at the dawn of creation.

qyrxc8

Seventeen

Seventeen. You know, it’s funny, the kinds of questions they ask at job interviews. I’ve been doing a lot of those recently. I’m seventeen and I still don’t have a job. All my friends have one that they got a while back, before the pandemic. Meanwhile, I’ve been going to interview after interview. Either no one wants to hire right now because they’re afraid of another wave of COVID, or I’m more socially awkward than I thought. The questions they ask at those interviews are always super weird though. I hear them a lot. My favorite is, “if you could say something to yourself from ten years ago, what would it be?” That’s hard, you know, at least it is for me. Everything has changed the last few years, for better and for worse. Everything is harder. I don’t want to say that to a child. I want to go back. Sixteen. One year ago I was suffocating. I felt trapped, and not just because of the pandemic. I was trapped inside my house. I was trapped inside of my mind. I was trapped, drowning inside a pool of aching, swirling, anxiety filled thoughts. I was trapped inside of a father-daughter relationship I didn’t want anymore and I couldn't get out. Fifteen. Two years ago was the last time I saw my father. I didn’t want to go anymore. I knew that he was an awful person and I didn’t want to see him anymore. I begged and pleaded with my mom to just let me stay home. She couldn’t; it was written in the court order that I had to see him every summer. I’m going to see him again on Christmas break this year, to try and save something, any tiny piece of the relationship we once had. I’m not sure if I even want to. Fourteen. There was a summer, three years ago, when I was out on a walk with him. He was telling me all about this trip that he had taken to LA that summer for his 40th birthday. Apparently there were these girls in “really revealing” outfits taking pictures with people. “These weren’t the kind of girls that should be wearing those types of clothes.” I asked him what he meant by that. “Well, just imagine if you wore those kinds of clothes. No one would find you sexy.” I’ve always been a larger woman. I had just started to lose weight as well. I had lost 40 pounds in just a few months. When he said this, it ruined all the confidence I had gained that year. Sometimes, I still don’t think anyone will ever find me attractive. Thirteen. This was the year I came out to my dad. It was pride month, and we were driving down the street when I saw a store. The window was painted with the colors of the pansexual flag. I smiled. My dad noticed that I looked happy, and he asked me why. I finally worked up the guts to tell him that I’m pansexual. He asked what it meant. Valid question, so I told him, it means that I can be attracted to anyone, no matter their gender identity. “Well it sounds to me like you just can’t choose.” ...choose? Why do I have to choose? Ten. I hope no one minds that I skipped a few years. They all seem like a blur to me now. I can’t remember anything much. I was still my father’s puppet. This was the year, though, that my mother told me what had happened between them. She told me how he beat her. She told me how he was arrested for assault outside of her workplace. She told me how he tried to kidnap me twice. I was an idiot. I didn’t believe her. Do you know how much hell I could have escaped if I had just believed her? After that, I started to see more and more of his ugly side. I thought there was nothing I could do to escape. I started to imagine these awful scenarios where I could finally get away from him. I’d imagine he’d come to my school and try to kidnap me. I’d imagine the police would finally get him so that I could finally be rid of him. I imagined he’d assault me in public like he did to my mother. She’d keep me away after that. She would keep me safe. I never imagined that I could do something myself. Seven. This would be the year. If I was to tell myself ten years ago anything, I’d have to tell my seven year old self. I guess all I would say is, “Take your chance. Do it now.” I had to do it. Even if I was scared, I should have done something earlier. I should have said something, anything, leapt at any chance I had. If I went back and said something to my seven year old self… if I told her what I had to live with, then maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to go through the same pain. One. One email. That’s all it took. I told him about all the times he hurt me. I told him that I didn’t want to have phone calls with him anymore. I told him that I didn’t want to see him again. I told him how everything he’d done made me feel like an insignificant, worthless burden. There were later emails… but that one, that one made him think. I suppose he had this sudden realization. “Maybe, just maybe if I continue to treat her like this, she’ll stop coming back.” ...well gee, dad, you think? I still don’t know if I want to go back, even after he’s tried to make amends. Maybe it’s not worth it. Zero. The number of times I’ll put up with one more insult. The number of times I’ll cry about him from this point on. The amount of times I’ll say I forgive him. Precisely the number of fucks I give, because obviously he’s never given a damn one about me. Sorry dad. You don’t get any more chances. I’ve used up my life on you.

qgx4sj

You’d Think He Was a Logger

Father of forest the green protector Mossy beard face cradles baby sapling Prayer chain to stop the chainsaw monster Crying and weeping, big sweet maple tears I take a deep breath, ready to perform the next stanza of the poem I’m reciting for my Dad. But, before I can spit out any more poetic words, Dad coughs and opens his mouth, “Wait-- so let me get this straight-- you’re telling me you plan on standing up and performing that in front of your class?” I blink my fake lashes a few times, letting them dance like dandelion fluff across my cheeks. The LED lights pinned up behind my twin bed are twinkling furiously, making Dad’s beard a multicolored spectacle. The Aurora Borealis. “Yeah so.” I shrug then push my recently bleached pale pink hair out of my eyes and tug at the corner of my vintage jean shirt dress. What is wrong with me? I never get all fidgety when the spotlight is on me. Normally I thrive under pressure! I used to perform at the coffee shop back home when I lived with Mom in Bend. Literally, every Tuesday night I’d recite entire short stories and perform spoken word. I had standing ovations and a group of fanboys! I could bring down the house. I was a regular Jack Kerouac. But here, in front of my Dad, I’m nervous. A miniature rose bush during the first frost of late Fall. Wilting, shaking, losing all life as the bits of ice and freeze climb up my legs.  I’m terrified. I hate it. “Sophie,” Dad says my name like it’s a bullfrog stuck in his throat. He looks rough and mean. You’d think he was a logger ready to kill and destroy the forest. You’d think he was the monster we all feared. He’s dressed in faded blue flannel and smells like pine needles no matter how many showers he takes. But he’s not the one cutting down Oregon’s old growth forests. He’s not the monster. He’s helping re-plant and protect it. He’s a Forest Ranger for the state. He’s the Father of the Forest . He’s the Green Protector. But, I can’t read his face right now. Because I don’t really know him. He’s nothing but a picture on my wall back in Bend. Someone I used to know. Is he mad I wrote a poem about him? What’s that look for? I’m about to tell him I can change my poem if it’s really that bad but, without warning he takes flight across my room, like a bald eagle with a ten foot wingspan swooping in from the tallest Evergreen tree and scoops me up. “I’m so proud of you! You’ve only been here a few months and you already understand the plight of our beautiful forest. You bring tears to my eyes, big sweet maple tears !” He spins me around. “Sheesh Daaaaad! Put me down!” I blurt out. “Well, I’m just so gosh darn proud of you Sophie.” He sets me back on solid ground and I wobble like a baby bird as the world settles into place. My cheeks are hot. “You scared me, I thought you were going to say you hated my poem,” I admit to him and curl my toes up awkwardly and look down at the ground. The brown shag carpet is worn out and faded. Dad’s house is old, like the forest that surrounds us. But he refuses to fix up the house-- he says it would be like pruning the magenta Rhododendron out front that’s grown into a tree. Why change something with so much character? “Why do you think I hated it?” Dad is honestly baffled. “I dunno.” I shrug again. “Sophie, we’ve got to build up your confidence, little sapling! You are an amazing poet, I’ve got an entire folder out in the hutch with poems you wrote for me when you were in elementary school. Do you remember? You’d stand on the back deck and belt them out for me and the trees!” Dad exclaims. I don’t really remember. I didn’t come here that often. Maybe a few times. “Yeah I guess,” I say and try to smile. I only moved in with him three months ago when Mom ran off with her roller derby team, The Wicked Wheels. She said she’d be back after finals. And I was proud of her for finding a passion. Something to do besides staring at the TV and sleeping on the couch. But, now she's headed to Japan for a year-long derby tour and I had to move out of our house in Bend so she could put renters in it to pay for her trip. Like, she didn’t even care what it would do to me. Leaving me during my senior year of high school. Making me move in with Dad. Moving to the mountains. She left me. She's a monster. All I wanted was to grow into the light of the canopy. Instead I’m another one of her potted house plants, bloomed out. Grown ugly and spindly, dried up and leggy at the end of summer. Something Mom cast into the pile of dead plants behind the garage. I shouldn’t be angry with her. Mom was terrible at growing plants. She killed them all. She had a hard enough time taking care of herself. Let alone me. But at least there, in Bend, I knew what to expect. I had a routine. And now I’m living in the mountains with my Dad, the Father of forest the green protector. Trying to reseed myself. Trying to grow again. Become anew. Does Dad know? I’m a flower trying to bloom. “Dad, can I ask you something?” I sit down on my bed. “Anything Sophie,” he says and pulls up my desk chair to face me. I want to say, “Why did you leave Mom? She was fragile. And why did you leave me with her? Do you know what it was like? Feeling alone. Why was this forest more important than me? It’s been a hard ten years.” But why would I ask him that? Why would I say that? Dad coughs. “What’s for dinner?” I ask instead. My stomach is grumbling.  “How about some fresh Venison steaks on the grill. You can come out with me and grab some stuff from the garden and make a chop salad. The tomato plant has been going crazy the last few days. I know how much you love those little cherry ones,” Dad says and his face lights up. He’s very proud of his garden. He's very proud of me too. “Yeah, that sounds good Dad. Thanks.” 

5ql1x9

Past regrets and Future promises

The old saying goes that the eyes are the window to your soul then why did his eyes look so dead? Starting into a square medicine cabinet mirror he examined himself. Dead hollow eyes stared back at him reminding him of the man he once had been. Dark murky brown hair flopped messily in his face. His reflection was like a ghost hollow and pale. It had been three months sober and still, his body looked like shit beaten to hell by his years of abuse. The only starting feature where his blue-grey eyes that glared mockingly back at him, reminding him of all his straight-laced relatives who always told him that he could never get sober and that he would always be worthless. He had almost believed them. It had eaten away at him until a letter had arrived a month ago. His last hope. "John, your rides here," a voice said knocking on the door. Steadying his nerves the skinny pale man exited the bathroom making his way to the front of the rehab clinic. Standing there like an Angel stood his youngest daughter April, the only one who would still talk to him. "Hi Daddy," she said, hugging him tightly, the two had along tender Embrace before they packed his thing began the long traffic-filled drive.      The car rude was tender, tense, and awkward though April did her best to pull a loud laugh and smile out of her father. John admired his daughter thinking how much she reminded him of her mother when they had been young. She even spoke like her mother something that enlightened and broke his heart. How he wished he would have made the right choice years ago. "So, grans making a Smorgasbord of food I hope you're hungry," she said trying to switch up the conversation the Drone of traffic causing a longer than average transit. They were held up behind a car crash as a group of nosey onlookers did their best to sneak a peck of the chaos. "Move it!" She yelled out the car waving her hand angrily as cars honked around her. Awkwardly fidgeting with his hands John voiced his concern. "Mom's okay with me coming right?" He had no interest in ever offending his mother again. She had forgiven him so many times and yet he could see the disappointment in her eyes every time he saw her. How he prayed this time was different. Please let there be a miracle. "Of course everyone is, Jack still a little shit though so don't mind him," April said referring to her elder brother. She rolled her eyes at his name. "The grinch can just keep his opinions to himself because I'm tired to the April said exasperated. John's face twisted at the thought of Jack being cold to everyone. "He is still angry with me, which I understand," John said, hanging his head in shame. Before April could say anything they had arrived.     With his heart still hearing John made his way into the family home. Admiring the new decorations he greeted his relatives somewhere kind and loving while somewhere standoffish, only one came off rude. John who had hugged all three of his children was met with hostility from his only son and oldest child. Anger filled Jack's blue eyes. "Don't touch me, I don't want you anywhere near me, you say shit but it never happens, I can't play that game no more I have my own family to think about, why can't you ever think about anyone but yourself" At first John allowed the verbal asst but as it continued he felt his emotions slipping, bottling up to the surface where they exploded. Anger filled his veins, shaking he stormed out of the house and down the street" he had half a mind to go get wasted and forget the whole lot of them. Before he could decide it began to pour down rain. Rushing under a canopy he watched the cars raced by the angry sky raged just like his heart and for the first time in years he cried not for himself but the things he had lost and the people he had hurt. God must have heard his prayers because the kindest voice said. "You should come in your soaking wet" Turning around he saw an old lady half his height. Confused, he followed after her once inside her home she saw a ton of stray cats. Disappearing into the cozy overall decorated house she returned with a stack of clothes. " Here they were my husband" after changing he stood there awkwardly. "Having a bad day?" "Bad life," he said softly, not realizing that it would open a deep conversation about life. Elizabeth the elderly woman told him her story of having three kids, fighting a war, fighting addiction and loss it brought him to tears. As he listened he heard one continuous theme as long as he attempted something good would come. Elizabeth to dry his eyes straighten up his behavior and head home that at least one of his children was still willing to try. Desperately trying to dry his eyes he left the house trying to find his way back. Slouching through the puddles he found the house and all the cars were gone. Worriedly he knocked on the door his mother answered looking relieved, pulling him inside she made some calls. It turned out the whole family had gone looking for him after April had gone off like a firecracker. "I really hope it sticks," His oldest said teary-eyed as he watched his daughter gig her grandfather and run off to play. "It will, I promise this time," He said, smiling at his granddaughter and daughter. Jack snapped a picture trying to relax. Thankfully his grandmother came out calling everyone to eat. "Let's eat," his mother said, earning everyone's attention. Being the last to file in he watched his family. They were everything he ever wanted. The reason for existing. Grinning like a fool he joined them. Happily, he set down to what he prayed would be the first of many family meals. Though like all good things only time would tell.

d3cl0r

Neighbors from hell

We’ve all had them. Neighbors we love, neighbors we like, and then there are neighbors that really get under our skin. I’ve had such neighbors. It wasn’t just one neighbor. It was a whole family of neighbors. A mother, farther, and three boys who seemed to think our yard was their yard to play baseball in. I didn’t mind the first couple of times, but the fourth or fifth time is when it got annoying. I kept warning my mother that a window was going to get broken if we let them keep that they’d break aa window, but she assured me it wouldn’t happen. They were annoying during the day, but they were especially annoying at night. The husband and wife decided to fight, and it wasn’t a fight that seemed to be kept in the home. I’m fairly sure people in New York could hear them.  They argued about the lessons the boys had to learn, what was best from them, and why we had gotten mad at the eldest son kicking a ball against our house. One time, I heard them arguing about the rose bush in our backyard. Mom and I had planted it for my great-great grandmother, and it had long since died, but we never pruned it or got rid of it. Well, she was tired of looking at it. I could hear her husband trying to tell her that it wasn’t their property and that he couldn’t just do it. She responded we would thank him later. We didn’t. That was the crap cake, the icing and the filling all in one.          One day, while mom was at work, I was getting ready to fix my lunch when I heard a crash come from the bedroom. It wasn’t the usual crash like when my cat had knocked off something. It sounded like the crash that came from glass breaking. Going to the bedroom, I felt the summer breeze and saw the blinds blowing slightly. Peeking through the blinds, I saw two of the boys running back to their house and the eldest boy standing there in shock. Feeling my face in heat up in anger, I marched out there, fully ready to tell him that this was the last straw and that how terrible a parent his mother was. Until I saw he was on the verge of tears…and fighting them trying to be a man Whoever made the rule that boys weren’t allowed to cry, I swear I wanted to meet only to slap them. I tried to keep my angry look but his look made me loose it “Hey. Hey what’s wrong?” I asked though I didn’t expect him to answer…at least not right away. He looked towards his house, scared, like he knew someone was going to come out of there at any moment, then looked down at he ground. I knew that look, heck I had done that look. When you’re in trouble when you’re a kid and you know it, you pray the earth will open and swallow you . I sigh. “Wait here.” I ran back into my garage and grab something I knew worked on my younger cousins and probably most kids in America. A ice cold, fruit flavors ice pops. I didn’t know if the kid’s mom even let him have sugar, or if she was one of those ‘progressive parents’ that only gave him the sugar free crap, but I didn’t care. The only thing I care about was making this kid feel better. I rush back out, so the ice pop didn’t melt all over my hand. “Here” I say holding it out. He sniffled staring at it for a small minute before taking it and began making slurping noises, which I normally would’ve been grossed out by. I lead him over to the patio where mom and I had some lawn chairs set up. “Now.” I said sitting slowly “Can you tell me why you were scared you broke my window?” He shook his head “Come on. It’ll be our little secret.” I used a just between us voice, which only worked forty percent of the time. He gulped “Mom says if I broke another window that she’d pull me out of baseball and take away my equipment forever.” Though he didn’t see, I rolled my eyes to the sky, wondering if the mom often gave her boys empty threats like this. “Does your dad do anything about it?” He shook his head. “Dad is too busy with work.” I bit my lip fighting a curse. What parents gave empty threats and were too busy to help their own kids? I looked up towards the deck next door to see if the mother had come out to glare at me. Luckily, she hadn’t…yet.” I thought of something. “Have your mom and dad been fighting a lot lately?” He nodded “They think I can’t hear it.” How could they think that? I could hear it. A person in a coma could hear them. I think people in New York could hear them! I shook my head looking at the house again. I ran a hand through my hair as the summer breeze ruffled it. I wish I could say I helped the kid…but it’s not one of those stories. After he said they fought, I heard a sharp tone call out to him. Looking up, I saw the blonde hair framed face of the woman I dreaded. The woman next door…and she was stomping like she was angry. She grabbed her son’s arm and held it tight. So tight I was praying the kid wasn’t bleeding underneath his sleeve. “What did I tell you-“ “Gonna stop you right there lady!” I snapped shooting up, glaring at her. She glared right back at me. “Excuse me?” she sneered the lip stick staining her teeth. “You shouldn’t talk to your son like that!” “Are you a parent?” “No!” “Then how do you know you don’t talk to kids like this?” “Because I’ve known parents in my life and I know kids are not for you to bully or treat how you wish!” She scoffed and began dragging her son back to the house “Oh, and I’d keep your fighting to a low level tonight.” I told her “Because if you don’t I might just call the police for a noise disturbance.” 

frpzjy

Just Me

As a child, I wasn’t sure what constituted a good kid. I kept to myself in gentle hobbies of coloring and reading, keeping to mild mannered behavior. I was not a bad kid, but calling me a good one seemed too far a stretch, as though it weren’t an earned title. Most adults simply thought me shy, a bit too quiet for a growing boy. I thought them right. It seemed to me that adults had the sense of it all, and I’d gathered in my limited mind that my mother was the smartest lady to walk the planet. A woman from Mexico emigrated to America with a less than stellar education and a poor understanding of English, she knew far less than I’d envisioned. When it came to me, she knew next to nothing at all. I was a small and anxious early 2000’s boy with curled hair that frizzed at its lack of care, for no one really knew how to deal with it. The curly hair praise wouldn’t take off until nearly 2017. Its soft bounce was butchered before long, often brushed and shaved into a taper to make less of a nuisance to manage. I suppose then began the frequent forced changes—unsightly, relentless adaptations. Being less of a nuisance remained the point of highest priority.  Mom had little to lean on in America save her faith, and lean she did. She dragged my sister and I to church every chance she could, though I rarely mustered the strength to stay awake. There were available classes catered to children, but I refused to leave her side, insisting I stay for the adult’s sermons. Being around strangers my age felt terrifying, and trudging through their questions and forced companionship was a battle best left unfought. Mom would give a quiet sigh, strongly encouraging I join the other children in the bible classes on the other side of the church, but my protests continued. Her expression would give, and she’d allow me to stay, under the condition that I remained alert. Try as I might, my head would bob before long and I’d slump over, the preacher’s words lulling me away with stories of morality and burning punishment. Mom tolerated this until she met a kind faced man at church, one who would turn my stepfather come few months’ time. He disapproved of my blatant disrespect, the audacity of my seven-year-old mind’s rebellion, and so I could persuade her to let me stay no longer. In my eyes, she had chosen the side of a man over her son’s. To my dismay, it wouldn’t be the last time. The bible children were far too excitable and God loving for my comfort. I felt foreign, plopped onto an island with nothing but my throbbing anxieties. I couldn’t stand being forced into something. One might say that’s the playing field of every child, but for me it was an especially immense pain. The forced socializing served a purpose that I couldn’t quite fulfill. Mom wanted a pious, sociable son. A son who played, talked, and prayed and would make her life just a little bit easier. Mom wanted someone normal. She’d made a point to state this often, and I’d so badly wanted to deliver. I found it impossible. By fifth grade, my social stamina had not grown much further. I had good friends, of course, but none that felt appropriate to Mom. None of them were boys, and so none of them fulfilled the social quota. She’d ask why I had no male friends and I wasn’t sure what to offer in response. Boys wanted to drag each other around and have pushing contests in fields of dirt, while girls wanted to make mud pies and magic potions. Boys did not easily approach me, while girls popped up on end with eager eyes and quick offers of friendship. Possibly most important, boys would grow into men, like the father who hurt Mom, like the stepfather who fed into the idea that I was difficult. For me it was a no brainer, but it proved difficult to express the difference to an adult. It was unbelievably difficult for me to express most things to Mom. The day before the first of fifth grade, we were encouraged to come up to the school to meet our teachers. Upon arriving, mom ran into an old friend of hers whose son was also enrolled in my class. Mom had looked after the both of us when we were still babies, so in a sense we had already met. Our mothers were friends, so perhaps we could be friends as well. Somehow the circumstances made things feel easier. We were introduced, the both of us reluctant, but willing to speak further come the first day of class. My lack of male friends made this exciting, but terrifying still. His name was Reuben, and he was a tall boy, taller than any I’d ever seen. His hair fell around his face in jet black swishes. It looked much softer than whatever was sitting atop my own head. His face was delicate, though still boyish. I envied him and the way he carried himself. He was confident and agreeable, things that made me unsure of what he saw in me as a friend. Still, he stuck to me like glue, and for reasons I couldn’t fathom, my heart stirred. One night during a sleepover, Reuben turned to me excitedly and asked if I liked any girls in class. “I think I like Maritza,” he said. He stared expectantly. “I don’t think I like anyone. I’ve never thought about it.” “Really? I’m sure someone likes you though.” “Why would they?” “Someone has to! You’re the best guy I know.” He turned away, digging into his pizza. The innocence of it hurt in recollection. Something within me sank with his words. Soon enough, I understood the monumental difference in his friendship and the ones I’d had with all the girls prior. Regardless of understanding, I could not process. Mom’s plan had backfired in the most awful of ways. Were she to find out, she’d become furious, I was sure of it. I drowned myself in guilt, and come sixth grade, a whole new world of stress and insecurity, I could bear no more of it. I pushed Reuben away, changed middle schools, and ate away at myself. The dryness of my hair started to flake at my scalp, and I scratched at it. I itched and I itched, using the pain to cope with my lack of normality. I looked a disaster. Mom worried of the target on my back. Her son, a quiet boy with odd mannerisms and dandruff and an extreme lack of charisma, out for the world to tear apart if he didn’t know how to fight back. She forced me into self-defense classes. I cried at the first meeting, and the second, perhaps even the third. I’d expressed so clearly my disdain for karate. Being made to gather around others and kick and shout and find an inner strength that was so beyond me I writhed within myself at being forced to grasp it. I started skipping the meetings altogether. My Mom and stepdad would drop me off and I’d enter the facility, only to exit a mere two minutes later and hideaway next to a building across the street. It was hot in my karate uniform, a solid black from head to toe. I sat and I waited forty minutes underneath a tree, texting my mom when I was finished with my lesson so I could walk back towards the front of the self defense center, feigning having been there the entire time. This was my game every Wednesday and Thursday of every week in the summer months following seventh grade. The jig was up when Mom dropped me off then looped back around to give me a piece of gear I’d forgotten. She texted me that she was outside of the facility, waiting to hand me my sparring gloves. My stomach hit the floor as I walked up to her van, clearly coming from across the street and not the self defense center she was parked in front of. She was fuming, her face with the redness of hell. “I pay fifteen dollars a month for you to not even go to the classes?! What do you think you’re doing, making me look like a fool! Why didn’t you just talk to me, why can’t you be normal!” I sobbed in the backseat, yelling back at her for the very first time. “I told you I didn’t want to go! I told you every day, but you don’t listen to me! You never listen to what I say!” She remained quiet; her lips pursed. We rode all the way home in a heavy silence. That night she had a fight with my stepfather about withdrawing me from the karate classes. My shoulders drooped with fatigue, but my chest tingled. I wiggled myself free, if only just the smallest bit. I could do little to placate my Mom in the coming years, but in that moment I’d found a small voice of sorts. Something to fight back with. I could be anxious and depressed, a mess of a human lacking in social skills and afraid of the world, a man who liked other men, who colored his hair and applied blush to his cheeks and who disappointed his mother from the age of seven, but that was all fine. I could not be made to become something I was not. I would not be made to satisfy an insatiable woman’s standards of normalcy, drilled into her by our culture. I am just me, and from now until forever that would unmistakably prove more than enough.

6qn1v5

"I'll climb the tower"

Once there was this rather stupid eleven year old boy. Every one thought so! People thought he was dumb! He was bad at most things the other children were really good at ! He didn't like studying. In fact he didn't like school at all! He loved bunking school and going fishing with his friends.In spite of all these things he was a dreamer! He thought he was smart! No one else thought he was! One day he happened to watch a movie in which a man climbed a tower. He was very impressed by it. So h e decided he would do the same! There was a tower nearby. He made up his mind that he would climb this tower. "I'll climb the tower!" he told his parents. They looked at him. They looked at each other. They shook their heads. "Ill climb the tower!" he told his friends at school. They looked at him. They looked at each other. They shook their heads. He kept saying it over and over. He told everyone he met that same line! People actually started to get sick of him saying the same words over and over! However, he never got tired of repeating that very same line to everyone he met! One day he entered a bus going towards the town. He told the old lady seated next to him on the bus - "I'll climb the tower!" "That's a good young lad!" she said. He was relieved! He couldn't help but take a liking towards her-after all she was the only person who seemed to think it was a good idea! He decided to tell her his story saying a little more than "I'll climb the tower!" "Lady, I have been dreaming of climbing the tower for months, for years actually, ever since I laid my eyes on it" he said with glee in his eyes. He wanted to tell her about the movie he watched as well but didn't. He was embarrassed to say that he got the idea from a movie. "It might be easier than you think!" she said. After having heard encouraging words from the lady in the bus, the young boy went on his merry way. He decided to go home and at least for today, the topic at the dinner table wasn't about climbing the tower like it had been for the past one week. Being the only son of his parents, he decided to be quiet that day. No one ever liked it when he brought up the topic. But it still seemed indeed strange that he wasn't saying anything. This time he wasn't talking about climbing the tower . He was busy thinking about how it could be achieved. He was quiet at the dinner table. His mum said "You're awfully quiet today son." He kept still. 'The chicken is good." he said to his normally uninterested mother. After dinner, he went to his room. He got into his bed. "Dear God with your help I'll climb the tower!" he prayed out loud. The next day he didn't wait for the school bus to arrive at the bus stop and take him to school. Instead he went in the exact opposite direction! He was as quiet as a cat on his feet, just so no one noticed. He saw the tower from afar, and decided to walk towards it. It really was quite a distance away, but the young lad was indeed determined to get there. When he was finally in front of the tower, he told himself "Today Ill climb the tower!" He put one foot into what seemed like a good foothold. He did the same with the other foot. He couldn't believe how good he was getting at it. His foot slipped once. Yet he tried again.Soon he realised he was very high up above the ground. He didn't want to look down. He continued to climb. He pushed his legs into the wall. He kept pulling himself up. He kept doing this. Suddenly he realised that he had reached the top of the tower!. He was elated! Luckily there was a door there, that led to a winding stair case. He reached the base of the building. He was too scared to actually climb all the way back down again. The next day, everywhere he went, he said " I climbed the tower" to everyone he met! People looked at him, as usual and shook their heads. "I climbed the tower !" he told the bus driver. "I climbed the tower !" he told his friends. "I climbed the tower !" he told his mother at the dinner table. "Did you really climb the tower?" his mother asked him. "Yes I climbed the tower !" the boy replied. She actually believed him. The next day he met the old lady that had inspiring words for him the last time he met her on the bus. He greeted her and sat next to her. "I climbed the tower !" he said to her. "That's my boy" she said to him proudly. He now had a wide grin on his face. He told her the whole story. He told her about how he started at the base of the tower by finding a good foothold. He then told her about how he keenly observed how it was done in the movie. He even told her about how he didn't speak to anyone for a little while at home and about how he avoided school that day, just so things didn't look suspicious. He was indeed elated. And he felt wonderful that he met the one person who encouraged him to follow his heart in the first place. He felt splendid. He seemingly got the confidence to attempt doing other things in life from this one experience! It taught him alot! Every body else thought he was just another silly boy. He thought of the one time he climbed the tower, and it became easier not to care. Every time he had a hard task ahead of him, he thought about the time he climbed the tower. It didn't seem possible but the class dunce actually grew up to be rich and successful! As a respectable businessman, he never stopped telling people his story wherever his travels took him! He loved to repeat the technical details about the time his foot slipped at the base of the tower, when as a little boy, he tried to scale the massive structure. He recounted with great detail the time when he didn't want to look at the ground because he had climbed up too high above the ground. People laughed but in a different way. Again he said "I climbed the tower" and people looked at him with pride.

rcvfjh

dysphoria's love letter.

CW: transphobia When she cries, you try to ignore her. It’s hard. Granted, most people don’t like hearing young girls cry but you have no other choice: Nothing you can do will ever make her stop. She has been crying for as long as you can remember, determined to remind you of the things you did. Of course, you’re the cause for her crying, aren’t you? Who else would listen to a young girl cry until she was nothing more than the melody that allows you to sleep every night? When her mother begs to see her, you have to tell her that she’s been gone a long time. Of course, you know that’s not true. She sits at the bottom of your bed each night, hands pressed against her eyes and a part of you is grateful. You know if you saw her bright hazel eyes, filled with confusion and hurt that only an innocent child’s eyes can hold, you’d break. But when it comes to your mother, you have to lie. If you told her that truth about how the young girl hasn’t left your side, you know that her eyes would never leave your side. She would stare into your hazel eyes and pick you apart until you were nothing but fractured bones and the ashes of the love she once had for you. She’d bury her newfound hatred for you in the midst of your ribs and she’d cry about how you killed her baby. How could you do it? She was just a little girl. Sometimes when you look in the mirror, it’s her staring back. Her eyes are empty, hollowed out by the theft of time, and you’re scared that yours look just the same. Has it all been for nothing? Are you just empty? You lift your hand up to graze over the mirror and it isn’t until her hand, her small child hand, presses against yours that you break. Amongst all of the ashes of your mother’s love is guilt. All you wanted was your mother to hold you the same way she held her daughter once. But somewhere as you grew up, you blurred the line between being happy and loved until you found out that there was no combination of the two. And suddenly, you’re stuck in the same place you started: silently praying that you could will away the parts of you that were unlovable. The mirror becomes a graveyard that holds everything you can’t bring yourself to say. After a night of running away from your own fears with nothing more than alcohol and marijuana, you stumble back to the very mirror that you stood in front of all those years ago. As she stares back, you can’t quite separate yourself from her. Is that how it’s always been? Is that why your mother spits at you with disgust? Is it because every time she looks at you, she sees the skeleton of the child she’s convinced you murdered? The scissors in your hands feel heavy, the same way they did all those years ago. It’s not just about your hair being too long —it’s about looking too much like her and not enough like you. Even a decade later, you’re still trying to escape her. (You can’t outrun the past. It will always come back for you). “God, I’m sorry.” Chunks of your hair lie in the sink and it’s shorter this time around but the same freeing feeling settles in your chest. It feels like cutting off the rope around your throat and taking control once again. “She never loved me. I was never here.” Her voice is deeper than you remember. It’s strange to hear her once again; her voice was once the lullaby that would pull you down to your knees, praying to God neither of you believed in. “She misses you.” “She’s just scared of the truth.” “It’s been—” Your fist collides with the mirror and it fractures beneath the pressure and her gaze is splintered between the pieces. She looks older now. Closer to your age but not quite there. But she doesn’t look like how you did back then. Was this who you were supposed to be? “Ten years. Ten fucking years and she still wants you.” “Her love isn’t worth our happiness.” “ Our ?” You try to fight the disbelief in your voice but it was never our. It was always her versus you. Never ‘our’. “Do you really think I would still be alive if you didn’t show up?” As you lift your gaze up, she looks less like herself and more like you. The emptiness slowly drips out from between her eyes but it’s still there. You know it all too well: you wore that same confusion for years. It took so long for you to get to where you are now but she was where you started. “Then why are you so determined to torture me?” She shrugs and you know it’s not a question she can answer. You try not to hold it against her: you were the only person she had for years and you were the only one who was able to find her solace. She’s not intentionally trying to haunt you: she’s scared to let go. Letting go means letting go of everything she was meant to be. It meant letting go of everything she thought was her future. “We eat cheese?” The ghost of her demons linger at the pit of your stomach and you feel the hollowness that was once your only friend. Her hands tremble as her fingers press against her lips, imagining the taste. A flash of regret crosses your face but you try to hide it. You don’t need to scare her with the consequences. “Almost every day. Our fiancé mac n’ cheese and it’d be a crime not to eat it.” You try not to smile but even in the deepest, darkest moments like these, his love seeps through. On the nights you miss your mother, he tells you about his. His family has shifted just enough to make space for you, arms wide enough to welcome you when you need it. It’s not the same but it’s the thought—he tries to make you feel loved. He knows that your heart aches for one thing only and he tries so hard to fill it. “He loves us?” “ So much. He talks about getting married every single day and he gets this stupid smile on his face whenever I call him my husband.” You wrap your arms around your body and it’s the closest thing you can get to hugging her. “We have a future.” It’s matter-of-fact but both of them know it’s a surprise. Before you made space for yourself in her body, it was nothing more than a ticking time bomb. When you began to make yourself at home, you turned off the bomb. With the first confession of who you were, a future began to pave itself in front of you. “Yeah.” Your voice cracks with the weight of the past’s suicide letter and you aren’t sure if the tears belong to you or to her. Your body feels cold and you shiver, despite the warmth of the summer’s air. For the first time in a decade, it’s silent. You’re not sure how long you sit there, curled into yourself. The world around you seems to slowly creep by, clocks carrying the world forward. Despite spending a decade trying to escape your past, you sit in it. You drag your nails along your arm the same way your mother did once and you press your hand against your cheek, stroking your cheek gently. It’s not the same as being held but it’s the closest you can get. Your phone vibrates beside you and you ignore the part of it that hopes it’s an apology from your mother because it’ll never come. The smallest (child-like) part of you hopes but you know that it won’t. As you lift it up, the black screen shows you your face and for once, you’re no longer staring at the skeleton of a child you had believed you killed. You stare back at you: you, with a fiancé. You, with dreams of being a father and loving the child more than anything. You, with the future. It never really was her versus you. It was being loved versus being happy. (And despite it all, you still found both.)  

uyea07

Deus Ex Machina

She breathes in the dark. Behind the four fragile walls of her bedroom she hides in the dark and breathes in the atmosphere of solidarity. Curled against the pale wood of her bed frame, she huddles as if a stray dog in the cold. Head buried in the soft, welcoming folds of her inner elbows, her tears drop on the dark stained wood, painted carefully by her mother. Her mother, who argued that the paleness of the birch was too plain to be comforting. Her mother in her own waves of friendliness and anger, her mother like the stained birch wood insulating the little room. A knock on the door raises the girl’s head. Eyes far apart and a nose just slightly upturned give her the appearance of a deer or a fox. She sniffs and stretches out to reach the doorknob. A knock again, quiet and subtle and a whisper of someone she knows. She cracks the door open and her little sister comes barreling into the soft loneliness of her room, caressed by the harsh waves of the yelling in the kitchen. They cry together in the softness of each other’s arms. -- He has been in love with her since the dawn of time, he convinces himself. He plays with fire and candles and twine in the darkness of his own time, and he convinces himself their souls are like comets - always passing and never colliding. He wonders what kind of secrets she holds on the surface of her skin. He plays with matches and candles and imagines the taste of her lips. His notebooks carry images of the love he imagines in the sketches of dying flowers, naked daisies. He strips the petals of roses and flings them into cold water. He lives in the smell of fine earth and rain, and in the hopeless fantasy of being loved by her. He sees her in the image of elves and fairies, and her face on the foxes and deer that traipse in the backyard among the weeds and rose petals. He imagines the warmth of being on her mind. -- Tuesday morning she catches him watching her on the bus. She smiles and turns back to the window. Frost in the leaves of the trees flying by. Frost on the roofs of the houses. Frost in the war ground of the kitchen at her house. After school, she takes off her skirt at a stranger’s house. She kisses his neck and breathes in the smell of affection, tastes it on the tip of her tongue. He calls her beautiful with such conviction she nearly believes him. He is the boulder in the middle of the rapids. She clings with desperation to the land that he provides. When she’s done, she calls herself an Uber. -- Tuesday afternoon, he sketches a pale pink rose behind the lines in his notebook. The ghost of her smile haunts his day and night. He looks at the stars from his window with a new satisfaction and he thanks the moon before going to bed. In the following weeks he glances at her on the bus. He catches her eye in hallways and across medical cafeteria floors. He plays out his dream of being loved like a strategy of war. He inches closer and closer to the tangibility of her being. He learns the exact color of her eyes from the way she looks back at him. He learns the way she walks from noticing her in crowds. He imagines the softness of kissing her from the way her lips turn up when she sees him watching her. He learns the beautifully icy brittleness of her voice when she asks him what his name is. -- In between battles, she reaches out to the rest of the world. She still samples affection from the bedrooms of strangers and retreats to her womb in the graveyard of attention. She still lays her head in the softness of her elbows and holds her sister as she takes her turn coming to terms with the war raging throughout their house. But she lingers at the bus stop on the days he doesn’t show up, wondering if it’s worth it to watch the trees fly by without being watched herself. She wonders if it’s worth it to exist if she’s not a soap opera for his attention. She lingers at the bus stop and questions her link to the world. In between battles, she reaches out to the rest of the world in the connection with the boy who watches her. She talks with him some days, when she speaks first. She has a confidence unparalleled by Odysseus. She breathes the fire of misdirected passion, and he relishes in the ashes she leaves him with. He finds her after school and speaks first. -- He shows her places only he knows, and watches from the sides of his eyes, gauging her reactions. He notices the change in the way she carries herself when he shows her the forest behind his house. He smiles at the freedom in her shoulders as they pull back from the sides of her face. “Show me more,” she says, her breath making clouds in the cold winter air. So he shows her the sketches of flowers in his notebooks and the crystals on his windowsill. She smiles in the background of his room, painted like a deer in between the lightness surrounding him. His parents find them listening to music on his bed and they invite her to eat with them. -- The dinner is a slow tragedy. She finds herself understanding the falseness of her reality. She wonders if, when she goes home that night, they’ll stop pretending. She acts with a stiffness she learned from mistakes. She learns what peace smells like and tastes the tenderness of long-nurtured fondness. She nearly cries when they ask her how her day was. “Good,” she says, as she imagines that’s all she’s allowed. -- He begins to notice her happiness inflating throughout the day. She smiles when she sees him and skips to the door of his house. She nearly kisses the doorframe of his bedroom and closes her eyes in blissfulness while she sits at the dinner table. He begins to wonder why he’s never been inside her house. On the roof of his house, on the Everest of the suburbs, they pretend to be astronomers. She points out Ursa Major as he studies the constellations of freckles on her face. He asks if he can come over and her smile tilts and falls like a sinking ship. She turns her face, her night sky of constellations, and whispers the truth to the roof tiles. -- With a fear as sudden as death, she realizes her reliance on his affection. She drifts away from his warmth and his house of sunshine and dreams, releasing herself to the rapids. The most painful part is the indifference of the world to the loss of what could have been. -- His infatuation never fades. It swells to an addiction so strong he stays home most days. He drives himself to school for the rest of the year. He imagines the shape of her body in his bed. He sketches her face in between the wildflowers tossed across his notebooks. Color never looked so good as it did around her. He breathes in the excess memories like a drug. -- In June, school ends. She walks home like a dog to the master who kicked it. The warzone in the kitchen and the crying in the bedroom. Days of summer like a sandcastle being washed to grains by the waves. She listens to the music of winter evenings in his backyard. She takes her shirt off for a stranger and thinks a different name when she says the stranger’s. She hums the tune of his favorite song while her parents wage war in the kitchen. Her sister exists on the cliffside of her mind, and she pushes her off in July, when he pulls up to her house in the car she never knew he had. He has duffles in the trunk and a sadness painted on his face. He tells her he’s going to a university on the other side of the country, and he tries to convince her he’s telling her goodbye. He tries to convince himself he means it. And with an agonizing desperation, she grips the sides of his existence as if he’s the land on either side of the rapids. She drags her emaciated body through the cold, rushing water. He breathes fire into her lungs and soul. She smiles when she hears her own heartbeat in the softness of his voice. -- He doesn’t ask about the little girl he sees in the window of her bedroom as they pull away from the curb. He doesn’t ask about the woman running out to the middle of the road - a ghost in the foggy glass of his rearview mirror. He doesn’t ask about her silence for the first day they exist together. He tells her about the matches and the candles. He explains his idea of souls and points out the moon when they drive through the night. He fills the emptiness of her past with things he knows will make her smile. His chest fills with warmth when he turns and sees her closing her eyes like she used to at his dinner table. He gives her his clothes to wear and his toothbrush to use and doesn’t comment on the things she left behind. -- On the first day of August, just before they reach the coast, he tells her that she’s beautiful. She turns to study the terrain of his face - his smile, his eyes, his hands on the steering wheel. He looks at her and he continues. He describes the color of her being and the brightness of her smile and the confidence she carries behind her like a bulldozer. She smiles as he compares her to fire - so far from the rapids she was raised in. And by the time he gets to the poetry of her happiness, she believes him. Despite the scars of her past and the stains her parents left her with and the blemish of guilt she’ll carry for the rest of her life, she believes him when he tells her she’s beautiful.

fbbdvo

The Hidden

"Why won't you marry me?" "I'm 17, Peter. There are things I want to do before I get married." "Other girls marry at your age, Karin. Don't you love me?" I was an old argument. It seemed to come up every few weeks nowadays. Maybe Warsaw, Poland in 1941 made the young feel they had to hurry with life. Karin's brother, Alex, and his friends already had been declared "ethnic Germans" and drafted to fight with the Nazis. Peter, at 23, was considered a cripple; a childhood injury left him with a limp. He wouldn't be a soldier, but they could make him work in an office. He currently worked for his father as a bookkeeper; he was a wiz with numbers. "Karin, we could go to Switzerland. Maybe we could leave on a honeymoon and never come back. It's getting worse every day. Our Jewish friends are vanishing. I hope they are fleeing to safety, but you know that's not all that's happening. They are sending them to a ghetto." "My parents would never let me leave," Karin said, meekly. "When are you going to be an adult, your own person, Karin?" "Soon, Peter. I need a little more time." So, the "talk" was shelved for a few more weeks. They kissed goodnight and walked the block to her house. Her parents would be holding dinner for her. They liked Peter, but they didn't want her marrying so young. She had worked for six months in an office and was learning to take care of herself, important in this perilous time. "You look tired, dear," Karin's mother observed while setting the table. Mother was ever-watchful. "Is it work or Peter?" "I'm fine, really," Karin repied as she put the food on the table. "Pop, it's dinner time." Karin's apparent fatigue was the evening meal's topic of conversation. "Are they working you too hard at Lexes?" "Not at all," Karin replied, trying to look animated. The rest of the discussion revolved around her aunts and uncles and cousins. They didn't discuss her soldier brother, Alex--they didn't know where he was--nor their Jewish friends and acquaintances, who seemed to be more scarce as the weeks went by. Karin's parents and grandparents--the Brandt family--had lived in Warsaw for generations. They weren't political; they believed in live and let live. They were well thought of in the community. Karin was slightly younger than her former school friends. Some had married; some had jobs. She saw them at Saturday night dances; that's where she met Peter. He had courted her relentlessly for six months. He felt inferior to the other young men because of the limp, but she gave it little thought. The morning came way too quickly. Karin dressed hurriedly; she wanted to stop by the Nowak Market for fruit. Her Lexes coworkers loved the apples, pears, and oranges she kept in her desk. Lexes, a photography developer, was fairly generous to its employees. They received two 10-minute breaks and 30 minutes for lunch. Usually, at least four of Karin's friends came up to her floor during the day in search of the tasty fruit. Karin started as a developer. She enjoyed her work in the darkroom and watching the photos come to life. After a few months, the owner Mr. Lexes needed a new office manager. Since Karin was an excellent typist, she received the promotion. Every now and then, she still made her way to the darkroom, but most of her life now involved paperwork, phone calls, and sitting at a desk. She was running late and hurried to Nowak's, but as she walked on the street, she saw Juden scrawled on the building a few doors away. It was the Abramson's pasmanteria shop. Some of the windows had been smashed. Karin stopped for a moment, looking at the windows. Suddenly, she saw a face in the window. It was Rachel, the Abramson's 13-year-old daughter. Karin remembered playing with Rachel in the park when they were younger. She walked on to Nowak's, feeling unsettled. She quickly bought a large sack of different fruits and then walked down the alleyway behind the shops. She knocked on the backdoor of the Abramson shop. Rachel cautiously looked out the window and then opened the door. "Do you remember me, Rachel? We used to play together. I'm Karin." "Soldiers took our parents," Rachel sobbed. Rachel's little sisters, Rebecca and Ruth, stood behind her. "When?" Karin stared down at the heartbroken faces. "Two days ago. I think they took them to the ghetto. Momma told us to hide. They didn't find us when they came." Karin started putting half of the fruit on a table. The little girls grabbed it hungrily. They had already eaten all the food in their apartment above the shop. "They may come back," Rachel said fearfully. "Let me think of what to do. I have to go to work, but I'll be back. I'll try to bring more food." Karin walked quickly to the office, two blocks away. She felt sick to her stomach. The Germans forbid Polish citizens from helping their Jewish neighbors. If she didn't help them, they would be captured. They would starve. Her thoughts were so focused on the three Abramson girls that she ran up the two flights of stairs at Lexes without even thinking. "Well, look who decided to come in," said Hanna, Karin's officemate. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I brought fruit." "You are forgiven then." Karin sat at her desk and tried to concentrate on her work. "You're so quiet," remarked Hanna. "Did you and Peter have another go-round?" "No, we're OK," Karin tried to smile and act like nothing was bothering her, but she couldn't stop thinking about the girls and wondering how to help them. Ruth, the smallest girl, was only 4; the middle girl, Rebecca, was 8. Rachel would need help taking care of them. There were rumors all the time about the United States entering the war. Karin prayed for it daily. Surely, the war couldn't last much longer. Karin's old boss and the owner of the shop, Mr. Lexes, had told her the Germans intended to kill all the Jews. His wife was Jewish, so he and his family left one night without telling anyone. Mr. Lexes' duties at the shop were divided between Karin and his assistant, Len. Len decided to stay in his second floor office. "These orders just came in." Hanna was standing in front of Karin's desk." "Oh, I'm sorry. I must be in my own little world." "Got your mind on that boyfriend," Hanna laughed as she silently wished she had a boyfriend. Karin tried to busy herself with paperwork. She remembered how worried Mr. Lexes had been. He paid a huge amount to secure travel papers for himself, his wife, his mother, and his two young children. Karin knew some Jews had gone into hiding in various places in the city. Every now and then, you would hear sirens and know they had been captured. Maybe Karin could hide the girls. Peter would be appalled over such a risky plan; her parents would send her away for even considering it. There was something that only Karin knew about the Lexes office. Mr. Lexes had installed a bathroom, with a door behind a bookcase. It was behind Karin's desk. While Karen never used that bathroom, Mr. Lexes preferred it to going down to a lower floor. Maybe the girls could be hidden there. It wouldn't be that comfortable, but they would be safer than in their apartment above the store.. Karin thought about it all day. If the girls were in the office, she could get food to them more easily. After work, she stopped and bought cheese and bread. She walked carefully in the alley, glancing around to see if she was being watched. When she tapped on the Abramson's door, Rachel opened it quickly. "You came back," she said, relieved. Karin put half of the cheese and bread on the table. "I may have found a safer place for you. Can you be ready tomorrow at 6 p.m.? Bring one change of clothes and one toy or book each. I'll come get you." Once she was resolved to do something, Karin rarely backed off from a plan--a trait Peter hated. Tomorrow would be Saturday, and the office would be closed for the weekend, so she could move them. The hiding place was small, but the girls would be warm and protected from rain--and the Germans. Karin tried not to consider what would happen if they were discovered. They would be sent to the ghetto or worse; Karin would be arrested. "We going to the dance tonight?" Peter ran up behind her. "OK. Get me after dinner." Dancing with Peter was nice that night. She could pretend it was life before the Germans came, before her brother had to leave, and before she found those three terrified children. "We could do this all the time in Switzerland," Peter said, dreaming. "In Switzerland, there would still be rent to pay, jobs to do." "We'd be a married couple--there's a lot more we could do, if you know what I mean." "Behave yourself," laughed Karin. "I am behaving--just badly." The next day, Karin did her chores around the house, occasionally glancing at the clock. She told her parents she needed to do a quick errand. In her bag, she packed food, a jug of water, and a small quilt., At 6, the girls were ready with their few belongings, which were placed in Karin's bag. They moved silently on the dark streets. Karin figured it was dinnertime for most of the German soldiers. Karin felt huge relief when they finally got to Lexes and closed the door behind them. On the third floor, she moved pulled the bookcase forward and then opened the door. "A bathroom?" asked Rachel, giggling. "You'll be safe here, but you mustn't flush the toilet or run any water during the day. You mustn't move around in here until it is dark outside." The younger girls listened, but she was not sure they grasped the rules. "Rachel, it would be best if you all got used to sleeping during the daytime. During the day, you must be absolutely silent. You've got to keep your sisters quiet." Karin looked around the small space. There were towels that could be used for bedding on the floor. She emptied the bag, and they quickly organized the few items. She remembered a drawer that could be opened from the office. Mr. Lexes used it to store toilet paper without entering the bathroom. Karen moved all the toilet paper out. The drawer would be useful in passing food to the girls. She told them she would plan to visit every weekend. The girls looked a bit overwhelmed, and Karin was afraid she had done the wrong thing in moving them, but she was convinced nothing else could be done. When she returned to the office on Monday, she was so nervous. It was like there was a brick in her gut. Hanna was at her desk, talking about orders on the phone. Karin heard nothing behind her. She waited until Hanna went downstairs and then quickly opened the drawer to leave a few food items. She saw Rachel's hands claim the food and saw the edge of her face as she smiled up at her. After going to her desk, Karin relaxed a bit. Maybe this would work out. At least she wasn't worrying about the girls with their faces behind those broken windows. In the next weeks, Karin got used to the routine of bringing food daily and visiting the girls on weekends. She managed to get hold of books and a few toys for them. Out of the sunshine, the girls became very pale, but they were surviving. The girls, in most cases, stayed very quiet during the day. If Karin heard a cough or sneeze, she would make noise at her desk to cover the sound. Once Hanna heard something drop on the floor. "What was that? It sounds like it's something behind the wall." "Oh? No, I think it's something on the roof," Karin replied. Peter found Karin to be preoccupied. She couldn't tell him--or anyone else--what she had done. She no longer allowed talk of Switzerland. He wasn't happy as he was now working in a Nazi office, doing bookkeeping on all the money stolen from the Jews. "On a warm weekend, can't we at least go to a seashore somewhere?" "Peter, I think you need to find a more carefree girl." In truth, if it weren't for Karin, Peter would have probably already moved away. She tried to encourage him to do so, but he thought it was just a ploy to make him stay. "I want to marry you," he insisted. "I don't want anyone else." Occasionally, Karin heard the German troops going on their rounds, looking for hidden Jews. Sometimes she was fearful, but at other times, she felt that she and the girls were victorious. With the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the Americans entered the war. Karin felt that victory was at hand. The year was coming to an end. Karin was shopping for Boze Narodzenie (Christmas) on a Saturday morning. She even bought a few gifts for the girls. Crossing the street to Lexes, she didn't notice anything unusual, but as she opened the door, she heard a German voice. "You are too pretty of a girl to be working on Saturday." She saw two Germans inside the door. She tried to sound casual. "Oh, I just remembered some paperwork I need to finish; I thought I'd stop by." "We've been watching you. You've been stopping by a lot on weekends." Karin shook her head. "It's not against the law to be a diligent worker." They laughed. "But it is against the law to do the other thing--the three girls upstairs." She froze. They found them. "I don't know what you're talking about." The soldiers said nothing else. They didn't say where the girls were. Had they already arrested them? "Where are we going?" she asked. "We figure your parents might share some information with us. Are you hiding others?" Once they reached her house, she saw fear in her parents' eyes. "Please, my parents know nothing. I did this on my own. I hid the girls." Her mother started to cry. "We didn't know." "She made a childish mistake. She thought she was being helpful." her father said. Karin repeated. "Please, my parents knew nothing about this." She was relieved when the soldiers walked her out of the house. Maybe her parents wouldn't be blamed. "Do you know what happens to people who hide Jews?" From the corner of her eye, Karin saw Peter standing down the street. She quickly shook her head at him; he needed to stay away. "We need to make an example of those who break the law," one soldier was saying. She was placed against a wall in the town square. At that moment, she realized she was going to die. But were the girls still alive? Maybe they'd survive. And Peter. He needed to leave; he should leave as soon as he could get away. Karin watched as the soldiers lined up across from her with their guns. She watched birds fly overhead, as free as the wind. In her heart, she knew. She had done the right thing.

a4mnsz

My Father's Sin

 The night air is disturbed by a cracking sound. It’s like a wet tea-towel being slapped onto a work surface.  And then there is silence. My Dad will never forgive himself. I’ll never forgive my Dad. But Donnachadh Brophy has forgiven him already.  Dad and Brophy are brothers-at-arms. They were serving Royal Ulster Constabulary officers at the height of the Troubles that plagued Northern Ireland. Everyone in the Force knew Brophy and O’Driscoll. They were so closely intertwined that they became like a pair of scissors. One half is no use without the other. Brophy was the archetypal police inspector, top of his game, well-respected by his peers who found him puzzling and amusing in equal measure. Dad was his standard variety beat bobby assistant, always there to make his tea and be a sounding board for his plethora of hypothetical theory. Together they were a special branch within special branch.  Brophy is an enigma. There is the man and there is his mind, two elements combining within one human to create a forcefield of energy so strong that every room he enters buzzes with energy. He is scruffy, he is poetic, he is static, he is fluid, he is righteous and he is sly. He is normal and he is paranormal. But it is Brophy’s mind that is the real magic. His genius fizzes around him like TV snow. It would be perfectly natural to wonder if some of that brilliance might conduct itself into your soul if you were to reach out and touch him. It would also be perfectly natural to wonder how the man isn’t perpetually exhausted by a brain capable of six or seven trains of thought at once. His wit is as sharp as a lemon and little escapes his keen observation.  Dad is the opposite, the calm in the storm, the comfort they turned to when the horrors of war made them scream in the still of the night. While Dad needed Brophy’s quick wit, Brophy needed Dad’s adaptability. Their strengths and weaknesses dovetailed perfectly. There were times when they witnessed such depths of human cruelty that both of their stomachs roiled in protest against the anguish of conflict. It was always Dad’s gentle hand on Brophy’s back that gave the Inspector the still he needed to vomit. It’s ok, Sir , said Dad’s hand, bring it up. It’s only me, I won’t tell anyone. It’s not a weakness to be sick.   Their office was small with only enough space for the two of them, though being so different from each other the office naturally became two rooms in one. Dad’s half was neat and tidy, everything in its place. He’s never been one to tolerate mess and chaos. Such things upset his intrinsic need for order and efficiency. At the end of every day he would tidy away his notebooks and pens and polish down his desk so that it was nice and clean for the next morning. Brophy’s half of the office was the contrary. It was like his mind - an explosion of thoughts, ideas and concepts. His desk and shelves were bursting with books, notepads, photos, papers, sticky notes. Brophy had a noticeboard on which he tacked photos of the latest Prov IRA line-up with which he and Dad played a never-ending game of cat and mouse. I’d look up at their cold, unsmiling faces and shiver. These men were capable of bomb plots and torture. The fear kept me awake at night for years, rendering me unable to sleep until I heard Dad’s key in the door. “Don’t they scare you, Uncle Donnachadh?” I asked. “Do they feck!” Brophy laughed. “I get scared they’ll kill you or Dad,” I admitted. “Never!” Brophy laughed again and knelt down so that he was eye-to-eye with me, “listen, Deaglan. These bastards are amateurs. They’ll never get me or your Daddy because we’re the police. We’re the professionals. These clowns don’t know what they’re doing. They don’t scare me and they don’t scare your Daddy. They shouldn’t scare you either.”  Dad looked up from the statement he was writing. I could tell by the way his eyes slowly dropped back down to his paperwork that he didn’t fully share Brophy’s sentiment. It was the only time I ever saw my Dad show any sort of fear. But then Dad had his reasons. He was himself was a bit of an enigma in those days. He was a Catholic boy born to a Republican family. He broke all the rules when he joined the Loyalist police force. His family disowned him when he signed up. Siding with the enemy, they called it, and turned their backs on him. Gone were his family Christmases, the wedding invitations, the lads nights out with his brothers, the comforting arms of his mother. Uncle Kieran couldn’t let the matter drop. He was the oldest and considered it his business to protect the family reputation. He joined an IRA Brigade and made it his personal mission to rid the streets of Dad’s influence. He hunted his own brother down for years, looking to execute my Dad for bringing disgrace on the O’Driscoll name. My Catholic Dad was worth two Protestant men. Any man taking him down could enjoy a shower of glory.  Brophy responded to Kieran O’Driscoll’s mission with his own crusade to seek justice for Dad. It took him two years to nail my uncle Kieran down but he did it. When he returned to the station after the big arrest Brophy opened a bottle of champagne and toasted my Dad’s safety. Uncle Kieran served eleven years up at the Maze thanks to Brophy’s efforts and life moved on. Eventually our dynamic duo focused their efforts on other IRA volunteers. Kieran, rotting away in his cell, was resigned to the rolodex of history that was Brophy’s memory. But Kieran never forgot Brophy.  I was twelve when the brilliance of Brophy’s mind finally tired him out. Dad came home one night feeling more tired than usual. He took his hat off his head and set it on the table with a poignant quietness I couldn’t help but notice.  “What’s up, Da?” I asked. “Ahh nothing, son,” he tried to raise an unconvincing smile.  “Has something happened at work?”  “It’s Uncle Donnachadh,” he told me after a long pause. My heart pounded.  “Is he dead, Da?” I asked. “No, no…” Dad held up his hand, “but I am worried about him. He’s not stopped talking all day.” “He always talks a lot.” “No, it was more than usual. It was relentless. Like he couldn’t stop. And there was a look in his eye that wasn’t quite right,” Dad took a sip of his tea, “like he was wired.” “Wired?” “If I didn’t know him better, Deaglan, I’d say he’d taken drugs,” Dad’s eyebrows were raised, “but he wouldn’t be that stupid. And the office mess…it’s getting worse.” “He’s always messy!” I frowned. I was confused. I didn’t understand what he was saying. “I’m sure it will be fine,” Dad reassured me, “it’s just that he made today feel very tiring. Now how was school?”  Things weren’t fine. When Dad went to work the following morning he found Brophy slumped over his desk, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, frantically working on a new theory. His hair was raised in tufts on his head, his eyes wild, his tie loose, a coffee-stain splashed down his shirt. There were mugshots and papers everywhere, notes messily written on memo sheets. A frantic energy filled the room. The electricity from Brophy’s mind was almost tangible, like a high-pitched siren cutting through the air. It made Dad want to cover his ears and cower.  “O’Driscoll! You’re late. What time do you call this?” Brophy asked as he looked up from another manic scribble on a sheet of memo paper. “It’s 8 O’Clock, Sir,” Dad told him, “I’m thirty minutes early.” “You’ve taken your time, lad,” Brophy frowned, “when there’s so much work to do!” “Did you go home last night, Sir?” “How can I go home when there’s so much work on?” Brophy asked. He was irritable, snappy, as if Dad’s questions were irrelevant, “Get these notes together, type them up. That lot on your desk there is an operation plan. Operation Drogheda.”  Dad looked at the confetti of note paper that littered the office. He picked up a page or two and squinted at the content. Brophy’s handwriting was illegible scribble and the only words Dad could read spelt out the ramblings of a mad man. “Operation Drogheda, Sir?” “The new Operation me and you are going to spearhead!” Brophy announced excitedly, “come on, O’Driscoll, get with it. I’ll have each and every one of those Prov bastards in the cells. All of them, O’Driscoll. By the end of today.” “That’s…that’s impossible, Sir. There aren’t enough cells. There isn’t enough space in the prison,” Dad told him. “What defeatist bollocks!” Brophy shouted, “are you saying that we’ll never win this war, O’Driscoll?” “No, Sir, I just don’t think we can arrest them all in one day,” Dad told him calmly, “let’s not get over-excited, Sir.” Brophy threw down his pen in an unprovoked rage and stood to square up against his closest friend. “I’ll have you on report, O’Driscoll,” he raged, “for disloyalty to the Force.” “What?” Dad gasped.  “You’re a mole, O’Driscoll,” Brophy growled, “an IRA spy! I’ve been duped all these years! You’re feeding those bastards all my theories!” “Sir, I am offended by your accusation!” Dad said strongly.  Dad’s eyes soaked up the illegible notes, the frantic talking, the staying up all night. Brophy wasn’t a well man. “We can single-handedly win this war, O’Driscoll. Just me and you,” Brophy pleaded. “No,” Dad shook his head. Despite their friendship and all their years of working together Dad always respectfully called Brophy ‘Sir’ as his rank demanded. Dad liked rules. But on that day Dad broke one as he gently took Brophy’s arm. “Donnachadh,” he said softly, “I think you need to rest, now.” Brophy was detained under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act that afternoon. Dad had kept his cool throughout the harrowing experience. Brophy wouldn’t listen to the pleas of other officers to calm down. He refused to go home. The doctors and social workers had to come to the police station where he was assessed while lying face down in the office mess, crying for his sanity. Dad had watched this hell unfold with his quiet dignity but when he got home the tears came. “My friend,” he whispered, “my mate, Donnachadh.”  Brophy was taken to a hospital where they made him wear pyjamas all day and ensured he stuck to a strict daily routine of washing, mealtimes and fingerpainting. He hated it. Dad took me to visit once. They had cut Brophy’s silver hair. His eyes were sunken and yellow. The electricity of his mind was gone, dulled by the medication they fed him like mints. I didn’t visit again. It was too much.  When Brophy went back to work he tried to rediscover his passion for the Force but with the drugs still dulling the magic in his brain he couldn’t find his identity within an ever-changing organisation. He tried his best but when I was sixteen he gave in to early retirement on medical grounds. His last day was like a funeral. He and Dad both cried as they carried his boxes of mess out of the station, though neither let the other see his tears. “Pint, Sir?” Dad asked when the car was loaded with Brophy’s belongings. “Don,” Brophy told him, “it’s Don now, Matthew, lad.”  “Don,” Dad smiled.   Brophy tries to adapt to life without work as his passion. He turns his brilliance into artwork and starts painting watercolours for sale at art fairs. He enjoys it but the lion in his heart yearns for more. He manages just eighteen short months before he becomes unwell again. Dad and Brophy's wife Tressa work hard to keep him at home, taking it in turns to care for him. Dad is exhausted. Work isn’t the same without his best friend. He doesn’t like his new colleagues much. They are too messy for him, they leave dirty cups on their desks and never empty the bin. He never says it out loud but they could be the tidiest people in Ireland but they aren’t Brophy. In Dad's mind they could never match up to his old boss’ legend. He finishes work and goes to sit with his friend over a cup of tea and to admire his latest watercolour painting. And then comes home, a crummy flat in a neglected tower block, to me, a disgruntled, hormonal and argumentative seventeen year old boy with the wisps of a beard on my chin and no sense of direction in my life.  It happens late one Monday night in February as the rain pours. The only light in the street outside are the yellow halos around the streetlamps. Dad is on his way home. I’ve got some beans and chips cooking for his tea. He’ll take his plate and sit in the lounge, eating chips and spooning beans robotically into his mouth while gazing at whatever is on the TV. He won’t take any of it in. His mind is too busy unwinding after a rough day at work and an hour with Brophy, who has been talking about setting up his own answer to the IRA. The Custodians of Peace. The COPs, no less.  I expect Dad at eight o’clock. He’s fifteen minutes late. That makes me a bit anxious. He might be stuck in traffic, he might just be having a laugh with Brophy, but I can’t help that old sneaking worry that the IRA volunteers have got him. They’d ambush him, bundle him into the back of a van and take him to a secret location to torture Police secrets out of him before blowing his brains into next week. The risk isn’t as bad as it was years ago but still. I worry.  The door flies open at eight-thirty. Dad is in a panic. He pushes me out of the way on his way to the bedroom, his face red, his lungs barely able to catch a breath. He dives under his bed and pulls out his police-issue gun. I yelp. “Dad!” I cry. “It’s Brophy!” Dad tells me, “he went missing this afternoon. I’ve just found him. He was outside this flat the whole time, painting a fucking mural on the side of the betting shop.” “Why do you need a gun?” I ask.  Dad ignores me. He cocks the gun and runs outside onto the balcony of our tower block. Sure enough there is Brophy. He’s painted the outline of a mural on the wall. Political murals are common in Northern Ireland. Both sides, Republican and Loyalist, paint incredible pictures illustrating their position on every available wall surface to spread their message. Brophy he has decided to join those ranks with some artwork of his own. It’s two men shaking hands beneath a rainbow. It’s a symbol of peace. It’s also sign of that he is once again very unwell.  He bends down to put his paintbrush into a tin of white paint. He must be mad to paint in the dark and the biting cold rain but the compulsion in his heart is too strong. He won’t listen, Dad tells me, he won’t come inside. He’s hell-bent on painting his fucking picture. “But why do you need the gun?” I ask him again, this time more urgently, but Dad can’t answer.  A red van screeches around the corner. Three lads jump out of the back. They’re all dressed in dark clothing, their faces covered in balaclavas. “Dad!” I scream.  The lads make a semi-circle around Brophy. They’re telling him to go with them. He won’t stop painting. They don’t know he’s unwell. They think he's being obstructive. Two lads take him by the arms. He’s still holding his paintbrush. He begs to be allowed to finish the dove he was painting above the figures of peace. He cries. He’s not frightened. He doesn’t know who these men are. He’s crying only because he wants to finish his art. “Kieran!” Dad’s voice echoes around the tower block courtyard.  A man in a balaclava looks up. I know it’s my Dad’s brother, fresh out of prison and keen to exact his justice over the man who arrested him. Kieran tells his boys to hurry the fuck up because they’ve been spotted. They rush to put Brophy in the back of the van. They’re going to take him away. They’re going to torture him. Then they're going to kill him. “DAD help him!!” I scream. “I can’t help him, it would be five against one,” Dad shouts, “they’ll get me and then they’ll come for you.” “It’s Brophy, Dad!” I’m crying. Wailing. I want my Dad, the hero, to make it all ok again. Dad looks to the heavens, the blanket of navy stippled with rain. There are tears in his eyes too. “Oh Lord God,” he begins. “Dad stop fucking praying!” I screech, “that’s not going to help! Dad they’re TAKING HIM!” “My Lord forgive my sins and understand my position. This is a mercy mission, Lord. Hear my prayer.”  He cocks the gun. The night air is disturbed by a cracking sound. It’s like a wet tea-towel being slapped onto a work surface. And then there is silence. Brophy slumps to the floor, the bullet that cut through his head lodged into the dove of peace on the wall behind him. He dies instantly. His passing is painless and peaceful. Dad will never forgive himself. I’ll never forgive my Dad. But Donnachadh Brophy has forgiven him already.

te36cl

Staring out of a Window Late at Night

I’m staring out of the window of the bar late at night - just before closing time.     I’m looking out of the public bar window at the mountain that’s moving towards me like Birnam Wood in the play which name cannot be spoken aloud and I know it’s the drink that talking when in walks my old buddy, Jack O’Leary, tight as a cork in an old bottle of Merlot. We’re in the Angel Hotel, only it ain’t no hotel, just a pub tucked into the side of the hill, and I haven’t seen Jack for a year because I’ve been sailing around the post British Empire world. All those places that now have independence and who’s people are only too pleased to tell me how much better off they are without the British, only I don’t care about Empire. My Dad was raised on it and like Churchill deplored every inch we gave away. And if truth be known we were so broke, the British that is, that we could no longer function with out aid, dare I mention American aid?    Anyway, Jack couldn’t care less about Empire, or British for that matter, his dad being Irish Canadian, but he does want to know why I’ve jacked in the job, in his eyes a dream job on a passenger liner, being fed at the company’s expense and actually being paid to visit all the world’s greatest ports. Not just getting paid, but getting paid more than working in the ship repair yards at home.     Jack wanted to know why, why did I finish? ‘Were there plenty of women on board?’ ‘Sure,’ says I, it being a liner an’ all. ‘Plenty, oodles of women young women and horny’. And that sort of talk, turns Jack on, and he’s egging me on, to spill the beans and I don’t want to tell him anything because I’m so fed up with the sea. I’m fed-up with the cocktail parties, wearing a cummerbund, having to wear starched whites. whites stiff as virgin jack tar on his first visit to a bagnio, and tired of paying out of my own pay for epaulets, overalls, boots, and uniforms and actually tired of eating first-class when all I want is a beef sandwich with horseradish sauce.     ‘You had it made, why pack it in?’ and he couldn’t understand one just gets fed up of being a stuffed shirt when all we did was watchkeeping hundreds of gauges and dials and shutting off alarms and sometimes you can’t put your feelings into the English language not the way you want to and it was a summer evening and our mates were out with girl friends or getting married an’ the bar was just dead and the air hung on your face as if you stayed too long you would get as musty and dry as the cool cellar and why should I go on, he wouldn’t understand him being a teacher and all. He wouldn’t understand the heat down there in the engine room, the roar and hiss of turbines and the raw power of superheated steam, nor the biting desire to sleep more than seven hours at a time when it is four on and eight off seven days a week for a whole voyage and when them-upstairs condescend to give one lousy half day off, you’d rather sleep than go on a date with a beautiful Canadian girl. Shit, what sort of life is that.     ‘I’m fed-up, says Jack. Sick of this place.’ ‘Do you know, Jack, what I miss? I miss camping.’ And a look comes over old Jack, something clicked. And he says, ‘Yes, sure, I would like to go camping.’ He tells me about this place called Mwnt in Ceredigion, a beach. Let’s go, he says, when I tell him I’ve got a tent.     We hike and hitch-hike and get picked up by all different, and odd, kinds of people and Jack is a big guy and looks good in shorts and some of those guys who pick us up they take to him in his shorts, you know, looking so manly and get him to sit in the front and they hang on his every word and old Jack is getting embarrassed and I’m chuckling in the back seat cos, Jack ain’t like that you know, he’s straight down the middle kind of guy. But give him a girl and boy he’s all over that girl like a bee on a blossomed flower.     Well, we get to Cardigan and Jack says, It ain’t far we can walk in a couple of hours. We camp on the headland. Jack ain’t no camper nor hiker and he’s dead to life straight away as a soon as he lays down on the groundsheet. So early morning I knocks at the farm and a young woman takes to me and sells me eggs, bread, butter, and milk for our tea and she’s really nice but something tells me about her worn look that she’s married. When I say worn, I mean familiar, at ease, she’s at ease with herself and she knows who she is and she likes men and if it was a different time, if the tide was coming in, you know, things could be different. And we do nothing because there nothing we can do but to look and like each other and that’s enough, but if the tide was different, you know . . .     We spend the week on Mwnt just doing absolutely nothing, sunning, eating, and swimming to get cool and basking like iguanas to get warm again. We were bronzed and clean, no alcohol. It was glorious and then this German girl turns up with a family working as an au pair and Jack says, ‘Go tap her up.’ And I goes over and says, ‘What’s a nice girl doing in a hole like this?’ And it works, because she probably doesn’t understand a word I say. But Jack laughs his socks off cos it’s such a corny line, but more so cos she was digging a hole in the sand for the kids at the time.     We run out of money and we have to hike back home and an American lady picks me up in her little British car, a Morris Mini Minor, and drives me back all the way home which was kind of her. A middle class American, educated, maybe a teacher, modestly dressed and we speak hardly a word all the way back. And she ain’t looking for action, For her, the thrill is in just picking up a handsome, slim and bronzed guy and sitting in close for two hours, that’s all the excitement she’s banking on and I understand because my thoughts are with the German girl, how the sun shone and sparkled in her blond hair, and how could she be taller by me by half an inch and why she would want to go out with a foreigner like me on such a gloriously bright and sunny day. ******

7oyso2

Something for everyone

The Flannigan family were almost ready, they were organising a party for James Flannigan aka Jimmy. He had been going through year's of parental hell, no thanks to his toxic ex-wife. Samantha Platt was an unpleasant woman, she had a cousin called Marie who was equally as vile and both girls had caused trouble for the Flannigan family. The pub owners son, Toby offered to upgrade security just in case these evil women crash the party. He hated Marie as he accused Toby of child abuse due to his and his daughter's unique eye colour, inherited from his mother. Unlike them, the Flannigan's were hoping to see his young adult daughter, Victoria. The family matron had taken a liking to her, although her twisted mother always caused rifts between them. Tanya Flannigan once took 'Vikki' to her care job. Her son Toby caught her on how to prepare meals for the elderly people his mother assisted with. She had heard stories from the residents. She enjoyed the experience but to no surprise, her mother fussed about it. She deemed it inappropriate despite her being 16 years old at the time, so hardly a child. Tanya had prepared jam tarts for her daughter Ophelia and lemon drizzle came pieces for Vikki. She made sure she had everyone's favourite snacks. The older woman had a brilliant reputation for organising events and so did most of their family. Everything seemed to be in order, so Tanya gave Rupert the thumbs up. He then opened his pub doors bang on 10 am. They knew Jimmy would stop by shortly as he would visit the family on a Saturday. Their youngest granddaughter Olivia had dripped a few cookies on the floor. Tanya laughed and picked up her grandchild. "Enjoying the sweets?" She asked her and fave her light cuddles. She giggled as Tanya put her back down and picked up the dropped biscuits. Tripod, the three-legged poodle hobbled over to the toddler wagging his tail. "Hewwo doggie!" Olivia smiled as she stroked the small dog. He looked about the right size for her by comparison. This got the attention of several patrons. "That is so cute," a senior woman said as the young boy who was with her walked to Olivia. "Libby!" He smiled, as this was her nickname. Young Oliver Sutton started to play with the dog. At first, he wasn't going to go, but then smelt that Toby had dog treats on him so wanted some easy grub. He didn't mind the kids, and another little girl crawled over and giggled at the dog. He was patient with her as he was used to Libby. "Oh Ivy, don't pull at his fur!" Charlie scolded her baby daughter. Tripod whined a little, but he didn't attack the baby. Tanya smirked "this was supposed to be a party for my nephew Jimmy and his daughter. Now Tripod is stealing the show," she laughed as Tripod and the younger patrons were getting a lot of attention. Just then Jimmy walked in with his daughter. Tanya ran over and shouted, "happy 50th and 21st birthday guys!" She smiled as Vikki and Jimmy were flattered. "Thank you so much, Auntie," he smiled. "It's no trouble, we all chipped in. But seems that Tripod and Libby have been making friends so a lot of the attention is on them," she smiled. Jimmy smiled. "It means I can go get food while they are busy," he giggled as his daughter suddenly rushed over to the dog who was surrounded by young children. The young adult squealed like a girl half her age and stroked the beautiful dog. She also fussed the children including Libby. Tanya smiled, "well everyone's happy. Even Tripod and he's usually a grumpy git" she laughed as the party continued. Things were running smoothly until most of the eyes of the Flannigan's flashed silver. They looked disgusted as they sensed Samantha Platt. "Oh God, what the hell is she doing here!" Toby scoffed, he wanted to kick her out as did most of the family. But that was up to his dad Rupert. The 39-year-old hybrid had his scythe in his pocket, it was in disguise of a trowel. He took it as an opportunity to give this evil cow a piece of his mind. She contributed to the false reports about his daughter Libby. "What the hell are you doing here?" He scowled at Samantha. She scoffed, "I'm here to see my daughter since I organised a party for her, but she never attended. But for some reason, she's here with Jimmy the jerks weird arse family of yellow-eyed freaks!" She said, badmouthing the family. Toby smirked, "oh you mean these?" He snorkel as he pulled his fringe up, revealing his yellow eyes. She jumped a little, "so you were the vile cow who called CPS on my daughter? I pity the hell out of you. And to think there are children out there who need help but you go and make a false claim. Furthermore, Vikki knew you'd book her party on the same day she was visiting her dad and the 'weirdo' Flannigan's. What a jerk move, and it's ironic since that's what you called my cousin. Typical!" He scoffed. "Now if suggest you leave before things get ugly he said as Vikki walked over. Her mother suddenly looked like butter wouldn't melt. " hey honey I think you forgot our little party I organised," she smiled Vikki acoffed, "oh save it mum! You organised that to spite my dad and the family. And I know it would have been boring since being at this pub is fin and you would just invite your friends and drink eine until you fall asleep. So I didn't forget mum, I didn't attend!" She scoffed. Toby laughed out loud. "Well she told you! So what are you waiting for? Clear off!" He said as Rupert, Tanya, Ophelia, Anna, Amber and Jessica walked over glaring at her. All but support had the 'infamous' yellow eyes. Samantha looked terrified and quickly left. Vikki felt relieved that her 'mother' left. She was considering moving out of her mothers house. And had brought it up in the past. Anna gave Vikki a large card, she opened it and saw a deed for A two-bedroom house. It mentioned that Anna had paid it off and it was all hers. She would only have to worry about the bills. But since her twisted mother was charging her an unreasonable amount of rent to live with her. That would no longer be a problem. Vikki cried and hugged Anna. "Best birthday present ever!"

ans2ow

In a nervous party

Quite a long time ago when I was in school I recall my closest companion called me late night on Saturday to welcome me on her birthday following day. I was glad and exceptionally eager to go there yet I expected to take authorization from my folks. I went to my Papa's room and gradually asked him, "Father tomorrow is my closest companions birthday and I truly need to go." Father said, "Alright I dont mind however ask your mother." I went to Mom and said, "Dear Mom" Unexpectedly she answered, "What do you need." I resembled stunned, "Mother how would you realize that I need to say something." She said, "The manner in which you are talking shows that" and she grinned. I asked her, "Mother, I need to go tomorrow." She said, "Alright you can go yet u must be back before 10." At that point my arrangements began. I made 1 card for my companion and begin choosing materials for the gathering, lastly everything finished and I rested and only one thing was there to me all the time THE PARTY. I was trusting that the night will end and the gathering to start. Next morning my Mom was shock to see me, no alert, no Mom's admonition just I woke up without help from anyone else. The entire day hosted passed and now its get-together time. My dad dropped me to my companions place and said me that he will be once again at 10. I said, "alright" I fled.. I delighted in a ton at party. My companion cherished that card which I made for her and everyone in the gathering adored my dress. I was joyous beyond words. We ate, we played such countless games and it was 10 at long last. I recalled my Mom's recommendation that I ought to be back till 10. I came out and begin looking for my father, yet I was unable to have the option to discover him. I was so stressed and frightened, everyone was inside, I was separated from everyone else there. I sat tight there for 5 to 10 min yet standing by alone is by all accounts more than the time. I began strolling, I thought at any rate I can return home by strolling as my house was 20 min away from my companions place. As I was strolling I was sobbing as I have never strolled alone out and about that too around evening time. Out of nowhere I heard somebody calling something. I was frightened and I began strolling quick. I thought some hooligan was there or some phantom… As I was strolling quick I heard somebody strolling quick behind me. I began running and crying, at that point I saw a few vehicles left there. I took cover behind those vehicles. I saw one shadow looking for me. I petitioned god to save me and to assist me with arriving at home. After at some point I was unable to see that shadow. I came out gradually and ran towards my home. At last I arrived at home. I embraced my mother and I began crying. She began posing such countless inquiries what happened,why you are crying and everything except I couldn't answer any of them. After at some point I loose and said everything to mother. She got terrified and keeping in mind that we were talking about my dad came and asked what occurred. When I began disclosing to him my story he said, "I saw you and I was shouting at you however you were fleeing from me and unexpectedly you vanished. I was looking through you there. I arrived behind schedule there as my tire got cut." My mother blasted out chuckling and told my father everything, I was stunned to hear that and felt assuaged. My dad embraced me and said, "You ought to have stand by there." My mother said, "You ought to be quiet and solid in each circumstance." Yet, they said they are truly cheerful and pleased with me that I returned home. That day I laid down with my folks and truly had a sense of security and secure. Following day I went to class I told my companions all that occurred with me the previous evening they heard everything and were shock that I courageously face everything.. So that was the best party and brave evening and incredible reaction from everybody… I adored that… I was walking in the park when I saw her. It was drizzling, and she was sitting on the swing, facing the calm lake that only ever seems to be interrupted by raindrops, umbrella in hand, pushing her feet back and forth ever so slowly. I cautiously approached her, wondering why she is here at a time so late. Everyone calls her an oddball, someone who cannot think straight. The thought of puddles on the ground slipped my mind, and she suddenly spoke, not turning around, voice being so elegant and careful. “Why ever are you out here? Alas, have you come to listen to the crickets too?” “What?” I say, taken aback.   She pauses as if collecting her thoughts. “Or perhaps you are lonely or alone, seeking company?” This is one of the things that makes her so different from everyone else, her speech, or rather, way of communicating. And how she pronounced each word delicately. Too proper. “Why would I want to socialize at a time so late?” I retort, mildly angry at her peacefulness. “Alas, you could only be out here at this time for the crickets. However, it is not in my place to know.” “Why would I be out here for stupid crickets?” “They are not stupid. Can’t you hear their ever so wonderful music?” I focus my attention on the chirping of the crickets. It is like music, always having a rhythm. “Guess I never thought about it before,” “You haven’t?” She says in shock, finally turning her head around to meet my eyes. I smile. Her hair bounces against her shoulders in the process, as if being abruptly taken out of their calm trance. Her eyes, pools of chamomile tea. I shake my head no. “Why, they sing the most beautiful songs,”-she turns back around- “I could listen all day,” She giggles, putting her hand to her mouth. “What’s so funny?” “Oh, I just had quite a thought. If I were to listen to them sing all day long, I probably would not get anything done. It would rather be a waste of time, don’t you think?” “I wouldn’t think it would be a waste of time!” I say, and she visibly jumps.

58rp0m

My Kid Brother

I love the sound of crickets accompanied by the crackling of a fire. The smell of this smoke is heavenly to me, I breathe it in and exhale any pent up stress that was lingering in my mind. My environment right now is my idea of a perfect summer's night. That's when I hear a screech that I swear to go had the capability of shattering ear drums. I slowly turn my head to my right. “Was that really necessary? Could you act your age for five minutes?” My little brother was sitting on a tree stump next to me. His face was covered in melted chocolate and gooey marshmallow. He stuffed what must've been his eighth s’more into his mouth. “Why?” he spewed graham cracker crumbs in every direction when he spoke. “Look Connor, I know you like to make everyone laugh and that's a really great thing. You make me laugh all the time even when I’m sad. But there's a time and a place for that. And this is neither the time nor the place, kid.” Connor lit a marshmallow on fire and showed it to his sister. “Mia. Mia. Mia. Mia” I was on my phone and was about to go off on him when I saw flaming candy stuck in my face. “CONNOR!” he mischievously giggled and blew it out. What am I doing hanging out with a 12 year old on a friday night during the summer. I went on snapchat and saw a bunch of kids hanging out with their friends. I cant lie, this made me feel like a loser. So when I looked over to Connor who was trying to show off his fake boogers he made of marshmallows, that really sealed the deal. “I am a total loser” Connor looked at me “duh” he replied. I punched his shoulder. His laugh faded when he saw me tearing up. “What happened? You're not a loser Mia, you're the best sister in the world. Youre so cool.” I shrugged. “I don't know. No one wants to hang out with me. I feel like no one wants to be my friend.” I shook my head while I stared at the ashes swirling around the fire pit. “It's pathetic I’m 16 I should be doing something instead of wasting my summer.” Connor looked mad at this statement. “Mia you are great and they are missing out. Plus you're my best friend, so that means you're mine!” He smiled showing his missing teeth. “We aren't friends. You're just my kid brother, it's not the same.” He continued “Ok so if im just some kid let's play a game.” I tilted my head, confused by what he said. “What do you mean, what game?” He smirked “Truth or dare. I'll go first! I dare you to go hang out with one of your ‘real’ friends.” He was so snarky I could believe it. “Ya I will.” I stood up and started to storm off. Connor yelled “They don't even care about you!” and whipped my head around and said “yes they do!” Connor shouted back “Why's that?” I was really mature and said “because I said so.” Wow, I'm acting like I’m twelve now. I looked at snap chat again and saw all the popular girls hanging out together. I thought I’d take a chance and I texted one of them, Abby. We used to be friends but she got kind of mean when you got popular. She texted me back asking if I wanted to hang out with them. I was so excited. These girls dont let anyone into their clique. I said yes and she told me they were driving over and to be ready at ten. I went inside and put on some mascara and the coolest outfit I could pull together. I went outside and braided my hair while I waited. They are all so pretty so I wanted to make sure I looked as good as I could. I saw the car coming really fast up my driveway and then I heard my brother yell “Mia, I didn't mean it don’t go!” I ignored him and got in the back seat. The second I opened the door smoke poured out Abby said “uhm nice outfit” a couple of the girls snickered. “Thanks! And thanks for inviting me to hang out with you guys.” I started coughing and rubbing my eyes because of all the smoke and the awful smell. The girls in the front laughed at me so I started laughing uncomfortably too. “Uhm what are you guys up to?” The girl driving responded “We were gonna go for a swim, you're cool with that arent you?” She had never talked to me before. She was kind of the mean girl at our school, her name was Olivia. “I didn't bring a bathing suit or anything” . As I said, a girl named Emma blew smoke in my face and I tried smoking. I politely declined “not my thing. Thank you though.” Emma just rolled her eyes and said “whatever.” Olivia, the driver said, “That doesn't matter, we're all going to do it, or should we just bring you back home.” I answered a little too quickly. “No, I'll do it!” We pulled into a gravel parking lot and she hit the brakes hard. “Good, let's go.” We all got out, I started walking and they stayed a bit behind me in a cluster. I heard them laughing and whispering. I thought that was normal, they're all really close and I’m not. We got to the beach and they told me I should jump in first. I was skeptical but I said ok. I took off my shoes and my sweatshirt so I was only wearing a T-shirt and shorts. It was really cold with the breeze. They turned on some music and encouraged me to jump. This was so spontaneous, but I did and I felt like I fit in and was actually a part of a group for once. I was under water anticipating them to be cheering me on when I came back up for air. I smiled and opened my eyes. I heard a sound like they threw a rock or something. Then I saw that they were running away with my sweatshirt and my shoes. I could hear them screaming and laughing. One yelled “loser” and the speed of out of the parking lot. I began to panic and cry. I left my phone on the beach and realized they had thrown it in the water. I wanted to be home. I wanted to be sitting by the fire with my annoying little brother. I searched for my phone but the water was dark and got too deep. I was crying and shivering. I had no choice but to walk home in the cold while I was dripping wet without so much as shoes. I walked for nearly 30 minutes like this. I walked inside and saw my brother play on his iPad. He looked at me like I was a ghost. “What happened to you!” I broke down and sat on the floor burying my head in my knees. Connor wrapped me in his favorite blanket and hugged me. “It's ok Mia. I'm your family, that means I will never leave you. Don't cry please.” I looked at him and smiled. He was right, he's the only friend that I can always depend on.

6s1ywu

The reluctant rebel

For as long as Ritwik remembered, he had never had a say in his life. The earliest memories went back to his school days. He lived with his family in a small town of Uttarakhand, a state in northern India. For a family of five, the house felt like a mansion to Ritwik and Reena, then five and three respectively. Low white buildings, with multiple interconnected rooms, and plenty of space allowed him and his sister to run wild in the house. Adjacent to their home was a temple, constructed by the boy’s forefathers, maintained by his parents, where the children were allowed to enter only under adult supervision. Even though the siblings couldn’t play inside the temple…the high ceiling and the smell of incense evoked a sense of faith even among the children. Both the house and the temple occupied only a small portion of the apple and mango orchard owned by the family. As the first born, Ritwik was the apple of his grandfather’s eyes. His Baba would plonk him on his shoulders and take him for a round of the orchard. He’d explain about trees, about judging soil quality, and even about locating a cheetah’s pug mark on the damp earth. Weather in the foothills was almost always perfect for outdoor games. And even for spotting hundreds of insects and plucking off their limbs one by one in close and confidential collaboration with Reena. Ritwik’s first five years were the stuff of illustration found in children’s books. The late and elaborate brunches made by Ma. The terse responses of Papa. The indulgences with Baba. The air that felt perfect on the skin. Whenever he was asked to fold his hand in worship before god, he really thanked God for giving him his Baba, parents, Reena and the orchard. And then, in a brutal change of scene, he was pried away from his home. That was thirty years ago. Though Ritwik has only faint memories of his childhood, he can never forget the gay abandon of those days. The feeling of happiness that he felt then, and never felt again. Where did he go wrong? He was 35, and flecks of grey hair had begun appearing in the hair around his temple. It was about time he reflected. …………………………………………. He had protested, kicked, and cried when the idea was proposed. Apparently, his intelligence at pre-primary school had dug the grave of his happiness. His parents made up their mind that the boy deserved better than a small town education, and that he had to be sent off to a boarding school. Reena’s howling hadn’t helped. Baba’s feeble opposition didn’t count. When Ritwik had refused to eat his food the second day, Papa had growled, ‘don’t you create a bloody scene.’ Couldn’t he have known, shouldn’t he have known, that taste and flavor had departed from Ritwik’s life at the mention of boarding school? He had forced the morsel down, feeling nothing except the hollow, rusty taste of terror. His worst nightmares were coming true. An agonizing month later, even before his sixth birthday, Ritwik had found himself herded by strange hands among unknown crowd of children, in a sickeningly white building with linoleum flooring. That building was to be his home for the next eleven years. Gone were the cool shade under the mango tree. The smell of moist earth when Baba bathed him under the open tap. Ritwik would break down and then gather himself night after night. He was sent there to make his family proud, is what Baba had said. It had to be true then. He had to sacrifice his foolish happiness at the altar of family pride. Besides, he had tortured many insects to death. His karma had wreaked its vengeance. He should have listened to Ma. Years passed and Ritwik’s days went by in a haze. He visited home every now and then, but he didn’t let the tendons of emotional dependency grow back again. He amputated the part of his heart that longed for home. That was the only tool in his survival kit. At school, he aced the class every year. He earned a reputation of being a nerdy loner. He made no friends, for a part of him feared affiliation of any kind. He thought he had prepared his heart to suffer any setback. That was an underestimation. When Ritwik graduated to high school, his hostel changed. The new hostel was dominated by a gang of rogue seniors, who ragged new joiners like Ritwik in various masochistic ways. Complaining to hostel warden was not an option, it was told. Legends had it, that boys who complained, were boycotted by the entire school. Anyone who dared come close to them could be whipped sore. In one of those ragging nights, Ritwik was asked to strip. He complied, till he was only in his underwear. The seniors didn’t relent. For the second time in his life, Ritwik felt the bile of wrath rise in his body. He calmly gathered his clothes, told his seniors that he would tell the warden if it happened again, and went back to his room. In the ensuing two years of high school, Ritwik lived in complete and stoic silence. Much to his relief, school was over. Ritwik’s dad filled up his forms for writing competitive exams to crack a seat in India’s best medical colleges. He wanted Ritwik to open a clinic in his home state; a clinic that could be the pride of his family lineage. Once again, Ritwik complied. Given his academics, getting into the top college was no difficult. Four years later, without really wanting to ameliorate humanity’s pain, Ritwik took the Hippocratic Oath. Once his post graduation was also done, Ritwik worked endless hours in the largest government hospital earning the much needed ‘experience’ to run his own clinic. Five years later, he found himself back in Uttarakhand, in a spic and span clinic constructed by his father. And that his when his bride-to-be was also ushered in his life. Seeing the pretty girl before him, Ritwik’s gut turned just like it had revolted when he was being sent to a boarding school. Run, his instinct had screamed. ‘Comply,’ his senses had proffered. Once again, he capitulated. How many times had he paused to take stock of his life? Why had he surrendered to the choices of his father? If it was not to evade the responsibility of thinking for himself and living and succeeding in that life, what was it? Wasn’t he to blame for what he had made of his life? Could he really not have cried his way back to his home at the age of six? …………………………………………. There is an utter calm in his mind as he’s walking towards the family court. Ritwik is smiling to himself. Pleased that his ‘mind is finally like a clear blue sky and he can watch his thoughts floating by like clouds on the sky,’ as his meditation instructor would say. He is going to file a petition for divorce today. He’s never been surer. None of the old rancor remains. He feels settled, finally. He feels at home in his own body. The orchard, the temple, the childhood – he has made peace with his memories – and enshrined them in a special corner of his heart. He is aware that he should have divorced many things years ago. The forced exile to boarding school. The harassing old boys. The choice of career. A start had to be made, he tells himself. His family had indeed created a scene. Ma was distraught, Papa was fuming. Only Reena understood. ‘How can not loving someone be a reason to break a marriage?’ was the question he was asked. He had placed his palms on his father’s shoulder with genuine love. And answered before leaving behind the wife and the clinic. ‘Just like never asking a person about his choice can break him.’

zhr623

Brown Eyes by: Lisa Reid

Today was a calm, beautiful day and my 5-year-old son was still in bed. Oh, but when he gets up, the day will be on. As I started my day I knew it was going to be on with my son Shane. This five-year-old had a will like no other. He challenges me more than any job. It started with breakfast. “Shane, eat your oatmeal, it will make you grow up to be strong like your daddy.” “No, I don’t like oatmeal.” So here it starts, the disobedience, the testing of who will back down first. Him looking at me with those big brown eyes. I am determined I am not going to give in to his disobedience. Shane sat quietly at the table staring at the oatmeal. “Shane, how long are you going to sit at that table?” He just looked at me with a blank stare. One hour went by and I was getting frustrated. “Shane go to your room,” I said to him. He got up and went to his room. After an hour, I went to his room and what I saw shocked me. Toys everywhere. You couldn’t see any floor. “Shane, you are to pick up this room or you cannot come out.” He just stared at me with those big brown eyes. His puppy dog eyes were not going to get to me this time. His will was going against mine but I was determined he was going to obey. One hour went by, then two, and then I heard,” Mom, I did it. My room clean. Can I come out now?” I thought finally I broke his will. I won. We may have a great day after all. Here I go down the hall to see his big accomplishment. I opened the door and there it was; a beautiful clean room. “Shane you are such a good boy,” I said. He just smiled and said,” Can I go play now?” “Yes, Shane but stay where I can see you.”Shane went outside. As I was cleaning, I reflected on the events that happened during the day. Was I too hard on Shane about the food? Sending him to his room for two hours? But the outcome; he did clean his room. This was a great improvement. Now if I can get him to eat properly. If we do not discipline our children, they may grow up not to reference God and obey his word. It is up to parents to teach them the moral codes and to learn to have respect for authority.I continued with cleaning. I started folding clothes and putting them up. I went to put the clothes up and when I opened the closet; no toys. I looked around and what did I see? Toys stuffed under the bed. I shouted outside,” Shane, come back in this house.” He came in, and back to his room he went. By this time, I was frustrated. Is he going to beat me down? No, he is not. He may be stubborn as a bull but I am going to bring him up to be an adult fit for society.Shane was now 14 years old. I had to work at night, so he stayed at my mother’s house. I had left my car there, so he and his buddies decided to go joyriding. I kept wondering every day why my gas was so low. Then while I was at work, one of my friends approached me and said, “I saw your son driving around town.” I thought, no that cannot be true. Would Shane really do something that bad? But it was true. When I got home I asked him about the situation. He stared at me with those big brown eyes. He looked me in the face and said,” Mom, I do not know what you are talking about!”You are grounded for a month! He just looked at me and I walked away and thought, “How can I punish myself like this.?As Shane grew older, he did not give me as much trouble. He was 16. I sold him my car and we moved away to a new town. He found out later he was not as popular as he was in Mableton. In fact, kids were picking on him. He was in advanced classes so they called him a nerd. Public school really went too slow for him. He came home one day and asked me if he could go to a Christian school. I told him I could not afford to pay for a private school. He looked at me and said, Mom, I am working and I will pay.”At that moment, I felt a warm feeling for the first time. This was one proud mom. I knew that he was growing up and taking responsibility for himself. He worked every day and paid for his schooling, his clothes, and food. Then one day he met Brandy, a girl who had been in a lot of trouble. She had just come from a girl’s home and was put in that private school. I tried to discourage him from dating her but he was consumed. Here we go again, butting heads like a bull. He was heading for disaster. He was also about to become a man. Then one day, he comes home with a solemn look on his face. Somehow he just did not have those beautiful eyes glaring. They were more in pain. He said,” Mom, Brandy is pregnant. My heart dropped. Shane told me he was going to marry her. I was not happy but proud he was taking responsibility for his actions. Six months later she had a baby boy. He was so handsome. As the years went by they had two more children. I could be no prouder of my boy than I am now. As his boy got older, the whole story starts over. Shane came to me and said,” This boy is stubborn. I do not know what to do.” I turned and just laughed. I said I am proud of the man you have become and if you discipline him in the right way; he will become the man you want him to be.”

qw5ghc

Look away

It was a warm summers afternoon and I had just woken up. I reached for my headsets to block out the loud noise that echoed from my neighborhood.Whether it was the children playing outside, the loud music from the neighbors or the constant bangs coming from the nearby construction site .I certainly was not in the mood to entertain this noise .After twenty minutes of lying still I decided to head out for abit. A little stroll would be nice,maybe even head pass Luke's place. I strolled down the road as the gentle Sun shone on everything in my path. "Perfect day to go to the beach", I thought. I hadn't gone since Mary's birthday. My thoughts then started to drift away to the wonderful memories on the beach when suddenly,I hear a car speeding by. It stops afew inches in front of me and a guy jumps out. Tattood up and wearing two chains he opens fire on a man standing near the tuckshop.My body froze,scared to death ,you could say I went deaf. I stand there still as he jumps back into the car. Paralyzed with fear I take a glimpse of the victim taking his last breath before storming off. What did I just witness!? I rushed home and locked myself in my room where I sat for two hours contemplating on what to do. should I tell mom?maybe go to the police?all I knew was that I couldn't keep it to myself for very long. I could almost see him helplessly dying on the floor all over again. A strong feeling of guilt fell heavily on me even tho I knew I couldn't have saved him. Maybe the next best thing to do is to report it to the police. And with that thought I decided to tell my family. I waited for everyone to be seated in the lounge and then ,I walked in. As I stood in front of the TV ,them looking forward at me ,me still in shock of what just happened,I rushed for words in my mind to explain what I had witnessed. What's the matter son,my mother asked."I have something to tell you guys",I replied. I witnessed a guy shooting another guy in cold blood today like he was a target board. Dead in the street I couldn't do anything but stand in a frozen state and watch him slip away. With a look fear and complete shock she jumped up and attempted to comfort me. With her sweet voice she said,"It's okay my dear", as I felt the tear roll down my cheek . All you have to do is go to the police and tell them exactly what you saw. With all that had been said,that one statement forced my older brother to break his silence. He can't do that,he shouted. That'll only make things worse. This has nothing to do with us so it's best we stay out of it. He did make good argument but I wasn't sure whether to listen or not considering the fact that he was also a gangster. Haven't you been told "snitches get stitches",he said.As much as my mother tried to hide it from me I had already seen too much. And even if I hadn't their late night arguments when I'm ''asleep'' are a dead giveaway. How could you even suggest that my mom replied. The boy is traumatized not to mention he could get into serious trouble for withholding this kind of information.Besides with all this violence that's going on surely it's the right thing to do. I understand that but if we being honest reporting this isn't gonna reduce violence in anyway .Its just going to put one guy behind bars and complicate your own life. I think his right mom,I whispered. I don't wanna get put in danger because of this.She looked at my brother with a mean stare before looking back at me.It is written that the truth is a testimony of that corrects the injustices in this world . I can't force you to report this but I will tell you this. If we keep this to ourselves one way or the other we will pay for it. I stayed up the entire night thinking about the day I just had and more so what I was going to do about it. My mother often checked up on me but I pretended to be asleep so she wouldn't worry.No doubt that whatever I decided do will definitely cause tension her and Jason.I usually listen to my mother but this time I felt pressured to listen to Jason. Might be because he was more aggressive and me not listening to him would worsen the tension between him and ma.I also don't want to be labelled as a snitch .surely my classmates will make fun of me .All this was running through my head as I struggled to fall asleep,followed by the constant gunshots reoccurring in my thoughts.Back and forth for the rest of the night. The following day as usual I was in no rush to get out of bed. I slowly dragged my feet to the kitchen,where I found my mother seated at the table. Before I could even greet she reached out and grabbed my hand and said,"son,I know i don't always say this but I am very proud of you".Over the years I've watched you grow into a fine young man who understands the honor that the truth demands .What you witnessed yesterday was not at all your fault .I know it's alot for you to deal with but I also know you'll do the right thing.I looked over my shoulder and saw my brother then immediately looked down.She turned around to notice him then looked back at me.At this point I felt so uncomfortable.I'll see you after work she said as she gentle kissed my forehead and left the room.I spent the entire day at school trying to act natural .Spending time with my friends always made me forget about my problems and fortunately for me no one brought up any rumours about a murder or even violence for that matter.My day went surprisingly well and in the back of my head I had already decided that I wasn't going to go to the police. After school, I came back home and to the possible news that I could receive.Whats wrong mom I asked .In tears she replied "it's Jason "he's dead.They found his body on the side of the road. He was murdered she said.Oh no was the first words in my head ,my brother is gone.Overwhelmed by fear and guilt for not going to the police with this I stormed out.I found myself walking around in circles because I couldn't come to terms with what had just happened.I couldn't stop thinking about what my mother said about our family paying for my silence. Could Jasons death be my fault. A deep tear came with that thought as I continued my walk,only this time I knew where I was going. Good day sir,I'm hear to make a statement. Very well sir and your name us?Jarred,Jarred Johnson and I just witnessed a murder.

pblglk

Rising Tension

When my parents got married they combined their names and each changed their named to a hyphenated version. So their names were Mom Dadsname-Momsname and Dad Dadsname-Momsname. When I was born they named me Daughter Dadsname-Momsname. Last week I spent twenty minutes getting harassed by the clerk who was filing my  marriage license. First she wanted to know my maiden name. My maiden name is Dadsname-Momsname. I came into this world with a double last name. She didn't like that. Then she wanted to know my dad's "real" name. My dad legally changed his name. With the power of the law behind him, he tacked my mom's name onto his. That is what it says on my birth certificate. That is what it says on his driver's license. She didn't like that. Finally, she wanted to know my mother's maiden name. My mother, out of all of us, actually has  a maiden name, so she got that. But now, on the form, the mother  had a single name and the father had a double name. She didn't like that. She stressed, repeatedly,  that if any of this information was incorrect, I wouldn't be married. She stressed that they were "actually going to check." She stressed so hard, her stress had stress. I'm taking my husband's name. I've had enough of this bullshit. When my parents got married they combined their names and each changed their named to a hyphenated version. So their names were Mom Dadsname-Momsname and Dad Dadsname-Momsname. When I was born they named me Daughter Dadsname-Momsname. Last week I spent twenty minutes getting harassed by the clerk who was filing my  marriage license. First she wanted to know my maiden name. My maiden name is Dadsname-Momsname. I came into this world with a double last name. She didn't like that. Then she wanted to know my dad's "real" name. My dad legally changed his name. With the power of the law behind him, he tacked my mom's name onto his. That is what it says on my birth certificate. That is what it says on his driver's license. She didn't like that. Finally, she wanted to know my mother's maiden name. My mother, out of all of us, actually has  a maiden name, so she got that. But now, on the form, the mother  had a single name and the father had a double name. She didn't like that. She stressed, repeatedly,  that if any of this information was incorrect, I wouldn't be married. She stressed that they were "actually going to check." She stressed so hard, her stress had stress. I'm taking my husband's name. I've had enough of this bullshit. When my parents got married they combined their names and each changed their named to a hyphenated version. So their names were Mom Dadsname-Momsname and Dad Dadsname-Momsname. When I was born they named me Daughter Dadsname-Momsname. Last week I spent twenty minutes getting harassed by the clerk who was filing my  marriage license. First she wanted to know my maiden name. My maiden name is Dadsname-Momsname. I came into this world with a double last name. She didn't like that. Then she wanted to know my dad's "real" name. My dad legally changed his name. With the power of the law behind him, he tacked my mom's name onto his. That is what it says on my birth certificate. That is what it says on his driver's license. She didn't like that. Finally, she wanted to know my mother's maiden name. My mother, out of all of us, actually has  a maiden name, so she got that. But now, on the form, the mother  had a single name and the father had a double name. She didn't like that. She stressed, repeatedly,  that if any of this information was incorrect, I wouldn't be married. She stressed that they were "actually going to check." She stressed so hard, her stress had stress. I'm taking my husband's name. I've had enough of this bullshit.When my parents got married they combined their names and each changed their named to a hyphenated version. So their names were Mom Dadsname-Momsname and Dad Dadsname-Momsname. When I was born they named me Daughter Dadsname-Momsname. Last week I spent twenty minutes getting harassed by the clerk who was filing my  marriage license. First she wanted to know my maiden name. My maiden name is Dadsname-Momsname. I came into this world with a double last name. She didn't like that. Then she wanted to know my dad's "real" name. My dad legally changed his name. With the power of the law behind him, he tacked my mom's name onto his. That is what it says on my birth certificate. That is what it says on his driver's license. She didn't like that. Finally, she wanted to know my mother's maiden name. My mother, out of all of us, actually has  a maiden name, so she got that. But now, on the form, the mother  had a single name and the father had a double name. She didn't like that. She stressed, repeatedly,  that if any of this information was incorrect, I wouldn't be married. She stressed that they were "actually going to check." She stressed so hard, her stress had stress. I'm taking my husband's name. I've had enough of this bullshit.When my parents got married they combined their names and each changed their named to a hyphenated version. So their names were Mom Dadsname-Momsname and Dad Dadsname-Momsname. When I was born they named me Daughter Dadsname-Momsname. Last week I spent twenty minutes getting harassed by the clerk who was filing my  marriage license. First she wanted to know my maiden name. My maiden name is Dadsname-Momsname. I came into this world with a double last name. She didn't like that. Then she wanted to know my dad's "real" name. My dad legally changed his name. With the power of the law behind him, he tacked my mom's name onto his. That is what it says on my birth certificate. That is what it says on his driver's license. She didn't like that. Finally, she wanted to know my mother's maiden name. My mother, out of all of us, actually has  a maiden name, so she got that. But now, on the form, the mother  had a single name and the father had a double name. She didn't like that. She stressed, repeatedly,  that if any of this information was incorrect, I wouldn't be married. She stressed that they were "actually going to check." She stressed so hard, her stress had stress. I'm taking my husband's name. I've had enough of this bullshit.

t1ctq9

Drift

We were drifting Mark and I I blamed myself, everything I touch slowly dies. "Stupid, Stupid, Stupid" I screamed into the night there was no one to hear me scream no one to hear my pain. I sobbed and heaved we used to be so close. "What do I do" What would you do when the person you love the most leaves you? What do you do with all the knowledge you have about them.? I know Marks favorite song I can still hear it like it was yesterday. "Mark" I whined loudly as he turned up the volume on the dash board. "Oh come on Jonah you know you love this song." I scowled as Uptown Girl blared through the speakers for the hunderth time. I scowled again but didn't say anything more I knew Uptown Girl is his favorite song. I blinked my eyes watering with tears in them I blinked them away as fast as I could I would not cry, I couldn't cry. I still remember his favorite ice cream flavor it's burned into my brain. "Come on Jonah stop be such a geek" Mark said to me he was stretched out on my bed hands behind his head his deep brown eyes were looking straight at me. I gulped as I let my eyes trail down further he was in a simple black jeans and black tee shirt but the tee rode up a bit making me be able to see his skull tattoo on his stomach. I looked away before Mark could see my wandering gaze and my bright red cheeks. This is Mark your friend your straight friend bad Jonah, I scolded myself lightly. "Mark we have a test tomorrow I want to be prepared." Mark looked at me with those piercing eyes just before he rolled them in annoyance. 'Come on my little geek lets get ice cream." Mark replied sitting up on my bed where he was previously laying. "But Mark" Mark raised one of his eyebrows perfectly silencing me down. "You've got this J don't worry okay you can do this but you need a break." I sighed but I could never say no to him when he called m J. It was such a simple nickname but it made my heart flutter, my head spin, and my knees feel weak. "Alright lets go" I said shaking my head and trying to hide a smile as Mark bounced up from my bed, grabbing his coat and pumping his fist in the air in victory. I fell to the ground my bottle broke effectively cutting my hand I relished in the burn and the sting it made me feel again after feeling so dull for so long. I still know how Mark never sleeps with out the window open I always was worried but Mark said he could protect himself. "Mark what if I don't know what if someone tries to break in while we sleep Mark that's not safe." Mark rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. "Jonah you don't have to worry i'll be there to protect you nothing will happen to you on my watch got it." I sighed I wasn't worried about me I was worried about Mark. "Can't you close it just for tonight please Mark." Mark huffed but walked over to the window and closed it. "Happy now I won't get any sleep tonight." Mark glared at me I rolled my eyes as I sat down on his bed and grabbed one of the blankets he had lying around. "Yes you will will watch a movie and you'l be out in no time." "No I won't but whatever." We were half way through the movie when I heard a soft snore I smiled softly as I brought my hand up to brush against Marks forehead. I feel my head was spinning and pounding it felt like someone grabbed a knife and shoved it in my head. How do I forget? Make me forget I screamed as memories of that day started to drift into my mind oh god I thought as I clutched my head. I could still feel his hands on me for the very last time the last day I would ever get to call Mark my friend. I was sitting in the hall crying my knees pulled to my chest as I heaved and sobbed, clawing at my chest. I heard feet pounding on the floor but I was to weak to even dream of getting up. "Jonah are you okay." Mark's voice came through my head I grabbed at him and he easily pulled me into his chest hugging the living daylights. "Jonah why didn't you tell me." Mark said I sighed the whole school had found out I was gay because of stupid Mary. She was mad I was friends with Mark and dug up dirt on me sharing it all over social media and telling everyone at our school. "I was scared of what you would say" I said barely above a whisper I could feel his calm heart beat which slowly soothed me. "I don't care Jonah your like my little brother." A pain hit my heart so hard like burning fire I gasped and shook harder. That's what he thinks of me his brother. "So who's the lucky guy" I looked away my cheeks were pink and wet with tear tracks. "No one" I rushed out quick to quick because Mark gave me a unimpressed look before shaking his head. "Come om who is it I wanna know so I can make sure he's good enough for you." I laughed Mark looked at me like I was insane maybe I was maybe I had finally cracked but I just couldn't stop laughing. "You Mark it's you" He removed his hands from me quick a horrified expression on his face. "I would never like you, that's disgusting god i'm not like you." He shuddered as I cried hard harder than I ever had in my whole life. "Never talk to me again" He said and walked off in the other direction. That's how I got here a bottle slicing my hand to boozed up to even care, why should I i'm poison I only destroy what I love. I could fill myself slipping into oblivion and I thought oh Mark I hope your happy.

nrmqhu

A Place to Call Home

Perhaps it was a little selfish of her to feel so happy on such an occasion. After all, she had taken care of Adam for a little over a year now at the church orphanage, but seeing Adam, a boy who was so independent yet so bright, before a couple who were to be his foster parents—yes, there was no doubt that Sister Anne would miss Adam, but even this was superseded by the joy she felt for Adam right now. “Adam, I know this may be a little hard to take in, but the Brunsons have graciously decided to take you in!” exclaimed Sister Anne. The two prospected parents beamed magnanimously at Adam. Adam was not looking back. “Adam, we’re so happy to meet you in person again. We visited a couple months before. Do you remember us?” asked Mr. Brunson with his usual warm smile and an outstretched hand. He was a big man with a wide, almost stocky frame that spoke assurance rather than bulkiness, the type of guy you’d give a hug at first sight. But today, his hand was ignored. Adam’s steely gaze had been fastened on the rough grain of the wooden table before him from the start of their meeting, and even now, it didn’t waver. “Quite the cool and independent type, eh?” chuckled Mr. Brunson as he hesitantly brought his hand back down to the table. “Oh, he’s really a nice boy, he’s just been through a quite a bit in the past couple years,” explained Sister Anne, almost too desperately. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Adam to some loving strangers only to find that they’d never understand him. “His father passed due to a drug overdose about a year and a half ago. And his mother, well, the grief must’ve been a little too much to bear. To think of the emotions Adam must’ve been through… Oh, Mrs. Brunson, I’m so sorry…” Mrs. Brunson eyes had welled with tears. This would be her third foster child; she was no stranger to tragedy, to the burden entailed in bringing one in as her own. But no matter the emotional weight, her heart never developed the callous that most would grow in her position, giving her to ability to genuinely care for people on an individual level at the expense of fresh emotional hurt. She smiled slightly to lessen the mood’s severity a little, but when her beautiful doe eyes filled with tears like they did now, there was nothing she could do but melt the hearts of all who met her gaze. Except Adam never looked up. Again, his eyes were strapped to the table, only now, his jaw was visibly clenched. A vein throbbed in his left temple. There was no need to look at Mrs. Brunson; he knew that she was crying. The room was blanketed in an oppressive silence. Siter Anne’s eyes desperately roamed the faces of her three guests, as if the key to some diversion was written on their foreheads, but there was nothing. The creaking of Mr. Brunson’s chair suddenly became audible, as did the sound of Mrs. Brunson’s tears softly tapping the wooden table. Tap, tap. They were impossible to ignore, and for Adam, whose eyes were completely occupied with the grain of the table before him, the sound was utterly sharp, almost like knives biting into his head. He bared his teeth. Tap, tap. That chair has got to be oiled. There’s no way it should be that loud. No, no, you don’t oil wooden chairs. It’ll have to be replaced… Tap, tap. Adam balled his fist. No, he mustn’t lose control, not before Sister Anne and the adults. After all, he was a man. But the sound , the knives … Tap, tap. “I’m really sorry,” Adam muttered through his clenched teeth. He shoved himself off the table into a standing position, leaving an astounded couple and a concerned Sister Anne. Then, he threw out his chair and ran. Weak! Weak! All of them! Weak!  Adam threw open the visitor’s room door and hurled himself into the wheat field outside the church orphanage building. “Adam! You get back here! Oh, not again…” The Sister’s words were received by hollow silence. Adam had almost crossed the field and was beelining toward the woods. Brambles and bushes tore at Adam’s bare skin and clothes. A particularly sharp branch ripped half his shirt clean off his back, but the useless rag flapped forgotten on the limb’s fingertips, unable to impede Adam’s feverish progress one bit. Weak, weak! It was the Mrs. Brunson’s tears that had done it for him. That pitying look, those wide, beautiful eyes marred by springs of liquid sorrow—he had seen that lie before on his mother’s face. A couple days before she hanged herself. Those tears disgusted him, repelled him. No, no, he was strong. He needed no one, wanted no one, and to strengthen his resolve, he needed to reach his quiet place. By the time Adam reached the boulder barring his final passage to the place, his shins and arms were a childish mess of scratches caked with mud, sweat, and blood. Grimacing, he scrambled over the boulder, slipped, and planted his face firmly on what was luckily a fairly soft patch of grass. He had finally arrived. Banged up, yes, but where he needed to be to feel strong again. Adam pulled himself into a sitting position and leaned his tired body against the coolness of the mossy boulder he had just scaled. Before him stretched a lake so vast that the naked eye could not perceive its limits, so perfectly still and reflective that the sky never ended. All, save Adams own ragged but slowing breathing, was silent. And now, the ritual. Adam sucked in his belly, puffed out his chest, and flexed his arms so hard his veins began to pop out. Then, he tiptoed rigidly to the lake’s edge and scowled at the surface. More, more, push away the weakness, be a man! He frowned harder, experimented with furrowing his brow, and even tried screaming at the water, but no matter what he did, that same scrawny boy glared back at him. Harder, harder! A drop of sweat distorted the face. More followed, and drops of tears soon made it impossible to see anything. Adam pounded his fist against the ground, splitting his knuckle. He beat his chest. But even he knew that this was no act of manly rage. This was just pouting. Meanwhile, the Brunsons and Sister Anne had finally reached the boulder. Sister Anne had secretly tailed the boy several times before out of concern, but even so, the journey wasn’t forgiving. The three were covered with cuts and bruises. Past the boulder, they laid their eyes on the form of a young boy crumpled on the ground, pouting resigned to silence, bawling long given way to teary resignation. The couple approached Adam. Sister Anne, remained by the boulder; this was their moment. Mrs. Brunson draped the remaining half of Adam’s shirt over his shoulder and laid a hand on the nape of his neck. The father brushed away some dirt from his wounds, then firmly grasped Adam’s bleeding hand, which was still clenched. Nobody looked at each other. All eyes were on the lake, whose waters had once again returned to their calm equilibrium after Adam’s pouting. “Adam, don’t do that again. We would never run from you, so why would you run from us?” Adam’s hand loosened a little, just enough for Mr. Brunson to worm a thumb into its palm. He lowered his gaze toward his nervously twiddling toes, cheeks flushed. Running, running, that’s what he had always been doing, just like his own parents. Maybe it was time to take a break. “Son, let’s go home.” Home. That was the word he needed to hear. Today, he would return to a place he had never been before. He would call a group of strangers his closest family. This was his home. But they wouldn’t be returning just yet. Right now, the entire family’s eyes were fixed on the invisible horizon of this smooth, never-ending lake. This was all Adam needed right now.

zxstcw

Party with GG

I hated having to return to my hometown after I graduated from college, but I was unable to find a good paying job. The last thing I wanted to do was go to Grandma’s party, so I told Grandma I would spend the evening with my great-grandmother. I always called her GG. I wanted to pull the covers over my head, and not thinking about doing anything-especially going to Grandma's party.  I remember when Mama would spend days in bed, and now I associate morning with some kind of insidious pain. People talk about Mama without mentioning her directly. There are still rumors about Mama getting kicked out of college, her falling out with the Democratic Party, and her nearly getting kicked out of the Unitarian Universalist Church.  In my family, we don’t use the word mental illness. We just say someone has “her ways.”  High strung was another common synonym for mental health issues in my family. If someone was an alcoholic, that person was referred to as decadent. My family tree was full of decadent, high strung people who had their ways.   Now I was starting to have “my ways.” I have severe social anxiety and haven’t gone to a party in years. Yes, I’m a bit high strung.   I finally decided to see a shrink even though everyone in town would find out.  Grandma said I just needed to get busy, but there wasn’t much to do in my town except go to church, hang out at a bar, or go to a redneck party. I wasn’t going to tell anyone I was seeking help, as we definitely didn’t need another high-strung person in the family. I live in a town where everyone knows everyone, and I will always be known as my Mama’s daughter. kudzu. When I arrived at the shrink’s office, I filled out a bunch of forms and cautiously answered the questions about my mental health issues and family history. I didn’t dare say anything about Mama’s issues, as I was afraid I would automatically get diagnosed with bipolar and put on stronger medications. It’s a good thing I was still on my Daddy’s insurance, so unlike Mama, I had options in terms of where I wanted to go.  The mental health clinic was terrible, so Mama never got good treatment.  After I filled out several forms, I studied the fish in aquarium located in front of the couch and noticed a fish was on the bottom and didn’t move at all. When I turned in my paperwork, I told the secretary that I thought the fish was dead. “No, he does that all the time. Just a crazy fish.” For a brief moment, I saw a look of regret on her face. I smiled to put her at ease. I wondered if was playing dead because the other fish ganged up on him.    A large woman who appeared to be in her fifties rocked back and forth.  an elderly woman kept asking, “What am I doing here? Don’t need to see a doctor. Nothing hurts. “  A man with a Mark Twainish look called my name.  I took a deep breath and mentally rehearsed what I would say. I did have to see a therapist after Mama died, but I’d never been on psychiatric medications before.  I tried hard not to show any amusement over his hair and maroon tie that didn’t match his jacket.  “Go ahead. Have a seat. I’m Dr. Gamble.” He shook my hand and sat behind his desk. There were books and files all over his desk.  I sat down on a black chair in front of his desk.  I glanced out his huge window and could see so much of the town.  “You got a great view, “I said. “Yes,” he said without any infection in his voice. He opened a think folder and studied my intake papers. “So how can I help you? “ “I feel depressed. But I don’t know how much of it is due to my situation. I just graduated. And i'm terrified of social gatherings. I haven't slept for several weeks because my grandmother wants to have a party.” “So what do you do?” “I am a part-time waitress, and I get paid to help out with my great-grandmother who has Alzheimer’s disease." “ How is your appetite?”  “ I’ve lost some weight..” “Any suicidal thoughts? Hearing things that aren’t there?”  “No,” I said. “Has anything happened recently like the loss of a loved one or some other major stressor?”  “ I just graduated from college and moved here. ” He leaned back and raised his left eyebrow. His stare was starting to make me a little uncomfortable. I shifted in my chair and tried to avoid shaking my knee.   “Have you ever taken an antidepressant?” “No.”       “I’m going to put you on a low dose of Effexor. It is good for depression, anxiety and ruminating. Works on all neurotransmitter systems. Now when you feel better on this, try to remember what it’s like to feel happier. Hold on to those feelings. The goal is to get off medication. Can’t think of his name, but I read about this guy who would induce different mood states just so he could control his mind and moods. “ I wondered if the drug would affect my personality or make me gain a bunch of weight. Mama had been taking medications like Haldol along with her Lithium then she took Depakote and gained over fifty pounds.  When I grabbed the prescription, I noticed my hands were shaking.  “I am worried about my memory,” I said. “So write things down, so you don’t forget.”   “I journal a lot,” I said. “My Mama was sort of a writer. “ “Really? I have several writers in my family. “ “And remember to write down your memories so you won’t forget.” He smiled at me for the first time.  Dr. Gamble handed me a prescription also wrote “make a friend,” on a separate prescription slip. He led me to the checkout window and wished me told me he would see me in six months. The snarky looking receptionist handed me an appointment card.  I glanced over at the aquarium in the waiting room and noticed the crazy fish was still on bottom. Just as I walked out, I heard the secretaries talking about a bridge that had collapsed earlier that morning.  I filled my prescription outside of town. I could only imagine running into someone who knew about my family history while I was getting my medication filled. I got lost on my way back home, but I liked the idea of getting lost and found in my hometown. Everything looked different, and I just noticed all how green everything was. Grandma had begged me to go to the party, but I insisted on going to my great-grandmother’s, and we’d have our own party. Grandma thought about bringing GG to the party, but i convinced Grandma it would be better for her not to go. GG got upset around crowds.  At the last family party, all my relatives practiced shooting. It was just too loud for my sensitive ears. And they are always talking about the next apocalypse or a civil war because the communists were taking over.   When I got to GG’ that evening, I had to keep knocking before she came to the door. I wanted to give her the option of opening the door before I used my key. GG opened the curtain and peeked out the window over the door before she opened it.  “What do you want?” GG was wearing a gown with stains all over it and old, pink bedroom slippers. “I am supposed to visit tonight. ” “I’m busy,” she said. “People come in and out all the time. This is my house. My house.”  “Thank you for letting me come in.” “Want some tea?” GG asked. “We can have a little party. I didn’t really want any, but I wanted GG to feel useful. “Wish I had baked a cake. I like lemon pound cake. I fix it all the time.”  “That’s okay.” I walked over to the living room while GG went into the kitchen to get some tea. The television was on full volume. Judge Judy was screaming at a sobbing young woman and told her to get a life. GG handed me the tea and flopped down in her brown recliner she must’ve had for years.  “It’s time to party,” I said. “Wee,” GG said. “I just don’t understand why all these people are here. It’s my house My house. I paid for it and don’t own anything on it. Paid for it myself. My house.” She pointed her finger at me.          “It’s a nice place,” I said. “Yup. Got everything I need. My tea, my recliner, and the phone book. Is my car out there?” I turned around and opened the blinds. “Come and look,” I said. “Katherine tried to take it away,” GG said. “I raised her better than that.”  The sky turned pink and purple moonlight shone through the trees. “Look how pretty it is outside.” “Let me see,” GG said. I helped her out of the recliner. “Oh, ain’t it pretty.” GG usually got upset when it started to get dark. “We got to have a little party. Just us. We won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret. “Yes,” I said. “Well, that is right pretty.?” “Now let’s party,” I said. “Yeah,” GG said. “We can do what we want. Let’s go for a ride.” The stars rose and the neon strip of moonlight shone through the magnolia branches. GG went back to her recliner. I closed the blinds. “ It sure is pretty.  This used to be a mill village you know. I’ve lived here for over fifty years,” GG said.  It seemed as though GG was able to go back, and live her life in reverse? Would it really have made any difference? Yet in many ways she was a child again. I often thought about going back to the beginning, the imperfect state of possibility, where everything I ever loved could be complete and whole again.   GG played with the phone and tried to change the channel with the phone while I tried to remember what things were like when I was a child. GG put down the remote control and pointed the phone at the television.  “It ain’t working.” I laughed and offered to help. “I can do it. Why are you laughing?” “Nothing really.” GG kept pointing the phone at the television. I covered my mouth with my hand.   “Don’t think you’re too big to get a whipping. And Katherine ain’t either. Don’t know why she took my car. I could take her down to the jailhouse. You got a lawyer on the case?” “Your car is in the driveway.” “You got a boyfriend?” “Got rid of him,” I said.  “Did you kick his butt?” “Yeah,” I said. I laughed then GG laughed. I laughed even harder. “They ain’t worth the trouble,” GG said. GG put the phone in her lap. “We got to get into something. Cause the fun part if getting out. What are we gonna do?” “Don’t know.” “You want some tea? “GG asked. “Got some. Thanks.”  GG thumbed through the phone book. “ I used to work for the phone company. Don’t know what I’m looking for. Was I gonna call somebody?” “I heard you used to know everything that was going on.” Grandma said GG would find out when people were cheating on their wives or husbands and call them when they first got to the motel. “I still do. You still dating Mr. Silly Britches?” “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said. “You got you a job?” GG put “Yes.” “That’s good. I know you’re nervous, but that don’t mean you can’t do nothing. Save up your money and get you a house.” It took me a few seconds to realize GG was talking about Mama.  “I will.” “Why did you go away? Think you too good for us? Or were you trying to get away from Mr. Silly Britches? ” “Nope, just went to college.” “That’s alright then. Always knew you could do it.”  I looked down at my bright blue sneakers. Maybe it was a good thing that GG thought Mama was still alive. GG still talked about her dead boyfriends and people at the telephone company who passed away. I debated whether or not I should tell her I was not my mama. GG’s blue eyes that sparkled with mischief reminded me of Mama’s eyes when she was contemplating saving the world. GG studied my eyes and her face looked young for a moment. Her faded eyes sparkled for a moment.  She studied my face again and looked happy and sad then she looked puzzled. “Who are you?” “I’m Jane, Mary’s daughter.” GG looked into my eyes and smiled. “You do have your mother’s eyes.” “Yes, she did have pretty eyes. Now have our little party.” 

ca1afk

The Checklist

My brother stomped up the four steps to the kitchen from the hallway. Our mother stood at the stove, making another stew. “How did it go?” I asked him, he got the glow that you can only get after being told to sit still in a chair for five hours with no real breaks and no real air. He dumped his bag by the table and slouched into the chair before he answered. “I won’t know until the teacher grade it,”. I rolled my eyes and smiled, throwing him a chocolate bar I had leftover from my own exam, “I know that, you idiot, how did you think it went? How do you feel about it?” He pealed the wrapper open, both of us ignored mom’s protest that dinner was done soon. “I think it went well. It was math – I knew most of it” “That’s good! So, you think you’ll get an A?” Mom smiled brightly like the grade had already gotten smacked onto the kitchen counter. He looked up, our eyes met, without words we agreed that wasn’t a debate worth having with her. “I don’t know,” he answered. Mom puffed out, laughing a little at us, then began mumbling to herself under her breath. We turned to each other again. “Do you have any more exams?” He rubbed his forehead, I got up and poured a glass of cold water while digging up some painkillers from the tea drawer. “Only two, how about you?” He sighed and took the painkillers with a small thank you. “Did you sign up for driving lessons yet?” I froze halfway to my seat. It took a good few seconds to realize she hadn’t asked me; My eyes shifted to him. He didn’t spit out the water, but his eyes went comically large. “Don’t tell me you forgot again! When’s the next deadline?” I gestured to the pills in his hands, he quickly swallowed them and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t remember” Mom pursed her lips, then she smiled. “Well, there’s still a couple of minutes before dinner. Sweety, can you show him how to do it?” Me? Why me? I nodded, rubbing my own neck, and glanced at him. His eyes were getting wetter, I sighed. “Does it have to be right now mom? Can’t we do it after dinner?” “You’ll just forget about it again. “ “I-alright” I got up from my chair and headed down towards my brother's room; It would be easier to use his own computer for this. He followed me down with a sigh, and dumped down in his desk chair, turning the computer on, while I dumped myself in his bed. He scoffed, mumbling I was messing it up, which made me roll over harder. I could see the itch to kick me off, but he turned – annoyed - and angrily pushed the mouse, so the clicks echoed in the otherwise quiet room. “That’s the website?” It was green, with big red star stickers promising low prices. It hadn’t changed since I signed up a couple of years ago. “Yeah,” He leaned back, letting go of the mouse. Sign-up closed in a couple of days. The date seemed to grow bigger on the screen but he wasn’t zooming in. Just thinking about it made my shirt feel too tight and the room way too small. We didn’t move for a while, each in our own world, when he sighed and glanced up. “… is it… weird I’m… not excited about it?” No, it’s scary. “I uh-“ I rubbed my nose to hide my face. “…forget about it” He pressed ‘sign up’. A form popped up, asking him for his details. His hands were shaking; Even from the bed, I could see it. I got up from it, and stilled behind him. We didn’t speak until he finished, the mouse lingered over the submit button. I should tell him. But what If it’s not the same? “FOOD’S READY” “… I should em-“He reached for the mouse – I took a deep breath. The last few weeks, ever since mom brought up, he needed to sign up for driving lessons, I’d hardly been able to look him in the eyes. Mom and dad had noticed – they’d pulled me aside, asking me not to freak him out about driving. But can’t they see he is already shaking just submitting the form ? I grit my teeth – maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe he wasn’t scared. Maybe I was ‘Projecting’. .. but what if I wasn’t? His hand lingered on the mouse. Did he even realize he stopped? “WE’LL BE UP IN A MINUTE” I yelled back, and pulled his chair off, away from the computer, the mouse and the screen. “wha-?” “Shush,” I went back to the door and closed it. “Just… give me a minute before you submit okay?” He slumped - looking relieved - into his chair. Was that wishful thinking too? If I told him how it’d been for me, would he be scared of driving for good? If I tell him… our parents would give me the blame no matter what. They would lecture me on not ‘attaching my fears onto other people’. They would never let it go. But would he be happy, to not be pressured into doing something, by someone who doesn’t even know they are pressuring him? I bit into my tongue. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to”. “I- of course, I want to-“ he hastily sat up, his eyes widened. I took a deep breath, “Let me speak without interrupting for a second - okay?” He opened his mouth to rebut but closed it quickly and nodded. His cheeks got redder. “Just because it’s expected of us to do things at a certain speed, doesn’t mean you have to okay? If you don’t feel ready to get a driver’s license that’s perfectly okay. Maybe next year or the year after that, when you don’t feel like this it’ll be better” I got down, padding his knee like I’d done the last time his girlfriend broke up with him, or the time before that when mom hadn’t been able to pick him up after all, and I’d had to bike to him, so he could rush home and get the sleep he needed after a hard day’s work. “I didn’t feel ready either aaand- how well do you think that turned out?” He chuckled, looked down in his lap instead of my eyes, his cheeks still flaming. “…everyone else is so excited for it” “… you’re excited about things that scare them too you know? Like that math exam today. Exams are like so anxiety-inducing, and you’re dealing just fine yeah?” I padded his knee, “Mom and dad don’t know how this feels, so if you want me to talk to them for you, I can do that, you know? I’ve been here. I used to pretend to miss the deadline so often mom looked me over the shoulder when I finally got it done” He chuckled. “I didn’t know you did that” I wiggled my eyebrows. “Neither do they” He let out a little laugh. Then looked back at the computer, stilling again. “I don’t want them to know…” “… but you don’t want to sign up either?” “-FOODS GETTING COLD” “-Ignore her. You don’t want to sign up?” “…no” “Okay,” I pushed him out of the way and closed the tab, then smiled at him. “Come on- Dinner is ready” “But what will we tell them?” He gestured to his reddened face with puffed-out cheeks – waiting for me to walk out the door first. “Don’t worry about it,” I smiled, “I’ll figure something out”

05yvhd

Because I Said So

“Because I said so!” “Mom, that isn’t a reason…” Stephen exclaims but is cut off by his mother, Charlene. “Oh yea? Why not? I am older than you, I am smarter than you, I am bigger than you, and you are my son, I know what’s best for you.” Charlene stated with an agitated tone. “I said no, so it is a no.” “Mom, can we at least have a discussion about it?” Stephen pleaded. “I don’t think we even need to have one, hunny, it’s not going to happen, not while you are living under this roof.” Charlene grabbed a stack of magazines into her hand and started to walk away. “Mom, this is something I have wanted for a long time and I have put a lot of thought into it,” Stephen gets cut off by the loud sound of Charlene straightening out the magazines on the counter. “Stephen. You are fourteen years old, I will not allow it and that is final.” Charlene says in a stern voice and walks out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Stephen stands alone in the kitchen. He wished his big sister Margot was there for him now more than ever. He also missed his dad, but the death of his sister was like losing a best friend to him as well. Hot tears started to stream down his cheeks, he was so angry and upset that his vision started to blur. If only his mother would listen for once. He charged through the door his mother had just went through, swinging the door open. The door hit the wall to the left when it swung open and a picture frame of the whole family fell to the floor and the glass shattered. “Mom. I am old enough to have a discussion with you and you have to listen to what I have to say!” He yelled at his mother who looked unimpressed. “You think you are so smart and so mature and ready to make decisions for yourself now. Fine. Let’s have a discussion then!” Charlene was more furious than before. “First, I want you to look me dead in the eye and tell me something. Do you want to do this because your other friends are doing it?” “No.” Stephen said with hesitation. “No? So you’re telling me that none of your friends are doing it?” She looked right at Stephen. “No…” Stephen said with hesitation slightly glancing away. “Stephen!?” She elongated the ‘n’ sound to make it into a question. “There’s one of my friends, but she…” “I don’t care what ‘she’ did or said. First off, you are your own person and can’t just be doing things because your friends are. Second off, you just tried to lie to my face. Why would you think that would make me want to say yes in any way.” “But mom, it’s not because of her,” Stephen exclaimed. “Oh well, past that. It’s going to be extremely painful for you.” “It will go away, I can handle it.” Stephen claimed with conviction in his voice. “But you can’t! I know you Stephen, you are not a very strong kid, you never have been. You have always had a strong heart, but I don’t think that you can handle the pain.” Charlene said with almost a caring tone. “On top of that, it can mess up your body a lot, especially when you are this young and developing as much as you are right now. Plus it’s permanent. This decision will be with you for the rest of your life.” “I know all of the risks, mum, I am ready. I have made my decision.” “But I don’t know if you are ready to make this decision. It is so big, your brain is still developing and you are easily influenced by everything around you and I don’t want this to be one of those things too.” Charlene tried to explain. “I have taken my time to think about this, I have talked to my friends, I have done my research…” Stephen gets cut off by Charlene “But what if something were to go wrong? There’s so many different ways that something might happen to you, what if the doctors mess up. It is still experimental to an extent and we don’t know what it might do to you.” Charlene stopped and sniffled for a moment as a tear slowly ran down her cheek. “I already lost your sister and your father, I can’t lose my little boy too.” Charlene leans against the wall and slides down to the floor. She puts her face into her hands that are supported by her knees and starts to cry. Stephen looks at his mother and takes her hands. “Mum, the doctors know what they are doing. It will be okay.” “I know, but I am just so scared!” She continues to cry. Stephen holds her hands up to him more, forcing his mother to look up a little. He wipes the tears away from her eyes. “Mom. I haven’t been happy in my own body for so long. I always knew that I was different than all of the other boys at school. Every day I look into the mirror and I don’t know if I’m looking at me or if I’m looking at a stranger. I lay in bed every night and cry myself to sleep because I don’t know how to feel and why I feel the way I feel. I know that you are scared, mom, I am too, but we can go through it together. And mum, no matter what, I will always be here.” Stephen spoke as tears started to roll down his cheeks as well. “Sweetie,” Charlene said in an almost worried tone. “I had no idea you felt that way for so long.” Charlene starts to cry even more. “It has been so long…” Stephen starts to cry as well. Stephen pulls Charlene up to her feet and gives her a hug, they both cry for a moment, together. Charlene steps back and sniffles, “We will go talk to the doctors this weekend and discuss how we plan to go forward with your transition.” “Do you really mean it, mum?” Stephen backs away. Charlene nods her head slowly as she looks at Stephen who goes in for another big hug. “I love you mom! Thank you!” “I love you too, sweetie.”

bd0mu0

That's All That Mattered.

He dared me to kiss the new boy. He dared a straight boy to kiss another straight boy. The darer knew what both mine and the new boy's sexuality was, but he dared us anyway. Everyone thought I wouldn’t do it. Everyone thought I was going to be stubborn because everyone knew Tauruses were stubborn, but not all Tauruses are stubborn. So I did it - I did something that would change my life forever, something that would change both our lives forever. 2 days earlier… I felt her lips against mine, they were soft and moist as I pushed my forehead closer to hers. This felt so wrong, but as I pushed my lips harder against hers I couldn't think of why. She pulled away and exhaled. “That was okay. You good?” she asked, “Mmkay” I mumbled, I wasn't really listening to her. I was so lost. I was still so lost as I climbed into bed. School tomorrow, maybe that’ll get my mind off the daring thoughts. As soon as the bell rang I rushed into class, sitting down in the back row. The rest of the class mingled their way into class and found a seat. The teacher instantly started the roll, “Sam!” “Charland!” She called, reading down the list. “Hunter!” She looked up again, briefly. “Here!” I answered, barely looking up from my sketchbook. “Rowe!” “Present!” That's when I looked up. There wasn't a Rowe in this class. The boy had shaggy brown hair that faded into blue. He had bright green eyes and a smatter of freckles across his face. A new kid. He was attractive, extremely attractive. I blushed and looked back at my sketchbook. The night was crisp and dark. It was colder than it should have been, but I was burning hot. I was texting my girlfriend, Solane. I told her that I thought we shouldn’t be together anymore and she took it surprisingly well, extremely well. She told me that she thought that too. She truthfully said that the kiss we shared felt odd to her and she had realised why. She didn't tell me why and I didn't ask, I had no right to anyway. I sighed blissfully and turned off my phone. Picking up my pencil again, I continued to work on a park-themed sketch. There were kids playing and pairs of people walking, the landscape was divine. Lunch time. We were sitting under the tall oak tree, eating our lunch. The new boy, Rowe, had joined us. As well as being super attractive, he was kind and quirky. He had four dogs, played ice hockey and his favourite food was hot doughnuts. His smile was so pure that when he sent it my way, I would stare at the ground shyly. “Okay! I have an Idea!” Graeson yelled to the group. Everyone looked up from their lunch boxes. “Truth or Dare!” Graeson said excitedly. Some of the group sighed, some cheered. “Okay Darcy, Truth or Dare? ” He asked. “Dare,” Darcy sighed, looking around. “I dare you to… read out your search history.” he shrugged. That dare was so easy, it appeared that she had been searching for sumo suits for the past week. The whole group laughed out loud. Darcy dared Aaron next, something about licking a tree - he did it with ease. “Okay, Hunter,” Aaron said, smiling widely. I looked up from my sketchbook, I was surprised he picked me. “Truth or dare?” he asked. “Dare,” I said, I couldn’t face one of Aaron’s dark truths today. “I dare you to kiss one of us,” he laughed, he thought the dare was perfect.  “Which one of you?” I asked. Rowe looked up, surprised. He shrugged, “I don’t mind,” he interrupted, smiling at me. The group was quiet, everyone was waiting for my response, they all thought I would decline his dare. They thought I was going to be stubborn. I sighed. “Okay.” I moved to the middle of the circle. Rowe followed. “Hold it for at least two seconds.” Aaron announced, grinning. Rowe nodded at me and I nodded back. He leaned in so I did too. His eyes fluttered closed when we were almost touching. My eyes closed as our lips touched. He didn't pull away and I didn't either. The kiss felt like the last one I had with Solane but this time I wasn’t wondering why it felt so wrong, because it didn’t, it felt perfect. I exhaled sharply as the kiss ended and I looked up at Rowe, who looked down at me. He looked as surprised as I felt, not surprised in a bad way, but in a good way. He gave me his quirky smile as he backed into his place in the circle and I chuckled, blushing hard. I was more lost now than I was when I kissed Solane. Did I like Rowe? Wasn’t I straight? Did I like Rowe!?! It bothered me that I didn't know, it bothered me that I didn't understand these feelings. I sighed as the bell for the end of day rang and I cleared my desk, shoving my textbooks into my bag. A piece of paper was pushed onto my desk, I looked up to find Rowe holding the page onto the table, “Ms. Grafurd asked me to give you this,” he smiled. That was all, he walked away without any mention of what happened at lunch. I didn’t know if he wanted to forget it or if he was just as shocked as me. I quickly rushed home and curled up in my giant beanbag. I opened my phone and started researching. All the questions I had ended at a fork in the road. I could either tell him about what I felt or I could just forget it. I was straight anyway, wasn’t I? I was about to choose my path when my phone buzzed. I opened it, it was a text from Rowe - how’d he get my phone number? “Hi, just wanted to know how you felt kissing me? Stupid question I know,” it read. I pushed my hand through my wavy hair. Laughing, I answered “You’re a great kisser!” I think Rowe took it seriously because he texted back, “No, I mean, do you like boys? Do you like me?” His questions seemed rushed so i asked, “Why do you ask?” I stood up and paced the length of my room. My phone binged and I smiled. “I mean, the kiss felt right, so normal. I don't know, I think you're a great guy.” I decided to take the fair path and tell him - not yet though. I didn’t want to seem rushed, I wanted to take it slow, I asked him to meet me outside school tomorrow. I locked my phone and sighed. Did he like me? Was he as lost as I was? His hair seemed more tousled than usual that morning, though his smile was as genuine as it could be. “Hi,” he said, clapping his hands together nervously. “Hi.” I said, smiling. “You wanna go somewhere else.” I asked him and looked around at the group of students amassing at the school gate. “Yeah,” he said, “I would”. I smiled and grabbed his hand, pulling him behind the sport shed, “Nobody’ll come behind here” I said and he laughed. “So, uh, I, uh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. I grabbed his waist and he stopped talking. He leaned into me, knowing exactly what I was doing. He put his warm hands on my cheekbones and he lowered his head to reach mine so our lips joined once again. I let go first, slowly, gasping for breath, “I, uh... yeah, that was sort of what I was going for,” he laughed nervously. “So you like me?” I asked. “Yes, yes, yes!” he smiled. “Wait, you like me?” “Yes, yes!” I laughed. “Well, that was weird.” he laughed, putting his hand down. “It would have been, if you didn’t like me.” I laughed and together we rushed out from behind the shed as the bell rang. Math was annoying, Rowe was in the same class as me and I couldn't stop looking back at him and giggling quietly. English was easier, we had to do our own essays so we were looking at our computers the whole time. He was so cute when he was focused. He looked stern but his purple headphones with fluffy ears on top made him look so sweet and endearing, I couldn't stop myself from laughing. He pulled them down onto his shoulders and looked towards me, his grin looked so natural. “Oh, so now you don’t like my bunny headphones!” he pouted. Shaking my head, I spluttered, “I never said that.” He smiled, pulling the headphones back on and poking his tongue out before turning back to his work. After class, Rowe ran up to me in the yard. “Hey!” he said, wrapping his hand around mine. I sighed happily, we had two hours together. “Hi,” I smiled, squeezing his hand. “Fag!” an older kid yelled at me. “Vaffanculo, non hai il diritto di dirlo!” Rowe shouted at him. “What?” I asked. That definitely wasn’t English. “Oh, uh, Italian. I told him that he had no right saying that.” he said, rubbing his neck and smiling nervously. He looked at me and shrugged. “Did he understand what you said?'' I asked , pulling him out of the school. “Uh, he’s my brother,” he said, blushing at the ground. “So, he understood you?” I asked as we jogged to the corner of the street. “Well, my family speaks Italian at home, so, I hope so,” he laughed. “Oh, why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, slowing down to a walking pace. “Hunter, we only just met!” he yelled, laughing. I woke up, yawning. Last night was so nice. I spent time with Rowe after school. I don't even remember where we went, but I knew he liked it - I knew I liked it. I had to leave him at seven, but after that we texted way past midnight. He told me that he would tell his parents about us, they were an extremely close family. I was so excited for him, but there was still that little tinge of worry that his parents wouldn’t appreciate their son being gay. I walked to the kitchen and sighed. I hoped Rowe was okay. I had text him heaps this morning and he hadn’t answered any of them. Of course that could just mean he was asleep, I bet he was so cute when he was asleep. I leapt off the bus and walked to the school gate. I saw Rowe and smiled. I was regretting my idea that he had just been sleeping as I jogged up to him. His hair was bedraggled. He had dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes, “Hey, you good?” I asked. He shook his head, “My parents had a giant fight about me, my Mum thought it was great that I had someone, but my Dad…” he sobbed before he could finish, tears running down his face. I knew what he was saying anyway. I tried to comfort him, but it was difficult. I grabbed his hand and dragged him out of school. He stopped crying enough to jog along with me. He inhaled sharply, catching his breath as we sat down at the bus stop. A bus pulled up and I jumped on pulling him with me. He laughed as the bus juddered forward and he grabbed the rail, steadying himself. “Hunter, where are we going?” he demanded, I shook my head and raced him to a building, turning sharply through its front door. He followed, laughing. “A library?” he asked. I shook my head, I rushed to a staircase in the far corner and started climbing. “C'mon,” I said, smiling. I led him to an old attic. “An attic?” he asked, he looked amused. I opened the attic door, light flooded in and I turned to him while climbing onto the roof. He looked at me, worried. I winked, “C’mon” I repeated, smiling. He climbed up onto the roof and sat down next to me. “I’m sure this is illegal!” he laughed, staring out at the landscape. I laughed, “who won?” Rowe stared at me, confused by my question, “Who won the fight? Mum or Dad?” I laughed, His face changed instantly and he chuckled, “Mum” he said, “always Mum.” he laughed. He sighed, “I’m going to have to go home soon, aren't I?” he murmured. I sighed too, the sun was already setting. I couldn’t believe we had been up here all day. “I’m going to have to face my parents, they’ll be so annoyed that I skipped school…” he whispered into my shoulder. I sighed, “Then just stay here, stay here with me.” “I’m not going anywhere.” he reassured me. I sighed, fulfilled. We were here. We were together. That's all that mattered.

enkei4

Throw 'em Back

Growing up I wasn't allowed to go alone to many places. That's because of a few reasons. There was my the incident with my brother, which is a dirty, dark story. Which, I don't really want to get into now. And then there's my biological father, who threatened to do physical harm when the courts charged him for child support. Another topic I tend to keep in Pandora's box. So, my family became very protective and very watchful of my every move, including during summer time. But, there were some times, some places I could go that were deemed safe. Safe enough that I could go without being monitored and worried about. Uncle Shorty liked whiskey. He was always happy. If he ever showed up to any family function, I remembered him having a bottle under each arm. Uncle Shorty, to me, always seemed happy. He rode a motorcycle until the day he died. Smoked Lucky Strikes. He was a bad ass. He never quite fit in completely with the Hill sisters, but they loved him to bits. I think it was his ability to be completely authentically himself that endeared him to us all. When I think of him, so many memories rush through my whole body. His laugh, his smile, the way he transformed when he sat on his motorcycle. No one can ever say Uncle Shorty had any regrets. At least, that’s how I remember him. It was always a treat when I could go Uncle Shorty’s place. He had acres and acres of land. It was so beautiful. The grass, the trees. All the different animals. Ahhh, it was heaven. I used to breathe differently when I was there. Horses ran free along the edge of his land line, where a small fence guided them. I think the horses were just as wild as Uncle Shorty was. But my favorite place was right in the middle, which had a lake that spanned for miles. Shorty loved to fish and whenever I visited, fishin’ was always part of the visit. I never was one to be able to sit still when I was a kid. Back then they called me a tomboy. But sittin’ by the lake with Uncle Shorty, somehow, I was able to sit on that grass and just be. When it was time to fish, we never caught anything. That was not the point. We would just sit there for hours in silence together, holdin’ sticks in the water. I used to run my fingers across to top of the blades of grass, close my eyes, listen to the wind whisper her secrets to me. I think of that me now and I wonder what magic that place held over me. I remember my shoulders immediately lowering, my breath slowing, my mind and heart opening to all the animals and elements surrounding me. There we were, at the lake. He would bring sandwiches out and we would nibble on them throughout the day. Perfectly content not to move from our very comfy spots. But there was one time during one of our fishing expeditions that we caught something. He caught this fish and I remember him saying “Hey, I got one!”. And I saw it. It was flailing with this hook in its mouth, struggling to breath. I looked in its eyes. And somehow those eyes on that fish were talking. I saw fear. I saw terror and without a thought, I grabbed that fish. I grabbed that fish right out of Uncle Shorty’s hands and somehow I got that hook out of its mouth and threw it back in the lake. I remember Uncle Shorty being in utter shock. I did not realize it at the time, but when I was done throwing that fish back in, something else happened. To this day, I don’t remember exactly what happened The last thing I remember is looking over the edge of that peaceful lake, looking to the very deepest part and going head first to the darkest part I could find. I wasn’t sure how long it took, how long I had been “out”, but what finally brought me back was Uncle Shorty shaking me, screaming my name over and over. He was all wet and still yelling at me. And then I realized I was all wet and breathing hard. Was Uncle Shorty crying? I am not sure how long it took me to come to and Uncle Shorty to calm down, but I remember him rocking me in the quiet stillness of his arms. Catching my breath, my head against his skinny bones. And we both stayed until the sun went down, chilled to our bones. I told Uncle Shorty, "I had to make sure the fish was okay". I guess I was sobbing, Uncle Shorty wiping away my hot, stinging tears. I don't remember how I got home. I remember Uncle Shorty talking to my Grandma on the porch for a bit. I had been sent upstairs to the place where children allegedly never heard the adults talk. From what I can recall of the conversation, I scared the absolute crap out of him. Now, my grandmother had warned my Uncle Shorty many times that I did not know how to swim. And Uncle Shorty did not know how to swim. And I guess, in that moment, Uncle Shorty learned right quick how to swim. Uncle Shorty told my Grandmother, “Audrey, she told me she had to make sure the fish was okay". Well, it made sense to me. That was my last trip to Uncle Shorty’s paradise. I guess I really put him through it, because I think Uncle Shorty enjoyed my trips as much as I did. I remember begging my Grandmother every summer, but it was always the same answer. "Maybe next time". I missed going back there. I missed the wind. The wind there was so soothing. It was different there. It was so pure. Something about it was so safe. I was able to be still. And breathe. And just be me.

865yt7

who is this boy

Hearing a noise of his own that sounded like footsteps matthew huddled further back into his little crevice.As soon as Mathew got into the guest room of the bar 20 ranch he sat down on the bed no one ever came to visit him they often labeled him as weird , all of the kids on the ranch refereed to him as who it was often he was alone and too much in his thoughts . Mathew tried as as he as he could to break out of his funk but the name who kind of stuck until one day he finally broke the air meeting a boy just as shy as he was just 12 years old he found it easier to sit with someone who was just as quiet as he was , it was not log before Justin spoke introducing himself Mathew looked over equally as shy and nodded they each hoping they would be best of friends the one thing they had in common was they loved horses . Mathew got on a horse as did Justin each rode their own horse and learned the fine art of husbandry as time went on the boys became close friends Justin's dad was a lawyer , and specialized in late adoptions and hard to place kids and Mathew was defiantly a hard to place kid after his family divorced , Justin lost hm in a is mom in a freak car accident Justin and Mathew had a unique kid of love they saw through all the bigotry and hatred that other used to destroy other peoples love Mathew and Justin loved each other they way they want to be love and treated . Mathew and Justin invited each other to and spent holidays with each other Justin's only Christmas wish was to have Mathew as his brother each gift became a contest for each of the boys to out do the other kind of like a sibling rivalry ,one hot Sunday Mathew and Justin Went to church for the first time looking at each other empathically they walked ti the front of the church to give their hearts to God . The Christmas that fell next was going to be the best there was going to be only one gift under the tree this year Mark Justin's dad walked into the court room entering into a closed adoption of Mathew ,neither boy knew of what was going on in Justin's dad's head but ever the less the biggest gift was the relationship between Mathew and Justin . Justin got on Giggles and Mathew rode on bear , it didn't matter to the boys that they would be bullied in school they knew there was more to their relationship than meets the eye the boy took a ride down the old manchard path suddenly just when things were getting good Mathew became irate with Justin " you stupid shit you always get in my stuff " "" no i don't you are just being an ass you hate me Mathew took off out of the door . As Mathew walked the wilderness alone Justin sat at home in his tears Mathew would never consent to be his brother now Justin had convinced himself Mark hated seeing the boys at odds and went out daily to see if he could find Mathew , each day he searched he came back empty handed Mark tried to be a liaison between the boys and help mend the relationship , sometimes only making it worse at times After a long day of searching the woods around the house mark came back. Yet again he had mussed Matthew. Exhausted he came and sat by Justin. I wish Mathew wouldn't be such a hot head said Justin almost in tears , giving a deep heaving sigh his eyes filled up with tears. Mark walked over to his son and embraced him. “I guess you can blame me for that. I used to be the same way. Nobody could tell me anything without me blowing up” Naw it was me I kept pushing all I want is for Mathew to come back i know son me too said Mark shedding a few tears of his own Grabbing his dad's waist Justin let out a big sigh.  let us get a good night’s sleep and resume the search tomorrow. Said mark picking Justin up. Justin cuddled as mark brought him to bed Justin was more exhausted than he thought as mark laid him down telling him goodnight before heading for the door.  Mark got into his room and had just settled in when he heard a noise outside getting up and darting outside he looked around his senses heightened straining he looked a little further into the woods it was Mathew Mark approached cautiously and stuck out his hand Let talk this through he pleaded , Justin stretched as he woke up looking around his bedroom for any signs of Mathew but still was disappointed Hearing Justin moving around mark came in the room. “Ready to go searching? He asked Yeah said Justin half heatedly as he threw off his covers getting ready for the day Mark had already made them breakfast to go. By the time Justin had gotten dressed he was standing at the door waiting. Justin walked out of the house and began the search for Mathew You head down by the pond. I'm gonna go up on the ridge and see if i can see anything from up high. Said mark. OK said Justin kicking rocks as he went down the path that led to the pond, the wind whipped a tear to his eye Meanwhile Matthew was huddled up in a sleeping bag tucked as close to the side of the mountain as he could get to try to shelter himself from some of the wind. Justin dismissed a noise he had heard thinking it was nothing more than wild life. Hearing a noise of his own that sounded like footsteps Matthew huddled further back into his little crevice.come of his noise hearing it again Justin shook in his boots straining to see where it was coming from,Suddenly Justin felt a hand on his shoulder. It was mark. There is no sign of him bud. Time to go home. With that they discontinued the search. Never to see Matthew again.

ul5rei

Becoming who I am today

All my life all I had known was my Padrino and Mexico, I didn't know who my parents were and nor did I know English, all I knew was that I lived with my godparents and their family. Up until the year, 1993, January 29th. It was my eighth birthday in Guadalajara Mexico, and on that early morning, a woman who I have never met came rushing into my godfather's home saying she wanted to treat me for my birthday. I had no idea who this woman was nor had I ever seen her, but I felt comfortable with her taking me out to celebrate since my godfather told me everything would be okay. I felt reassured so I went off course. Never did I expect never to see him again, the man who loved and raised me. The woman had brought her boyfriend named Juan who was waiting in the driver's seat of the car . We were driving God knows where when suddenly it was all dirt, nothing in sight but the desert and mountains. I was still very confused by what had been going on and continued with what was happening. A couple of hours later I find myself wrapped in a jacket crossing a river in the arms of Juan. At this point, I began to be worried about where these people were taking me and why my Padrino was okay with this or if he had even known where I was. Little did I know I was crossing the border with my mom and her boyfriend, it wasn't until the next day I had realized that I was never going to see my family in Mexico ever again. I was brought around people I had never met, speaking a language I had never heard of, I felt like an outsider. This feeling of being an outsider continued to grow with me all throughout my teen years as it was hard for me to transition to the new Mexican American lifestyle. I was now ten years old living with my mother, her boyfriend Juan, and my two half-siblings Cynthia and Johnny, both of whom I had to play the role of being their mother for. I say this because both my mom and Juan were always out working part-time multiple jobs trying to make a living for us and themselves as undocumented citizens of the united states. This caused me to never really understand school or do well in it because I was exhausted from taking care of two newborn babies at the age of 10 ! from here it was all downhill, constantly moving houses and cities while also being moved schools left and right, we always feared of being deported back since my mother told me this life is better but I have to be careful of what I do since it was me my mom and Juan as the undocumented ones. It was like this for years. High school became even worse than I could ever imagine. I was getting old enough to realize all the negative things going on around my household, one being the toxic marriage my mother was in. I had packed up all my stepfather’s things such as clothes and shoes in a suitcase and threw them down the stairs of our apartment and told my mom she deserved better and he should be kicked out. My mom realizes the mess I made with his belongings and is utterly terrified of what he might do. I can see the fear in her eyes and hear it in her voice, so she made me pack all my things and go before he comes back home and I see the worst of him, so I do. So from the age of 15 and on I am forced to find my way of income and housing an undocumented 15-year-old teenage girl, I did this by living with different friends at the time, getting around using the bus (metro), and getting my first job at a pizzeria. This allowed me to make it to the last year of my high school career, coming to my surprise I met a man who I knew was the love of my life, we met after high school, his name, Jose. We had met at a house party on our graduation night and ended up getting together and dating, about a year later I had my first child at the age of twenty. I was in extreme fear of my future for I was not ready and felt alone to not have had my mom around me for all these years, a time like this is when a daughter needs her mother the most. With the help of Jose and his supporting family, I was able to raise not one but two beautiful children in their apartment complex. During this time Jose had told me he was committed to this relationship and wanted to create a better life knowing where I had come from had not been easy, for the first time in a long time in my life I had felt loved and welcomed by another I knew he wanted the best for me and cared for me and it showed. We had decided to get married and prepare to start building our own home, I couldn't be happier. One day while scrolling on Facebook I came across a woman who shared an old photo of her and her grandpa, her name was Letty Rodriguez who turned out to be my second cousin who was also related to my Padrino from Mexico, I quickly friend requested her and asked if she had any contact to my Padrino, to my luck she was able to help me out and get me to communicate with him. I was in such an anxious mood, my stomach all in Knotts and tongue all tied up when I heard his voice over the phone. He sounded a lot older, but I guess that's what happens when you don't talk to someone for twenty-plus years. He told me he wanted to come to see me for my birthday but couldn't afford to leave during this time because he had to take care of personal things. I told him not to worry and that we will see each other one day. January 29th, 2015, My 30th birthday when at home celebrating with my husband and kids I get a knock at the door, expecting it to be a family member or friend wishing me a happy birthday it was my Padrino … I quickly fell into his arms in tears thanking God for getting me to this day and point in my life, where I got to see the man who raised me again, after all, I’ve been through, the ups and downs it all paid off for this day where I knew nothing can take me down ever again. I was finally at ‘’Home’’ 

tn5ylf

June, June

‘’How are you feeling, June?’’, Minnie asked as she caressed the white gown with her hands. June dared not to break her sister’s kind spirit, for Minnie was far more feverish than her. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the virtuous sister had spent the last weeks being a docile daughter, making all kinds of arrangements so June wouldn’t have to. June, on the other hand, would have preferred to make the arrangements herself, for she hated favors and benevolence, it made her feel like a slave. June much rather preferred being independent and making her own way in the world. ‘’Thank you. I feel most comfortable.’’ The tight textile around her waist made June feel as though she couldn’t breathe, and she looked far from elegant or proper in the ill-fitting white gown. June was not in good humor, the thought of the golden circle around her finger this time tomorrow dimmed her wits even farther. ‘’June, promise you will be prim tomorrow. I would be most disappointed if you acted upon your...usual nature.’’ Minnie didn’t elaborate, for they both knew what Minnie was speaking of. June could do with being taught the art of holding one’s tongue. She knew no greater joy than the world of novels and poems, only perhaps the great bliss she felt when jumping around nature, wrenching and dirtying her dresses. ‘’Don’t worry, I will be.’’ Minnie looked remedied and released the tension from her shoulders. ‘’I only now read a fantastic book about a young girl, most like me. She never married either.’’ ‘’June, you mustn’t read these books, as they are wrong and you know it makes dad cross when you speak of not being a fair wife.’’ ‘’I’m aware. That’s why I told you, and not father. You know I would rather die a most bloody death if it meant I didn’t have to marry anyone. I don’t see myself being a good wife, or a loving mother. I just don’t, Minnie. I’m so tired of people thinking that marriage is all I am fit for, all because I wear dresses and not trousers. I am capable of so much more. You know it! I’m not patient, I’m not kind, I’m not caring, and I am most certainly not fit to be the mother of children.’’ ‘’Now June, don’t forget the labour that goes into home happiness. Children will fall sick, husbands become unsatisfied, the house becomes dirty, almost every day. All needs attending to. It can be most arduous! A good wife needs not be tenderly loving and affectionate, but passionate and ambitious as you are.’’, Minnie cried with an anguished face, her hands busy braiding June’s hair. Their arguments felt rehearsed, the discussion was like an orchestra, for they have held it so many times prior. ‘’Minnie, I'm not ambitious for home happiness! I long to be independent, to make my own mon- Ouch! must you pull my hair this way? - to make my own money!’’. Minnie refrained from responding, and so June was left looking grimmly into the mirror. In the dress her mother chose, about to say ‘’yes’’ to the man her father chose. But, she was given the choice of hair, which Minnie ended up making for her. June ought not to be dissatisfied, for Minnie had a talented hand for hair. When she finally let the diligently constructed braid fall along June’s neck, it was only fair that June eyed it with rapturous wondering. Her usually frizzy, untameable hair now looked presentable, the strands of hair clung around each other highlighting the different shades of blonde. Despite Minnie’s finest efforts, June felt ridiculous in the white frock. It made her appear more a sheep than a bride, and it evoked a disheartened feeling within her that she was a lamb before slaughter. At nighttime, the braid now released and the white dress put out of sight, June laid awake in what her family hoped to be the last night in their house. She could smell the soft summer air and hear the light breeze rustling through the leaves of the tree next to her window. There was no thought of sleep. With a resigned sigh, June lit a candle and took a novel she found most palatable, compared to the meager works she had read in school. Her eyes were racing across the pages, her mind embracing every word written on the thin yellow pages. It was a rather odd story, about a woman dressing up as a man to serve the military during the Revolutionary War. What should serve as a lesson for women to not go forth and repeat this faulty act, June only found her heart inspired and her mind enlightened by the genius of the story, real or not. One can only dream, thought June, wishing she could take the woman’s place. Oh how much merrier her pathetic life could be had she been a son to her father. She wouldn’t have to marry the Cookes' boy. June felt like cleansing her mind, purifying her heart from the one and only wish to go forth alone, forget all about it and become a wife, for she sternly believed that she could never be truly happy if she married. June couldn’t resist but to think that she had never been in control of her life. It was all a passive bearing of the expectations and decisions her parents had made for her, masked under the premise that she had a choice once the ‘’big things’’ were settled. For once, she was able to see right through that premise and look at the situation clear-eyed. What she was given was nothing. Once she was married to the Cookes’ boy and gave birth to his children, she would continue her pathetic livelihood in his house, the house she would only be a mere guest to, a necessity that needed to be there. It suddenly occurred, June wasn’t sure why exactly at this night, that she had never made the choice to marry and bear children, it was forced upon her with great violence and influence, so much so that June had never actively resisted. June felt a ball of jealousy and discomfiture rise to her throat, it made her face read and her eyes watery. She wished nothing more than to be as virtuous and dutiful as Minnie, to be a tenderly loving, soft spoken woman, but her blunt manners and strong would always got the best of her. June rocked around in bed, the book tossed on the floor, tears wetting her pillowcase. ‘’No, I don't want to. Please be good. I can’t. I can’t’’, she whispered imploringly, choking with tears. She went back and forth, telling herself to be good and then crying as she told herself why she couldn’t. In an attempt to silence herself, she bit her palm, as no one ought to hear. They would think she had gone mad. People lived under the presumption women were too emotional, and June ought not to prove them right. She sat up and laid back down, opened the window just to close it, blew out the candle to light it again. She felt a discordia within her, a feeling that she was merely a living controversy. She had dreams of a happy house and family, only she felt that she would never be truly merry doing so. June was too headstrong, too temperamental to ever be happy doing so. She would have made for the most proper boy. In what we could only refer to as the german word Torschlusspanik, June made the final decision that she couldn’t go forth in this manner. The dreadful thing she began to do began weighing on her conscience the instant she forced the two opposing parts of the snipper together, and watched a frizzy strand of blonde drop onto the wooden floor. It was too late, for it would look rather queer walking around with parts of her hair missing. June took a deep breath and cut off the rest of her mane, uneven and bold. There was no denying her feminine face, but that didn’t take away from her confidence, as a stranger who saw her without a dress would not get to thinking that a woman hid behind the manly masquerade. Dusk had arisen, and June bothered not to take more than a bonnet to hide the hideous hair, and the few spare pennies she possessed, shoved carelessly into the invisible pockets of the dress she had put on. The dress was the last souvenir from her life, a simple blend of textile in green and white. June needed nothing more other than a pair of shoes to leave. She played with the thought of writing a quick note to Minnie, Mother, Father and the Cookes’ boy, but she thought it for the better if they knew nothing, if they could accept the fact that the black sheep had vanished for evermore and that they could confidently spend the rest of their life, seeking comfort in each other when they needed it- June trusted they wouldn’t. It was a warm summer morning, mid June, and June herself had never felt more in her element. It only seemed fair that this was the month she asserted control, that this was the month during which she was always meant to leave. June’s shoes were hurting her feet, the only remedy knowing that it would take a pair of men's clothing and a train ticket far North for her to be freed from her hurtful footwear and the chains she had lived with all her life. At first June felt unsure, she was nervous, her shoes were made for looking pretty, not for being practical, and after a long walk over cobblestone June thought she had sprained her ankle by now. June wished she didn’t have to act this way, she longed for her womanhood to be respected as a from of strength and not weakness, but she knew that it was only wishful thinking, her womanhood would always be a weight holding her down, and that she was much better off as a man. June didn’t feel a man, she only acted it, for deep inside her she wanted to be a woman, just not a housewife. June didn’t mean for her family to be left without a trace, but she had to free herself from the chains of not being able to make choices for herself. June was excited to wander alone, to explore the newfound freedom, to never touch a hairbrush in her life if she didn’t desire so. She wasn’t prim, she wasn’t proper, she wasn’t good. She was a girl in menswear who had left her family behind, but June neglected her conscience and focused on the sun slowly rising. She spent one last thought on the write frock, ultimately satisfied she would never lay eyes upon it again. The men’s shoes were able to withhold cobblestone much better, and June felt peaceful for the first time. In a sleepy town in Massachusetts, a man with blond hairs, who, strangely enough, reeked of femininity, sat down in his office chair, kicked his feet up and let out a deep sigh. ‘’Good Morning, John. How are you?’’, a colleague cried from across the room. ‘’Morning. Not too bad, for the fine weather keeps me cheery.’’, the man named John responded. ‘’Right. It’s been a nice June.’’

6rto63

Once You Move out, Brother Gets the Room

She took a breath. It stopped in her throat, stalling as if waiting for her to taste it. She exhaled. Sunlight flooded the room through the curtain-less windows. Empty windows. Empty walls. Full boxes played hide and seek under the blankets and in the closet. A distant shout and running feet. Laughter. She took a breath. She exhaled. The door banged open, shuddering against the abused spring. She jumped, and her sister grinned. “You coming out for dinner?” She rubbed her finger along the ridge of her suitcase. She mustered a glare. “Give me a minute, will you? I just got home.” “Okay, okay.” Her sister raised her hands, conceding but still grinning. “Just don’t mess up the guest room. It’s pristine .” She rolled her eyes as her sister let out a cackle and darted back down the hallway. The door closed. The suitcase fell to the floor. She took a breath. She exhaled. * Twice she almost entered her brother’s new room. Thrice she went to the drawer that had once been hers. In the bathroom, she almost asked where her hairbrush was before remembering that she had left it at the apartment. “Home,” the air around her breathed. “Gone,” exhaled the room. Empty windows. Empty walls. * Kisses and hugs and promises to return home. Home. She hugged them tighter. The rising sun blinded her till she put down the visor in her car. The empty apartment greeted her at nightfall. * The sun glinted off the water, off the sweat from the unseasonably hot June weather. She ducked her head under, dark water muffling the shouts and laughter of a family with young kids nearby. When she resurfaced, the mother and daughter playing frisbee had come closer, the daughter glancing at her. Catching each other’s eyes, they smiled awkwardly. The daughter fidgeted and gestured towards the hat and towel on the rocky beach. “Is that yours?” “Yeah.” “You’re from the coast!” The daughter smiled brightly, bouncing once in excitement. “I thought so. You act like there’s sharks in the water even though you’re actually in the water, and I thought for sure that you had to be from the coast because they have all sorts of horrible stuff over there, and you’ve got that hat from California, and I knew it!” She resisted the urge to duck her head underwater again. “I’m not actually from the coast. We visited a friend there once. I just don’t like dark water. I forget that this is only Iowa.” The mother turned to her more fully, both her and the daughter frowning. “This is Minnesota.” “Oh! Right, err . . . I just moved here.” She laughed nervously. She gestured towards the nearest island. “I think I’m going to . . .” She gave them a polite smile, which they returned, so she left. Under the water, she opened her eyes. The green dark grey below her stretched out into black. Michigan, she could not help but think, Michigan and swimming in a bay of the Great Lakes with her sisters. There had been a thunderstorm that day, drums rolling across the sky and reverberating in their little valley. No lightning, so they had pushed their luck and walked the beach and ended up in the water – as they always did. The sandy slope of the island approached increasingly quick, but she dared not put her feet down in case there was nothing there. Finally, finally, her hands hit dirt, and she scrabbled against the incline until she was on her knees and then her feet and then out of the water. She stumbled forward. She strode. Once around the island, out of sight of the mother, the daughter, the family with young kids, she took a breath. She exhaled. Grapevines covered the island, draped over the rocks and sand like the kudzo in Florida. They had an uncle down there, and in that state at least, they had not swum in every open water source. Puddles, though. Puddles, they had run through and jumped in and splashed and crawled on their bellies like snakes through the sand and pines needles. They would see a crocodile for sure if it was there, their mother had said, so puddles were free game. Heart slowing, she looked out to the other side of the lake, considerably farther away than the shore she had come from. Three dark shapes hovered in the water, clay brown against the algae green. Fish, just like ones she had seen before in Wisconsin while swimming in a river. It was more of a stream really, but there hadn’t been many options in that town. The stream itself was deep. It was as if a giant had taken his finger and drawn in the earth as a child does in sand. There was no beach, no shallows, just a jump into the abyss. Fear had immobilized her. Her youngest sister slid in first, testing for rocks and ducking under for the depth. By her measure, there was no bottom. Her youngest sister and then the younger one had jumped in again and again, and finally she could breathe. She could breathe, so she closed her eyes and jumped. She walked back to the other side of the island, the one facing the closer shore. Somehow, she made it back to land. She wrapped her towel around herself, put the hat on her head knowing it would get damp. She waved at the mother and daughter, glanced over the family. She returned to the apartment. * “Thank you for coming.” Her mother relaxed at the words. “Thanks for feeding us dinner. You didn’t need to do that, you know. We could’ve gone out to eat.” “I know,” she shrugged, hand holding onto her mother’s forearm, “but it was nice to have you here.” Her mother leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “All right, but let me at least help with dishes.” Well, she certainly wasn’t going to argue about that. Her sisters’ laughter overlapped with her brother’s whining. Her father shuffled through the few scrapbooks she had brought with. “I’ll get you more pictures,” her mom said, vigorously rubbing the spaghetti bowl. “Okay.” “And I think you need some more kitchen towels.” “Okay.” Her mother paused, looking at her. “You can tell me no.” She took a breath, pecked her mother on the cheek again. “I know.” Her mother’s smile returned. “Can I reorganize your cupboards, too? It’s just, I mean, if you put that set of plates over here, and-“ “Okay.” “Really? You can tell me-“ “Really.” She gave her mother another kiss, and her mother tried not to smile wider. * Kisses and hugs and promises to visit her again. They hugged her tightly. The rising sun shone off the roof of the van as they left. She walked back to the apartment. The dishes lay drying on a bathroom towel. Her cupboards were closed. The scrapbooks rested on the wrong bookshelf. She took a breath. On the exhale, she smiled.

s4tarj

Go Ahead Ask Him Out/I Dare You

“Go ahead Sarah. Ask him out. I dare you,” said Rebecca. The other girls laughed and shook their heads yes. “I dare you too,” said Christina. “Okay. No big deal,” I replied. Who the heck was I kidding? This is a huge deal. Huge deal. My friends have no clue how shy I am in these situations and how bad my anxiety is ramping up. Walking over to Mark, the cutest boy, my crush for the past two years, and asking him out...the thought alone makes me want to puke. But do I show that to my friends. No way. They tease me enough as it is anytime he’s near us. I mean what do I say? I don’t want to sound dumb or stutter, which of course I would as soon as I got near him. Shoot, knowing my luck, I’d probably trip over my own two feet walking over towards him.  Mark is 6’2, one of the star basketball players on our school’s team and is all around a nice guy. He’s not like some of the other athletes in our school, full of himself and thinking that we should feel honored that they are talking to us. I’ve seen him help out other students when they struggle with classwork. I know he tutors kids at the elementary school because I overheard him tell one of the other guys on the basketball team that he couldn’t hang with him after practice because the kids were waiting on him. He’s got a great smile that lights up a room. When he talks to you, he really talks to you and looks you directly in the eye and is interested in what you are saying. It is like you are the only person in the room. He really pays attention. “Earth to Sarah. Hello? Girl, he’s walking away. You missed your chance. Way to zone out and not do the dare,” Rebecca said. “I’m not chickening out on the dare. I’ll do it. I’ll do it today”, I said.  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Rebecca.  “Same here,” said Christine and Allison. “It will happen,” I said. Goodness, why did I ever decide to participate in truth or dare? I didn’t want to seem like I was too worried about what the dare would be. I’m not a fan of that game. Having anxiety and being shy aren’t great things to have in this situation. I’m trying to work on calming myself down. I keep saying to myself deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Eventually my breathing slows down as does my heart rate. All I need to do is have a full out panic attack while I attempt to ask my crush out. It’s not that big of a deal right? What’s the worst that can happen? Mark can say no, that’s the worse that can happen. What on earth did I get myself into? The rest of the morning and the beginning of my afternoon was spent thinking about this. Thinking about what I would say. Thinking about what could all go wrong. I overthink everything and always think the worst. I end up driving myself crazy. I’m glad there were some tests for me to take in Math and Science today. Thankfully, there were complex equations and formulas that I had to focus on. So for a little while, asking Mark out wasn’t on my mind.  As I walked into sixth period, which was HIstory, Mark ended up being on my mind. Why, you may ask? Well I forgot I had sixth period with him, as well as having it with Christina. From her seat three rows over, she gave me that look. You know the look. The one that is well, when are you going to do it. I shook my head, let out a loud sigh, and went to take my seat. At least this class was going to be not too stressful, with the material we were learning at least. It was a review day. That meant that we all broke off into groups to be able to have a mock review with the entire class. Wouldn’t you know it, Mark was in my group. The review went well. There was about ten minutes left in class and our teacher let us all talk quietly. We were still in our groups and the other two kids took out their phones, put in their ear buds and listened to music.  “So I think that we will do pretty decent on the test later this week”, said Mark. “What do you think”? “I agree. Our group knew the material. Don’t know about any of the other ones”, I said.  Then the conversation stopped.  Okay I thought, it’s now or never. Get it over with. Bite the bullet. “Would you like to hang out sometime”? “Who me”, said Mark? “Yes, you”, I said.  Oh no. I shouldn’t have said anything. He’s taking too long to answer. All the reasons why he shouldn’t are going through his head. He’s trying to figure out the best way to say no without sounding like a jerk. “Sure”, he said. “I don’t know if you know this but I just got out of a relationship. I’m not looking for anything like that right now. I think you’re cool and pretty and we can hang out as friends right now if you’re okay with that’, Mark said with a smile. How did I not notice his dimples until now? “I’m totally okay with that”, I said while grinning from ear to ear.  What was I worried about? That wasn’t as bad as I had played it out in my head. I had it played out that he would laugh and be disgusted that I asked. After school, Rebecca and Christina found me in the library, working on a paper.  “So”, Rebecca said, “What happened”? “I asked him out,” I said. “No way”! Christina said “I saw it. She did it during our groups in History class”. “I’m surprised you had the guts to do it”, Rebecca said. “I’m not turning down a dare I agreed to”, I said.

gzwtwm

Arriving in Dreamland

The day was 20 th August. The time was 10:30 in the morning. American Airlines had just made a safe landing at the Pittsburgh Airport in the USA. As passengers were gradually making their way out one by one, Joyee got her stuff and followed the queue as she walked out of the airplane. ‘Now, I need to find a way to make a call to mom.’ Joyee said to herself, as she was looking for a phone booth. Almost twenty minutes had passed, but no phone booth came into sight. ‘Excuse me.’ Joyee approached a gentleman who was her co-passenger in the flight, ‘Do you know if there’s a phone booth here? I need to make a phone call to my mom in India.’ ‘I don’t think there’s any.’ replied the man, looking around the airport. ‘What is the number?’ The man continued, as he took his phone out of his pocket and proceeded to dial. Joyee was looking at the man, and then after two minutes, muttered, ‘It’s an international call.’ ‘No problem. As a professor, I make calls to different schools in other countries.’ the man responded. ’91-9830091923’ Joyee was still looking at the man as she was biting her lips. ‘The phone call cannot be completed.’ The words came out of a voice machine from the phone. ‘Are you sure that’s the correct number?’ the man asked as he attempted to try a second time. ‘It’s ok. I’ll see what I can do.’ Joyee replied, as she tried moving forward after thanking the man. It was her first time in the USA. Her heart echoed with confidence. She remembered the day she received letter of acceptance from the Chatham College, her final destination. It was like a dream come true for both her mom and herself. ‘I’ll be anxiously waiting for your call. Make sure you call as soon as you land there. It’ll be late at night over here, but I’ll be awake.’ Her mom’s words kept buzzing, as those were the words she heard before bidding farewell and hugging her one more time before entering the airport. ‘I hope that I can find a way to at least let mom know that I’ve made it safely to America.’ Joyee spoke to her mind as she reached the luggage identification station. Joyee’s eyes were fixed at the conveyor belt as she was ‘examining’ a red suitcase and a aubergine suitcase which belonged to her. She had kind of packed her ‘India’ in those two suitcases. ‘There!’ The words came out loud enough to knock the people standing around her. Putting the suitcases and her backpack on the trolley, Joyee moved toward the exit where she was also expecting a representative from the school she was going to study at. As she was surveying the huge number of people waiting for each one of their correspondents, a sign saying, ‘Chatham College’ held by a young lady with blonde hair caught her eye. ‘So you are Joyee Roy!’ greeted the lady as she extended her hands in a gesture of handshake, continuing, ‘Welcome to America!’ ‘Thank you!’ said an excited Joyee as her giggle outshone the bright sunny day.  ‘My name is Melanie, and I’m the student coordinator at the International Program Office or IPO at Chatham College.’ The lady introduced herself.  ‘I’ll quickly use the restroom, and be right back. Ok!’ The lady touched Joyee’s shoulder and smiled. Taking advantage of the wait time, Joyee looked around and enjoyed observing people. Soon Melanie was back from her restroom break, and the two proceeded toward the car. Finally, after loading all the stuff in the vehicle, the two ladies left for their destination. ‘It is a beautiful day.’ Joyee said, as the sun kissed and welcomed her to her dreamland. ‘It is!’ Melanie said proudly, as she asked, ‘Is it hot or cold in India right now?’ ‘It is very hot now in India.’ ‘What is the temperature like right now?’ ‘Ah…about 40 degrees on an average.’ ‘Oh boy! That’s pretty hot!’ ‘I’d need to make a phone call to my mom in India, to let her know that I made it safe here.’ Joyee informed, looking at Melanie. ‘No problem.’ Melanie assured, as she added, ‘We can do that once we reach. Not a problem at all.’ ‘Welcome students! Registrations begin on 26 th of August. Chatham College’ Joyee could barely move her eyes from the words highlighted by the sun enough to catch her attention as the vehicle was entering the college campus. ‘Now we’ll take our bags, and move toward the office.’ Melanie informed as she moved the car to the parking mode, and got out of the car. Joyee completed the formalities she needed to just like any international student arriving to America. ‘Oh! That was quicker than I imagined!’ Joyee said gleefully, as Melanie accompanied by another staff from the office escorted Joyee to her apartment. ‘So here’s the mail box where you can receive all your mails.’ Melanie informed, as she continued, pulling down the lock of one of the mailboxes, ‘That’s your spot.’ ‘Is the door acting funny?’ Melanie asked her colleague who was trying to unlock the door to Joyee’s apartment, and then soon she said, ‘There you go!’ as she looked at the door opening. ‘This is the living room.’ Melanie said as she was giving a tour of the apartment, while also directing toward the other sections. ‘Hi!’ The other lady smiled as she extended her hands in the gesture of a handshake, saying, ‘So, my name is Beth, and I am one of the assistants at the IPO.’ Once again, Joyee just gave a nod and smiled as she looked around the empty two bedroom apartment. Beth smiled at her too. Then she quickly trained Joyee on the niceties of the kitchen and its equipments including the gas, toaster, microwave and coffee maker. Joyee was looking with awe at the gas oven as Beth was modeling on how to turn it on. ‘How I wish I followed directions when mom was teaching me steps for boiling water or making tea!’ Joyee said to herself. ‘And this will be your room.’ Melanie said as she was leading Joyee out of the kitchen, going in the direction of her bedroom. Joyee was looking at her bed which was narrower as compared to her bed back home, as she touched the mattress which was sunbathed and sparkling, as the sunlight poured through the window. Looking back at the other bedroom which was located on the side, she asked, ‘Who lives in that room?’ ‘That’s your roommate.’ Melanie responded, adding, ‘She should be here next week.’ ‘Suzie!’ Joyee said, informing that she had a brief interaction with her via e-mails prior to leaving India. ‘Yes!’ Melanie replied, as she made her way out of the room into the hallway. Then she looked at Joyee, and said, ‘That being said, we are all set then!’ ‘Thank you.’ Joyee said with her usual smile as Beth was about to follow Melanie, and the ladies waved at each other. ‘Let us know if you need anything.’ Beth mentioned, as she followed Melanie out of the door. Joyee locked the door, and was walking back as she turned on the blinds in the living room letting the sunlight flood her face. She looked down on the carpet as she watched the sun’s rays invading her newly found territory. Passing her hand over the blinds she looked back at the bright sky with her eyes struggling to keep wide open. ‘I am the queen.’ Joyee was speaking to herself as she was standing in front of a mirror that was standing tall on the living room floor that just had her as the only occupant at the moment. Then she turned around in a swirl, and smiled at her reflection on the mirror. She checked herself for a couple minutes, and proceeded toward her bedroom. Keeping her stuff next to each other on the bedroom floor, she unlocked her red suitcase, and found her favorite packet of savories she brought from India. Taking it out, she finished the 500 ounce bag within a few minutes. It was 4 in the afternoon. Joyee was finding it hard to keep her eyes open. ‘I’m not sleeping now.’ Joyee murmured, as she said, ‘I had so many plans. At least I must take advantage of the bright sunny day, and at least go for a walk.’ Joyee paused for a moment, and then looking at the hallway and then her bed, she quickly took out a bed sheet from her suitcase, and spread it over the mattress on her bed, making sure that the edges are locked and the sheet is spread neat and tight. ‘May be I can go for a walk after a power nap.’ She said to herself, as she got up on the bed, lay flat and fell asleep within a couple seconds. The bright sun seemed to sing a lullaby as she was sleeping peacefully on her cozy bed. The bed which seemed too narrow seemed to give ample room to sleep in a relaxed manner. After quite a while, Joyee’s eyes seemed to open wide, and the warmth which filled her mind and soul, couldn’t be felt any more. Nor did her face get sunbathed any longer. ‘Oh my!’ Joyee’s eyes were awestruck as she looked out the window, and then at the clock which had just ticked 11. Even the path that had been inviting her for a stroll seemed to have disappeared. For the first time ever, she felt completely alone in the room which had now been enveloped with darkness, and the apartment didn’t make her feel like a queen any more. She froze for a few moments. Then she quickly gathered herself and got down on the floor and turned the lights on. Taking a quick glance out the window, she felt haunted by the darkness. She untied some more snack packets, and seemed to gulp like a monster. ‘I better retire to bed tonight.’ Joyee decided, as she was fixing the sheet, and then turning off the lights let the bed host for the night. ‘I miss the spicy egg curry that mom used to cook.’ Joyee was reminiscing memories from back home, as the dark yet serene ambience lulled her to sleep.

75uomd

The Last Hurrah

If 30 is the new 20, and 50 is the new 30...then what does that make 40? Karen felt tired. Very tired. Not just because she was newly divorced, but because of everything. The truth is Karen didn't have much of a childhood. She became an orphan at 10 years old. A story her relatives still hush to a whisper to share: "Poor little orphan Karen. She didn't ask for any of this. What do we do now?". Nobody wanted to take sole responsibility for Karen. Both her parents came from big families and hadn't named godparents because nobody expects to die at 35, leaving your only child...and they figured if anything were to happen - their families were large enough and Karen would find a home, a new place to settle. That's exactly what Karen didn't find. Because nobody wanted to claim sole responsibility for "poor little orphan Karen" they decided on a multi-house arrangement. Yep, I'm as confused as you are; but they decided that Karen would live with each aunt/uncle - who had the space - for a few months of the year. At first it sounded cool. Flights and road trips all across the state and even sometimes to different states. Karen felt like she was going to see the world and have so many adventures. But, in hindsight, maybe all she needed was a stable home. The novelty of the travelling wore off quickly. Especially when she had to keep changing schools. For one half of the school year she'd be in one school and then by the second term she would be in another. This continued for three years before she found the courage to write a note to the aunt she felt closest to - Violet - her mother's younger sister. She was staying with her father's eldest sister at the time - Millicent - who was upset that she preferred to write and mail a letter across the state instead of talk to her. But Millicent was strict and Karen didn't speak much when she stayed with her because she was never sure of what would upset her aunt. Violet - on the other hand - she only saw on special occasions because she was studying Psychology at the University of Miami. Violet was the youngest of all her aunts and she felt more comfortable talking to her. The fact that she wrote a letter...and mailed it...instead of making a phone call or sending an email was something Violet thought about for a long time. The thing is...with all the moving around to different relatives Karen hadn't found her voice. She was always told to be quiet and she was never sure what would offend or bother her cousins...so she said nothing. Well, not entirely nothing - but she limited her interactions to answering questions like "how was your day" and "what do you want for dinner "? Karen already felt like a burden to her family, so the less she spoke the better. Every few days she wondered if the world would just take her back. I know it sounds weird but she wanted to disappear. Not that she wanted to appear in any other place, she just wanted to disappear altogether. She already felt invisible, so disappearing shouldn't be that hard. But each day she woke up and was still in her "suitcase life". She had two suitcases she moved around with at all times. Her aunts and uncles would swap out the clothes and shoes as she outgrew them. This was the part Karen didn't like. She wanted to keep all the clothes her parents bought for her, She wanted to hold on to their scent and squeeze her almost womanly curves into them still. At 13 she ripped her favourite pair of shorts and decided it might be time to allow her uncle to buy her new clothes. That was a bit of an awkward moment. Why couldn't the shorts have ripped when she was with Aunt Shelly? She was the fashionista and would've gotten her some cool clothes. Instead, they ripped at Uncle Bill - her father's brother who was a farmer and bought his clothes the same place he bought his wheelbarrow. Now that Bill had bought her clothes, the other aunts and uncles started buying her clothes too. So now she had to remember who bought what and when to wear it so they could see her wearing it. She figured out that she was obligated to do this after one too many "where's that nice____ I bought you". I'm just gonna come out and say it. This is a lot for any child to handle. Especially a child who lost both parents at 10 years old and who hadn't been to therapy because "this family is all the healing you'll need". When her Aunt Maureen had said this - her mother's eldest sister - it had sounded comforting at the time. Now Karen wondered if they had diffeent definitions of the word "healing". Because she had to be whoever her aunts and uncles wanted her to be when she visited - she didn't develop a personality of her own. She played so many characters and had so few friends that it didn't seem worth it anyway. The few friends she made were only for a time, because she didn't own a cellphone so she couldn't keep in touch when she went to visit another uncle or aunt. By the time she went back to these schools nobody remembered her either. So at 13, she decided to go the school library to research online/ home schooling options. She knew none of her aunts and uncles wanted the extra work, so she would have to look for an affordable online-only program (which meant they didn't have to do any of the work). That's what she wrote in the note to aunt Violet. It's hard as a 13 year old to tell "your adults" - that's what she called the crew of them that took care of her - that you want more stability in your life. When Violet shared the contents of the note - the aunts and uncles realized that they had all been too caught up with "wanting to help" that they had failed to do what was in Karen's best interest. They felt scolded and Karen felt bad for sticking up for herself. But, she was enrolled in online school almost immediately and instead of moving around to 6-9 homes, she would be splitting her time between 3 homes - Aunt Shelly, Uncle Bill and Aunt Violet (once she graduated and got an apartment off-campus). Needless to say, Karen enjoyed her time with Violet the most. It worked out that when Karen was leaning towards 16 was when "Violet finally got herself together" as Aunt Millicent put it. It took Violet a little longer than most to finish University and it took her a little while to find a "decent job" - these were Uncle Bill's words, he never missed an opportunity to remind her that "her turn was coming up". Karen lived with Violet for 3 years - from she was 15 and a half until she was almost 19 - just before she moved away for college. For the first time Karen felt like she could ask questions about boys, sex, life. The first party Karen ever went to (other than her cousins' birthday parties) was the school leaving "dance" - if you could call it that - that her online school hosted. The principal - Mrs. Darby - thought it was a good idea to do an in-person event since students only got to interact online. By this time Karen had a phone and was in a group chat with 5 of her classmates. Ronald - who of course had the nickname Ronald McDonald - had been her first friend at Virtual Heights Online School and he had asked her to the "dance". Aunt Violet was more excited about this than Karen was. In a way Karen had lost enthusiasm for everything after her parents passed away, but she felt one butterfly dancing in her belly as she waited for Ronald's brother to escort them to the "dance". The "dance" was really just half a gymnasium with chairs and tables (some with tablecloths, some without), a banner and a DJ. When you turned off the main lights there were some Christmas lights that lit up a makeshift dance floor. In the shadows, Karen had her first kiss. Karen and Ronald both moved away for school -NYU. She had received an Arts scholarship and Ronald had received a sports scholarship - his father had put him in football camp at 8, and that laid the foundation for an obsession with football. When Karen and Ronald completed their degrees they were faced with a hard task - telling their families that they were married. Yeah, it shocked me too. The truth is, they - by they I mean Ronald, but Karen had gone along for the ride - had gone to a rival school for a game. The football game was in LA and since it was the end of the pre-season, coach gave them the option to take two weeks off if they wanted to. Ronald and Karen decided they'd spend the two weeks in LA. They split their time between Las Vegas and their small AirBNB in Culver City. One night - after they realized the Vegas casinos gave you free drinks if you sat at the machines- they decided to get married. More than one L - word led to this decision. They both loved each other, but the liquor was definitely the catalyst. When they awoke the next morning - not sure whether to be happy or to freak out, they decided they'd keep it a secret until they graduated. Neither of them thought of annulment. Married at 20, in their sophomore year. It took a little getting used to, but they settled in their secret marriage. They pooled the scholarship money that WA supposed to pay for their on-campus housing and used it to rent an apartment off campus where they didn't have to be married In secret. You can imagine this didn't go over well with their families, especially Uncle Bill who had been sure he would walk Karen down the aisle. Ronald's parents were sure Karen was pregnant and it took more than one pregnancy test to convince them otherwise. Karen and Ronald decided they'd live in Georgia. That way they didn't feel like they were living in the shadow of their relatives, but were still close enough in case of an emergency. They had 15 good years. The last 5 were a bit rocky, but they'd been together for 20 years. Some would say you don't really know a person if it took a drunk night to get married to them, but it was more than that. After 20 years of marriage Karen and Ronald called it quits. It wasn't for a lack of trying...but now they were both tired of trying. It all felt like too much and as Ronald had said "I love you too much to keep you chained to this marriage". Karen finally understood what it meant when they said "I love you, but I'm not in love with you" in the movies she watched with Aunt Violet. So, Karen found herself celebrating her 40th birthday on the floor of her kitchen next to a bottle of wine and a half eaten chocolate cake. The phone rang. She thought it was Ronald again - he had called at least 3 times asking how ah was spending the day off - so she answered "Ronald, please I'm not a charity case. I want to be alone on my birthday". "Nobody wants to be alone on their birthday!" Aunt Violet said on the other end of the phone. "Oh Aunty it's you", Karen smiled. "But I really do want to be alone. This year has been a lot and I just want to reflect". "Rubbish!" her aunt shouted in the phone. "I'm on my way to you. Go shower and get ready". Click. Before she could protest her Aunt had hung up the phone. Also, did she mean she was driving from Florida to Georgia? Violet arrived 5 hours later and confirmed that she had driven the 6 hours and 29 minutes from Florida. "You really shouldn't have done that", Karen said as she adjusted her hair into a high ponytail. "Girl, I'm just a little older than you", Violet protested. She was going to be 61 this year, but still told the bakery to put "happy 50th" on every cake. Karen kept asking where they were going but Violet told her she wanted to catch up first. So they sat and talked. After almost 2 hours, Karen said "It's almost midnight now Aunty. Where are we going?". There was a faint honk of a car horn outside. "That's your ride dear", Violet said as she eased herself out of the arm chair. "I called Ronald on my way and asked him to arrange a night out with some of your lady friends". Karen groaned. "Why did you have to get Ronald involved?". "Well I don't exactly have your friends on Facebook" Violet retorted. "...and I wanted you to have a good time celebrating your 40th". Even though she didn't want to go, she rationalized that it was a kind gesture. All her life Karen did what she was supposed to do - out of obligation...and years later not much had changed. She went outside to see two cars: one filled with work colleagues and another with ladies she did yoga with. This would be weird. Karen got into the car with her yoga friends. She tried to tell herself they weren't going clubbing - but where else would 2 cars filled with almost middle-aged women be going at midnight? She started to breathe deeply - to calm her nerves. She had not been clubbing since freshman year in college and before that her first party had been the Virtual Heights Online School "dance". She wanted to live in the moment but she was freaking out. She hadn't been to enough parties or clubs to know what club etiquette or party etiquette looked like. Should she wait at the bar for a man to buy her a drink? She thought of her aunt, the wine and the chocolate cake at home and how much she wanted to ask Maribelle to turn around. She would lie and say she didn't feel well. But even as she was thinking this she knew she wouldn't do it. They arrived at the club. Karen shuffled through her purse to find her ID and felt a little dejected when the bouncer waved the group in without checking ID. The dance floor was covered in a light haze and all Karen could think about was the Virtual Heights Online School "dance". It must've been the nostalgia, but in this moment she missed Ronald terribly. A tear almost escaped, but she caught it with a quick sniffle - "Crying on the dance floor? What the heck is wrong with you" she whispered to herself. "May I have this dance?" A voice said over her shoulder. Before she turned to see him, she knew it was Ronald. "It's crazy. I know. But I just wanted to have one dance with you...and then I'll leave", he said. She had never been more relieved to see his face. She chuckled "you can't leave! You have to be my wing man tonight". They laughed and headed to the dance floor. She knew she would have to get used to living alone, and figuring out life without Violet and without Ronald...but after tonight.

2q6hf3

The Balance Between In and Decisive

“Damnit Ethan, just pick a coffee!” Sean said. I had been standing in the line of a Starbucks for longer than I’d like to admit. “I swear you do this just to spite me,” He says under his breath. “I Know Sean but what if I get one I don’t like and I waste your money?” “You’re already wasting my time so just pick a coffee before I pick one for you.” “Well see that’s another thing because what if the tea is actually good too and I just-” “He’ll take some water and I’ll take a coffee with one cream and five sugars.” Sean cut me off to tell the barista our orders. “Mkay that’ll be 5.65,” The barista told Sean. “Here you go,” Sean said, handing her the money. “Have a nice day!” “You too” Sean then picked a table for him and Ethan to sit at. We sat down at the table near the front of the store with a view of the street out of the window. “So, I brought you here to bring you some news,” Sean told me. My head instantly became worried about possible causes for the news. Is he moving, struggling with addiction, dying?? “What about?” I ask concerned “Well, you remember Signe right?” Signe is Sean's current girlfriend, I’ve met her before and she was actually pretty nice. She's almost as impulsive as Sean so they work well together. “Of course, is she alright?” “Yes yes she’s fine, but I recently asked her to marry me. She said yes.” I was shocked by Seans' words. They work well together, sure but they just met 3 months ago. “Are you sure about this? I can’t help but feel that you guys are moving really fast.” “Ethan I’m happy with her, I love her.” “I’m not doubting that, but you have been known to rush into things and then regret them.” “Are you saying I’m gonna regret marrying the love of my life? Because I don’t need that negative energy at my wedding!” “NO! All I’m saying is that you should give these big decisions more thought.” “I’m not gonna live my life like you Ethan. You're incapable of making a single decision! You’re so worried about having regrets in life that you don’t even live!” “Bye Sean.” Leaving that coffee shop was the easiest decision I’ve ever made in my life. I arrived home feeling awful. Maybe I overreacted, what if I just ruined my relationship with the one person in my life who actually tolerates me because I tried to spread my indecision. I turned on my TV and lied down on the couch. The truth is I envy Sean, his ability to live life without worrying about the consequences. We’ve been friends for years and I feel like I’ve done nothing but weigh him down. What am I going to do now? Sometimes when I feel overwhelmed like right now I write out my options. Seeing them in front of me helps me decide what to do next. My options currently are: Call Sean and apologize, get in a nice refreshing shower, or maybe get ready for my friend Mika’s birthday... OMG MIKA'S BIRTHDAY IS TODAY. I can’t believe I forgot she’s one of my best friends. How could I forget? Luckily I already got her a gift, it was really easy. She was constantly talking about needing a new keyboard so I got her a really nice one that changes color. The problem is the card. I have yet to get a card for Mika because I was going to make one myself. Nothing extravagant, just sentimental. Anyway, I don’t have much time considering the time for the party is 8:00 and it's currently 6:00. Mine as well get started. I sat down at my desk with a piece of paper, a pencil, and some paints. I sketched out visuals of inside jokes on the card that I knew she would love, and by the time I was done, it was 6:45. Perfect now I just have to get in the shower and pick some nice clothes and I’m set. I hopped in the warm shower and tried to find a song to play but couldn’t pick one, so I took a silent shower. Then it hit me, I promised Sean I’d take him tonight. He lives out of state and was visiting this week for the party. He flew to Maine to see us so he doesn’t have his car. I guess I have to call him now. So after the shower, I called Sean. “Hey Sean so um, did you still want me to take you tonight.” “Yeah” “Are you mad?” “Well, no. I was just really excited to tell you about me and Signe.” My heart broke with the disappointment in his voice. “I know Sean and I also called to apologize. It was unfair of me to question your judgment. I’ve seen you two together and I would love to be at the wedding, that is of course if the offer still stands.” I heard him chuckle over the phone. “Of course it does Ethan.” I felt so relieved. The thing is with Sean I can give as many warnings as possible but he’ll still make the mistake. So if this wedding is a mistake, I’ll gladly be part of it. “Ok, I’ll pick you up at like 7:50?” “Awesome, see you soon.” I hung up and turned to my closet. “Now what to wear?” I say to myself. Now I could wear a black shirt black jeans, but what if that’s too much black. A white shirt and black jeans could be good, although what if there’s messy food. I was digging myself in a hole, but then I saw a shirt hidden in my clothes. I pulled it out and it was a gift from Sean. Granted it was when he went on a huge shopping spree and blew all his money at the mall, but I cherish it nonetheless. So I slip it on and look at the time on my phone. 7:30. I decide to grab my things, head to my car, and pick up Sean. I got inside the car and turned on the radio, but I didn’t like any of the songs so I just turned it off. It was a ten-minute drive to pick up Sean and then 5 to get to Mika’s. We’ll have plenty of time. I arrive at Sean’s at 7:39. He gets in the car “Where’s the music?!” He says pulling out his phone and going on Spotify. ``Please not The Living Tombstones,” I say as he’s scrolling through his playlist. “What I can’t hear you over the sound of The Living Tombstones.” What’re five minutes of Sean’s music We got to Mika’s place 5 minutes late because of traffic. Which is technically 11 minutes early, but that was 5 more minutes I had to listen to The Living Tombstones. One more minute I would have lost it. When we arrived I grabbed the present I bought from the back seat and walked to their front door with Sean. “Hey, you guys! Not surprised Ethan’s the first to show with 11 minutes to spare.” Mika said, opening the door. “Yeah ok, Mika just be glad we came at all.” Sean joked as we walked in. The place was decorated with party decorations. “I have to get a couple of things together but if anyone else shows up can you just let them in?” “Of course, I’ll keep an eye out,” I said. “Thank you so much,” Mika said running upstairs. “Do you know who else is coming?” I asked Sean. “Uh yes, obviously Lily and Liam is tagging along with her, Xena, Mark, and Amy.” I was glad to hear I knew all these people. Lily was Mika’s girlfriend and Liam is Lily’s best friend. Xena has known Mika for years and just kinda became part of our group. Finally, Mark and Amy were this really sweet couple I met in Improv and introduced to everyone. “I’m thinking of telling everyone about me and Signe,” Sean told me. “I was hoping so! You know I can’t keep secrets.” “Yeah, so when everyone gets here I’ll make an announcement,” Sean said with excitement. “That’s awesome man, really.” The amazing thing about that sentence is that I actually meant it.  “Thank you, and it means the world that I have your support you’re one of my closest friends. I don’t even know where I’d be if it weren’t for you.” “Oh please,” I said, brushing him off. “I just hold you back.” “That’s not true Ethan. The awesome thing about our friendship is that I encourage you to have fun, and then you help me when I have a bit TOO much fun.”  I chuckled at him. It did make sense though, to live a good life you need balance, and I think me and Sean balance each other out. Even though sometimes we’d rather knock each other out A knock came from the door. I got up to see who it was. “I brought drinks!” “Hey Xena, welcome to the party.”

ev8is5

Write a story about someone sticking to a course of action even when it’s clearly wrong.

Wound Everybody laughed loudly when Sambhav fell down. He felt ashamed. “ what's wrong with you.” Mr. Shah asked. Sambhav got up rubbing his clothes and crying with back pain. He said that someone threw banana skin. He stepped over it unknowingly and fell down. It seems someone has cheated upon me. “Anybody who has seen someone throwing banana skin,” come and tell me in the staff room. The student will be the rewarded pizza.” Mr. Shaw went into the staff room. This is not the first time that Sambhav has been teased. In that class boys or girls were being teased and troubled in a very strange way. It used to happen that if a child sat on a bench but couldn't get up as there was chewing gum there. Another day a Child’s books were found wet. Nobody knew who poured water into the bag. “Hey, who is doing that? I suspect Simran. She is very naughty what do you say? “Hmmm…., can’t say. It can be Krishna....., he's quite a rogue.” “Let’s talk with Janesh!” “Hm…..” Janesh was reading a book while he heard Rajesh and Bakul’s voice. He turned his smiling face. “Hi!” “Janesh leave this book and let's find out about who is troubling our classmates regularly!” “Oh! please don't put me in this matter,” he answered reluctantly. Rajesh thought for a while and took Janesh’s book. “Why don’t you let me read my book. I do not understand! I’m not interested in all this!” “So… it means you are playing these pranks!” All three argued a lot but in vain. At last Rajesh and Bakul returned to their places. Who is doing this, was the constant query in their mind for which they were unable to find a solution. They decided to observe each and every child in their class. They were very much puzzled. Although some of the students were very naughty, others were quite good. Being confused, could not bring remedy. Rajesh suggested shortlisting the naughtiest children of their class. They made a list in which they selected those children. The task they were going to do was not easy. Their parents may scold them for this. But they wanted to catch that child red-handed. They made a secret plan which they had not disclosed to anyone except their teacher. On Friday there was a weekly test. Everybody was quite excited. The teacher made an announcement before the test began. “This time whoever scores the highest marks will receive a packet of Donuts.” Everybody clapped and accepted the challenge. On Tuesday Bakul’s name was announced as the winner in the test. Everybody congratulated Bakul. Later, he received donuts from the teacher. “I’m proud of you Bakul…!!!!” he patted him. Bakul was very happy but did not want to share his Donuts. So, he kept them in his bag’s secret pocket and ran out of the class to play with his friends. As soon as the recess got over, he heard a noise. He went into his class. “What kind of commotion here, guys? what has happened? But no one heard him. He went through the crowd and what he saw was unbelievable!!! Oh gosh!.... you are...?? He immediately ran to the teacher after knowing the whole incident. He revealed everything to the teacher. The teacher was awestruck. .Nevertheless, he went into the class. “Everybody takes your seat”…” veena came here” Veena vomited twice and her mouth was full of bubbles. She was spitting now and then. It seems she has eaten soap but unfortunately she stole Donuts. The teacher took her to the staff room. Veena was quiet. She gargled her mouth, sat on a chair in the staff room, and began to stare on the floor. she was projecting as if she does not know anything “Why have you done so?” “........” Veena did not utter a word. Let’s go. I will drop you at your home and there I’ll meet your mother too. “No, I don’t want to go.” The teacher got surprised and told her- “Then come with me to the Principal’s office and admit your mistake. She yelled, “I haven’t done anything!” “Don’t you tease and trouble everybody ?” I know you......do!!!! Veena asserted that she hasn’t done anything. But somewhere she felt insecure and felt guilty. She thought what if the teacher will go and meet my mother. “No.. no… no way!!!!!” she told the teacher. “I have done all this because my classmates used to tease me saying that I do not bring my lunch. They say that my mother does not like me. But this is not true. My mother does not stay with me. I cook on my own as my father leaves early for his work. There lives a child, who is an orphan, near my locality. While coming to school I used to give my food to him that is why I don't eat food during my recess. She has started sobbing. “I haven’t done anything. I had got frustrated by the comments my classmates did. I could not stop myself. I knew I was doing wrong but I wanted to take revenge. Their words pierced my heart.So,I decided to do it forever and wanted to teach them a lesson.”………. She added further that she is passing through hard times. When she was two years old, her parents got separated. she had been living with her father. He used to be busy with his work and did not give her much time. She became alone. As the days passed she wanted to meet her mother. She did not meet her frequently. She used to meet her once in a year. She literally missed her mother while living with his father. She became independent as he had to do a lot of work on her own. Her father had taught her to cook, to look after the house, and to study. What she needed that her mother. She compromised with the situation and wrote a letter to her mother asking that she wanted to live with her. Her mother replied that she would join her after some time and by that time she had to be a kind and generous girl. There were tears in the teacher's eyes.

rcxyw9

Does the Heart Want What it Wants?

I've always heard the quote, "The Heart Wants What it Wants", from so many people growing up. But, I honestly never have and never will believe in something so far fetched, or maybe I'm just in denial because I'm scared of the outcome if I truly did listen to my heart. It's not easy being in a small minded town with the population literally being less than 300 people, and being well... different? Fine, I'll just come out and say it, if my family or this town ever truly found out that I, Lindsay Freely, am 100% a lesbian, I would be disowned and looked down upon. Not to mention, that my father is the preacher of the only church in town! So yes I do know what my heart wants, but it wants what I know I can never try to have. Or, so I thought. Let me explain from the beginning! As a mentioned my name is Lindsay, I'm 17 years old and I am labeled as "The Preachers Daughter." My father is extremely strict and makes sure that I follow every single rule he has for me. For example, he chooses everything for me, what I wear, who I hangout with, and of course he always has my days planned out for me. It's hard but I make due. I feel like things could have been different, but after we lost my Mother in a car accident a few years back, he turned into this overbearing helicopter dad. I try my best to make my father happy in anyway possible, it's not like I don't understand why he's so overprotective. I started out my Wednesday morning as I always do, wake up at 6 AM, get dressed for the day, I usually wear a nice pair of jeans, with a nice button up top that's almost always white, or pink because my father thinks it shows pureness. I then braid my long straight brown hair into a side braid, and put on a little bit of mascara and a clear lip-gloss, nothing else though, my dad would think I'm trying to be a sinner... After I get dressed I go down stairs to prepare breakfast for my dad and I. On this particular day I decided to make homemade chocolate chip pancakes, with lots of butter and syrup. I also make some freshly squeezed OJ and start to brew my coffee up in a French press. One thing I do have say so on is cooking, it's probably one of my biggest passions, and I have dreams of becoming one of the best pastry chefs in the World! "Good morning dear, this food looks so amazing!" says my father as he is walking down the stairs, I meet him at the end of the staircase to give him a kiss on the cheek and hand him his newspaper. "Good morning Daddy! It's a beautiful day today! Maybe I can do some outside activities with the kids at youth group tonight?" I know that if I ask this it will please my dad, when in reality I'd rather be out with real friends enjoying myself. "That sounds like a perfect idea Lindsay! You make me so proud!" I smile and bow my head to pray for the breakfast we were to eat. After an awkward breakfast I send my dad on his way to get the church in order for youth group and I clean up and head to school. When I arrived to school, I do my normal routine, say hi to my "friends." and get ready for my first class of the day. But, this day was about to change my whole entire life... "Good morning class, we have a new student with us Today! Everyone say hello to Selena Lynne." When Selena walked into that classroom my heart swelled, she was stunning from her long curly jet black hair, to her spiked combat boots. Her makeup was stunning, her eyebrows were perfectly arched, her lips red as cherries... so kissable..., and her winged eyeliner could cut diamonds! And every little detail of her made me just melt. Is this what it means when people say love at first sight? I wish... but I could never ever openly be with her so I'll just look, never touch. "You may sit by Lindsay." I jolt up when I hear this shit shit shit why does this have to happen! Selena makes her way to me and I swear it's like slow motion as she is walking, so gracefully... I watch as her hips sway with her hourglass body, it almost makes my mouth water. I want her so bad, and I've never wanted someone that bad in my life. As she finally sits down by me, all I smell is her intoxicating perfume, it smells so sweet and musky at the same time. "Hi Lindsay, I look forward to getting to know you better! Maybe you can show me around?" I look up wide-eyed her voice is even beautiful, what the hell! "S-sure no problem!" nice going Lindsay you can't even speak... She looks at me and winks and says "No need to be nervous Linds, I don't bite... to hard." she sticks her tongue out at me revealing a tongue ring right on the tip. Thanks World, make her even more attractive. I blushed and nodded and started studying for class. The class felt like it would never end, and I just could not focus! You know that scene in Twilight when Bella sits by Edward and the minute the bell rings he bolts because just her presence is enough for him to ravish her? Yeah that's exactly how I felt and that's what I wanted to do... but this is real life, and I'm not a vampire, so I'm screwed. When the bell rang, I was so relieved because I could get away from her, but of course, she followed me to my locker. "So Lindsay, I think I have science with Parker next... will you show me where that is?" SERIOUSLY!!! That was my next class ugh! "Yeah, that's my next class too so you can just follow me..." I said quietly as I looked down at the floor of the Highschool. Selena then did the unexpected, she took her hands and cupped my face and pushed it towards hers and I just wanted to drag her to the bathroom and slam her on the stall and smear her red lipstick, "Don't be so shy with me I'm not going to hurt you Lindsay, it's almost like you don't want me near you." I looked the other way and took a step back from her. "I know you won't that's why I can't be near you." I exclaimed as a ran off to the bathroom. I swung the doors of the bathroom open and checked to see if I was alone, when I realized I was, I took a deep breath and sank down the the floor. Why was she so touchy feely? Why was she torturing me like this? I shook it off, Selena is just a nice person, she doesn't want me like that. She's so beautiful she probably knows I'm not her type. I can't be her type. I can't. The rest of the day seemed like a blur, I couldn't focus at all. I just played the scene of her cupping my face over and over again. And it made it even harder when I realized she literally had ever class with me. Every single time I glanced over she was looking at me too. She probably hated me after I snapped at her. Good, I'd rather she hate me. When school was finally over, I started my venture home. The school wasn't far from my house, so I walked to school. I was thankful for walking this day in particular because I could clear my head and hype myself up for youth group. "HEY! Lindsay wait up!" Selena yelled. I turned around to see her jogging towards me, and I felt instant dread. I really couldn't shake this girl could I? I stopped and let her catch up, I could have turned around and booked it home, but I didn't want to look stupid. When she did catch up she started walking beside me, almost shoulder to shoulder in fact. "Lindsay, I barely know you and you barely know me and I want to know why you have decided to just avoid me like the damn plague!" When she asked me like that I was shocked, she really does catch on doesn't she? Well, I always have the perfect excuse for this situation. "I just don't think my Father would approve me hanging out with you, I'm sure you're really nice but my dad is pretty stereotypical when it comes to new people..." Selena looked at me and just began laughing "Well, what he doesn't know doesn't hurt him right?" Shit, she really is impossible to shake. And then, I blurted out something I would regret for the rest of my life. "Tell yah what, my dad is the preacher at our local church, why don't you come volunteer and help me with the children's youth group tonight, be there at 6." Selena smiled at me and gave me a huge hug, her breasts squeezed against mine, and she told me she was so excited and then ran on home. I was royally screwed. As my father and I pulled up to church, the more nervous I was becoming. And of course, there was Selena waiting outside the doors for me. I looked at my father and he was looking at her with an eyebrow raised. "That makeup is not very appropriate for Church..." he said in a disgusted way "Who is that Lindsay?" I put my head down, great not only did he not like her already he was also questioning me. I had to pull a lie out of my ass and quick! "She's the new student at school, I offered for her to come volunteer with me at the youth group activities, she seemed eager and I love to recruit new people to know God's love." Good save Lindsay good save. This sold my dad as he smiled and patted me on the back, "Look at my amazing girl working for the Lord!" He then got out of the car and I followed behind. He greeted Selena with a huge hug and welcomed her with open arms. She played along as well and they seemed to hit it off. That's good at least. "Okay, you girls have fun! Show her around Lindsay while I set up for the sermon." And off went my dad to do his duties. "Well, come on I'll show you my room for the kids and we'll get started on their snacks for after the service." I said and walked away briskly. I just couldn't bring myself to even look at her, she was just so perfect. As we arrived to the youth room, Selena gasped in awe of the place. "Did you decorate all of this yourself, it's so welcoming!" I nodded and blushed, I did take pride in my youth room. I had it decorated with all the new age things kids liked and incorporated the Gospel into it of course. "Thank you, I really do work hard to keep the kids attentive." I said as I started walking to the kitchenette in the room. "So what kind of snack are we doing?" And I giggled, I opened the fridge to take out the dirty and worms I made. I made everything in it from scratch. The chocolate cookie crumbles, the pudding, and even the whipped cream. "Holy shit Lindsay! Oops sorry I didn't mean to cuss, but did you make this all from scratch it looks stunning!" I blushed again. "Yes cooking is my passion, especially pastry cooking." I said quietly. Selena grabbed my hand and then pulled me towards her, we were so close that our noses almost touched. I was terrified. "Stop being so shy Lindsay, I'm not going to do anything to you that you don't want me to do. I was so enchanted by her that I just wanted to pick her up by her hips and prop her up on the counter so I could just kiss every inch of her face and neck, instead I just stood there looking so deeply into her sapphire colored eyes. "I can't do what I want to do Selena, don't you know that?" I said as our lips were almost touching. "Just do it Lindsay, I know you want to-" she didn't even get to finish her sentence I immediately began to kiss her. She started kissing me back, out tongues began to touch and tumble with each other, and I let out a soft moan into her lips. It felt so right, so hot. We made out what seems like hours and I suddenly pulled away from her. "Selena, I can't do this you need to leave." I wanted so much more I wanted to rip every last piece of clothing off of her, but I just couldn't do it. She looked at me shocked and sad at the same time. "I had a feeling you would say that... You're going to live a miserable life if you don't be who you truly are you know. I will leave, but mark my words Lindsay, if you ever decide to be yourself, you know where to find me." Selena then kissed me sweetly one more time with tears in her eyes. "Goodbye." she simply stated and walked away. That was actually the last time I ever saw Selena. Turns out her dad was in the military and traveled quiet a bit, and when she found out he was leaving, instead of staying behind with her mother, she felt no ties in my town, and went away with him. Selena was my biggest regret in life, but she was my biggest blessing all in one. I'm older now, 25 in fact, married to the love the of my life, Jessica, with our adopted son, Benji. I came out when I was 19 and to my surprise my father was extremely supportive. Selena taught me that if I truly wanted what my heart wanted, I had to be honest with the people my heart loved. I still think of Selena from time to time, and maybe one day I will be able to thank her. I may have not gotten what I needed because of my fear and stubbornness, and Selena may have not gotten to be with me, or show me way earlier that I could 100% be with who I wanted, but, my heart showed me I wasn't ready yet and that it just simply takes time.

2d8gec

Gianna vs. Genesis

“Mom?” Gianna peered into her mother’s study where she saw her working on what was probably her latest sermon. Her mother is a pastor at the First Methodist Church normally prepares sermons relating whatever is going on in the world with the Bible. No, really. She likened Jesus multiplying bread and fish to Gianna cookies with her younger sister and Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’s feet to her husband washing the car! “Just a second Baby, mamma is working,” she cooed, holding up a well-manicured index finger. ”Baby?” Gianna thought. She was nearly sixteen and her mother insisted on referring to herself as “mamma“ and calling her five children “babies” when Tishi is the only sibling under 13! “Mamma, can I go to Malanda’s sweet sixteen birthday party? You already know her parents and all that so you know I’m in good hands. It’ll just be me and some people from school, it’s all,” Gianna burst. She bit her lip in anticipation of her mother’s response. She tasted her raspberry chapstick. “Who’s ’friends from school?’ That boy Treyshawn? The one who isn’t going to talk to my baby girl?” Gianna’s mother turned around in her chair, her comically long eyelashes batting. “I am not letting my daughter go out with boys,” “Why can’t I go? I won’t talk to nobody and I wanna be there for Mal, she’s counting on me being there!” Gianna protested, waving her hands and feeling the weight of being the girl with the strict, religious mother. “No. No way I’m letting you go when there’s boys around that I don’t like. That’s that.” “Why? Why even if I put it on GOD that I won’t talk to nobody?” Gianna nervously twirled a corkscrew out of her luscious hair. She wanted to rip all of it out and smash her mother’s Bible in half. “Because I said so. I’m the mother of this damn house and this isn’t going to be the time when I let you go and mess up on my watch!” “Thanks. You’re such a goddamn good WARDEN!” Gianna shouted. She slammed the door and ran out of the house. She took out her cell and called Malanda. “Guess who's About to be grounded.“ Gianna sighed. “You?” Malanda squeaked. “She thinks Trey is gonna be there and he’s gonna tie me up and get me pregnant and make me join one of those other Christian denominations, or worse, a Catholic Church,” Gianna giggled, thinking of her mother refusing to drive past the St. Mary’s on Fifth Street in case somebody tries to tell her about the Pope and his wondrous ways. “But Treyshawn is a good guy, and doesn’t she know it’s all kids frI’m the class, most that she’s met?” Malanda’s disappointment was in her voice. Gianna could see her friend’s big brown eyes go watery, knowing her friend won’t be at her birthday because of her rebellious cousin, Treyshawn. “Whatever that woman says, goes. Maybe if I told her we were studying for medical school, she would’ve let me come over but then she would make me do penance for lying and I don’t feel like reciting the Lord’s Prayer ten times a day for a week,” Gianna pulled her eyes, recalling a very real and insufferable punishment. “I will save you a seat at the table and a slice of cake if she ever changes her mind. My mom can talk to her mom, right?” Malanda suggested. “Your mom is non practicing. My mom doesn’t like people without a religion, she thinks they're ’lost‘ and ‘lazy’,” Gianna heard Malanda sigh. “Oh,” Malanda said with a heavy heart. “I have to go...We can talk later, ok?” Gianna took a deep breath. “Of course, Mal,” The girls said goodbye and Gianna took a good look at the red and white house that stood before her. Her mother worked hard for her and Gianna knew she loved her but she wished that she could trust her daughter and let have fun. Gianna kept her faith and always got A’s and B’s in school, has never touched an illegal substance and goes to TWO services on Sunday. She was a good kid and she wants to fight for one night to spend with her friends. Gianna marched back in the house and was king to start a conversation when her mom came out in the porch. “Baby,” her mother started. “You know I worry. I was into smoking and drinking when I was your age. You know how I found myself and worked for the life I wanted. I was the one running round with boys on Friday nights when I should’ve been studying for the SAT. Then I met a preacher who helped me create my business, connect with God...I even met your father and had 5 beautiful children who make me proud everyday of my life. But understand, Gianna Joelle, you’re a good girl, a smart, beautiful and strong young woman with brain and strength I didn’t have and probably will never have at your age. I just want your life to be less difficult than mine was,” Gianna’s mother walked down the steps and brushed her daughter’s smooth, hazel cheek and nodded to her. “Mamma, I know. I try my best for you and for me to say I’m thankful and I’m a good kid. I want to make you proud. But you should know that I love you and that I will be my own person. I can take care well on my own and ain’t about to throw away a pod thing. I just NEED you to trust me so I can go to a party for my best friend. Can you give me that chance to show you?” Gianna braced for impact. She was never this blunt and candid with her mother and didn’t know what to expect. “Be home by 11 and make sure you call me when you about to leave. And no tank tops. Or short shorts. Wear comfortable shoes. Don’t let ANY boy-“ “So, that’s a yes?” Gianna interrupted, clenching her fists and grinning. “Yes, Baby” her mother smiled. “Oh thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Gianna jumped into a hug with her mother and laughed. Then it hit her. “Why do I need to wear comfortable shoes?” Gianna queried. “Because I said so. And you ALWAYS save your good shoes for Sunday’s,” THE END

206q92

Secrets under the Ghoongat

She walked down the busy street, nervously adjusting her pleats, her gait awkward. The streets were filled with jostling devotees, all dressed in colorful attire – churidhars 1 , sarees with veils and long skirts, their bangles jangling and shining against the hundreds of lamps that seemed to be everywhere. She could hear the lewd comments being passed around, but they were drowned by the excitement in the voices of the other devotees. She felt the long skirt of her saree entangle between her legs, and paused for a moment to readjust it. She supposed anxiety was making her clumsy, but despite all this, she was as comfortable in the saree as she would have been in any of her daily attire… The first time Vikram tried on a saree had been three years ago when he was sixteen. He remembered feeling slightly embarrassed as he pilfered his mother’s saree and blouse, sneaked them into his room, locked the door and managed to drape it around himself. God bless YouTube. He remembered the thrill and excitement that had filled him during the time. The soft fabric against his skin had made him sigh and forget all his internal battles about being a male who loved dressing like women, but was straight all the same. At that time, he had restrained from touching any of the bras in the drawers. There were some lines that he would never cross. Today, as he held the brand new bra straps from the tip of his fingers, he experienced the same thrill and excitement he had felt when he had tried on the saree, this time heightened because it was an undergarment. “One would think you were looking at a bra for the first time,” Savitha commented from across the room, laughing at him. He said nothing as he looked at it with an expression akin to reverence. Savitha reached to his side and pulled the bra from his hands. “Hey!” Efficiently, she started strapping it around his flat chest. “If I let you, you will spend the rest of the night fantasizing over the bra.” She hooked it and pulled the straps over his outstretched hands to his shoulders. Vikram had met Savitha on the train to Kollam. Like him, she was travelling to attend the Chamayavilakku festival in the Kottankulangara Sree Devi Temple. The TT had been harassing him about the ticket printouts he had taken but failed to bring, when Savitha came to his rescue, her daunting enough for the TT to hastily accept Vikram’s e-ticket and forget about any bribe. Despite Vikram’s initial reservations about her, she turned out to be easy going and open, and he enjoyed the 14 hour journey from Bangalore. “You need to be filled up,” she said now, and reached for a pair of socks that were sticking out of his bag. Balling them up, she stuffed each sock into the bra cups, creating an illusion of breasts. “There,” she said. “Perfect.” She turned him towards the mirror. Though Vikram felt foolish standing there in jeans and a bra, he couldn’t help but run his hands over the hint of fake cleavage that could now be seen. “Okay, Vani ,” she referred to the temporary name for him that they had decided upon on the journey, “If you are done with admiring your breasts, maybe now you can get dressed. Or we will be at the temple only to entertain the late night revelers.” Vikram nodded and hurriedly draped the maroon-colored printed saree and blouse that he had picked up from his mother’s cupboard. He hoped she wouldn’t find them missing. He had been swiping stuff from her room for years, and though he had always been careful, there were times where she commented about the occasional misplaced eyeliner or earring. Savitha had agreed to help him dress up today, and her makeup kits on the bed reminded him of the time when he had gone into his mother’s room searching for a missing T-shirt. He had been rummaging through the cupboard, when he caught sight of a small glossy box on the dressing table. Recognizing the packaging for what it was, he forced himself to look away and continue his futile search for a T-shirt that probably was not there anyway. He paused and let his attention drift to the package he was determined to ignore. Who was he fooling, anyway? Giving up the pretense, he strode towards the dresser and picked up the rectangular box. With trembling fingers, he pulled out the product and unscrewed the cap. Looking up at the mirror and hand poised, he wished his reflection would stop looking ashamed and disgusted at him. His mother walked into the room just as he was about to apply her new lipstick. She was startled. He was startled. "What are you doing with my lipstick? It's new...I haven't used it so far. Couldn't you have waited?" He smiled and handed it back to her. "I forgot to tell you...I am playing Draupadi in our college production... rehearsals start this evening." He had then moved out of the room without looking back, forcing his beating heart to stay still. His mother had spoken as if she knew he had been using her cosmetics for a long time. He did not want to think what that meant. And he wasn’t planning to ask. “You look beautiful!” Savitha’s exclamation had Vikram pulling out of his reverie, and he tried to shake off embarrassing memories. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” he smiled at her. She was exquisitely dressed in a turquoise saree that draped her slim frame, its pallu 2 forming a veil over her head. Her makeup was tastefully applied and blue bangles dangled from her wrists. Though Savitha was a trans, Vikram thought she looked more female than any of the women he had seen. “Thank you,” she said. “You have not yet done your makeup yet!” Quickly, she thrust a lipstick and a compact in his hands. Vikram looked at the items in his hand and had to swallow the lump in his throat. For the first time, he did not have to sneak and apply makeup in fear of being walked upon. He gently used the lipstick, compact and other eye cosmetics that were scattered on the bed and applied makeup as quickly as possible. His movements were practiced and efficient, brought on by years of hiding and working, relaxed now because of his new-found freedom. Savitha moved to his side once he was done and they both smiled at their reflections. They could be sisters for all the world could see. Vikram felt more normal than he had ever felt since he hit puberty. He transformed. He became a she, and she wasn’t at all ashamed of herself. Being surrounded by the others relaxed her somewhat. Calming herself, she tried to look confident. For this one day, she was what she was wanted to be, and doing this once a year would give her all the gratification she required. She wandered across to a jewellery stall, trying to act interested and doing her best to ignore the looks she received, ranging from curious, to disgust, to downright suggestive. Savitha had assured her that the nervousness would pass once she learned to accept her distinctiveness. She couldn’t wait for that epiphany to happen. Vani couldn’t wait to get outside and wait to show herself to the world. Overjoyed with the simple scent of jasmine flowers cascading down her shoulders, she reached for the door, calling Savitha who was across the room to hurry up. And came face-to-face with her father. Instantly, she stiffened, her hair falling on her face. Reality came crashing, and just like that, she lost her identity. * Vikram couldn’t speak and his mind was numb from shock. His father forced inside, followed by his mother. “Getting in touch with your feminine side?” his father asked sarcastically. He glanced at distaste around the room, where makeup kits and jewellery were scattered around, along with different variety of female garments that Savitha had tried on and discarded. He levelled a scathing look at Savitha, and turned away, as if the very sight of her disgusted him. “You should learn to clean up after you,” he said nastily as he shoved a folder into Vikram’s hands. Vikram recognized it as the neatly organized set of hotel reservation bookings and railway ticket printouts that he had stupidly forgotten at home. Frozen, Vikram did not know what to say. He had last seen his father this angry the day before he had left for Kollam. As much as he would have loved leaving the house without a care in the world, he was still living under his parents’ roof and in college, so he needed to tell his father. It had been just like any day, and his father arrived home late from work. Sometimes, he would have been drinking, and Vikram fervently hoped this was not today. Not that he would hit Vikram or abuse him physically. But verbal abuse was a completely different matter. The fact that Vikram had a sensitive streak did not help. Vulnerability of any form was intolerable by his father’s standards. Vikram always had the underlying feeling that something disturbed him deeply. He had asked his mother once during the times it had mattered, but she had been vague and he was left feeling like he was missing something he was better off not knowing. As Vikram sat on the sofa, his nerves on the edge, he tried to convince himself that this was nothing to be nervous about. He does not know , he told himself, he does not know you are going to Chamayavilakku festival to dress up as a woman. You are going to architecture camp, that’s it. Knowing that his father had no way of guessing the truth did not help, and he almost gave up on the idea when the front door opened. “What are you doing up this late?” his father asked, placing his briefcase on the side table. He sat opposite to Vikram, tugging at his shoelaces. A distinct whiff of rum floated to his nose, and his heart sank. Of all days. When he didn’t reply, his father glanced up. “Hmm?” he prodded impatiently. Vikram cleared his throat. “Actually um..,” he started as his father removed his shoes and walked up to the mini bar and picked up a glass. Vikram’s heart sank even lower. “I..yeah.. umm..how was your day?” he blurted out. “Good, good. Why aren’t you asleep yet? Have any exams?” “No, dad, that uh..,” His father gripped the glass tightly and looked up at the ceiling. “I asked you something,” he said tightly. “I expect you to answer it!” Viram’s throat went dry. Oh, shit. This was a bad time. He’d ask tomorrow. Mutely, Vikram turned towards his room when he remembered the tickets and hotel reservations folder that had the bookings for he had confidently made for the next day with what spare pocket money he had. He couldn’t possibly ask his dad for ticket money when this was supposed to be a college sponsored trip. He turned to face his father and said in one breath, “I am going for an architecture camp this weekend. It is being organized by the college. “  He slowly let out his breath and chanced a look at his father. His expression was just curious, not angry and he didn’t say anything for a while. “Architecture camp?” he asked finally, looking down at the contents of his glass. His tone was normal, not unreasonable as Vikram had expected. His heart lifted. He was simply making a big deal out of it. It was his guilt that was adding up unwanted burdens. No parent would say no to an architecture – He jumped as a glass flew towards him and crashed into the opposite wall. He raised shocked eyes to his father. He was looking at Vikram with the same blank expression, but his eyes were wild. It was that day of the week when his father decided to be drunk and unreasonable. “Architecture camp,” he spat. “Instead of going to Sports camp, you want to go to architecture camp? What are you?” his voice raised to a higher decibel. “I-I like architecture,” Vikram replied in a strangled voice, wishing desperately that he had thought of Sports camp instead. Fear gripped him as his dad took hold of his arm and started shaking him. “Why can’t you go out and play like other boys of your age do?” he shouted. “I’m 19! And I’m sorry but I just don’t happen to like sports –“ His mother had come out running. Vikram felt warm hands grasp him as he heard her yelling, “Let him go!” Looking at Vikram’s terrified expression, his father let him go, muttering in disgust. “Scared of his own father!” “Are you drunk again?” his mother asked. His father whirled on her. “So what?” “You will not lay a hand on him again,” she said quietly, refusing to be intimidated by his anger. For a moment, he looked as if he might hit her. Vikram felt the hands holding him tense. It relaxed a moment later as his father stalked off to the bedroom without saying anything. He was surely going to hit him today, though, Vikram thought as he managed to clear the offensive items from the hotel room bed. His father’s demeanor suggested so. Warring emotions tugged at him, but he choked back habitual apologies and defiantly lifted up his chin. His father looked revolted at the sight of his shining eyes lined with kohl, and Vikram was suddenly reminded of his reflection in his mother’s dressing room mirror so long ago. Suddenly, he was tired. Tired of all the lies, lurking in the shadows and carrying a burden of guilt that he now knew he wasn’t required to carry. “This is what I am,” Vikram said to his parents quietly. “I know this isn’t what you expected, but-” His father grabbed his hand painfully and said, “You come with us right now, young man ,” he stressed, “so that we can do something about fixing you.” “I am not a defective lamp that needs fixing!” Vikram yelled in frustration and shook off his father’s hand, years of suppressed emotions giving him strength. His father looked surprised as he lurched back. “I think that’s enough.” His mother, who seemed to have gotten over the initial shock of finding her son in complete feminine garb, now moved to his side and faced his father. His father’s expression turned furious. “It is your molly coddling that has led to this,” he said viciously. “The boy has grown up to be a sissy instead of a man.”  “He is more of a man than you, “she said coldly. “Drinking and cussing does not make a man.” “I do not drink to prove my masculinity!” “A real man knows to accept himself,” she continued as if his father had not spoken, looking at him evenly. “He does not drink to forget himself and torment his family instead.” His father looked as if someone delivered a blow to his stomach. She turned to Vikram. “I know you think you are not normal,” she said gently. “But you’re just different. You have a feminine side that needs to be expressed. Just like your father,” she looked up at his father, who was now looking very pale. Vikram gazed in shock at his father. He staggered back against the wall and bitter emotions engulfed him, along with a strong feeling of betrayal that had him withdrawing as a thousand silent words flew around him. Everything was a blur, and he witnessed his father drop to the bed like a broken man. He dropped his head to his hands, and as Vikram watched with a sense of unrealism, tears started falling from his father’s eyes. His mother sat next to him, and his father finally spoke. “Since when?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “Since fifteen years,” his mother replied, her eyes shining too. “I did not speak of this because I was trying to keep this family together, and I was afraid how you’d react. But after today,” she said as she looked at her saree-clad son, “I don’t think it should be hidden anymore.” Vani jumped as she felt a hand slide across her back and twisted around. A man, probably in his fifties, was grinning at her lecherously. As she tried to move away from his touch, he moved with her.  “I know what you are,” he whispered, leaning into her. With a leering smile, he grabbed her waist. Outraged, she narrowed her eyes at her “eve teaser” and was about to give him a sound kick when he suddenly let go of her. The man looked startled as he was shoved aside by another devotee. The devotee was dressed in a bright red saree and an expression of rage. Vani’s mother stood at the left, looking equally angry. Savitha stood on the other side, her eyes glittering dangerously in the light cast by the lamp she was carrying. Veena’s assailant took one look at the intimidating trio and scarpered. Vani smiled at her savior. “Thanks, dad.” Her father smiled back, and put his arm around her shoulders. “So, what was it you were looking at?” “Oh nothing, just….” Vani trailed off as her heart sang. For the first time in her life, she was happy. And Vikram was in peace with himself. GLOSSARY 1 churidar – a set of trousers and long tunics worn by women 2 pallu – long trailing part of the saree that can be draped over the shoulders

bk722v

Payback

Ashley went to her room, sat down on the bed, and rested her cheek on her knees as she hugged them to her. A single tear hit the denim of her jeans. Suddenly she turned angry. Is this what you want for me, God? To lose everything? She pounded her fists on the bed and grimaced. Well, I’m not going down without a fight! She swiped at her tears raising red marks on her cheeks. She got up to take a shower. Better to do it now before Chelsea comes in. She grabbed her towel and her pajamas and went in the bathroom. She undressed and turned the water on as hot as she could stand it. She let the water run over her head for several minutes, then cut the hot water back until it felt cool. After, she rubbed her skin briskly with the towel and put on her pajamas. She towel-dried her hair as best she could. She sat on the edge of the bed and glanced at the clock on the nightstand – 9:15. Room lockdown in fifteen minutes. She steeled herself for a confrontation with Chelsea. Harry Potter looked up at her from the nightstand smiling from his broomstick. If only Hagrid would come and take her away to a place of magic where she could make a new family. She picked up the family photo propped up against the lamp. It was old and everyone was much younger then. They all looked so happy. A lump rose in her throat, but she refused to surrender to it. She opened the drawer to put it away out of sight but there was something already in the drawer. Scraps of paper. Tiny shreds with names and phone numbers. Old school photos of young children. Notebook paper folded into triangles with Chelsea’s name written across them is swirly script. Her eyes flew wide as she realized what she was looking at. This was Chelsea’s life. Every memory reduced to shreds of paper. She wondered what had happened to Chelsea that caused her to come into care. She hadn’t considered it before. All these girls in the group home had lived through their own nightmare. For some reason they, too, had been ripped away from their families. She felt nauseated. Suddenly, the door flew open and Chelsea strode in. She saw Ashley sitting on the bed, the open drawer beside her. In two steps she was in front of Ashley’s face grabbing the front of her pajamas in both fists. “I told you before to keep your hands off my stuff!” she snarled. Ashley expected to immediately get another beating, but instead Chelsea pushed her backwards on the bed and slammed the drawer shut. Ashley saw she was seething, but she also saw tears in her eyes. Chelsea said nothing more and went into the bathroom slamming the door behind her. Ashley could hear her crying. What just happened? Clearly Chelsea was in pain and Ashley’s heart broke for her. After a few minutes she could hear Chelsea periodically gasping little breaths. Deciding maybe she could talk to her, she knocked gently on the bathroom door. “Chelsea?” she said quietly. Abruptly the door flew open making Ashley jump. “What do you want?” Chelsea snarled. “I – I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I didn’t know your stuff was in the drawer.” Still not threatened with bodily harm, she got a little braver. “Would you like to talk about it?” Chelsea laughed loudly. “You think I want to talk about it with you ?” she sneered. “You think we’re gonna be friends and sing Kumbaya? Ain’t. Gonna, Happen!” “Why do you hate me so?” Chelsea leaned close to her face. “Because you keep getting in my business and I just want to be left alone!”  Still no violence. “Well, I just want you to know that I’m here for you – if you need a friend, that is.” “Shit.” She shut the bathroom door again and locked it. Ashley heard the shower come on. * * * About a week later, Ms. Vivian called Ashley into the office. “Something came for you today,” she sing-songed. “Who would be sending me something?” “Well, why don’t you open it and find out,” she said beaming and pulled a shoebox out from under the desk. She recognized the box and opened it. Inside were a pair of Sketchers exactly like the ones she had gotten for Christmas that were too small. Ashley smiled, laced them up, and tried them on. She walked back and forth in the office. “How do they fit?” Ms. Vivian asked. “They’re perfect!” “Here let me take the box for you. You don’t need that anymore.” Ashley started to hand her the box but hesitated. “Wait.” She turned it over in her hand. “I’ve got an idea. Can I keep it?” “Well, sure you can. What do you have in mind?” “I want to make a present for someone. Do you have any wrapping paper?” “Yes – yes, I believe we do.” She left and came back a few moments later with several rolls of gift wrap. “Here, which one would you like to use?” She chose a neutral flowered pattern. “This will work. Can I borrow some scissors and tape? And a marker?” As Ms. Vivian got her the supplies, Chelsea passed the office on her way to the room. She didn’t even glance at Ashley. Ashley took everything out onto the porch. She covered the top and bottom of the box then used the black marker to write “Chelsea” across the lid in large letters. She took her finished work to show Ms. Vivian. “Oh, that’s lovely! What’s in it?” “Nothing yet. That will be up to Chelsea.” Ms. Vivian smiled broadly. “How sweet! I’m sure she’ll love it!” Ashley took the box back to her room. Chelsea was sitting on her bed supposedly doing homework, but Ashley could hear her music blaring through her earbuds. She walked over to her with the box. Chelsea looked up at her. “What’s this?” “I made it for you.” Chelsea lifted the lid. “Ha! It’s empty!” “It’s to keep your stuff in.” Chelsea’s eyebrows drew together, then her eyes softened but only for a second. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of!” She hurled the box across the room, bouncing it off the door. Ashley’s heart fell into her stomach. She walked over, picked up the box, and placed it on top of her dresser. She looked over at Chelsea who sat with her head leaning back against the wall with her eyes closed. She just wasn’t going to let her in. Ashley picked up Harry and took him out on the porch to get lost at Hogwarts. * * * * * “Gah, I’m starving!” Miranda said as she and Ashley came through the door together after school. At the counter, Miranda turned her nose up at the bag of Sun chips left in her snack box. She looked over at Ashley’s package of cheese crackers. “Hey, I’ll trade you these for your crackers.” Ashley handed her the crackers. Over Miranda’s shoulder she saw Chelsea come in and head directly back to their room. As Chelsea walked past the office, Ms. Vivian came out and watched her go down the hall, then she walked over to Ashley. With a big smile, she asked, “How did Chelsea like the present you made for her?” Ashley dropped her gaze to the bag of chips as she opened them and shrugged. “She didn’t seem to like it much.” Ms. Vivian’s smile faded. Miranda looked from Ms. Vivian to Ashley, then back again mid chew. “What?” she said around a mouthful of cracker. Ashley drew her lips tight and shook her bag of chips looking for whole pieces. Ms. Vivian spoke up. “Ashley made her a darling keepsake box. Wrapped it up all pretty in gift wrap and put Chelsea’s name on it. And she didn’t like it?” Ashley shook her head. “That bitch,” Miranda said. Ms. Vivian gave her a scathing look. “Now, none of that.” Miranda screwed her mouth to one side. “Sorry.” She took another bite of cracker and waited for Ms. Vivian to walk away. “That was really sweet of you,” then whispering said, “but I still say she’s a bitch.” The next morning in the mess hall, Miranda got her breakfast tray and went to sit with Ashley already seated by herself eating. “Hey, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “We really need to teach Chelsea a lesson – get even with her for how she treated you.” Ashley’s eyes flew open as did her mouth. “Wait, no. Are you kidding? She’d kill me if I got her in trouble!” “Relax. It won’t be you getting her in trouble. I’ve thought of a way that won’t implicate either of us. She’ll just be left wondering what hit her.” “No, really. Don’t do anything. It could backfire – “ “Will you relax! Let me handle it. I’ve got your back.” Ashley put her elbow on the table and rested her forehead on her hand. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” That night after chores, Ashley went to her room to shower. She came out of the bathroom still towel-drying her hair and picked up her brush from the top of her dresser. She did a double take when she realized something was missing. She looked around the room. The box she had made now sat on the top of Chelsea’s dresser. She walked over to the side of the bed and opened the drawer in the nightstand. It was empty. Her curiosity was killing her. She walked to the door, opened it a crack and listened. She could hear the TV and Chelsea laughing loudly. She’d be there a while.  She closed the door quietly, tip-toed over to Chelsea’s dresser and lifted one side of the lid. Inside were all the scraps of paper from Chelsea’s life. Ashley smiled. This was a start. Maybe they could become friends. About a half hour later as Ashley sat studying for a science test coming up tomorrow, the door flew open bouncing off the wall behind it. Just as abruptly, Chelsea slammed it behind her. She said nothing, just stood in front of the door seething. She looked at Ashley with the muscles on the sides of her face pulsing. Her glare went from scalding to suddenly icy cold and she seemed to stare right through Ashley to her backbone. Now very calm, Chelsea picked up her pajamas and went into the bathroom. Ashley expected the door to slam but instead, Chelsea closed it almost gently. Ashley scowled as she wondered what was going on. She had never seen Chelsea act this way. She heard the shower come on. Ashley was still studying when Chelsea emerged from the bathroom, turned down the covers on her bed, crawled in, turned to the wall, and put her pillow over her head. She didn’t stir again. The next morning, Miranda caught up with Ashley as they walked to the mess hall. “So, what happened with Chelsea last night?” Ashley looked directly at her. “That was weird.” She proceeded to tell her about Chelsea’s actions in the room. Miranda laughed out loud. “Yeah, she’s pissed. I got her good.” Ashley’s eyes grew big. “What did you do?” “Oh, I didn’t do anything to her – not directly anyway. I just started a little rumor that somehow got back to Ms. Vivian.” Ashley went cold. “What rumor?” “Oh, just that Chelsea skipped school a couple of times. Snuck out after homeroom and left the campus, then came back in time to catch the bus.” Ashley went ashen. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no! What have you done? She’s gonna think it was me! And just when I thought I was getting through to her!” “Whadya mean?” Ashley told her about Chelsea using the box. “Oh. My bad.” “Grrrrr!” Ashley stomped away quickly to the mess hall. Inside, she found Chelsea sitting with Emily and Sarah. “Chelsea, I just want you to know, it wasn’t me! I didn’t say anything!” Chelsea didn’t even look at her. The other two girls looked back and forth from Ashley to Chelsea and back again, their eyes wide. Chelsea stopped eating and looked around the room but didn’t say anything. Again, Ashley pleaded, “It wasn’t me!” She turned away and went to sit by herself at a table. She had no appetite for breakfast. * * * * * Ashley worried all day what form Chelsea’s retaliation would take.  When she entered the cottage, Ms. Vivian was helping the younger girls with their homework at the dining table. Chelsea was sitting in the living room with her earbuds in and her eyes closed. Ashley walked straight to her room. She opened the door and looked around suspiciously. She saw nothing amiss. Apparently, Chelsea was biding her time, making her suffer. She dropped her bookbag and sat on the edge of her bed. That’s when she saw it – a neat little pile of shredded photo – her family’s photo. “No! No, no, no, no, no!” She let out a wail like a wounded animal. Chelsea had shredded her only thing left of her family. Her rage choked her. She scooped up the pieces in one hand, slammed open the door, and marched down the hall growling. “You! You bitch! How could you!” she spat at Chelsea. Chelsea opened one eye and peered at her, a slight smile curling her lips. Ashley marched over to where Ms. Vivian sat and slammed down the handful of scraps. “Look at what she did!” Ms. Vivian recovered enough from her surprise to first say, “Now, let’s not use such language!” Then looking at the bits of photo said, “What’s this?” “It’s my family! She tore up the only photo I had of them! She can’t get away with this! You’ve got to do something!” “Now, young lady, don’t take that tone of voice with me. Just calm yourself down. Chelsea, did you do this?” “What? Me? Of course not! Why would I do something like that?” Ashley was over the back of the couch and on top of Chelsea in an instant. She entwined both hands tightly in Chelsea’s hair. Mr. Joseph came out of the office and went to pry the two girls apart. As he did, Chelsea cried out in pain. The rest of the girls came into the common room to see what was going on. Mr. Joseph now sat in one of the chairs with Ashley in his lap restraining her. Chelsea was crying dramatically while Ms. Vivian tried to console her. Ashley looked over at her and thought she caught a glimmer of a smirk on her face. She struggled to get free from Mr. Joseph to go after her again, but he held her fast. Finally, she stopped struggling and went limp, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Are you calm now?” Ashley nodded. “Good. Now we’re going to get up and go into the office. Will you do that?” Ashley nodded again. She had never in her life been this angry. She plopped down in a chair slumping down and crossing her arms in front of her, tears still rolling down her face. Mr. Joseph closed the door. “It doesn’t matter what she did, fighting is not tolerated here,” he started. “I’ll have to write you up and I’m sure there will be a disciplinary meeting.” “Good! Write her up too!” “There’ll be an Incident Report written up on her.” “An Incident Report! She needs to pay for what she did! Not get just a slap on the wrist!” “Well, what she did only warrants an Incident Report.” Ashley stomped her foot and growled. “It’s not fair!” The next day, an emergency disciplinary meeting was held at the cottage. Ashley, her counselor, her case manager, Ms. Vivian, and Mr. Joseph were there. Ms. Vivian read aloud the Disciplinary Report. It painted a grim picture of Ashley’s attack on Chelsea. When she finished, she gave Ashley a chance to give her side of the story. She tried to remain calm, but as she related what Chelsea had done, her voice rose louder and louder as her anger rekindled. “Well, we’re not here to talk about what Chelsea did, but how you handled the situation. We’re here to discuss an appropriate punishment and how to prevent it from happening again.” “But . . .” She cut herself off. She could see she would get nowhere with them. It was decided that Ashley would lose all privileges for one month including phone calls. She would also have to undergo anger management training with Ms. Crystal twice a week. Ashley sat with her arms crossed tightly and gritted her teeth. The only good thing was she would be moved to a different room away from Chelsea. That afternoon, Ashley put all her stuff in her laundry basket and was anxious to be rid of Chelsea. It was decided she would move in with Miranda and Emily would move in with Chelsea. She wasn’t crazy about Miranda as a roommate after the trouble she had caused but anyone was better than Chelsea. “I’m sorry about what happened,” Miranda told her as she put her stuff away in the dresser. “I can’t believe she did that.” “Yeah, well, it’s over and done with.” She started putting clean sheets on the bed. Miranda came over to help her. “That’s okay, I’ve got it,” Ashley told her. She needed to work out her frustrations. That night after her shower, Ashley lay flat on her bed staring at the ceiling. Miranda came in and saw her lying there. “You okay?” Ashley nodded. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to get out.

jmq1no

Second chances

*side note: Mrs McCain's name is based on a character from youtube influencer Graystillplays There was a young girl known as Ellie Bull in the year 3 class of Sir Penelope's school in 1999. She was a small built girl with dark blonde hair and green eyes. Other students said she had a Napoleon complex, and often tried to assert whatever independence she could gain. She had a cocktail of non or ill diagnosed mental health conditions. And struggled to maintain friendships. There was a teacher who stood out to her, Mrs Florence McCain. Who had a sharp tongue at times, but Ellie always thought it was normal. Some opinionated students called her 'Mrs Cocaine' as they declared that was what her name sounded like. Ellie had been having a tough day in late June and had several young girls called her a freak and stupid. She had traits that made her struggle, but to call her stupid, was harsh. She was taught that words couldn't hurt her, but she felt as if she was in the middle of a large black space trying to duck the toxic darts of the harsh words she had received in the past and currently. When she got home, she went to her room to play.  She pictured that she was a dancer wearing a black and red dress while several dancers were in green and shooting paintballs at her as she spun gracefully to avoid the bullets. But unfortunately, there were so many green patches on her dress that she ended the dance with the splits. Ellie smiled as she found solace in her creativity. But even her theatrical shield struggled to save her from the events that soon unfolded shortly after this time. She remembered being in the car with her grandparents and was amazed that in a few hours, that they would be entering a new millennium. She questioned in her head how long her grandparents would live. She also was both anxious and excited for the future, she hoped it would be all she imagined in her head. In late 2020, Ellie Bull was a married woman now known as Eliza Prichett. She has gone through a lot in her life. Her two children were proof of that. She had dropped out of most of her creative activities for year's and was a stay at home mum. She was hoping to make a comeback. She had recently taken up pet portraiture and had a small but decent revenue and audience. She was dealing with the loss of a family pet named Archie, a 14-year-old miniature pinscher crossed with a Jack Russel. Her family had ideas on getting a border terrier named Blue. Eliza was selling her work in between dropping her son off school then picking him up. Because of the viral pandemic, she didn't get a chance to meet Harveys teachers often. One afternoon Harvey was telling his mother about school. She listened to him interested in what he had achieved that day. "Very good my darling, the teachers must have been proud," she said in a softer Yorkshire tone. Although they mostly had resided in South-East England, Eliza's family had a Northern English heritage. Harvey smiled, "Oh yes Mrs McCain said I was good although I messed up the 'y' in my name as she said," he said innocently. His mothers face looked like a deer in the headlights. "Mrs cocai...erm...McCain?! I'm surprised she hasn't had the sack! She made my school life a misery. Bad enough I was struggling outside the classroom too, I'm not sure I want you in her class" Eliza sighed as she felt a rush of unpleasant memories linked to her teenhood. She had to catch her breath to avoid hyperventilating. Harvey disagreed, "no mummy, she's been nice and helping me do better in my spelling," he said to her. Eliza still wasn't sure but after a few minutes of ranting about her. She was curious to give her another chance. But she had to know for sure if her ex-teacher had changed. She thought about it while waiting for her husband to come home from work. She had put the kids to bed and had a couple of cans of drink ready for them both. She opened a can of Strongbow and sipped it just as Rick walked through the door. He walked over and kissed her. "Hello my love, how was your day?" He asked warmly, Eliza smiled. "The kids were super today, they enjoyed their time out in the park and I got them an ice cream from the ice cream van," she replied. Rick smiled, "well that sounded like fun," he cuddled his wife. They sat down after he plated up a serving of the pasta dish Eliza made. "Looks good my sweet," he smiled. His wife still had Mrs McCain in her head. She looked at her husband, "I know I'm being biased here, most likely down to my issues in my childhood. But I found out that Mrs McCain has been filling in for Harvey's class," she sighed "she is sometimes known as Mrs Cocaine, but I remember the way she almost destroyed my self-confidence. Over my dead body would I allow her to do that to our son!" She wrinkled her nose. Rick looked concerned. "She didn't sound good back then," he sighed, Eliza was still figuring things out. "Harvey did say that she seemed fair towards him, he said that she told him that he should work on his handwriting and further practice his spelling," she said. "If that's the case, maybe she has changed but I don't want to gamble with our son's wellbeing," Eliza said, feeling her chest tighten a little. Rick noticed and made sure she took long deep breaths to avoid another panic-related condition striking. After she got past the panic attack, she saw that Rick was comforting her. "Well who knows, I sometimes go to the school to patrol the area. I could check in on her and our boy to make sure she's behaving herself," he offered. She agreed and Rick decided to deal with a day shift first thing in the morning. When it was the end of the first lesson the following day, Rick was patrolling the corridors. He overheard Mrs McCain talking to her class and waving them off. He decided to stand close to the door as several children left. She asked Harvey to stay so she could have a word. Eric listened in, he heard her commending the boys work. "Well, this goes to show that you took my advice. But can I ask you something? Your mummy looked familiar. What is her name?" She asked. Harvey smiled, "her name is Eliza but dad calls her Ellie sometimes," he said. It suddenly clicked with Mrs McCain who he was talking about. "Oh, Ellie Bull, I used to teach her. And unfortunately, I don't think I did a good job. And if I ever see your mum I want to apologise. But I'll be lucky if she forgives me," she sighed. Harvey nodded "she did panic when I mentioned you, but I told her you are nice," he replied. Rick smiled as he had heard the conversation. He texted Eliza about what he overheard. She sent a text back saying that Mrs McCain deserved a second chance.

t65c1y

Photophobia is not a phase, tata!

Dear Diary on this moonlit 4th Sunday of June, How many times do I have to tell my pops that it's not a phase! My tata can see my skin burning like the roiling sands of the Sahara! My dad can sense the stinging heat whenever I am attacked by Sol's stinging rays! My father, withal, still cares so little to my corpus and calls my condition " an overreaction ". I remember how he say, when he wanted to surfboard, to " put on the sunscreen, kiddo " so we could " fight the high waves with our surfboarding skills "! Oh, it's not like I don't believe he fights the nymphs and Neptune's sea-dæmons with his holy and dignified dances . . . But it cannot be denied that Sol, a trickster-dæmon mocking our Sun, is destroying me specifically so as to vanquish the great lineage of water-bound knights! I can evidence this all by the many red and brown spots of Sol's ray-thin arrows piercing me, equally Sol sometimes pours the burning oils of corrupted light onto me that " tans " my skin so says my tata! Oh if only the damn " sunscreen " would have actually protected me, but it hasn't! But I am told to " simply shrug it off lest it gets real bad ", yet here my skin testifies for me the great danger I am in! I, too, remember when I tried theorizing why I was " photophobic " to explain this accursed affliction that makes my skin easily effaceable. Oh had I remembered this figure – we all called this crow-masked person a " plague-doctor " – and they told me that photophobia might be a byproduct transmitted by the " sanguine-addicted " sufferers. When I brought this to my father, he said that it was impossible for me to be bitten by a " vampire " nor be one! Going off that: "Vlad III the Impaler was felled by an uneasy, yet holy, alliance of the Ottomans and the Polish Hussars!" Going further off to describe for hours on end of how he helped in felling some " vamps " and desecrated all the unholy banners of those " blood-sucking fiends ". To assure me they all felled and none escaped, he sputtered as he was shakily holding his wine cup this line: " we surrounded the entire country with the most holiest of signs from our One True God that we all shared ". Stating that these holy signs radiated a holy Light that no unholy or unrepentant sinner could ever defy nor overcome, ergo: I couldn't be infected by proxy nor directly since " all the vampires died that day ". Though I do wish to believe my tata, I have my doubts as I recall this very handsome lad; oh he always liked shady spots wherever they were, and he always carried this nice umbrella with him as well. He had these very sharp, shark-ish teeth always stained by something red. That night-servant, whom my heart always melted for whenever our eyes crossed, always excused himself that he " ate some cherries and tangerines ". What rubbish! I could tell, because the " plague-doctor " is no liar, he was a vampire. And I could sniff his iron-reeking line that one time when he went in to hug me, oh did it smell like he crunched on metal whenever he exhaled; the only liquid that could produce such stench is the red-viscous that flows in us, nothing us! He laughed when I brought this worry to him, but he swore his troth to me that – in truth – he ate an iron-laden dish as a gift from his metallurgical guild-master for his great work. Oh, I know he sucks at lying, but I know his voice told no lie there and yet I worry for this fool all too much. However, and I still blush in shame that I reveal this to you my Dear Diary, I recall that one time he bested me in our mock-duel! After our match, I suffered the punishment where I had to close my eyes in anticipation of a move struck upon me that I couldn't brace for. Oh! He lied that he was going for a kiss, since his mouth " accidentally bit " me as he profusely apologized upon realizing his will was being tempted to feed his " sanguine-addiction "! Oh, how could I have let my guard down as almost made me " sanguine-addicted "?! Thankfully, the only pain he inflicted a lesser amenity: " photophobia ". Yet, where was I in that one scene? Ah! By that day so many suns and moons ago, I really screamed something that I instantly regretted to him. He collapsed like a heavily-battered tower, I couldn't but collapse with him as I embraced his weeping corpus repenting for my unintended harsh words. Keeping his sore head full of my unintentionally evil words close to my bosom, singing those old songs and hymns that soon calmed us both. Oh my Envious God! My heart still yearns for this trickster, and I knew he would go into the Earth and back to prove his love for me and to Thou as well! We then went under a palm tree, that shielded us from Sol's deadly rays of pseudo-lux; we clutched our crosses as we prayingly forgave each other, then begging to Thy Intersexual Son for forgiveness. Oh my Loving Lord, this was why I was skeptical of my father's grandiose claim that " vampires " could be stunted or harmed by holy Light: he was my testimony, lest I am now to find my honor in worshipping the moon as the lunatics outside my window seem to be doing . . . After that day, as an act of forgiving ourselves, we had kept our relationship a secret – mainly because I hadn't wanted this " sanguine-addicted " sufferer to be struck down. As I hope I can treat both of our ailments with the " plague-doctor " next week, hopefully the apothecary will be open at night! Yet, if my pops is truly right that neither Sol nor a vampire afflicted this " photophobia " on me, then I must proclaim in anger that I am tired of the light inflicting this heat-inducing and skin-killing pain! What else but " photophobia " can afflict such great evils upon this corpus, what else He is who He is? I beseech Thou, whom nothing greater can be thought off, to make evident the truth of me which has not shined itself upon my eyes! I shall suffer all the journeys that I must suffer, for I know Thy Glory is infinitely more rewarding than what any temporal affliction can rob from me! And if I am looking incorrectly, then pray remove the darkness that clogs-up my eyes so that I may be able to look inwardly as I look outwardly in near perfection! Give my eyes the assist it needs to then look through the rotten darkness that represses the truth of my body! And yet, if my skin is truly that frail but I am no sufferer of photophobia, then I pray – oh I pray – to the Lord, the Almighty, to strip this evil-condition of my skin from me. For whatever cause, my sin, that has caused this great punishment do I repent it even if I know not what evil I had caused to deserve it. But if I am indeed sinless, then I understand that I must suffer as Job had to understand Thou more truly. And if it was Satan who was permitted to do such evil, then my Heavenly King do I beseech Thou to strike upon my dumb head this fact and tell me whether or not I had remained faithful to you though the skin-deep hardships pressed upon me. Though I do thank Thou, my Lord, for giving me the strength to resist all evils, still do I want some confirmation of what my corpus is inflicted with so that I won't be anymore a weary traveler in my quest to find the truth of my body! Perhaps I am lost in the lunacy of my thoughts, worshipping the lesser light that is only lit by the greater light. For I perhaps have obscured the true roots of my " photophobia ", pinning it on something when there is no one to accuse. More so, maybe Thy Word has always been radiating so harshly against my skin for I have been lacking faith in everyone but my skepticism that I had placed higher than Thou. The " plague-doctor " works with what they have seen and worked upon with their own hands and eyes, they can only provide sage advice analogous to the probable route of my body's truth. The iron-ridden breath of my lover perhaps is just that: ridden with iron as they keep claiming. My tata perhaps is right to call my non-understanding an " overreaction " and I really need to apply " sunscreen " on myself more often. Perhaps, maybe, but no solid thing as my skepticism hasn't been able to find my body's truth when it has been turned its inquiry against itself to question its own validity! So my Dear Diary, do I ask you to keep my troubled thoughts and berated breaths and weary weeps here until I find the truth of my body. For now I shall carry on with what makes the most sense: that I am perhaps not " photophobic " but I must get that tested out. Lest the Lord come to ease my self-shame and to let my head in His bosom, I shall carry on with this confusion. Yet, as I write on you Dear Diary, I find I am unable to provide a substantial cause for this grievous condition my body suffers. Perhaps that is the truth that the Word of the Lord is making blindingly clear: that my body merely is reacting unusually to the Sun's light. And that is a pleasant truth, albeit painfully acquired. Well, I must go as the Sun creeps over the horizon and my lover climbs the vine-wall to meet me today. Goodbye for now, Dear Diary.

dj885b

To Endless Love and Laughter

A bouncy breeze integrated with saline drizzle sprayed across, as I hovered upon the brim of the motorboat I was sailing. I hung about scrutinizing the sharp tip gash its way through the foamy waves to sail smoothly across the sea, which bore resemblance to a boundless turquoise carpet. Except this carpet on no account attracts movie stars or media, but horde of all sorts of aquatic species that rely on their natural habitat. I leapt over the dock and extended a gangly hand nabbing my hat at the nick of time, the wind had sent flapping away. It's that time of year when tourists flock on the ports of the Channel Islands of California, to explore the teeny tiny Islands nearby. It's only been a couple of days since I began navigating this boat, as an amateur backup to my cousin, transporting people from one shore to another and needless to say, I absolutely relished the experience. Drifting across the engulfing water body, brimming with scary aquatic animals felt safer and homelike, than the land or my pretentious heterosexual life ever could. Well, I was married, until a week ago to a woman, yes! And whom I'm likely to get divorced from soon. I'm ashamed in the earnest to confess that I was a closeted gay who entered a marriage of convenience, never once apprehending the feelings of my wife and supposedly the senselessness of the act ruffles up my conscience till this date. Which is why, I would rather not delve more into the details than necessary. The first few weeks were fine, with fun and laughter echoing through our walls, with days ending in mediocre sex. Unfortunately, the years succeeded weren't so much of a bliss, and blip would probably be a better adjective. It was no beds and roses as the inadequate intimacy stirred up troubles.  I'd mustered all the courage to come out to my wife, after breaking her heart, who was my best-friend from high school. And she still is the best friend I ever had, as all she said to my coming out was,"I know you loved me more than anyone, but never like a man who loved a woman". I broke from the clutches of the bond we shared for both our sakes, since I'd rather be without her than being miserable with each other. Subsequent to that, coming out to my parents and siblings was yet another gargantuan task. Still I got it done with, and that's when I finally could embrace the air of freedom. It's been a welcome change that I've chosen to swing among the many beautiful, scenic islands in the vicinity, to bask along the joy of a refreshing start as a newly out gay. However, doing a job like this, things were tedious at times, as it's about the same routine every passing day and ending up all alone in the night with no human warmth by my side to cuddle. That's when he breezed into my life, like a pleasant gust to break the monotony and the desolation.  The first time, I merely caught sight of him as I pulled the lever revving up the boat, to soar against the morning sun, with a handful of passengers on board. And there he was soberly squinting at the sunlit waves from afar, his mouth chomping on a cigarette, circles of smoke engulfing the air around him, resembling a typical picture of melancholy. The impulsive curiosity that surged in me, to get to know the reason behind the deep-set sorrow in his eyes, was hard to explain. I clutched the steering wheel harder, took a sharp turn, squeezing my eyes shut, to shove his face out of my sight and mind. From the fear of getting caught, I refrained from turning back to check on him, though I was badly tempted to. The second time I saw him, it was two days later, once I reached the shore, after a hard day's work, dawdling from one Island to another. There he was, fixed steady on the sidewalk of a café. His eyes landed on me as though pulled by an instant magnetism. In an act of impulse, I ran my hand upon the back of my neck as casually as possible, licking my lips. I leant on the boat, tilting my neck to have a good look at him. My cousin Patrick who sailed with me, spotted him and the awkward exchange of looks. "Jonah...." "Yeah" I frowned, hot under the collar, peeved off at the interruption. "Liking what you see?" He smirked, motioning his head towards the 'café'. I turned a deep shade of scarlet. He plunged into knee-length tides, setting a ripple of waves, before he inched towards the sand enshrouded golden shore, dragging the thick anchor cord to fasten around a huge iron bar, in a secure loop. "I know him. He's an archaeologist. A natural charmer of this town, had too many girlfriends to count. He used to be a high school jockey and supposedly straight as an arrow" my heart sank apparently. "He can beat you to pulp, look at his biceps, cousin. Don't raise your hopes." he warned me jovially, head jerking back at 'the guy'. His warning did the trick, presuming that I stopped looking. The following week elapsed at a snail's pace with nothing much to look forward to around the clock. I missed pleasantly reminiscing a smoldering look or the quirk of his lips. Towards the end of that week before I headed back home, I peeked around with a dip of my spirits, to make sure that he's not anywhere around. But to my disarming awe, there he was, entrenched to the same spot on the sidewalk, holding a lit cigarette, his eyes glued undoubtedly to me. My eyes refused to revert from him for some unknown reason. Ok, I'm aware of the reason. The guy was a sight to look at, with gorgeous green eyes and sharp features. The staring spree went on for a while, and frankly, I liked that he noticed me back, even though there was no chance for him harbouring any feelings in return. That's when, I sensed his retreating steps right after he tossed the cigarette's bud, and without sparing another glance, he was gone. Shoving the boat keys deep inside my jacket, I scurried on foot as my apartment was only a dozen blocks away. Swiping off the moisture spiralling down my brows due to the humidity, humming the first song that came to my mind, I lumbered my way back to a tardy pace, taking pleasure from the slightly cooler breezes of the night, and that's when I heard mild footfall. The streetlights blared a dim lighting, hence when the strides drew close, a sharp sensation of dread washed over me. I twirled, flipping the torch of my phone, only to find 'him' trailing behind. My cousin's cautionary words came back in a flash, stimulating my pulse as well as pace. Was he irked? Was he coming over to reprimand? I'd reached a dead-end, there was nowhere else to flee as he'd got uncomfortably closer by now. "Hey! Stop! " He panted, swiping away his sticky bangs that fell upon his eyes. Drawing all the courage, I stayed the ground with my heart in throat. Before he said anything further, he tilted his head backwards, throwing a filthy scowl at the dogs trailing him. "Hi there!" He waved, turning back to face me. His tone sounded gratefully casual that my courage got restored. I bobbed my head, unable to produce an intelligible word. "Sorry for the fright. I couldn't help but notice that you're new here in town. I'm Ben!" "Jonathan" I introduced myself in return. "Nice to meet you!" He beamed, with his canines peeking out, stretched his hand to meet mine for a brisk handshake. "OK, I'll get to the point. I need to hire your boat for one day and two nights. I've heard about a hidden treasure in one of the islands and have researched enough all these years, to know exactly where it is. So I need to get there in two days, exactly on full moon day. I'll pay 200 dollars. But only condition is it should just be the two of us, I don't wanna indulge anymore accomplices. What do you say? Are you interested?" he asked, with a smirk. Of course I was. So yeah, we began our journey on an early weekend evening. Talking to him wasn't easy in the start. We were hardly an hour into our journey when he came by with a tray of beers to drink.  "Cheers" we chorused, and chugged down a few gulps. After a couple of beers, conversation came easy and drifted to dangerous waters, eventually.  "So," "So....?" "Why were you staring at me all these days?"  "I-I-thought I've seen you somewhere." I stuttered. His mirthless laughter that followed, was proof enough that he wasn't buying my excuse. "Ok, it wasn't like I was the only one. You looked at me too, I wonder why!" I scoffed back, walking off to gaze around through my binoculars, keeping check on the right direction. "I only looked back to see why you were looking at me" He winked. I threw a defensive scowl. I'm not going to crack, and I won't. "OK, let me be honest." He rolled his eyes heavenwards, "I think you're very handsome, that's why I looked at you!. I liked looking at you!" He flashed his best smile. "Ditto....! I mumbled, hardly containing the grin that broke out of me, cheeks blushing crimson. I stayed awake that night, lying in my boat, very close to him, heart thumping in my ears. The proximity and the privacy played cruel games of hallucinations on my mind. Unable to bear the unrest and depression, I took a walk. Dusk was spreading its jet black arms across the horizon, drenching the island with twilight. I trod across the sandy path, adorning my espadrille, headed in pursuit of a secluded spot near the shore. My feet got drenched in the enthusiastic waves as my gloomy self climbed on one of the higher rocks. I could see that the tides were quite wild, owing to the day before the full moon., Waves erupting higher and higher as if trying to catch hold of the moon in its marshy arms. But the reality is only they could catch its reflection and not the real one. My thoughts were surrounding similarly upon one single object of attraction, to that of those unsuccessful waves. I can try, but can never have the real thing. I let out a heavy sigh. As a boy, I took longer to understand the attraction I felt towards boys. I never understood why my heart beat for some of the best looking boys instead of girls. It was a pain to deal with, as I could never be good at making friends with my fellow classmates, without my sexuality coming out. I never learnt how to hide my feelings of attraction when I got closer to some cute boys, when I used to play in school. Eventually I had to face the consequences of such wayward emotions which were wrong, according to my parents. And after a few bitter incidents, I learnt to control them in the hard way and keep them immersed deep in me. Time seemed to halt when I sat gazing at the waves, preoccupied with my own thoughts. An hour later, I walked back to the boat thinking it'd be hard to sleep. But fortunately, the cicadas and crickets lulled me to sleep with their chirps and clicks. During the first week of adventure, I left Ben to his treasure hunt and stayed behind. He returned towards the end of the second day, windswept, exhausted, with empty hands, and without any success. But Ben wasn't someone to accept defeat easy. So we embarked on another trip, the very next week. And this time I accompanied him on his treasure hunt. When I shifted to this island first, I never dreamt my life would take such drastic turns that I'd be out on a treasure hunt. But interesting turn of events didn't dampen my spirit but lifted it. That day evening, we left the boat hitched to a gigantic tree trunk, and headed down deep into a cave tucked away under a huge banyan tree that spread across for several yards.  A raucous screech of bats erupted as we bravely trudged past the grimy stone carved path, obscured in pitch darkness and the foul-smelling walls, through the ruggedized innermost parts of the cave. A few minutes into the trail, a silhouette of something dark and hefty swished through. Ben gripped the torch tight, to find a porcupine romping by our toes, it's wagging tail, leaving a handful of quills deep on our feet. I yelped, eyes blinking back tears of pain, immediately hopping up and down, as though wishing those quills would fall off their own accord. On the other hand, hardly a moan of pain escaped Ben, when it was worse for him.  He placated me down, pulled the quills one by one with care, making sure he's not hurting me. Once he finished mine, I returned the favor. As soon as the job got done, I spurt a swig of water on our pricked toes. The chill liquid considerably subdued the pain. After faltering a few minutes more to calm down the burn, we proceeded further towards the place christened as the death trap. The reason behind it, got clear as we reached the spot. It was a narrow but lengthy water-body crammed with starving alligators. And to reach the treasure we'd no option but to cross it somehow. I thought hard, knowing there would be a way to get to the far end of the cave conquering the death trap. My eyes rummaged about, in every corner of the cave and dug out partly hidden marble slabs. Together we erected them diagonally, making a path amidst the death trap. "Shall we?" He asked, extending his brawny hand to me. I looked up at him, there was an unsaid promise in his eyes. I gulped before taking his hand, but looked away quickly as his intense gaze was capable of turning me into a bumbling idiot, and striding past a pond full of alligators was near to impossible. Finally, we reached the treasure chest, the one which was our goal. Ben dug into his explorer bag, materialized a thin treasure key. When I thought he was going to open it himself, he turned to me. "If not for you, I'd have never come this far. So there you go. Do the honors."  "But Ben...! " I trailed off. "Shush....! " Before I could spring up another word, his lips were on mine. The kiss was sweet and tender, brimming with love. "Go on, Jonah!" He muttered breaking the kiss. I clutched the key, and nodded once at him. I inserted and twisted in a swift movement with a thrumming heart, the excitement and elation of the kiss still boggling my senses. With trembling fingers I unfastened the treasure chest.  A week later: "Inside the crest, there were gold and silver jewels and some coins, some artifact's from a bygone era, definitely a thousand years old, which have already been delivered to the archeological department. Special thanks to Mr.Jonathan Davis. Without his help this was never possible." The entire hall erupted with applause. "That's all from me. Chief Jenson, the dais is yours now.!" Ben moved through the crowd and as soon as he reached me, he pulled me into a deserted broom close and grabbed my face in a ravishing smooch. "I can't believe you took nothing from that treasure. And still paid me 200 dollars from your pocket, I wonder why?" I murmured, snaking my arms around his neck. "Jonah, when you take your potential boyfriend on a special date, you'd pay yourself don't you? Though this trip was for the treasure hunt, spending quality time with you, getting to know you better, having you to offer that push when necessary, bearing pain together" They both chuckled at the recollection of the stinging porcupine quills. "It was all what made me fathom that I want something more serious with you. So, of course I'd have to pay for that!" "In that case boyfriend, I shouldn't have taken money, however Patrick would kill me as it's his boat." He snickered at the prospect. "But I've gotta admit one thing, even without any payment I'd have come to far end of the earth with you." I admitted, cradling his face. "Not surprising. I mean look at me!" He smirked, tickling my waist. The giggles of our laughter echoed through the air and this time, I was sure that the laughter would last forever as I was right where I belonged with the man I loved. 

5bje68

Truth Always Prevails

Human beings have a natural love for light. It is no wonder, for light and all it represents was the very first thing that God introduced into his creation. The first two verses of the Bible proclaim, In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.” (Gen. 1:1-2) Creation was a structureless, lifeless, lightless, and watery chaos. And the Spirit of God hovered like a mother bird over the chaos. He loved the chaos, cared for the chaos, and was about to develop the chaos over a period of six days. Remember that we shouldn’t, strictly speaking, talk of “six days of creation,” for creation was achieved in a moment. Rather, Genesis 1 describes six days of God enlightening, ordering, filling, and enlivening his creation. This is day one: And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." And there was evening and there was morning—the first day (Gen. 1:3-5). 1. God spoke light into existence - And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light (Gen. 1:3). Witness first the power of God: he speaks, things happen. In other words, what God wills happens. As Basil of Caesarea explained in his sermons on Genesis 1: “The divine will and the first impetus of divine intelligence are the Word of God.” What happens, happens because God wills it to happen. There is no higher will than God’s, there is no will strong enough to compete with God, and there is no realm where God is not present and where his will does not rule. This is the doctrine of God's sovereignty, and it is inherent in the word “God.” God by definition is the eternal being whose will reigns supreme and unchallenged. Thus, we call God “Lord” or “The Lord Almighty” or “King of kings and Lord of lords.” In the Greek Pantheon, each god competes with the others. Even Zeus—king of Olympus—is outwitted and manipulated and frustrated by the mischievous wills of both gods and men. Elohim is not at all like this. He rules, full stop. Note especially the power of God’s words. For Paul, this underpins the gospel mission. The gospel is God’s Word, so it is inherently powerful. Mighty Rome might find it pathetically weak, and the philosophers might find it grotesquely foolish—but even the “foolishness” of God is wiser and mightier than the power and wisdom of humanity (1 Cor. 1:18-25). And when God speaks directly to the human heart and spirit, his word is invincible (2 Cor. 4:6). 2. Light is a marvelous thing - For starters, light is very quick, moving just shy of 300,000 kilometers per second. If you drove your car to the sun at 110km/h (the speed limit) it would take you 157 years to arrive. But if you could ride a beam of light to the sun, it would take you only eight minutes and twenty seconds. I am always delighted by the thought that when I look up at the stars, not only do I see a glorious picture of the number of Abraham’s descendants, I see also the distant past, the light of far distant stars and galaxies that may have taken thousands of years to reach me. Our amazing scientists still do not wholly grasp the paradoxical nature of light. Physicists talk about “wave-particle duality,” or a “duality paradox”; for on the one hand light behaves like waves and has frequency and amplitude, but it also behaves like particles that can be amassed and focused into a laser beam that can cut through steel. The Jedi knight’s brilliant light sabre might be mythical, but the sheer awesome potential of light is not. These two distinct properties of light have not yet been harmonized. Albert Einstein said, "It seems as though we must use sometimes the one theory and sometimes the other, while at times we may use either. We are faced with a new kind of difficulty. We have two contradictory pictures of reality; separately neither of them fully explains the phenomena of light, but together they do."(The Evolution of Physics, p. 278) Light is built into the very fabric of our universe. For as Einstein (again) taught us, mass is but latent energy, and energy is unleashed mass; and the amount of energy contained in mass is represented by the elegant equation E = mc2, E standing for energy, m for mass, and c the speed of light. 3. Light is also truth and wisdom - Moses, however, is not just talking about physical light. In the Bible, light is also truth and wisdom. God delights to shine truth into the darkness of ignorance, and wisdom into the murk of foolishness. Christianity is not a philosophy, a useful way of looking at the world that will get us through. It is not a system of rituals, following a set of sacred acts to manipulate God’s favor. Nor is it essentially a system of morality: doing this and not doing that in order to win the prize of heaven. The beating heart of Genesis and the Bible and Jesus and Christianity is truth. The truth about who God is. The truth about what God has done and what he is doing. The truth about humanity. The truth about the new heaven and earth that lies ahead. The luminous truth of the Bible delivers us from ignorance, superstition, obscurity, wishful thinking, and lies. Many demur, “But how can finite humans discover the truth about God? How is this possible?” Indeed, left to ourselves, it is impossible, for our innate blind foolishness leads us down every false path. But if it is impossible for us to grope and fumble and discover the truth about God, God is entirely capable of coming to us, to shine his truth upon us. This is what makes Christianity unique. Whereas human religions grope for God, in the Bible God confronts humanity with the bright light of truth. A word here about the common term absolute truth. First, truth is one of those words which needs no adjective. There is truth and there is error; and there are no shades of grey in between. Anything less than truth is not truth. Many say that “there is no such thing as absolute truth,” yet that statement is itself a self-contradictory claim of absolute truth. These people would prefer a world where it is not possible to know the truth about God and humanity, where we are free to choose to live however we like. The religious decree, made ex cathedra from the throne of presumed self-rule—that “there is no absolute truth”—is not a noble philosophical contribution to human understanding, but the echo of the screaming toddler in the nursery, “But I want to!” 4. God saw that the light was good - Note also that light was the first thing that God made. The blackness could not long endure before God flooded it with light. God is good, so everything that he makes is good. He is incapable of mistakes, of lying, of fumbling, of misdirecting, of mismanaging, of failing, of botching. This applies to history, and this applies to you. It is a tremendous thing when a person takes up the Bible and reads it and sees the truth for the first time. Ignorance and obscurity are banished. Wrong thoughts scatter like the bugs under the old paver that you lift up in the garden. I have seen again and again that when a person comes to Jesus, ‘the Light of the World,’ they begin for the first time in their lives to question and think hard—and reason. The light is good. 5. God called the light “day” and the darkness “night.” - Parents name their children because the children are their children who are in their care. Parents will, for better or worse, determine a great deal of their children’s character and future. Indeed, names are considered to be strangely powerful predictors of personality and success. In any case, God names the light and the dark “day” and “night.” They are his, and he determines their function and future. For if the day is manifestly good, God also has a good purpose for the night: that it be a time of rest, recuperation, sleep, and peace. 6. Light can exist without the sun - Notice the extraordinary fact that day and night are at this point utterly independent of the sun and the moon. Some think Moses blundered here. “Didn’t he know that there can be no light when there is no sun!?” But Moses didn’t miss this. God’s prophet wanted us to get this: that light—and all it stands for—comes not ultimately from any created thing, but from God himself. God is the source of illumination, wisdom, knowledge, and truth. By creating light three days before he created the sun, moon, and stars, he made this crystal clear. The sun is merely God’s tool, God’s torch. We could say that in the same way the moon dimly reflects the light of the sun, the sun dimly reflects the light of God. And that is why in the new heaven and earth there will be no sun, for it will have fulfilled its purpose: “They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light” (Rev. 22:5). We can all rejoice that God is the God of light and that his Son Jesus is the Light of the World and the glorious fulfillment of Day One of Genesis. “In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it” (John 1:4-5). Let us come into the light . As I watch the unfolding of events around us and all over the world, I've noticed a pattern emerging. I see this pattern as an undercurrent reality which certainly is present in today's chaotic world. But I also see it in our history, where our past blunders and mistakes litter the historic landscape. This pattern exists in each individual lifestyle and at the national and international level as well. This pattern is no respecter of persons: It operates among the rich and the poor, the black, the white, the Latino and Asian. It is manifested in businesses, both small and great, and is present in our nation's politics. This pattern is really a truth, a universal fact that works all the time in all places and among all peoples. This pattern is not only a general truth but a biblical truth that God himself has incorporated into the very fabric of existence. God has spoken it to us in his holy word, the Bible, and ensures its operation. This pattern is the Law of Hypocrisy Unmasked. It is a part of judgment. This truth and operational principle declares and forces all secret things to eventually come to light. The question is not if things will come to the light but when? Therefore, as I watch events unfold in all over the world I know that what is done in the dark will come to light — even if the events are historical in nature, such as the Medgar Evers murder case and other civil rights injustices, the Armenian genocide, the Bosnian genocide or the mass murder of 6 million Jews by the Nazis. The truth is that whatever one seeks to hide and cover up will eventually work its way up to the light and become known. In Genesis chapter 4, God says to Cain, "Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground!" Even Abel's blood is shouting out this principle for us to understand. You cannot hide injustice. It will surface sooner than later. What is done in the dark in the countryside or in the closet will eventually come to light. Finally, one could argue that the reason for so much being unveiled today is our technology. It is the proliferation of cameras everywhere, it is our space-based satellites and other surveillance systems which give us the ability to see, search out, and find things that once remained a secret. But we need to remember and recognize that God uses us and our technology as his means to accomplish his principles and will. God has determined as he said in Luke 12:2-3, that the secrets will be uncovered, the truth will come forth, and God's thought about every behavior and action will be vindicated. What's done in the dark will come to light, and thank God he has created it to operate so! 2 Peter 3:9 - The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God. ( John 3.21 ) . Life never hands out things that you can't handle. How you approach it will determine how you come through the other side. You can assume the victim role and feel sorry for yourself, or you can reach into the essence of who you are and find your inner strength. Then demand the self worth and ability to rise up and meet your challenges heart on. You need to believe you can do this -- you are powerful, you are amazing and you are inspirational! I am sure you have heard many stories of people saying that they feel blessed to have gone through their hardship as this defines who they are today. This is not something that people just say, this is something they know. Through darkness comes light, through fear comes love and through pain comes triumph. This is the triumph of the human spirit; it is not in a select few, it is in every one of us. Your struggles and hardships are your gifts so that you can reach deep down inside of yourself and discover your inner power and the glory of who you are. Use them to share your message of hope and love with the world. The world needs your voice, your message and your experiences so that they can resonate in the hearts of others and give hope and courage to show that it is possible to overcome anything. Let us share our gifts with each other as we will be far richer for the experience , because we are light of this world .

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Cuba bound

By Dumisani khumalo He was in Cuba at the blink of an eye .The cop that sought for him could not find him ,see him ,nor was he certain of his whereabouts so  he could get his own revenge .He saw him ten years later, after buying him a beer at a bar and inquiring if he still remembered him .He said no ,and when he told him who he was ,he disappeared once again . The bags the boys found were in a secluded part of a bush and under a bridge. The one who first saw them claimed there maybe a case of baby dumping and caution was to be taken ,after a narration of how forensics would come up with evidence, from fingerprints or erroneously coming out of the belly of lies , that a dead person revealed his killer by copying him up into his eyes for the dictatives to reveal it with their gadgets , narratives that picked their bristles of the cat walking amongst them and if such be the case as in the bags ,would have the same kind of investigations . The stories were not as truthful as their desire for money,smokes and beer .The three of then agreed that if they pulled the cases out they would share the loot by thel three of them and decided to put them close by the main road so access would be easy ,then in the morning ,they would be able to try and sell them The pernicious task of lifting them out was queer and difficult,taking more time they reached the main road at dusk .Then walking home to a silence as errie ,it made all of them go their separate ways after the his marijuana pulled them out of their skins, not a word was heard ,obviously from the fear playing on what they had seen . Not on Martin as he checked on them and on their individual ways home ,and making his way back to a friends house close by .He told him of the bags ,and the friend obliged to carrying them with and find a buyer the next day .That is what caused the whole thing to go into another nail biting moment ,as they found out the next day that the bags were gone. Martin took his two friends to the bags ,and found the were no longer there .After the same dictatives stories ,they all agreed ,someone must have been tailing them . At midday ,Martin was sharing the first fruits of the money of the bags sold to a maid in the neighbourhood at $35 ,and for the two ,it was manna dropped from heaven for both of them . They shared $15'each ,and the five was for the beer they had all wanted lsince eaving school and fast graduating into adult life .They went to a nearby bottlestore and bought some opaque beer,and clear beer came in after that, for most, as a wash down . The police raids were reminiscent of the colonial era ,harsh and demanding for individual particulars ,and only resembled in it the power politics of blacks in blacks as finding opposition as opponents were as good as enemies of the State. Martins weight lighting and training's made him look big and awesome ,he was barely got scared as when the bags story was told to him ,and he took them and had the idea of how to sell them, and now he was not afraid of any police raid at all.A pack of opaque beer called a shake shake was sipped at will and put high up on the trusses for hiding as they played games on fruit machines and mini soccer .If the police came ,as they did so often ,they would all deny ownership of the pack as usual, and a band of youth was taken to the new, youth having money in their pockets ,and money to spend on beer like this . The patrol car was there in no time, and helter skelter ,the youth ran in all directions to escape arrest and pay a fine ,failure of which was a number of days in the cells, save for Martin whose hands were stuck at the mini soccer table and looking at the goings on a little bit ignominious danger was nigh.A three star band ranked officer came out to him and picked out the pack ,which Martin denied to be his .The overzealous office then wanted someone to take him with him as an example to his subordinates .Arrests had to be made .Martin was the culprit whom he tried pulling into the car in front of his officers who had returned after a chase for the youth but could not do so by the strength of his arms and body build. The other officers looked curiously at them and Martin gave him a punch to the face ,the officers hat going into the wind as he came down on his knees ,as Martin pulled him towards his bare knee for the final knell. The quick realisation of rank made the other officers take him from behind,putting handcuffs on him and bundling him into the van to the police station .The ranking officer who was injured was taken to hospital. At the police station ,Martin was chained to the wall ,and after an inquiry in his identity papers and age ,he was found to be under age to drink ,and they had no test kits to prove he was drunk ,and the politics in the station wanted him let loose because there was no evidence aganist him ,and moreover the ranking officer was a promotion through the thick of political rivalry and through political muscle,and working at the conviction of opposition members was some officers call of duty and persecution letter of employment. Martin was literally out of the holding area when a call came from hospital that Martin was not to be let loose .The ranking officer had more he had to prove. He arrived in the late hours of dusk and tried his hand at karate kicks and punching Martin, as Martin did not cry nor bleat  ,but demanded for a fair fight .It astounded them ,and sounded rude at the final ,it was decided that he be taken to a stops camp where both criminals ,political detainees ,and thugs were put up ,and news arrived already that a young lad had beaten his political opponent and was being brought into their holding cells. Martin was a hero when he arrived . The chief inspector was.in the following morning,and Martin s age was of concern when other political opponents were beaten black and blue and forced into submission for crimes they did not commit ,as they too ,were being trailed in their suburbs by political opponents of the ruling party. The high ranking officer was waiting for Martins release ,at his gate at home and revenge was on his breathe each day .Martins release was quick and swift ,he saw himself out on the street and heading home .His young brother approached him to give him a letter that he was going for teacher training interviews for those who wanted scholarships to Cuba . The idea was exciting but to Martin who had no proper clothes and a jogger shot and t-shirt ,how would he succeed. at such an interview nor get over his other pressing problem. He would not as his cousin who had already arrived at the interviews ,started showing off ,and laughing at him and pulling a crowd of beau's towards himself for that sake.. The interviews went on until they were all told to come the next day for their results .His cousin took the information home to their parents that Martin was a total embarrassement and failure who went in to the interviews in shorts and a t-shirt ,as he his cousin wore the latest fancy suit there. The high ranking officer was also prowling his area out for him ,,with his own troop of supporters he had to sleep at a nearby drinking hole called a shabeen for cover . The next day Martin had heard the rumours about him but still went to hear the results and hoping . Knocking on his mind was the idea that he had seen the panel of judge's knod their heads continually as he came into the room .It was something to raise his curiosity as his zeal.Maybe his muscles impressed them or he was impressive enough or handsome enough to capture their attention ,as they too were being nice to him 2000 people were interviewed countrywide ,and they needed only 50 from here. All out of 500 ,the announcement came .The names were called and the first name to come out was that of Martin Moyo ,and Martin stepped out ,only to see another lad step out like him ,making his spirits sink . The person making the announcement said I want the one who is going to teach mathematics,and it was him ,the other person was there for biology . His cousins name was never mentioned as Martin discovered later that Cuba was under sanctions for a long time and they did not want people living the wealthy rich kind of lifestyle as in America but those trying their best to do what they can with the little they had . The prowling officer never stopped visiting their home until he got tired ,and ten years after the incidence ,Martin was a teacher enjoying his beer ,with less muscle to his body when the person who kept buying him his beer ,him thinking it must be one of his students parents who excelled in mathematics was thanking him for his efforts and finally told him that he thought so that he did not so remember him .He said he did ,and his host said no as he started a narrative of his predicament because of him in his early years as a high ranking police officer on the party's ticket and that trully ,he did not remember him .. Then out of the blue he started telling of the career that ended when his party lost and how he once beat up the wrong people because of him in his youth ten years ago .Martins mouth went dry ,and he thought of the movements he was making to the toilets and back leaving his beer unattended .He could be poisoned he thought and thought again as he excused himself pretending to be going to the toilet but out into the street and made his way out of the bar never to be seen again . The 

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Saif's Diary

Dear diary, It was a nice day, I Saif, today I played a lot with Mansi, my best friend, she is a Hindu. We were playing in Mansi's backyard. Meanwhile her grandmother called us. She prepared a plate with sweets, diya(curved shape candle), small round earthen pot filled with holy water, flowers, rice, red colour thread, and dry red colour. I asked granny curiously that what this red colour is for she replied in their custom it is called kumkum and this plate is prepared for Govardhan Puja. "Govardhan! Puja? What's this all," I asked confusingly. "(In India) ceremonial worship of a Hindu deity including rituals and offerings is Puja," granny replied. "What about this Govardhan Puja," I asked. "Govardhan Puja is celebrated to commemorate the tale of Govardhan hill and Lord Krishna. According to the legend, when Lord Krishna was staying in Gokul, his natives were a staunch follower of Lord Indra, the God of Rains. They used to worship and supplicate him enthusiastically. However, one day, Lord Krishna questioned the villagers and advised them to worship the Govardhan hill rather than Lord Indra as the hill protected them from the rain and other calamities. Convinced by Krishna’s plea, the natives started worshipping Govardhan hill. This infuriated Lord Indra and consequently, he cursed Gokul with heavy rains. Then Lord Krishna came to the rescue of the natives. It is believed that he picked up the Govardhan hill on his little finger and protected the natives who snuggled under the shade of the hill," she answered. "Oh wow, it's so amazing," I replied. "Since then, Govardhan Puja is celebrated day after Deepawali, the festival of lights by worshipping and supplicating Lord Krishna. It is Cereals like wheat, rice, and curry of gram flour and leafy vegetables are supplicated to the deity. On this day Govardhan hill is also worshipped by making hillocks of cow dung. Moreover, some devotees make a miniature idol of Lord Krishna, decorate it with seenkh, candles and diyas and worship it. Women on these days commonly observe day-long fasts. In some families, Govardhan puja is celebrated by worshipping Lord Vishwakarma, the God of machines. Daughters of the house worship the machines and automobiles in the house and put a tilak on each. There is also a ritual of giving money as gifts to women on this day. The day ends with a puja in which Lord Krishna is worshipped." Grandma told me. "Nice, it is," I mummered. "You know my boy," she said and I glared at her. "Not only hindu community worships mother nature, there are more who do so." "I would like to know their names," I asked in a question sense. "One of these is Shinto," Granny said,"Shinto, traditionally dating back to 660 B. C. (before Buddhism), is a loosely organized religion of the Japanese people embracing a wide variety of beliefs and practices including worship of nature. Shinto religion is polytheistic in nature and it involves the worship of spirits called "kami". In the eighteenth century, the scholar Moto-ori Norinaga said that kami were, "Anything whatsoever which was outside the ordinary, which possessed superior power, or which was awe-inspiring". The followers of shintoism worship: Nature - rivers, rocks, waterfalls, the moon, and so on Charismatic people such as emperors Abstract concepts like fertility and growth Shinto teaches that everything contains a kami ,"spiritual essence", commonly translated as god or spirit. The kami reside in all things, but certain places are designated for the interface of people and kami: sacred nature, shrines, and kamidana. Sacred Nature: There are natural places considered to have an unusually sacred spirit about them, and are objects of worship. They are frequently mountains, trees, unusual rocks, rivers, waterfalls, and other natural edifices. In most cases they are on or near a shrine grounds. Shrines: The shrine is a building built in which to house the kami. Kamidana: The kamidana is a home shrine (placed on a wall in the home) that is a "kami residence" that acts as a substitute for a large shrine on a daily basis." "Ohh..anymore?" I asked "It is our Hindu religion," she replied. Vedic people used to worship nature …there god were indra(raining deity),agni dev (fire deity),marut(air deity) etc…hindu also worship nature, they worship sun as deity… ganga as sacred river, Mountains are the place of hindu godess …peepal(sacred fig) is respectful tree…tulsi is also sacred ..many animals like snake worship in nag panchami,Hanuman is the monkey god…cow is the secred (respectful) animal …Nandi (bull) and snake is the part of shiva temple ..fire used in many rituals and worship and they are secred…water use in worship …there are many examples where you can find out that hindu worship (respect) nature but many people don't understand the good intention about the things…we don't know about god but we know about our Nature if it is created by God ,we should respect and preserve it." "This is so informative," I replied. "You know, Once lord of Air wandering on the forest ,the small trees were band,the lord of air laugh at them and runaway a head,but the banyan tree not band,,lord of air asked the banyan tree,Are you not afraid of me?the banyan tree sais,my top is called brahama,the branches are called the vishnuji,and the whole part is called the brahma ,vishu,shive,the lord of air ,salute the banyan tree and gone away by the crying face!thus the trees are worshipped by Aryan culture on the earth as the first god on the earth!" Granny told. "We should preserve our mother nature." "Mother nature, why you said nature as mother nature?" I asked. "God created a special Mother, exceedingly loving and caring. As ever enchanting and sustaining as she is, God had lovingly calld her ‘NATURE And she soon turned into the merciful ‘MOTHER NATURE.’ Yet now she is sad and tearful. As her children are cruel and thankless as never before. They have not stopped tormenting her making her sad and sobbing as never before. " She replied. "She is so overpowering with her motherly love and concern , a deep feeling of peace and serenity overwhelm me whenever I'm in her close proximity away from mundane world . We should think Nature as a mother because she genuinely deserves a mother’s respect and love. Ancient cultures personify Nature as mother because Nature embodies the aspects of nurturing and the life-giving qualities of a mother .The peace and tranquillity that we find in Nature reflect our bond of genuine love and affinity which we inherently have with Nature. The sustenance which Nature provides us is the life-line of ouŕ existence...." So my dear diary it's all for today. I really learnt a lot from Manisha's Grandmother.

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