Hurricane Emmy - Fiction

Grandma’s old stuff is always fun to go through, the idea of holding history in your hands! Grandma is the old lady who lives down the street, we aren’t really related, however, she never had any children so I’m her granddaughter.
I walked over to Grandma’s house an hour before lunch, she likes baking before lunch. Inside was like a whole world compacted into a single house. Artifacts from all over the world sat, carefully placed, on dressers and shelves. Native American, Old French, Chinese, and some other culture I couldn’t place. It always smelled of cookies and banana nut bread, not that ‘old people smell people relate with the smell of strong powders and too much perfume. I walked down the front hall very slowly admiring the pictures, like I had done each time I came over.
“Grandma?” I called out, standing still so I could listen for her silent shuffling feet. My eyes caressed the wall where pictures of Grandma as a woman, maybe in her mid-thirties.
Nothing.
“Emmy?” My voice rang out, ”It’s Chess, where are you?” I shouted as I passed through the house, circling through the kitchen into the living room and onto the little library, that was part of a little sunroom. I hastened my pace as I neared the kitchen for a second time, then stopped and looked around just in case.
And I found it.
Dear Chess,
I’ve stepped out for another adventure! You can look around the attic
while I’m gone, if you get bored.
See you Soon!
With Love your Emmy
It was written on a torn piece of paper, and curiosity got the best of me so I looked on the back.

"9-4-38 Kristy"

A simple date and that’s all that it said.
“The attic!” I exclaimed, feeling more and more ridiculous, “Right.” Emmy usually gave me little history lessons when I came over. The attic was where we had our discussions because it was full of Grandma’s possessions, full but not organized. “9-4-38” I muttered, thinking of what I knew of 1938. I repeated the date out loud, thinking over and over. “Grandma…was in New York around then.” I stated my conclusion, as the attic door clicked open. I crossed the room and opened the window seat Grandma kept her childhood trinkets, toys and journals.
Inside the compartmented seat was a box labeled ‘Storm ‘38’, I opened the box and found it full of pictures, letters, articles from old newspapers, and at the very bottom was a beige journal with the name Emmy embroidered on the top right corner. The weight was more than it would have appeared to be. It’s pages were weather damaged and faded in some areas.
I opened the cover and began to read the words and thoughts of a younger Emmy. Most were records of sunny days and happy times at the beach, or written memories of Emmy’s life in the northern coast. I flipped and read through with a thirst until I reached my lesson for the day.
September 4, 1938.
I stopped. My thirst for the past not quenched but I just couldn’t continue with the fire I had had. Maybe it was the blotches of ink on the page that made me realize that Emmy had been crying when she wrote this entry. But I read on.
 -
Dear Diary,
Rivers of water now rule the streets, while the tears and distress overcome us all.
The day woke with normality, a typical rainstorm brewed in the dawn to caress the Earth through the day. The fishermen left with unease even though the winds were fierce and powerful but were on their side, and the rains angered and fought with the sea. A hurricane was in our midst. No one dared to brave the roads and those who had woken with unease left in the early morning, leaving streets partially abandoned.
Kristy and I sat on the couch looking out of the windows from a distance. Watching trees dance in the winds, being soaked with rain, shaking in the cold. I held on to Kristy, as if the wind would break in to our home and steal her away from me. Meanwhile, Mum and Dad paced the hallway trying to think of the safest thing to do.
Minutes passed, that felt more like eons, but no change of good came. Instead the roads and alleyways flooded pulling out the abandoned toys of the neighborhood. Nicholas’ bike was pulled down to the roaring bay and David’s new baseball bat floated on the churning waves. About an hour later the water began to spill into the house, creeping like a lion stalking its prey. I pulled Kristy up off the couch and ran upstairs to hide, while Mum and Dad attempted to secure all of the windows and doors.
There was a shutting sound from across the hall where Mum had gone, then a shatter of glass. I told Kristy to stay there and ran to the other room. Dad beat me there, but couldn’t keep what had happened. Mum was gone. The window was smashed to pieces and the old shutters were flapping madly in the wind. Dad ushered me out of the room, but there was no point because I was running across the hall, back to Kristy. I just held onto her, fighting the threatening tears and shaking my head when she asked where our mother was.
There were loud whistles, thuds, and slashes, and as the storm continued the house shook a few times. With each thud Kristy screamed out with fear, and with every time the house shook she cried into my shoulder.
We stayed huddled in the bathroom for hours and the thuds finally stopped as well as the house’s shaking but the rain poured down still and the wind howled. We got thirsty and hungry as the day struggled along, so we drank water from the faucet in the bathroom and ate peppermints we found in Dad’s coat pockets. Later we heard screams from outside, I held onto Kristy, and Dad went across the hall to find out what was happening. Tommy and three year old May were floating down the flooded street on an old sled. Dad had come back to tell me about them being in trouble and then went to go help them. We waited, but Dad didn’t come back and there were no shouts or cries for help.
I told Kristy I was going to go get pillows, however Kristy disagreed and I couldn’t argue with why. Last time someone went off alone they didn’t come back. So we went together, quickly, to our bedroom and grabbed some pillows and blankets and snuck around for some candles and returned to the bathroom. As the day passed Kristy began to fall asleep and I just sat there against the wall holding her.
-
My vision blurred as the entry came to an end, or at least that’s when I noticed it. I thought I knew a lot about Emmy, and I couldn’t describe how it felt knowing that my entire conception of her was completely off base. She was still the only woman I knew to have traveled all over the world, acted as a nurse in over sea wars and still come home and lived a life of adventure. She is the bravest woman I have ever known and even though she is no young dancer anymore she is still beautiful. The diary doesn’t change who I know her to be only made what I knew of her more astounding.
I looked at the next page; it had the consecutive day but was written in the same pen and splashed with tears and smeared in dirt as the previous entry. So I picked up on that day Emmy had taken the pain inflicting time to write down.
-
The next day it was sunny, Kristy and I stayed side by side the whole time as we ventured the ruins of our house. It was a mess, I went to the stairs, Kristy holding my side, and looked at the flooded downstairs. Thankfully the water only went passed the first step. I piggybacked my little sister to the kitchen and found some apples that had survived and avoided the polluted water. We ate while sitting on the counter tops, in silence. When Kristy was full we went back upstairs and changed into clean clothes and drier shoes.
The house was quiet but a little after lunch Kristy heard shouts outside.
-
I stopped reading, again, and looked at the pictures that were bundled together with ancient rubber bands. The first picture was taken from, what I guessed was, an attic showing the destruction of a neighborhood; a rocking chair floated close to the edge of the picture. Then a house, flooded with polluted muddy water. The pictures all seemed the same, until the last one. A girl sat wrapped in a towel with a pained, grim look on her face. Her hair was soaked but you could still see the curls her hair had, her cheeks had patches of mud caked to her skin and you could see the paths tears had eroded into the dried dirt. But what caught my eye was the little doll she held in her stiff hands. It was small, a perfect little girl with red curls and a cherry smile holding an even smaller teddy bear.
I looked back in the window seat, a funny feeling tickling my memory. There, at the bottom, was the doll from the picture. Gingerly I picked up the tender doll with both hands, careful not to damage it in anyway. Its dusty skin had patches of mud on the bottom of the dolls skirt. I briskly dusted the excess layer of ‘skin’ off the doll and watched it crumble into a fine sediment as it fell to the floor.
Setting the doll down I looked back into the hidden chest. Newspapers and picture frames still littered the floor. I picked up the top paper reading the headlines YOUNG GIRL ORPHANED and below the bold print was a picture of the little girl the same girl in the other picture, holding the doll. Only she was with people, a woman dressed in a flowing dress and caring smile, a man in shorts and a loose button up shirt, and another little girl in a polka dot dress. The orphaned girl was wearing a solid coloured dress and a hat; she was smiling and hugging the younger girl.
I picked the journal up once more, turned the page to the next entry, not bothering to finish the one I started, and began to read what happened next.
-
The doll fell out of the boat and Kristy cried out, yelling “save my dolly”, but before waiting she dived into the river, like we do when we go to the pool. But the river was only three feet deep at best. I yelled for Kristy not to jump but I was too late and she was determined to save the last things our parents had given her. Kristy hit her head, receiving a concussion. I rushed over to her and got her into the boat, and ducked under the water for the doll. I gave Kristy the doll and noticed her breathing was weird, so I pulled the boat as fast as I could trying to find someone, anyone so Kristy could get help. When I managed to get the little raft to the end of the street Kristy wasn’t breathing. She died before I managed to find anyone to help us.
-
I felt so connected to Emmy, through her story, I couldn’t keep reading. Emmy had lost her entire family in one storm. Her mother lost through a window, her father taken during a good deed and her sister under her watch. She felt responsible for her sister’s death.
I heard a jingle of keys, downstairs.
“Chess?” an old voice called from the kitchen. Grandma. I sat the journal down and took the doll from my lap and sat it down nest to the journal; while I rushed down to see Grandma, as if the storm had been yesterday.
“Yes? I’m here.” I said, noticing she had grocery bags I grabbed a few from her little wagon she was using. “How was your day?”
“Beautiful. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and we are all in good health,” she said with a smile.
I couldn’t help but smile back. Grandma Emmy had gone through so much and she looked at the brighter side of everything.

Later I looked up more information about the hurricane of 1938. Emmy had survived a hard storm. When Emmy and I talked about what happened she confessed that she felt responsible for the death of her little sister and for not staying with her mother and calling out for her father to stay closer to her like she wanted to do. But that she also lived as much as she could. Not just for her, but for her little sister and her deceased parents. Grandma was meteorologist for 20 years and she specialized in hurricanes and tornadoes. As well as being an active participant of a volunteer group that worked for natural disaster preparedness and recovery.

Time Of Death - Fiction. I've Been Watching Scrubs Again.

The first death on your watch isn’t even your fault. You’re just one of the many interns who rush to the bedside when the code is called, peering at the doctors crowding around. As the patient gasps and chokes, you too gasp and choke as each electric shock blasts through the body. The doctors are grim-faced but determined; you hopelessly wonder why they even bother. Again and again the voltage is cranked up, but thunderbolts can only do so much.

The doctor holding the paddles slowly turns away from the flaccid flesh and another quietly asks, “Time of death?” You back away, feeling as if the defibrillator was really meant for you as your heart pounds out its own furious pace. A devastated mother takes your wrist. “Time of death?” she whispers, mis­taking you for a doctor, someone who tried his best to resuscitate her darling daughter, someone who knew what he was doing, someone with guts enough to challenge death. Not a first-year intern who never could remember which number was the systolic for blood pressure, not someone who didn’t even dare to take blood sugar levels.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” you blurt. “You’ll be able to talk to the doctors inside…” you mumble, patting the trembling hand. She bites her lip and nods, letting go of the scrubs that you shouldn’t be wearing, the scrubs reserved for those who can save lives, not for those who don’t even know how to gently break death to a loved one.

The third death is similar, only this time you’ve been dragged along for scut work. You’re the one ramming your hands into the sternum, trying to force the fluttering heartbeat into your rhythm. You’re the one leaping out of the way of the defib paddles, jumping back to start compressions again. The patient bottoms out, but after the paddles thunder a third time, you can feel the thump of the heart, tangoing with yours as you collapse against a chair, arms quivering with strain. You shudder with relief. You brought him back. You saved him. You.

The eighteen death is the hardest. That little baby in neo-natal care should never have been forced to live on machines. Each breath is a struggle, and the medications are flowing in a poisonous concentration for such a small body, yet the parents insist on continuing the farce of life. They’re unwilling to bear any grief while their baby boy wheezes and thrashes weakly, seeking comfort but receiving only the hard embrace of a hospital cradle and the groan of machines.

The mother shrieks, “He’s blue! Do something!” After you reach the crib and despair at the readouts, you motion the code team away and beckon to the mother and father.

“The best thing for him is to take him off the machines,” you say.

The dad glares. “You want to kill him.”

They don’t understand the torture they have put him through. “If he even survives a year, he will be severely physically and mentally disabled. For life,” I persist.

The mother moans, “He’s blue! I don’t care. Just save him! Now!”

You nod at the code team, maneuvering yourselves around the tiny crib and pulling off the oxygen mask, trying to fit your large palms against the flimsy baby with his face scrunched up in a silent wail. The heart drugs aren’t having any effect due to the amount of medication already flowing through his body.

“Use the shocker!” the mother wails.

“We can’t!” you snarl, trying to give compressions to a weak chest and an even weaker malformed heart. “Your baby is too small and his heart is deformed! If we do, we’ll kill him!”

The code leader shakes his head. “Time of death ….”

“No!”

“3:36 p.m.”

The thirty-third death is the best death. You’re the one in charge. If a code is called, you will wield the paddles, call out “Clear!” You have the final say on time of death if it occurs. You won’t let those words pass your lips.

But she smiles at you through her pure white hair. “I’m ready to leave. Are you ready to let me go?”

You sob, throw down the clipboard. “No, Mum! I don’t want you to.”

She still wears the tender smile of years past as her body wastes away and shrivels to a mere fraction of her vitality. “But it’s necessary. I need you to. And you know it.”

“Mum ….”

And she brushes her hand against yours, squeezing it once before closing her eyes. “You’re ready.”

You kiss her cooling cheek then note: “Time of death: 9:12 a.m., Thursday, April 24 ….”

I Wish For Her - Fiction

“Is that her?”
“What? Who?”
“Shh … here she comes.”

“Oh … her.”

We avert our eyes as she walks by. We clutch our books tightly to our chests, stare down at our shoes, and hold our breath as she passes. Whispers follow her like shadows as she scurries up the stone stairs, through the metal doors. Lisa and I exchange looks. The bell rings in our ears, and we head inside.

“Who’s she with today?” Lisa asks at lunch.

“Toby,” I scoff, biting into my ­sandwich.

“Figures. Apparently they had a great time at Jack’s apartment last weekend.” I make a face.

“Disgusting.” Lisa laughs.

“I bet she has all sorts of diseases.”

“I bet she’s wearing his hoodie. The one that smells as bad as he does.”

“I bet she’s gonna be one of those girls who never goes to college and ends up on the street.”

“I bet she’s gonna be a …” I look around to make sure no teachers are listening, “whore.”

That’s her new name. It spreads like a foul disease around the school, through the hallways, passed from one lip-gloss-smeared mouth to the next. Some kids just call her “The W,” or “The H” for the stupid ones who can’t spell. It’s what she is. It’s who she is. And none of us like her. None except Toby and Mitchell and all those guys who are too dumb to see her for who she really is. We see her kissing guys in the alley after school each day, like she doesn’t even care, like she doesn’t even know.

Don’t worry, we’re gonna make her realize who she really is. We’re gonna make her feel so bad she’ll shrink like a little mouse and learn her lesson and stay away from all of them, especially Devin, who liked me all of year seven ’til she stole him last summer.

We isolate her. We don’t speak to her, not even when she asks what the homework for last night was. Find it out yourself, stupid. We leave notes in her locker, and we snicker as she walks by.

Have you learned your lesson yet, princess? Are you ever gonna stop wearing so much lipstick and eyeliner and skirts that are way too short? Are you ever gonna put out that cigarette or throw out those bottles? You’re 13 – what’s wrong with you? Didn’t your parents ever teach you what’s right and wrong? Half the year hates you. Sticks and stones, you say, but soon it’ll be real. I will smash up your pretty face if I have to. I’ll break your bones. I could snap your neck over my knee.

***

I walk home from Lisa’s house, and I take the long way because I want to look at the moon and the stars. I want to cross the cornfield, because once I saw a shooting star. I have to walk through the sketchy neighborhood to get there, though, but I should be okay if I hurry.

Suddenly, I hear a man’s voice ­coming from one of the houses, the one with the tiles falling off and the rusty car in the driveway. He is yelling. I rush behind a tree, heart ­racing so loud I’m sure he can hear. Suddenly I see a familiar figure. It’s her. She and the man are yelling at each other. He lashes out at her, and I wince. I can hear the slap.

And then the door closes. She is alone, and she sits on her porch steps. And she cries. I’ve never seen her cry before. Alone, with no boys, out in the cold night, crying, crying, crying so hard she can’t breathe. Her tears make ugly black lines down her face. And suddenly, she looks up, and our eyes lock. I run.

I run past the houses and the deli and the gas station with the creepy owner, and the ice cream store where we get really great slushies. I cross the street, my heart racing, out of breath and into the lush grass of the cornfield. I collapse on the ground, my arms and legs spread apart, trying to catch my breath and hold back the tears, though I can’t understand why they’re coming.

She was so alone. So sad. She is loved by no one but those boys. And I’m not sure they even really love her.

Suddenly I look up and see something sparkle across the indigo sky, a little explosion of white like a firecracker on bonfire night. I close my eyes.

And I wish for her.

Shitty Mascara - Short American Style Fiction (Lot's of research on the Americanisms)

I wipe at my stupid eyes with the back of my hand, and it startles me for a second that my tears are gray. I dunno why it surprised me; I mean, I buy the s***ty mascara that’s $1.99 in the 20 Items or Less checkout lane. Why spend oodles of green on something I hardly ever use?

I just wanted to look nice, you know? Like those girls who’re just naturally fake pretty. The girls who can blend shades of eyeshadow like no one’s business, and match their lipstick to the exact color of their toenail polish or whatever. Seemingly effortless, yet impeccably coordinated.

This is good stuff, I should write for a living – solely on the subject of beauty queens with superiority complexes, of course.

I just want … God, what do I want? I want to feel the sun on my face and paint the clouds and hear the music in the trees and love myself and love someone else and just feel perpetually beautiful.

But that requires the $14.99 waterproof, fire-retardant, Grade-5-hurricane-resistant mascara, not the tube that’s two bucks in Lane 4.

My shoes are dirty and outdated, but that’s how I like them. I like these shoes. They’re comfortable. Why do I need new, expensive, fashionably appealing shoes in order for someone to say, “Hey dogg, you look nice today”?

And why is it that whenever I get deathly bored and slather cheap, pore-clogging makeup all over my face everyone suddenly says, “Wow, you look pretty!”? Since when is “pretty” about whale blubber and cocoa butter?

I’ll tell you one thing, though. I most definitely am not crying about some stupid XY.

Definitely not.

I’m crying for all the whales that have to give up their fatty insulation so that some fugly anorexic super bitch can paint herself pretty every freaking day, giving him something halfway decent to oggle all the time.

Seriously, I’m not leaking saltwater over a guy.

I just think it’s cruel and unfair that the fat-endowed marine life population doesn’t even get the slightest warning that they’ll soon be on a cosmetics endcap at K-Mart.

He could have at least broken it to me gently, you know? We’ve been friends since the George Bush/Al Gore debacle.

I mean come the Bette Midler on.

I spill my blood, guts, and viscera out to this guy and he throws down the “Let’s just be friends” card without a second thought?

It’s just … it’s common courtesy to ease someone into heartbreak, not smash it over their head like a whiffleball bat.

You know what? I’m going to take my $1.99 checkout Lane 4 mascara and chuck it right at her big, stupid square head.

Opulence - Short Fiction Set In America (For my USA readers)

I’ve been watching him for days now. When he leaves his house to go to school, I’m the one carefully tailing him, switching cars every day to make myself look less suspicious. If he ever sneaks out of his second-story room, I’ll be the one silently watching from a nearby tree. In class when he turns, feeling eyes on the back of his head, I’m the one who sent the hair on the back of his neck up on end. I am the girl whose shadow is always slightly overlapping his.

Being assigned to watch him almost makes me
feel like I’m not a stalker. Though I’m only 17, I’m a full-fledged member of the organization known as O.P.U.L.E.N.C.E. I’ve been with them since the ­tender age of five. It’s my home. Being an orphan, my office is also my permanent residence, the couch a fold-out bed. There are many others like me: no family. A lot of us are loners and haven’t chosen this route for ourselves.

I’m a tracker. I have been for years and some might say that I am the best at not being the best. In other words, I’m great at being invisible. Or at not being noticed. It’s not as hard as the others in the organization think. Being young and female is good, since most we track are young. Seeing me around younger people – my age, actually – doesn’t raise alarm bells. It helps that I’m cute. With a small frame, light hazel eyes, and short blond hair that curls under my chin, I don’t appear threatening. Of course, my ­organization-funded training doesn’t back that theory.

Soon I won’t be tracking down others with the power. They are finally going to give me an apprentice. After years of mastering everything I’ve been taught, they see my potential. That’s not to say I know everything. Even with my extended life I won’t be able to learn all the things I want to. If only this annoying boy would show the signs. It’s been almost a week. If he doesn’t show soon, they’ll reassign me. That much longer until I get my apprentice.

So here I am, sipping a latté and waiting for the Target to leave for school. I have been put in all of his classes in case something happens there, though I graduated high school years ago. Private tutors sped things up. With no family or personal ties, I had lots of time to devote to my studies. Martial arts black belts. Twelve languages, not including English. Everything a girl needs for a serious career in the agency. Such positions of power are not handed out easily. You must prove yourself many times over.

The Target and I have never spoken, but I know a lot about him. His file told me some, but after watching him for only a few days, I feel confident in saying that I know things no one else does. Not just the obvious, either. He resents his father and is protective of his mother, which makes me suspect the father is less than faithful. He smiles often but doesn’t make a lot of eye contact. He usually only speaks when spoken to. Although he has many friends, he isn’t close with any of them. The Target is observant, a watcher. This leads me to believe we would get along if he shows any promise.

I look down at my watch, then back at his house a few blocks away. The Target is late, which means I’ll be late too. Today my ride is a shiny black sports car, not out of place in this suburb full of midlife-crisis men. I turn on the engine impatiently. I’m fiddling with the radio when I hear something. I don’t feel any immediate danger, and I know to trust those feelings. But I ­also know that something is off.

Just as I am about to get out of the car and pretend to look in the trunk, the passenger door opens. I look up in surprise as the Target slides into the seat next to me. I grin, quite pleased by this turn of events. This is definitely a good sign. Perhaps intuition is strong in him. That would be good for my apprentice to have, complementary. I could handle having to deal with that.

“Hello, Lenna. Why have you been following me for a week now?” the Target asks lightly, conversationally, his first words ever said in my direction.

Ah, one of my many aliases. The organization set it up so that whenever I’m on a case, I get a new name, past, and present. It’s very powerful. The organization can basically do anything it needs; it has people everywhere imaginable. I’m just one of many, though there aren’t that many at the top, as I am. They don’t trust many to be trackers. Or to be apprentices. All of the full members have the power, though we control others to get things done.

My smile deepens as I say in my authoritative, professional voice, “My real name is Jade. I am a witch of the moon and a tracker for the organization known as O.P.U.L.E.N.C.E. You are also a witch. We would like to formally welcome you into the organization as my apprentice. Here is my card for verification.”

Jade Wordsworth
Tracker for O.P.U.L.E.N.C.E
Official Political Understanding Lending ­Everyone ­Navigation for Co-Existing Ethereals
Office hours: 8 a.m.-3 p.m. Mon-Sat
Phone: 555-5555
Proud league of witches of the sun and moon.
Worldwide.

“What do you mean ‘moon and sun’? Or ‘tracker’?” he asks, still looking at my card like it’s going to ­disappear.

“Types of magic. Moon is all about spells, the sun is more potion-based, though each type of witchcraft involves the other somehow. As a tracker, I find people like you and I bring them to O.P.U.L.E.N.C.E. Every witch must register, train, and become a member by law. In fact, the organization is like a government targeted toward witches,” I explain with a smile, loving the fact that this time I get to teach the newbie.

“Magic? Seriously?” he asks, eyes wide, meeting mine. They are large, yellow, and catlike.

I click a button on my left, automatically locking the doors. I put the car into drive, pulling out onto the road. As an afterthought I add as a courtesy, “I think you had better come with me.” .

Photograph My Feelings - Fiction

His words drown together, lost somewhere between his mouth and my ear, until she nudges me.

“… However, Ms. Lock, we are concerned about her low attendance, failing grades, and frankly, her overall well-being.” He pauses to glance at the montage of papers spewed across his desk and scribble, presumably, nonsense. “Many of Rachel’s teachers and superiors have expressed great concern and brought it to my attention numerous times. Now I understand the circumstances, but Ms. Lock–”

“Don’t be silly; call me Kari,” she interrupts as she lends him a closed smile. She tucks her chemical blond hair behind her ear, which is visibly weighed down by her faux diamond earring. She scoots closer to him.

Words no longer retain form, accompanying the hum of the heater. My eyes are engrossed in the carpet’s pattern, following each zig and zag, until finally I end where I began.

He hands her an official Harper High pen and points to the line on which she is to provide a signature, as he summarizes five pages of legal information. He claims he’s found the perfect program for me. He says lots of other youth who have faced similar obstacles as me have been very responsive. He says he thinks that I will be too.

I silently wish him luck with that.

No, I am not going.

I’m a lot of things but not a charity project. Nope. Never. No, thank you. She can’t make me go. Can she? She makes me go, despite my pleas.

***

I step outside into the unwelcomingly brisk morning and begin to unwrap a granola bar. Kicking a small pebble, hands safely tucked in pockets, I watch my breath, like smoke, exiting my body, vaporizing into air. Maybe this is as close as I’ll ever get to proof of my existence.

I enter the building which he claims will save me. Taking my time to roam this unfamiliar territory in search of room 201, I find the hallway to be unusually narrow, almost as if its walls are closing in on me.

I take two deep breaths before entering the room. The door creaks open, and I get the uneasy sensation that I’m not only late but intruding on an exclusive moment. I am greeted by blank stares and a middle-aged woman sporting blond pigtails and a feigned smile, complete with a coral pink lipstick smudge across one tooth.

She leaps from a plastic chair and shrieks a welcoming serenade, assuring me that my tardiness is excusable because it is my first day, but to never let it happen again. She looks me straight in the eye and gives me the firmest handshake I’ve ever received.

I enter the circle of chairs. However, it seems to have taken the shape of a blob. I find myself in the middle of a mousy freshman dressed in head-to-toe purple and a boy who reeks of Indian food.

I look around from chair to chair, searching for a familiar face. Some look like they’ve been messed up. Most look completely normal, but they don’t fool me. No, I see past the pink eye shadow, the beat-up jeans paired with punk-band T-shirts, and the brand new team jerseys. If I were religious, I’d find myself right here, in this very room, praying to God that I’m not that easily read.

Pigtails hands each of us a journal. She tells us that anything is fair game, just as long as we write each day. She says it’s important to get our thoughts onto paper, even when they seem miniscule. Miniscule – I know what that feels like.

I am scared to open the journal. Words are dangerous, especially when we write them down. If I’m not careful, they might betray me.

The next morning, Pigtails asks if I will read my first journal entry aloud. I shake my head no. She doesn’t push me and quickly moves on, telling us that the visitors in the room are our new counselors, here to meet with us individually. I feel terrible for mine.

I am paired with a Mr. E. Tear, as he formally introduces himself, but says that I should call him Emmitt. In return, I tell him my name is Rachel, and that that was probably as much as he’d ever get to know about me. I make sure he knows it’s nothing personal.

“I agree, I’m not much for talking,” Emmitt replies with a wink. “If you keep it between you and me, I want to be here just about as much as you do. This counseling gig is only temporary.”

I nod in acknowledgment.

Once I arrive home, I smell the foreign scents of a home-cooked dinner. I make my way into the kitchen to find my mother in his lap.

“Rachel, honey, you remember Daniel, your principal, right?” she asks, almost as if she’s mocking me.

He shifts her from his knee onto a separate seat, standing as he brushes the wrinkles out of his suit. “Rachel, it’s wonderful to see you,” he states.

I laugh out of despair, pivoting in the direction of my room, leaving her to apologize for me.

***

Sometimes I play a game. I let my alarm clock sound, without shutting it off, as I lie in bed, counting the hours until someone, anyone, notices.

Emmitt looks surprised to see me, but he never asks me why I haven’t been showing up. I sit down and he hands me a photograph of a woman. She isn’t beautiful by society’s standards. However, the more I contemplate her crooked nose and the way her freckles mask her face, the more she begins to grow on me.

Emmitt tells me how sorry he is he never took his own passion for photography more seriously. He says it’s the only thing that makes him feel worthy of occupying a life, that in his mind, capturing beauty and humor on a five-by-seven sheet of paper, is the biggest miracle he’ll ever perform. That maybe his art could change anothers’. He says that for the most part he hates people. All they do is care about themselves.

“We’re just too single-minded!” he keeps exclaiming, as he grabs what little hair he has in frustration. At the end, I’ll ask that he bring another picture next time.

I fumble through my journal until I find a fresh sheet of paper. Sometime after learning of Emmitt’s fire for photography, I lost my fear of words. And suddenly, I’ve become addicted to them, to thinking that my words are important enough for paper. In some ways, I blame Emmitt.

Pigtails asks me to read a journal entry aloud again. I lower my head until my eyes reach the piercing white of the paper.



The Daisy

Has Faith departed
Love departed
Both stand in Blank’s shadow
She stands the same as yesterday
Peeling the Daisy’s petals
Each descends slowly
Kissing the grass beneath
Aging into ivy
“Blank made me do it!” she exclaims to
Boy
Boy stands the same as her
Only three states away
Daisy in hand
Feet covered in petals



I raise my head to the class.
“Roses are red,
Violets are blue.”

***

Emmitt says he has what no one else has: A third eye. He believes the lens of his camera allows him to see things his own two eyes can’t. I map my finger around the fiery red curls of the girl in his photograph as I just listen, soaking in his truth.

***

I enter my house. The lights are dim and the atmosphere cold. The sound of rain pattering against the rooftop is accompanied by sniffles from the kitchen where she sits, cupping a cold coffee mug.

The telephone base flashes, indicating missed calls. Once she sees me, she lifts her hand to her mouth as tears stream down her face, hitting the blanket that lies upon her lap.

Once I sit down across from her, she slides what seems to be my journal across the table. I open it, scanning my words and my thoughts, confirming my assumption. I stand up, heartbeat increasing. My mind goes blank as I grab my journal, holding it as close to my chest as possible, as if somehow this can flood the words back into my heart and off these public pages.

“What are you doing with this?” I ask, and my words wobble and hands shake.

“Rachel, I just want you to let me in again. I want to know you like you used to let me.”

I am no longer in control. I cry. I cry so hard I start to heave. I cry about her and about me, but mostly out of humiliation.

“You know, sooner or later you’re going to have to say something to me,” she sighs, defeated, like a balloon whose air is slowly let out. “I liked your poems,” she tries again.

“You had no right to read them. These,” I point to my notebook, “these were private.”

“Oh, Rachel, don’t be a drama queen,” she chuckles.

“I hate you,” I spit.

“Damn it, you will not speak to your mother that way. I raised you better than that.”

“My mother? You haven’t been my mother in four years. Four years. You let man after man into your life, and put me second behind loser after loser.”

She rolls her eyes. “Rachel, don’t make it about that. This has nothing to do with that.”

“THAT? For that, I’ll always hate you – for ­bringing him into my life, for letting him touch me the way you let him. That has everything to do with this.”

I go to bed with complete intentions never to wake up, but when I do, I grab my journal and begin to write. I write about love, deception, hope, and mostly about myself.



Mirror

I reflect the woman
Who sighs as I let her down
The uncertain, the reserved woman
She is calm, a hesitance inside her
Squinting to see her soul

The more I stare
The more I see

I reflect the child
Who laughs and dances
The innocent, the carefree child
She is bright, a sparkle in her eye
Her soul clear as crystal

Intertwined these two beings
Like deep black coal that woman
Aged into a diamond this child

***

Once I enter room 201, I search for Emmitt. I think today I might show him what I’ve written.

“Rachel?” Pigtails gets my attention. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Price, your new counselor.” She places her hand upon the small of my back in an effort to guide me toward her, but I don’t move.

“New counselor? What?” I ask in confusion.

“Mrs. Price will be replacing Mr. Tear. I really think you’ll enjoy her,” she tries to convince me by wrinkling her nose and flashing a blindingly white smile.

Pigtails grabs the arm of a woman dressed in a men’s forest green pantsuit and points in my direction. The woman furrows her eyebrows before her hand reaches for mine. I shake it as she introduces herself. I am not impressed. She isn’t Emmitt.

I don’t last long under the instruction of Mrs. Price. I turn to walk away from room 201, most likely for the last time. My pace increases as I enter the hallway. I push the door open, and as the blistering breeze hits my face, I begin to run. I am running because I don’t know what else to do. I run for freedom, for security, but more for answers.

My eyes scout out a payphone along the sidewalk. I thumb through the battered, hanging telephone book. My eyes reach Tear and my finger finds Emmitt. I dial his number, and am greeted by a chorus of rings.

“You’ve reached Emmitt …” I smile. “And Lindsey!” a woman’s voice interrupts.

I hang up because I feel like I’ve just spied on him, like I’ve just imposed. Of course he has a life of his own. I knew I wasn’t the only part of him. In fact, who am I to say I was a part of him at all? Not once had I talked. He knew hardly anything about me. Frankly, he knew nothing about me. So why had I expected him to stay? I wasted his time. He lasted longer than he should have.

“Emmitt stopped by,” my mom calls from the living room. “He dropped off a letter. It’s on the kitchen table.”

I take it to my bedroom, where I stare at it for a long time. Placing it inside my weathered journal, I decide not to open it. I like to imagine what the letter says sometimes. Maybe he tells me he’ll be coming back, that Mrs. Price was only a substitute, and that it was just a big misunderstanding. Or possibly, he writes of how he wants to take a photograph of me, and the letter describes a time I was to meet him. Maybe, it wasn’t a letter at all, but a newspaper clipping he thought might make me smile.

***

Tonight I can’t sleep. The noise beyond my window­sill awakens me. I switch on my bedside lamp, and open the drawer where my journal lies. I click the pen and begin to write a note I know I will never send.



Emmitt,

I don’t think you know this about me, but I have learned to love writing. In a way, it has become my third eye, letting me see the world beyond the capacity of my own. I think you gave that to me. Thanks for letting me listen.

Rachel

Let's Get Some Coffee - Mid-Length Realistic Fiction

I hate coffee. I hate the taste, I hate the smell, I hate the way people get artificially addicted to it, like it's a trend. People joke about needing coffee to function. It's stupid until you see them without coffee – then it's ugly.

But for you, I'm going to try. I've obviously tasted coffee, but I've never sat down and just drunk it. I'm going to. I'm going to brave the nasty smell and bitter taste and silly stereotypes. Just for you! I'm not sure why. I barely know you. In fact, I've never actually met you. We're meeting for coffee. I've never met someone for coffee. It's so normal and casual. It's so wild and strange. Everyone meets people for coffee. It's nothing extraordinary. Nobody meets people for a chai or an iced tea or something silly like that. Just coffee. So that's what I'm going to do for you. It's new. It's exciting.

Let's not start this off with illusions or lies. I'm not sure what to think of coffee. A lot of people like it, but a lot of people like smoking or heroin. It doesn't make those things healthy. Maybe a lot of people like you, too, but I'm not sure what to think of you either. Are you too bitter, too strong? Are you unhealthy? I want you to be healthy. I want you to be sweet, even if it's bittersweet. I want to like you. Maybe I do. Maybe it's just coffee I'm not sure of. Maybe it's me I'm not sure of. All my thoughts and feelings are mixed up with the past and the present and the smell of coffee in my mind. Please don't hate me.

In a way, this scares me, this meeting for coffee. In a way, coffee weirds me out. I don't want to be one of those people who needs tons of flavors and sweeteners with their coffee. I don't want people to look at me with my coffee and laugh and say, “You want a little coffee with your cream and sugar?” Of course there should be some sweetness. Life needs flavor. It needs cream and sugar. But the point of drinking coffee is to drink coffee. It shouldn't be all hidden, like you're ashamed. If you like coffee and you want to drink it, then go for it! Don't water it down. I don't want to feel like a wuss, like a coffee fraud. I don't want people to look at me and think, Oh, look at that stupid girl drinking coffee just to impress that boy. How pathetic. That's just a sad, ridiculous situation to be caught in.

I'm an honest person. So that's why I'm telling you from the start that I'm not sure about coffee. That's why I'm telling you I'll try it just for you. That's why I want to like coffee for you. So, here we go.

I look down at my lap in the car. I check my reflection in the side mirror. My hair looks decent, but is it good enough? Should I really be wearing this outfit? Is there time to turn around? No. It'll have to do. Funny how much better it looked in the safety of my room, away from this pressure, the pressure of going out for coffee. I'm nervous. I shift my feet and rhythmically move my legs, as I have a habit of doing.

I wonder for a moment if you have nervous habits, or any habits. Do you talk with your hands like me? Are you as clumsy as me? Oh, God, I'm going to spill the coffee on myself. I can see it coming. I take a deep breath so I won't forget. Sometimes I panic and forget to breathe. Honestly.

I can almost smell the coffee already. I wonder if you'll like me, if you'll be impressed by me. Will you find me boring? I think about the way my grammar mysteriously becomes awful when I talk to you, and I wonder if I'm going to embarrass myself.

Now I'm scared to talk at all. Will I be too bitter, too strong? And there's definitely no time to turn back? No, it's just coffee. What if I hate it? Will you hate me? It's just coffee. Hot, steaming, bittersweet coffee. There's no turning back.

I arrive, barely on time, where I promised to meet you. To meet you for coffee. I get out of the car with a sense of growing up, of being incredibly old and yet monumentally young. I'm a silly girl, meeting a boy for coffee for the first time. If I don't like it, I could be stranded here, in Vineland, New Jersey.

I go inside, trying to put some confidence in my step. I'm telling my legs, “Be strong. Don't be clumsy or shy. Be strong. Strong like coffee!”

I see you, I recognize you from your photos, and you recognize me. You know it's me. You come over to say hi. You're smiling, my heart's racing and I'm nervous, I'm scared, oh, I'm so alone, but, God, it's so good to see you smile, to finally see you at all, to hear your voice, to meet you for coffee. I smile back and I know it's going to be all right.

We're two writers, two nervous, silly, like-minded people, pushing our way through a common ritual, meeting for coffee. We shake by with all the wrong verbs and stutter in and out of vibrant, dramatic adjectives. We're putting color in black and white and we're adding flavor with sideways glances. We're accustomed to this, to the frightening mix of hormones, caffeine, and words. We're just young and the same. It's just another conversation – Hi, how are you? Good, you? Good. Wonderful. Cream and sugar. We look around us like tourists, like we've never seen a coffee shop. I decide to be natural and confident. I decide to be strong.

So I look you in the eyes, even though I never look people in the eyes, even though I have self-esteem problems and I'm nervous and I think you'll hate me, even though I wear glasses and I'm terribly self-conscious. I look right into your eyes and say the line I've been writing, rearranging, editing, and rehearsing in my mind the whole way here.

“Let's get some coffee.”

Daddy Has To Be A Soldier - Historical Fiction

“Come back daddy,” I remember my daughter telling me with her big, soft eyes pleading me.

I clearly remember looking her straight in the eyes and confidently saying, “I promise.”

Then, I gave her a big hug, and I left. I left her with my sister looking after her. I left to war. To the war that would end thousands of lives.

So here I am now. The date is exactly June 26, 1950. It is one day after the war between South Korea and North Korea had started. Thousands of other soldiers like me are standing right beside me, in an orderly line. The soft whispers of worry, and anxiety flows through the dry, cracked lips from soldier to soldier. But I stay quiet, not wanting to say anything. The rhythmic beat of the feet shuffling are inevitably loud. With every step, clouds of dust are flying everywhere, causing soldiers to cough.

My once shiny black boots are being spoiled by the dirty brown dust. It is now coated in mud and dirt. But my green cotton trouser and shirt are immaculate. But in the hot, scorching sun above, my cotton uniform is causing me to sweat. There is no breeze of air, and it is extremely humid. Straight ahead of me, I can see heat waves, waving up and down. I desperately need water, but I am too afraid to ask my general to give me water. The trees to the side do not wave back and forth, but instead, they stand perfectly still. The grass is turning yellow, and mosquitoes are eating us alive.

My brown helmet is shielding my head and my long black hair. Sweat slowly trickles down my short, stubby face, and my big, clumsy hands are clamped onto my gun.

I hold my gun straight against my chest, as I march. I had never held a gun before. To be honest, I am quite afraid to be holding this gun at the moment. I remember when my general handed me this gun. I was almost afraid to accept it.

“Do you know where we are going?” suddenly asks one of the soldiers next to me.

I look over at him, and he is sweating bucket full’s of water. He has a worried expression to his face, and he looks as if he is going to faint in any moment. But for some odd reason, his eyes are twinkling, as if he is excited for something. “No,” I respond. “I’ve got no clue where we are going,” I say truthfully.

“Okay,” he simply replies.

Straight ahead of me, I see some armored tanks and cars. They are strolling along in search of any danger. The grey, suffocating steam bubbles out of the back, and rise into the perfect blue sky.

“Where are the North Koreans?” asks the same soldier beside me.

“I don’t know,” I reply with the same answer.

“This is going to be so much fun. I’ve never used a gun before, and I finally get to use one now. This is such an exciting adventure,” he says, with his eyes gleaming with excitement.

I look over at him, and I think that he is crazy. How can war be so much fun? In a way, I wish that I am as excited as he is. I wouldn’t have the fear and the nervousness inside me. I wish that I can pretend that this is all an exciting adventure as well. But I can’t. I’m not that type of person. My tame, quiet personality doesn’t allow me to even think and pretend that sort of way.

I look at my watch and the two arrows point at exactly 12:00. We are still walking down this lonely, dirty path. It is soon lunch time. I can feel blisters start to form underneath my feet. They hurt, and I try to walk on the sides of my feet, so I can avoid popping the blisters.

Suddenly, a loud roar coming from every side deafens my ear. Through the entire deafening rumble, I hear what sounds like a whisper, “Down! Down! Down!”

Obediently, I collapse to the ground. My heart beats so fast, that it feels like it’s all the way up my throat, and sweat quickly rolls down the side of my face. I place my arms over my head, and I try to regain my focus. Through all of the madness, I realize that all of the loud noises are the sounds of the gunshots ripping through the air. With every gunshot, my hands tremble with my gun.

Through all of the gunshots, I can still hear the loud shrieks of the soldiers that are getting shot at the moment. All around me, I see soldiers falling down onto the ground, with big red stains on their chests. I frantically look around my surroundings, and I can’t help but feel my stomach feel oozy. My stomach hurts, and my ears are deafened.

Everywhere I see, I see grenades being thrown. Soon after, those grenades rock the ground beneath me, causing me to quiver even more. The grenade blows up a deep hole into the earth, and couple of men shoots up into the air, with blood splattering out of their bodies.

I look away, horrified at what I’m experiencing. Beside me, I see the young soldier who had just conversed with me a while ago. His face is smiling with excitement, and he shoots his gun like a mad man. He shouts in delight.

The sky is being replaced with dark, thick clouds, darkening the battlefield. All of the mosquitoes have flown away, for they don’t want to be caught in this war as well.

Suddenly, I realize what a coward I am. I can barely stand up and use my gun. All around me soldiers are dying, but here I am huddled up, protecting myself from all of the madness and evil. Why did I even sign up to fight in this war? Was it because I was so patriotic for my country? Was it because I didn’t want my country to become communist?

I don’t want to be in this war. I want to feel the warmth of my daughter in my arms, and I want to protect her. My heart’s racing, but no matter how much I regret signing up for this war, I have to help fight for my country now. There is no backing out now. I signed up, and I am a man of integrity.

So I stand up, with my legs trembling with everlasting fear. With my legs shaking, I try to balance myself, and focus on the enemy. Through all of the madness, I spot a North Korean. He has his back faced towards me, and it’s a clear shot for me.

I lift my gun, and I focus on my victim. My fingers are placed on the trigger, but I can’t shoot. I can’t help myself to shoot him. If I shoot him, I am no different from everyone else here.

As I stand there with my fingers trembling on the trigger, I think to myself. Is war the real answer to any conflict? Why is violence the solution to everything? Why can’t we just talk everything out? Mankind has become so violent and evil. Is it so hard to love everyone and treat everyone like our brothe… “AHHH!” I yell out in pain.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my leg. I collapse onto the ground, and everything is dizzy. My leg goes numb, and I start seeing things. I still see the soldiers shooting, and I can still hear the loud rumbles of the war, but something is different. I can’t put any pressure on my left leg, and I topple onto the ground.

My head is suddenly light, and then I feel the pain in my leg. The numbness disappears, and excruciating pain takes its spot. My leg throbs, and I beg for help, shrieking as loud as I can. But my shouts are not heard through the madness. Why can’t anyone hear me? Why can’t anyone help me? I wave my arms back and forth, but no response comes forth. I sit there stranded. I feel isolated, and I suddenly feel lonely.

I look down at my leg, and I see the red stain growing bigger and bigger. Finally, my trouser and shirt are dirty. It wasn’t dirty before, but it is now…

Then, I see drips of blood falling onto the dirty ground. Drip, drip, drip. Oh no, I think. It can’t be. I place my hands on the side of my neck, and all I see is a puddle of thick red blood glued onto the palm of my hands. There is no pain, for I am dazed. I just sit there while the war continues. The throbbing in my leg continues, and the bleeding from my neck continues.

Then out of nowhere, a soldier collapses onto the ground, right beside me. His chest is stained with the blood. With the energy that I have, I look over at him and I realize that it is the soldier that had just conversed with me before all of this insanity. His eyes are cold, and he touches my arm, wanting my help. I just sit there, staring at him. I watch his slow, painful death. His hands are icy cold and his face is white. He tries to talk, but nothing comes out of his bloody lips.

Soon afterwards, the soldier dangles in my weak arms. His cold eyes stare at the grey sky above us. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t talk. The bleeding stops.

I look at him, and I whisper, “Is this what you wanted? Was this that fun?”

He doesn’t respond. I know why he doesn’t respond.

As every second passes by, I am losing more blood from my neck. With every second, I start to feel dizzier and dizzier. Soon, my vision starts to fuzz up and I know that I am becoming blind. My body aches, and my ears hurt from all of the traffic around me. I let go of the soldier. I feel like staying here. I feel like dying too. I want to give up too. But just as that thought passes through my mind, I see my daughter standing right beside me. Her bright white dress illuminates everything around me and her glowing eyes makes me want to smile. But she has a worried look on her face. With her outstretched arms, she says, “Come back daddy.”

I look at her, and I can barely force the two simple words out of my mouth. With struggle, I painfully force out, “I promise.” Then suddenly, she disappears. I frantically look for her, but she’s gone.

Soon, it feels like there’s hope again. I can’t die. Not when I had promised my daughter that I would come back.

Suddenly, I try to focus onto something with my blurry vision. That something gets closer to me. I look at his uniform, and a red cross is taped onto his shirt.

“You’re going to be fine,” says the gentleman with the red cross on his shirt. “You’re in good hands…I promise.”

The Anonymous - Not Proof Read Yet

I don’t mow lawns, I don’t read to the elderly, I don’t walk people’s dogs. I don’t go fishing in the morning, I don’t ride my bike to the tracks to watch trains hurtle by. I don’t care about the rest. It is dusk, and I wait behind Bob’s Liquors for you, my hair in my eyes and my hands in my pockets. I try to look tough.

And there you are, as serenely rigid as a .22 pistol. I watch you approach through my eyelashes and your hands are white and beautiful. You hand me the Ziploc and I gruffly press some bills into your glowing palm. You don’t ask what I’m going to do with it and I assume that you don’t care, but I desperately want to tell you that I’m only the middleman. I’m not going to lose control like every other man you’ve known. I want to see that knowledge in your dark eyes. You glance at the shadows where my face should be for a quick moment, and I’m tempted to tear off my jacket and shirt and grab your hand and press it to my throbbing chest right there under the grungy neon sign shrieking Liquor! But you’ve already turned around and all I can see is the black silhouette of your boots hitting the asphalt in a rash of poise and dignity. I put the baggie into the deep recesses of my jacket and turn to walk in the opposite direction. The runny yellow of the streetlights washes over me and I am exposed. There is no one here to see me.

***

He has a real knack for finding people’s weaknesses, their insecurities. I spend half my time trying to block his subtle attacks and the other half trying to find his holes. “No, I know,” he says, his hands fiddling with the metal spring of a mousetrap. “I know that.” I watch him warily.

“Then why did you ask?” I demand angrily. I am sitting on the porch steps a couple of feet below him, and I see him glance at me quickly. Damn, I let him frustrate me again. I hate that he makes me seem like someone who gets riled up easily and for no reason at all.

The mousetrap snaps out of his hands and clatters down the steps. I reach down to pick it up but he is already bored with me. I can smell a faint whiff of men’s cologne under the layers of sawdust and sweat as he gets up. He works at his dad’s construction company during the day, doing mindless things like unloading lumber. He is clearly on his way into town. He lets himself out the iron gate with a grunt and a nod. He doesn’t ask me if I want to come.

I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to, though. I don’t want to be his wingman while he charms the high school girls at Holly’s Diner with soggy burgers and stale jokes. Every Friday night neither the girls nor the burgers nor the jokes change. I imagine the same girls sitting in the plastic booths 20 years from now, their hairstyles outdated and their skirts too short, but still giggling whenever Michael forces the younger boys to fetch him a soda or some fries.

But I wanted to be asked.

I sit on the porch for a while until the sun sets and I can see the pale flashes of fireflies followed by blank expanses of dark as they are snatched from thin air by bats. Catherine calls me for dinner but I stay outside a bit longer until I can’t see the outlines of the leaves on the oak trees anymore.

Dad bellows from upstairs, “Listen to your stepmother, young man, or you’ll be having no dinner at al­l!” The night air is burnt and there is no wind. I stand up. I can hear the muffled thumps of Louise and Brian stampeding down the stairs to the dining room. I go inside, leaving the mousetrap on the wooden banister.

***

I sit down at the dinner table as Catherine carries a pot of spaghetti from the kitchen, steam rising to the ceiling with nowhere else to go. Louise swings her feet in her chair because she can’t touch the floor yet, and Brian ­teases her because he can. Dad scolds them for horsing around at the table. He says a quick grace and Catherine serves us a pile of noodles and cooked broccoli. Dad glances at her affectionately as she ladles out his serving, and I have to look away.

“How was work today?” Dad asks when she sits. Catherine is the manager of a coffee shop and works ten hours a day to keep it running.

“Tiring,” she replies. “Bruce never comes in on time and I always end up picking up his loose ends. I’m sick of it.”

Dad pauses with a mouthful of spaghetti dangling on his fork. “You shouldn’t have to stand for that,” he says. “You work hard enough as it is.”

Dad has an overdeveloped sense of justice. He is a lawyer for a firm in Clarke County and takes his job very seriously. I push the bottoms of my broccoli to the side of my plate and watch Louise and Brian bicker over who has the least milk in their cups. They hate milk, but Catherine insists that it contains vital minerals for growing children. They pour it down the sink when she isn’t looking.

“So, how’s Michael? He doesn’t seem to come around much anymore,” Catherine says in an attempt to simultaneously include me and nose into my affairs.

“He’s fine,” I reply.

“What’s he doing this summer?”

“Working,” I say. “At his dad’s construction company.” She smiles, thinking I’ve opened up to her. I look at her blankly.

“You should find a job too,” Dad says. “We can’t have you hanging around here all summer.”

“What is there to do in this godforsaken town?” I ask ­irritably. “All the jobs are taken by people’s kids or ­Mexicans. I have nothing to do.”

Dad glares. “Don’t talk like that in front of your little brother and sister,” he reprimands, his eyes narrowing. “Find something to do. I refuse to let you stay home and play with your model airplanes all summer.” I haven’t played with model airplanes since seventh grade. I don’t bother to correct him. Catherine looks at her lap, and I hate her for not stepping in and for being here at all.

I am about to argue with Dad but decide against it when he raises his fork and Louise and Brian start paying attention. I ball up my napkin and throw it on my plate, then carry it to the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.

I hate the idea of stocking shelves at the only grocery store in town for weeks, but I know my belligerent comment only served to further Dad’s resolve that I get a job. I resent that he sees Michael as successful and responsible just because he has a job, even though it requires no skill. Michael sits in the woods with his dull friends most nights and drinks beers filched from the local liquor store. I stalk to my room and throw myself on the bed without turning on the light. A job – somewhere to go during the day. Some way to make money. I lie there thinking until it is pitch black and I am asleep.

***

It is a Friday night and the humid August air weighs on my chest and shoulders like Atlas’s burden. I tuck the thick plastic bag I just received into my jacket and pull my black hood over my eyes. You left not a minute ago and the stunning white of your hands is still resounding on my eyeballs in bright flashes of color like after I stare at the sun. You’ve never said a word to me in all the time we’ve met behind old buildings, so I am forced to imagine what your voice sounds like. I like to think that you sound worldly, cultured, refined, as if after collecting freezer bags in dark alleys, you change out of your black boots and into a pastel-colored dress and eat cucumber sandwiches and drink tea.

But I know that isn’t true, not just because the hard lines around your mouth tell me you would never wear a dress, but also because in this crumbling town no one does.

The headlights from the street recoil around the corners of the alley and disappear as I make my way into the open. I can hear girls’ voices and the deep laughter of the boys driving them around. I turn down the street and am about to walk away from town when I hear Michael’s sudden laugh. I turn into the shadows of Ed’s General Store and see him in the driver’s seat of his dad’s dark blue Cadillac, his two hoodlum friends and their girls in the back seat. His arm is around a blonde, and she is gazing at him as though he is about to give her everything she ever wanted. Michael doesn’t see me, but his thick friends do.

“Hey, jerk! Yeah, you. C’mere!” The larger one is coming toward me and before I can see his face, I can almost see who he will be in 15 years – big, fat, drunk, and still here in this forgotten town in Texas. I step out of the shadows to meet him, and his face is ugly and hostile in the streetlights.

“What you doin’ creeping around like some kind of freak? You tryin’ to mess with us?”

I don’t say anything. “Answer me!” He reaches to grab me but I sidestep him. Michael gets out of the car and his other friend steps closer.

“Just get out of my way,” I say. My hood is still obscuring my face, and I’m sure that none of them know who I am. I reach into my jacket and wrap my fingers around my pocketknife but don’t pull it out. Michael and his friend are coming closer.

“Look, you don’t want to mess with me,” I say and tighten my grip on the knife. “I’m not like the rest of the kids you beat up. I’m not going to just stand here. I’ll fight back.” They stop a few yards away.

“Oh yeah? Well, it’s three against one, buddy,” threatens the shorter one, his hands balling into fists. I raise my head so my hood slips a little and the lights from Holly’s Diner illuminate my features. I hear Michael’s intake of breath. The other guys still don’t know who I am.

“Just don’t mess with me,” I say. “Just turn around and go back to playing with your girlfriends and I’ll walk away.” Michael doesn’t say anything, but when I look at him, I see a slight stain of fear and know he won’t fight me. But he also won’t step in to save me if his friends ­decide to.

I don’t give them the chance to start anything and turn my back to walk away. “Yeah, that’s right. You walk away from us!” the larger one shouts. I keep walking. After a minute they go back to Michael’s car and get in, the girls praising them in low voices for their courage. I release my grip on the pocket­knife and instead feel for the plastic baggie in my jacket. And I relax. The watery moonlight gets brighter the farther I walk from the bright lights of the diner.

I’m sure that Michael won’t be coming over to my house anymore. I’m not upset – in fact, I’m almost relieved. He knows what I’ve become. Maybe he’s good with inheriting his dad’s construction company and marrying that blond girl, but he knows that I’m not. I’m going to do anything to get out of this place, and I ­already have been.

I can feel the grooves in the dirt road from years of ­tractors and Jeeps and bikes. The trees are dark shapes but the wind seems to pull at me, back toward the smutty music and the dead-end cravings of town. I stop at the gate and see the flashes of color on the wall; Catherine and Dad are watching TV. Louise and Brian’s room is dark; they are ­already asleep.

­­­­­It is quiet and I am wedged in the middle. I want you to see me here, with one hand on the iron gate of civilization and one on the plastic bag in my jacket. I want to tear you away from the vicious neon cycle that I have only scratched the surface of. But if you won’t, I will do it alone. I can’t move – yet – but I know where I’m going.

Guilty - a short fictional story

I take off my watch and put it in the drawer. I've stopped the time on it so there's no point wearing it. Stopped it at the time I became one of them.
One of the Guilty.

It started when Cute Receptionist winked at me as she handed me my door key. It's her fault. She shouldn't of led me to believe that I was someone she wanted to get involved with. She joined me for meals, she even came up to my room a couple of times. I was only planning on staying for a couple of days, but she persuaded me to stay. Days became a week, then two, then three. We got to know each other on a personal level I wouldn't expect you to understand. All that's left of her now is the typical, symbolic lipstick mark on my shirt. Oh, and the body.

Body? Yes, body. I can see you working it all out in your head. He's killed her. But I'm not a he, I'm a she. It makes a lot of difference. The police won't suspect me, I'm just a guest in a hotel. Nothing special. I came here to get away, just for a few days. I wasn't running away, I was having a break. A rest. Things at home were getting hectic. Kids, job, family. I had to go somewhere new, somewhere quiet. That's how I ended up here, in the William Jones Hotel, with a dead receptionist in my double bed. The sheets are clean, I didn't stab her. It wasn't messy. It was after she told me that what we had wasn't exclusive. I slid my arms around her neck and told her that it was fine.
Then I strangled her.

I have to say, there wasn't much fight in her. Just a last, withering look before she dropped dead onto my chest. I've tucked her up in the bed, it looks like she's sleeping. I stroke her hair and smile. No one will ever know. Never know that I'm Guilty.