He finally made it up the tower, and there was the princess sleeping peacefully. He leaned in to kiss her . "Whatcha doing?" my best friend Sam startled me. I was in the middle of writing my masterpieace a fantasy-romance. Sam (Samantha) is my best friend we have been friends since kindergarden. There is always one kid who dresses werid and that would be Sam. Sam looks like a fairy princess dressed in pleasant blouses and long skirts. You wouldn't believe by looking at her that she is a tomboy. Her mom is a hippie and buys all of her clothes, and has the strange notion that girls should wear skirts. Sam is a budding naturalist, sketchbook in hand documenting the local wildlife. She has steel grey eyes and honey colored hair. Right, I haven't introdouced myself yet. I'm Aimee, I am a writer. I have been writing since I first picked up a pencil. I have green eyes and brown hair. Actually really frizzy hair, I swear it has a mind of it's own.  Sam snatches my notebook, reads it. She "yawns", my friend is more into action or adventure stories. See that boy over there, the one with the glasses trying to hide from our English lit teacher, that is my other best friend Oliver. A gangly boy with black hair. English lit isn't his best subject, and is horrible at reading out loud. He is the smartest boy in the ninth grade. Of course a moment later, he is called on and tries to read a passage from Romeo and Juliet without stumbling. Our teacher Mr. Finch, announced our creative writing assignment.   The winner will be featured in the Silver Springs Chronicles Mr. Finch is a very tall man and has a collection of bow ties, a different one for each day of the week. He also dresses like an English gentleman. I am a good writer, so this assignment will be a pieace of cake. My friend Sam thinks that I will be a shoe in for this month's issue. Eleanor was also competing to be featured in Sliver Springs Chronicles. Eleanor was Aimee's rival, the two had been bitter rivals since the second grade when Aimee beat her at the science faire. Eleanor had blond hair and icey blue eyes. She believed that she could write a better story. The class had until the end of the month to finish their assignment. That night, Aimee staired at her notebook, she had a million ideas for a story but none of them seemed good. She knew that Eleanor would have a really good story and would rub in her face. She was like the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz trying to thart Dorothy. The evil witch was jealous of Princess Crystal . Aimee wrote. Eleanor was a witch. Aimee wrote that in a far away kingdom there lived a beautiful princess, and an evil witch. The witch was jealous of the princess's beauty. The next day, Oliver and Sam invited her to play baseball with them. Aimee did go, but sat on the bench furoiously typing away on her laptop. Sam was up at bat, her long tye-died skirt, and baseball cap didn't cordinate with each other. She swung hard, but missed then wack. The ball flew into the air, she went to first but only to be tagged by Oliver. It was Oliver's turn, he swung, the ball flew and almost hit Aimee. Oliver, of course caught it. "Why don't you put that down and take a break from writing". Take a break? She was just getting to the good part. "She is to interested her in her dumb story, to play baseball" Sam said. The next few days, Aimee was glued to writing, she wrote non-stop day and night, crafting the perfect story. She even wrote while she was walking. Oliver had to stop her from running into a pole.  At lunch the next day, Oliver sat by her at lunch. Aimee was to busy writing. "Yoohoo, earth to Aimee" he said, but it was no use, she wouldn't stop writing. In the hallway, she almost ran into somebody, Sam stopped her. Sam then yanked the notebook from her. "I wasen't done" Aimee said, snatching it back. "I think you should take a break" Sam said. At study hall, Oliver sat by Aimee. A girl almost sat on him, she didn't see him. She apolgized. It happened a lot, Oliver felt like he was a ghost, invisible, nobody really saw him. "See I am a ghost, invisible" hiding in his navy blue hoodie. Sam sat by them.  "Your not a ghost, I can see you" she said.  Aimee had already put Sam in her story, and now had the perfect character for Oliver in her story.  "Are you going to come out of there?" Aimee said. Oliver imitated a turtle, and poked his head out, but then retreated to his fortress of soilitude. "Actually it is quite cozy in here".  Aimee laughed. Aimee had finally finished her story, an A+ for sure. Princess Crystal and her two friends-Peony the fairy, and Albert the ghostly knight defeated the evil witch and saved the kingdom. A week later, Mr. Finch passed by their assignments back. Sam was surprised to get a "C", but with all the spelling mistakes it made sense. Oliver was happy to get a "B -" his plot was inconsistent but good enough. But where was Aimee's paper? Oh no. Mr. Finch held up two papers, "Both are excellent, but this one is amazing" he handed back Eleanor's to her. That meant, Aimee had the best story, if she won then her story would be read in front of the class. Oh no. She sunk in her chair. Then about a magical kingdom and a beautiful princess. Then the heroes got lost in the gumdrop forest, and then had to find the magical jewel of friendship. It was super enbaressing. It was finally over, not quite.  She was then interviewed on Sliver Springs Live , the school's news report. It could not get anyworse. Sam and Oliver were so excited to see there friend on t.v.  Peony and Albert where such cool characters. Peony was a spritely fairy, and Albert was a knight but then died and became a ghost. Albert was very murose and a sour puss. Sam pointed, there was Aimee. "So Aimee, everyone is raving about your story" the host said, "How did you come up with the story?". Sam munched on popcorn. "Oh well, Peony is based on my best friend Sam". Sam nearly choked on her popcorn. Peony was a ditzy fairy who randomly broke out into song. Now everyone at school, would think she was like Peony, and laugh at her. "I am sure she means another Sam" Oliver said sheepishly. No it was her. So if "Peony" was Sam, then "Albert" had to be Oliver. Aimee thought he was harsh and melancholic. The next day at school, the two friends decided to confront Aimee. Aimee was to busy signing autographs. Oliver fought his way through the crowd. "Isn't this amazing?" she said. Oliver crossed his arms, "You wrote me as a harsh, severe.." Sam fighting her way through the crowd, "Move aside, best friend comming through". She was out of breath, "And you wrote me as some ditzy fairy, do really think I am like that?". Aimee shook her head. "No, I.." Oliver snatched a copy of her story from someone. He cleared his throat. "He is the most dispicable person.. harsh.. incapable of feeling" Oliver read. Aimee nodded, Sam snatched it from him. "sing-songey, laughable". She read. Both crossed their arms. "No, really, I.." Aimee was intrupted by a fan. Sam looked at the crowd, they were giggling and pointing at her and Oliver. "Now were the laughing stock of the school". Aimee signed a paper. "No, this is great, they like my story". Sam tried to smile, but couldn't. "Yah, just peachy". The two friend started to walk away, Sam put on her large sunhat, Oliver put up his hood. Aimee stopped them. "Aimee, I am really happy for you, but everyone is laughing at us". Oliver said. Sam dragged Oliver away. "We should be going". The next day, both refused to talk to her. She tried, but both refused. "Don't ever talk to us, ever again" Sam said. She tried to sit with them at lunch they moved away. Eleanor found her. Oh great. Eleanor smiled, "You really made a mess of things huh". Aimee nodded. She saw Sam and Oliver. Sam hiding under her large sunhat, Oliver in his hoodie, a few snickering as they passed by. She didn't mean for this to happen, she wanted to write the perfect story and win. Now her best friends hated her. Aimee had to make things right. She decided that enough was enough, she confronted her friends. "Look, I am sorry, alright" Aimee said. Sam turned her back. "I am sorry, I thought I heard something, nope must be the wind". Oliver was going to say something, but Mr. Finch rushed in. He had made an error. Eleanor actually had the best paper, Aimee had an A-. Everyone flocked to Eleanor who beamed. Aimee breathed, finally not the center of attention for once. Aimee looked at her friends, Sam sighed, "Alright, we forgive you,".  Then she pulled a notebook jammed packed with sticky notes. "Oliver.. well mostly me have a few changes, minor details of course for certain characters for your  sequel" Sam smiled.


                                 The Trial of Big Bill Gantz When he looked down from the stage, all Horace saw were the shadowed heads of horses off in a hollow below the roadway, a sunken area given over to sagebrush and weeds. There were no riders to be seen, no movement save for the  fluttering of horse manes as the animals danced a little against one another. But it was a certainty  that there had to be people---several people---nearby even if they had left their animals tied up in the swale.   Because he believed caution trumped valor, Horace cocked both barrels of his twelve gauge and gave his partner Jim driving the team a sideward  glance. "Don't like it none." Jim also had spotted the tethered horses and nodded. "Keep the piece handy." Both men pushed the front flap of their  brimmed hats higher on their foreheads to allow them better vision.  Below them in the creaking stagecoach were four paying passengers whose trunks and cases were secured behind the driver’s bench. And  strapped to the back of the coach was another passenger who paid nothing. He was riding horizontally in a  coffin painted a somber  black, the lid held tight by metal latches. The rough corduroy of the rutted trail meant that the box needed to be  secured by additional rawhide thongs that were tightened through the carrying handles and double-knotted at the back. The road dipped and took a sharp turn to the left. Jim pulled on the reins a bit and the horses responded, slowing to a walk. It was a bad stretch and though neither Horace nor Jim cared to lose momentum,  here  they really had no choice. After a minute at that pace one of the two male passengers rapped on the forward wall of the carriage, then stuck his head out the window below the scrolled  oil paper curtain.  “Why are we slowing?” he asked impatiently.

“No need for alarm,” Horace said as his head swiveling left and right watching the roadside. “We’re due in Virginia City by nightfall,” replied the passenger. “At this rate we’ll be lucky to get there before sunrise.” It was then,  just a bit beyond the bend, that four men stepped out  ahead of the coach, three positioned across the path slightly back of the fourth. Of those three two wore long dusters and held Winchesters crosswise.  The third had  a shaggy bison robe thrown over his shoulders which looked too warm and heavy for the mild day.  Horace and Jim saw that poking out of the robe was the blue steel  nose of a shotgun. The fourth man, who was closest to the stagecoach, possessed a brace of Navy Colt pistols which were still nestled in his waistband,  his hands  placed casually but strategically on the handles. Horace, being a practical man, slowly rotated his own weapon so it now faced generally forward over the team of horses. The three  men straddling  the road looked to be very young. They were clean shaven  and wore Mexican-style sombreros while the fourth man, a generation older, sported a bowler jammed down on his head and had  sharp and pointy features accented by a thin beard and mustache.   He took a hand off one  pistol and held the palm up.

Jim knew  what that meant. He had no choice but to tighten the reins even more and bring the rig to stop. Horace, for his part, kept his shotgun  at an angle where it could be brought to bear instantly against the man with the bowler. No words were necessary to let the fellow  know that if folks were going to die this day he would  be the first to go.  As if reading this thought  Bowler said: “We mean you no harm,” “Then why you stopping us?” Horace asked. “You got something I want.” “Not carrying no gold or silver or cash,” said Jim. “Just passengers.” “Not what I’m after,” said Bowler, and the three young men in back of him looked at each other and nodded in agreement. “You’re gonna scare ‘em” said Jim.

“If everyone cooperates, they’ll be just fine.“ To show he meant what he said, Bowler took both hands off of his pistols and let them drop to his sides.  In back of him, relieved, the other three  shifted their weapons so the guns no longer threatened. Horace kept his shotgun cocked but also moved it sideways. “How many passengers you carrying?” Bowler asked. “Four, all bound for Virginia City,” Jim said. “They’ll do.” Then in a commanding but polite voice he said: “You people inside, please step down. “ The carriage door opened slowly and the four occupants exited, two men dressed in fashionable eastern-style gray tweeds, an older woman half covered by a shawl who needed assistance getting out and  leaned heavily on her cane by the rear wheel ,and a younger woman in a crimson crushed velvet dress whose lovely  face and  green eyes were shaded by a parasol  held at an angle against the sun.  The two male passengers looked at each other and started to raise their hands. “Put ‘em down,” Bowler said. “We aren’t no desperados.” The men  did as they were bid. “You four are gonna be the jury,” Bowler went on. You will judge the innocence or guilt of the accused.”  Jim and Horace sitting atop the coach looked at each other. “’’Scuse me,” Horace said after a long pause, “exactly who is the accused here?”

Bowler motioned with his head and the  men behind him approached the stagecoach, sliding  around to the rear of the vehicle. “He’s back there,” Bowler said. “Nobody back there but a dead man in a coffin,” said Horace. “And that man, sir, is the accused.” It took  a few moments for the three  to untie the straps that bound the coffin to the stagecoach and lay it on the ground. Bowler watched  and with  irritation said, “The defendant got no reason to be tried on his back. Set him up.” The trio dutifully  lifted the coffin so  it was braced against the back of the coach, not quite fully upright, but close enough. “Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if you’ll step around here.”  Bowler motioned to a spot a few feet from  the coffin and the four passengers shuffled uneasily  forward and took the place indicated. “You boys up top, you’ll be part of it too. So listen close to the evidence because you’re gonna defend a man guilty of cold blooded murder.” Bowler  went to the coffin and opened the latches, each one snapping like a gunshot as they came undone. Then he threw back the lid which brought a gasp from the women and something like surprised  grunts from the male passengers. Atop the stage both Horace and Jim swiveled around and noted the shock on all four faces though from where they sat they couldn’t  see the coffin itself or its contents.

“Now I will present my case,” Bowler said, “as the accused is present and upright.” “Mister, he’s dead and gone,” Horace said. “That don’t matter none,” Bowler replied. “He’s gonna stand trial regardless.” Jim spat a load of tobacco juice into the dust. “How we supposed to defend a dead man?” ”You’ll do the best you can.” “I don’t even know him,”Jim protested.  “And I ain’t no lawyer.” This didn’t faze Bowler. “Don’t need to be. You’ll hear what I have to say and then you can make a defense.”  Bowler hooked his thumbs through his vest and cleared his throat: “I had four young nephews,” he began, nodding at the trio behind him. “Now I got three. The defendant, Big Bill Gantz, killed the youngest for sport. Young Thomas didn’t stand a chance, hell, he wasn’t even armed. But Gantz here, a known coward and bully, a violent type,  terrorized a lot of folks in Sacramento. When the cousins rode into town from the ranch to resupply and have a little fun he spotted them and decided he’d have some fun of his own. It was bad luck that  Thomas headed into the American River Saloon alone since his cousins was busy at the suttler’s store.  When Thomas sidled up to the bar and ordered a beer Gantz spotted him as an easy mark, walked up behind and put a shoulder into him.” Bowler turned and spoke directly to the corpse. “Now Thomas was a nice boy and offered an apology though he surely didn’t need to. But you, Mr. Gantz, called him a fuzz-faced sonofabitch and shoved him.” “I object,” Horace said from above. “You’re telling it like you was a witness which I take it you were not.”  Bowler nodded. “See? You’re talking like a lawyer already…Nope, I wasn’t there. But there was a dozen others in the saloon who saw what happened. So that makes it a fact that’s gotta be put on the record.” Bowler turned to the jury of four. “ Thomas, being a good boy, let it go and picked up his beer mug to take a swig. That’s when Gantz stepped back, pulled out his pistol and shot him dead. Claimed young Thomas was intending to hit him in the head with the glass. Then Gantz turned and strolled straight out of the American River Saloon just like nothing at all had happened.” Bowler swiveled back to  the corpse as he said this and poked it in the chest which caused the  young woman  to drop  her parasol and  sway, her eyes rolling slowly upward. She would have collapsed had not the men on either side  taken her by the elbows and steadied her while one of the cousins kindly picked up the parasol and held it over her head until she had recovered. “No reason to get physical with the dead,” Horace scolded Bowler. “I object to your actions.” “Well then come down here and protect your client.” At that, Jim and Horace stepped down from the coach and stood on either side of the coffin and from this new vantage point Horace was able to give the dead man the once over. He was indeed big, over six feet, with a large belly and large hands crossed over his belt. He had a receding hair line and mutton-chop sideburns that sagged unevenly on either side of his ash-colored face. His eyes, while  closed by the undertaker, still  seemed  slatted almost like he was pretending to be dead but keeping watch on the proceedings. “This is just disgraceful,” said the old woman leaning on her cane with both hands. “Sacrilege.” “No ma’m,” Bowler corrected her. “Justice.” “Now hold on,” said Jim. “ He shoots a man in cold blood and walks out of the saloon? Just like that?“ They got law men in Sacramento who walk those streets and would’ve arrested him on the spot.” “Never got the chance,” said Bowler. “So who shot him?” asked Horace. “Wasn’t shot. He walked out of the saloon, took four strides and dropped dead in the avenue. A life of drinking and gambling and fighting finally caught up with him. And probably more than one murder. The good Lord got him.” “Well then why not let the actions of the Lord be the final judgement on the man?” Said Horace. “Hell, dead is dead and he’s deader than a door nail.” “Got to bring it to a final close for his cousins,” Bowler answered turning to the three who nodded in silent agreement. “So now for the defense. Boys, your turn.” Horace collected his thoughts for a moment. “Ladies and gents of the jury. We have here a dead man accused of a terrible crime. But all I hear is a lot of second hand reports regarding what he did. What I do know for a fact is that the recently departed has relations in Virginia City who are waiting for the body so they can give him a decent Christian burial.” Horace pointed at Gantz’s remains. “And I’ll tell you something else. This  here is really a case of what I believe lawyers call double jeopardy. Man dies of natural causes. Now some  want to kill him again. And that just ain’t right.” He glanced at Jim. I rest my case.” “I’m  resting  too,” chimed Jim who spat another load of tobacco juice into the ground. “Well then, it’s time to let the jury decide the fate of Big Bill Gantz,” Bowler said. “Members of the jury, step down the road a piece and talk it over. Then come back and let us know your decision.” The four passengers shuffled  away, too far for the discussion to be over heard by the others, but close enough so that their excited murmurs  and the physical gesturing of the four was clear to those waiting by the stagecoach. When they came back the makeshift jury stood grouped together, looking uneasily at each other until the old lady poked one of the men with her cane. “You speak for us,” she said. The passenger/jury foreman brushed a little dust from his coat and cleared his throat. “ We believe that had Mr. Gantz been alive we couldn’t convict him on the evidence as presented.” He held up a finger.   “But seeing as he’s already dead, we’re inclined to give these gents the benefit of the doubt and say he ought to suffer  an appropriate punishment.” “And what does the jury recommend?” Asked Bowler. “Uh, not hanging,” the foreman said, and with that picture planted in her head,   the legs of the beautiful  young woman started to buckle beneath her dress a second time so that the others had to step in again to steady her. “We think it would be proper if someone would, well, shoot him… But just once.” Bowler bit on his lower lip and  considered the idea.   “Just once? Young Thomas has three cousins here, all of them aggrieved by what Bill Gantz did. Why shouldn’t each of them be entitled to plug him?” The other male passenger spoke up: “We’re’ thinking of the innocent parties involved.  His relations.   All those bullet holes in the body of their kin. Not what we’d like to see if it were a member of our own families we were planning to bury. And if it ever gets out that he died of natural causes, the more bullet holes, the more  questions people might start asking.”  “I guess that makes some sense,” Bowler allowed.   He  turned to the three cousins. “You boys want to draw straws?”

The three looked at each other with wide eyes and slack jaws. “Well, speak up,” Bowler said. We haven’t got all day.” “You do it, uncle,” said one. “We’re good with that.” Bowler nodded solemnly.  Then he  drew one of the Navy Colts from his waist band, pulled back the hammer, walked up to the coffin and fired.                                                                       … The stage pulled into the company yard in Virginia City almost on time. To the west, there was still a little light showing over the backs of the mountains  hunched in silhouette above the valley floor. The station agent, a trim and nervous little man, helped Horace and Jim unload the luggage from the roof, then tipped his hat at each of the passengers as they collected their belongings in collaborative  silence and walked swiftly away. “Real pretty up there in the hills,” said the agent. “Nice country. A good trip?” “Not really,” said Horace.

The three men turned  as  a flatbed wagon pulled by a single horse drove into the yard and eased toward the back of the stagecoach. A big man stepped down, a man Horace found strikingly  familiar. And then it hit him: He was looking at the spitting image of the deceased. This man, however, wore a clerical collar with his dark suit and offered a pained smile as he approached. He held out his hand and shook with all of them. “ Simon Gantz,” he said. “I’ve come to claim my brother’s remains.” In a few moments  the coffin was free of the straps and slid  into the open back of the wagon. The clergyman didn’t hurry away but stood looking at the box. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see him now. For the last time.” Jim stepped forward, unsnapped the latches and opened the lid. Then he and Horace removed their hats and lowered their heads. Simon Gantz stared sadly at his brother. “Born twins, but we took different paths. I found God early and made Him my life. Bill started wild and ended wild. I’ve got no idea why.” The clergyman peered closely into the coffin. “I have little doubt he started it.  And it seems one bullet finished it. All the telegram said was that he’d died, not how.” He shook his head.  “I guess they just put him back in the clothes he was killed in. Funny, no sign of blood.” Horace and Jim exchanged glances. “ I reckon it goes that way sometimes,” Jim murmured. “Our sister is here. So is my nephew.  They took the train all the way from St. Louis. We’re a close family, gentlemen.  Rough and disagreeable  a man as my brother was, it still won’t be easy for any of us.” The clergyman gave a deep sigh and then added: “We all have our trials.” 2,905 words.


"It's been an hour since I dropped her back at her house and she hasn't sent me a text." He said, "She must be pretty mad." "You said you dumped her?" He swigged his beer. I drank my coffee. We were on the porch and it was early daytime. "Yeah, man. I dumped her." I said, "I figure she must be upset." "Shit." He said, and nodded. I looked out across the lawn, across the street, and to the other side. An old man stood on his porch in dark blue coveralls and he wore a red hat. From afar, I could only see his eggy skin and blue eyes that I figured must be almost dead up close. He cracked a beer and drank from the can. He kept an eye towards us. Johnny started kinda giggling next to me. He wasn't looking out, but in, and he said, "Yeah, she was pretty mad. You wanna hear something?" "Sure." "Ok, so we were in bed and I was tired, you know. I'm layin there and I'm trying to fall asleep, because I'd only woken up when she got up to take a shit or something. And I'm still all comfortable in bed when she comes back in, you know, after crappin' her brains out, well, THEN she starts being frisky. Don't get me wrong, I love to do her. But I wasn't so tired I hadn't pictured her crappin' out all those lentils she eats. I mean I know what that shit does to me." I stopped listening. I stopped nodding my head. I lit another cigarette and looked into my empty mug. His words slipped past me. The old man was in his garage then. He seemed to move about carrying the weight of hopeless burdens. He scuffed his boots on the pavement. He put on his work gloves. "After everything, we're all cuddled up and I'm definitely trying to sleep now. Thing is, it's her hair, you know it's so goddam curly and after getting pulled on a bit, it's just a fucking mane. It gets everywhere and I'm laying there and it gets in my mouth and I'm like, 'Fuck!' You know?" I was a beat late on this cue. "Shit, man, you there? Oh, you out of coffee, you fuckin' pussy faggot?" He said, "If you're going in there, grab me another one." I went in and was back out when I saw the old timer across the way. He had two black trash-cans out in the driveway, and he was tying heavy black bags into each. I handed Johnny the beer. "Man, I shoulda said, 'Grab me two,' but I guess this is alright." "Just shut up and drink it." I said, "And you're welcome." We drank our liquids and watched the old man perform. He looked methodical, solemn and only semi-lucid as he enacted this boring brand of magic. Slowly he made his way behind his house and disappeared. "Still nothin'." "Nothing?" "Yeah, she still hasn't sent me anything." I said, "You're joking." "I'm tellin ya, she must be on her period or something." "Women," I said. Johnny drank his beer and looked at his phone. We heard a large engine start up. Pretty soon, the old man was pulling around the corner of his house in a John Deere. It was bright green and it was rigged for mulching with nylon pouches, but he only had a small lawn. From afar, I figured the soft old bastard must like riding a fancy mower better than dying behind an old, heavy push. "Honestly dude," he said, "I'm kinda getting worried." "What could have happened?" " I don't know. I'm sure she's just crying or sleeping or something, it's just that the other times I dumped her, it wasn't but fifteen or twenty minutes before she'd send me something." "Maybe she..." "Oh my God, and those were always the best messages to get from her, too! She'd get like wild. I'd be lying if I said I don't miss those texts." "Well." "This one time, I fucked her at her parent's house. I guess that was the first time we fucked. She made me wear a condom, which sucked, but it was still pretty awesome fucking her. Anyway, she said she had heard of some new vaginal condom or diaphragm or something that she was gonna get. She said it was gonna be just for me, cause she knew I hate condoms and I told her I wanted to cum in her." The old man was making quick work with his mower. The blade cut clean through his Bermuda without tearing it. He nudged up against the flower bed too, and he got it good enough that he wouldn't need a weed-eater. He smirked, and I know I saw that. "So about three days before my twenty-first, I'm thinking about who I'm gonna fuck, and I got a couple of options. You know, none are really superstars or anything. Nothing I couldn't live without, but, anyway I'm sensin' that this 'Her-and-I' thing is just gonna fuck me up on what should be the funnest day of my life. So I just ditched her cause I wanted to sleep with Shannon because Shannon's got such big tits. Well, it gets time to meet up with my girl and I'm drunk so I call her. I told her that her pussy is too loose and that I don't want her busted ass anymore. Oh man, she went nuts." "Makes sense," I said. "Yeah, well that night Shannon's friends are like cock-blocking the shit out of me, and then all those bitches run home early because they got a test or some shit the next morning. So I call her back, and she's not happy, but I get her to talk to me and I get her to let me come over. "It was funny, man, it was fucking funny when I showed up because she opens the door and she's still got on her dress and her make-up is all washed out. And she was so damn mad! I couldn't believe it, but I got her back into bed. I don't know how, man, I was fucking drunk as shit, but I did, and I fucked her until I puked." "What?" "Yeah." He smiled. "You twisted son of a..." "Haha, exactly! I puked all over the side of her bed, dude!" "Jesus," I said. "Then what?" "I dumped her for real." He said, "I busted my nut, barfed and went home. She texted me later, but not because she was mad, but because she wanted me back. "She was sending me shit like, 'Oh Johnny, please take me back!' you know, but then she'd say stuff like, 'I want you to cum in my pussy cause I just found my diaphragm I'd been telling you about. I'll let you fuck me all night Johnny, I swear. Just come pick me up, Baby. Please. Please Johnny, come back and let me have it!' "I mean I was blown away by that shit. All the time though, it was stuff like that." "Just like that?" He said, "Well, you know. Just crazy shit." "Well maybe she'll text you." "Yeah." He said, "Maybe I'll text her, you know? I mean, just to make sure she's ok." I looked at the old man who was shutting off his mower. Slowly, with aged joints, he moved off the mower's saddle and moved to dump the clippings in the cans. He dragged the just full cans to the curb. He put out the sprinkler. Johnny started stirring and it was hot outside so I started moving to head back inside. "I don't know dude," I said. "I think you gotta make it a rule, and the rule's gotta say you gotta fuck another girl before you can go back to one you already fucked. Otherwise dude, she owns you. You know what I'm saying? You gotta prove to yourself that she isn't the only bitch you can get. I say you find that Shannon girl and smack those tits around just because you can. Then, maybe, think about goin' back to the 'same-old, same-old' bitch who apparently fucking loves you for some stupid fucking reason." "Damn dude, that's truth right there. That's truth." "Let the big dog eat," I said. Johnny laughed hard and said real loud and deep, "LET THE BIG DOG EAT! ARF! ARF!" We laughed and high-fived before Johnny went in checking his phone for numbers. I heard him inside saying, "Yo Shannon, how you doin', girl?" I flicked a dead cigarette butt into my yard, and then saw the old man staring at me. Even from over here on my porch, I could see he looked disappointed. He turned away and started into his house. The door was open as he slowly crossed the threshold and I heard what must've been his wife playing piano. A happy grandma-laugh burst as her song was abruptly halted. I heard her laugh again, then play and sing some bars of "For He's a Jolly-Good Fellow." The old man in his work-suit danced the rest of the way past the door. She kept playing, then the door closed, and then their laughter went hidden.


(WP) The Phoenix On her good days, she is like sunshine, all glowing warmth and life. She is love and safety and kindness, though she is broken on the inside. On her bad days, she is like a storm, capricious, furious, swept away by the powerful tide of her emotions. She is darkness and destruction and rage, hating herself because the world tried to put her into a box she couldn’t fit inside. She is slowly learning that the word different is not synonymous with wrong. But she tries her hardest every day, because she just doesn’t know how to give up. Some days she lives out of nothing but distilled spite. And though poisonous thoughts grow within her mind and soul, she is doing her best to weed them out. The world feels hopeless for her, but she knows that’s just her broken heart and mind lying to her, trying to fool her. So many people tried to bring her down, tear her apart, obliterate her, but she is still here, despite it all. Her heart has not hardened; instead it has grown into a garden of words, wishes and dreams. Every day she puts a pen to paper, conjuring magic out of the written word. She creates new worlds out of thin air, crafts stories that mirror the light and darkness that fights daily within her soul. With her words, she opens doors to new lands where anything is possible. Even though she comes from darkness, she is formed of thin e light. It is difficult to love herself, all those broken bits and shadows and regrets, born from a desperate need to feel whole and loved. She longs for peace, though her heart and soul have always been restless. Freedom is what she craves most, the ability to do as she pleases. But her roots, her found family, keep her grounded, even while her mind longs for escape. Sometimes the memories are so painful that she feels like she is drowning within them, a raging sea of mistakes, anger, and regret. But there is joy, too, found in small places: in rain, in a well-told story, in time spent with loved ones, in seeing others succeed and be happy. She knows that her life will be better, but she must make it that way. She is a phoenix, rising from the ashes of her past and looking toward the bright, open future that tomorrow holds for her. She has been so lost her whole life, but now she knows her purpose. She is not meant to save others, but herself, and she wishes that she realized that sooner. Even if she saves no one but herself, that is still a victory, however small. She will spread her wings and fly far away from the place that made her, and become someone worth knowing. She is sunlight, but she is also shadows, a potent mix of passion and determination. Her darkness and light are constantly at war with each other, but she wouldn’t change it for anything. She is powerful and deeply loved, despite and because of her flaws.


Warning: This essay contains descriptions of sexual violence, self-harm/suicide, mental health, and substance abuse. 2012 (Freshman Year of Highschool) Dear Dad, I’ve discovered that I am better with the written word rather than the spoken one. Maybe that makes me a coward, to hide behind a sheet of paper, but it is easier for me to speak the truth like this. I know my candy and small gifts today will never make up for the other 364 days of effort you put into making me grow up into a good person. But I appreciate you. 		Everything you do is for us and we notice and we can not thank you enough, but sometimes too stubborn to show it. You are my rock for everything, from extreme breakdowns to just a bad day, you always are concerned about my well-being. You are the strongest person I know, even if you don’t think so. You push me to do my best because the amount of faith you put in people is inspiring. I remember sitting in the hospital, the anger I felt towards you was enormous. I thought you brought me to hell and you didn’t care about what was happening to me. But I was blinded at the time because whether I was mad or not, you saved my life. I can never thank you enough for that. Even though it’s Father’s Day, please read this when you miss me or you feel down because I want to be there for you as much as you are for me. I want to be your rock. You taught me to be strong and confident. You make my life mean something, I love you dad.

Love Your Daughter,

M 2013 (Sophmore Year of Highschool) Dear Whoever Cares To Listen, i do not want to write anymore. i dont want to talk about sad things anymore. but my life is simply made up of sad things so i’m not sure how to mask that anymore. i do not like to be sober, not for the thrill of a high or an excuse to make a drunkenly-sober thought speech. i like to be intoxicated mentally. to be full and overwhelmed, not empty. i don’t want emptiness. intoxication saves me from such. i don’t have to slump on sad things, i don’t have to ask questions i don’t want to know the answer to. i want to be happy, i want to be busy and not waste time pondering my own choices and others’ that have affected me. i don’t want to think about the abuse or the hardships or life curve balls. i am not an alcoholic or a junkie. i am just a weak human being trying to put on a strong front so i don’t upset the one’s who love me. i don’t want people to worry about me or think they have to protect me. i want to protect them and love them, not have all of our time on this earth wasted by correcting the uncorrectable. just leave me be, enjoy me. i want to make you happy, overlook my flaws, overlook my mistakes and enjoy me. i want to enjoy you. i need to enjoy someone or something, i need to pretend to be happy for a little while. i just wish it was for longer but i don’t deserve the “x” amount of time i desire. i just hope you don’t leave me without knowing this. this simple emotion that means the world to me, that all i’ve ever wanted was to make you proud. make you want to love me and show me off but you can’t do that. because i am not the person i am so built up to be. you have to hide me, i am your shame. i am my own shame. i don’t feel shame anymore though. i don’t feel anything for that matter. i feel the last drop of my drink, i feel the touch of a kiss from a boy who i know will only enjoy for an hour, i feel the smoke overwhelm my lungs, i feel tears roll down my face and i feel the knife race over my skin. but i do not feel love, i do not feel happiness, i do not feel sad and i do not feel regret. i feel numb. but i need this numbness, i wish i didn’t but i don’t see any other way. i am sorry. i want to be what you want but i am not. i am worthless to you and myself and others. so what now? just live on in radio silence emotion? live in numbness? is it even worth living?

– M 2014 (Junior Year of Highschool) Dear Dad, Dad, out of everyone in my life I have taken you the most for granted. I constantly apologize and lie and apologize again and it’s not fair to you. You have never doubted me even at my lowest points, even when you were tired of cleaning up all the messes I had made you supported me the whole way. I can never thank you enough for the sacrifices you have made for me. I want a better relationship with you, and Mom too. I know I keep fucking up and making stupid mistakes. I’m not trying to blame it on the fact that it is just “teenage things”. But I’m young and hardheaded, but you already knew that. I do learn the lessons and I listen to every word you say and every shred of advice you give me, it’s just my own fault to be careless sometimes regardless of the consequences and I know that scares you and mom, my problem with consequences. Aside from being punished which is never fun, I truly don’t like consequences because I always just want to solve the problem right there and then and move on because I’m embarrassed for being so stupid and I always feel so bad. but unfortunately, I know you have to do the time if you are going to do the crime. I don’t know why I make these dumb decisions, they don’t mean anything to me, and they are never worth the punishment. Maybe it’s because I’m stubborn or a teenager or it’s in my genes or I’m just defiant, I don’t know. But I promise that every time disappoint you, every time I see how upset I make you in your eyes, it kills me. I want to make you proud not ashamed. I will change, I promise. Boarding school will really help me find myself and become a better person for myself and everyone around me. I don’t know who I am, but I know this is not who I want to be and I don’t want to go in the wrong direction just as much as you don’t want me to. I know you are looking out for me, and I’m sorry for pushing you away for that. All the small things you do for me like riding bikes in the morning or cooking breakfast for dinner or singing songs in the car as loud as we can, I love them all. It kills me to realize that I have never thanked you or even remotely treated you the way you deserve and I’m sorry for the past but all I can do now is appreciate all you do for me and let you know how much you mean to me. You are the one and only man I need in my life, I am such a daddy’s girl and all I’m saying is that I am going to try better to achieve the nice loving relationship I want to have with you. Because all you got is family, and you are the best family I could ever ask for. Love Your Daughter, M 2015 (Senior Year of Highschool) Dear Daughter, Please sign the contract I have prepared below ASAP. You must sign this if you want to go to college.

Contract for Life: I recognize that I will be faced with many difficult decisions. Throughout my college experience, I may encounter issues such as alcohol and drug use, HIV/AIDS, risky sexual behavior, date rape, impaired driving, abusive relationship, and many more challenges. By signing below, I have entered into a contract in which I agree that we will always attempt to choose the best option that considers my own well-being, health, and safety. In addition, I will help friends whom I see making destructive decisions find any assistance they need. When I find myself in a situation that makes me uncomfortable or that I feel unequipped to handle, I will discuss it with someone I trust.

By signing below, I am acknowledging the terms of this contract are not negotiable and violation of the terms will result in loss of benefits and support provided by the family.

_X______________________________________ From, Dad 2016 (Freshman Year of College) Dear Whoever Cares To Listen, sometimes sorry isn’t enough and whats done is done. what do you do? you are so trapped and overwhelmed, you have no way out yet you desperately screech to take it back, a do over. No whats done is done. Is there a way to start over? to clean the dirtied waters? do i even have a chance anymore or is it over? even if it is over, what does that mean. what is over? you are leaving me? you are giving up on me? i won’t give up on myself, i know i am not this person. i know it. if i can change, will you stay? will it even matter if i change or is it too late? the water is already too dirty? okay, i understand. I can’t complain, it’s my fault. but whats done is done and i can’t give up just yet. I can’t just quit on myself. even if it doesn’t matter to them, it matters to me. i know i changed. i know i can do it, i can become the person they want me to be, i know it. i just don’t know what my first move should be. I’m trapped and overwhelmed and i don’t have that much fight left in me. not much at all. -M 2020 (Senior Year of College) Dear Dad, I am so exhausted with writing you letters and you ignoring them and not changing; they not only take up my time and emotions, but truthfully I don’t think you have ever written me back, or even a letter at all. Over the past 6 or so months, I have written and rewritten this letter to you nearly a hundred times. Truthfully, I reached a point where I gave up and almost tried to forget it altogether. But I can’t and I won’t for many reasons, the main one being that I need to have an honest relationship with you, something we haven’t had in over a decade, something I want very badly in my life. I want, more than anything, to be close and have a good relationship with you, but there are a few issues between us that cause me to recoil and distrust you.

When I called you on the phone genuinely worried someone had committed fraud on my credit card account when I noticed a $35,000 total sum reported as personal debt on my credit report.

I began to look into these loans and your emails over the years, and honestly, I became even more stressed out and confused - only one of the six loans was unsubsidized, so there is nearly 1,500 in interest already attached to the majority of the debt, which was not covered in the contract at all. I worked endlessly at night after work to figure out what was going on with MY finances, MY official debt, and MY credit score; and when I called you a week or two later to discuss it all, you said you had been too busy to even look at it.

I collected over 50 pages of bills, receipts, emails, and notes surrounding my own college debt as it racked up daily interest, and yes the pandemic put a hold on it, but what was your plan if it didn’t? You manipulated and lied to me about everything involving my college experience. You utilized my ignorance and confusion surrounding college in general as a weapon of control over me for five years. You sabotaged my financial freedom, just so you could say “I told you so.” Every time I read, or even think about what was said, in the “Contract for Life” I feel victim-blamed, shameful, misunderstood, and objectified. The contents of the “Contract for Life” tells me a lot about how you viewed me in the past, and the fact that you refuse to apologize for it in the present just tells me that your view hasn’t changed. I can’t tell if it makes me angrier than sad, or vice versa, but it does make me confused, self-doubtful, and feeling somewhat hopeless. It makes me feel like you blame me for everything that happened in high school. I have come to terms with the fact that I cannot change you or influence you into becoming the man I need you to be, so I have to reach out and try again one last time, and if you do refuse to hear me out and change after this, then you will never see my face again.

Your Daughter,

M 2018 (Sophmore Year of College) Dear Whoever Cares To Listen,  It started off so innocently, I thought. I could’ve sworn I only had a couple shots. It was a random party in the neighborhood; teenagers were nearly pouring out of the house and onto the streets and the golf course, which made up her backyard. I ran into an old friend I used to work with at a summer camp; I was 14 years old so I couldn’t really get my hands on alcohol, or at least the good kind. So when he offered some rum and to sit with his friends I almost felt honored - he was two grades older than me. His friend was kinda cute and as we sat and drank the spirits on the carefully mowed grass, shortly after my memory began to slip.

I was flailing around and I couldn’t control my body. My head started spinning, but I was confused because I had only had a few sips. We heard the cop sirens zoom down the street and pull up to the front of the house so people started to scatter, I don’t remember how I ended up laying down against a tree. He was on top of me, pinning my wrists against the sticks on the ground. He was kissing my neck and I was confused for a second. I didn’t even know who it was. My body was paralyzed under the weight of alcohol and his long body lay on top of me. I felt my pants being taken off, and I started to ask politely no no I’m a virgin, I don’t want to have sex. I remember him whispering in my ear it’s okay and not stopping. I tried to move my arms, but he was holding them down. I tried to thrash but he was too big. I tried to cry, but it wouldn’t come out. I started to scream, no no no stop, please. I could feel him inside of me, I wanted to puke. I don’t know how long it lasted. I began to remove myself from my body. I woke up in a hospital bed. My neighbor found me against a tree unconscious with my pants still off. He tried to carry me home, but the cops stopped us and they determined I was way too intoxicated to just go home. They brought me to the ER and gave me fluids and called my dad. I left my body again. I woke up in my room with a massive headache and a hospital wristband. I walked into my father’s room that morning after and began to weep and beg for forgiveness. I kept repeating

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He thought I was apologizing for getting too drunk. I don’t know why I was seeking forgiveness, I had no control. I was the victim. But as years went by, I was the one begging God to help me, I was the one crying every night, and I was the one who had to move schools my senior year because I saw his face every fucking day in the hallway that year. I was the one who needed therapy, I was the one who tried to kill myself and ended up in a psych ward later that year. I was the one who couldn’t trust men, can’t trust men. I was the one that began to disrespect my body because it was all that I knew. He is the one with a girlfriend and a home and a nice dog and a car and a job. He is the one who doesn’t give me a second thought before bed. He is the one who doesn’t even know my name.

-M


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same: peaceful. Peaceful was the perfect word to describe how she felt as she got out of her car and walked along the asphalt path toward her destination. She couldn’t help but take in the well-manicured grass, the flowering trees, and the beautiful blue sky. As she came around a curve in the path, the reason for her visit to this place came into view. She stopped. The growing tension in her abdomen felt like an invading army, attacking and destroying the peace she had felt just moments before. After a few deep breaths, she willed her legs to move and, one slow step at a time, she drew closer even as her destination seemed to move away from her into a narrow, dark tunnel. To see what she was about to see was exactly why she had come here. She could not turn back now. Lowering her gaze to the path directly in front of her seemed to help. She took the last few steps and, after twenty-four years, she had finally returned. Still keeping her eyes on the path, she steadied herself. She took a deep breath then slowly raised her head until her eyes came to rest on his name, carved into the black granite gravestone. She had met him twenty-six years before at a party thrown by a mutual friend. Her friend later had sworn that the party had not been a setup for the two of them to meet but everyone else at the party had been couples. When she was introduced to him, she made sure to give her friend the evil eye. Her friend just grinned then walked away, leaving the two of them alone.

She had been divorced for less than a year and her friends had been pushing her to start dating but she wasn’t sure if she was ready. Being the good sport that she was, however, she had decided to play along. He was rather handsome after all and immediately made her laugh. So far so good. They had indeed hit if off but, after a few dates, he began buying clothes for her and insisting that she wear them when they were together. She tried to tell him that she was comfortable with her own wardrobe but he became irritated and told her that he liked being with the beautiful woman that she was but, also, the beautiful woman who dressed beautifully.

Even though the outfits were not really her style, in order to keep the peace in this new relationship, she agreed that maybe it was time for a change. After all, he was paying for the new clothes.

A short time later, he surprised her with a spa day. He told her she would be enjoying a full-body massage with a seaweed wrap, a facial, a mani-cure, and a pedi-cure. He definitely had her attention at this point. She had not been to a spa in several years. Then, he reached out and took a lock of her hair in his fingers, looked her in the eye and added to the list: an entirely new hair color and style. She took a step back and told him to go to hell. He back-handed her across the face then immediately grabbed her by the shoulders and began apologizing like a repentant sinner. He begged her to forgive him and made the excuse that he felt insulted at her reaction to his generous gift and had overreacted. Her thoughts immediately returned to a voice-mail that had been left on her phone right after she had separated from her first husband. By his mother. Her mother-in-law told her that she was a weak and pathetic woman and that, if her husband’s eyes were wandering to other women, it was her fault and she needed to work harder to save her marriage. So, she decided to forgive him but she was not going to change her hair style and especially not her hair color. He apologized again and offered to take her to their favorite restaurant for dinner. She told him she would take a rain-check. That was only the beginning.	He would go away for weekend golf trips with his friends but return and tell her he needed to borrow money. Not much at first but in ever increasing amounts.

Although he began accusing her of cheating, she would catch glimpses of flirty text messages on his phone. If she asked about them, he would accuse her of spying on him and not trusting him, making her feel like the guilty party.

Months and months of stress from dealing with ever-increasing suspicions, arguments, break-ups and reconciliations and the inner turmoil of wanting to prove she was strong enough to deal with anything took its toll. Her new business was suffering. She wasn’t sleeping. She needed a break. She discussed the idea of a short break with him and, in order to appease her, he agreed. Immediately, he began sending text messages and leaving voice mails that flip-flopped between anger and apology. After a week of ignoring him, he finally stopped. The stress, however, from the anticipation of that next call or text message would not subside for several more days.

After a couple of weeks of radio silence, she received a text that simply said, “Great news! I’ll call you. Please pick up.” Before she had any time to process this, her phone rang. She picked up. He suggested that, since they had taken a break, and had had time to think, they should go out for dinner and talk things out. He had some exciting news to tell her. Would this just be one more in a long string of talk-things-out dinners? She had decided that it would not. This would be the last one. No matter what he said to her, she was going to end it. But as he talked about how he had learned a lot from his new therapist and as he presented his plan for how he would become a better person, a scene of her ex-mother-in-law wagging her finger at her and lecturing her like a child for being weak and telling her she should give him one more chance, kept playing in her head in an unending loop. Maybe she should give him one more chance. After all, this conversation had seemed different, had it not? He had seemed different. He was getting help. He had seemed sincere as he laid out his plan to change. Could she believe him? Did she dare believe him? As the argument raged inside her head, they looked around to discover that they were the only diners left in the restaurant. He paid their bill then asked her to get the car so he could hit the restroom before they drove home. She told him she could wait but he insisted.

She backed the car out of the parking place and shifted into drive, but hesitated. She wanted so badly to step on the gas and leave him behind; to keep driving toward a new life and not stopping until she found one.

She looked toward the restaurant. He was standing at the door with their waitress. The waitress typed something on a phone then handed the phone to him. His phone. As the waitress closed the door, he lingered for a moment as if he were watching her through the door. He turned, stepped away from the door, and began walking across the empty parking lot. Her knuckles turned white as her grip tightened on the steering wheel. She was a fool. Embarrassment flooded over her like a torrential downpour. “You’re weak! You’re weak!” Something snapped inside her.

She slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

At the last moment before impact, she turned her head away, and closed her eyes.

She hadn’t seen what would be the last, horrified expression on his face, but she had heard the sickening crunch just before his body flew across the parking lot, dead before it even hit the pavement. They called it a crime of passion and sentenced her to twenty-four years. Just before being locked away for those twenty-four years, she had watched the casket as it was lowered into the ground, ending her nightmare. So, on this day of her release from prison, the first day of her new life of true freedom, she had come here to make sure the son-of-a-bitch was still dead.

He was and that was all that mattered.


First and foremost: unicorns are not what you're thinking of. Rather than pink manes and long, golden horns, they're more brownish. They have one long, winding horn, in fact, and leaf-green, glowing eyes. They have leaves--or what looks like leaves--on their legs, backs, and manes. They're older than you or me, even your grandmother and grandfather. Sometimes I believe they're as old as time itself. They're smart, and they know everything about you before you even see them. And they care about us. I had an encounter with a unicorn. Here's my story. My mother always hated animals. She hated the mess they made, she hated their fur, and most of all, she hated their noise. It was her least favorite thing about them. I, on the contrary, adored animals. Anytime I saw someone walking their dog, I went out of my way to go and pet it. But horses? Oh, horses were my very *favorite*. I was the horse girl who drew them constantly in school, wore the shirts, had the backpack. But no matter how much I begged and pleaded, mother would never let me so much as look at one. I don't know why, all she said is that they were dangerous. But one of my classmates, Erin Evans, she had horses. She showed me a picture of her dapple-grey gelding once, and I was awe-struck. Also green with envy. I wondered why that couldn't be me. One day, I was making my way home from school. I have to take this long road every day, because my mother works at the diner from 9:00 to 5:00. The bad part was the Owens boys lived on this road, and they were bound determined to make my life hell. I tried to walk faster by their house, but they were inevitably outside. And me trying to run like a scared animal didn't make it any better. They grabbed me by my hair and grabbed my backpack, laughing like this was a game.I think it was a game for them. I can't imagine any other reason they would like to do this. "Hey, carrot-top! What have you got for us today?" Doc asks. "Just a load of damn horse drawings." Gilbert huffs, before throwing them down. I gasp and try to dive for them because they were the best ones I had ever done. I was going to give them to my mother as a present. But they landed in a puddle, and even as I picked them up, the ink was still smudged everywhere. They call me carrot-top once more for extra measure, then hurry off behind their house before their pa could see them. I stand up and wipe my nose hard to keep from crying. I grab my backpack and throw it back over my shoulders. I hate those boys. I step on my ruined drawings as I pass them. I wipe my eyes some more. Stop being a baby, Adeline. You're in fourth grade now. This is when girls get taller and more mature. But I'm stuck in my skinny red-headed body. Sometimes I just wish I could borrow someone else's for a while. Caught up in my thoughts of self pity, I don't notice it until I'm right up on it. As I hear a defensive snort, I stop suddenly, breath catching in my throat as my blood turns to ice. Is it a bear? There's a lot of those where I live. Oh god, what if it is a bear? I completely blank on what to do and dive behind an old boulder. This is followed by silence, apart from the occasional pained snort. But at a soft, sorrowful nicker, my heart starts beating faster than it ever has. I peer around the boulder slowly, and am entirely awestruck. There, laying pitifully on the grass, is a horse. Except, not a horse. He has leaves caught in his long mane, and it hangs over his eyes. But I watch as he blinks, and see two bright green irises. He has leaves in the feathers on his hooves and leaves scattered about his back. I watch as his wobbly legs struggle to lift him up, before he falls back down with a pained neigh. I realize now, with a surge of adrenaline, his leg is caught in a bear trap. *A bear trap*. What are the chances? But the most awe inspiring thing about this horse.. Is the horn on his head. I think it would be longer, but it's *cut*. I watched a documentary once about rhinos. People cut their horns off to sell them. I think that's what happened to him. My breath catches in my throat as I move before I have time to think. I approach him slowly, and he notices me in an instant. His struggling stops, and he looks at me. I'm frozen for a moment. His power is raw, enormous. I'm not meant to see him. But man has failed him. So I have to show him that not all people are bad. *Wait--what?* When did I get so poetic, anyway? In any case, I keep on approaching him. He stays stiff, staring at me. I think he knows my intentions. I think he knows everything about me. I kneel before him, my eyes going to the bear trap on his leg. I breath in as I scoot forward, beginning to fool with the trap. I feel around, before finally finding it. I notice his hooves are a beige color, and in the cracks, I can see leaves. As I pull the latch, he yanks his leg out at once, stumbling backwards. He hops for a moment, before snorting and slowly putting his hoof down on the ground. I watch in awe as the grass grows higher, and weeds wrap around his leg, gradually, until you can no longer see it. He waits there a moment, before snorting, and just as quick as they'd came, the forestry returns to the earth. I gasp. His leg is healed. He looks at me, and speaks. But without moving his mouth. His voice is everywhere. All throughout the forest, if you'd only listen. "*Thank you, Adeline.*" "W-What are you?" I blurt before I could think. Real smooth, Adeline! "*I am The Forest,*" He snorts in amusement. "*I am its protector.*" "You.. keep it safe?" I asked, amazed. "*Yes, Adeline. But I could never do it without your help. People like you are what keep the forests of the Earth alive. Not me*." I smile. Even though I can't tell, I think he smiles back. As he turns to go, I blurt, "Will I see you again?" He turns his head back at me, his long mane moving with his actions. "*Indefinitely*." He replies. I smile more, and I watch him go off, deeper into the forestry. To my surprise, just as his front half is hidden by the bushes, he suddenly turns into a bear. I grin as I watch him bound off. I take a breath in, and slowly make my way back to the road. I love the forest. And now I know it loves me back. As I look up to the leaves, I see them move, following after me. And I smile. Care for the forest. Please. Because it loves you dearly, and you should return the favor.  **The End**   **\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_** Hi if you read this far! Before you're too harsh on me, note I'm only a youngin' trying to get into a new hobby. I hope you do like my story! But maybe go easy on me with critique? Only because I wear my heart on my sleeves. Also sorry for the swearing! I squeezed my eyes shut and typed it fast.


The world was amazing with her. Since we met and became close three years ago, we spent almost every other day together. Mariah. Just seeing her name appear on my phone from a text message would generate a warmth in my chest that I didn’t even know was possible. I was never the shy type, but to even come up with anything clever to say to let her know was interested in her other than a friend was impossible. For the first year, we hung out at each others’ houses, went on “friend” dates, and supported each other through our ups and downs in our lives. It was July 17, 2019, when we had our first intimate moment. We had known each other for about a year when her dad was killed by a drunk driver on I-75 coming from watching football with his friends four days before. She was a wreck emotionally. Her mom left when she was four, so she was left alone with him her whole life. She was 22 now, but she was still a daddy’s girl. I had love for the old man, too. I had many conversations with him about sports, cars, and all “guy” stuff that you would expect. He even went as far to get me a birthday present for my 23rd back in March. It wasn’t much, a hoodie from my favorite music artist. The night he gave it to me, Mariah and I were talking at one of our usual spots we hung out at when we had long talks and laughed. “You know, I’ve never seen my Dad give anyone a birthday present that wasn’t family.” she said with a smile. “What? No way!” I was kinda shocked. I never did anything that amazing for him to deserve a gift. I figured he was just being nice. “Yeah, I’m serious. He must really like you being around.” In the light, her skin beamed and her eyes shined. She gave me a smile that forced me to smile, too. I didn’t know if I was hopelessly imagining it, but the look she gave me in that moment made me think that there was a possibility that I could reach out to her and tell her how I actually felt. Tell her that I am actually madly in love with her and couldn’t imagine being with anyone else in the world. She’s the most gorgeous person I had ever seen, that her kindness and compassion, her laugh, her smile, her mind, what she wanted out of life inspired me to try and be better. She convinced me to go back to school and finish my degree. I think back now, that I could’ve reached out then and succeeded. Yet, I bit my tongue and laughed it off. The next four days after her Dad died, she locked herself in her room, and didn’t leave the house. I couldn’t imagine what she was going through. I never was close to my parents. Once I turned 18, I left and never looked back. I texted her every few hours to let her know I was there for her. I ran all over town gathering all of her favorite foods, snacks, and drinks to try and cheer her up. I had a bag from McDonald’s, a frappe from Starbucks, chimichangas from La Mejor Comida, and a pound of her favorite candy, Kit-kats. It was the evening of the fourth day. It was raining and tried to cover everything with my jacket as I ran up to her door. Her house had no porch to cover me from the rain. I called and knocked repeatedly with no answer. I thought about leaving maybe this was weird, or would make her mad. Doubt of my plan to make her feel better was a dud. As I went to turn away, I heard the door unlock and open slowly. I looked back and Mariah stood there in the doorway. Her eyes red and dry from running out of tears to cry, hair a mess, no make-up, and in one of hoodies she stole a while back. “Hey, uh. I couldn’t hold myself to leave you alone any longer even though it’s what you like when you’re sad. I didn’t want you to be alone…” I said. She looked me up and down with the face full of pain, but then her lip quivered a little and she stepped aside so I could come in. I entered and turned to the kitchen table and started placing everything down. “I’m sorry if anything is a little wet! I did everything I could to keep it dry.” She turned towards me and buried herself in a hug in my chest and I could feel her jerk as she was biting down a few sobs. After I got over the unexpectedness, I cautiously wrapped my arms around her and held her tight. “I’m so sorry..” She lifted her head and her eyes met mine and I could see all the pain she was feeling. My heart sank seeing someone I cared so deeply about hurting. I started to say more, then she shut me up by leaning into a kiss that lasted for awhile. When we separated, I looked into her eyes and she met mine. “I love you” It slipped out. I didn’t even process what I had said at first. Until, she started laughing. Deep hearted laughter that hurts after a while. I was confused at first until she kissed me again. “I know you do, dork. I’ve known for a long time. I love you too, I was just waiting for you to say it first, Drew.” I couldn’t help but smile as my heart swelled full. I felt like every main character in the movies when they finally got the girl at the end. We spent the rest of the night eating and laughing, then I stayed the night. She let me hold her all night, then the next day we went to the memorial for her dad, together. For the next two years, we started officially dating. We traveled the country and made numerous memories. We moved into a small apartment together, life was good. It was the best time of my life every minute I spent with her. I love her so much even to this day. And that is why it hurts so much when I scroll through Instagram and see a picture of her with her new man. Jaylen smacked me on my shoulder to get my attention. “Aye, man. You gonna pass the joint or nah? You been holding it for a minute.” I looked down at my hand and saw the paper had gone out. “My bad, dog. I wasn’t paying attention.” “You always doing that shit when you get on the ‘gram and see her ass with that lame.” He re-lit the joint and hit it a couple times. “C’mon Drew. Let’s go to the store down the street and get some drinks before we head over to Jared’s for the party.” I was still staring at the picture and the hole in my heart grew even bigger, trying to figure out where it went wrong. Without saying anything, I got up, grabbed my keys, and went with him out the door. “Look man, I know she did you wrong but it’s been two years! You gotta move on past that shit. I told that girl Laura to bring her friend Sofia, so you could talk to her more. You kow she into you!” I laughed and just said, “Good looks, bro.” We left the house, but she was still on my mind. It’s a hard thing to accept, when it happens. Sometimes people fall in love and sometimes they fall out of love, too.


Every time I’m unsure, I look in the mirror and remind myself of the re-birth I’ve been allowed through this arrangement. My eyes scan the sheer baby blue fabric clinging to the soft lines of my body, when a pair of arms wrap themselves around my waist. He nuzzles his chin in the space where my neck connects to my shoulder. The beginnings of a smile tugs at my lips and I turn my head to connect our lips, running my fingers through his salt-and-pepper curls. He pulls me in closer and there’s a friction from our abdomens touching that elicits a moan from my mouth. I grab his elbow and gently guide him towards the king-sized bed that he purchased specifically for our activities—the contrast between his strong pale hands and the black satin sheets is striking.

A few hours later, I slip out from under his arm and make my way to the bathroom, thankful for the silence that marble floors provide. I turn the carved glass knob inside the shower and stick my hand under the rushing water until the temperature becomes satisfactory. The steam obscures my surroundings and for a moment I don’t feel like a ghost haunting the vacant rib cage that is Antoine’s summer home—just a molecule in the condensation. I could slip out of the window and evaporate without having to face how deep of a hole I’ve dug myself into, but there’s no turning back at this point. The redness of my body from scrubbing on autopilot is a testament to that. This isn’t about me, it never was. It’s always been for Jamie.

I can still hear the high-pitched shriek of his laughter, tears welling at the corners of his eyes as he clutches his stomach. The sound echoes off the bathroom walls and rings in my ears. The five-year anniversary of his passing is in a week, which means this chapter is finally coming to a close. Seven days before his body was found under Antoine’s front porch, curled up into a ball and drenched in blood—Jamie came to my doorstep in the pouring rain. His mascara had run down his face, streaky gray lines disappearing under the hem of his black t-shirt. I held him in my arms as he shook from the cold, using his chattering teeth as an excuse not to tell me what happened.

“Is it that man you’ve been staying with? Did he do something to you?” I whispered into his neck, the taste of salt and rain mixing on my lips.

“No,” he sniffled. “No, just me.”

Jamie slept on my couch that night, curled up in the same way he was found—like an abandoned dog. That was the last time I saw him. His younger sister, Gretchen, gave me his phone after the funeral, she told me to keep it safe while the investigation transpired. Apparently, he’d given it to her “in case anything happened to him”, he didn’t want Antoine tied up in the aftermath. The guilt wore her features like an unsettled spirit, she couldn’t even meet my gaze during our conversation. I haven’t been able to contact her since, even though I see her around town when I visit home. She must have my number blocked.

After reading every message between him and Antoine, I understood the shape of what had happened between them—what Jamie meant by “the aftermath”. It was clear that he was taken under the wing of this older wealthy gentleman under the guise of safety, a transactional relationship that benefited the both of them. My friend got to stay off the streets and live in a luxurious summer house for free, the only exchange being his body, time, and devotion. He would even pay Jamie for his services, or so he promised. Antoine is a twisted individual that preys on vulnerable younger men that he can strip of everything until they become emotionally, physically, and financially dependent on him. It was clear from their messages that he was being manipulated, bent backwards until he was seen as useless by his “lover”, then cast aside—a broken doll.

It never became clear to me whether Jamie being found under Antoine’s home was meant to be a personal message or a sad coincidence. He could have come to me, but I understand it could have felt like too much to explain from his perspective. Either way, my next steps were clear. Although the older gentleman was never charged or arrested for the incident, it did put a target on his reputation. Whispers of his name and description were spread throughout the queer community in my home state, so it was almost too easy to sidle into his space. It had been exactly two years since Jamie’s death when I approached him. He was vulnerable, in desperate need of validation, for someone to make him feel in control again.

“You look like you could use some company,” I sat down next to him in the red corner booth he’d been occupying, two drinks in my hands. Antoine looked up at me in surprise, wide eyes never breaking contact as his fingers curled around the cold glass.

“Do I know you?” He narrowed his eyes, visibly shrinking into the leather cushion after noticing everyone’s eyes on us.

“I’m new in town,” I grinned brightly. “I would have come sooner if I knew that I’d find a man like you.” I trailed a finger from his knee to the top of his thigh, earning a mischievous gleam in his eyes—cutting through his pupils like a sword.

It didn’t take much after that to get into the backseat of his car, fogging up the tinted windows from the inside. Antoine didn’t bring me home for a few weeks after meeting. We’d go on dates at various high-end locations in the city and end the night at my apartment or in the back of his Bentley, on a sandy towel at the beach one time. As the sun began to rise over the horizon, casting dancing reflections of light on the water’s surface, he interlaced his fingers between mine.

“None of my exes have ever taken me to watch the sunrise on the beach before.” I looked deeply into his eyes and gave my best attempt at a sincere smile, tugging at the thread that would unravel the walls he’d put up.

“I guess you can say I’m a romantic,” he mirrored my expression and leaned in for a kiss. I planted my palm firmly in the middle of his chest and pulled away.

“Not so quickly, tell me something about yourself. I feel like I barely know you,” I pouted, allowing my palm to slowly slide down to his lower stomach. Antoine closed his eyes, as if deliberating the right answer to my request—and when he opened them again, his eyes were half-lidded and gazing at something beyond me.

He told me everything, some parts in excruciating detail and others glossed over almost completely. I didn’t prod or ask questions, trying to express the appropriate amount of curiosity, not like I’d been enduring the hours of his company just for this. It started off innocently enough, he told me that they met at a club and he could tell right off the bat that the younger man was enamored by him. Then, he proceeded to completely twist the events, snapping back each finger and dislocating the joints out of their sockets of Jamie’s metaphorical corpse until he was made out to be an obsessive stalker. An endless abyss opened up in my core and began to pull my organs into its center of gravity, a tornado ravaging my insides. I gasped at all the right beats and widened my eyes as his sentences suffocated the candlelight that held my friend’s spirit. By the time Antoine reached the end of the story, the sun was high in the sky and its rays were beating over our heads. I squinted up at the blinding light—the only witness to his false confession.

“You can imagine how this would affect a man’s reputation,” he looked down at the space between us mournfully.

“Why didn’t you just move away, then?” It came out of my mouth like a jagged edge, causing him to flinch at my tone. I quickly put a hand over his and apologized, blaming it on the intensity of the moment. Antoine shook his head in reassurance. “Because then it would look like I did it,” he answered. “I have nothing to hide.”

When the cold water reverses the redness of my skin, I turn the water off and wrap a warm robe around the length of my body. The thing about this plan is that I’m not going to wait until the five year mark, because I don’t actually know the exact date of Jamie’s death. I tried asking his sister about what the pathologist concluded after the autopsy, but by then she was already out of reach. So, I decided it didn’t matter when I did it, only that it was in the time-frame of this week. Call it impulsive, but after the ways he touched my body today I decided that this would be the last time. Everything is already in place.

I’ve used my assets and skills to earn a bold and italicized place in Antoine’s will, which we had written together after a particularly sudden health scare last year. I played the dutiful toy, falling apart at the thought of losing him and staying by his side every waking moment—with a healthy sprinkle of tears shed and holding hands while he was unconscious. The nurses would tell him about it when I left to use the bathroom or fetch him food, it would reinforce my loyalty. His life partner, he would never have another after me because he couldn’t with his ruined reputation, but he never said that part out loud. It helped that I was a perfect doll, broken in all the right ways that got him off, but not too broken that he had no choice but to toss me. I kept all his secrets and told him all of mine, or at least that’s what I promised him one night while I rocked on top of him.

As far as anyone knows, I’ve been outside the country for the last month. I’ve hired someone that’s off the grid to stay at a hotel on the coast of Sydney with one of Antoine’s credit cards he’d given me, free to spend any amount he liked. In the meantime, I’ve been staying on the grounds of this summer home the entire time, careful as to not be spotted by anyone. The only witness is the man that I’m going to kill, then make look like it was a suicide. I gave my vacation double my old phone then got a burner before “leaving” from a friend for the time being, guiding him to orchestrate a text thread between Antoine and I on the old business phone he gave me a few months ago. When the investigators find this phone hidden under the mattress he’s found on top of, they’ll see an exchange of me “becoming wise” of his manipulation and fleeing to Australia to get away from him. They’ll see his pleading, begging, and manipulation tactics over the span of days, before a final threat of goodbye that he ends up following through with.

Once dry, I begin the process of putting on a commissioned wig and doing a makeup routine that I haven’t re-visited in years. Looking in the mirror, it doesn’t look exact but it’s close enough. I slip into sweats with mud stains all over them, drenched in water to mimic the effects of standing in the rain. Hopefully, this will jog his memory quickly enough. Finally, I slip on each leather black leather glove and double-check the gun in my duffel bag, registered in his name, to make sure I only loaded it with two bullets. One would be enough, but two covers the potential margin of error.

I’ve thought about this moment every day for the last three years, writing the script in my mind then on paper, lighting them with my cigarettes afterwards until they were nothing but ash. But in reality, it doesn’t really matter what I say. I just want to see the look on his face when Antoine connects the dots and the world begins to fray at its edges behind his eyes.

I stand at the side of the bed for seconds that feel like hours, but he finally mumbles something in half-sleep and squints up at me. He widens his eyes, the memory clicking in his mind but not enough for him to put his finger on the exact coordinates.

“Do you remember me, darling?” I try not to grin at the jarring image of my voice coming out of this face.

“Where have we met before?” Antoine whispers, disappointment settling over my shoulders as I realize he must think this is a dream.

“Across your lawn, the night they found Jamie. We locked eyes, remember?”

He nods slowly, rubbing his fists into his eyes vigorously in a poor attempt at waking up. I plant my palm firmly against his chest, the new leather squeaking from being broken in. “Do you want me to help you wake up from this?” Antoine grips my wrist, nodding fervently now. “Can I ask you a question first?” He asks almost innocently, pupils flitting around the room wildly in search of proof that this is an unconscious moment. “Why do you sound like Emil?”

I lean over and whisper in his ear, “I am Emil, I always have been.” This entire time I’ve been struggling to suppress a joyous smile

from stretching over my lips, but I don’t hold back.

He shakes his head, clearly not grasping the gravity of the situation. Antoine puts both of his hands around my head and pulls my face close to him, scrutinizing my features. This startles me, I pull the gun out of the holster around my thigh and put it in his hand. He looks down at it and gasps quietly, I watch the gun vibrate slightly as his hand begins to tremble.

“I’ll wake up if I do this right?”

I nod, forcing the last kind smile I can manage towards him. “Works like magic.” Antoine puts the gun into his mouth and points it at the roof and I already know this is going to traumatize me, but it’s the best possible outcome. I remind myself of what he’s done, dehumanize him and compartmentalize his existence in a box that will sit at the back of my mind. He looks up at me like he’s still unsure of what’s going on, debating the possibility of this being real—which is dangerous.

“Don’t drag it out,” I caress his cheek with a gloved finger. “It’ll be over soon.”

A determined gleam sets in his eyes, then he closes them to prepare for the impact. But, nothing will prepare him for what’s about to take place. He pulls the trigger and blood splatters everywhere, it gets on my face but I close my eyes to avoid the horrific scene. I turn around and exhale, the room suddenly tilting on its side, but I push forward and head back into the bathroom.

My face is pale when I look into the mirror, eyes wildly dilated, and I clean the blood off my face with violent tremors in my hands. I don’t check to see if he finished the job, I walk right past his bedroom and run down the marble spiral staircase for the final time. It’s over now, the back door slams shut behind me and I walk straight into the woods, taking the trail that leads into a field just outside of town.

There’s no longer anything behind me, Jamie would have never asked for this—but I did it for him anyway. It’s what he would have done for me, although more impulsively and violently. All I need to do now is catch my flight to Sydney. I travel in the wig and makeup, the final shedding of my past life’s skin.


“An’ Sunday night, mommy made hot chocolate and we drunk it by the fireplace!” Cassie held up a polaroid picture of herself seated on what appeared to be a fold out sofa bed covered with what looked like very old and very stained “My Little Pony” sheets. In one hand she held a mug that proclaimed “World’s Greatest Grandma” and in the other she held a death grip on a small brown teddy bear with big goofy eyes and a red bow tie. “And Beary had a beary good time!” she finished with a giggle. Cassie, like many of the kids in Mrs. Bloomer’s first grade class, was very fond of their class pet, a stuffed teddy bear Mrs. Bloomer introduced to them as “Beary Nice”. During the week, Beary sat in a little rocking chair by Mrs. Bloomer’s desk, and every weekend one of the children got to take Beary home and would later report on what they did together. Mrs. Bloomer forced a smile. “Very good Cassie, thank you”. The little girl sat down, a smile beaming from her dirt-smudged face. “Well, it looks like Beary Nice had a good weekend with you. Thank you for taking care of him Cassie. Well, lets see, whose turn is it to take him home this weekend…” Mrs. Bloomer turned to the chart on the wall, though she already knew who was next. She’d been dreading this day all year. Dakota’s turn. Dakota was already waving his hand wildly and making an “ooh” sound. Mrs. Bloomer gritted her teeth and turned to look at him. His long, filthy blond hair stood out starkly against the faded black AC/DC T-shirt he’d been wearing the last three days. Dakota was at least two years older than everyone else in the class and, given that he couldn’t even begin to read, he was likely going to be back in 1st grade again next year. He had, however, developed an even stronger attachment to Beary than most of the other children, to the point where he sometimes interrupted class to ask questions about the bear- “Does Beary have a daddy?” or “Does Beary cuss?” ”Yes…Dakota. I think its your turn.” Mrs. Bloomer said at last. “I know it is Miss Bloomer! I counted the days from the start of the year and this is the 84th.” He smiled back at her, his crooked yellow teeth taunting her. “Yes... Well, its almost time to go, so why don’t you go get Beary from his chair. Now remember you have to be nice to him.” “We’re gonna shoot my dad’s gun!” Dakota announced loudly as he seized the bear roughly from its chair. The rest of the class laughed. Mrs. Bloomer sighed and realized she would probably never see Beary Nice again. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* On Monday, Dakota didn’t bother coming to school. When Tuesday came, he actually showed up for school, and, as Mrs. Bloomer feared, Dakota failed to return the bear. “He’s okay, I left him home watchin’ cartoons with my mama” he said reassuringly. “I’ll bring him back tomorrow.” On Wednesday, once again, Dakota failed to produce the bear. Mrs. Bloomer decided to not make a scene during class, and instead asked Dakota to come see her before he went to recess. When he approached the desk, his face was already red and a look of consternation filled his normally impish face, so Mrs. Bloomer proceeded with caution. “Now Dakota…You made a promise to bring Beary back. Why haven’t you done it yet?” Dakota fidgeted and looked down at his feet. “Dakota, you have to bring Beary back. He is probably very lonely sitting at your house by himself.” “He aint there by his self. My mama’s there with him.” “Well be that as it may…” ”Miss Bloomer, Beary told me he don’t wanna come back here. He said he likes it at my house. Can I have him?” Dakota’s grubby face peered up at Mrs. Bloomer pleadingly. “Uh…No, Dakota, we can’t do that. He belongs to the whole class.” ”But I love him Miss Bloomer. He wants to stay with me. . Please Miss Bloomer.” Tears began to well up in Dakota’s eyes. “Dakota,” Mrs. Bloomer cleared her throat and looked away momentarily, “We …You need to bring Beary Nice back.” Dakota’s eyes dropped and tears began to roll down his cheeks, leaving brown streaks of dirt as they fell to the floor. He nodded and walked out the door. After she was sure he was gone, Mrs. Bloomer quietly locked the door and dug through her purse for the tiny bottle of Crown Royal she kept hidden in the middle pocket. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The bell rang to begin class on Friday morning. After missing school Thursday, Dakota was back, seated in his chair, making faces at the boy behind him and laughing. Mrs. Bloomer had already decided to not make a scene by asking for the bear in front of the other children. As she got up to call role, a little girl raised her hand. “Yes Rachel?” “Do I get to take Beary home this weekend?” Mrs. Bloomer gritted her teeth and swallowed. “We’ll talk about that later.” The little girl pressed the issue. “But Mrs. Bloomer, its *my* weekend. We were gonna take him to the zoo.” Mrs. Bloomer swallowed hard, gauging Dakota’s reaction. He was looking agitated, glaring at the little girl and wiggling around in his desk uncomfortably. “Rachel, I said we’ll talk about this later.” “No fair!” the little girl pouted. “Dakota was supposed to bring him back!” “No!” shouted Dakota, giggling. “Dakota! That’s very rude.” Mrs. Bloomer glared at the boy. “Dakota, see me at recess.” The boy stood up and grinned at her and shook his head. “Dakota, sit down. Do you want me to call Mr. George?” He shook his head again, then between giggles said, “You aint ever gettin' Beary back”. “Dakota-“ ”He’s dead. He’s in hell with my daddy.” “Dakota!” Children gasped around the room. Cassie started crying loudly. Mrs. Bloomer pressed the button to summon a principal to the classroom. “Dakota, sit down. You are in big trouble.” The little boy shook his head again, violently, his dirty hair flailing wildly around his head. “You want Beary?” Dakota said, laughing maniacally. “You can have him!” Dakota reached deep into his G.I. Joe backpack and triumphantly yanked out what appeared to be a big piece of steel wool. He flung it at Mrs. Bloomer, who narrowly avoided the projectile, causing it to bounce off the white board and land on the tile floor with a plastic clacking sound. The room fell deathly silent as a smell of smoke and ash filled everybody’s nostrils. Staring back at the class were a pair of big melted plastic eyes. “I burned him just like I burned my mawmaw’s cat!” The next few minutes would forever be a blur in Mrs. Bloomer's memory. Dakota fell to his knees laughing while the other children screamed in horror. Leaping with almost preternatural speed, he snatched a bucket of safety scissors from Mrs. Bloomer's desk, and flung it around his head, sending scissors flying in every direction, all the while laughing and laughing and laughing. The children in the front row dove behind their desks, while those in the back just wailed. Somewhere in the distance, Mrs. Bloomer thought she heard a dog barking. She remembered a knock at the door, then the sound of old hinges squealing as it was thrust open, then Principal George's booming voice. Dakota, still laughing, dove for the classroom window, but was too short to get over the windowsill, and crash landed on his back. Mr. George grabbed him by the collar and drug him away, the sound of his heels squeaking on the vinyl floors barely audible over his laughter. Mrs. Bloomer stared dumbly as he disappeared into the hallway, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks wet with tears, and his mouth agape and curled with hysterics as he laughed and laughed and laughed. It was over. Mrs. Bloomer looked around the room. Children were still crying, but started to take their seats. They looked to her for guidance. She stood, meaning to say something, but the words just weren't there. Then she saw it, the charred remains of Beary Nice, blackened limbs akimbo on the floor where Dakota left him. She approached it, toeing at it first, then bent down and took it into her hands. Its melted eyes glared at her accusingly. "Alright, Rachel," she held it out, "You may have Beary this weekend.