Racing towards class, dropping a pencil here, some paper there, and half a sandwich he just took a few bites from slipped from his hand and stuck to another student’s shoe, Cliff panics. He sees the teacher reaching to shut the door of the classroom he is desperately attempting to run into. “Wait! Wait”, the clumsy middle-aged student pleads as his eyes meet with the wintry stare of the teacher’s. If it hadn’t been for Cliff’s determination to make it to that door in four leaping bounds, he would have been frozen in place by Mr. Tenor’s extreme, frostbitten gaze. Slipping into the door, Mr. Tenor shuts it on the unbuttoned plaid shirt that Cliff had thrown on this morning, or is it afternoon, in his hurry to get to his final exam in class on time. Looking sheepishly at the professor, he quickly makes it to his assigned seat in the circle of students. This is the smallest class of only 16 students, all the chairs and easels are in a circle facing inwards towards whatever is on display in the middle. There have been times that it was a single branch on the small square platform that was built roughly out of darker colored wood and stood only about one foot high, and there have been times when a naked lady has sat upon a chair on the platform. One never knew what would be the item of design for the specific day, Mr. Tenor never gave this information in advance. He would only give advice on what tools would be needed. Typically for the classes Mr. Tenor advised charcoals, pastels, and maybe some watercolors but he never suggested what he did for this class. For this class and this final exam he had suggested bringing leaves. He didn’t specify how many leaves or what type of leaves. For this exam he absently told them while they packed up their items from the last lesson, “Bring leaves of your choosing, and I suppose you should bring along your charcoal as well. Hmm... needle and thread may be useful, but that is up to you”. Cliff was already struggling to please the professor so he brought a shopping bag full of various leaves he found in his yard, on his walks, in the courtyard, and at the park. He was very happy with his selection of maples, oaks, birch, apple, cherry, rhododendron, lily, and many other leaves he selected. He was ready with his full set of charcoals as well as three sizes of needles and some green, yellow, and brown sewing thread. Looking around, he realized he may have over-brought on the items the professor advised to gather. Most of the other students only had a handful of leaves, one charcoal piece, and only a few had needle and thread. He carefully looked at each student realizing he brought about three times more than anyone else in the entire room. He shifted a bit in his chair, he really needed a good grade but now he wasn’t sure he did the right thing with all of his choices. He thinks to himself, “Was there a limit on supplies? I don’t remember a limit being mentioned, but that was the day I dropped my lentil soup and it splashed all over my life drawing”. He continued to ponder to himself until a typical sound interrupted him in this class. “Ah-hem”, Mr. Tenor’s usual start to a class, “You may wonder what the supplies I suggested are for, and you are about to discover. First off, thank you for being a very studious class this semester. Abby you have been the delight of the class, Greg you have been the most elaborate in all your art pieces, and finally, Cliff you have been the thorn in my side this semester. To the rest of you, you have been mainstream at best.” Everybody groaned in unison, Mr. Tenor was known for picking favorites, negative or positive. Cliff held his professor's gaze and then finally looked down at his leaves hoping the professor would just look away. “Ok, everyone”, Mr. Tenor rasped, “For your final exam, Meet Ms. Anne.” At this introduction a young looking middle-aged woman comes out onto the stage in nothing but a linen sheet. She takes light steps towards the stage, hops up like a floating bird, and stands next to the battered, cobalt blue wingback cushion seat provided. She stands next to the chair and happens to be looking directly at Cliff, making brief eye contact, he blushes, and then she continues to scan the rest of the class. He watches her, the way her hips bop back and forth, her purple hair falls lightly around her head escaping the bun she threw it in, and he notices the way her left foot keeps tapping lightly as she inspected everyone. She slowly walked around the chair, then finally after examining everyone she settled into the cushions, letting the linen sheet hang over her body. “Ms. Anne will not be a life portrait for you today”, Mr. Tenor informs us with a very sinister smile, “You are to use your supplies to create her. It should be more than just two dimensional, and I must see your creativity shine. You are graded solely on your imagination and creativity in this one.” Stunned, the entire class stared at him blankly. This is the first time he has graded on creativity alone, he usually wants the piece to have some aspect of tangible grading structure. He usually grades on appropriate scale, shading, contours, shape, form, and sometimes lines. Up until this time, he always made sure there was a measure of objectivity in what to grade, not something as abstract as just creativity. Nobody knew what to do. They were all stunned and wondered if their teacher had been swapped. Then they as a whole realized, it was just like him to confuse the class on the most important assignment. “I will start your timer in five minutes, get set up”, he instructs the puzzled students, “You will have 90 minutes to complete your final”. Cliff leans down over his supplies and starts to organize them around him. Charcoal pencils on the easel, thread in his pockets, needles are in his grandmother’s old little stuffed, red pin cushion, he thinks he just might be ready to pass this exam. Mr. Tenor supplied the paper for this exam, he wanted it to be on mixed media, sturdy paper. Cliff watched the other students look at Mr. Tenor, following him as he walked around the small art circle and checking on the students’ readiness. Once the five minutes were up and the students were all settled, Mr. Tenor walked towards the middle of the circle next to Ms. Anne. He slowly turned around and looked at each individual student and their easel. Nodding his head slightly, he seemed satisfied that they were all as ready as they were going to be. Mr. Tenor is a stern, rigid teacher, but he was always fair in making sure everyone had adequate time to get their projects done. Ms. Anne looked up at him expectantly, almost like she knew he was going to tell her to do something next. Breaking the silence he instructed everyone, “The exam now starts, Ms. Anne will rotate her chair every 15 minutes that way each student has enough time to see her from all sides to be able to create her in whatever way you see best. This exam is not an easy one, but I think you will learn a lot from it. Ms. Anne, please remove the linen sheet.” Ms. Anne removed the sheet. She was still dressed in a cream colored, strapless slip that fit her form and highlighted each bump and dip in her body’s natural curves. She was a lovely life model. She settled back into her chair, crossed her right leg over her left and leaned into the tattered left armrest while placing her left hand just under her chin as if it was just too heavy to keep up any longer. Once she had settled, each student started their assignment. Nobody knew exactly what to do, this was a strange test that had not been leaked to the students from previous classes. Surely this would have been something that was common knowledge if Mr. Tenor did this odd exam for his final. Maybe this was the first time he has done something like this? Mr. Tenor walked over towards his own desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out his sketchbook and started to sketch to pass his time. During tests he never monitored like other teachers have in Cliff’s experience. Mr. Tenor didn’t hover, he didn’t get involved, he generally sat at his desk or an easel and did something artistic himself. There have been exams where Mr. Tenor even did his own test to show the students the expected final piece. It was always the worst way to be shown how to do something, generally Mr. Tenor finished in half the time allotted and was ten times better than any of the students’ works. Snapping himself out of the stare, Cliff focussed in on his work. He didn’t know what or how, but he was sure he was optimally prepared to be the most creative. Having the most supplies seemed to not disappoint Mr. Tenor, but seemed to impress him. Cliff was sure he could finally impress Mr. Tenor, he now had eighty-five minutes to do so. Grabbing a sturdy piece of charcoal, Cliff first made a quick outline sketch of Ms. Anne on the chair. Erasing the chair, Cliff turned it into a pillar like one would find propping up a bust of a famous historical hero. He then sketched next to the pillar a wall that would be covered in vines, looking down at his bag of leaves he had quite a few English ivy ones in there from around his grandmother’s home. “Mr. Tenor?”, Cliff spoke up, “Could I put some headphones in please?” “Of course Mr. Clifford, whatever helps you to finally succeed at something in this class”, the professor said without even looking up from his sketch. Putting his headphones in, turning on his favorite rock opera band to set the tone, Cliff picked back up his charcoal and began setting the scene of a lucious Roman garden that Ms. Anne deserved to be placed in. Her pose was light and delicate, her facial features strong, and her laid back position gave the impression that she didn't have a care in the world. As he sketched the scene, he made plans for where the leaves would go and how he would use the thread. He drew around her a garden of great beauty, he sketched in the branches of the assortment of bushes in the back, the trunks of the trees, and even the lily of the valley along the bottom of the stone column. He used the green thread to secure the leaves in place, the red thread for the outline of Ms. Anne’s slip, and the brown to give the trunks some texture. He sketched in her face when she had been facing closer towards his side of the classroom, and focussed on her background when her back was towards him. “You have 5 minutes left”, Mr. Tenor said as he tapped on Cliff’s shoulder, jolting him back into the surroundings and he scanned the room quickly. The other student’s faces did not look relaxed, many of them had creased faces and stern expressions. It looked like Abby, the delight, had been crying for most of this exam, and Greg stared off into space as if he was already done or wishing he could be anywhere else but in this classroom. Cliff focussed back on his piece, he added the final shading to the slip with his charcoal and then clipped off some of the excess thread from the tree trunks. He had left some pieces of the green thread hanging down in the background to look like a willow tree lined river bed. Mr. Tenor walked slowly around the room, looking at all the students, his face giving nothing away in regards to his feelings. There were two known facial expressions of Mr. Tenor, disappointment and grave disappointment, neither were currently on his face. He walked back to Cliff and stood behind him for only a minute, but Cliff had thought all time and space stopped in that one moment and froze for at least half a millennia. “Time is up”, Mr. Tenor announced. There was a shuffling of charcoal, feet, and supplies. Per usual protocol, all students stood up and took 3 steps back from their easels to examine their work. As Cliff started to stand, Mr. Tenor placed a hand on his left shoulder with his fingers firmly gripping in. Cliff’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest, or stopped, and all the color left his face. He failed. He knew he did. “Stay”, commanded Mr. Tenor. He then walked past Cliff, his easel, and to Ms. Anne. He picked up the sheet and handed it to her to let her know she could cover up if that is what was most comfortable to her. She simply took it, folded it a few times, and draped it over the back of the chair. Mr. Tenor looked at her and nodded his head slightly towards Cliff. She lightly hopped off the middle stage and walked past Cliff’s easel and then turned around a to look at his completed exam. She made a small gasp, stifling it quickly. He must have failed and the teacher was just embarrassing him for it. Cliff felt all the color rise into his cheeks as he blushed in shame. Ms. Anne then walked around the room slowly, examining each and every student’s piece. Walking herself back to Mr. Tenor in the middle of the room, she sat down on the small podium, nodded to Mr. Tenor and then looked away from him and up to the ceiling. “I probably do not have to remind you, but I have already determined your grades as usual when we do these exams”, Mr. Tenor informed nonchalantly with a tone that was so close to boredom it would almost sound like he was rounding back to amusement. Cliff’s heart sank. He really wanted to do a good job in this class. “Greg, you have failed this exam. You only used charcoal for this exam in creativity. Abby, your tears added an interesting touch, but were not part of the suggested items to use. You will be graded down for using items not required. Cliff…”, Mr. Tenor paused, shifting his weight onto his left leg and looked Cliff in the eyes, “You have passed with full marks. Your piece is the best the class has ever seen. I am quite impressed with your creativity and use of your items. You made Ms. Anne into her very own goddess in her heavenly garden. We both agreed your piece will be sold at the school’s next fundraising auction, as long as we have your permission.” Cliff’s jaw hung a few inches lower than it normally occupies, he could not find the words to say anything, his mouth was dry, and his heart fluttery. “In your own time, Mr. Clifford”, Mr. Tenor said and then turned around to the rest of the class, “Go ahead and see what he has created then pack up your items and make your way out”. Cliff stayed seated, Mr. Tenor hasn’t suggested submitting a student’s art piece to the annual fundraising auction in about a decade. It was common knowledge that he is very strict and does not usually suggest a student’s art in fear it will ruin his reputation as an expert artist himself. Each student walked past Cliff, he wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying, he was just staring at Ms. Anne to the side of his easel. She had the sweetest smile she kept offering him. He came up with an idea. “Mr. Tenor”, he said shakily, “I will be happy to donate my piece to the annual fundraiser, but I require a bargain. A date with Ms. Anne and the piece is yours to auction.” Mr. Tenor gripped his wrist tightly, looked at Ms. Anne, and pursed his lips together. Cliff realized just in those two moments that this had made Mr. Tenor very uncomfortable, but why? Ms. Anne and Mr. Tenor made eye contact and spoke in a secret language in those moments. He glared at her hard, almost piercing her soul, and she just gave a single blink in return. “Ms. Anne? What is your decision at Mr. Clifford’s request?” She looked at Mr. Tenor, smirking so slightly to the right, her cheeks rosy, and stated, “Oh Dad, I will go out with Mr. Clifford on a date so you can put his piece up for auction”. All the students stopped, the room was silent. Mr. Tenor had a daughter? Wait, the man is capable of emotion enough to have a daughter, to make a daughter, and she seemed to like him?! “You’re his daughter!?”Abby barked. All the students had stopped and were staring at Mr. Tenor, he was shifting his weight from one leg to the other, gave his daughter a look that could have killed, and then remarked, “Well, yes, did you think I only live in the art department?” “Mr. Clifford, you have your answer”, he quickly told him. Cliff wasn’t so sure what he just did to himself. He was now possibly going to date Mr. Tenor’s daughter. Anne walked over to Cliff and placed her hand on his, looked down at him and simply whispered to him, “He isn’t as scary as he seems. He kept talking about how much he really liked you. I am happy to go on one or more dates with you, I feel I already know you with how much Dad had talked of you”. Cliff blinked. The next thing he remembers is he is looking up at a bunch of faces looking down on him. Thank you for your time to read.


"I got all of the money! If anyone says anything to the cops, you won't be able to say anything after!" Adam cackled. My arms were raised above my head, and my eyes were wide in play-fear. "O-okay, sir. We-we won't t-t-tell. I promise," I stuttered. Adam laughed one more time, then he ran out of the room with the briefcase. A minute later, Adam came dashing back in, giggling. "That was awesome , Nikki. I-" Adam was cut off short when we heard a shout from downstairs. "Nicole! Adam! Dinner!" Adam's mom yelled. I grinned at Adam as we both ran down the hall, then the staircase. My legs got me to the dining room faster than Adam did. He came in right behind me, panting. "Pizza and breadsticks, homemade. Just how you two like it." Jo nodded, proud of herself. Like she said, there were two homemade pizzas (one Hawaiian and one Meat Lovers), and sixteen made-from-scratch breadsticks. The greasy aroma of her cooking filled the air, and it was like Heaven to my senses. Adam and I sat down next to each other, and Jo sat down across from us. "Thanks, Ma. It means a lot to me that you let me stay here this weekend while my parents are gone...Again," I said, upset. Jo and Adam went silent for a minute. They knew what I meant, and even though we were okay with talking about with each other, it was still hard to. "Oh, it's not problem. You know we love having you here. And, it keeps Adam from playing those stupid video games all day." Jo eyed him wearily; you could tell that he truly was playing video games a lot. "Mo-om! Can we just say Grace and eat?" Adam reached over and put my hand in his. Jo grabbed my other hand, then Adam and Jo joined hands. "Dear Lord, thank you for the food before us, and the friends and family around us. We are so blessed to have you in our lives, to have each other in our lives. Thank you. Amen." "Amen." "Amen." I let go of Jo and Adam's hands, immediately pouncing on the delicious meal. Adam wasn't far after me, and soon all three of us were wolfing down the meal. One hour later, Adam and I were on the couch, watching It's A Long Way From Here . It was actually a movie that Adam and I directed, written, and produced together a few months before. It was about a young girl (our friend Liliona) growing up, wishing she could be an artist, but her parents make her become an accountant. In the end, she breaks free, moves to Paris, and accomplishes her dream job. Back to the story. We were sitting there, munching on popcorn, when the doorbell rang. Coming from the kitchen, Jo walked to the front door and opened it. My mother was standing there, a stern and tear-streaked face. "Give me my darn daughter. Right now, Jo. I don't want to wait. Nicole! Come here!" my mother scolded. Frightened, I grabbed Adam's hand and leaned against him. He squeezed my hand tightly while Jo stepped out of the way as Mother pushed past her, into the living room. "Ni- cole! Get your filthy butt over here! We're going away! Right now! And you better know that you'll never be seeing your father again!" My mother clenched her fists and stared at me, fire in her eyes. I could tell that she was daring me. Daring me to stay where I was. Daring me to disobey her. I took that dare like you take money out of your grandparents' hands. Jo could tell that I wasn't moving, so she moved quickly and stepped in front of Mother before she could do anything to me or Adam. "Now, Gianna. there's no need to overreact. Why don't we-" Jo was immediately cut off by my mother again. We could all tell she wouldn't let anyone talk sense. "Shut up, Jo! I am not freaking overreacting! I want my daughter, and you're going to give her to me, and that's final!" Mother began to walk towards me again. Jo stopped her again. You could see the fire in both of their eyes. "Gianna, if you don't stop right now, I won't hesitate to call the police. I may be your friend, but this is getting out of control. Just, go back home. Get a good night's rest, and come back in the morning. Then we'll talk," Jo ordered. I could feel Adam's heavy, fearful breathing on my neck. The two of us were both shaking down to the bone. "This isn't the last you'll hear of me." "Yeah, I know. At some point you'll have to pick up your daughter ." When you first see her, Jo looks like a sweetheart. And she is, don't get me wrong. But, if you get that woman mad...You better watch your back. And my mom knew that. That's exactly why she walked out of Jo's house with one last final, livid glare. "Adam, Nicole, go upstairs. Get a movie on in Adam's room. I'll... be right there." Jo attempted to smile as Adam and I slunk upstairs. Nine years later... "Nikki! Adam's here! And it looks like he drove the Convertible!" A smile spread across my face, ear to ear. After applying a bit of dark red lipstick, I slung my purse over my shoulder and strutted out of my room. "Coming!" I began my descent down the stairs, making sure not to trip while in my heels. Once I got to the bottom, I heard a gasp. My head snapped to the right, and Daddy was standing there. "You look beautiful, honey. That is a beautiful color on you. Now, go ahead. Spin, spin!" Daddy cried. My smile spread wider as I spun around and my black, flowy, knee-length dress flew around me. I only stopped when I got dizzy. Honk! Honk! Daddy smiled at me, excitement in his eyes. He loved Adam like a son. Maybe in a few years he would be. "Alright, go on, sweetheart. I love you. Have fun. Be safe. Back by midnight!" His smile got wider (if it was possible) as I pecked him on the cheek, then swirled out of the door. "Hi, Nikki! You ready?" Adam called. He was in the front seat of the Convertible, just like Daddy had said. The top was down; most likely so that we could still get the slight breeze in the humid, summer, night air. "I'm more than ready. This is our senior prom, after all. Oh, and Daddy said he's gonna take pictures once we get back because he 'doesn't want to bombard us'." I opened the passenger side door and slid in, closing the door again. "Alrighty then. We're off to the races!" Adam and I looked into each other's eyes for a moment before we sped off to the interstate, towards Clearwater High.


Luke found it incredibly hard to say no. It didn’t matter who it was or what they needed; he always found a way to help them out, so it was certainly understandable that the night he got a call from an old friend asking him for a favor, he couldn’t turn his back. Sophie was her name. They met in high school but barely talked to each other at all. One day, Luke fell into trouble he couldn’t handle alone and she was the only person who chased after him to help. Complete strangers yet she came to him, offering a helping hand during a distressing time in his life that he preferred not to think about. After that, their relationship sparked into a deep friendship. That friendship slowly heated into desire, and Luke found himself developing feelings for her. He kept it hidden and decided it was best to keep it a secret, so he never spoke of it. Eventually, he found out that Sophie had felt the same way. They dated, they kissed, and they fell in love quickly. They were inseparable and completely mad about each other. A few years later, they split up. It wasn’t because they didn’t love each other anymore or because it didn’t feel right, but because their paths led them down different roads. Sophie wanted to go to school in a different part of the country, but Luke didn’t know what he wanted to do. He offered to go with her, but at the last minute she told him it wasn’t a good idea. She left and he watched her leave, not knowing what he was going to do without her. “It’s been three years.” Luke mumbled to himself as he sat in his parked car, running the engine in front of the airport. The small radio clock on his dashboard faintly read the time and played a soft rock station through dusty speakers. With the window slightly cracked, he took a long drag of his cigarette and blew it out into the open. Smoke filled the air and spiraled around him. The open window didn’t help at all, but he didn’t mind either way. It was Sophie who was going to have a problem with the smoke. That’s why he was there at the airport, sitting in an idle car in the middle of the night. He was lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, when he got a call from an unknown number. He could barely believe his ears when Sophie’s voice sounded through the speaker of his cellphone. She was back in town for a few weeks to visit but her ride cancelled, and she needed a way home. I don’t have anyone I can call… she had said. Please? Luke leaned back in his seat and groaned. “Who even gives a shit?” He cursed, taking an even longer hit from his cigarette, letting the stress flow out of his body. “Why did I even come here?” A knocking on the passenger side window caught his attention, turning his head in the direction of a sight that took his breath away. Her hair was shorter but still wavy, softly framing her flushed face with auburn curls. It barely brushed past the pink wool scarf wrapped around her neck. Her eyes, a cool shade of green, pierced through the glass window. Even after all of these years she still had the same effect on him. He reached over and pulled the door handle, letting her open it and slip inside the passenger seat. She slammed the door shut and let out a long sigh, sounding as though she were out of breath herself. A strand of her hair stuck to her strawberry pink lip gloss; the same lip gloss she always wore when she was with him. Her brown leather bag sat on her lap and Luke couldn’t help but check out her legs in black nylons and dark grey ankle boots. “Hey.” She spoke up in the silence between them. It took a brief second after or her to feel the hair attached to her lips. With the quick movement of her gloved hand, she moved the strand and continued to look at him. He gave her a half smile and sat back into his seat, immediately putting the car into drive. “Where to?” His voice was cold and gruff. He didn’t want Sophie to have the satisfaction of his kindness. Although the fact that he showed up at all defeated the purpose. Sophie sat back into her seat as well and stared out the window. “The Samlier Hotel. I have a reservation there.” She spoke softly. Luke gave her a side glance as he drove out of the airport parking lot. “Hotel? Why aren’t you staying with family or something?” He asked. She said nothing in response, continuing to stare out the window. Luke shrugged it off and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes. A swift movement of his hand made one of them slip out of its packaging and stick out enough for him to pull it out with his lips. He lit the cigarette with a quick flip of his lighter. The first hit filled his entire body and helped soothe his uneasiness. “When did you start smoking?” Sophie asked, breaking her silence. Luke smirked and slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “After you left.” His response made the atmosphere tense and the air even colder than it’d been before. He knew his reply hit her hard – hard enough to ensure she wouldn’t say another word the entire ride. A part of him only wanted to give her a ride so he could make her feel badly for all she had put him through, and for the most part it seemed to be working. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that it wasn’t as satisfying as he had hoped. Despite his feelings, he felt… wrong. Sophie brought her head down and played with her fingers, pinching the fabric of her gloves. “I had a feeling you would do this to me.” She admitted. Luke let the smoke out of his lungs with a sigh. “Do what, exactly?” “You know what.” “No, enlighten me. What am I doing? The same thing you did to me?” His voice started to rise up. Sophie turned her head away again and didn’t reply back. Luke scoffed and focused back onto the road. “Didn’t think so.” For the rest of the ride, they didn’t speak to each other. Sophie coughed a few times from the smoke and eventually opened her window so she could get fresh air. Luke messed with the radio in an attempt to find a station but decided he wasn’t in the mood for music and shut it off completely. The tension between them was incredibly thick and that alone was worse than the smoke. Luke pulled into the parking lot of the hotel and turned his car off, letting the keys hang from the ignition. “Well,

here we are.” He said unenthusiastically. The entire ride was awful, and he was relieved that it was almost over. When he didn’t get a reply from her, he peered over and observed Sophie sitting perfectly still in her seat. She had her head completely turned away from him, concentrating on the world outside her window. Her hands were clenched around the strap of her purse. “Hey, did you hear me? I said we’re here.” Still no response. Luke was becoming aggravated at this point. “Hey!” He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her slightly so he could see her face. Sophie finally looked over to him with tears in his eyes. Her make-up was slightly messed up and her eyes were pink, indicating that she must have been crying for quite some time. Luke pulled his hand back slowly, his heart racing. “Why are you crying…?” Seeing her upset and vulnerable was too much for him. Any negative feelings he had about her were completely wiped from his mind, replaced with compassion and concern. “Luke…” She turned her body around, slipped off her glove, and reached her hand out to his face. His mind told him to retract – pull away from her touch, but he found himself unable to. He let her hand touch his cheek and brush along the prickly stubble of his facial hair. Her touch sent shivers down his spine and made his head spin. Without thinking, he reached his own hand up and touched hers, holding it in his grasp. “Sophie…” Tears started to well in his eyes. Emotions flowed through him faster than he could process. It was so overwhelming and confusing for him that he didn’t know what to think or do next. Sophie smiled at him and unbuckled her seatbelt. She leaned over and moved closer to him. He could feel the heat radiating from her body and he could hear her hesitant breathing. “I… I’m so sorry… I just… missed you.” Sophie leaned even closer in and caught him in a tender kiss. Luke couldn’t help his reaction and kissed her back, deeply and passionately. When they parted, he pulled her in for another, and another, each one more intense than the next. Every time they parted for air he could hear Sophie’s soft and quick breathing. He didn’t think he had any want for her until the moment he saw her. “Stay with me in my room.” Sophie whispered, but Luke shook his head and captured her lips in another kiss. “No, come back with me. I’ll take you back to my apartment. It’ll feel like – “ “Like I never left.” Sophie finished his sentence, looking deeply into his eyes. The sparkle in her eyes were the same they’d been three years before. It didn’t take long for Luke to weave through late night traffic and make it to his apartment deep in the city. They both left his car and rushed into the building, taking the elevator to his floor. They scurried to his room door and Luke fumbled with his keys to open the door to his cold and messy apartment. Empty bottles of beer and several other types of alcohol were cluttered in corners and laid scattered across the floor. The bed was unmade, crumbled up pieces of paper overflowed the trash bin, and his clothes, dirty and clean, were either on the floor or strung across pieces of furniture. “Maybe we should’ve gone to the hotel…” Luke thought, feeling slightly embarrassed for the state of his home. Sophie didn’t seem to mind the mess and focused her attention on Luke, pulling him for another series of passionate kisses. It almost felt as though time had frozen while they were together. The light of the moon beamed through his window, illuminating every curve and detail on their bodies. They laid together, looking in each other’s eyes until Sophie fell asleep. Luke stayed awake, completely lost in thought. Everything that had happened was so much to handle at once. It took small movements or a sleepy moan from her to make him remember that it was all happening. It was real. The sound of her gentle breathing and early morning birds singing outside his window eased Luke to sleep and into a dream he never wanted to end.


George had started to lose weight. At first he was overwhelmingly happy. He had struggled for so long against his own three hundred fifty pounds of flesh, and it had pinned him to the ground both physically and emotionally ever since he had married Alan. Finally, as if it was a plague of locusts departing from a wheat field overnight, the weight started to disappear without George even trying. During the loss of the first fifty pounds, George would go to the mirror and look at himself and watch his folds and slabs of flesh closely, and he felt that if he looked hard enough he could feel himself shrinking, he could see the fat dispersing into the air like sand being carried away by the wind, like the carving out of a canyon by a Colorado breeze. He told Alan that he felt like Mother Nature had decided to finally sculpt him. He told Alan that maybe all of his struggles with his weight and all the bullying and missed opportunities he had suffered were because he was a piece of marble, and Mother Nature was letting him get big and round and full so that she would have as much as possible to work with. Alan started making love to him again. First it was once a week, then once a day, and then it seemed that Alan couldn’t keep his hands off George any time he saw him. George didn’t even want to some of the time but he couldn’t say no because it had been so, so long since he had felt loved in any way. He began to feel as if this must be a trick or a joke and that everything would fall apart soon, and so he never said no, and he breathed in every single second of feeling cared for. They went on walks together and George would catch Alan in the corner of his eye really looking at him, drinking in the details of his face, and this made George feel that maybe he really had been chosen for something special. All of the suffering had been for something. Everyone else who had gotten to be attractive their entire lives--George pitied them. They were as good as they were ever going to get. He, on the other hand, was finding out his true potential at forty-five years old, and a whole new life was unfolding in front of him. He was experiencing a metamorphosis they never would! The next hundred pounds gone were all the more bliss. George saw the scale hit 200 for the first time in two decades and he fell to his knees and wept in his underwear in their North Carolina bathroom, and Alan heard him weeping and came in from the living room and comforted him, which George could not remember him ever doing. They kissed next to the bath, feeling the cold of the tile on their skin and the heat of the summer radiating in through the windows. George wept into Alan’s shoulder and Alan hugged him tight, which George cried harder at, because usually when he tried to cry on Alan’s shoulder he would be pushed off. Alan hated anything getting on his polos, especially tears, which he said left salt stains. This time Alan did not push him. He held him tight even though he was wearing his best polo, and George wept, and then Alan spoke in a voice that George had never heard come out of him in their twenty years of marriage. It was a voice that sounded as if it was generated by his bones rubbing together, like a violin made of keratin. “I think you’re finally ready.” George stopped crying and shuddered. He realized suddenly how much colder he always was without his extra flesh, and how much more vulnerable he felt. He wished that his bones were hidden like they used to be. “What do you mean?" Alan didn’t say anything. George felt the loving embrace that surrounded him become unearthly strong, and he felt Alan’s nails grow suddenly and sink into his back like talons. Alan’s skin became freezing and hard, and the walls of the bathroom were jet-black and they closed in on them, and Alan and George were completely alone and there was no sound from outside anymore. George looked into Alan’s eyes and he couldn’t help starting to cry again. He hated how easily he cried--whether he was arguing, or frustrated, or waiting in line--his body’s first response was always to cry. Now as he looked into the face of his husband, who held him in place with the strength of 10 men and threatened to crush every bone in his body, whose eyes were now missing and replaced by deep holes that seemed to go entirely through his head and whose mouth was now filled with row after row after row of tiny, serrated teeth--all he could do was cry and sniffle. Alan spoke to him again. “I’ve always been annoyed by how much you cry.” “I know you have.” “On our wedding you were a mess the entire day. You couldn’t even eat or make a speech because you were crying so much. I thought you were going to dry out like a raisin.” George looked into Alan’s eye pits and tried to find his old humanity in them. His skin was a sickening greenish-white, glistening like the wings of an insect. “Have you been eating me at night or something? Is that why I’ve lost weight?” Alan smiled, an absolutely ghastly sight that threatened to make George cry once more. He felt his floating rib pop from Alan’s death hug. “I used to do it at night, when you were repulsive to me. Now I eat you when we make love.” George decided he would shut off his brain and just let whatever happen to him here happen. His ability to process this and form emotions relating to it was depleted. “So you were just fattening me up for this. You made me miserable for 20 years, and then I got to be happy for four months, and now you’re gonna eat me and I’ll be gone.” Alan thought for a minute. “Yes.” George decided he was actually done being emotionless about this, and that instead he was going to try being very dramatic. Alan had always called him a drama queen and so George figured that if he couldn’t stop Alan from killing him, he would at least be very annoying to him as he died. “Well then go on and do it. Just let it be known that I was always good, and kind, and fair to you. Let it be carved on my headstone: Loving Husband, Passionate Artist, Unfairly Consumed by his ungrateful lover who shall NOT be named.” Alan didn’t respond. Instead, his mouth extended into a long tube like a worm and latched onto George’s face, surrounding it completely, and all George could see were darkness and teeth. He was too shocked to scream. He could smell Alan’s foul, sulfurous breath, and hear the inner workings of Alan’s body and stomach, churning, sucking, rattling, turning his body into nutrients or energy or whatever he was being processed into. George squirmed around valiantly in Alan’s grip and broke a few more of his own ribs, and he started to have a very difficult time breathing, half because of the stomach gases that were traveling up through Alan and corroding his face, half because of the broken ribs poking into his lungs. Alan’s voice traveled up from his stomach and echoed around the tube-mouth, seemingly produced only by the acid in his intestines. The voice sizzled and popped and hissed. “I did love you very much, George. You really were wonderful in many ways. This is just what I was made to do. You understand.” George felt himself getting smaller and smaller, his mass somehow disappearing into Alan. He felt that he must be something like 125 pounds now. He began to yell down Alan’s throat. “Just get me fat again and then eat me, and then do it again--I’ll be your food source, baby. Without me you’ll have to find somebody else.” George felt Alan’s grip loosen slightly. He felt like he was losing weight a bit less fast. “It...feels so incredible all at once…” George, through tears, yelled down the worm’s mouth again. “I’ll get big for you again. You can do it all at once every couple of months. It’ll be so much nicer that way--you never know if you’ll find someone who tastes like me again--you’ll never find someone who’ll get big for you like I will. I--I get to eat whatever I want and then lose it all, and you’re fed for life.” Slowly, the rate of consumption decreased, Alan’s mouth un-suctioned from George’s face, and his grip released. George looked up at Alan and he looked human again, brown-eyed and pale with his greyish-blond hair flopping onto his forehead. He smiled sheepishly. George looked down at himself. He was smaller than he had perhaps ever been. Slowly he stood and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like he did when he was 12, his ribs protruding, his arms thin and wiry, his skin stretched like a drum over his cheekbones, which he realized were quite nice. This had been his dream when he was heavy and now when he looked at himself he realized how alien he looked. He stepped on the scale. 110. Alan came up behind him and hugged him gently. George winced a little. Alan kissed him on the neck and began to massage his shoulders. George felt Alan’s fingers touch his collarbones, his shoulder blades. He felt like if he wanted to he could squeeze his fingers together right through him. Alan was so much stronger than him now. “Why did you wait 20 years to start eating me? I’ve been heavy for a long while.” Alan breathed and thought, and George felt his breath on his back. Even the breath felt like a threat, like it could take all his warmth from him if it wanted to. “I planned to start a lot sooner. But I loved you too much.” “And you don’t love me now?” “We have something stronger than love now, George. We have a deal.” George looked in the mirror again as Alan continued to massage him and kiss him up and down his neck, and after a few seconds trying to figure out how he felt he decided he would just stop thinking about anything at all for a long while. He asked Alan what they were going to have for dinner, Alan smiled and told him, and George did his very best not to cry.


"It said 'Anti-murder juice' on the chalkboard," I say lightly as I place the cardboard carrier on the seat between us. "Although you probably wanted to kill me back there." I nod another apology at the dark stain on his shirt. "Well, it was pretty hot stuff, and I can't deny it hurt a bit, but I think I'll live." He laughs. He sounds relaxed, confident. Ever the gracious gentleman. I steal a look at the man beside me. Time has been kind to Peter. Two and a half decades have done nothing to detract from his breathtaking good looks. The teenage heart-throb has become the kind of man who's listed among the "Top 10 Sexiest Something or Other" in magazines. But life was always good to Peter. "I can't believe it's really you," I say, aware that I'm staring, that I sound like an idiot, like a gushing fan. He turns those grey eyes towards me and a wave of heat engulfs my chest. "Well, I would have known you anywhere. You haven't changed a bit." He winks. Smiles. I duck my head and fumble with sugar packets. My heart is hammering so loud I'm sure he can hear it. He's lying, of course. The last 25 years have left behind nothing of the sweet and rather stupid 17-year-old I used to be, apart from my long black hair. And even that is streaked with grey. I think it's safe to say my own mother wouldn't recognize me now. "Shit, I put sugar in your coffee. I forgot to ask if you still take it." "Haha, I'm supposed to use sweetener these days." He pats his stomach, which shows no sign of middle-age spread. "But a little sugar probably won't kill me." He takes his cup and stirs it with a little wooden stick. I stir my coffee, too.

"To lucky accidents," he says, turning towards me. We clink paper cups, softly so we don't spill. I watch as he drinks. A couple of deep, greedy gulps. Then he puts down the empty cup, stretches his arms over the back of the bench, and sighs. His left hand is almost touching my shoulder, a glint of gold in the sunlight. I look out over the sea as I sip my coffee, slowly.

"It's been so long," I say at last. "There's so much I wanted to say to you, Peter." He doesn't answer. So I carry on. "You left so suddenly, I never got the chance. And you never answered your phone or returned my calls. At first I thought it was because I saw the two of you – you know, that night. That you were afraid I'd go psycho on you or something. But later my mother told me that she called your mother about five minutes after she found out. I suppose she told you to stay the hell away from me. And I suppose you didn't mind so much. I mean, after all, I was just another high-school dropout, and you were a Rhodes Scholar, drinking Champagne on the banks of the Thames. Easier that way, obviously. But it was so hard, Peter. You can't have forgotten how religious my mother was. And, also, she blamed what happened on the fact that I didn't have a dad around growing up. So she absolutely refused to let me keep it. And what was I supposed to do? I had no money. Nowhere to go. Nothing. But when they took her away, even though they did it straight away, I felt something crack inside me, here, in my chest. And the pain came in through the crack. I've tried everything, absolutely everything, to push the pain back out again. I guess you could say it's been my one real ambition in life. At first alcohol was my best friend, but then it was mainly drugs. More expensive, but so much more effective. For a while, anyway. My friends used to call me The Queen of Codeine. But I've moved on. I'm way past that. And then I found you again, Peter. To be honest, it would have been hard to miss you. You're really famous these days. I've seen the pictures of you and her in the tabloids, and of the two of them too, and your skiing holidays and your yacht, and your beach house, and all of it.

So, it wasn't an accident today at all, really. I was waiting for you. I've been planning this for weeks. I thought maybe, if it seemed like a coincidence, if it was a surprise, you'd let me talk to you. Let me have just a few minutes with you." The waves sigh onto the rocks below us. I steal another look at him. His head is tipped back and his eyes are unfocused, gazing off at the distant horizon as if lost in thought. I imagine what we must look like to strangers passing by: Two figures on a lonely bench, silhouetted against shimmering silver ripples. We sit there in silence a while longer. Neither of us moves. Bit by bit, like the tide ebbing out, the pain starts to leave me. For the first time I can remember, I feel like I can breathe again.

I stack the two cups together and carefully pick up the paper packets and stirrer sticks. I carry them a long way before I find a bin to throw them into. ****** Story ends. I’m afraid I can’t seem to add another 109 words. I believe in brevity - even when I’m being paid by the word. I don’t oretend to be Hemingway, but I do often repeat Strunk’s immortal words: ‘A sentence contains no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences. So it does seem rather odd to me that you would set a lower limit on the word count required for your short story competition . To disqualify a story for omitting unnecessary words seems a little arbitrary and even counterproductive, assuming you are in favor of promoting quality of writing. rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb cheers


Today my life is changing. Neither for better or worse, but it is changing. Even I don't know where it will go. I find myself in a mixture of fear and excitement underlying a deep sense of abeyance. In this car, thick with the scent of burning tobacco and wild lavenders, I head to my destination. A short while later, I reached an impasse where I can no longer drive through the fields. I station my car near a footpath and continue on my way. "I wonder how long I can go with only some fruits in my stomach," I think to myself as I swat away the shrubs blocking the path. Moments later I see a clearing. I set myself onto a perfectly placed rock, facing the vastness of the nature, as if its sole purpose in life was to act as a seat from which to behold this sight. As I watch the sun set behind distant hills, all covered in deep green grass, the brilliant orange purple sky soothing the fields with the rest of its light before it goes to sleep, I find myself overcome with loneliness and appreciation for life. "I'm not meant to be confined within walls," I begin to say to myself as I continued to watch the scene in front of me. "It's out here in the world that I belong." I've been traveling now for what seems like the most of the year. There was no grand goal in my head, nor any dramatics which forced me to flee. I simply awoke one morning and realized I know nothing of the world and its inhabitants, and so I set out. In my journey, I've come to realize one thing; I'm not an important part of this world, nor am I unneeded. I know I have no grand purpose in this world, but I know my absence will greatly affect it as well. It's a strange contradiction that I've always been pondering, yet it makes absolute sense to me. I continued to stare out into the wilderness, the orange in the sky almost gone, purple now dominating the air. Night was coming fast. I sat there unaware of everything around me, swimming in my thoughts when suddenly everything seemed to unravel. We are all the most important person on Earth. In this wondrous landscape canvas, we each hold a brush and a pallet of our thoughts, making our impact on this ever-changing portrait we call life. Some chase magnificent endeavors and try to dominate the portrait, while other choose to hide away, leaving nothing but the shadows that define the scene. Others choose to simply add a few minor details here and there with a smile and a wave to those around them. I however, choose simply to meet others and create memories with them. It's the only way I can prove I existed, that I was once alive. Soon, the sky was covered in darkness. I began to head back down the path with only the light of a million stars guiding me. I reached my car, jumped in and began to drive. Where I might go, I do not know. All I know is that I will keep driving. Whether for better or worse, I continue on these empty roads.


Talk to Me She wakes and dread seeps back into her like a tide, cold and inescapable. Please talk to me , she thinks. Let it be today . Across the bedroom, the window sill glows blue-grey beneath the shudder, and the room is dark and cool and vaguely antiseptic smelling. She must have cleaned for him; he loves a clean place, or rather he loves watching her clean: naked cleaning, they call it. There’s also naked dinner, naked TV (though never during his gameshows, she’s tried), and on one memorable occasion, naked car washing. They lead to love-making, these silly events. Had she rinsed dinner plates, or tossed his stained coveralls into the washing machine with nothing on – save an apron – and he’d enveloped her and they’d been together? She can’t remember. All has become a blur since … well, since he stopped talking to her. She turns towards him under the thin blanket. She’s cold, freezing in fact. She will get them the best blanket money can buy, she muses, one they will never want to come out from under, and then nestles timidly into his back. It’s a broad back, a rugby player’s (former), one she never hesitated to hop onto during those frenetic, hundred and eighty seconds between classes in high school, in college, or when they closed on their first home and he was literally being handed the key to the front door and she was out-of-her-mind happy. He stirs but does not move away from her. A good sign.

What’s wrong? She whispers into the nape of his neck. And this time he does react: “Maa … ehhh,” he stammers. It’s hollow and pained and seems to come from deep inside of him. It makes her feel insignificant, microscopic. Nightmares, so many lately.

It’s ok. It’s ok .

She can’t remember the last time he spoke to her. And he’s such a talker, especially after a few drinks. A small memory unfolds, bright and vivid: the two of them driving the Hana Highway in some ridiculously high-end rental; top down: sun and wind and hair everywhere; she with an un-corked bottle of red blend from the winery atop the mountain secreted in a brown paper bag; him grinning, hand very high on her thigh, saying: oh, yeah, that’ll throw the cops WAY off . She tries to remember the fullness of his voice, its tenor, his monologues, his contagious laugh, his pausing of CNN or FOX and contesting exasperatedly what is being posited, and then turning and providing unsolicited explanations for her, and her complete acceptance because in those moments she is awash in his true – if not closeted – intellectual colors.

She’s sure her husband is the only mechanic alive who reads two books a week, watches Jeopardy, America Says, or Idiot Test (his newest favorite) with a near fanatic intensity, and who actually incorporated the word anti-establishmentarianism into the first ever conversation with her asshole parents and made it not awkward.

God, how she loves him. She think-shouts: So talk to me now, damn it! Tears come. They burn like ice water in her eyes and on her cheeks. She sits up gingerly, careful not to wake him (always a concern, this), and wipes her face. Well, maybe that’s part of this whole mess: my ridiculous deference to him and this new trouble. And on the heels of that: Ugh, I’m becoming my mother. But that’s not entirely true, or fair, she admits to herself in the darkness. Barbara Montgomery feared Donald Montgomery, and with cause. And so did she all the way up to his thunderclap heart attack in a Safeway parking lot that put an abrupt, vacuous end to the black-happy bullshit. No, her mother couldn’t help herself, not then. And why she continues not to is maddening and horrifying. She doesn’t fear this man curled next to her, not that way; he’d no sooner hurt her than he would his own mother (or over-achieving younger sister, for that matter). But his hasty shutting off to her, as if she no longer existed, was worse, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she read an article recently in one of those impulse-buy women’s mags that a man who stops communicating is a man who, at the bottom of things, simply wants out?

Oh, Dear God. Please no. No one deserves this. No one. We love each other. Of course we do. Then STOP this black-happy-you-know-what . She gets out of bed then, and not like some ninny, either: she tosses the feeble coverlet aside, hops out, stands at the foot of the bed, and crosses her arms. Robert Dovin, she says, I just pressed the pause button, and you’d better start explaining yourself. Talk to me. Tell me what the matter is – Tell me what’s happened!

Her voice is strident and anomalous in the quiet, dim room. I won’t put up with this any longer, Robert. Robert? ROBERT! There is a tinny popping sound, and she is suddenly back-lit from what she intuits are the shudders somehow unhinging themselves from across the room. Her shadow is abrupt and wraith-like over his bound figure, causing her to start. Something hisses behind her. She spins. Two things: the big window is still very much closed (when did they replace shudders with drapes?), and a small, flat-screen TV glows brightly high on the opposite wall. Snow, just plain old TV snow. Black lines flicker and disappear, flicker and disappear. THIS IS KBAT! The television suddenly blurts, and she spooks again. NEWS THAT’S NEW TO YOU! An up-tempo, no-nonsense melody follows, and she’s sure she will hear the leathery voice of Tom Brokaw or Dan Rather break in. The TV snow fades, and a news woman in a taut blazer with padded shoulders materializes behind a sleek, glass desk. She is also no-nonsense, this reporter, but there’s more here, something solemn and grave. WE COME TO YOU TONIGHT WITH TRAGIC NEWS FROM THE BEAUTIFUL ISLAND OF MAUI IN THE HAWAIIAN ARCHIPELAGO … “Maa … geee.” For the third time in as many minutes, breath catches in her throat. She turns and sees her husband staring up at her. His eyes are bloodshot marbles in the quicksilver light of the TV.

Bobby! Yes, it’s me, sweetie, Maggie. I love you so much – so, so much. Talk to me, sweetie. I lov – A HORRENDOUS SINGLE CAR ACCIDENT ON THE OTHERWISE TRANQUIL AND HISTORIC ROAD TO HANA … “Noo … Maaggg … I-I-sorrryyy …” Bobby, Luv, no, please don’t be. I thought you were mad at me, that I’d done something – THE RENTED AUDI CAREENED SOME SIXTY FEET DOWN AN EMBANKMENT INTO ONE OF THE PICTURESQUE POOLS THAT ARE A TOURIST … “Noo … ahh-gawd … MAGGGG – “ Without warning, her body heaves involuntarily and a squelching, gargling sound comes from deep within her. She coughs, wretches, and vomits up something long and mossy and cold. It hangs from her mouth like an impossible black tongue. Gagging, frantic, she pulls it from her mouth like some nightmare version of a minstrel clown.

AT THIS TIME AUTHORITIES BELIEVE ALCOHOL MAY HAVE PLAYED A ROLE IN THE ILL-FATED INCIDENT … She staggers back against wall, some sort of thin, waterlogged reed in her hand. She looks at it disbelievingly, detachedly, then to her husband, who is not looking at her, but rather at the small screen above her. Oh, no – was he ever looking at me? Weakly, wincing in bright, clear pain, and never taking his eyes off the screen, he props himself on one elbow. And now she can see: neck brace burrowed under his chin, twisted leg enclosed in a sort of oblong cage with rods penetrating its purple skin at different angles, bandages, bandages everywhere seeping with what she hopes is only iodine. And when his swollen lips part in a feeble attempt to speak, wires crisscross his broken teeth. “Ohhh … Maageee … peeez-no … donn-be-gon … I-luff … alllmyfall … done-be-dea – .” Before he can finish, her mouth snaps open again, and a torrent of gritty, ice cold water jets forth, gallons upon gallons, spanning the room, splashing against the far wall and the solitary door with its perfectly square glass window, and settling into shimmery pools on the pea-green linoleum floor. OFFICIALS REPORT TWO OCCUPANTS WERE IN THE VEHICLE AT THE TIME OF THE ACCIDENT, BUT, SADLY, ONLY ONE SURVIVED … Of course it’s linoleum , she thinks from some far off place. And we never replaced the shutters – tisk, tisk. And that blanket’s an ineffectual piece of crap because – AN AUTOMOBILE MECHANIC FROM KONA, HAWAII … -- we’re not at home at all. We’re in a hospital room somewhere on Maui … or at least half of us is. THE PASSENGER, WHO REMAINS UNIDENTIFIED AT THIS TIME BUT IS BELIEVED TO BE THE SPOUSE OF THE DRIVER, DID NOT SURVIVE THE INCIDENT. BACK TO YOU, BOB. The last thing that occurs to her, as that ethereal part begins its mystical undoing, and Robert Dovin – son to Belinda and Peter, brother to Dr. Cassandra McFadden, D.D.S, and father to no one – cries his wife’s name though his ruined mouth and reaches for the television, is that her husband is, finally, talking to her again.

END


Used to be. Three words that hold a world of stories in their hands. Stories of the past. Things that happened that will never happen again, at least never in the same way. Well, I have one of those stories. It was in the tenth grade when it all started. Tina and I were placed in the same science class, sparking a friendship with literal sparks (physics experiment gone wrong). Before I met Tina, I would always eat lunch alone, longing to sit with one of the other kids around me, but they were never next to me. I had hoped that if I was nice enough, pleased everybody and brought each person up, they wouldn't let me down. So even though I would say hi to many people every day, I didn't have any real friends, people I could hang out with every night, and it wouldn't have mattered what we did, because we were together. When I became friends with Tina it was like that. At first, we would call each other every night, talking on the phone for hours while doing out school work, studying for exams or even just watching the same show on television. One day, a cold November night, we decided 'why not meet in person?'. Soon after, we would hang out together all the time. Creating private jokes, sharing secrets about our past and crushes of the present, baking to our hearts desire- I was happy. Somehow, I got lucky. Somewhere, way up in the sky, someone woke up and decided to look out for me and make my deepest desire a reality. For some reason, the stars decided to align for me that year. I didn't, I still don't, know why that happened. I was just another rather average human being, hoping to survive not just life, but also high school. Tina didn't just make me happy sitting under a blanket in her parents' basement watching movies until 4 A.M., she also made me happy in school. We would study together, getting good grades in all of our classes. Tina, being the social butterfly that she is, also introduced me to a bunch of people I had never really interacted with before. Like I mentioned before, I said hi to many people, but never truly got to know them. But with Tina by my side, I could tell you billions of stories about each and every person at my school. We would get invited to party after party after party. I felt over the moon after every single one, the night confirming that I belonged. That is, until one of those nights, as I went to grab Tina so we could make it home before curfew, she had brought Chandler to tag along with us. Chandler was every girl's dream at our school, and Tina knew, believe me she knew, that I had the biggest, most crushing crush of my life on Chandler Wong. With his fine black hair sitting neatly on his head and his chocolate brown eyes looking like wells of melted chocolate calling to me to dive in deeper and deeper, and let's not forget his personality (since isn't that what makes him our true hero?). Chandler could be described as loyal, brave, smart and maybe a bit cunning- all the ways in which he can't be placed into even one Hogwarts house. Always nice to people, always seeking to help out to those in need (seriously, he did charity work at the soup kitchen three times a week), always trusting everybody. Chandler was the kind of guy that even the most not-wanting-to-ever-be-married type of girls would want to marry and live with forever since he treated every single person he met with the utmost respect. So when Chandler and Tina tagged along behind me on our way home that night from the party, I couldn't help but feel devastated. If Tina could do that to me, why had I trusted her so much? How could I have become such good friends with her and never have known this would happen? And how could Chandler, perfectly sweet Chandler, decide to go out with someone as awful as Tina? Maybe she changed. Maybe while I was watching movies and baking cakes, she was planning her way of overstepping, using me as the step in her ladder, the pawn in her little game of chess, the last ingredient needed to perfect her poisoned apple. All she ever wanted was to get to the top and be the best. Whenever we would get are tests back, she would gloat about all the 100s she got, making my 98s feel as pathetic as a crumpled, dried flower. But perhaps it was my fault, because I let her do that to me. Tina saw a lonely target to crush on her way up, and I allowed her to take that step. If it weren't for my stupid wishes and feelings, I would have never have became friends with her, and maybe I would be ok. I vowed then and there that I would never let Tina, or any other person treat me that way. I decided to still be friendly with Tina, because the fact that I knew her true intentions, gave me power over her. Power to decided how our future would be. After we graduated, Tina going off to a prestige university, and I going away to law school, I never bothered to answer her phone calls. It was easy, since they never came in. Over the years, whenever I think about our friendship, I wonder if there was something different that could have happened, enough to changed the ending of this Used To Be. But even if there was, I don't think I would change a thing. the story helped me realize how to be a better person and friend. I also realized how much pain and suffering can come when experiencing lost. At the end of the day, Tina and I were friends, best friends. But now? we are just two women, living extremely different lives, who used to be.


(This is a collaborative story with my friend Wei Hello!, it’s the same story told from two different perspectives. They aren’t exactly the same, but they follow the same storyline.) My hands were shaking on the wheel. Although I’ve driven a golf cart countless times before, it still terrified me. Nobody else knew this, of course. Like I was going to tell Jerry that I was afraid of driving. He was practically getting driving lessons already. I pulled up very carefully in front of Jerry’s front door, and he was sitting on the steps waiting for me. He was on his phone and apparently didn't see a bright lime green golf cart park meters away from him.

“Uh… Jerry? Hello?'' I asked tentatively. I was just the tiniest bit late, but Jerry was very impatient and would probably get mad at me for being- “Two minutes and thirty-five seconds late! I expected better of you Carson,” “Well SORRY.” “Come on, let’s go already!” He got up and stepped into the seat next to me. “Okay, first stop, The Apple Orchard!” I announced, carefully driving along the suburban road towards the apple orchard. I had been there many times before so I had practically memorized the route. Jerry was still grumpy that I was late, but he got a little more excited as we hit the road. “We're going to pick some apples, we're going to make some pie! Were going to pick some apples and we’re to make apple pie.'' not to don't toot my own horn, but I am very good at writing tunes.

“Hey, Jerry! We're almost there! See! It's the sign!” The entrance to the orchard had an old wooden archway going over the main entrance for cars, and on it was a sign that said, ‘WELCOME TO THE BEST ORCHARD FARM YOU’LL EVER SEE!’ or at least I assume it said that it now looked more like, ‘WFICCNE TC IHF BECT URLHARD FAYN UCI’LI EUFR SEF!’ “Are we there yet?” Jerry asked, taking his hands off his ears... wait was he not listening to my amazing song this whole time? Rude.

“We‘re entering the farm, you just missed the sign, I looked over my shoulder trying to see the sign again. “CARSON WATCH OUT YOU’RE ABOUT TO RUN INTO A-” Tree. I ran straight into a tree.

“Well… the good news is that we’d finished our apple picking for today!” I said after I winced at the sound of apples hitting the roof of my dad's golf cart. “Bad news is that they gave this golf cart a bunch of dents.'' I tried revving up the golf cart again hopefully, but nothing. “Other bad news is that we are now stranded in this apple orchard with no other humans around to help us.” I opened the golf cart door and stepped out, surveying the damage. “Well, not NO humans around, there is that cottage a little way away from here,” “What are you talking about? Wait… you don’t mean,” and I swear I heard thunderclaps in the distance, “LARRY’S HUT?” I for one thought it very dramatic (though I do wish his name was Gary or something spooky like that. Larry is kind of lame), but Jerry rolled his eyes and said, “OH come on, you don't really believe those stories, do you?” “Uh, yeah? Larry’s hut is the most known story in Paranoice!” “Well, I’ve never heard it.” Jerry crossed his arms, and so I began to tell him the legendary story of Larry’s Hut. It started on a leisurely Thursday morning, not unlike this one when Larry decided to go apple picking by himself in his Uncle’s apple orchard. His uncle was away on a holiday, and so Larry took his chance to get some free apples from his orchard. It was told that he picked two basketfuls of apples before he heard it, a voice calling out to him- “Oh come on, a voice? really?”

“SHH! Just let me tell the story! As I was saying, a voice was calling out to him,” It was saying his name, over and over again. Larry, Larry, Larry , came to the voice. Larry was curious and reckless, so he tried to find the source of the voice, and he came upon an old cottage that was overgrown with vines. Larry hadn’t seen this the last time he’s been to his uncle's orchard, so he entered it. And he never came out again. Later it was told that his uncle had died within the day he had returned to his orchard. “That,” Jerry started, “was the most RIDICULOUS thing I’ve ever heard! There is no way that’s true.” “Come on! You can't go there!” “It’ll be fine .” “That’s what Larry thought!” Jerry snorted. “Larry. What type of scary story has a guy named LARRY as the main character?” “This one!” “Whatever, I’m going.” And with that, Jerry ran off from the direction we came, into the mostly deserted road that we came from. “Ok. What do I do now?” I thought out loud. I started examining the damage to the golf cart. I shivered as a chilly breeze whooshed past me. I was wearing only one jacket since it was only October 1st, but now I was regretting wearing something warmer, especially since I was stuck here now. “Hello, what are you doing?” I jumped and turned around. What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. There in front of me stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

She seemed only a few years older than me, but she seemed perfect. She had long, glossy black hair that was slightly wavy and ran down to her waist. She was taller than me, but not so much so that she loomed over me. She was wearing a long-sleeved white dress that went all the way down to her ankles. She had peachy lips and a small nose. The only thing that was slightly unnerving was her eyes. You would say that they were green, but they were bordering on yellow, and her pupils seemed to dilate and contract so they looked like they were constantly shifting. I was suspicious, what was a beautiful lady doing in an apple orchard all by herself?

“Are you okay? You seem to be having some trouble there?” And just like that, all my suspicions were gone. Her voice sounded like flowing golden honey. I felt myself just staring at her for a few moments. “Oh, silly me! You must be Carson!” It didn’t strike me as strange that she knew my name, of course, she knew my name. And I should be following her as she turned and walked away from me. Wait, what? No! I shouldn't be following a stranger! “Oh, Carson, dearie! Do catch up.” And without knowing it I was briskly walking forwards to catch up with her. I was suddenly at a battle with myself. One part of me was trying to abruptly stop and reason with my other half, which wanted more than anything to follow the pretty girl in the dress. My reasonable half almost succeeded at stopping, when she began to sing. And suddenly my reasonable half disappeared into oblivion. And I followed her. When my head didn’t feel like it was full of honey anymore, I was sitting down on a picnic mat with the girl… no wait… she wasn’t a girl anymore. Standing in front of me was a creature with sickly green and bumpy skin, it had a long, ugly nose and was wearing a black hood. It still resembled a humanoid figure, but it was hunched and had a pointy hat… or as that a hat? No. It was horns. Two glistening black horns twisted together to form a point at the top of the hag’s head. And the eyes. The eyes were this time bright yellow, like cats' eyes, except something about them screamed unearthly. This time it had no pupils at all, just one solid color of yellow through and through. But something told me it could still see. “Oh hello. You’ve come to your senses, I see.” The hag cackled, and it sounded like all the worst sounds in the world. Nails on a chalkboard, microphone feedback, and even slightly like the crying of a distressed and sick baby. I immediately stood up and started running away, like any sane person would, but the witch made no effort to run after me, I saw when I looked over my shoulder. She was taking a glass vial off of the picnic mat I was sitting on — how did I not notice them before? — and threw it at her feet like a magician would to disappear in a puff of smoke. Oh and how I wished that happened. Instead, it burst into black gunk that surrounded the witch almost instantly, I stopped to look back, what happened? Why would the witch do that? Suddenly two yellow eyes appeared out of the gunk, and the black mound of writhing, bubbling, potion surged towards me. I started running again. I had no idea where I was going, but I had to get away from the witch. I got out of the trees onto the main path and sat in the distance a blob of bright green. The golf cart! I knew that color would come in handy. I ran towards it. I could hear the witch’s horrible cable behind me and could feel the yellow eyes on me like I was being hunted. Scratch that, I was being hunted. I didn’t think about my burning calves, or that I am getting closer to the not much different dirt road outside the orchard, I just focused on running for my life. I passed the sign. The witch's potion armor shrunk to fit through the archway but grew taller right after. I kept on running. Consciously I had no idea where I was going. Subconsciously I was heading towards Larry’s hut, where Jerry was. I risked a glance over my shoulder, and almost grazed the black gunk. I accelerated. Then I saw it, Larry’s Hut. Or as some people called it, the Vampire House. Jerry, I prayed, please be alive. I burst through the old wooden doors. “Jerry! Jerry! There’s a giant back blob chasing me…” my voice faltered. Jerry was alive, alright. But he was standing next to an old man, and he had a bite mark on him. I stared at him in horror. His eyes were red now. And in them, I saw someone other than my friend. I saw a vampire.


Note: This story was written for a project I call "Love and Monsters," a collection of ten (?) short stories covering a variety of genres, themes, and styles. The only rule is that each story feature both love and monsters, though the interpretation of these two terms is very open. If anyone is interested in this project, I've completed two other stories in this collection that I would be willing to share. I should also mention that this is an early draft, so suggestions and criticism are not just welcome, but encouraged. With all that out of the way: "Falling Apart, Together" By Rathgar Click. Click. Click. Ashley’s nails struck the kitchen table as she drummed her fingers. The rhythmic patter of her incessant tapping seemed to penetrate the tender barrier of my eardrums on its way to stab at my very brain. I said nothing, opting instead to watch her in silent exasperation. “I hate when you stare at me.” she said. “Good.” I replied. I clawed at an itch on my arm, tearing away at my skin. She glared at me. I glared back. She continued to tap away at the table. Click. Click. Click. ... There still existed a place where Ashley and I loved each other with a passionate intensity to rival that of the brightest burning star. A place where we lied awake, fighting the creeping sensation to succumb to sweet sleep and winning that war night after night just so we might have a few more minutes to stare at the ceiling as we enjoyed each other’s conversations about nothing in particular. In that place we held one another tight, careful not to release our grip for even a moment. We knew only contentment and bliss. That place is called the past, and only my memory can return there, though the cost of entry is a painful nostalgia too severe to subject myself to. Instead, I chose to live in the present, where our love compared only to the core of the coldest dying star. Where we lied awake, struggling to ensure the other did not see our tears as they rolled down our cheeks in silence. We rested two feet apart, careful not to touch. We knew only our own pain. That place is where years of tragedy and bitterness left us to rot, a fate I soon experienced in the most literal sense. Somewhere in the first few years of marriage I developed a serious skin condition, which I attributed to stress. My body itched and ached during moments of tension, a near constant state in our home. This left me with a collection of nauseating bare patches all over where I scraped the top layer of skin clean from my body. These disgusting marks, too numerous to hide, embarrassed me whenever I went out into public, a pastime I abandoned in favor of isolated solitude. Solitude, that is, except for Ashley. Though avoiding the outside world allowed me safety from any perceived mockery, it did force me into constant company with my wife, whose callousness exacerbated my stress-induced condition more than anything else. Most of all I hated her habit of drumming her fingers on the table while we spoke, the clicking of her nails against wood no better than scraping them across a chalkboard. My response remained the same as it had from the very beginning: a stiff, silent stare. She hated this more than any response I might muster, a fact which brought me no end of pleasure. Despite this tiny indulgence, I still lacked any real outlet for my nervous condition, so it worsened with each passing year. What started with scraps of skin soon developed into something much more serious, the gradual increase in my disease’s severity metamorphosizing me into a disgusting creature, a lump of clay turned flesh. Even now I cannot explain the development of this ailment. I can, however, remember the exact moment it transformed me from a man with an awkward illness into the thing lepers pity. My conversion into a walking infection began with four words. “I want a divorce.” said Ashley. “A divorce?” I repeated to myself. I tilted my head to one side, swallowed a knot of sickened shock, then collected myself. “No.” I said, and I left for the bathroom to start my day. Hot beads of water shot at my face as I stared into the face of the showerhead. A divorce? I could not imagine a more appalling fate. Our marriage broke apart years ago, but the concept of abandoning it altogether still frightened me, though I knew not why. My body shook as I stepped out of the shower and approached the mirror. My face lost its color and I realized that I feared the loss of something I had grown so accustomed to, advantageous to my wellbeing or not. I placed my face in my hands and drew them back against the sides of my head. My left ear dislodged itself. It sloughed down my face, slid around my chin, and plopped into the sink below me. I clasped at the side of my head in stunned terror, feeling the mushy, sunken hole where my ear should be. Crimson-tinged pus of brown and yellow stuck to my trembling hand. The logic of shock prompted me to grab my ear and force it back into place, a futile exercise. After several unsuccessful attempts at this endeavor, I surrendered to the fact that I lost a part of myself I would not get back. I examined myself in the mirror. From the proper angle I looked fine, but when I tilted my head too far the grotesque visage appeared, sickening even myself. I prodded the exposed hole. It did not hurt. I drew a deep breath and exhaled, releasing both my breath and my concern for my missing piece. I tossed my ear into the toilet, wiped up the wound with a bathtowel, and made a mental note not to turn left around Ashley, lest she notice my terrifying deformity. And with that, I put the incident behind me. I dressed myself for work and exited the bathroom. “You can’t just say ‘no.’” said Ashley the moment she saw me. “Truly, it’s not a question at all, but a statement. I want a divorce and there’s no more to it.” I held both hands over my leaking earhole in the world’s least subtle attempt to hide anything. Despite the blatancy of my effort, Ashley did not notice anything. I stared at her, saying nothing. She tapped her fingers on the dresser. I held my silence for as long as I could bare. The tension grew too intense and I relented. “We will talk about it later, my fallen angel. That I promise. But for now, I must go to work. I do provide for us entirely by myself, you know.” Ashley’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to speak, but I heard only a soft creak and the sound of the door latching behind me as I walked away. I smiled, having amused myself by shutting her up, if only this once. This charmed mood carried me throughout the brief drive to work, though it soon faded as my thoughts returned to the matter at hand. Ashley would give me no choice but to discuss her plan whether I wished to or not. I dreaded that conversation with my entire being. By the time I passed through the doorway to my place of employment, my mind swam with images of all the wonderful moments we would leave in the past should she have her way. Our first kiss, dancing in the backyard, making love under the stars in the park. It pained me even to think that the worst times might soon be lost. The loss of our only child, the betrayals, the pain we caused one another which we could never undo. Those may be horrible memories, but at least I shared them with someone who understood the particular pain they brought. Should we decide to separate she would leave me to suffer these reminiscences all alone. I attempted to shake the thoughts from my brain as I headed for my desk, but they remained persistent. Work could not distract me. I spent most of my day mulling over my wife’s request and contemplating a potential future as an aging bachelor. The very idea offended me. So engrossed in this line of thought was I that I forgot about the loss of my ear entirely. This baffling incident, which should have shocked me to no end, failed to faze me beyond the moment when it first occurred. Indeed, the event left so little an impression that I gave it no thought at all until, as I sat at my desk wondering if I still loved my wife, two teeth popped free of my gums. My previous experience was no isolated incident. I saw that now. I rubbed my jaw and two more teeth fired from my mouth, rattling across my desk. I ran my hand through my hair, which fell away in thick sheets as if my fingers were razors. Appalled, I shot out of my chair and excused myself for the day. During the drive home my thoughts again turned to divorce. And then it dawned on me. My worsening symptoms were not the natural progression of my strange disease, but rather the result of stress caused by Ashley’s declaration. Perhaps by saving our relationship I could reverse the damage, or at least see its cessation. And so, to spare myself further suffering, I committed to keeping my wife at any cost. I considered a great many ideas as I drove down the sunny street, but I did not settle upon a decision until I walked through the front door. I located Ashley, still moping around the bedroom as she had been hours ago. I did not speak at first. I watched her as her fingers danced across the dresser. Click. Click. Click. I shuddered at the sound. In an effort to end the horrid pounding of fingertips on furniture, I cleared my throat, then spoke. “Ashley,” I said, “I fear we have lost our connection. I believe we both are aware that things have not been good for some time. My dear, what I mean to say is, I believe we have fallen out of love.” “Indeed.” she said. “I gave so much love and got so little back, I seem to have run out. I care not to ponder your excuse.” “Preposterous.” I declared. “You’re the one who withheld from me. I offered nothing but passion and affection, but you could not be reached. Nothing pleased you.” “Hm. I suppose we see things differently.” “Quite.” I said. “But that’s not the point. I want to make things better. I don’t think it’s too late for us. Divorce is a nasty business. Let’s spare ourselves the embarrassment.” “What do you propose?” asked Ashley, her tone indicating skepticism. I opened my toothless mouth to speak but found my voice suppressed by the sight before me. Something brought Ashley a deep discomfort, so intense as to stop our conversation at once. She appeared to suffer some severe irritation in one eye, which she could not quell. Red, enflamed, and bulging, it threatened to burst free from its socket at any moment. I cocked my head to one side and watched in sickened fascination. She groaned with pain as she dug a finger deep into the cavern behind her eyeball and neatly plopped it out of its confines within her skull. It hung limp by the optic nerve before slipping out and rolling across the floor. Mortification overtook her face as she stuffed the loose gore back inside her. “That’s new.” she said, blushing. “It’s just been skin so far, but I guess it was bound to get worse.” “It’s happening to you too? Well, it’s not as bad as mine, but the pressure of this ordeal clearly afflicts you as well. So, let’s repair the situation before it gets any worse. It’s not too late, you know.” “I think it is.” said Ashley. “It’s time we separate, Clayton. Let’s leave on amicable terms rather than allow ourselves to waste away any further. Heed my words, my former love: cut your losses now. Accept what’s gone and flee before it includes any more.” “Give me one chance. That’s all I ask.” Ashley sighed and turned away. She considered the offer for quite some time before responding. “I’ll grant you one chance.” she said. “Every molecule in my body screams out for me to leave, but the sight of you begging me to stay is too pathetic to ignore. We can try once more, if only to convince you that it’s a losing game.” Though displeased with her reasoning, I accepted the offer. The following days were of an rare blend of peace and discontent. Though we had yet to recover our lost love, we did discover a new era of civility, the likes of which we had not enjoyed in years. But the peace was shortlived. The ceasefire collapsed days later when Ashley complained of my working late, which morphed into a prolonged and exhausting argument. As a result, a long stretch of skin on my side peeled away. The fingernails on Ashley’s left hand popped off, shooting in all directions, one after another. The next day saw a debate over some matter so trivial that I no longer recall the cause. Inconsequential though the issue may have been, it resulted in me vomiting a large squishy lump of unknown material while a torrent of blood flowed from Ashley’s empty eye socket. Our bodies diminished further with each passing day as the petty arguments grew more frequent and venomous. We soon took on the form of two horrid beasts, half-finished creatures marked by a hideous dissymmetry. I came to agree with Ashley that our problems could not be willed away through ignorance. Instead, I suggested we take drastic action. My proposal was a romantic dinner, which I prepared over the course of an entire day. The most extravagant thing I could manage, the meal consisted of every delicacy I could cook as well as several I really couldn’t. Buttered lobster, steak, and expensive wine were the centerpieces of the feast, but chef’s salad, mashed potatoes, and even chocolate mousse made an appearance at the table. With the lights dimmed, I donned my nicest suit and took my seat. Ashley joined me soon after. She drummed her remaining fingers on the table. I scratched at the shedding skin on the back of my neck as I watched her. For a long time, we neither ate nor spoke. At last Ashley broke the silence, startling me with both the sudden sound of her voice and the content of her statement. “You killed my baby.” she said, prodding at the salad with her fork. Her voice sounded dry; her face expressionless. She spoke as if the fact were not only indisputable, but of a casual enough nature to bring up at a fancy dinner date. My mouth hung open. “What?” she said. “You told me this was a chance for us to work things out. So, let’s start with that. You killed my baby. There, I said it. We can stop dancing around it. Now undo it, please.” “You know it can’t be undone.” I said, displeased with my response but too shocked to form any other. “Oh, really?” she said. “Actually, I didn’t know that because you told me we could still fix things. You said it wasn’t too late for us. That can only mean one thing. It means you’re going to unkill my baby.” “Stop saying that.” I said. “What? That you killed my baby? You did. You can’t deny that.” The toes in my left shoe released themselves from my foot. Ashley continued her incessant finger-tapping upon the table. The vibrations shook my body and caused my eye to twitch. I clenched a butterknife in my fist. “The abortion was a joint decision.” I said. “Oh, it was, was it?” laughed Ashley. “So, we were protecting both of our careers? We had to hide it from both of our mothers? Wait, which excuse did we go with again?” “I didn’t make the decision alone.” I declared. “You killed my baby!” she shouted, her voice cracking as she struck a note far above her natural timbre. “Stop saying that! An abortion is not the same as a murder. And you should be glad we never got to see that baby. You should thank me for sparing you that embarrassment.” “The baby was yours.” she said, her voice quaking with rage. “But you don’t know that, do you?” I said. “You can’t know that. Because, for all the hell you’ve given me, you know damned well that you are the one who destroyed our marriage. You are the one who stepped out.” “I made a mistake.” she whispered. “A mistake happens once. And now, thanks to your little slip-up, I live with the heart-wrenching pain of what you did every day of my life, Ashley. It never goes away. You hurt me and you can never unhurt me.” I punctuated this last statement by redoubling my grip upon my fork, resulting in the loss of my fingernails, shoved free of the skin by the pressure. Fuming, I glared at my wife, who was busy pulling a loose strip of flesh from her arm even as her perpetual drumming continued. Click. Click. Click. Tears welled up in the corner of her eye. “You think you’re the only one who’s been hurt?” she said. “I may have done something horrible to you and I swear I will regret it till the end of my days, but you can’t sit there and feign innocence. You hurt me too. Again and again you hurt me. You were always busy with your precious work. You never had time for me. I spent years feeling so unloved and unwanted because I pledged myself to you and you didn’t have time for me. That’s why I did it. Because, after being abandoned for so long and after being rejected so many times, I just wanted to feel wanted again. Just for a little bit.” My gaze became fire. “You are nothing but a… whore.” I spat. She remained unfazed. “It was easy, by the way.” she said. “He told me I was pretty. That’s it. That was all it took for him to have me.” She laughed. “Maybe I am a whore. It certainly sounds like it. But you know what? I’m glad I did it. Because I finally got to experience what it’s like when it’s done right. That’s right, Clayton. I finally got fucked right.” I slapped my hand against the table with pure fury, so hard that my entire hand detached, rolling across the table and taking out the baked salmon. “How dare you intensify a suffering you cannot possibly comprehend!” I screamed. “Suffering?” said Ashley. “Suffering is being married to you. You never want to leave the house except to go to work, and I’m honestly quite surprised you bother to come back. I’m left here alone at all hours, desperate for some form of social interaction. A kiss, a compliment, a conversation. I beg and beg on my hands and knees, but you refuse to see me. You won’t take responsibility enough to address my needs and you won’t take me anywhere else to save me from this crushing isolation. Not even for an evening. Not even to show me off for your own benefit. You leave me questioning night after night why I’m so unworthy.” “You don’t deserve to be taken out or shown off. You’re nothing but a common harlot.” I paused in search of an insult severe enough that it could not be taken back. “And you would have made a wretched mother anyway.” “And you are barely man enough to be called a boring, passionless baby-killer.” Ashley’s hair cascaded down from her head. My arm grew loose and stretched towards the floor like taffy before sliding off my shoulder and slipping out of my sleeve. I screamed out, not for pain, of which I felt none, but for the sound of her fingers pounding away at the table, neverending, penetrating my very soul. How I wished that she might lose those fingers next. But she didn’t, and the tapping continued, as did our parade of abuses and accusations, the collapse of our fragile relationship, and the annihilation of our very bodies. The dinner continued in this manner all night, and soon the two piles of body parts on the floor outgrew those resting upon our chairs. After each loss I considered her suggestion; leave now with what little remains. But I could not. I would never give up. Not because I still loved her, but because I knew I was right. In the end, neither of us left the table, opting instead to wile the night away engaged in a battle that could only be won through surrender. We both lost our tongues around the same time and, having lost the ability to speak, it seemed the argument might end at last. But even then, we could not resist the urge to find some means to hurt each other. It became clear in that moment that we were no more. There remained nothing left to save, nothing to gain, and only very little to lose. We went with losing. My body fell away, leaving me to rest upon the table as a pair of eyes and nothing more, my steely gaze fixated firmly upon what was left of my wife. As the last of her fell to pieces there remained but a trio of fingers, connected by a disgusting tangle of bloody nerves and exposed bone. I stared at those fingers, lacking even the features to express my rage. For all of eternity I would hold my ground, glaring at those fingers without a word. And in return they would spend the rest of time tapping upon the table. Click. Click. Click.