Of a Certain Age (First Place - Fiction)

by Stephanie Neuerberg

We were sitting on the same couch. Later, I would learn that this is what he considered “cuddling.” We were sitting on the couch, his elbow resting on my legs and vice versa and we were just talking. It was nearing four in the morning.

A lot of what was said in that conversation I can’t remember. Something about the bands he liked and a book he was planning on reading went in and out my ears while I just stared at his face. A cat was on the armchair next to us. There were plenty of seats available, but we crammed ourselves lengthwise onto that tiny two-person sofa; elbows, knees, legs, feet, fingers touching.

No wonder he thought we were cuddling.

I am not that kind of girl, I thought when he asked me to spend the night a couple days earlier. I had denied his request, but it was nearing four in the morning and here we were, the gangly twenty-two year old male and the round-faced eighteen-year-old female crushed together on this couch. Talking. I wondered how it would have been different if I had agreed to spend the night.

It was a strange weekend, spent with this man-child who had rescued me from nearly being raped at a party by some drunken asshole from my English class. Partying, for us, was listening to our friend Jake ramble on for hours until three a.m.; breakfast the next morning where he made me laugh so hard I spat water everywhere (the joke wasn’t even funny); and now conversing on his couch in the wee hours of le matin.

Weeks later, he told me I was his best friend. Via the internet, no less, but still his best friend. He told me hilarious jokes, left notes in my mailbox, pulled (artificial) yellow roses out of his backpack to surprise me, burned me a CD of his favorite musician, gave me a world map.

The note that accompanied the CD read as follows: “Everything he’s ever sung, I want to say to you.” Or something like that.

He was older than me.

~

It was the first time I had ever even come close to kissing anyone, and I felt sorry for rejecting him for, what was this? The third time? But there was something not right in the way he was holding me, and the way I heard him practically beg for me to show him even a tiny bit of affection.

We were in his kitchen, arms locked, and if his father had walked in at that moment, it might’ve looked like a romantic scene from a movie: his arms around my waist, me bent as though I was being dipped at the end of a waltz. If only I didn’t have an expression of utter disgust and fear on my face.

My problem began months before as I sulked over losing an amusement park game. We were spinning around to the beginning of the ride, and as I pulled away from him in mock-disappointment, I felt a ghost-like brush against my cheek and realized he had just tried to kiss me.

I remembered that moment now, in his kitchen, after I had just eaten dog food on a dare from his mother. To this day, I remember that moment, along with all the Two Door Cinema Club we listened to that summer, the look on Sheena’s face when I stayed with him instead of going to her graduation party, and the handmade skirt I had been wearing when this happened.

I didn’t want it like this. I reeked of kibble-n-bits and wanted to escape his embrace, and I avoided his eyes as they implored, “Come on.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

I offered my cheek to him, and he planted an awkward kiss on the edge of my jaw bone.

He was the same age as me.

~

I was gazing longingly at the boy I crushed on last year from my solitary seat down the hall when suddenly a thin boy in pinstripes and a shock of perfect hair came into my view. He wasn’t particularly attractive, but was looking at me with such... intensity? I can’t remember exactly. And I was prepared to ignore him, despite recognizing him from auditions earlier that day.

Suddenly he was next to me, shaking my hand, telling me even though I beat him in the contest I won that year, he was okay with it, because I deserved it, and all this information was coming into my ears at such a rapid pace. I was charmed, to say the least.

Later that weekend, as we sat backstage in the dark, I learned that he and I played the same role in that Shakespeare play, we both loved writing, and by the end of the weekend he had dubbed me his nemesis. As the months crept on, and we spoke on the phone nearly every night, I found myself being even more charmed by his strangeness, his quirkiness, his nerdiness, and the fact that even though the call dropped eight times, he still called me back for the ninth.

He emailed me a short story sometime later in which his character fell in love with mine, and although I was dating someone else at the time, it was then I realized I was head over heels too. I started imagining what our wedding was going to be like. He respected me and asked my opinion and said I had beautiful hair. I was in love.

Then, I admitted it. And the compliments stopped. The writing samples I sent him went ignored, although he kept running back to me to critique his college applications. I cut off my hair, and he stopped talking to me. I went for a run, and broke down in sobs at the end of it. There had been someone else. I was heartbroken.

He was younger than me.

Beauty is in the Ear of the Beholder (Second Place - Fiction)

by Christian Chesterman

I was four years old when I decided to become a serial killer.  There’s even physical documentation of the event that cemented my decision.  I believe a picture of a young man flying through the air over a populous beach is circulating on the Internet.  I was building a sandcastle at the time.  Four turrets, a portcullis, and two flying buttresses were covered in blood and spinal fluid when he fell.

The young man landed with his neck bending the wrong way not two feet from where I was sitting in the sand.  The cracks and pops of his vertebrae shattering upon impact would reverberate within my head for years.  A beautiful symphony of the fragility of life.  I just wanted to hear it again and again.  What would a snapping femur sound like?  A fractured patella?  An impacted pelvis?  I wanted to know.

As I got older, I learned that what I was doing was morally reprehensible.  Not that it really mattered to me though; I loved it.  By age eight I had killed a toddler, two dogs, and an elderly Vietnamese man named Ming.  Ming had sounded beautiful.  Like the tinkling of antique bells housed in calcium church towers.  It was exhilarating.  Intoxicating.

Of course there were others I had broken, but they had not died.  Nor did they see me because I had worn my brother’s gorilla mask.  I cut out the ears though.  They muffled the sound that I needed to hear.  My ears peeked through the sides and tickled the wind while my face grew sweaty under the latex.   There were pieces about me in the news.  A midget masked killer. A simian psychopath on the rampage.  A sadistic child-sized butcher.  I didn’t like that last one though.  I never cut people up.  I only broke them.  People came apart in such musical ways.  Sockets dislocated with a scrumptious sucking sound.   Lungs collapsed with an airy sigh.  Cartilage crumbled with a susurrus of crackling.  I lived to find new ways to break bodies.  I was an aural explorer in the field of human destruction.  Dogs were good too though.

At age sixteen I was caught.  The police found me halfway through splitting open Ms. Jefferson’s skull with my trusty sledgehammer.  They made the mistake of sending me to juvie.  I found new subjects for my educational procedures on a weekly basis.  Two months later they tried to send me to jail.  I had heard of solitary confinement and knew that I needed to be on the outside in order to learn.  So I killed my guards during transport and left to pursue my studies elsewhere.

I ended up in Dunsmuir, California.  I love it here.  It’s so secluded and forested.  Nobody can catch me.  I work in the retirement home as a caretaker of the dying.  I offer a quicker demise to those who wish to further my aspirations.  I transport the bodies to the morgue and nobody suspects a thing.  Ever since Ming, I’ve had a certain propensity for elderly men. They break so purposefully.

Tonight I am going to try a new method of dismantling.  I have a date to the prom, and his name is Jack Panetti.  His dad owns the local lumber mill.  I heard from Jenna that sex makes everything better.  I can’t wait to see if she’s right.

The Way We Talked (Third Place - Fiction)

by Zeke Hudson

I try to invite God into my life every day, but I am never sure if he accepts, or if I would know or not if he did. I’m not religious, and I said some things about God when I was younger that I wouldn’t feel comfortable repeating now, even though I’m agnostic—even if he doesn’t exist. When I invite him in I feel embarrassed, like I’m waving back at someone who’s waving to their friend behind me, and my invitation feels unsure when it should feel confident. Some days I forget to invite him until the better half of the day is over, when I could have used his presence with me earlier. I hope one day God will say “Yes” and I will know.

Now this girl is talking to me as if what we’re saying matters. Her friends, travel, careers, health, it all matters and we remind ourselves and each other of it as often as possible in the way we talk. She is a master of it, and I get excited with her. Yes! Go to Indonesia. Yes! Everyone here will still love you, and your family will still love you. You can even get your dream job there, get married, and raise cultured little babies. And I will be very happy for you and I will think about you late in my life as the girl, now the woman, who succeeded and made her life good.

I saw a video once of a crackhead who knew what love was. He made a sign with his hands, like this, clasping them together, and then he said to the cameraman “I love you. Now isn’t that awful? To know someone loves you?” I remember the way he said awful, like it really was awful, but exquisite, and I said “Yes” to myself, quietly, like talking to God. The videographers were laughing, and then I laughed too, but I didn’t understand his hand sign, and neither did they.

I don’t remember what I said anymore, but she leaned her head against my shoulder, and we stayed like that for an hour. I wondered what I said, or if it was my words at all, or if she was just like me and the videographers, looking for something that comes so easily to others. That made me more scared than anything—that after everything we said that mattered, maybe we didn’t know. Sometimes I thought about picking little berries, and I wondered if I’d be too shy to show them to her and say, “Here, these remind me of you.”

I used to drive at night with music on when I was overwhelmed, because you can’t sing along to the sound of tires and engine. I would climb into the hills as far as I could, until roads ended, or gates barred my passage, and then I would find a side road, an alley, and drive until I didn’t know the words. Roads became damnably familiar. When I got older I started walking, and when I walked alone I was reminded that humans aren’t the only animal that lives in cities. Farther above town, where the stores wink and close, cats become raccoons, deer turn into cougars, and every shadow moves. It is so hard to get lost. But every step away from home felt freer.

Now she’s murmuring about things that could matter. She is sleepy. I think that I could matter, so I put my arm around her and she smiles. Before, when I thought about berries, I knew I only thought of them because I wanted to be considerate, but I didn’t know much else. Now I know what I want. I have my arm around her, and Indonesia is gone, because it’s just the two of us. But I know something’s not perfect, like she’s still thinking about going somewhere even though I’m right there. Or maybe she knows more about me than I want her to.

I visited my friend at college once and got sad. I didn’t know that I was sad until I realized I had been thinking about a girl whom I loved and who would never love me. As my friend and I walked through a park on campus, I looked at the field ahead, and the road, and the roads after it, and I wanted to go, to get lost, to have the strength or the courage to leave, or do anything. So I ran. When my friend caught up, I was lying in the grass, still far from the road. I looked at the stars and wished the sky would go black. “I want the world to end,” I said to my friend, and he helped me up. When people ask me when the last time I cried was, I tell them about that trip, and when I didn’t get past the field.

I still talk with her, sometimes. There’s something there that never left, even though we’re a world apart. It’s good that I see the humor in everything. Even writing this was, in a way, funny, and I know how some parts sound, but that is how life happens. I don’t know if I’ll ever get lost the right way, on purpose, but maybe God exists. I hope that if he does, he’ll tell me whatever he told the crackhead.

The Quiet Life - First Place Fiction

by Jasmine Lane

     The tap in the kitchen was leaking again.  It did so once in a while, dripping relentlessly against a buildup of plates that had been surviving in the sink for the past week in spite of Martha’s constant nagging that it be kept dish-free.  Ezekiel had tried to comply with her wishes when they had first purchased the house, hoping to placate the woman and end her griping, but after spending his entire day building the houses that other people would find happiness in, he didn’t have the energy to concern himself with the cleanliness of his own dismal and dissatisfying home.
     He sat in the living room now, feet resting atop the coffee table, his comfortable old reclining chair tilted all the way back.  Martha disapproved of the posture; she said it made him look like a layabout, but Zeke was comfortable.  Why shouldn’t he be able to put his feet up while he watched the game?  He had bought himself a six-pack, too, and now held one of the cheap beers in his hand.  He wanted to be drunk tonight, and Martha, who sat scowling at him from her rocking chair, would not deter his determination.
     The kitchen sink was still drip drip dripping away, and Zeke reached for the remote so he could turn the TV volume up a few notches.  A contented smile crossed his face as the distracting noise was successfully drowned out by cable ads and previews for sitcoms that had lost their flavor and originality several seasons ago.  His eyes slid sideways to glance at Martha, and he grumbled, “Don’t glare at me like that.  I’m trying to watch TV, and I can’t hear it over that damned dripping.”  There was only silence.  “Not gonna argue?  ‘Bout damn time you saw it my way.”  Martha still didn’t respond.  Zeke took a sip of his beer.  She was right not to argue.  She had complained time and again about the faucet and how it was wasting water and ruining the sink and keeping her up at night and all manner of other minor irritations, so she had no right to be giving him dirty looks now.  At least they couldn’t hear the thing this way.
     Something about the faucet’s steady drip had always reminded Zeke of a clock, and clocks had never reminded him of anything but his age.  At 42, he felt like his life had passed him by.  Kids didn’t know how good they had it.  Not that they would have cared if they did.  Bobby had failed his math test on Friday, and when Zeke had questioned him about it, he had blamed his failure on his teacher, a Mr. Dodson who Zeke had met with on several occasions and who had assured him that Bobby was less interested in math than he was in Alyssa Hatfield.  Bobby had been grounded for the weekend, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to sneak out tonight.  But no harm done; a new set of locks on the window had made certain that Bobby wouldn’t be leaving again any time soon.
     Come to think of it, maybe he should have put locks on Samantha’s windows, too.  She was generally well-behaved, but there had been mishaps and Zeke really saw no reason not to nip the whole issue in the bud.  He groaned and tilted himself upright, setting his beer on the coffee table without a coaster.  Once again, he glanced at Martha, daring her to comment.  Once again, she said nothing.  “No complaints?  I’m ruining your table.”  Silence.  “There’ll be a ring there in the morning.”  More silence.  Zeke raised an eyebrow, licked his lips, decided to see how much he could get away with.  “Your mother’s a bitch.”  Martha said nothing.  Zeke grunted, his eyes focused now on a commercial for shampoo, his reason for sitting up half forgotten.  Something to do with locks.  Was the front door broken?  He shoved himself upright and ambled toward the door to check, although he was pretty sure that wasn’t the problem.  Sure enough, everything was in its place.  Zeke grunted again, satisfied, and turned to head back to his chair, but his eyes fell on the partially open garage door.  Right.  The dog had been barking earlier, but it was silent now.  Everything was silent now.
     Zeke closed the door.  The edge of it scraped along the floor and left a streak of dull red-brown in its wake.
     It was dark on the way back to his chair, and Zeke bumped his hip against Martha’s seat.  When he looked at her to apologize, he saw that she had leaned forward, her hand tilted toward the beer can he had left on the coffee table.  Fury flashed through him, bright and hot, and he gripped the back of her chair with one calloused, powerful hand and yanked it back roughly.  Martha flew back into it, and Zeke snarled at her, “You leave my goddamn drink alone, you whore.”  A harsh laugh escaped him as Martha’s wide eyes gazed up at him, her mouth frozen in a startled little “o.”  “Mr. Dodson told me all about it this afternoon.  Tried to apologize, too, the jackass.  Guess it’s my fault; if I’d been home earlier, I would’ve been the one going to meetings about Bobby’s grades.  Too little, too late, I suppose.”  He glanced at Martha, whose head had fallen forward toward her chest.  Scowling, he gave the chair a little shake.  “Are you listening to me, woman?”  He shook again; her head popped back up.  “Better.  And while we’re here, I don’t give a shit about your stupid fucking flowers.  What the hell are primroses?  Sounds like fairy shit to me.”  Martha still wasn’t responding, and Zeke found himself losing steam.  “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
     He shuffled back to his chair.  It took a moment to get settled; his stomach had been growing these days, and his chair was made for a smaller man.  Still, he managed to get comfortable as the game came back on the screen.  The TV shone white against the carpet, the only light in the house, and it glared against Zeke’s pale face as he turned to Martha again; in the half-light, a series of thin red scratches glowed on Zeke’s cheek; neatly mirroring the three deep gashes on Martha’s chest and stomach, only just visible beneath her shredded dress.  It had been yellow before, but now it was red.
     “Yeah,” Zeke said, nodding.  “It doesn’t matter.  The kids are in bed; the dog’s finally quiet; and you don’t have anything to say to me anymore.”  He smiled.  “What do you think of that, Martha?”
     As usual, Martha said nothing.  There was only darkness, the TV, and silence.  Enough silence to drown in.  Zeke threw his feet back onto the table, scooting a kitchen knife to one side as he did.  “You wanna watch the game with me, dear?” he asked gently.  “Good.  I’m glad.  We can talk about all this in the morning, after our guys have won.”  There was a pause before Zeke said, “I love you, honey.”  On the TV, the crowd erupted into applause.

Release - Second Place Fiction

by Patrick Duggan

     “Take a seat Mr. Martin.”
The doctor, Franklin Wright, smiled reassuringly as he gestured to the exam table. Martin shifted forward anxiously, gingerly taking his place on the sinking plastic. He started at the cold.
     “These things are never comfortable, are they doc?”
     Franklin smiled. “Afraid not, Mr. Martin. The cold help keeps down the risk of infection. It's for everyone's safety.”
     Martin gave the doctor a sardonic grin. “Well, let's get on with it. Get out the needles and knives.”
     Dr. Franklin gave him a scolding look. “You know we don't use anything so barbaric. Don't be dramatic. This is just a final exam, to make sure you’re healthy and disease-free.”
     Martin leaned back, lying down on the table with his hands laced behind his head. “Right. Don't want me infecting anybody with something nasty. I guess that means this'll be the last time I see you then, huh doc?”
     Dr. Franklin patted him on the shoulder. “I'm afraid so, Mr. Martin. Don't fret; I'm sure there are many more cold exam tables in your future.”
     Martin took a deep breath. “I guess so. I guess so.”
     Dr. Franklin rolled up Martin's sleeve. The starched orange fabric crumpled and compressed, leaving the man’s arm bare. He applied a tourniquet, quickly and efficiently.
     “What are you going to do first?” Dr. Franklin asked. He had learned it was best to keep their minds off the pain. They were supposed to be happy, after all.
     “I'm going to go home. Spend time with my wife, hug my kids. Just be with my family, you know? Do you have any family Dr. Franklin?”
     Dr. Franklin forced a smile as he withdrew the needle. He moved away from the table and inserted the blood into a testing chamber. “Nothing for it now but to wait.” He turned around to face Mr. Martin. “My wife is, unfortunately, no longer with me, but I have two sons. They mean the world to me.”
     Martin smiled and nodded. “There's no other feeling like it is there. Being a father?”
     Dr. Franklin pulled off his glasses and began cleaning them idly with his shirt while nodding. “Nothing like it in the world, Mr. Martin.”
     “And now I get to see them. Go home and see my kids. Marissa, my wife, she didn't believe, but I knew they'd make the right decision. I knew they'd find me innocent.”
      Dr. Martin finished cleaning his glasses and put them back on. “Nothing short of a miracle Mr. Martin. Nothing short of a miracle.”
     The testing machine finished its work. A slow, monotonous red light began blinking on and off. Dr. Franklin moved over to the machine.
     Martin was nervous. “What does that mean? Do I have something?”
     Dr. Franklin smiled. “Just a small cancer, Mr. Martin. Nothing serious. Let me see....” He began paging through a small binder of medicine tables on the counter. Eventually, he stopped. “REX23.” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a small, pink vial. “Here it is. You should be right as rain in a just a moment, Mr. Martin.” Dr. Franklin inserted the vial into a syringe, flicked the needle to make sure there were no bubbles. “Hold still Mr. Martin. In a few minutes, this will all be over. You'll be able to go see your family.” The tourniquet was still on. Dr. Franklin gave Mr. Martin his injection, and then solemnly put the needle away, still smiling.
     Jacob Martin was declared dead 30 seconds later.
     A voice came on over the intercom. “Dr. Franklin, is the procedure complete?”
     The Doctor moved over to the voice panel on the wall. “Jacob Martin has passed on. He didn't suspect a thing; he went peacefully.”
     “Good work, Doctor. We can at least show them a little kindness before their release.”
     “Of course.”
     A few seconds later the door slid open again, and a young woman in an orange jumpsuit looked in nervously. “Take a seat Mrs. West.”

Trip to Iao Valley - Third Place Fiction

by JodiAnn Tomooka

    “Are you ready?”
    “I don’t think we should be here,” I said.
    “Come on. It’s just one time,” replied David. “Just to say we did it.”
    He climbed over the yellow, rusted gate and waited for everyone to follow. I looked around. Next to me, Alice and Janie had their arms locked in fear; Tyler and Andrew looked wary; Nicole quietly muttered something to herself; Laura stood with one hand in her pocket, the other in her mouth, biting her nails.
    “Come on guys. It’s not like anything bad is going to happen,” said David. “We’re just going to take a look around.”
    “But it’s haunted,” whispered Janie, as she dug herself further into Alice’s side.
    “That’s the whole point. Lots of people come here at night and nothing ever happens to them. We’re just having fun.”
    Tyler and Laura hopped over the gate, knowing that David the Daredevil would never give up until we were all on the other side.
    “Just this once,” said Tyler.
    “Ok. Who’s next?” David asked.
    Slowly, Nicole climbed over the gate followed by Andrew. Alice, Janie, and I remained on the safe side. David stared at us.
    “Would you rather be alone, three girls in the middle of nowhere, or with the rest of us and three guys to protect you?”
    “I’d rather be with the group,” exclaimed Janie as she, too, made her way over the gate. Alice and I looked at each other with the same hopeless expression. Stay with the group or be left alone. We slowly climbed over the gate and joined the rest of them.
    “Ok. Everyone has flashlights? Good. Let’s go!”
    One by one, the glow of the flashlights illuminated the street in front of us. From here on, the beam from my hefty flashlight was my best friend. Once we were prepared both physically and mentally, we started to climb up the hill, depending solely on each other. It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear, and the stars shone brightly. The air was mildly cold but nothing unbearable.
   After about a minute of silence, Laura asked, “Do you know the stories about Iao Valley?”
   “Yes!” cried Janie. “The one about the big battle between the Hawaiians that happened here. Bodies clogged the river and turned the water red with blood!”
   “Oh, Janie, look the water’s red!” joked David as he shone the light over the railing to the river below.
   “Shut up, David! That’s not funny!”
   “Shhh. You’re being so loud. The spirits will hear you!” said Laura playfully.
   “Nooooooo,” moaned Janie as she buried her way between Alice and I. Janie was the superstitious, spiritual one in the group.
   “Well going back to what Laura was saying, isn’t there a story about the side of this mountain too?” asked Tyler.
   “Yeah,” I replied. “A plane crashed here many years ago. People say that late at night you can hear the passengers screaming and feel the heat from the flames.”
   Andrew tilted his head upwards and leaned closer to the mountain. “I don’t hear or feel anything.”
   “It’s just a story,” said Tyler.
   Janie retaliated, “You don’t mess around with ancient Hawaiian stories. They’re real, you know, so can we please get out of here before the night marchers come?”
   “There’s no night marchers here,” said Andrew.
   “Yeah, there are,” said Laura. “These restless souls of ancient warriors carry torches and march in mostly sacred places. You can hear them beating their drums and chanting, ready to go to war. Iao Valley is a sacred Hawaiian site.”
   “You can’t look them in the eye, right?” asked Alice.
   “Yeah. If you do, they’ll take you and make you one of them forever.”
   Nicole laughed. “So what do you do if you see them?”
   “You’re supposed to lie on the ground face down, put your hands on your head, breathe slowly, and try not to make noise.”
   Nicole started laughing again. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”
   Janie, Alice, Laura and I stared at her with wide eyes. “Don’t disrespect the ancient stories,” I said. “Especially here. The Hawaiians truly believed this stuff.”
   “Ok, sorry,” apologized Nicole. “It’s just kind of funny.”
   “We’re almost there guys,” David said, averting our attentions back to the walk.
   We continued to walk up the winding road. With each turn in the road, my heart leapt out of my chest. My eyes continued to dart around, ready to spot any sign of danger. I believed deeply in the stories, which is why I didn’t want to be here. We made it halfway up the hill when suddenly David’s flashlight went out.
   “What the heck?” he said. He hit the flashlight against his hand, hoping it would turn on again. Then, Nicole’s light went out too.
   “I told you not to disrespect them!” I whispered fiercely.
   “Relax,” said David. “It’s just the batteries. I forgot to put new ones in before we came.” He took Nicole’s flashlight and checked the batteries. Dead too.
   “It’s ok. We still have six flashlights left,” said Nicole. She moved her way to stand by Janie and Alice, and David walked over to share lights with Tyler. We continued to walk further up the hill when a gust of cold wind blew past us. Suddenly, a high piercing scream filled the air. I whipped my head around to see Alice grasping her shirt where her heart lay underneath and Janie clutching Alice’s arm for dear life, both of them staring wide eyed at Nicole who was standing on the side laughing out loud. Apparently, Nicole had grabbed Janie from behind and pulled her back. Realizing it was Nicole who had done it, Janie slapped her arm and began yelling profanities at her.
   “Shut up before someone hears us,” warned Laura strictly. Then, another scream filled the air. Everyone looked towards Janie, but her widened eyes and mid-sentence stance assured us that she was not the one who had shouted. We began looking around the group, attempting to find the culprit, when several other lower pitched screams reverberated off the sides of the mountain. This time, we were certain they did not come from any of us. At this realization, the eight of us sprinted down the hill, back where we came from. Then, each of the flashlights extinguished one by one. I pressed the on and off switch multiple times but to no avail. Complete darkness surrounded us.
   I swung my arm to the side in hopes of grabbing hold of someone I knew, but instead felt something grab my legs and pull me down face first. I tilted my head back to find Laura with her right arm firmly grasping my right leg. She had tripped and fallen, pulling me down with her.
   “Are you ok?” I asked.
   “Yeah,” she replied. “Sorry about taking you down too. I just grabbed whatever was in front of me.”
   “It’s alright. Where’s everyone else?” I desperately scanned the road, scrunching my eyes in the darkness trying to find my friends. I tried to listen for footsteps, but all I found was silence.
   “They must’ve run ahead,” I said, trying to keep myself calm. “We better go before they leave us here.” I pushed myself up and pulled Laura off of the ground. Together, we darted straight to the cars. We were almost there when I made out a dark figure standing on the side of the road in front of us. I slowed to a jog and put my arm out to stop Laura. “Do you see that over there?”
   Laura’s body stiffened next to mine. I couldn’t make out the figure, but my feet refused to move any closer. My heart beat against my ribs as though it wanted to escape its bone cell. Laura moved her head forward slightly and suddenly grasped my arm. I half jumped at the surprise.
   “It’s Janie!” Laura said as she began to run ahead to meet her. As I moved closer to the figure, I made out a small girl with a ponytail and a bulky purse hanging from her shoulder. That’s Janie, I thought. I ran up to them and watched as Laura peaked around at Janie’s face. She was standing with her face towards the river, her eyes as wide as the full moon above us. Laura and I followed her gaze and found what looked to be a dam, with logs sticking out, in the middle of the river several feet from where we were standing. The water was unusually dark. I turned back to face Janie. “What’s wrong?”
   Janie merely raised her arm and pointed at the dam. I followed her finger to the black mass hindering the river from flowing, when suddenly I realized what it was. My hand instinctively covered my mouth as I gasped in both disgust and horror. The objects sticking out weren’t logs, but arms, and the dam was no regular dam but a collection of bodies. The faint smell of rust filled my nose as I realized why the water was so dark. I pulled away from them, trying to recompose myself.
   Laura, finally understanding what happened, began pulling the frozen Janie away from the river, back towards the cars. “We need to get out of here now.”
   Without another word, the three of us made our way to the bottom of the hill and found our cars right where we had left them. However, something was different. David’s driver door was wide open and the hood was propped up. Next to his, Tyler’s car was the same as usual, except it displayed four large scratches running from the front bumper to the back tire. Both vehicles were empty. I frantically scanned the area, looking for some sort of movement. Laura, who had made her way to David’s truck, cried out, “They were here!”
I ran up to meet her but refused to look inside. “His keys are in the ignition,” she said. “Alice and Nicole’s bags are in here too…”
   “We need to leave, now!” Janie shouted, her voice shaking.
   “I’m not leaving until we find everyone else!” I yelled.
   “Just get in the car,” said Laura. She climbed in the driver’s seat and turned the key, but the truck wouldn’t start.
   Suddenly, a rhythmic beating sounded through the trees and off the side of the mountain. Three of our heads whipped in the direction of the beating. A line of glowing torches bobbing up and down made its way in our direction. The drumming grew louder and the faint sound of chanting could be heard.
   “Get down!” whispered Laura. The three of us quickly fell to the ground, our faces pressed firmly into the gravel, our fingers locked on top of our heads. I tried to slow my breathing, but my heart’s frenzied palpitations made it hard to think. The drumming and chanting grew louder until the sound was directly in front of us. I closed my eyes tightly and prayed that they would leave us alone.
   For a moment, I thought we were in the clear as the sounds died away. Then, I heard Janie’s high-pitched scream fill the night air. My eyelids flew open, and I tried to glance to the side of me, but I couldn’t see anything. A couple of seconds later, Laura yelled out in fear. My heart beat faster and faster as I knew I was next. I shut my eyes again and pressed myself closer to the ground. A hard jab to my side indicated they were over me. I heard a low grunt a few inches from my head.
   This is only a dream, this is only a dream, I thought to myself. It was only a dream.

The Picture of Violet (First Place - Fiction)

by Hannah I. Darling

On my mantel there is a photograph of a woman I have met only once. 

 

She is sitting in the middle of a tall grass field wearing a white sun hat and holding a child in her arms, their backs to the camera and the sun sinking behind the hills. 

On the rare occasion I have company over, I lie and say she is my sister, then promptly change the subject.
 

 

Last night, I was sitting on the floor by the fire, grading paper after paper. The wind was soft as it crawled around the house and the weeks have been snowy. I’ve spent months racing around, keeping too busy.  

I dropped the papers to the ground, exhausted and looked up at the photograph on my mantel. Then, absentmindedly, I pulled out a photo album from the top drawer of this ugly, pale green chest with big white flowers on it. My mother had hand painted it when I was a child, so somewhere along the line it ended up with me.

And the photo album was as old as the chest. Mostly of family vacations, birthdays, bigger events. But toward end there was a picture of my dad sitting on top of a car, writing on a notepad. He was smiling. And it hardly looked like him. He had been quiet most my life, a large distance between him and the world. Like he was only made up of mysterious pieces and no one got to turn them over, see the other side.  

I sat there, flipping through the album. We had lived on the coast of Maine when I was about eight. I didn’t remember much of those years, but I could recall one morning when I woke up to a lot of screaming downstairs.

My two older sisters had snuck out to a party at a senior boy’s house, Billy something. They hadn’t come home until early that morning. Naturally, mom was doing the screaming. What was especially bad was Vivian had came home with only her long jacket on and nothing much underneath, except her wrist brace since she had hurt it at cheerleading. I went downstairs, wanting just to sneak into the kitchen, but mom grabbed me by the arm and told dad to take me down to the beach. I was eager, it was never just the two of us.  

We walked since we lived so close and dad didn’t say much of anything on the way, just chewed on a toothpick, like he routinely did. We got to the water and he sat on the rocks while I ran to the shore. I remember how the beach could make your hair gritty and face all salty in just a couple minutes. 

I sat next to him eventually, and dug my toes and fingers into the sand. He was writing in a little notebook he always carried around.

“What are you doing Dad?” I asked.

“Oh nothing, just jottin’ down some things.”

“Bout what?”

“...this and that, nothing much really.”

I told him I would tell him what I had written in my journal that week if he would tell me what he was jottin’ down. This made him laugh, which surprised me. In my mind it was a pretty good offer.

“Okay, Jack. Well, I’m writing about the laughing man. The laughing man who sits in the sky and swings down midday to give you a tap on the shoulder and tell you to slow it down. And you shouldn’t ignore him Jack, cause he’ll get old someday. Remember he laughs when you say, ‘It has to be now, I want it now.’ He can teach you patience, Jack, but he doesn’t want you to loose your child-ness either.” 

I told him that was a pretty good story about the laughing man and that maybe he should visit mom ‘cause she wasn’t so patient and he laughed again. I told him what I had written wasn’t as good ‘cause it was just about how Vivian had played baseball with me, even though her wrist was hurt. He said that was definitely as good, maybe even better.
 

I let the album fall shut and looked back up to the mantel.

I had gotten the call one afternoon in the spring and since it was a slow season we arranged for a time the next day. I packed my equipment into the truck. 

She had given me directions to her father’s ranch twenty miles away, and as I drove I noticed the last of the snow on the hills and knew the sunlight would be perfect. When I arrived, a dark haired woman was standing under a maple with a young girl, about three years old. She wore a long yellow dress and they were eating a bag of peanuts, the kind with a shell.

“You must be Violet, I’m Jack,” I said.

“Thanks for coming. This is my daughter, Cadence.” I noticed the unusual inflection of her voice and the toddler’s long eyelashes. She dusted the salt off her fingers as she spoke.

“If you want to set up, it may take me a while to round up my father. I want to try and get at least one shot of the whole family.” 

As she went inside with the child, I chose a spot under the maple tree where the peanut shells sprinkled the grass. I remember the smell of sunscreen and soil. Beside the swing on the porch was a pile of books, ruined by weather. I heard Violet turn on the television for Cadence and I got a glimpse of Violet’s father, a tall old man with a mustache, wearing a blackened cowboy hat. And I heard Violet gently try to persuade him to change into a nice shirt for the portraits. I remember the lows and highs of her voice and how I wished to hear her sing or read to her daughter. Her father sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

“Violet, turn on some coffee, will you?” he said.

“Dad, the photographer is waiting outside.”

The man walked outside to where I was standing. 

“Why don’t you come on in here, just for a moment,” he said.

I was confused, but followed him. He pointed to a chair at the table and I sat down.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

She turned to me and apologized.

“Just sit down Violet and give ma a damn minute.”

The man took a loud breath, but spoke just above a whisper.

“I know why you want to take these pictures…‘cause I’m gettin’ old.”

His laugh turned into a bad fit of coughing. 

“...It’s been rough between me and you these last few years, but there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you...Do you remember that old yellow house your mother and I lived in when you were little?  Do you remember that night one summer when you came into my study because it was so damn hot and you couldn’t sleep? I carried you around outside and you demanded that I point out the constellations since the stars were so bright… And I hummed that Neil Young song into your ear as you got sleepy. You asked me how a river could get blinded, and I told you Blind River was just a place in Canada and it could see just fine.” 

He paused and struggled to clear his throat- perhaps of the dust that collects on a thing never told. It was uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t have been there. He glanced at Cadence who was slouched in front of the TV, toying with a thread from the sofa. And he went on. 

“You had on some sort of candy bracelet and you had only eaten off the purple ones. Somehow, I remember that. It looked too tight, so I stretched it off your wrist and put it in my pocket. We walked back and forth along the driveway for an hour. There was that cricket noise and right there under the big black sky, I couldn’t believe that I was standing in this world with you. Of all the things, how could it be that I got you...

I looked up at the house and saw your mom, sitting in the window, watching us and crying a sort of beautiful cry. What I wanted to tell you Violet, is this hour has been my dearest hour.”  

The farm was quiet and the detergent commercial on the T.V. sounded fuzzy. Violet reached for a tissue. I said nothing, still unsure why the man invited me in. He stood up, abruptly.  

“Ready for my close up, sir,” the man said. 

I followed him outside.

After a few test shots, I had Violet’s father lean against the maple. He didn’t smile, but his eyes had a readiness. And for some reason, I feared this readiness. The peanut shells crunched as he adjusted his stance and the girls came out then. Violet joined her dad with Cadence on her hip and her dark hair flowed over her daughter’s shoulders. She kissed the small girl on the head and briefly squeezed her father’s hand. He nodded and looked out toward the sky.

In Violet’s face, I saw the fragility of a daughter and the instinct of a mother. I thought she wasn’t torn between the two roles, nor confused by them. Just aware of them, maybe for the first time ever.  She gave me a look, maybe of contentment. 

Cadence began to whine and I went to assist Violet with the bottles and toys in her car. In the fuss of the moment, her father limped to the barn and sat down against it, facing the valley and creek below. He removed his cowboy hat and rested it on his face. 

The neighbors strolled over a few minutes later, chatting and bearing cookies. Hellos were exchanged and once the situation was realized, perplexed and hysterical phone calls were made. I remember the maples at the ranch whirring in the wind.  

I watched Violet take a deep breath and close her eyes for a few seconds. She lifted Cadence and shakily walked over to the tall grass field where they sat down. The ambulance’s siren echoed off the hills and somehow Violet kept Cadence calm, facing away and pointing to something in the distance. 

I slipped into the background then, and a heaviness took me. I had been witness to courageous and timely reconciliation that day, as complete and pure as it comes. And this is how I imagined his death…

He took in a breath and felt the dirt driveway under his bare feet that long ago summer night and Violet’s sticky hands around his neck. He listened to his own humming and felt his daughter’s heart beating against his own. And then, he saw Violet’s mother in the window as he breathed out his last breath. 

I stood back for some time and looked out at Violet and her daughter, watching the things that contour a family. Eventually, I took what would be my last shot and packed my equipment into the truck.  

         

Weeks later when I developed Violet’s film, I quit photography and gave all my time to teaching. I looked up the address of the ranch in the phonebook and mailed the photographs to Violet. All, but one.  

Mae and the Judge (Second Place - Fiction)

by Richard Balzer

The dusk covered Caddy pulled up to the roadside dinner. Exiting the hold-over from the good old days of good old cars was a man of considerable heft. The Judge himself was a hold-over from the days of the good old boy network; he needed the “land yacht” to get around to survey his “domain.”

He pushed into the dinner in with his typical air of arrogance and self importance. Mae, the waitress, every ready with warm words and a warmer smile picked up a menu and sauntered over towards the Judge. He waived her off with an arrogant flip of his hand and said, “The usual, toast and coffee” and sourly added “and heavy on everything. The last time I was in here the only thing heavy was the burn on the toast and the grounds in the coffee.” Mae simply smiled and went about her task. Mae had just sold the diner last week and was on her way to sweet retirement. She had been verbally abused by the judge for more years than she would want to admit. Since today was the last day she would ever have to put up with this she went about her task without the resentment that had been there during other visits by the self important man.

Her mind worked like it was whipping up butter in the churn on a hot Saturday afternoon. She spread the butter on the toast as thick as lard on a stuck water pump, hoping to speed on the coronary the judge was likely to have at any moment. Next, she piled on the orange marmalade thick enough to keep a bottle fly busy for ten years. Coffee, hot enough to boil a crawdad and sweet enough to encourage an onset of type 2 diabetes completed the judge’s usual. She delivered the order with a smile on her lips as sweet as the coffee, knowing the judge wouldn’t complain as she had followed his instructions like she was an innocent Yankee, caught in the county’s speed trap and fined in his midnight kangaroo court. Mae swayed to the country and blues number that was playing on the broken down radio sitting on the counter by the day old donuts and sat on a stool behind the counter to wait. She wanted to have a good place to watch from and enjoy what was surely to follow.

The thick layer of marmalade slid off the toast and onto the Colonel Sanders' goatee that the judge was so proud of. It dripped off his face and piled onto both his white, three piece, summer only sear sucker suit and the table; the pile growing to resemble cumulous cloud floating by on a lazy summer morning.

Trying to wash down what he had been able to get into his mouth, the judge gulped the hot, sickening sweet coffee, burning his lips and tongue in the process. His pudgy face grew to a beet red that complemented the orange of the marmalade and the white of his goatee nicely. He searched in vain for the napkins that had been intentionally left off the table, looking more like he needed a dip in the public swimming pool.

Mae now stood over him with a wet table rag in one hand, a child’s bib in the other and a satisfied impish grin on her faced and asked, “Melpya.”

A Notebook For Every Town (Third Place - Fiction)

by Corynn Del Core

I told her I had a different notebook for every town, but really, this was the first one. The idea was nice, I don’t know, I thought she’d like it. And she did. 

The place was just like a bar only it was a coffee shop. It must’ve been meant to be a bar originally. I sat at the counter with a glass of water in front of me, no ice in it. I was there to fill in this notebook I had, and then she sat down by me.

Her name was Angela, she said, and I thought just in that second that it probably wasn’t her actual name. It didn’t matter though, and I told her my name was Christine. It isn’t. But what does it matter?

She had a drink that got whipped cream on her upper lip. She licked it off mostly, but there was a gloss of it left on one side and it annoyed me a little. She said, “What’cha writing?” And I told her I liked to travel, and I had a different notebook for every town. When she asked what I meant I told her, “I write down everything about a place, all the people I meet,” and here I showed her in the notebook as I wrote her name down. “Everything goes in the notebook and helps me remember things. Then when I go, I leave it somewhere in whichever town it was.” She asked me, “Why would you leave it? What’s the point, then?” And I told her it helped me remember anyway, and I didn’t want to be bound to that many notebooks.

Of course, really, this was the first one. And I was doing what I said, more or less, but I hadn’t planned on leaving my notebook anywhere and I thought probably six or so pages was enough for a place. But it sounded better the new way. Angela gave me a mixed smile.

I drank some of my water, found it warm as bathwater. I asked her if she lived in this town and she said yes. She was pushing grains of sugar around on the granite counter top, her fingers splayed straight out, sugar collecting under her chipped orange nails. She rubbed away that last trail of whipped cream, and then it was easier to talk with her.

She was there waiting for her friend Jessica who was supposed to meet her, and then they were going somewhere I forget…maybe the movies. She seemed like she wanted to make friends, and I liked that, so I smiled with her. 

She asked me where all I had travelled to, and I had to make some new places up. It didn’t sound good enough to say Spokane and Death Valley, so I added Paris and Cancun and Machu Picchu. Some others too. I was surprised she didn’t ask what I was doing in her little town after all that, but she just told me how interesting it was and said, “But don’t you have a job?” And I said, “I’m a reporter,” before I had thought of a place to work as a reporter for. But she didn’t ask, because she didn’t care or didn’t think of it, or because she knew right off I was lying and didn’t want to bother.

It was close to nine-thirty when she sat down by me, and a half hour later her friend still hadn’t shown up. I asked if she would go call? She said yes and asked to borrow my cell phone, because, could I believe it? she didn’t own one. When I told her I had just lost mine I could see on her face she didn’t believe me and thought I was just a bitch who wouldn’t let her use my phone. I disliked her for a second.   

She said she’d go look for a payphone, and I said Alright, good luck. I kept to my water and my mostly blank notebook wondering if she’d come back in. She didn’t. I decided to go, then. Or, thinking about it now, it seems like I had a feeling something was going on with her, and I left to find her. I must have thought she was in trouble, I guess. 

I was halfway to my car walking with my hands in my coat pockets and my notebook clamped to my side when I saw her in part of a second disappearing out of a circle of street lamp glow and into an alley. I saw her hand and her nail polish, and a whirl of black clothes. I ran after her, into the dark, not thinking.

The contrast from light to dark stole my vision. While my eyes adjusted I listened for her steps but didn’t hear them. I thought, she couldn’t be gone already, it was only two seconds ago she’d disappeared. 

The dark shapes of the alley finally came into focus against the light at the other end. She wasn’t there. 

Then I felt her move, she was behind me somehow. I turned but she was already on me, her arms clamped around me so I couldn’t move. And then she bit me. 

It was just like a movie. She bit my neck hard; her bangs swept against my chin. I rushed sideways and slammed us both against the nearest wall and her grip loosened. My notebook fell. I elbowed her in the belly and ran. I didn’t look back at her, just ran until I got to a 24 hour grocery, and went inside and back through a pair of doors with the round glass windows. I found the staff bathroom and locked myself in, took my hand off my neck. I checked in the mirror. 

I wasn’t bleeding. I thought I felt blood when I was running, but the slickness had just been her spit. Her teeth marks were bright screaming red on my throat, but not oozing at all and they were just normal squares. She wasn’t a real vampire or anything. Just some crazy chick who thought she was. Or maybe she had rabies. 

The way she’d lured me out into the dark though, that argued she was a crazy wannabe vampire. Maybe she watched too many movies and did drugs and cried in the shower or something. I didn’t think if I should call the police or not, it just didn’t occur to me until the next day, and I never did anyway. I washed my neck with hand soap. I pressed my hair down but it wasn’t long enough to hide the bite mark, but I didn’t care much. 

I had to walk back the direction I’d come to get back to my car. It seemed stupid but I couldn’t stop myself from flipping up the collar of my coat and hunching my shoulders. I watched for her in the streets and in the shadows. I looked over my shoulder as I unlocked my car, but she wasn’t there.

Missed Connections (Honorable Mention - Fiction)

by Jamey Strathman

Feb 15 - WHY NOT 

ME- Shy girl sitting across from you at coffee shop.

YOU- Equally shy boy, well dressed, eating a fruit parfait. Long blond hair, pale, glasses.

I was thinking recently, 'Why not you,' just as a broad, relative term. Why not my neighbor, why not the teenager walking his dog across the street, why not the clerk at my grocery store, why not my old high school crush? People fade in and out of my mind on a near-daily basis. Not only that, actually. They fade in and out of my life. Why not just pick one at random to share the rest of my life with? I look at you and see someone moderately attractive. I could never be afraid of you cheating on me or hurting me. When we both come to terms with the fleeting nature of consciousness, won't we both end up in the same place with any other person? I could be with any other guy, you could be with any other girl.

I work long hours and come home to a dark, empty apartment every night. I'm sure you (you and mostly everyone) know what that feels like. Why not return to you sitting on the couch, reading The New York Times online with a dim light beside you and a gin and tonic on the end-table? Why not you, seated across from me in the kitchen as we eat leafy green salads with too many croûtons in them, crunching as quietly as we can manage. These specifics seem to hardly matter, but how can they not if our lives are comprised of them?

The “you” in this situation is collective, it is a variable that fills in for the ideal partner. The only thing that makes me apply “you” to you (the blond) is the horrible feeling in my stomach telling me that this is supposed to be how it is, that this is (and isn't EVERYTHING!?) the best part of my life, that since I was born, this is what I've worked towards, and will be working on for years, decades, forever.

So why not you? 

Feb 16 - THE INHERITANCE 

you know who I am. you know why I'm posting this. truth is, I'm tired. they say when you fear your parents, when you loathe them, you become more like them as you age. well, you won. I'm slowly turning into you. I hope you're happy. this is a missed connection of the most understated variety. this is me calling “us” out. it isn't enough for me to know that you love me; I have been operating under that assumption my entire life. I want you to say it. you could have said it when you talked on the phone yesterday. you could have said it when I was in town to visit you and mom last. you could shout it out right now, shout it out so loud that I could hear it no matter where you are right now. I know your voice isn't what it used to be, but I bet you can muster up enough strength. do it. let it happen. scream. scram. cram. ram. am.

you're tired. I'm tired too. we go to bed tired. we wake up tired. we spread jam over our english muffins tired. we commute to work tired. we smoke cigarettes tired. we drink after a long day tired. we go to bed tired. I feel lines being etched into my forehead when I'm smiling. 'I love you' lines. I look into the mirror and see your name filling them. I see my name filling them. your name is my name. it makes sense that I fall just as you do, arms flying in that same predictably unpredictable pattern. 

Feb 16 - THE INVENTION OF PERIPHERAL VISION 

As time passes, as we continue to “ignore” each other, I've been getting these visions. I see you sitting in that same place, eating that fucking salad like you do every day in the courtyard below my office (you're doing it as I type this, actually). I crank open the window in my office just enough so that my head and neck will stick out. I slit my throat. The blood is carried on the wind. You feel the first few drops on your head and look up. This is when the torrent hits you. It douses your suit coat. It peppers your salad. It makes everything a bit more bearable. It has grown increasingly appeasing since I worked out the equation in my head. You lose me, while I only lose myself. 

Mar 20 – RAYMOND 

So I saw the “Everybody Loves Raymond” bumper sticker on your car.  Do you really love him?  As much as I do?  I think Raymond's the best.  The way he always gets angry at his parents, ha ha, I can relate.  I’m glad you love Raymond too.  It’s been really hard to go on without new episodes of that show.  I still don’t really know how to fill that block of time.  I tried sitting around, but that didn’t work out very well, cuz I started thinking about things that I don’t like thinking about.  That’s why I was watching “Everybody Loves Raymond” in the first place!

Raymond’s mom sure likes making food, huh?  See, these are the things I like about that show.  My mom also enjoys feeding me, and when I get full, she tells me, “Joseph, you better finish what’s on your plate,” ha ha.  One time I thought about changing my name to Raymond, not only because I really like the show, but also because Raymond is just a really nice name.  Imagine it:

“Hello, Raymond!”

“Raymond, how have you been?”

“Raymond, quit leaving the toilet seat up!”

“Raymond, I’m leaving you.”

“Would you like fries with that, Raymond?”

“The Roman empire came to ruin when it was overrun by surrounding Barbarian tribes, Raymond.”

But I decided not to.  Too much hassle, and I had just purchased the first two seasons on DVD.  Didn’t leave the house much after that.

So, let’s talk about you.  What’s your favorite episode?  Other than Raymond (of course, ha ha), who is your favorite character?  Have you ever met Raymond in person (I tried, but I guess he didn’t hear me, or he was too far away to acknowledge me or something)?  We can share Ray moments where we accidentally do something that Raymond would do on the show.  Meet me for coffee?  I know this place downtown that looks almost like Raymond’s kitchen.  I’ll take you there, and we can both talk about how much we love Raymond. 

Mar 31 – THE NEWS ISN’T THE SAME WITHOUT YOU 

It’s Tuesday evening.  I’m sitting on my couch with my feet up on the coffee table.  My wife has gone to bed early.  The television is on.  It illuminates the room with a milky glow.  My eyes have dried out, and start stinging if I don’t blink enough.  My watch beeps.  It is now 10:00 and you’re not there. 

Mar 31 – RE: THE INHERITANCE

I remember asking you (this was a few years back) why you kept using.  You looked back at me, held that question in the air for what seemed far too long, and said, “Because nothing is straight.”  I think I know what you meant now.  When I was at the dock a few weeks back, I saw a guard-rail overlooking the river.  How it looked straight from one angle, then when I walked up to it and saw it from another angle, it appeared as an optical illusion.  There was no line.  The guard-rail was round.  And I imagined you standing beside me, saying “Nothing is straight,” with smoke coming out of your mouth.

Do you remember telling me that?  I see it all the time now.  I see it in my strawberry Fanta, which tastes great, but fills out my hips more than I'd like to admit.  I see it in my friends as well, with “casual addictions,” regardless of whether they're healthy or not.  There are excuses being made everywhere.  So, “nothing is straight.”  You used it as a roundabout way of explaining your problem.  Here's what I want to know: does that excuse you from using?  Does that excuse you from leaving?  Does it excuse having to wear ear plugs for the next couple of months when Mom couldn't stop crying in an empty bed?  You should have been there to see that- the bed looked so big without you in it.

Apr 5 - MISSING CONNECTION 

I still text you.

I don't stop thinking about the time we spent spend together.  About all of the things you gave give me.  When we sat sit in your room and cried cry together about those at this moment that have left our lives.  You told tell me, "Zach, don't forget about our time together.  I barely remember my mom, and she was so sweet to me."

I said say, "A long time ago, I read a book.  There are these creatures in it called Tralfamadorians.  They behave a lot like we do, but they have an extra sense.  They can perceive time in a way we cannot.  So when you say that your mom is gone and that she was sweet to you, you aren't entirely right.  Just like when I say, 'I have a dog,' I don't mean that I possess one at this moment in time.  I just mean that somewhere along the strand of my timeline, I possess it.  At the strand we can see, your mom is not alive, just as my dog is not, just like the man who wrote of the Tralfamadorians is not.  These things we speak of have not ceased to exist.  We are just unable to interact with them now," and with that you smiled smile and look at me, and tears fell fall from your face.  You said say thank you.

This is where the weird part comes in.  I know that at the part where you died die, I stopped stop being able to think like I did before.  I started start using past-tense conjugation even though I know that the past is only the past if I want it to be.  I've just been getting this sneaking feeling that I devalue you in some way by just moving on.  The Tralfamadorians have a saying.  It is "So It Goes."  I have to tell myself "So It Goes" at least two or three times a day so I don't break and fall to the ground.

When you were are at the part where you were are clinging to the last moments of your life, I would sit by you and read you the book.  This is the part I see the most clearly now.  You seem so frail and near-death that I can barely look up from the pages at you.  I can see you when I write this.  You force a grin.

I text you, "I miss you," and maybe somewhere six months ago you get my message.  You respond, "I miss you too."  Your name was Carrie.  Your name is Carrie.

  

Apr. 12 – RE:RE: THE INHERITANCE 

this is the last conversation we shared.  i took your parts out because it hurts to read them.

“Look at me.  Why is that so hard for you?  

“Why do you always hide behind this bullshit?

“It's like you can't say something seriously.  You're such a fictional character.  It's like you purposefully go out of your way to make people feel bad about themselves.  Is that your M.O.?  Do you like it when you make me cry?  I can't believe I EVER

“- no, it's not that, it's just that I love you, and I hate to see you pulling this.  You just never seem to care.  

“No, I know you DO care, but I don't like that you're taking advantage of me like this.

“Honestly, yes.  Fucking leave, you know, I don't care.  You're being such a baby.  Leave, I don't fucking care.

“Leave, I DON'T FUCKING CARE.”

i hope you remember the other half.