TW: death and suicide near the end, though they aren't a focus of the story Lee spent all afternoon every day charting the woods behind her school. She practically had a map of the entire twelve square miles in her head at all times, and when she wasn’t physically there, she was mentally retracing her steps. So you can understand why she was surprised by the sudden appearance of a large pond in the woods. She went over the area at least a dozen times before fully committing to the idea that this pond was not there yesterday. Where did it come from? Either way, its clean, transparent water was very alluring. She would’ve already jumped in, had it not been for the fact that she couldn’t see the bottom. A pond of this size and transparency should not be that deep, yet it was. It’s not like it got deeper towards the center, either. No; it became infinitely deep all the way up to its borders. Lee grabbed a rock and tossed it as close to the center as she could. She watched pockets of air slip away from its underside as it sank. It became darker and darker until, finally, it was gone. Then, more bubbles rose from the same spot. And more, and more, until finally, a stream of water was shooting from the pond like a fountain. Lee stared, unsure whether to be frightened or intrigued. The glistening beads of water began to change color. It was slow at first; hints of deep blues transitioning into soft greens and turquoise. Then purples, and pinks, and eventually a glittering golden stream was on full display right before her. It beckoned to Lee. There was no more school, no more home, no more woods around her. It was just her, and the fountain. She stepped forward onto the surface of the water. She didn’t sink, though that did not concern her. Her footsteps sent rhythmic ripples to the edges of her now small world. She reached toward the stream and let the golden beads pass between her fingers. Lee felt herself become heavier, and the once impenetrable surface began to give way. Blinking quickly in an attempt to wake herself from this dream-like state, she realized where exactly she was. Though, it was too late. As if she had suddenly been attached to an anchor, she sank deep and quick. What felt like several soft blades of grass tickled Lee awake. She thrashed around, scaring away what were actually hundreds of jelly bean sized creatures. Their tiny feet plopped along the ground as they scurried frantically. Her laughter attracted the attention of a large, bug-eyed fellow. His body was made up of colorful, round segments. She couldn’t imagine how he kept himself from falling apart. Still, despite his alien appearance, he did not give off an ounce of ill-intent. Lee was more curious than scared. “Oi’ las, what’re ya doing so close to da water? There’s no swimming ‘ere.” She looked around, realizing that the pond was the only thing that looked at all familiar. She was no longer in the middle of the woods, but rather some kind of industrial zone. Pink plumes of smoke rose from the top of giant spiraling structures. Everything looked as if it were made out of candy; much too bright for her taste. “Olright girl,” the creature seemed annoyed now, “if yer stayin silent, at least come back to the post wit meh.” A small, wooden shack stuck out of the ground just a few meters behind him. His segments began to topple over each other as they moved toward the shack. Somehow, his head glided along them, so as to always stay on top. It was pretty enjoyable to watch, Lee thought. She brushed the dirt and any bugs that remained off of her vest. “What’s your name?” “Ah, she does speak. I’m Mush, and wer goin tah meet One. You?” “Lee.” She smiled at Mush. The shack was only about a quarter the size of the pond, and barely taller than Mush, yet it was massive on the inside. Pulleys were dragging other odd-shaped beings between several stories, and each story had a team of workers; the clacking of old mechanical keyboards echoed from every direction. Mush stopped by one of the dozens of desks, leaving Lee to awkwardly stand behind him. “Yo, one-thousand-four-hundred-eighty-seven. You know wer boss man’s at?” His metallic arms stopped flailing on the keyboard. “Yea.” He peered over his glassless glasses to glance at Lee. She shivered. “Floor forty-seven,” he sighed, before continuing his sporadic flailing. “Uh, thanks,” he leaned over to Lee, “Odd fellow, that one-thousand-four-hundred-eighty-seven is.” Lee struggled to squeeze into the lift beside Mush. It didn’t help that its thin frame was loosely dangling above the ground. “So, is everyone here named after a number besides you?” She asked. “Pretty much. Oim a hired contracta, s’posed to pick up da trash and what-not ‘round teh post. Guess that makes you da trash. Or maybe teh what-not.” Lee took it as a joke, though Mush’s expression left it a mystery. “Anyweh,” he looked up and yelled, “Eighteenth!” A strange beast on the very top level nodded at the pair. As his nodding shook the lift, Lee realized that the rope holding the lift was inside of its mouth. It began slurping the rope, slowly at first, but it soon picked up the pace. By the time the lift had reached the forty-seventh floor, Lee was on the ground holding back her lunch; Mush was fine. “Right tis weh, little one.” There were no other desks on this floor. Instead, the beings here were all wearing what appeared to be hardhats. They all mumbled variations of “oh,” “uh huh,” and, “wow,” while staring at a specific wall on the other side of the room. “Oiii, One. Look what I found!” A strange tube with a pointed head slithered over to mush. When it reached them, the head popped open like a dandelion in bloom, revealing a face within. Its grin was unbearable. “Ahh, Mush. You’ve brought me a human! Thanks so much!” it hissed. “Ahh, so tis is wut dey look like. Didn’chu say you already have one? Why don’t we just throw ‘er back in da pond, save teh trouble?” Mush rolled just slightly between Lee and One. It was clear to Lee that he wanted to protect her, though her trust in this world was beginning to diminish. For a second, One’s grin flashed with malice. He quickly composed himself. “Well, yes, Mush. BUT, these humans are exotic creatures. You see, from what I’ve read, it takes two to make more of them. Besides, this one seems much more… aware than mine. It might actually be able to hold a conversation.” The tube extruding behind One’s head writhed and popped, revealing six nimble legs. “Anyway, I’ll be taking her.” Mush inched even further between the two. “‘Scuse me sir, but tis isn’t trash, n since I found ‘er, I-” One grabbed his round head and lifted his heavy body into the air. Squeezing, he popped Mush’s head like a balloon, sending his other segments rolling across the floor in random directions. Lee didn’t have time to scream before her body instinctually bolted toward the lift, narrowly dodging One’s grip. “First!” She yelled at the lift beast. The lift began to drop, but it only made it a few floors before One grabbed the rope. With nowhere else to go, Lee jumped onto the nearest floor and sprinted to the back door. Instead of being greeted by the pond, she was hundreds of feet above the ground. It was one of the structures she noticed earlier. With nowhere else to go, and One fast approaching, she jumped. Her body made a hard thud. “Shame,” One poked his head through the door. “Well, there are others,” he sighed, “I have to find a new trash collector now too.


Chew, chew*, Pop*! She certainly looked out of place where she was. A young girl, no older than twenty, blonde hair done up in pigtails, dressed in gothic Lolita attire and chewing bubble gum in an abandoned alleyway of some god forsaken corner of Nova Roma. Such a sight would be strange anywhere but more so here in one of the worst crime-ridden cities in the country. Yet she didn't care as she continued to stroll through the filthy ally. Of course, such nonchalance was bound to attract attention and eventually it did. A passing drunk with a posse wandered by. Perhaps it was the synthenal, perhaps it was the fact that he had others with him, or perhaps it was simply because he was stupid but this one decided to go and “ask” the pretty girl to spend time with him. He quickly matched pace with her and leaned down to look at her. “Well aren't you a pretty thing, why don't you come with me? I'm sure I can show you a good time.” ‘*Pop’* was her only reply. This angered the pig. “What, don't think I’m good enough for ya? You think I’m fat! You think I’m ugly don't ya!” He continued to project onto the young girl whose only reply was still ‘*Pop’*. “I’ll show you! Hmpf” He swung a fist at her head, or rather, where her head was. In his alcohol impaired mind, she appeared to dodge in a blink of an eye, when in actually he was just slow. The girl put out her leg, tripping him and with her right hand guided his fist into a nearby wall, smashing through the brick and becoming stuck. She then brought her pointed shoe back to deliver a kick to his unprotected groin. ‘*Pop’* Seeing how easily their boss was dealt with the goons panicked and fled causing the girl to sigh and move past the now whimpering degenerate. Before she could go any further however, a ringing could be heard inside her head. Tapping a button installed on the side of her head an image only she could see popped into her vision showing a girl and a waitress uniform with medium brown hair. Instantly her hard, unmoving features softened and she smiled, “Serena. How are you? I was just about to- “ Before she could get another word in Serena scowled. “How are you? How are you! I haven’t heard anything from you all day! I’ve been trying to reach you for five hours by now!” she grimaced remembering all the times she ignored her calls. To be fair, she didn’t want her to see what she was doing. “I just want to look out for you. What kind of sister would I be if I didn’t keep you safe?” “I know, I know. Look, I’ve been working and I couldn’t pick up my phone. If I did my clients would kill me. I’ve got one more stop and then ill be home. See ya.” And with that she ended the call. Her face once again hardened as the neon glow from the main road flashed, no need for anyone to see that other side of her. She wandered through the crowds until she got to the transport station. She stopped to get a new pack of gum and spit out the old, bland piece. Once in she went up to locker 224 and entered the usual combination. Inside was a guitar case. After retrieving the item, she began to move to the second location. She had found that one of the best ways to feign ignorance about her activates was to stand out. Everyone would see her so of course she couldn’t have done it. She smiled maliciously at the innocent act she pulled off every day. As she arrived at the high rise and began to climb the stairs, she thought back to how she got into this line of business as she continued to chew. *Pop.* It hadn’t been entirely by choice, as one you are recruited you can only accept or die. The training had been harsh but she pushed through and even excelled, graduating at the top of her class. Once out she chose to base in this city, one full of greed and corruption; perfect for business. The fact that her sister lived her was a plus as well. They had always been close friends but after their mom and dad died in a car accident, she was the only person she could rely on. Her mind came back to the present as reached the 42nd floor. The second room on the right from the stairs was where her handler had told her to go. Upon entering the room all she saw was a large window, a bottle of water, and an ear piece. She quickly put the ear piece in and opened the guitar case, revealing a disassembled sniper rifle. As she began putting the pieces together her ear piece cracked to life. “Agent 4, your assignment tonight is simple. The target is a waitress at the restaurant across the street. Company agents have filled to room and no other civilians should be within sight. Once you have finished cleanup will be handled by the usual team.” For a brief second, she paused, something about this didn’t seem right. The usual targets were much more challenging than this. It almost seemed as if the company was trying to make this as easy as possible. Yet it didn’t matter, she was a killer and kill she would. *Pop.* With a click she loaded the magazine into the rifle and aimed at the poor soul, seeing them for the first time. Her immediate thought was ‘that’s a lot like Serena’s uniform.’ And then she noticed the hair, and her posture, and eventually her face once she turned around. She gasped, the chewed piece of gum falling from her mouth. “No.” she whimpered, realizing what she had to do. Tears began to stream from her eyes. The ear piece crackled again, “agent 4 you must do this. You know as well as I do that agent can not have any emotional attachments. You told me when you started that you always dreamed of this life. You need to do it. Pull the trigger and become a true assassin.” She could barely hear her handler over the sound of her own sobbing. It was true, she had always loved spy thrillers and dreamed about that life since she was young. But was it worth it? Her sister had loved her, cared for her at her darkest hour. Was this how she would repay her? She knew her answer. After glancing around at the other agents in the restaurant she took a deep breath. *Pop.


Through my own heroin use personal experiences I always believed in the duck test that is a form of deductive reasoning. This is its usual expression: If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck. The test implies that a person can identify an unknown subject by observing that subject's habitual characteristics. In the case of Lolita heroin use the look fit to a tee. The swimming part fit and she most times flew high like a duck going south for any winter season. Yet in reality she was just your garden variety garden snake. Basically she was a no good for nothing heroin junkie. For those of you who may not be aware heroin is an opiate drug derived from the poppy plant, is a stimulant that produces euphoria. Though it has some medical applications, recreational use is illegal in the United States. Smack. Dope. Mud. Horse. Skag. Junk. Black tar. Heroin comes with many street names. Nevertheless, heroin abuse is a common problem. Drug addiction has caused Lolita Greenhowe to be accused about doing things she thought were impossible. When heroin, also known as the dragon, enters the brain, it activates receptors that will then release the chemical dopamine. This is where the feelings of euphoria and pleasure come from. The rush sends numbness through the body as it flows through the blood. The central nervous system is depressed so someone on heroin won’t feel pain. The heart is depressed and breathing is shallow. All of this results in a sedated appearance that is hard to ignore. Lolita’s constant use of many times stepped on heroin is one reason she couldn’t be a mom to her two children, who are being raised by their grandparents. I met Lolita during my 5 th or 6 th stunt at a rehab facility in New York City. She was ordered by some tea toting Judge to join our outpatient classes after being released from jail for drug trafficking and after violating the terms of her probation. Heroin has been Lolita’s primary drug of choice since she began using at age 17. All of us female heroin addicts who were forced or court ordered to sit around the girl scout rehabilitation campfire telling true or make believe stories from the crypt sitting in a circle. Lolita was now 55 looking like a young 85 year old sea and weather beaten junkie hag. When it was her turn to share the first story she allocated with us 11 other heroin addicts, was the time she got accused of killing a trick (A man that pays prostitutes for sex or a man that pays women to hang around him), named Balderdash. Even Rosie woke up from a nod to asked her how did that john (A man that pays prostitutes for sex or a man that pays women to hang around him), come up with a nick name such as that old lady rhyme who shot up so much heroin up her right scarred up arm that she didn’t know what to dos. Before Lolita could respond Rosie Perez returned to the land of nod. Lolita said for the record he got that name because he was one who acted senseless and stupid and used exaggerated talk after spiking up. This heroin junkie who called herself Peaches, yelled for Lolita to get on with her lying sordid story if you please!  One thing about a heroin junkie is when they get interrupted is the fact that they have to collect their thoughts when intentionally interrupted. Where was I Lolita asked herself? Cookie Love shouted the trick the trick! You see Balderdash cashed in what was left of his 401K. He had accumulated over $62,000 at the junkie age of 50. Rumor had it that he was some kind of broker. Everyone in the group started laughing even Rosie laughed as slobber dribbled out of the side of her big painted green lips. She looked more like the Joker than the real Joker. As all of you hookers well know, what really happens when you have excess to a lot of dough. Rhonda croaked. Yeah them trickin days is over. Anyways me and dashed shacked up and an abandon building for a little over a week. All we did was shoot up constantly. Whenever he called the dope suppliers they came as fast as FedEx. When he died of an overdose. Everyone blamed me for his death. I even got charged with  conspiracy to commit murder. If it wasn’t for me being held in a mental institution when they discovered his decomposed body those charges may have stuck. After I got released from that god awful place I was ostracized on the streets. No one believed me when I tried to explain to them that I asked him to take a day off. You see in truth when Balderdash found out that he was dying from aids there was no stopping him. Besides, he only had about 8 grand left in which the police found in my purse. One thing about heroin junkies they have a short memory especially after I started spending the money I acquired to watch someone who insisted on killing themselves. The sad part about my life is that in a few months later I was accused of murder again. This time it I was with my pimp Macaroni. Sure he treated me and all his streetwalkers like dogs and sometimes beat us with a clothes hanger, but that didn’t mean I was the one who killed him, even if the thought of killing him crossed my confused mind a million times. Someone shot him up with enough anti-freeze that the police thought his body would  never overheat or thaw. Whoever did that to him left the syringe in my purse when they found me all beat up and half dead. If it wasn’t for the 8 ball (An 8-ball is one eight of an ounce of heroin, approximately 3.5 grams, enough to OD on) I shot up that day I probably wouldn’t be sitting around you sorry junkies trying to prove my innocence. The room wet silent for a few minutes and all that could be heard was the snores coming from Rosie. I swear on a bag of bad dope that I didn’t have nothin to do with his timely demise from this world but no one ever believed me, I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. The doctor who saved my life testified to the grand jury that I was just a victim of circumstances. Whatever that meant. It taint easy trying to convince heroin junkies that you didn’t kill no one. Lolita completed the 30 day treatment and I don’t know if I should share what eventually happened to her. Anyway through the street grapevine it was rumored that since she was accuse of killing two people. She decided to kill herself. I can’t say that I believe she was all that innocent of killing those two losers because she didn’t even leave no suicide note or nothing.


Okay so this is my short story about mental health. It’s my first one and I don’t think it’s bad, so please let me know what you think!! It means a lot to me and I thought I’d share. He was walking by the target store when he felt a breeze of fresh air. He smiled; he felt good as he felt the element on his face and as he listened to one of his favorite songs through the airpod in his ear. He was feeling the happiest he had been in a while, and he felt proud of what he had accomplished for himself. He drove home with his parents, and got ready for bed, considering the target run had been late at night. He took a shower, brushed his teeth, and made sure to put some medication on any pesky pimples that might be apparent on his face. He made his way to his room, and, when he was finally in bed, he prayed and closed his eyes, letting the black soundness of sleep take him away and bring him back some couple of hours later. When he woke up, he was lying on his back. He squinted his eyes and yawned, as one usually does when they wake up, and he stretched his legs. He quickly noticed that something was not necessarily normal in regards to his awakening. Everything was fine, but he could not shake the feeling. When he sat up, still in his bed, he looked around, and he was a bit startled. After looking towards his desk area, he noticed that he could not see the desk properly. He could see it properly, it’s shape and all, but it’s almost as if the bright white desk had begun fading into a greyish color. He was confused, obviously, so he wiped his eyes to no avail: the desk still appeared grey, now even moreso. He got off of his bed, and made his way through the rest of the house. Everything else seemed fine; he could see the colors of every object in the house correctly, just as he had seen them so many other times. He decided not to say anything. To him, it was probably just the lighting that was in his room when he had awakened. He went by his day like the occurrence never occurred. When he got home from school, he made his way to his room to change into more comfortable clothes. When he opened the door, he was even more confused than he had been that same morning. It seemed that the newfound greyness of his desk had spread somehow to the objects that were directly on top of his desk. He was scared to go near it, so he avoided the area. He took his laptop out of his backpack and he did his homework on the kitchen table. Still, he decided not to say anything because it seemed insignificant. He finished his homework very late, and after doing his usual routine, it was time for him to go back into his room. Again, he opened the door, and again, more of his room had fallen victim to this greyness. Now, the closet door closest to his desk had taken on the color. He rubbed his eyes again, plopped into bed, and went to sleep. He forgot to pray this night, not something necessarily out of the ordinary for him since sometimes he went to bed really tired. 7:30 am. He awoke, and looked straight up at his ceiling. He was scared to turn his sight elsewhere in the room. In the same eye-view, he noticed a grey border, apparently bordering the rest of his white ceiling. Shit. He thought. Lowering his chin to see what was going on, he noticed what he thought was happening. The color had spread, now encompassing the whole front wall and the first quarter of the ceiling. He decided he would tell his mom about this later that day, possibly after school. On the drive to school, something weird happened. As he went to open the door to get out of the car, it was grey. What? He grabbed it, pulled it, and he walked out of the car. He was scared now. Why is this happening to me? It’s okay, don’t think too much of it. No, my vision is turning grey, of course I should think much of it. Is this even color blindness? There’s no way. It’s objects that I’m seeing grey, a slow progression. He paid attention in school and he knew this was not an ordinary case of colorblindness. It’ll go away soon. He sat down and went to grab his pen out of his backpack. He put his backpack on his lap. What the hell. My backpack too now? Damn it. He tried to push the situation out of his head and tried to focus on the tasks at hand. But in reality, how could he do that, when it was such a peculiar, sudden, and strange thing? As he went along his day, he noticed more and more of his world turning grey. The situation was weighing on him so much, and by the time he got in his mom’s car, half of his world was grey already, and he was too tired and down to say anything. He felt scared. He thought maybe it was permanent, that there’d be no treatments. He thought they’d think he was lying, among other things and prejudices the human mind can produce. He said nothing. He got home, did his homework, and got ready for bed. He was already in bed when he realized he hadn’t even checked how much of his room was grey at that point. He sat up. All of it. The only thing left was the upper half of his bed that he lay on. Great. He stared at his ceiling, producing a tear. Two nights ago, he was happy at target with his parents, and feeling proud of himself. In two days, he had been given a completely different world. He lamented that loss. He sobbed silently, wishing he could jump into a time machine, and go back two days, and not remember the progression of his last 38 hours. He could not do that. He cried, and cried, and cried, and he fell asleep. Strangely enough, the tears still fell from his eyes as he slept. The grey made its way up his bed. It eventually got to the mattress, swallowing it up. It took the blankets he was using to cover himself with. Then it took him. The greyness took him. His color changed, light brown to grey. As he changed colors, the tears stopped flowing from his eyes, and he took a long, last deep breath. The greyness took him.


      I sit and I stare at the assignment. My English teacher thought it would be a great idea to make our winter break assignment all about new years resolutions. And I had tried to write it before Christmas. But that wasn’t a thing. It has to been a list of five things with explanations about why we want to accomplish each one.

         I was usually a by the book, stick to what you know and things you plan kind of person. I stayed to myself, stayed out of trouble, got good grades, I was never one to rock the boat. Looking back on my last year it was kind of a hot mess. And not in the cute or ironic way either. More like in the “everything I thought I knew is suddenly in question” way. I was stumped. What even did I want to do?

I didn’t get into the college program I wanted to go to. And I would have reapply to the same college if I wanted to try to go the first year as undecided and attempt to get into the program the next year. Even though I had the grades, I was lacking in extracurriculars and there were other applicants who were more qualified than me. I didn’t even know if that program was even something I wanted to do anymore. I wanted to do it because its what my dad had always encouraged me to do. He wanted me to go into a STEM field, he thought it meant I would get a good job and be set for life.

Me and my boyfriend had broken up. We had been together for over a year before we broke up. Tragically enough we had almost every single class together. And so we did the awkward avoiding each other even though we had been a public couple for most of our high school experience thing. So we each brought our “box of stuff” to homeroom and exchanged it. And of course the box didn’t fit in my locker, so I had to carry the box to every one of my classes that day, a public display of my shame.

My former best friend hated my guts, and her new best friend wanted to make my life a living hell. We used to spend literally every day together. She practically lived with me, she slept at her own house maybe one day a week. Her parents were strung out druggies who didn’t care what she did or where she was. Her and her friends were anti social stoners, so I guess you could say that I was too. I had to become one to fit in with the people I had made my life revolve around. I have no idea what to do with myself.

I feel like this is not how your senior year is suppose to go. We were suppose to all go to prom together. Get ready for graduation together. Celebrate all of the small moments and “lasts” of our senior year. Together. At the beginning of this year I thought I had everything figured out. I had a solid color coded five year plan. I am not even kidding about that. I had it in a binder with tabs and sheet protectors. Car, college, good job, wedding, home ownership, and kids. I created this path for myself. And I thought the people I had by my side at the beginning of this year would be the ones who would do it with me. But now I’m not even sure about who I am. And my five year plan is as good as fucked.

Making this stupid list has lead to some serious soul searching if I actually wanted it to mean something. I could google “new years resolutions” and just pick some that sound good. Or I could just scroll down my Facebook feed and copy someone who looks like they have a lot of fun. But that just feels like cheating. And its all fake anyway. I would rather be genuine or why bother doing it to begin with?          Resolution One: Figure out college. I have a scholarship. So as long as it’s a college in Indiana I wouldn’t have to pay for it. And my grades are decent. Just not good enough to get into the program I wanted. There isn’t a school in Indiana that teaches the major I would actually love to go for. Genetic zoology. Its states away. And if I live in a dorm that means living with some stranger who I might want to murder. I need to figure this out fast. Because I know if I take a gap year I will never go back. So resolution one, figure out what to do about college.

         Resolution Two: Meet new people. I had lost my boyfriend and my best friend in one fell swoop. And the saddest part of that is I don’t even really think I liked them, as people I mean. We didn’t like the same things or have any similar hobbies. Neither one of them could even come close to saying they “got” me. Half the time we didn’t even get along. We were only friends and only together because of location and circumstance. Because they approached me when I was lonely, at the time it was easier to hang out with them then to be alone with me. It was time for me to let that go, let them go, and get past it. So resolution two, meet new people. Who I like, and who like to do the some of the same things that I do.

         Resolution Three: Create more art. I love art. I love making art. I write, and I draw, and I do ceramics. But I never spend the time I would need to for it to actually improve. And its something I actually want to do. But no one else did. Everyone in my friend group was too busy getting high, and “relaxing” to do anything even close to being productive. That’s why I never took the time to. Because I needed to belong to them so badly that I wasn’t going to break rank for even a minute. So resolution three, create more art.          Resolution Four: Be real about my feelings from now on. I never addressed how I felt with people in the past. My friends, my boyfriend, even my family. I knew when things weren’t alright. I could feel all the changes and I tried to hide it from even myself. And I don’t want to do that anymore. I let my dad move out of state with his wife without telling him I so badly for him to stay. He didn’t even take the time to say goodbye in person. My mom and I have had a questionable at best relationship for my entire life, and neither one of us have addressed it even though I lived with her for almost two years. So resolution four, actually address my feelings.

         Resolution Five: Focus on me. I think that may be the point of this assignment after all. The reason behind why people write new years resolutions year after year. Because we get so wrapped up in everything and everyone else that we never really stop and look at our selves. We don’t ask ourselves what we actually want. So people set aside a special time of year when its okay to look at their selves for once. Most people focus on things like losing weight, or quitting smoking, or taking a cooking class, or going to the gym more often.  But I think its so much more than that. If you really want to be happy you cant just ask yourself these questions once a year. And if you aren’t happy and you want to be, you are going to have to make changes. And change isn’t always the most comfortable. But its what we have to do if we ever want life to look like we want it to. So resolution five, focus on me.

None of the things on this list are easy. But easy hasn’t ever really been my style. And for a long time I stopped caring about “my style” and I lost myself to what everyone wanted. And so, for the new year I want to find myself and be me. Because no one else is going to care about it if I don’t. So in writing my resolutions I ended up with a question, Who is me? Sometimes I think English teachers are secretly wise old wizards who know everything. So thank you wizard for the sage advice, I think I get it now.


Until a moment ago, Robyn thought he might not come. A thousand things to do in only a few short hours before the sun rises, and she wouldn't have blamed him if her little meeting spot hadn't been high on the list of priorities. A man must make use of the time he has, her father used to bellow from the high chair in his hall. And what a terrible waste of time for Painter to leave his troops, venture up into the dark hills for an exchange of measly little words, knowing that when the dawn came, his death would not be far behind. Still, she was glad he'd come. There, rustling through the brush and emerging from the shadows was Painter, expression as grim as the broken battlefield down in the valley. Where arrowheads stuck from the soft dirt and men took corpse after corpse back to one side or the other. She wanted to tell herself it was the way of men, war. That she held not the weight of responsibility that came with the blood of eager fools rushing off to their deaths. It’s not about what you tell yourself, but how much you believe it. Another bit of her father’s wisdom, and it did little to calm the beating in her heart or wash the dark guilt out of it. She’d made her choice, and there was no retreating from it.

Stepping onto even ground, Painter kept his distance like she was rotted with the plague, eyes glossy in the gaze of the moon, dark hair rustled by the summer breeze. Made him look more a child than a man about to fight in the Deciding. He clung to the grip of the sword on his hip, fixed her with that vacant gaze he had when they first met, and only then did it stir up any emotion in her. Brought on all sorts of memories of looks he’d never again give her. Look of patience when teaching her the bow. Look of love when she shared his bed. And look of agony in those deep dark eyes when he knew she’d betrayed them. When the truth of who she was and who she served and who she was the daughter of came to light. That was the look that weighed the most on her heart. It was the one she was seeing reflected in Painter’s eyes now. “We buried ‘em today,” he croaked, a lone finger scratching at the scar running down his cheek. “Samson, Franco, Harper,” he paused, “ Finn. ” She missed a breath at that last name, remembered those big eyes of Finn’s and all his dreams and hopes now snuffed out like a fire that had only just been lit.

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing she was capable of saying. Any moment she waited for some sort of anger to come clawing its way out of him, like fire from behind the sharp teeth of a dragon. None came. Just the silence in the field. The moon and stars and the great unknowable divine as their audience.

“I’m sorry too. Weren’t just my friends laid to rest.” His eyes, sharp as two spears searching for her heart, fell upon her. “They were yours as much as they were mine.” The words were ragged as a thornbush around her heart, swelling like a bruise, aching like one too. Beating so hard against her ribs Robyn could feel it in her skull, in her teeth. “Was my fault, wasn’t it?” He didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t. Silence crept from him, mouth twitching like he had a thousand words to say but couldn’t find the right order to put ‘em in. That was when Robyn really felt the distance between ‘em, far greater than she dared to admit, stretching out the lengths of a battlefield.

Funny that this was exactly what she expected. But expecting and feeling, as her tyrannical father would say, were two different worlds, like water and oil. Though she knew both well enough, not a thing in the world could make ‘em mix.

“The Deciding is at dawn,” she said, voice cracking and showing just that bit of fear growing within her. Painter nodded, eyes towards the ominous moon. “We both know you’ll lose.” More silence. “My father has warriors from all across the Kingdom of Doreen, each one more eager than the last.” Eager as wolves stalking just beyond the light of a lantern. “It’ll be decided then, that your rebellion is no more, and you’ll be dead.” She had to wipe the wet from her eyes with the back of her forearm, holding tight to composure like it were a horse about to throw her. “You can’t win, Painter,” and she was screaming the words. “You’re going to die!” Met with his silence, Robyn wondered if his words might be too good for her, wishing for something more regardless. Wished Painter was filled with words like Finn with hopes and dreams for a better, more equal kingdom. Filled with words like Robyn was filled with fear. Yet he clung to that stoic silence the way the cold does a blanket, none too keen on feeling winter’s embrace. But the storm was coming and he wouldn’t stay warm forever.

The tears, welling up in her eyes since she gave her father the rebel’s location, came flooding out now. Her knees wobbled and so very badly did she feel like crumbling. She’d strived for too long in the false attempt to appear strong in the face of challenges. Like an oak in a storm, her father would say. Though the King of Doreen was almost always referencing himself, that is. Maybe that explained his easy hatred towards Painter. Twice as young and twice as likely to choose silence over boastfulness. She’d heard it said that a man only hates silence when he is at odds with himself. When he cannot be still in the company of his own mind, sneering at anybody who could. That was her father. And tomorrow, his hatred would kill the only man she’d ever loved.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, vision blurred through the tears, heart racing like a steed in an open field. “I’m so sorry, Painter. I’m-” He was there, holding her tight, all the words he couldn’t say fading away at the touch of his embrace. She felt his hand in her hair, soothing her, voice as soft as a mother’s lullaby.

“Hush now,” he whispered. “You can’t forgive me so easily,” she wailed, voice muffled, buried in his chest, heart beating about as fast as hers. “I shouldn’t be forgiven.” His hands gently took hold of her shoulders, brought her an arms distance away, moonlight dancing in the dark puddle of his eyes. There he looked strong and wise, all the things her father was not. A thumb wiped away the tears on her cheek, and she nestled into his palm. “Forgiveness ain’t a thing earned,” he said. “It’s about as free as the night sky, I reckon.” “My father is going to kill you.” “I know.” “I want to go back.” She was against his chest again. Holding him so tight, knowing he’d be lost to her regardless. “I want to go back.” “Time marches one way.” They stayed on that hill until the sun painted the sky a pink and orange canvas. Until the birds sang and the muster horn echoed through the valley. Until he was finally forced to leave her, hand on the hilt of his sword, walking into death as confident as a lion into a den of hyenas.


MY PAL DANNY We were born within days of each other. My Birthday, was June 16, 1941; his, was July 7, 1941. I was just three weeks older than Danny, but he was a big baby, and I was a runt. We lived in houses that were practically back-to-back, just an alley apart. It was obvious we were destined to be fast friends. Our neighborhood in the 1940s was a haven for kids like us. Highland Park in Louisville, Kentucky was a special place to grow up. It was once a city, with a history dating back to the late 19 th century, then it was later annexed by Louisville. Those early years in Highland Park were the beginning of the railroads across this great country, and the Louisville and Nashville railroad, the “L&N,” was born in the late 1890s. With it, came Highland Park; it was just one mile from the L&N trainyard, and the little neighborhood grew as L&N grew. It was full of kids, as young men brought their wives and families to the neighborhood and got a job on the railroad. Danny’s father was a railroad man, as was mine. I dare say, most men on our street worked there, doing one job or another on the line, and in fact, practically the whole neighborhood was railroad men and their families. It was something all of us kids had in common, and we imagined someday we would be railroading as well. Danny and I went to the same schools. Throughout our time in elementary school, we walked to and from it, together. In later years we rode the city bus, going downtown to both our junior high and high schools. We saved seats for each other on the city buses. One of us would sometimes run late getting to the bus stop, but either of us would plead with the driver to “wait just a minute, please,” as we knew our pal would get to the bus stop any second.

In the summer, when we were young, we camped out in Danny’s backyard, only because he was the one who owned a pup tent. We also talked our mothers into allowing us to catch the city bus and go downtown to the movies, to the Rodeo theater, where the doors had guns for handles, and the features were always cowboy movies. That was something every boy loved back then. Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger and Tonto, Red Ryder, Tom Mix, etc., etc. Later, as we grew older, we rode bikes all over the city; we especially liked riding about five miles to Iroquois Hill, which was one of several Olmstead-designed parks; this one overlooked the city of Louisville. The city was much smaller back then, but it was a beautiful sight from atop that hill. We struggled as we pumped our bikes to the top, round, and round, up and up, until we reached the “tip-top,” right to the first lookout where we could see the entire city below. It would take us over twenty minutes to get to the top, but wow, when we arrived, it was so worth it. We never stayed long, because we loved coasting down that hill, faster and faster. My speedometer read 25, 30, and 35 mph, which felt like 100 mph, as the breeze hit us in the face on the way down. I still remember the fun of coasting down and praying a little prayer as I went. Danny turned into a big kid, and he played football in high school, while I played in the high school band. Still, we were buds, and I remember using my Cornet to save him a seat on the bus. That was before he began to drive his father’s old car, and I drove an old one as well, supplied by my sister and brother-in-law. My dad never owned a car; he would just walk to work or catch the Toonerville Trolley to the railyard. Dan and I would meet at the “Ranch House” for a burger, me in my old '40 Ford and he in his '49 Chevy. All the kids would drive around and around that place until a parking spot opened. We'd jump in one car or another and order food, so we could harass the girls in shorts, bringing our food. We loved embarrassing them. Something happened after high school, and Danny and I lost track of each other. I got a job and started classes at night at the University, and he started his own business. While I was busy working on an accounting degree, he was already growing his own business. We both married, way too young, and we both divorced as well. I had two kids, and he was kind of an uncle to them when they were small. I’d see him in the park every now and then, but we quit spending time together. We had gone in separate directions. Life takes us in different directions, not always to our liking. It was years later when I started thinking I needed to see Danny. I needed to relive those good times, just sit down with him and reminisce, but try as I might, I could not find him anywhere. Then one day, about five years ago, I saw a "sir name" spelled like his. Could this person be related? Yes, he was, it was Danny’s stepson. It turned out Danny and his wife, Debbie, had moved to Florida, where they spent over twenty years. Long since retired, ironically, they were returning to Louisville in a few short days, moving back home. I’m older now, and I don’t mind telling another man I love him. Life is too damned short, and to let an old friend know you love them is a blessing. It feels even better when they say it to you. Here we were, two old dudes with our beautiful wives, and a chance to remember old times and make a few new ones, and we did. We lost Danny only a few weeks ago. His infirmities caught up with him, just like they will for all of us. I feel blessed to have had him near me these last few years, but today, I miss him terribly. Tears come as I write this, but I don’t mind. I’m hoping I can find him once again,

… someday.


The rain swept over the city with an aggression seldom seen in the desert. The pariahs stood in the streets and accepted the downpour. It was a gift from their forgotten God. That welcomed yet deafening patter of raindrops covered the sound of approaching of boots. Before the townsfolk would hear the quickly closing soldiers, they would feel the sharp point of arrows aimed for hearts. It was mayhem in the shanty town. Men, women, and children alike were running like their lives depended on it. Their lives did. They looked much like a colony of ants does when one steps on their anthill. No rhyme or reason to the directions they chose to run; simply the animalistic principle of survival. Unfortunately, no one would escape the execution. Save for one. One child. One boy would rise from the devastation that beseeched the muddy ghetto. That worn down collection of shacks that he had called home. One child would remember the colors and emblems displayed brazenly upon the combat armor of those mindless soldiers. Blood red, the color of power accented by three white stripes to signify the three legions they represented. One child would grow up knowing only revenge. Revenge for the family he lost and the innocent people that were butchered before his very eyes. The prophecy of the Pariah King would be alive and well even after the execution ordered by Emperor Cairo. Ironically enough, the Emperor was the man who birthed it into existence. It has always seemed funny to me that Fate has a way of intertwining itself into the minds of weaker men whilst disguising herself as Free Will. Yet, before our Pariah King would ever stand face to face with Emperor Cairo at the top of the steps of the mountain built of fire, he would first have to pull himself out of the mud. Asher's rags clung to his skinny frame like a second skin. They were saturated and heavy from the blood and water. He was no more than 12 years old. Alone and scared he managed to stand himself up. His feet began to carry him forward before he even knew where he was headed. Fate wouldn't let him die this day, little did he know, she had much for him to do. He walked for what seemed like an eternity. His feet hurt nearly as much as his shattered heart. He had rid his body of every last tear in the first few hours. He was an empty shell, wandering through the desert. He hadn't even stopped to think of where he was going. He hadn't stopped to think of anything, really. He didn't even hear the shouting for a few moments. The feeling of cool grass between his toes brought his attention back to the world. "Stop where you are," an indistinct yet powerful voice called out. "We will loose these arrows!" "Lower your bows. He’s a child you idiots," came an assured and lighter voice. "He poses no threat to us." Behind Asher came a whisper. “Better safe than sorry.” Asher had barely registered being struck before everything went black.


The great cactus revolution Did you hear the story of the cactus’s great revolution? No of course not the government had a hard time covering it up so it is remembered by few and spoken about by none. The story starts in 1742 in the Sahara desert where cactus are oppressed and sold as slaves to the Americas. A decade prior the British government discovered that cactus plants are actually very strong and hard working. They came and colonised the great cactus canyon and enslaved the local cacti. But colonising the canyon came at a great cost to Britain. They lost over a 1000 men in the once infamous war of the canyon in which the great prickly chief peyote led a mighty army of over 20000 cactus. The cactus army almost won until aid came to the British in the form of a passing battalion of American soldiers came and destroyed almost three quarters of the cactus army before the chief was forced to surrender. For decades cactus lives were made terrible. They were enslaved and sent to America to work on the farms until one day a great cacti by the name of Gymnocalycium mihanovichii more commonly known by humans as just cactus started a great rebellion. He led a mighty army of over 100 000 cactus over the Mediterranean and conquered England. He walked for a long time but as we all know cactus are succulents and don’t need much water so they walked to England. On the way they teamed up with the aloes and their numbers increased greatly. Afterwards in the great book of cactus a cactus poet wrote,” the cactus took a walk with the aloe.” Anyway the opposing army marched into England and arrested the queen and took over the house of commons. But the cactus did not stop there. However they did not want to take over the world and rule. No, they wanted all races to live together in harmony. So they set of to free their friends and family from America. The Americans did not like this and the American scientists set out to create a poison that renders the cactus immobile but not dead. However the American scientists did not finish their research by the time the cactus had landed in America. The American army put up a good fight but they were losing. The scientist managed to finish their research just in time and deployed it on the cactus army just as they were crossing Texas. The poison was supposed to only effect the cactus but however also effected the land around them. The climate became hotter and there was less vegetation in Texas This is why today cactus is only found in America and the only type of cactus left in the Sahara is a cousin of the cactus who was to cowardly to take part in the war but was later poisoned too. This is also why today that Texas is very hot.


It felt like someone had piled a ton of loose stones on my chest. Struggling to catch my breath, the only thing distracting me from the pain shooting up and down my body was the sun setting over Cuyahoga County. Though it was short, the trek up the hill that Baker Homestead Apartments was located on was steep and torturous on the legs.

I wanted to sit one last time at the fire pit on top of the hill before I went away. Today’s sunset seemed different. There was a warmth radiating from the yellow and pink mass as it gently kissed the earth. It still felt painful to breathe, but I managed. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose there are worse things to be than a murderer.

There are rapists, serial killers, tyrants and sometimes there’s all three packaged into one. I suppose killing someone isn’t exactly winning me a ticket to the pearly gates. I’ll admit that it was never my plan to blast that old woman, I wasn’t entirely sure there were bullets loaded in my gun today. Though, I guess when you live in a concealed carry state like Ohio, every once in a while someone wants to be the good guy with a gun. See, before today, I made a small living robbing gas stations throughout the county. It’s not exactly what I would call a stable job but when you’re another faceless drone in the unemployment line, you find things to do to pass the time. It was hard at first but once you learn to control the adrenaline, it’s as easy as waking up in the morning. The ironic thing is that before the virus, I was doing pretty good. I had a loving girlfriend and a hyperactive puppy that forced me to take her on walks, even when it rained. Sometimes I tried reasoning with it, and while the little animal made faces like it understood what I was saying, when it came to its walks it was non-negotiable. Her name was Hilda the Chocolate Lab. Before this mess with the virus and losing my stinking job, it was just me, her, and my girl, Lulu. That wasn’t her name and she didn’t care much for it when I called her that, but it stuck with her. Anyway, we got Hilda when she was six weeks old, which was two weeks less than when owners normally get their dogs. If you ever wanted to know what it’s like for a grown man to cry, it’s not pretty. It’s ugly and filled with dry heaving and crumbling like a little baby. I’m almost positive LuLu was put off by the amount of sobbing involved, but I couldn’t help it. Hilda was a puppy, and she had broken me. The good thing is that it only took two weeks to potty train her, and after that, we were pretty much on the same page with everything else. Hilda grew and got bigger, and our friends and family would always tell us how much she’s grown like we didn’t notice. Eventually, we moved to a small apartment complex in North Royalton for my job as a sales associate for a dealership in the next town over. I worked odd shifts during the week so on the weekends, we'd take Hilda to Baker Homestead Apartments which sat next to our building. We didn’t know anyone there, but they had a dog park that didn’t require us to show identification to use, so we’d take her there and run her and pretend we lived above our means for the day. When we were done, we’d go to the top of the hill and watch the sunset, maybe have a bonfire. When I lost my job, I grew distant. She tried for a while to live with me. Eventually, LuLu broke things off with me and left the dog. I didn’t really have much of a family I could rely on, so for a good portion of the pandemic, it was just Hilda and me. Every day, we’d wake up and lounge around in the morning. I’d crack open a pack of fresh cigarettes and stand outside on my small balcony and smoke while I scratched my belly. She’d join me and stretch herself out like a rag doll on the cement and watch me intently until I decided it was time to take her for a walk. Sometimes she’d nuzzle between my legs and curl up like it was a crib while we watched movies together. Her favorite thing to do was lay on top of me while I hid under those fuzzy blankets they sold at Target like I was her personal pillow. Occasionally she’d sneak a potato chip from the bag I was eating on if I had fallen asleep, but I didn’t mind it. I wish I could say I started robbing gas stations to support some underline addiction, but really it was about keeping up with bills and debts. Turns out, an apartment in North Royalton is pretty expensive depending on what neighborhood you live in. Ours was a higher-cost apartment - it wasn’t expensive, but it also was more than I could afford while unemployed.

When I got back from robbing a gas station, she was right there, sitting in front of the door with her tail wagging. It’s not like it was a secret between us. One time, I nearly had a heart attack because I left the gun on the living room table, and she wouldn’t stop sniffing it while the barrel was pointed at her. I didn’t realize I left the safety off. At night, after a robbery, she always slept where LuLu laid. I couldn’t tell if it was that her side was more comfortable or if Hilda missed her. Either way, I didn’t feel as bad about things for a short while after LuLu left. I even decided to stop robbing people because I had put enough away to last us a few months. That is until she vomited.

As far as vomit goes, this was the kind you’d look at and know something wasn’t right. She didn’t do it in front of me. I found it when I got home one night from getting us groceries. Ashamed, she laid under the bed curled in a ball. It took me thirty minutes to clean up all the bloody vomit and wash the floors. It took me another thirty minutes to calm her down as she rested her head on my lap. When she looked up at me with her now tired eyes, it took me another thirty minutes to push the choking in my throat back down. I called LuLu and told her about Hilda. We made plans to take her to a vet and figure out what happened. She asked me if I was okay, and I told her I was. I figured she didn’t need to know the truth. Talking to the vet wasn’t helpful. They examined her for an hour and said the only way Hilda was going to live longer was if we paid for some surgery for her throat. Neither I or LuLu could afford it, so we left the building without saying anything else. I pulled a smoke from my jacket pocket and lit it. LuLu called me an asshole and walked away crying. At this point, it had been months since I robbed a store. Still, I couldn’t afford something like surgery without a quick boost in finances. Unemployment wouldn’t have helped either. I pulled my gun out from where I hid it and began Googling the best gas stations in the area to pull a quick heist. On short notice, the best I could do was the gas station on the corner near where I lived. Normally, I treated it as a neutral zone because it was so close to my home. However, I decided to make an exception this time because I had a good reason.

What is it about dogs that makes them worry about others more than themselves? On the day of the robbery, she curled up on me and wouldn’t let me move. It was as if she were begging me not to do anything to get in trouble. Even if it meant that she would probably only live a while longer. A few minutes before I left, I kissed her on the head, scratched her ears, and turned to leave.

When I closed the door, I waited long enough to hear her curl up in front of the door. I adjusted my hat and scarf and left. The gas station was busy but not like it normally is at 8 p.m. on a weekday in the summer. When I entered, I counted five people either waiting in line to buy smokes or perusing the snacks in the back. Scanning the parking lot, only three people were pumping gas.

“Everybody LISTEN UP,” I raised my voice. “This is a stickup. I’m only interested in the money, but I am armed, and I’ve had a REALLY shitty week.” I walked up to the counter and rested my gun on it, pointing toward the gas station manager, whose name was Darcy. “Give me everything you have.” “I’m new, I don’t…” “Darcy, I come here regularly. I know you're the manager, and I’d appreciate it if you just gave me the money from your safe and these registers.” “Oh...okay.” A few minutes later and I’m filling money into a small leather bag I brought from home. “I really appreciate it,” I said. “I’m sorry.” “About what?” “For lying to you earlier.” “It’s okay Darcy. You’re a good person. I am too, I just had to do a bad thing or something worse would’ve happened.” She was about to respond when I heard something clunk from behind me. The moment I turned, one of the customers, an old lady, stumbled from one of the aisles, pointing a snub nose revolver at me. Then I heard a click. BANG. BANG. BANG. The old lady got one shot off, nailing me in my gut. Out of instinct, I pulled my trigger, hitting her in the neck and shoulder. Suddenly the store was filled with screams and chaos. I pulled the trigger three more times, pointing my gun to the ceiling, and exited through the front of the door. Leaving the station, I turned the corner and leaned briefly on the wall of the building. I could hear screaming from the gas station and someone calling for help. I was officially a murderer, and for a moment, I let the tears come before I started walking to the apartment complex that I’m sitting at now. I could have gone home. I didn’t want Hilda (or LuLu) to see me looking like this. I didn’t want them to know I killed an old lady while robbing a fucking gas station. Instead, I decided to sit and watch the sunset and try to pretend that I would just go to sleep and wake up the next day as nothing happened. Sirens from cop cars rang in the distance.

The closer they got, the harder it got to breathe. The wind felt nice on my cheek. The pool of blood swirled on the concrete and stained my blue jeans. I thought of Hilda and quietly apologized for not being able to save her. I hope she greets the cops like she would have greeted me. The sunset just as everything went black. Fin.


Author's notes: This is only the second story I have written of my own volition, so I would like to encourage you to give me some constructive criticism. It is a realistic fiction monologue, and is *intended* to be performed. This is why all the dialogue is one sided (I was mainly inspired by speech and debate literature, more specifically dramatic interpretation). Trigger warning for loss of a parent Wishing on Aquarius By: William R. Neff (pseudonym) DAVE: I think that concludes our tour of the Youth and Science Museum. Before we leave, do any of you have further questions? Yes, Aquarius is a huge constellation. In fact, it's the tenth largest one. Hm? Yes, Uranus is a gas giant. Oh, I see what you did there. Funny. Any more questions? No? Ok. Thank you everyone, have a nice day. *Crowd disperses, except for one young female in her rough teens.* You do realize that the tour is over, right? The museum is about to close in about ten minutes. Oh, your ride doesn’t come until another half an hour? Well what are you going to do? You can’t just… wait outside. Here, stay inside the museum, it will be much safer here. You won’t get in trouble because I’m an employee. Trust me. Anyway, what’s your name? Ah, Rachel. Well my name is Dave Astra but I’m sure you already knew that from the tour. Actually, you look a lot like Stella- my daughter. She was born on Valentine’s day making her zodiac Aquarius. Her name means “star” in latin. Clever, huh? My wife thought of that. She always was so supportive of my interests. I never thought twice about the fact that she made more money than me. Where’s my ring? Oh, I don’t wear it anymore. Um, no it’s fine. I don’t mind you asking. It’s just that she isn’t around anymore. I'm sorry, I just don’t know how to ever bring it up. Do you know how hard it is to explain to a 7 year old girl what a drunk driver is? So Stella and I hit some pretty rough times financially when her mother... passed. Without my partner I struggled to pay the mortgage every month. Working as a tour guide only gives enough to get by. I couldn’t afford to buy Stella the supplies and clothes she needed for 2nd grade. Kids started calling her names because of rips in her old clothes. Her teacher even questioned my parenting skills and at the parent teacher conference. Although when times felt toughest, Stella was always there for me. Every night when I tucked her into bed she always wanted to sing a song with me because that’s what we did with her mother. Her favorite was “When You Wish Upon a Star” from Pinocchio. It was always really adorable to see her face light up when we sang. For a moment every night we would forget the money, the supplies, the bullies, and the teachers. It was just us, and I think during those times mom was with us too. After a few months I got a raise, and Stella and I were on the high road. Valentine’s day was closer meaning that her birthday was coming as well. I was going to give Stella the best birthday gift I could. I had been saving up money for months to get us a trip to Disney World. I also begged my boss to let me have the planetarium after hours. See, I was going to make a custom show for her. It was going to be a montague of our trip to Disneyland with her mom when Stella was only 5. It was going to be all streamed into the planetarium. At the end I was going to show her our printed tickets and we’d go home to pack. When Valentine’s day came, I could barely hold my excitement. That was until I picked her up from school and she came into my car crying. Stella said that all the other kid’s moms made their Valentine’s day cards for them. She was upset because she had no Valentines for the rest of the class. Apparently because she didn’t give any cards, she didn’t receive any cards either. She didn't feel like anyone's Valentine. To make matters worse, everyone forgot her birthday with the Valentine’s day noise. I told her the only thing I could, “Hey, I know what will cheer you up! Why don’t we go to the Museum later tonight, I have a birthday surprise for you there.” It was 7:00 when we arrived at the museum. I used my key card to get in. I told Stella to wait for a few minutes at the bench so I could set up the computer in planetarium room. I went inside and plugged the flashdrive in. There was some issue with the video file I was trying to use and the compatibility with the player on the computer. So I went back to Stella to let her know about the issue. I checked my watch. 7:03. Stella wasn’t where I left her. On the bench. I thought she must be playing on the side of the building that has the playground. So I opened the door and called her name. “Stella! Daddy needs a couple more minutes.” After going back inside and tinkering with the computer for a minute I finally get the video ready to show. I went outside once more and called for her. “Ok Stella, daddy is ready to show you the birthday surprise!” Nothing. I walk around to the side of the building, and the playground is empty. I checked my watch. 7:05. Stella couldn’t have gone far, right? Maybe she somehow opened the door and is inside the planetarium right now. I unlock the door with my key card and open the doors to the planetarium. Nothing. Nobody. Black hole. Stella is somewhere Stella has to be somewhere because, because, because, it’s Valentine’s day today and it’s Stella’s birthday so she has to be somewhere. Maybe Stella is just playing a very long and very scary game of hide and seek? Maybe she’s hiding in the girl’s bathroom. I check. She isn’t there. Hiding in the boy’s bathroom. I check. Not there. Hiding outside. I check. Hiding around the building. I check. The 2nd floor. The magnets exhibit. The basement. The gravity exhibit. The 3rd floor. The evolution exhibit. In the car. The rocks exhibit. Under the car. “Stella! Stella! This isn’t funny anymore daddy needs you. Now!” I checked my watch. 10:38. I took my ring off and threw it outside. After that, the only thing I could do was sit in my car. I knew what had happened. I had become the worst father imaginable. I never even got to tell Stella I loved her. Happy Valentine's day. Don’t you see why I can’t let you go out there alone? I can’t be responsible for that to happen again. It’s not safe. When I look up at the night sky, I see Aquarius. The tenth largest constellation. I see a star. My Stella. *When you wish upon a star* *Makes no difference who you are* *Anything your heart desires will come to you* Later the authorities showed me the footage. From 7:01 to 7:02 the van pulled up to the museum and it was gone by 7:03. It was that quick. I haven’t seen my daughter in three days but it feels like an eternity. It's all my fault she's gone. Why didn't I let her inside? I am so stupid. Is that your mom’s car? Wait. Before you go, I have something for you. Here. Two tickets to Disney World. Rachel, I don’t know if you can use them but after having this talk I don’t think I have any purpose for them either. Goodbye. Thank you for listening.


Life at that moment seemed to stop. How could she do such a thing? Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought my sister was capable of hurting me in such a way. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning. I walked into the two-bedroom apartment I shared with my sister. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it held all the necessitates. There is a bedroom for each of us, a bathroom, kitchen, and small living room just big enough for a couch and t.v. Our parents were never around much growing up, so my sister and I looked out for each other. We are very close, and I’d like there are no secrets between us, but I know that’s not true because I keep one big secret from her. Our parents died shortly after I turned eighteen, so I got a job, rented this apartment, and Sue came to live with me. We’ve been on our own ever since. Life’s been rough. We almost got evicted a few months ago, but I came up with the money just in time. A few weeks ago, our grocery bill had to stay under twenty dollars. That was a tough week. I had to change things. I had to make things better, not just for her, but for myself too. I got a new job last week with twice the pay of my last one. I decided not to tell Sue. I don’t want her to worry. My job is a little dangerous, and she has enough stress just trying to finish her last year of high school and applying for scholarships. I get paid every two days instead of once a week. It’s the best job ever! I don’t even work regular work hours, so I can be home to help Sue around the house and stuff more. She seems to like that I’m around more, and I enjoy spending time with her again, like when we were kids. We started planning family nights. Her idea, not mine, but it’s kind of nice. Mondays are game night, and Thursdays are dinner together night. I always make sure I’m home on those nights. There’s a boy at school Sue likes, and she wants to bring him over for our dinner night on Thursday so we can meet. I’m a little nervous cause I’m not really sure what Sue expects from me. I’m just her brother, not her dad. Would it be awkward if I grilled the guy for information to make sure he’s a good guy? I guess I’ll just wait and see what happens that night. Sue likes him, so I have to believe he's at least decent. I have a feeling, no matter who she brings home, I’ll never think they are good enough for my little sister. The boss gave me a big job to do tonight. He says I’m ready for the big leagues, whatever that means. I’ll be working late, and Sue looked disappointed when I told her it would be after midnight when I got home. I don’t think she likes being alone in the house after dark. I guess if I were a girl, I’d get scared of being alone too. I told her not to worry and to call me if she needed anything. I handed her a piece of paper with my cell phone number on it. “When did you get a cell phone?” She looked at the paper in her hand then back up at me. I shrugged my shoulders. “My boss gave it to me. He said he needed to be able to get ahold of me at all times.” We said our goodbyes, and I headed out the door. Twenty minutes later, I walked up to the back door of a run down apartment complex. Jimmy, the boss's right-hand man, let me in. A big shipment of goods was coming in tonight, and I was going with them to pick it up. Normally I was just a runner, and the idea of working my up higher in the business was exciting, and a little scary. The plan was laid out, and we hopped into the truck and took off down the road. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. These guys used a lot of abandoned places. It was strange because I knew they had enough money to buy or rent a place, but instead, they chose to use places no one wanted anymore. We pulled inside the warehouse and waited. Moments later, another van pulled in behind us. Jimmy got out and walked to the back of our van, and I followed his lead. I had no idea what I was doing. I leaned against the back doors of the van so the other guys would think this was no big deal to me. But my insides were churning with each second that passed. Jimmy was fidgeting, and I knew something wasn’t right. I stood straight up and looked at him. His attention was on the van in front of us, and the men inside. “Get back in the van, now!” The urgency in his voice had me running for the front passenger side door, but before I could even reach the handle, men stormed the building. They came from everywhere, the front door, the back door, the office off to the left, and the white van parked behind ours. They barked out orders and pointed guns. I froze with my heart pounding away inside my chest so hard I thought it would burst. “Get down on the ground. Hands where I can see them.” The tall man pointed his gun at me while he yelled orders. I wasn’t the smartest person, but I wasn’t stupid enough to ignore someone with a gun pointed at me. I lay down on the cold cement floor and held my arms out to the side. Seconds later, a knee jabbed into my back, and my hands were cuffed behind me. The tall man pulled me to my feet. With his hand firmly on my elbow, we walked out the front door. My eyes went wide when I saw my sister standing there. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at me. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t let you keep doing this. I couldn’t let you keep heading down this path.” I stared open mouth at her. How could she betray me like this? I was doing this for her. I turned my head to avoid her penetrating gaze. Even though she was the one who betrayed me, I was the one who felt ashamed of my actions as the police officer helped me into the back of his squad car.


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


“To live is to love, yet to love is to die” is what my grandfather told me. A seldom spoken man yet a kind one. He was the type of person to never hold a grudge, I believed he wasn’t capable of doing harm on anyone as a child. But every man has a breaking point. It is those who are most patients breaking point that you do not want to see. My grandfather had such a breaking point. I questioned his quote, the speech he gave me after he went silent for months. We visited him many times after his wife, my grandmother’s death. My mother and I would make the long trip to his secluded home in the countryside every fortnight to see how he is doing, yet he was quiet. He was half French and half Irish, and interesting blend of a man. Tomas was his name. Such a gentle name. I only knew one Tomas and it was him. I wished to never meet another, for they would never live up to him. His greatness outmatched all other men, my husband to be at the time could only match his shadow. Yet my grandfather enjoyed his company all the same. My husband Michaél, like my grandfather was a man of the land. He farmed wheat and barley whilst my grandfather cared for his fields of meadows and his orchard. How he loved the meadows. They were his pride and joy, until his wife passed. As a child me and my siblings would fly kites and play games of hide and seek all throughout the orchard and meadows until my grandmother called us in for dinner. The blissfulness of the fields was like something else I never felt. A place of pure joy, where no evil found its place. I never understood until my old age what he meant by “To live is to love”. Not until we sat that day under the tree that sat atop the hill, overlooking his kingdom. Both of us had not spoken in weeks, yet we knew he was nearing the end of his story. That’s why I believe he confided in me. He had to finally let go. I was sat in the kitchen that had the view of the tree that had then stooped so low it took the form of a willow, a sad giant that once held up the sun. Tomas slowly climbed the hill struggling to reach the summit with his feeble body. It hurt me to see him struggle, yet I couldn’t help. I knew if I went to aid him, he would refuse. He refused everything since Daisy passed. She went in the night, Christmas eve. Yet she was already gone. The dementia took her long before, a slow yet painless death for her. Not my grandfather though. I could tell it wore him down to his lowest yet he still stood tall. That was why he fell further; he was a proud man and it is the proudest who fall the hardest. I watched as he visited her in the hospital or sat on at the side of her bed. The cottage they owned slowly wore down yet neither of them seemed to notice. They could only focus on each other. One day I sat in the living room, playing in front of the small fire on the ragged carpet that itched your legs once you hit the floor. Daisy was reading a book, or somewhat trying. I think she just stared at the pages as Tomas watched her. She would ask his name every time they met, and Tomas would smile at her maybe a tear running down his cheek. “I’m Tomas” he would say with a sad smile on his face, “and you are?” “I’m Daisy, pleasure to make your acquaintance” she would say, smiling with her blissful ignorance. But this time it was different, Tomas greeted her with his regular saying but she looked up at him. No sign of ignorance, but she looked sad. Her eyes met his and a tear slowly escaped. Daisy grabbed his wrist and titled her head. “I don’t know” she whispered so silently only the slight wind creeping in the window overshadowed her. “I don’t know my name.” Tomas grabbed her wrist alongside it and did something I could never. He smiled and kissed her hand. “You’re just tired my love, go back to bed” And so, she did. He sat back in his chair, his bed for the forthcoming weeks and put his head back. She was gone, and he knew it. He just didn’t know I saw. It killed me to watch him at his lowest point. To see her fade broke him, never to be repaired. Their love story wasn’t unique, nor was it a miraculous story. Yet I find that is okay, the most rue love is found in the mundane. It is not a flashy anniversary present, or an expensive date. But the small moments, that is what they had. Walks through their meadow, their hidden kingdom only known to them and that was all that mattered. They would wake early in the morning and read together, the easy silence that not many are blessed with. That is what love is he taught me. To feel such comfort with someone you don’t need to always communicate. There is love in the silence, through looks. A quick smile and maybe a laugh, because you both know what the other is thinking. You are whole in one another. The flowers bloomed every spring, but without the care they died sooner than the sun could hit them. Tomas once watered and cared for them, but it was bleak now. I brought Michaél to try care for them yet Tomas wouldn’t allow it. He would not allow another pair of hands to touch them. It was a dark meadow now. Empty of any colour but grey allowing a thin blanket of fog to fall over it every night. It was only a matter of time until the great oak made its grave in the meadow. At that point the meadow would become its bleakest, no love in sight. I knew he had passed when I received the call in the night from my mother. She wasn’t grief ridden nor was she shouting like you see in the movies. We both knew it was coming but I still felt the pain. Like I had been hit in the stomach, a travelling pain that ricochets throughout the body. I went to the cottage a few days after to clear my mind, the long countryside drive under springs newly blossomed trees always brought me solace. When entering the home, I felt a sense of emptiness. Like it was no longer a home, but an empty field with no other purpose other than to exist. An eye sore on the beautiful horizon. I headed to the kitchen and ran my hand along the old dusty table. It was as I last saw it, an empty fruit bowl and old newspaper thrown on it. Looking out to the meadow I noticed the tree. It had fell further, almost ready to collapse. All other trees in the area had blossomed but the great oak had no leaves and its branches fell gracefully to the floor. That day Tomas sat under the tree, he beckoned me up. This was the first he initiated conversation with me in weeks, so I met his call without question. Sitting beside him under the tree he spoke to me and asked me. “Tell me, your husband, does he love you?” This came as a shock to me, what sort of question was it. “Of course,” I responded with. “Why do you ask?” “I once was young like you, cherish your memories dear, cherish them like nothing else because at the end that is all you will have. No money can give you memories, not real ones. If you love him and he loves you. Then you willy truly live.” He slowly rose using the trunk of the tree to rise. “To live is to love, ye to love is to die because once they are gone, the life you once knew is gone.” I thought he said this in sadness, but he was happy. He smiled at me and grabbed my hand. I grabbed his wrist and kissed his hand. “Grandad you’re tired, go back to bed.” It took me years to truly realise how right Tomas was, to live is to love and to love is to die, like his meadow. The flowers he grew were a sign of his love for Daisy, yet with her gone they died with her. The dying oak the last thing standing atop the meadow. As I walked through the meadow to reach the tree but came to a halt. A bright colour stood out amongst the grey. I walked over and leant down to gaze at the star amidst the fog. A daisy rose above the dirt, trying its hardest to grasp the sunlight. The last of the meadow holding on, waiting to fall. I walked away allowing it to fall gracefully not looking back at the bleak meadow, to preserve the memory of the daisy, of the sea of flowers, and the unbreakable love.


The air smelled of bitter antiseptic with undertones of fragrance from the soaps and cleaners. It was intense as she inhaled through the tubes in her nostrils. She looked down at the needle in her arm, she had been poked and prodded so many times over the last 6 years that her veins had collapsed. Her skin looked almost translucent, showing a map of veins, bruises and imperfections across the surface. Long gone were the days of her golden olive skin. Her heart thumped in her chest as she remembered that her husband Jim would be arriving soon for his punctual daily visit. 7:00pm sharp. Never a minute late. He’d stood by her through thick and thin, ‘til death do us part. Her heart started to race and was mirrored by the beeping monitors around her. She thought about the decision she was about to tell him. She had been rehearsing all morning. She hoped he would accept her wishes, but knowing Jim, she knew that was unlikely. Tick tock. The clock hung above the door struck 7:00pm. Jim entered the room. A squeaky wheelchair passed by the open door, the patient it was holding let out a defeated grunt of pain as they readjusted themselves. Jim’s joyful smile was out of place here. She looked up at him weakly and forced a smile that quickly faded when she spotted the large bouquet of flowers in his hand. She had told him before not to waste money on flowers. They just died. It brought her no joy watching them go on the same journey she was on. But like clockwork, he brought them every week on Monday. She hated Mondays. He said they brought life and joy to the room. That’s because he didn’t have to sit in a bed watching them slowly wilt and die week on week, it was like Groundhog day. “My love.” He came over and kissed her delicately on the forehead. Just like when they were in highschool, she used to live for those kisses. He had always been so smitten with her. The perfect boyfriend. The perfect husband. He was like a loyal golden retriever, looked a bit like one too with his shaggy brown hair and kind brown eyes. His love for her only seemed to grow over their past 22 years of marriage, which she didn’t think could be possible. Whereas hers had probably plateaued years ago if she was being truly honest. Susie’s heart started to race again, the monitors beeped wildly. “Someone’s excited to see me.” Jim joked as he put the flowers into the empty vase on the bedside table. The nurses would carry away the dead flowers every Sunday in preparation for the new. She couldn’t help but be annoyed, but she knew he meant well. Alright, she needed to rip the bandage off. Tell him you’re tired, she thought. So tired. This battle had taken everything that had once brought her joy. She missed the days when her fingers could gracefully dance on the strings of her violin, creating beautiful woody harmonics with every draw of her bow. Making 1st chair in the San Francisco Symphony had been one of her greatest accomplishments in her short 41 years of life. Jim approached her and placed a warm sturdy hand on top of hers. “I have great news Suze!” He beamed and gripped her frail, veiny hand a little too tight. She grimaced and remorse instantly shot across his face as he quickly loosened his grip. Everything inside her hurt. His hopeful smile returned, “Suze, I was talking with Dr. Liang and there’s a new cancer trial starting next week at UCSF Medical Center. We looked into it and guess what hun? You qualify!” He exclaimed excitedly. She dropped her eyes and tuned out the rest of the words that were coming out of his mouth. Well fuck, she thought. She was not expecting this. Her mouth was dry and tasted like cardboard. Her stomach turned. Her thumb hovered over the button that dispensed the morphine drip. One press and she could go along for the ride, like she had been doing for years. She could hop on Jim’s happy train full of hope and keep pushing forward as her body slowly failed her and withered away. Yes Jim, sure Jim, yes honey. She had always done whatever he thought was best. I mean, he had guided her safely through life over the past 22 years with so much thought and care, she had never given it a second thought… until recently. Suddenly an overpowering force from within her stomach crept up through her oesophagus and erupted from her mouth. Word vomit. Pent up word vomit. “NO!” she screamed, sitting up in the hospital bed abruptly, gripping the side rails tightly. She felt like a toddler confined in this bed all day. “I’m done Jim, I’m fucking done.” Hot tears rolled down her face. The salty drops burned the corners of her dry, cracked mouth as they swept down her sunken face. The floodgates had opened and there was no turning back now. His kind brown eyes lost their warmth and filled with sadness and then erupted into tiny flames that went out with defeat almost as soon as they were lit. Memories of their marriage vows filled her thoughts, “In sickness and in health.” Jim’s jaw loosened then tightened and then froze with pure shock and disbelief. She never defied him. He was only doing what he thought was best for her and she always listened but he wasn’t the one stuck in this bed, stuck with needles, watching flowers die on repeat as her insides slowly died along with them. Jim’s love for her was infinite, but it had grown to be infinitely suffocating. “Suze…” he whispered. “We can beat this. I told you I would never give up on you. We are fighters. We will fight this. Don’t you see hun, this trial is our opportunity -” Susie erupted again, cutting him off mid sentence, flailing her arms in the air, she knocked over the vase full of flowers next to her bed. “Stop speaking for me Jim! You’re not the one living this life in a shell of your body. I love you but I’m done. You have to let me go.” He stood there defeated looking down at her with tears in his eyes. She pressed the morphine drip hard. Darkness. She opened her eyes and squinted up at the light, a spotlight flooded down on her. She was on stage, but no one was seated in the red velvet seats that lined the concert hall. She was alone. The familiar smell of resin filled her nostrils. Looking down she noticed her beloved violin in her lap. She smiled at the familiar sight. Picking it up she tucked it comfortably between her jaw and collarbone. Taking a deep breath of the fresh vanilla air she raised her bow, pausing briefly as it hovered above the strings and closed her eyes. The notes danced across her eyelids as the music flowed from her soul through her bow, then the strings, then the hollow wooden body of her violin and finally freely into the air. It was the most beautiful song she had ever played, sad, but beautiful, and free. She drifted with the music until she was looking down at herself, the young Susie she knew, olive skin glowing in the warm spotlight, eyes closed, living the music. She smiled and let herself drift away with her sweet, sad melody. Bright white light filled the space around her. She had found her peace at last.


We were crammed together on the couches in the living room, it was snug; throughout the evening there were at least four different one-on-one conversations filling the air, the chatter practically made it impossible to hear your own thoughts. Then, suddenly, we found ourselves sitting in complete silence. There was a tension in the air that abruptly suggested no one dare speak a word. I’d scooted up to the edge of the couch, with my eyes glued to the television; I could feel my heartbeat going into overdrive, and through my peripheral vision I saw my roommate, Logan, locked into the same position. The game clock had reached 58.4 seconds: Warriors - 102, Cavaliers - 101. Logan and I are sports fans, but we’re nowhere near sports fanatics. Why then, did a room full of previously cheery college students feel such a strong emotional connection to the outcome of the game? That’s best explained by something Logan nervously said to me midway through the fourth quarter, “Alex, if the Cavs can’t pull this off, we can’t pay rent.” Our apartment was littered with ramen-noodle wrappers, empty cans of black beans, and a few stacked Pizza boxes near the kitchen trash can from the nights our parents were feeling generous. Logan had just lost his scholarship on a technicality. There was a credit requirement, and unfortunately Indiana University could not transfer some of the courses he completed previously at a different school. I had been working 25-hour weeks to get by. It was starting to take a toll on my grades. I decided to work reduced hours; the consequence was reduced groceries and insufficient rent money. We wore matching purple bags under our eyes from the exhaustion that comes with financial stress. One day, sitting hunched on our red-velvet sofa, in front of a coffee table covered in loose sheets of paper we’d been using to draft potential solutions, it hit us. Rent was due in 12 days and neither of us could claim over $50 to our names. Our stomachs were so accustomed to growling that they’d grown submissive. I’d begin to feel slightly dizzy, and have an emptiness directly below my sternum, around 7:30pm each night, but that was the only time it dared to bother me. My body knew, nutrients were in limited supply, it was in survival mode. Bluntly, we knew we were fucked. The time to find better jobs and negotiate with financial aid offices, had to be later, those solutions would take too long to help with the mess in front of us. I believe it was the sense of hunger, forcefully calling for an immediate fix, that framed the way we thought about our rent problem. Logan looked at me, holding eye-contact that was marked with conviction, before proclaiming, “I’m going to gamble my way out of this mess.” Simultaneously, my eyes squinted, and my jaw lowered, I looked at him inquisitively, without speaking I prompted him to say more. “I’m going to scour through box scores, read up on the expert opinions, and turn my $50 into $650 over the next 10 days. This is my plan. You’re welcome to join me, but if you think you have a better plan, by all means.” He shrugged his shoulders. I looked left, then right, as if someone was going to give me advice on what to do; this never happened as we were the only two people in the room. It didn’t matter, I was hooked on the idea. Lost in the excitement and newfound sense of hope, I swept my arm across the coffee table and sent a collection of failed plans flying into oblivion. Fast forward and after a string of successes, our $50 had increased by a factor of 10 -- we were only $150 short of pulling this off. With two of our five hundred on the Cavaliers, a win would complete our lofty goal. The game clock was down to 23.5 seconds. Steph Curry hits a reverse lay-up, even worse it’s an and-one: Warriors - 107, Cavs - 106. My once-pounding heart shriveled and sank to the bottom of my stomach as the world tingled and began to grow blurry. With 4.7 on the clock, George Hill is fouled cutting to the basket! Instantly, I perk back up, sitting erect on the edge of my seat! Swissssshhhh, the first free throw races through the net. CLANK! The second misses. The ball is rebounded, but the clock expires. OVERTIME!!! The Cavaliers are obliterated in overtime. Logan and I look at each other, and with our shoulders drooping, we excuse ourselves from our friends and shamefully walk to our bedrooms to sleep off the pain of the loss.