You

“Chae-bisou, are you all right?” Sajangnim asks.

“I’m alive,” you mutter. “Just - give me a moment.”

“We should get back to camp,” Sajangnim says. “Come on.” And he picks you up.

“Sajangnim!” you protest, but he keeps walking.

“You can put me down. If I just lean on you -” you begin, but he shakes his head.

“This is faster.”

“I’m getting you all muddy.”

“I told you, I’m not afraid of getting a little dirty.”

Your ankle is seriously irritating you, and also you now notice how nice he smells. “Please, Sajangnim -”

And it starts to rain.

“There - a shelter up ahead.” He tightens his hold on you and speeds up.

Because you are camping in a national park, there are little rest shelters all through the forest for hikers to use. The one Sajangnim spotted is in good repair, dark wood, benches on three sides, space for a little fire pit in the middle. He sets you down on one of the benches gently.

“Let me see your ankle.”

“I’d rather get the mud off.”

“Take off your shoe,” he says, and you obey, because you always obey.

But then Sajangnim strips off his t-shirt, which isn’t nearly as muddy as yours, and goes to hold it out in the rain. He wrings it out a few times, and then he lets it soak some more. He returns to you, uses the t-shirt to wipe the mud off your clothes as best as he can.

“No, Sajangnim, your t-shirt is expensive -”

“I can buy another. Hold still.”

You submit, tense beneath Sajangnim’s gentle hands. Sajangnim goes to rinse his shirt out again, and then he wraps it around your right ankle.

“Does that help?”

“Yes,” you admit, trying to be polite. Before today, you have been sure that Sajangnim is incapable of tending to anyone with an ailment or being this gentle, because Sajangnim is brilliant and hardworking and doesn’t tend to have much patience for those who aren’t on his level, though occasionally he manages a dose of condescension.<

“Thank you,” you add, because Sajangnim looks terribly anxious.

At that, Sajangnim sits back. “I’m sorry I made you fall.”

“It wasn’t you. It’s muddy out there. It’s even muddier now, I’m sure.”

x

'Show' and 'See'

"Will you stop that?"

I can hear the exasperation in my mothers voice and automatically stopped drumming my fingers nervously on the car door. I clenched my hands in my lap to stop them from their twitching.

"What if Dianne forgets her commands?" I ask, "what if I get lost? It's a big campus and I don't know anyone." I try to keep the blatant worry out of my voice but I can hear it creeping in.

"She won't forget," Mom said firmly. "You have been working and training with her for two months now; been all over the campus with her. You will be just fine."

I knew it was useless to voice further concerns and so I said nothing. I remembered back on all the training I had had with Dianne, the months of hard work and building trust with her. She would be my eyes; I had to trust her. It had been difficult for me these past six months; I had always been so independent before the accident that took my sight. Now I was dependent on others.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that I hardly noticed the car slow down and stop. "I'll pick you up here when you're classes are over with for the day," mom said.

I opened the door and slid out, "No," I said, "Dianne and I will walk home. It's not that far and she knows the way."

I opened the back door and Dianne jumped to the ground; taking her place beside me, her warm body pressed against my leg reassuringly. "I'll see you at home," I said and walked away with Dianna.

**********************

"Is this the Student Services office?" I asked as I poked my head in what seemed like the hundredth door in my search for the seldom used office.

"No," a man said, "but I can show you where it is."

"Thank you!" I said and stepped out of the doorway.

"It's easy to get lost around here," he said. I could feel his presence near me, a peculiar sense that told me when someone was close. I patted Dianne on the head; more to reassure myself of her presence than anything.

"Ummm..."

I smiled at his uncertainty. It was clear that he didn't know how to 'show' me the way to the office. "It's okay," I said. "Just keep talking. Tell me where we are going and what you see so that Dianne can lead me to the office again."

"Okay," he said, though I could still hear hesitation and uncertainty in his voice. "Do you know how you got here?" he asked, and I nodded. "then from this door we go left," he said.

I listened to him describe what he saw as we walked along; landmarks that I could ask Dianna to find and she could do it. He had a pleasant voice.

"And here we are," he said. I felt a slight breeze as he opened a door.

"Thank you so much," I said and smiled in his direction.

"No problem," he said. "I was nice to meet you..."

"Sarah," I supplied, and held out my hand to him.

"I'm Chris," he said as he took my hand. His grip was solid. It matched his voice.

"Thank you again Chris. Maybe I'll 'see' you around," I said and smiled before stepping into the office of Student Support Services.

Sometimes, Sometimes

Dear Carolyn,

Another day, another dollar. Have I mentioned I hate high school? I keep my head down as much as I can, and having short hair helps, but some of the girls have recognized me, and I know that as soon as word gets out, some of the rugby players will have it out for me. I can see the way they look at me, betrayed and sad and a little star-struck. I’ve seen fans ask, on the internet, why my brothers and I don’t get back together.

They don’t know what betrayal is, do they? I spaced out in calculus today, wondering how much of what you told me was true. Is Carolyn even really your name? Were you really even from Nebraska? Obviously John wasn’t actually your foster-father, but...

It feels like my days pass in a haze of je m’en fiche and struggle. I just need to graduate, pass le bac, and go away. Do something. College, maybe? Who knows. I need to get out of this town, out of this life, find a place where no one will recognize me and where I’ll never hear your name.

Until then, homework calls.

Sometimes I still miss life on the road.



Bob closed his journal and shoved it into his bass drum, screwed the head back into place, and then headed downstairs to dinner.

Sometimes, in his dreams, Carolyn wrote back.

Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow

Lessons learned from yesterday: when there are fans in the foyer of the hotel, chances are they have located the service elevator, and singing your own songs at the top of your lungs on the way back from the restaurant isn’t the best way to stay incognito. It is also common courtesy to not trip your brother in the hopes that the fans catch him first.

Things to be remembered from today: Just because Dad says you’re old enough to do something doesn’t mean you should rush out and do it. Also, holding Scott’s hair back while he pukes after drinking too many beers might be legitimate grounds for demanding that he cut his hair already.

Hopes for tomorrow: Whatever is eating away at Bobby should be gone by then. He’s been moody and broody, and he won’t tell his other half what’s going on. Intervention via phone call from Mom is definitely an option. Or get Carolyn to beat it out of him.

ETA: Apparently Bob was all bent out of shape about Carolyn. He kissed her.

Why do I feel like he stabbed me in the chest?

(189 words)

To My Brothers

Dear Scott, Clay, and Bob,

I know you’re reading this (dirty traitors) so I will dispense with pretenses and get straight to the heart of things.

Scott was off key during the second chorus of Crazy tonight. Ordinarily that’s not a problem, but while I was helping Bob set up his drums someone - I suspect Clay - spoke to the sound engineer and had him remix my monitor so Scott’s voice was the loudest. Clay was a little off his game tonight, but then he started flirting with some girl in the first row and things might have been going well - until the forty-year-old woman behind the teenage girl thought Clay was flirting with her and --

Well, Clay has good reflexes. He ducked.

Which meant poor Bob ended up with some strange woman’s bra hanging from his crash cymbal. Luckily for Bob, he could hide his embarrassingly bright blush behind his pretty long hair.

We’re professionals, though, and none of us laughed.

Until we made it off stage.

Even Carolyn laughed. Apparently Dad had asked her to skip onto stage between songs and rescue the bra - none of the guys on crew wanted to go near it - but she was laughing too hard to be of any use.

Bob really, really needs to cut his hair.

Or at least clean it out of the drain in the shower after he’s done, because I don’t much appreciate getting his hair wound around my toe while I’m showering first thing in the morning.

From now on, when we get two rooms, I am so rooming with Clay. Let the long-haired monsters share the shower.

Adieu,

Dan

(276 words)

Broken Mirror

Sometimes, while I’m sitting at my desk faced with a mountain of paperwork, I actually miss him. I close my eyes and sit back, remember what it was like to face him. It was like looking into broken mirror, seeing an unfamiliar face - his green eyes, my grey ones - but the same expression: determination. Sheer soldiering willpower.

And that scar, a mirror-twin to my own. Some days I think it might have been better for me to lose an eye; it’d stop the girls from cooing over me. And I’d never have ranked up for proper field training. Late at night, when I’ve worked too much and eaten too little, I come awake from an old memory, manacles around my wrists and ankles, electricity pouring through my body.

One day, after too much paperwork and not enough sanity, I leave my office. Walk out while the secretary is attempting to inform me of my schedule for the day. It’s rude, but no one’s ever accused me of being a gentleman. They’ll get mad at me and sulk, but when push comes to shove I’m the one with the weapons and the firepower, and they need me more than I need them.

I scoop up my weapon case and sling it over my shoulder. I’ve heard rumors that he lives out on the water, fishing with his two sidekicks. I’ll bet he’s spoiling for a fight, too.

(237 words; post-canon)

Be So Many Things

I want to be so many things for her that I feel like I’m tearing myself apart. The first time we met, I was half under a car in the garage, spattered with oil. She was lovely in a blouse and skirt, fresh home from another semester of medical school. She was eight years older than me and I knew then and there I wanted her to be my wife.

For the first time in a long time I was glad I saw the world in shades of red and black; it meant she couldn’t look into my eyes and know how desperately I wanted to kiss her. Sometimes I thought she could read my mind anyway.

We played chess by the fireplace; she drank wine and let me sneak a little Irish cream into my hot chocolate. I felt grown-up and charming until I realized she’d had me in checkmate for three rounds and I was ridiculously drunk.

She was done with medical school and off doing her residency when I started college. I spent those four years learning not to stutter, to carry myself like a man instead of a boy. I trained ruthlessly to become an efficient field leader and a competent math teacher.

The first time I saw her after graduation, I wanted to be that kid again, sitting up with her watching Saturday morning cartoons and trying to steal cheerios out of each other’s bowls. When we watched the Sunday evening news and saw more reports about the violence and hatred against our kind, I wanted to show her the man I had become.

The first time she kissed me, I realized she’d been reading my mind all along, and she only wanted me to be one thing: hers.

(295 words; not canon)

Magical Vision

I have magical vision - I can always see the white elephant in the room, the one thing that no one else notices. For the longest time I thought that it was a simple matter of the other three ignoring what was going on, but one day, while I sat bound in the corner and contemplated the shininess of the buckles all down my chest, I realized that they really didn’t see what I saw. They were so busy hoping no one noticed them that they didn’t notice each other.

It made me want to laugh.

I laughed once, and it frightened the little one, who pretends he’s cruel and unafraid, who presses his face to the window and watches children laugh and scramble as they kick a soccer ball around a field. I can only assume his longing for the game was born in his childhood, the childhood he pretends he never had.

One morning, while I was hanging upside down in the corner waiting to be released from the latest round of punishment, I watched our leader shuffle into the kitchen, vulnerable in a thin cotton robe, tear tracks fresh on his face from where he wept in his sleep. After he showered and dressed, his eyes behind his glasses were golden-cruel, but I could still remember what he looked like after a night of memories unbound.

Maybe I would tell someone if I could, but they all think me mad and wouldn’t believe me. I’m not sure if I really am mad, but it’s fun to let people think it.

It was one of my rare moments of freedom in the kitchen that I learned the final sad secret of my third teammate. I was mashing potatoes by hand, because it was my turn to provide supper and I liked to do things the right way. He slipped in far later than he was supposed to, even if dinner wasn’t ready, and I watched him shrug off his hideous double-breasted green coat. He was rarely without a coat, mocking formality by assembling the most clashing pieces he could find.

I caught a brief flash the pale skin on the inside of his arm before he rolled down his sleeves with quick, smart motions.

He’d lost his mind so many times that he’d had to tattoo his real name on the inside of his wrist.

(398 words)

For Her

I do everything for her. No one knows, but I do.

I sit in the midst of a flowering meadow on a sunny day and read for her, white pigeons perched on my shoulder and punctuating Sun Tzu with soft coos; they're pretending to be doves.

I train in the rain for her, form upon form upon form, snake and tiger and mantis and crane. I end in dragon, always dragon, solitary dragon that I am. The name makes me smile; the others think I cannot hear what they say when I’m staring at a go board, playing against myself and pretending she’s sitting opposite me, taunting me for being such a scholar.

I fight for her and kill for her. Every time I climb into my machine and fire up the engines, I close my eyes and feel her presence seep into me, feel my instincts meld with the motherboard, and then we launch into space.

I would have died for her.

Every morning I wake up and put on my uniform and go to work, put out another fire, prevent another war, and I wake up for her. One day, when this is all over, I won’t wake up, but when I open my eyes, it’ll be to see her.

(212 words)

Six Photographs

The happiest moments moments of my life were captured in six photographs. I’d stolen Father’s rusty old Nikon, mixed the developer formula myself, and set the thing to just go. Whenever it wanted to.

The first was of the two of us sitting side-by-side on the grass studying, she with a textbook in one hand like it was a novel (she made it look so easy), me with the book propped open on my knees scribbling notes in the margins (me and my cramped handwriting). Every now and again we’d sneak glances at each other. She’d flick a flower at me (always the play on her namesake, cheerful with her where it was kitschy from anyone else), send the petals to march solemnly across my boot. I’d immolate them with a glare and send ants to scale up her (pretty, soft) red plait. It was a loop of action, inaction.

The second photo was escalation, petals circling my head while I studiously ignored them, her plait wavering in midair like a charmed cobra rising from a basket. By the third photo we were shooting sparks at each other, subtle jolts that were harmless but made us jump nonetheless and mock-glare at each other.

In the fourth picture, she’d drawn her wand on me and drenched me with a single spell. I looked like a drowned-rat, ill-fitting clothes clinging to my abused, underfed gaunt form, hair hanging in my face in limp tatters. I spluttered, spelled my book dry, and seized my own wand.

The fifth picture featured her thoroughly soused in green and silver paint (I did not stoop to glitter) and lunging at me with a cry, and a flock of (shockingly lovely, detailed) birds exploded at me.

The sixth picture was the aftermath. She was covered in paint, bat-bogeys, and multiple other horrid (potions ingredients) substances. I was liberally doused with glitter, garlands of flowers (again with the blossoms), and had hummingbirds perched in my hair. We were both laughing and smiling at each other (for the last time).

The best moments of my life in six photos. I wasn’t a kind or sentimental man, but I’d make sure her brat got them after I was gone.

(375 words)

Who I Really Am

I watch him out on the training ground with his knights, wielding his sword with easy confidence. The ring of steel on steel is a comforting counterpoint to the frustrated scrub, scrub of this blood-stained cloth at his stupid maille. Blood rusts metal, I know, but I don’t understand why he has to bleed on something every day. I imagine he does it just to spite me; the careless dismissal in his voice when he tells me to have all his armor polished for the next day makes me curl my hands into fists.

I know full well that every other knight at the castle sends their armor to the armory or has a miniature convoy of pages and squires to polish every piece of life-saving nonsense. I’m just one servant, and his royal pratliness knows it. It’s a wonder he hasn’t figured out what I am yet, given how many chores I manage to do in a day. Usually he’s too busy complaining at how terribly I do my job to realize that, really, one man alone couldn’t possibly do all I do in one day.

I tried to point that out once.

He sent me to the stocks.

I wonder if wielding a sword feels to him the same way using magic feels for me. On the first day we met, he informed me that he’d been trained to kill since birth. I’ve seen him disarmed before; he’s a natural leader and thinks quickly on his feet, but there’s always that flash of panic in his eyes when his sword flies from his grip. I don’t know what I’d do if I suddenly found myself without my magic.

Assuming we weren’t in the middle of being attacked by something that usually only came from story books, I’d probably cry.

Not that I’d ever tell him that.

He thinks I’m a useless servant. I trip over my feet a lot, so in the middle of an important banquet, when I spill wine down a visiting princess’s dress, I might give him that.

But he has no idea who I really am.

I’m not sure I want him to.

(361 words)

My Own Hands

My own hands were once unscared. Once, the hands of a writter, a crafter, smooth. Of course they were not always as strong as they are now.

Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.

They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.

Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.



(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)

Into The Breach

I set down the phone and stared at my hands for a long moment. Then I reached out and pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, the drawer that most people would have kept locked but that I could leave unlocked based on sheer force of reputation. The hair I tugged over the clasp had been broken - someone had been in my drawer since my last perusal of its contents. Whoever the snoop was had been careful to replace the box containing my sidearm and ammunition just so, but I could see that the picture had been moved. I tugged the picture out from under the box and turned it over. It was no worse for wear beyond the fact that it was nine years old. I replaced the picture carefully and rose up, smoothed down the fabric of my suit.

Then I stepped out of my office. Jessica, the college intern, would hardly have been this canny, and besides, she wasn’t brave enough to paw through my desk. Laurie, on the other hand, was nosy. She thought she was my mother. Everyone in the office knew I’d been raised a foster kid, and Laurie must have taken pity on me.

I had to pause behind her desk - she never noticed me coming unless I wanted her to - and took a deep breath. Laurie was one of the few women in the office who was civil with me, and I didn’t want to upset her. Upsetting her would only be an unfortunate side-effect if, say, my address got out to other members of the Summers family besides Dan.

I cleared my throat. “Laurie, did you compile the list of police agencies for our survey sample?”

She paused the dictaphone she was working with and looked up at me. “What? Oh, yes.”

“Did you pick the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District on purpose?”

Laurie darted a glance at Jessica, who was arranging stacks of mail blithely. So she thought that she’d be able to intercept any incoming calls while she was on secretary duty instead of Jessica, did she?

“Miss Pierce,” Laurie began.

“I received a call from one Sergeant Daniel Summers just now.” It hadn’t been easy, playing cheerful like that. Oh, I had a cover story all set, a stack of letters sent that Kevin had undoubtedly hidden or destroyed, and I could feign innocent hurt with the best of them, but those letters were the back-up plan, not the primary engage switch. I leaned down and met Laurie’s gaze. “What possessed you to go through my desk?”

“Carolyn,” Laurie began.

Her motherly tone made me grit my teeth. “I’m sure you feel like you did something wonderful for me, but if one of the Summers brothers shows up on my doorstep --”

“Miss Pierce,” Jessica called. “A Vanya Ianevski is on line one for you.”

Vanya. John. I straightened up. “Thank you, Jessica.” I cast another look at Laurie. “I know you meant well, but the consequences of your action may have yet heretofore unseen unpleasantness. And I don’t mean professionally.”

I walked back into my office and closed the door loud enough to make a point, then picked up the phone. “Carolyn Pierce.”

“One Robert Summers just booked a flight from Bangkok to Los Angeles. What the hell happened?”

“I thought you vetted everyone at this office.” I disliked his tone and he knew it.

“You had a security breach?”

“A massive one,” I said.

(580 words)

Breaking

It was the middle of the night, and I was desperate. I needed a beer.

The night was cool. The smell of rain lifted from the sidewalk towards the sky and I inhaled deeply, smiled for the first time that day.

So much for a happy ending to a bad day. Some idiots, probably drunk, drove past me and threw a water balloon. All I wanted was a damn beer, a moment to think about all the bullshit that had gone on in the last twenty-four hour period.

I didn’t have my phone on me. Last thing I wanted was for Vince to call. I would answer, and do whatever he asked me to do. I needed a moment to myself, though truth be told, alone was probably the worst thing for me to be right now.

But the town was quiet as I approached the intersection, pressed the button on the traffic light to cross. It was a Sunday, so all the good God fearing people were at home reading their Bibles. All I wanted was a drink.

The bright neon lights made everything seem pale and sickly or drenched in red - it depended on if you were caught in the loud, red glow of the gas station sign. I walked in, grabbed a couple of six packs of fairly weak beer.

I had been concentrating on my goal since I walked through the door, so it wasn’t until I set the six packs down on the counter to pay for them that I noticed Corinn. Loud, stupid, fake redhead Corinn. And of course, she wanted to chat.

“Hey Samantha, going to a party?”

My expression must have told all because Corinn frowned and scanned the first six pack.

“You shouldn’t drink by yourself, you know. People will talk.”

In an instant, everything I had been holding back the entire day sparked and flamed and burst. I felt my eyes grow wide, my hands shake. My heartbeat thumped loudly in my ears.

“You know what Corinn? Maybe you should just shut your damn mouth! You’re half the reason people gossip in this town anyway!” I slammed a twenty on the counter, took my beer and stalked toward the door.

Corinn called after me, “Bitch!”

I didn’t bother to answer.

I knew Corinn didn’t smoke, so I was safe sitting by the pay phone to open up my first bottle of many for the night. I didn’t feel like walking home, didn’t feel like hearing drunk catcalls, hearing my phone ring, or worse, not ringing.

I was almost done with the first six pack when Vince showed up.

“What the hell, Sam? Corinn called Layla and she called me and told me you were down here drinkin’ and causin’ problems.” He was trying his best to not seem concerned. He’d become really good at it as of late.

“Yeah, well, maybe Corinn should stop being a gossiping whore and let me be.”

Vince rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sam…”

I could feel him looking at me. I opened another bottle and swallowed half of its contents in seconds. He sat next to me and nudged me gently.

“Mind if I have one of those?”

“Here.” I gave him one, because eleven was just as good as twelve.

We drank in silence - a stale, distant silence.

Vince glanced my way, and I finally looked over. We said nothing, but it didn’t matter. We’d already forgiven each other.

(580 words)

Finally In A Place

I sank down on the cot in the back room and flung my forearm across my eyes to block out the light. I was tempted to plug into my iPod and let some music carry me away, but then I’d miss it if my pager went off, which meant the other boys would bang down the door when a call came in, which meant I’d have to endure another month of “boy-band wannabe” jokes, and...most days, I wasn’t sure why I’d come back to White Horse, other than to escape Dad.

I’d considered calling Dad and ratting Bob out, telling Dad that little Bobby was running halfway around the world to essentially beat a dead horse. But calling Dad wouldn’t have been fair. If Bob wanted to chase down a wasted dream, that was his choice. I was done with dreams, anyway. Time to sleep.

Only maybe dreams weren’t done with me, because my phone was ringing. Clay had already busted up my shift, and I still had scratches all up my face and arms from the girl I’d been watching. White Horse was a boring enough town to induce suicide, but really. I groaned, heaved myself up, and scooped my cell phone up off the floor.

Bob was calling me back. He’d probably chickened out.

“Y’ello.”

“Dia duit. I need your opinion.” Bob sounded irritatingly cheerful, for someone who was about to grovel.

“Yes, you’re an idiot. Go back to Thailand before Clay freaks out and tells Dad, and yes, Carolyn is probably dead. Good-bye.”

“That’s not why I called, but at least I know you’re in an honest mood.” Bob actually laughed. Softly, but it was real laughter. When was the last time he’d laughed? “I’m going to put you on speaker, all right? Tell me what you think.”

What was going on? I sat up and rested my elbow on my knee, waited. I could hear a lot of noise in the background - Bob was somewhere crowded. The airport, maybe? And then I heard an old man, say,

“Shush! He’s playin’ fer his brother!”

Bob had never been the best guitarist. After me, Clay was the handiest with a guitar, but then he played the bass. Even Dan was good with a guitar with a pinch, but Bob...had been learning from Clay over in Thailand. Some of his transitions were sketchy, but his chords were solid.

“Well it took a little while to remember how to smile
It takes time to give it up when you love someone that much
But I’m finally in a place where I can think about your face
Without feeling the pain
Without missing you again...”

I blinked and sat up straighter, pressed the phone to my ear. In the main bunker, some of the other idiots were playing foosball, and loudly, so I pressed a hand to my other ear to block them out.

It sounded country, like we hadn’t sung since we were twelve, but - it was good. Immediately I felt ashamed for being surprised that my own brother was a decent songwriter, but I concentrated on the lyrics a little more.

The song ended, and cheers erupted in the background. I listened to Bob fumble with the phone, wondered what I could say.

“So...what are you going to say to Carolyn?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore,” Bob said.

I swallowed hard. “Are you and Clay coming home, then?”

“When this is done.”

Done. What did that mean? “It’s a good song, Bobby.”



“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks. I’ll call.”

“Ghráim tú."

“Slán.”

(598 words; lyrics unabashedly snitched from Two Bullet Parade's "This One's For You")

Squee

"So. What was it like Ari?" A voice said from behind me.

Startled I turned to see my best friend Jenna. "I'm sorry?" I asked a bit puzzled. But that was par for course when dealing with Jenna.

"Your date. You went out with David Cole. Did you really think that I wouldn't know about it?" She grinned, her eyes wide behind her sliver framed glasses. Her long brown hair fell into her face and she pushed it away impatiently.

"Spill the beans," She commanded me.

I shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool, "We went to a play. A Midsummer Nights Dream."

"Ari," Jenna whined my name, "You are so holding out on me." Jenna was practically bouncing up and down.

I ducked my head, blushing just a bit.

Jenna continued, "every girl in school would love to go out with David. He is so cute, and very polite, not to mention a mystery to every girl here. But," She held up a finger, "He never dates. All the girls choice dances, he manages to have plans or be out of town. If he is asked at any other time, he gives work or studying as his excuse. In fact, as far as I know, you are the first girl to date him since he moved here a year ago," Jenna drew in a breath, "I hope you know all the other girls are insanely jealous of you. I would be too, but I am just glad that he asked you, and not Shaylin."

I shook my head. Shaylin was undoubtedly the most popular girl in school. Very stereotypical, if I were aloud my opinion. Head cheerleader, Dance Captain, dating the quarterback, and resident school slut.

"Well, I guess we should be glad that David has better taste than to want that," I said.

"Don't think I haven't noticed you changed the subject," Jenna said. "I want to know everything. Did he kiss you?"

I shook my head, "No. I believe he is to much a gentleman to kiss on the first date."

"Ari!" Jenna whined again.

"Alright, alright," I said. "He did hold my hand after the first half of the play.

"So do you think you will go out again?" Jenna asked, lowering her voice as Shaylin passed, her expression one of disbelief as she looked at me.

"We have a date next weekend," I said.

Jenna squeed and wrapped her arms around me, crushing the air from my body. I patted her on the back and let her hold on a moment. Finally I said, "Come on, we'll be late for English."

The Same Dream

I know I’m dreaming.

He would never hover this close, never slip his arm around my waist. His presence is - what’s that word they use to describe ghosts? - ethereal.

His lips are moving, but his voice is nowhere to be found. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. I know every word he isn’t saying. I know that he’s lying.

Everything feels slow, like time is moving at half speed. Layla’s here, going in and out of focus, but then she disappears and I read his lips, the only time I’m able.

“It doesn’t matter.”

We’re close, close, so close, but I can’t see his face. If I didn’t know it was Vince, if my heart wasn’t already preparing to ache the minute my eyes open, it could be anyone. Any guy, any touch, any smile, any kiss. Any heartbeat.

His face is clear the second before my eyes open. Here it comes. Reality crashing its way down.

You don’t know me, you don’t know me at all, you don’t know me, you don’t know me at all.

He’s already calling.

This once, I’m refusing to answer.

(186 words, a shout out to the week I missed)

My Friend, the Rock Star

I have some pictures of Vince on my cell phone. Most of them are pretty dumb. He’s usually just pulling a face or making some sort of joke or something. But there is one that I like in particular. One that I can’t seem to get out of my head.

“Sam,” his text message began, “I just got a great offer on a bass. I can afford it too. Should I do it?” I hated when he asked me questions like that. It was his money, why should my opinion count? Still, I answered.

I typed, “I don’t know. Is it in good condition?” He answered with a quick, “Yes!” I smiled.

Then I remembered a story Vince had told me long ago, about living in Texas and getting into trouble. He had a distinct knack for that. This particular story was about playing bass guitar in a band of twenty year olds when he was only thirteen, playing gigs, and loving it. Sometimes he would reminisce, especially after he found out that I had played the bass some in high school.

Thinking about the look in his eyes when the regret washed over him, I knew the answer I had to give him.

“I think you should do it. It might get you to play again.”

And so, impulsive boy that he was, he bought it from his friend in the next minute, and the minute after that, he sent me the picture.

It’s at kind of a weird angle. Most of the picture is taken up by the wall and carpet in the hallway of his apartment. His skinny, gangly body takes up the right of the picture, the black and white bass guitar slung around his body. He isn’t smiling. He’s got the rock star look perfectly.

My breath still catches a bit whenever he calls, and the picture flashes across the screen.

(316 words)

Right Now

I love you.

I hate you.

Why did you leave me?

None of them adequately covered how pathetically I’d fallen apart for the past five years. I knew all of my brothers thought it. Dad had no clue - he just thought Carolyn had escaped from the “earthquake” in the hotel and that her foster parents decided they didn’t want her on the road anymore, and after that law school swept her away down the river of time. Of course, Dad rarely cared about what any of us felt, and he’d assumed that my love for Carolyn was purely adolescent.

Maybe it was adolescent, but I still loved her, damn me. I’d tried and tried with girls, but I’d failed and taken their dismissals with my head bowed. Carolyn had stolen my soul, and now - now maybe I’d be able to get it back from her.

But what could I possibly say?

I needed time to think about it. Time to figure out what, exactly, I still felt for Carolyn, even though every time I heard her name its syllables hollowed out a hole in my chest where my heart usually beat.

Jet-lag never got easier over the years, and I was half-asleep on my feet as I hauled myself across the arrivals terminal. I’d picked up a ticket at the airport in Bangkok and didn’t have a connecting flight to Las Vegas which, according to google map, was the closest airport to Cedarville, so I’d have to talk to a ticketing agent, and...

I halted mid-stride, tipped my head back, and closed my eyes.

What the hell was I doing? Why was I even here? Scott was right. I was an idiot. I should just go back to Thailand and help Clay finish out the teaching stint and then...maybe I’d finally go to college or do something normal with my life.

Right. Back to Thailand. Apologize to Clay. I opened my eyes and saw a sign for Greyhound Buses. A bus ride to Nevada or Cedarville had to be about ten hours from LA, right? Ten hours. On a bus. Just me. I could think of something to say by then, right?

But that was the voice of my resolve wavering. I’d decided to go back to Thailand and be productive, to put Carolyn behind me once and for all. Only how many times had I told myself that?

No. I couldn’t put her behind me until I’d seen her face to face and gotten my answers - about why she left, about whether or not she’d even ever loved me. There. I was resolved. I marched over to the Greyhound counter and asked for a ticket to Cedarville, Utah. The clerk was pretty and blonde but I didn’t care, although I thanked her when she told me to enjoy the Shakespearean Festival.

I found the bus depot easily enough and sank down on one of the cheap plastic seats. Maybe I could take a nap and get my head on straight for some serious thinking during the bus ride. My eyes were half-closed when a shadow fell over me, and I curled my hands into fists. Even now, Carolyn’s childhood-taught paranoia stuck with me.

“What can I do for you?”

“Care for a song, sonny?”

It was an old hobo with a beat-up guitar. I considered him for a long moment, then said,

“I’ll pay you fifty bucks if you let me borrow that.”

He considered. “What for?”

“To write a song,” I said.

He blinked. “Right now?”

I nodded. “Right now.”

A Night Out.

My fingers twitched nervously, and I glanced at the clock again. I wonder if he will remember. I glance in the mirror one last time, making sure that my hair is nice. He didn't say where we were going, only to look nice. I looked down at the simple blue skirt and black top I was wearing, I hoped it would be alright. Smiling, I thought back to how this all started.

"Arianna!" I heard my name being called from down the hallway. I didn't recognize the voice. Turning, I saw the boy with black hair and blue eyes that I had run into yesterday. David was his name. I had seen him around school, but yesterday was the first time I had spoken to him.

"David," I said smiling as he jogged up to me, "how are you today?"

"I'm fine. You?" David asked in return. I noticed that he looked a little nervous, fidgety almost. His smile was warm, if hesitant.

"I'm doing okay. My Calculus assignment is going to give me a headache though," I said. The student body was flowing around us.

David grimaced, "I never did like Calculus, but I am good at it. Would you like some help?"

I was a little surprised, but I couldn't help the grin from spreading over my face. "I would really like that," I said.

I looked away and then back at him. David was still watching me.

I bit my lip, suppressing a laugh. "Did you just want to know about my Calculus homework?" I asked.

David blinked, seeming to snap out of whatever thoughts had carried him away.

"No. Actually I wanted to know If you wanted to go out with me," David said, his voice was low, nervous.

I couldn't help the smile spreading across my face, little shivers running down my spine. "I would love to," I said, meeting his eye briefly before ducking my head.

"Great!" David said, sounding a bit relieved.

"When?" I asked.

"Tomorrow," he said.

"What are we going to do? Not homework hopefully," I said.

David's cheek dimpled when he grinned, "No. It's a surprise, but dress nice. I'll pick you up at seven."

"Seven it is," I said. I pulled out a sheet of paper and scribbled my address on it. "Here's my address."

David accepted the paper and smiled, "Well, I have to get to History. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I said.

I was startled out of my thought when a knock sounded in the front hall. Opening the door I saw David on the front step, looking very nice in black slacks and a dark blue dress shirt and tie.

"Ready?" He asked.

I nodded. "Where are we going," I asked.

"Have you ever seen A Midsummer Nights Dream?" He asked as he opened the car door for me. I slid into the seat and bucked up, "No, I haven't."

"You'll love it."