Hello! I'm a young writer looking for feedback on a short story I wrote a year ago in the spirit of Halloween. Any input would be greatly appreciated, especially with word choice. Thank you!  The little girl’s lemonade stand was set up in her driveway. The house behind her was covered in ivy and was losing its shutters. The girl in question? Well, she too seemed to be rather in bad shape. Her hair was splitting at the ends and could probably use a good wash. Her skin was a pale, pasty white. The dress she was wearing appeared to be made of an old bedsheet. A sign laid out in front of the table read, “Lemonade 15 cents.” “Hello,” Henry said to her. “How are you this morning?” The girl said nothing. “I’ll take a glass of lemonade,” he continued. The poor girl seemed in need of a morale boost, and what better way to do that than to buy her product? The girl still said nothing. She grasped the handle of the pitcher and dumped a small amount of the contents into a plastic cup. Henry passed her a dime and a nickel. She fingered the dime and held it up to her wide eyes. It was a strange sight. 15 cents couldn’t even buy her a gumball. He shook the thought away and grabbed his cup. The lemonade in the cup was a light yellow with a tint of pink. He swallowed. There wasn’t any food coloring around. There also was not a pepper shaker or an opium bottle, he thought to himself. It’s certainly safe. It must be. Henry took a nice, deep sip. It was the most delicious lemonade he had tasted in years. “Not bad,” he said aloud. The girl smiled. It was a noticably sad smile. It made him even more apprehensive to finishing the glass, but he was so thirsty, and the lemonade was quite good. What was the worst that could happen? He thumbed through his wallet. How could it be that he only had dollar bills? He sighed. Oh well. He passed the girl a dollar bill and told her, “This is all I have. Can you make change?” The girl shook her head. “I’ll take whatever that can buy.” It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be. Did he? He tried to think back to his daily calendar reading. He couldn’t recall anything on it. What would it hurt to stay a bit longer? The girl’s face lit up once more. She counted a little on her fingers and removed seven cups from the stack. Henry placed his hand on hers. It was surprisingly cold. “I don’t need the 7th cup. I can deal with just the 6.” The girl shook her head. “Free,” she muttered, filling the cups one by one. He downed the cups as she poured them. They were once again delicious, and the girl’s smile only grew wider as he continued to drink. He finished the seventh cup and licked his lips. “This is delicious,” he told the girl. She nodded. “More?” He shrugged. Passing over his wallet, he said, “Take what you want,” his words slurring. She nodded, emtying the wallet. She grabbed another stack of cups and another pitcher. She filled a cup, which he then drank, then the process repeated itself. He watched as she poured the last drops of the second pitcher into one of the cups. She looked up at him. “Follow me.” He cocked his head. Her blurry little face stared at him sadly. “What?” “Need to make more,” she whispered. He nodded. “Okay.” She made her way to the door, Henry, dizzy and confused, following close behind. As they got inside, the door swung closed behind them. He jumped. Something was wrong. Why would he be so scared of a sound he heard every day, likely more than once? The girl grabbed his arm and pulled him up to the kitchen. She made her way up to the counter. He watched as she prepared more lemonade. There was one difference, however. The pink color was gone. He looked at her. “Put the pink in!”, he told her, his words stringing together and slurring once more. She looked at him, thinking, and passed him the pitcher. She then turned back to a small door in the back of the room. She pulled on the doorknob and looked inside. She grinned. She led him up to the entrance. “Pantry?”, he guessed. She shook her head. “Look?” He nodded. “Sure.” She swung the door open wider. He looked inside and saw nothing but darkness. Before he could say anything, the girl shoved him in with force that he could scarcely believe had come from her. The door slammed shut behind him. Blinding bright stadium lights shot on on either side of him. He looked down at the pitcher. It had sprung several small leaks on the side, causing some of it to spill out onto the floor. He gasped and placed his hands to the holes, desperate to save the delicious substance. He lapped up some of the lemonade on the floor. It was not, however, the same as it had been before, it seemed. The heavenly flavor was replaced by the inherent sourness of pure lemon juice. He spat it out. The pink, he thought to himself. It had never been added. What could it have been to disuise the bitter, acidic taste that now lingered in his mouth? He suddenly heard a moan from the other side of the room. He stood up and ventured over to the source of the sound. More lights shot on as he moved into darkness. When he reached the wall, he saw a young woman facing towards the wall, banging on the metal surface. She turned to him. He shrieked. The skin on her face had started to dissolve and fall off. She moaned again and grabbed his leg. He felt a burning sensation there and looked down to see her hand, dripping with acid, removing itself from a patch of melting skin. “Don’t drink the lemonade,” she forced, her voice raspy, like her throat was dissolving too. He screamed and ran back to the door where he had been thrown in from, the skin on his leg peeling down. He banged on the door. He shouted for help, the same raspy sound echoing back to him. He felt like he had swallowed several razor blades. He reached for his neck, swallowing. As he removed his hand, he saw the same acid dripping from both his hand and his throat. He sat down. The pink was some sort of drug, he thought to himself. It must have been. The lemonade was, what? Just pure acid? Some chemical cocktail? He shuddered. Glancing back at his reflection, he saw what he had seen on the woman’s face. Instead of screaming, he got to his feet. He stumbled into a crawling position and once again made his way across the room. The young woman sat in the same position, wailing for help in her raspy, strangled voice. She noticed his reflection beside hers and murmured, “You drank the lemonade, didn’t you?” He nodded. “It was delicious until I got in here.” She coughed. “Acid.” So he had been correct. “What happens now?” She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, she started another coughing fit. After a few seconds of racuous coughing, she spat out a large mass of blood and thick chunks of tissue, all of which were melting into puddles. Her eyes glazed over. Henry swallowed. It had become clear what was going to happen to him. The woman’s body collapsed onto him, spreading the acid along his legs and stomach. He yelped in shock and pain. That was the next step. Death. What was there to do but wait? The sound of a door opening and slamming shut shook him out of his fancy. He looked back to see a boy about the girl’s age fall into the room. Henry screamed to alert him that he was not alone. His pitcher had also cracked, but he was wise enough to leave it there. He ventured out to the middle of the room, taking up all of his aching body’s strength. The boy too had set out to find the source of the noise. He stopped, seeing the mass of Henry’s body in the dark. As he took another step, the lights shot on, revealing the grotesque view that Henry had seen on the woman’s face. He screamed, louder and louder still as the last of the skin on Henry’s neck began to dribble off. Only a small amount of skin remained on his face. The boy turned and screeched louder than Henry had heard in anything in his life. He banged on the wall, desperate to get away from the pile of Henry. Forcing out the words, Henry rasped, “How much did you have?” The boy screamed again at the fact that the lump of skin and bones in front of him could talk. It took him a while, but he gathered the courage to yell back, “One cup.” Henry smiled. “I don’t know what happens to you,” he whispered as the last ounce of skin on his leg bubbled out of existence.. The boy turned and ran to the place where he had come in, kicking at the door. And though he could barely hear himself over the screams, Henry was delighted when at that moment he began to cough.


Screaming sirens forced his eyes open. Unable to fall back asleep, he pulled his aching body out of bed and trudged to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. Specks of rust dotted the chromium walls of his tiny apartment, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city. The bed stood alone in the center of the room, the single piece of furniture he had been able to bring himself to purchase, trying to avoid another tether to this space. Outside, a blazing neon blimp floated by, blaring its ad for spotless luxury condos in Uptown. The models’ unlined magazine-beautiful faces sneered at the decrepit landscape as they passed through. He gulped the mixture down, an oily, gritty substance that burned his throat as he forced it into his body. A slow warmth started blooming in his belly as he took a pull from his narco-pen and waited for the combination to creep through his system and exact its familiar anesthetizing effects in his frontal lobe. Long pulses of light brightened the room at random intervals, and the insistent screech of sirens burst through the haunting silence that smothered the inhabitants below. Dust floated like ash between the tall honeycombed towers that stood like aging sentinels, disused and uncared for. A rising tide of prosperity had left the majority of denizens strewn about like so much driftwood in its wake. Unlit corners of the street below buzzed with an angry activity, hooded figures scurrying to and from the pockets of darkness, cigarette burned pockets filled with grams of various balms to soothe the pain of poverty. He sat heavily on the bed’s edge, running his fingers through a thinning underbrush of weedy growth. Thoughts buzzed by, honeybees floating on the updrafts of a warm summer breeze, as the drink started to envelope his mind in a pleasant haze. His mind began to wander into the space between consciousness and oblivion, waves of mild pleasure bringing him back to a narcotic sluiced wakefulness and releasing him as they rolled by. The harsh ringing of the phone wrenched him from his pillowy half-sleep. “‘Lo?” A familiar toneless robotic voice. “312 new avenue. Apartment 457. Instructions will be coming shortly.” The line went dead. Duty calling, always at the most inopportune time. But he needed the money and you never knew these days how much time would stretch between calls. Two years ago, when everything went bust and people started defaulting on their payments, he’d have a backlog of jobs piled up, work enough for the next month. Now he was lucky to get a job every other week. A glance in the cracked, grease coated mirror revealed a sagging face darkened by lack of sleep, and he quickly looked away. The digital display flickered past 4am as he pulled on his uniform, a matte black armored bodysuit. The final touch was the helmet. That helmet changed him in the eyes of those he passed in the poor quarters. He could see it in the way they stiffened and gave him a wide berth, the hate brimming in their eyes and the curses muttered under their breaths. Few were so bold as to engage him, but he’d seen and heard it all. Always through the thick screen of the helmet, which muffled their hoarse screams and flailing limbs as they flung their anger at him, as though he were watching an old film. The sound of the door snapping shut bounced around from wall to wall in his skull, each reverberation a muffled thump that shook his head. His brain was still swimming in the fog that had settled in during the early morning session as he mounted the rusty company issued hoverbike and set off. Few people were out this time of night, and those were the dregs that had blossomed like maggots in a festering wound. Onto new avenue, which had infused the area with a brief glimmer of hope, a sliver of incandescent joy at its width and richness. Strolling couples and babies in carriages. Then a rapid decline as shops closed up and businesses moved uptown, unscrupulous characters haunting the corners and alleyways, little by little the shiny veneer wore down until it cracked and sagged. Two minutes out he started to get that familiar dread, like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel that now churned in his guts, burning. A rancid stench hit him like a wave as he dismounted and entered the building, scanning his company badge to unlock the door. No lifts in this part of town worked, so he lugged it up the stairs, battening down the hatches and preparing his mind for what was to come. The sounds of his knocks echoed down the hallway, soliciting cracked doors and curious eyes that he could feel like targets on his back as he came face to face with a dirty, wan face. “Please, just a few more days. Just a few more days, I’m begging you.” “You’ve failed to make the requisite payments to The Cintall, Underwood, Newman, and Twit Company who has graciously extended you an extra day to make good on your contract. I will now escort you from the premises.” “Please, please, I have two children, where are we supposed to go? I have nowhere, I’m begging you please.” “The system has determined you be removed, and it is my duty to remove you. Gather what you can carry and exit the space.” His foot prevented the door from closing and shouldered the door the rest of the way open. Two round faces stared at him, peeking above the couch, eyes wide. One hand tightened white around the crumpled edge of a frayed blanket. The other latched on to that of the older sister. The woman continued to beg and plead, mewling at his feet before quickly turning to rage. It always went like this, the belief that they could talk their way out, then the shift to begging, changing to explosive rage as they realized they could do nothing. The outcome had been decided, and he was just the human cog designed to make sure it was carried out in accordance with the laws set down in lines of code. The waves of the woman’s rage continued to break against the wall of his calculated indifference. He glanced at the children and quickly away again. Tears splashed down their faces, brought on by the outpouring of emotion from their mother. He grabbed her and pulled her roughly to her feet, beckoning the children over. “Tell them to come. Make this easier on yourself” He smacked the hand that was clutching, the thick padding of the glove rendering the impact nonexistent. Her desperate, guttural yells bounced back and forth through the apartment. “Take off the mask, you fucking coward. You can’t even look me in my face. Look at my kids, you’re killing them is what you’re doing. You put us out there and we’re dead.” Her face was twisted into a snarl, bloodshot eyes wide with a potent combination of fear and rage, strands of spittle flying off as she raged. “Let’s go.” he said. “Now, before you end up with some broken bones that I know you don’t have money to fix.” The two children shuffled from the couch to their mother’s arm, tears streaming down their face, tinny sobs wrenching their shoulders. A triumvirate of misery, salty streams running in rivulets and splashing onto their worn clothes, bleary eyes resigned to the slow march of death in missed meals and harsh weather, a bleak future of indeterminate length stretching out in front of them. Innocence that would be grounded out like a boot crushing a spent cigarette. They fanned out like a thin human flag as he dragged the mother from the apartment, the steel door snapping shut. Possessions trailed them like breadcrumbs, to be gobbled up by the vultures in the neighboring apartments as soon as they passed out of sight, erasing the trail home. Again he could feel the eyes, equal parts hate, fear, and relief, boring into his back. Down the stairs they went, the children frightened into silence and mother resigned a fate that was unescable. The ragged tune of their steps echoed throughout the metal stairwell. His frame took on more and more of her weight with every stair, as if the journey was robbing her body of the strength it needed to stand on its own. By the last stair, she was draped over him, silently sobbing against his shoulder. As the door shut behind them and the air outside hit them, autumn-cool with an undercurrent of the winter to come, the woman slipped off and lay on the ground, a puddle of misery, arms wrapped tightly around the children. He mounted the aging bike, started it, and drove away, forcing his eyes away from the scene but drawn back for a last glance in the rearview mirror. The three figures were tiny, diminished against the rising background of steel greys and flashing broken neon signs. Two sets of small wide eyes followed him as he left. As soon as he entered his apartment he collapsed against the doorway, slid to the floor, and wept. Huge, shoulder heaving sobs, gobs of snot and slime mixing with the salt of the tears running down his face. Thirty minutes passed like this until he inhabited an empty shell of a body, exhausted and spent from the outpouring of emotion. Occasional sniffs punctuated the relative calm until the only sounds were the muffled shouts of advertising jingles from the blimps that floated by. Then, silence. A heavy stillness thickened the air until it was pierced by the shrill call of the company phone.


“I feel empty.” This statement rang out into the silent air, the oppressive stillness parting for a moment before returning once more. Nature abhors a vacuum, after all. That place was never truly silent, actually. Along with the constant *hum* of the noise machine, designed to make listening in to our conversation impossible from the outside, there was the steady *tick*\-ing of Dr. Schuman’s clock. But, when I say silent, I mean silent to me. I had learned to tune these things out. “And what does ‘empty’ feel like?” Dr. Schuman asked. Dr. Schuman asked me questions like this often, and never seemed to be deterred by my lack of a satisfying answer. I shrugged. “It feels like nothing,” I told her. Again, silence. I took this opportunity to study the wall behind Dr. Schuman. It was covered in peeling wallpaper which was adorned with small sailboats. I didn’t like the sailboats. “And what does ‘nothing’ feel like?” She put a peculiar emphasis on the word “nothing”, as if this particular phrasing was very important. For a long time my only reply was to stare at her intensely. I tried to make it look as if I was gathering my thoughts, but I knew that I really didn’t have any answer to that question. “It feels… empty,” I clarified, at last. Dr. Schuman opened her mouth to, probably, ask for more specificity when a small timer placed on the desk directly to her right rang sharply. She reached over and switched it off. “I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow,” she said, extending her hand, which I took in mine. After a brief, awkward, downwards motion, I released it and walked back out the door and into the waiting room. The waiting room was full of dour people. Some were flipping through the boring magazines which litter doctors’ offices. Some were playing on their phones. Some even stared out into space, entirely motionless. I passed them and continued on to my car, turned the engine over after several unsuccessful attempts, and began the drive back to my apartment. Dr. Schuman always did her best, and I appreciated the effort, but these sessions did not seem to be progressing towards anything. I had not experienced the epiphany which the layman seems to think is the goal of psychotherapy. I assumed the fault lay with myself. The radio was playing a debate between a Christian and an atheist over the existence of God. I listened, found myself unconvinced by either side and switched it off. Afterwards, there was nothing with which to occupy myself but the white snow and monotonous rhythm of the traffic. My mind was blank until I arrived home. \*\*\* I didn’t like the way my apartment looked from the outside. I couldn’t really tell you why; I just didn’t like it. When I stepped through the door my girlfriend was waiting. She kissed me on the cheek and asked how my day had gone. I shrugged and told her that nothing had happened. She told me that something must have happened. Something is always happening. She repeated her question. I paused for a minute, thought hard, and replied that I had gone to my appointment with Dr. Schuman after work. She asked me how that had been and I told her that it was fine. She accepted this and we ate dinner together, mostly in silence. Afterwards we watched TV for a while and went to bed. We had sex and then set the alarm clock and went to sleep. \*\*\* “How are you feeling today?” Dr Schuman asked me. I shrugged. “I feel empty,” I told her. “And what does ‘empty’ feel like?” Dr Schuman asked. I told her that it felt like nothing. “You’ve been feeling that way a lot since your father died, haven’t you?” I nodded. “I haven’t been feeling much since then, I guess.” I could tell that she was about to ask for further clarification when a strange expression crossed her face and she seemed to change her mind. “Have you heard of philosophical zombies?” she asked me. “No,” I replied. “A philosophical zombie looks exactly like a human being from the outside and displays all of the characteristics of one. They eat and talk and answer questions, but they’re not conscious. Hence: zombies.” I nodded. “You, Philip, are not a philosophical zombie. You’re feeling something right now.” This was a joke. I laughed a little. “Would you know if I wasn’t?” I asked her. “Probably not,” she shrugged. “The whole point of the thought experiment is that they act exactly like a normal person.” “Interesting,” I said. It was interesting. \*\*\* The next day at work my boss yelled at me, but there didn’t really seem to be that much anger behind it. It almost seemed like a chore to him, something he just had to get out of the way. There was this queer emptiness behind his eyes, like nothing was there. I told him I was sorry for misfiling my report and that it wouldn’t happen again. He walked away. Karen from accounting asked me if I was okay. He seemed pretty mad, she said. I told her that everything was fine. He wasn’t really that mad; I could tell. She left with a concerned look on her face, but I could see that there was nothing behind it. \*\*\* My girlfriend wasn’t happy when I got home. Apparently, her sister had said something insulting to her aunt, despite knowing that the two of them (my girlfriend and her aunt) were close. They weren’t speaking now (my girlfriend and her sister that is). I told her that I was sorry and she said it was okay, that she just needed to vent. I nodded and went back to typing on my laptop. I had set myself up in front of the TV which was off. I didn’t want it to distract me, but since the conversation with my girlfriend had already done that, and since I needed a break anyway I turned it on. The President was giving a speech about a mass shooting. Twelve people had died. He was devastated. He offered his deepest condolences. He promised that “something will be done.” But there was nothing behind it; I could tell. \*\*\* That night, as my girlfriend and I lay next to each other, falling asleep, I looked at her and wondered what she was feeling. *Maybe she’s not feeling anything* I thought to myself. I looked into her eyes. She looked back. I saw nothing there. “Is something wrong?” she asked me, after this continued for some seconds. Dr. Schuman’s words echoed in my mind: “They eat and talk and answer questions, but they’re not conscious.” After I didn’t respond, she put her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?” she persisted. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I told her. That night, I dreamt of zombies. \*\*\* My next session with Dr. Schuman wasn’t until the following week. Nothing happened in the interim, really. She asked me how I was doing and I told her that I still felt empty. “It might be time to try other methods, Phillip.” She took out a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. “This is a prescription. I think it might help. Give it a shot and if nothing changes in a week or so, we’ll know that it’s not for you.” I reached out and took it. “Thanks,” I said. On the way home, I stopped at the drugstore and tried to fill the prescription for the first time. They told me it wouldn’t be ready for a few days. My girlfriend told me she was going to visit her parents and would be back later in the week. I said goodbye and she walked out the door. That night, I dreamt of nothing. \*\*\* The next morning the TV was playing the Presidential Debate. One candidate promised equality. The other responded by promising a balanced budget. The first said that the country wasn’t doing enough for the poor. The second insisted that we couldn’t allow rogue nations to acquire weapons of mass destruction. And never the twain did they meet. \*\*\* Work was not going well. Fixing my mistake with the report was taking longer than I anticipated and Doug wasn’t happy about it. He wanted the corrected report on his desk by the end of the day, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do that. I told this to Karen, and that worried expression crossed her face again. The same one. Exactly the same. “What are you going to do?” she asked. I shrugged. Somehow, I wasn’t too concerned. When I brought what I had managed to finish to Doug at the end of the day he was furious. I’d never seen him so angry. His eyes were wide and people on the other side of the office could no doubt hear his tirade. But, I remained calm. I knew there was nothing behind it. \*\*\* The next night, my girlfriend returned and asked me how my day had gone. I told her that I had been fired. She dropped the plate she was holding and spun around to look at me. I pushed past her to retrieve the broom and dustpan, then bent down to begin sweeping up the shards she had created. “What do you mean you were fired?” she asked in a shaking voice. “I mean that I don’t work for Walton Chemical anymore,” I told her. She knelt and put her arms on my shoulders, stopping me from continuing with my work. “How are we going to pay the rent, Philip? What about food and car payments and... medical expenses?” she guided my hand to her stomach. I was confused. “Medical expenses?” In response, she held up a pregnancy test. It showed positive. I took and examined it quizzically. “You’re pregnant.” She gripped my shoulders tighter. “Is that all you have to say? After losing your job and finding out you’re going to be a father?” I continued sweeping. “Well?!” she yelled, shaking me. This was annoying. “Could you move your foot a little?” I poked at her left shoe with the handle of the broom. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” her voice was rising in volume. It was beginning to hurt my ears. “There’s ceramic on the floor,” I murmured, gently moving her foot to get at the piece of plate trapped beneath it. A loud *crack* reverberated around the room as her hand connected with my cheek. I was surprised at how much it hurt. “Why’d you do that?” I asked, holding the side of my face. “To wake you up, Phillip! Jesus Christ! We have to talk about this. We have to *do something*! We can’t support ourselves on what I bring home, especially not with a baby on the way.” “So abort it,” I shrugged. She looked as if she were preparing to hit me again when, instead, a resigned expression crossed her face and she stepped out the door. I went back to sweeping. \*\*\* The next day my prescription was ready. The pharmacist handed me a small, colorless bottle. Later, I took my first dose, with food as the bottle had instructed. Though both Dr. Schumann and the internet suggested that no effects would be apparent for several days at least, I instantly felt something shift within my mind. \*\*\* I was growing to hate my own cooking. So, the next day, instead of making myself food as I normally would, I ate all three meals at the McDonald’s down the road. It was hardly more expensive. When I remarked on this to the cashier he just nodded and handed me my order number. It was usually a quiet place, but as I entered the building for the third time I saw a little girl sitting in the middle of the floor and crying loudly. I crouched in front of her. “Does anyone know who this girl’s parents are?” I asked. No response. I spent a few minutes just looking at her, examining the way her tear-stained cheeks rose and fell, how her little chest danced erratically back and forth. The salty droplets traced rivers and valleys on her skin. They reminded me of rain whipped against a car window. I thought of the canals on Mars. Still, no one came to help. After a while, her voice grew hoarse. She looked for all the world like a broken android. \*\*\* I was walking to McDonald’s again when a loud *pop* drew my attention. A man with a gun was walking away from a female figure lying on the sidewalk. Blood leaked from its mouth and onto the ground. Many people walked past her. A fair number were even forced to step over her torso or legs in order to continue onwards. Yet, nobody made any attempt to render aid or stop the murderer as he evaporated into the night. In fact, nobody other than me even acknowledged the dying woman. I knelt and clasped her hand in mine, looking deeply into her eyes as the life drained out of them. I wanted to see if I could find the instant when they passed from humanity to objectivity. She smiled at me as I attempted this, as if she were glad to be of service. Eventually, it became clear that she had died with that Chershire mark still upon her face. I never did figure it out. \*\*\* The next day was the election. That night, as the results were announced, I mused vaguely that I had forgotten to vote. It was at a dreary bar on the other side of town that I watched the tallies from the various states trickle in. The candidate of change pulled ahead, and I felt an electric wave of excitement wash over the room. It was quenched suddenly when the candidate of the people took the lead and held it until the end. As the victory and concession speeches played, I saw anger and confusion explode from the people sitting across from me. Their faces radiated frank horror. Then, a deafening *bang* sounded directly to my left and I turned to see the man sitting next to me slumped in the chair, his recently discharged gun held in a limp fist. Blood trickled to the floor. Then, another *bang* rang out, and another and another until most everyone in the bar met the same fate, and by the same means. The few who remained calmly raised their glasses back to their lips and continued to drain them one sip at a time. The floor was slick with blood and viscera. I got up, only to slip and tumble back down. I had fallen next to a young woman with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to her chest. She reached out to me and I put my hand on her cheek, whispering soothing words. “It's going to be okay,” I told her, again and again, stroking the side of her face. “No. It’s not,” she whispered back. I almost thought that I was witnessing the destruction of a human soul, amidst the mire and blood, in the bullet’s wake. She almost succeeded in convincing me that there was such a thing to destroy. As I looked into her dimming eyes, I saw their evaporating existence as nothing more than a facade wrapped around the unyielding void at the bottom of all human life. But, still, her heartrending final gasps and bloody caresses, which I received with gravity, were truly lifelike. Later that night the President-Elect gave a speech about the incident. He promised that “something will be done,” and offered his deepest condolences, but there was nothing behind them. I could tell; I could always tell. \*\*\* Every time I visited the library that room was closed. At 3 PM, no earlier and no later, I would walk up to the librarian and politely ask if the room was open today. “Not today,” she would tell me. The day after the election, however, she smiled at me instead of giving her customary rejection. “Yes, today it is open.” I nodded sagely. “Take me there, please.” She obliged, taking up a lantern and leading me into the space behind the librarian’s desk. We moved slowly, hobbled by her ancient legs. “Why, today, is it open?” I inquired. “All things closed must open eventually, elsewise they are not really closed, they do not exist.” This was a reasonable answer. “I am not open,” I told her. “Presumably, you have bled at some point?” “And if I hadn’t?” “Naturally, you would not exist.” This too was satisfactory. We came to the room and she left me and the lantern, the only light source available to me. For a long time, it was the two of us and nothing. Then, a ghastly scream began to echo in the dim chamber. For several seconds, it ricocheted wildly, as one would expect in a place with narrow walls. And then the echoes became more and more distant, as if the walls were drawing further and further apart. At that instant, the room was flooded with an unbearable light, against which I screwed my eyes shut, to no avail. It pierced my eyelids like rice paper and became more and more painful until I feared it would precipitate blindness. And, strange it was, strange indeed, that in the instant blindness appeared certain it came not. Spinning and blue, and green, red and yellow, and indeed all the many particularities of human ocularity came instead, laughing and crying and smelling gorgeous. An eternity passed like this, and then another in reverse. All of this, of course, passed through my eyes, but then, vision inverted itself and I stepped outside the vantage of these globular impediments and saw them instead, especially the pupils, and what handsome blackness they were! I saw them fold in on themselves, drawing the rest of my formerly useless body along with them, back into the nonexistence which gives rise to us all. Free, finally, from corporeal entrapment, the humor of it all became very clear, and the visions resolved into the form of a woman quite familiar to me: Dr. Schuman. “And how are you feeling?” she asked. “I feel nothing,” I told her. I ran my hand over Dr. Schuman’s body, and at every flinch, every shudder, I suppressed the urge to laugh. She smoothly undid my belt, with quiet efficiency. And then, the rhythm of the act, normally so primal, so human, began to grow metronomic and hysterically precise. She let out soundless gasps and arched in perfect stillness, suffering nameless, horrific ecstasy. Her sweet nothings, whispered directly into my ear, were most funny of all, for I couldn’t tell whether these responses were born of passion or programming. Images of violence and savagery flitted behind my eyes, all of them hilarious, putative outrages upon the body. And then, mangled machines: twisted, broken, unused. Everything dissolved into phantasmagoric splinters, swirling in cosmic uncertainty, and, of course, as above, so below. I couldn’t keep it all straight: man, machine and morality. Severed limbs, rusted engines, brains and motherboards. All of this appeared in my field of vision superimposed upon Dr. Schuman’s body, still motionless and writhing. And, finally, I was able to stand it no more and the sound of my laughter exploded against the unnarrow walls as I was forced to wonder, what difference is there between these things? forgetting To how I talk am. was Right that? and yoU aLl; -- It’s funny, isn’t it? W0r ds c1n **H**o w b**E** so broke,n st il**L** and so und3rstan;dable.


Trevor could not have said what made him stop at the psychic shop that bitter Sunday afternoon; it was a highly uncharacteristic thing for him to do. He had neither believed in nor truly even considered the phenomenon of self-proclaimed clairvoyance much before that moment. But, impelled by forces he did not understand and could not resist, he walked through the stained, wooden doorway and peered into the dim candlelight which provided the only source of illumination in the small front room. “Hello?” he called into the dimness. “Coming,” an accented, female voice called back -- Jamaican, likely, certainly Carribean. As he awaited the arrival of the voice’s owner he took the opportunity to orient himself and scrutinize his surroundings. The shop contained no electrical lighting. In fact, it contained no electronic devices of any kind. It was like an anachronistic world all to itself. Soft, dark walls seemed to drink his pain, leaving him only peace. The shop’s owner materialized from the depths, bearing a wide, ancient lantern which she set down on the counter before turning to face him. Small, fine lines ran down the corners of her eyes and gave her a grandmotherly appearance. Her skin was very dark, and this magnified the illuminating effect of the lantern, leaving the shadowed portions of her face indistinguishable from their background such that all that was clearly visible to Trevor were her eyes and a small circle of flesh surrounding them. “Sit,” she intoned with a resonant voice, pointing to a chair just now coming into visibility as the lantern cast its light. “Thank you,” Trevor replied simply. “What brings you here?” “I... I don’t know, really. I don’t normally come to places like this...” the woman cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Nobody comes here by chance.” This was said with a decisive air of finality. “Then, why *am* I here?” She smiled and it applied a wonderful distortion to her features. “You are here because I can give you exactly what you most desire.” Trevor sat in silence for a moment, fully appreciating these words. “I don’t even know what that is.” “Most men don’t. But, I do.” She reached out her hand. “I can tell you what it is, and I can give it to you, but you must share yourself with me. All your history, your thoughts, your memories, I must see them to fully understand you. I will take nothing that you do not give me, but know that if you hide too much I will not be able to do my work.” Could this woman be telling the truth? An intuition born of some unknowable force within him told Trevor that she was. He *believed* it -- without question. Truthfully, the psychic’s proposition was very attractive to him, and not merely because of what she offered to give. Sharing himself, truly being *understood* by another human being... This was something he never believed he could achieve again. Within us all there is a primordial desire to be *known*, to break the solipsistic confines of our own mind and perceptions. We communicate our thoughts and affections and desires with paltry words, but can never know if we are understood fully and completely. And so, knowing this, Trevor took the woman’s hand. It was soft and firm, aged and weathered but still comforting. For a moment, there was mere silence. Then, he felt it begin. *Nighttime games on the streets of Kingston.* *Stern, unsmiling faces admonishing little Ionie not to play after dark.* *Dinner, breakfast, lunch at the small table by the window.* *A flood of faces, people, lost loves, old friends, enemies, a life lived and lived well, and now drawing to its natural close.* Then, with a shock, he was back in the little room and looking into Ionie’s face. For a moment, he did not understand why he should be seeing his own face as if an outsider, but the moment passed. Ionie appeared very grim. A tear fell down her cheek and hit the counter. “My poor boy,” she whispered and squeezed his hand tightly. “Poor, poor boy. You have suffered so much.” The enormity of the gesture was too much for him and his eyes glazed over with tears as well. She did not merely empathize with him, did not merely express a shallow sentiment of pity -- she *knew*. “Well?” he asked, after a dark moment of solemn contemplation. She steadied herself, drying her eyes. “The memories...” she began. “I can make them stop. I can take them all away.” She needn’t explain further. Trevor understood what she meant, and she saw in him that understanding. He looked up at her after a minute or so of staring down at his own hands. “She would be gone, then? I’d forget it all?” “Yes, I’m afraid it all must go, all the memories from beginning to end. That is the only way to heal the wound. If I leave anything, I will leave the pain too.” Trevor sighed and sat back. He closed his eyes and called up his earliest memories of Ruby, considering the woman’s offer... \*\*\* Trevor had always liked going to the Starbucks on the corner near his house. He was impervious to his friends’ accusations of conforming to the middle-class Caucasian stereotype and went there often. He spent long hours there, enjoying the solitude afforded by a pair of headphones and selective deafness. People had always posed a challenge to him. The life of the hermit held little appeal, but most other people merely and frankly exhausted him. It required great effort to force a smile and feign interest in the weather or his friend’s most recent romantic conquest. Often, after work, he would find a corner of the shop, buy a coffee and work on the screenplay he had been intending to finish for several years. From time to time, someone would recognize him and when he wasn’t able to effectively dodge their efforts to engage him in conversation he would be forced to break out of his comfortable, self-imposed isolation, plaster on a false smile and make idle small-talk. This routine continued, relatively unchanged, for some time until one day he looked down at his cup to see that alongside his name there had been written a series of digits. A phone number. He looked up from his table and caught the eye of the girl who had written it. She smiled and quickly looked away. Trevor did not know how to feel about this development. Was it a trick, he wondered. Surely she must have been put up to it; it was a cruel joke. All of his previous romantic entanglements had been hard won conquests which took months and months of painstaking effort. Usually, he invested this effort for no return. Yet, here it was, right before his eyes: the phone number. It appeared genuine enough. The area code was right. Later that night, after a long time staring at the cup, he decided to call the number. The odds were very good that it would turn out to be a Taco Bell or some such nonsense. But, he found the call answered on the second ring by a friendly, female voice. “Hello?” she said. “You-you left me this number,” Trevor replied, dumbly. “I did,” she laughed. “Do you want to get lunch some time, or dinner maybe?” “Sure,” Trevor was still in shock that the number was real. They made plans for dinner the next day at a little restaurant downtown. He strode across his cramped apartment, nearly tripping on the myriad discarded things on the floor. *I’ve gotta clean this up,* he thought to himself and set about the task with a renewed vigor. The next day, he arrived at the restaurant at the appointed time, probably overdressed. He fidgeted with his collar, cursing himself for thinking it necessary. *She’s going to think I’m crazy. I am crazy. Christ, I’m crazy...* Round and round the thoughts went, bouncing along the internal corridors of his mind as he found and took his seat. *20 minutes early. Why did I leave so early? She’s going to know that I’ve been freaking out about this all day. Am I sweating? I think I’m sweating.* Aside from the waitress coming and bringing bread to his table, Trevor was left alone with his internal monologue until his date arrived. “Hi,” he said, standing suddenly and spilling water all over the bread. “Oh...” She merely smiled and put her napkin down to soak it up. “Ruby,” she said, extending her hand. “Trevor.” “I know. I take your order every Tuesday.” Trevor sat down after helping Ruby to dry the table. She followed suit. “Right,” he said. “So, Trevor, what do you do?” “I’m a janitor at an insurance company,” he said. “This is usually the part of the date where the girl leaves,” he added, half-joking. “I’m still here.” As she said this a twinkle of strange humor played in her eye, a slight, corruscating, tantalizing thing. “Okay, who put you up to this?” Trevor was growing exasperated. “Was it Rob? I bet it was Rob, oh he loves to screw with me...” Ruby cut him off, placing her hand on top of his. “Nobody put me up to this, Trevor. I like you. I’ve wanted to do this for some time now.” He shook his head. “Nobody likes me, Ruby, and the more you get to know me, the more you’ll see why.” She laughed and he found the sound entirely disarming. In an instant, the whole edifice surrounding his jaded heart dissolved leaving only frank wonder and stupefaction. “Do you know *Crime and Punishment*, Trevor?” “Yes, I read it once, years ago.” “Do you remember the drunk Raskalnikov meets in the bar, Marmeladov?” “Yes, I think I do,” he said thoughtfully. “Marmeladov tells Raskolnikov that he believes he will be forgiven by God after he dies, forgiven for all his sins. He says, ‘And the wise ones and those of understanding will say, “Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men” And He will say, “This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them believed himself to be worthy of this.”’” Ruby was that kind of woman, the kind that could call to mind the words of Dostoyevsky to illustrate her point, yet never thought herself intelligent or wise. And, indeed, those who think themselves wise hardly ever are. Trevor took in Ruby’s appearance for the first time, fully perceiving her. Before, he hadn’t dared allow himself to know what would soon be ripped away. But, her explanation had convinced him to place in her at least that much faith, faith he did not give out lightly. So, he glanced up and studied her. Her hair was black as night, veiling a slender, curved face within which sat two cerulean eyes of deepest watchfulness. The whole world, it seemed, could be found within their blue domes, as the Earth is shrouded in its blue sky. A pair of crimson lips shone from the bottom of her face, living up to her name. Ruby was not especially tall, but neither was she diminutive, and the poise with which she executed every movement gave her the appearance of a giant, sweeping and brilliant. Trevor blinked rapidly, avoiding her eyes, perhaps afraid of blinding himself should his gaze linger there too long and allow, through its windows, her effulgent soul to connect with his. The evening passed wonderfully, and all thought of deception or malice quickly evaporated, leaving Trevor free to speak and listen in ways he never was able to in his quotidian life. Carl Jung once said, “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” Certainly, this was how he felt, at the very minimum transformed. More dates followed, and, proving false Trevor’s disbelief in the reality of the whole affair, they went remarkably well. He found a peace and happiness for which he had to reach into the deep recesses of childhood memories to find its equal. The two were inseparable and hardly spent more than a day apart. Eventually, the two were engaged and for a time it seemed as if he really would live happily ever after. But, life is cruel and hardly ever fair. Shortly after Ruby accepted Trevor’s proposal, made at the very same restaurant at which they had had their first date, she fell ill. It was her nature to brush such inconveniences off, to attempt to power through them with sheer force of will, something of which she was hardly lacking. But, after collapsing one day after work, she was rushed to the hospital where the diagnosis was made: cancer, inoperable. The words seared themselves into Trevor’s heart, made newly vulnerable by Ruby’s hand. No barrier stood between it and the vicissitudes of life, and those words, when he read them, annihilated his tender spirit. Long days passed within the hospital’s sterile walls as he suffered under the harsh fluorescents. He saw the love of his life transformed into a kind of cyborg, more machine than woman as her body began to shut down a piece at a time. Finally, the time came when the end was clearly in sight. Trevor had informed her family and they became well acquainted with the waiting room’s walls as well as even more intimately with each other. Grief has a way of bringing people together. Ruby’s parents and brother had come to think of him as one of their own, the fact that he and Ruby had not yet married really only registering to them as a technicality. They spoke one last time before the end, and both knew that it would be the last time. Trevor walked once more through the door to her small room and looked down into the depths of the bed sheets to see what remained of his beloved. “Why the long face?” she asked, smiling and then wincing with the effort. A tear slid down Trevor’s face in response. “No, no,” she said, and reached out for him. He drew close and she wiped away the tear. “I’m still here,” she whispered. It was too much. Trevor wept frank tears and she held him until there were none left. “Listen to me,” she said, and held his face in her hands. “I told you from the beginning that I chose you because you didn’t think that you were worthy of this. But, Trevor, you are. You are the most worthy man I know, and when I’m gone it’s going to be so easy to forget that, but you have to remember it. There are dark days ahead, I won’t lie, but pain is love too. It would be so easy for you to go back to the man you were, to see this as just another reason why you don’t deserve to be happy. Remember me, Trevor. Remember that no matter what happens there was someone who told you, who *showed you* that it isn’t true. And nothing can take that away. Even when it seems too painful, remember me.” And they were the last words ever spoken between them. Later that day, her heart stopped and nothing could restart it. She was gone. Her parting words echoed to Trevor across time, back across the years, floating into his mind and taking up residence there. *Remember me...* \*\*\* All of this fell across the inside of his eyes as Trevor considered Ionie’s offer, considered the full weight and measure of it. New tears leaked out of the sides of his eyes to join those which had already dried on his cheeks and he reached a shaking hand up to wipe them away. A shuddering sigh racked him as his eyes flew open and his jaw clenched. “Take them,” he said, dragging the words from deep within. “Take them all.” Ruby’s eyes appeared before him, and for the first time seemed sad. “Are you sure?” Ionie asked. “There is no going back.” Trevor closed his eyes again and Ruby’s last moments played themselves out as they had every time he had closed his eyes for the last month, as they had every time he had numbed himself to sleep or allowed his thoughts to wander for even an instant. *Remember me* “Yes. Take them,” he said, reaching his hands out for Ionie’s. She took them and fixed Trevor with her stare. “Love is a terrible burden,” she told him sagely. “You are wise to wish to see it erased.” And then it began, and the force of it knocked Trevor back into his chair. He saw Ruby once again, her smiling face and beautiful eyes and knew that it would be for the last time. That realization sent his stomach roiling and nearly overwhelmed him. “No, wait!” he shouted, but it was too late. There was no turning back. He saw their time together play in reverse, as if his life had been placed within a projector in his mind’s eye and was now being rewound for him. *Remember me...* *Her skeletal body in the hospital bed.* *Her face as he knelt before her and held aloft the ring he had worked so hard for.* *Dates in the park, at fairs and carnivals and the movies.* *Their first kiss.* *Their first date, and the stone wall around his heart crumbling.* *Glimpses of her making his coffee at the Starbucks.* And it was done. All gone, forever consigned to the black inferno. Trevor sat unconscious in his chair, unaware that anything had transpired, as he would forever remain. Ionie lifted him with a strength a woman of her age should not possess and carried him outside, placing him gently against the old building’s wooden wall. She looked down at him and felt a deep pang of remorse. It was never easy to say whether she had done the right thing, but that was not for her to judge. A higher judge must at some point subject her to that analysis, and she awaited His decision with utter serenity. She hobbled back into the shop, closing the door and extinguishing the lantern before continuing back into the dimness from whence she had come... \*\*\* Trevor woke some time later with a terrible headache. He looked up and saw a flashing neon sign: “Adam and Eve’s.” He looked down and saw a bottle in his hand and concluded that he must have just woken from one of his benders. With no memory of the preceding hours, this seemed very likely. He stood, steadying himself for a moment before turning to hail a cab. As he did so, and walked over to it, a flash of distant memory stopped him dead. With it came a vague sense that he was leaving something behind. He patted his pockets several times, but found all his possessions in order, yet, still, he could not shake the feeling.


This is my first story here, and its kinda long but I hope you guys enjoy it. Its about a dispassionate high school senior's last days in school. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I sat down with my friends. The room around me was bustling with the sounds of youth. I could hear it so clearly, it was as if it were next to me. In fact, it was next to me. My friend Cassidy spoke with her gaggle cheerleader friends, about the end of the school year. “Four years fly by so fast, bitch”, the flamboyant boy spoke in such a way that seemed so artificial. As if his personality was man made, carefully placed together to create an image that matched who he thought he was. In the end though, his tone of voice and mannerisms could only be described as fake, and even a blind man could see through it. I thought that it was pointless, this game of hiding and rejecting who you are only plays to hurt yourself in the end. You begin to lose sight of who you are, and thirty years later your wife tells you that she doesn't know who you are anymore, and you realize that you don't either. But I suppose to some degree we all put on our facade, and that divorce was inevitable. As humans we compensate. A woman who lacks confidence in her beauty wears makeup. A man afraid of his sexuality, bitterly attacks homosexuals. A person afraid to appear dumb, learns large words to make himself sound smart. I suppose I am just as much of a liar as everyone else in the world, and so I am in no real position to judge. I scanned the room of students eating their lunch, and thought to myself. Two more weeks and I will no longer have to deal with this dreaded place. For four years, I played the game of youth. For four years I was an outcast, and when I finally decided that I wanted to change. I was out of time. Maybe this was a lesson, I was not meant to be a part of the in-crowd. I took solace in that thought. It helped me feel as if I had spent my time these past years correctly. “Oh my god, my gown doesn’t fit me.” said one of the jubilant nobodies. Her chipper voice broke my train of thought.“Bitch, How? Your Figure is great!” Once again the gay boy used his signature phrase. I rolled my eyes at their pointless conversation, but then began to wonder what truly was “pointless”. In a moment, I had returned to deep, and likely pointless, thought. As I continued to scan the room before me, my eye was caught by a girl. Her skin appeared to be soft and white, like virgin snow. Despite me, having never witnessed virgin snow at first hand, she was how I imagined it. Her hair was black, straight and short but flowed freely back and forth as she moved. She spoke to the group at her table, and laughed in gay youth. When she laughed two dimples appeared in her cheeks. Her name was Summer though, I doubted she knew my name. She had first caught my eye, three months ago. Shortly before spring break, our school held an every fifteen minutes event. Which is to discourage young students from drinking and driving. It was funny to me that the school only condoned singular illegal actions, but heaven forbid you perform two at once. It was almost as if the school itself was telling all students, “It’s okay to drink underage. It’s okay to drive underage. Just don’t drink and drive underage.” I suppose it was similar to how schools taught sex ed rather than abstinence. Regardless, I was tasked to be a photographer for the event. Well, I was the third choice for photographer. Initially it was the photography teacher and my friend Michael, but when they realized that they needed another hand, they asked me to help. I only joined because I learned that I was allowed to skip my classes for the day. I was going from table to table taking photos of the students preparing for the event. I had always felt that the position of a photographer was perfect for me. The outsider looking in, only capturing moments of the lives of others. Never truly a part of the moment, simply a means to prove that the moment existed. In some way, I was the most important part of life. If an event happens and no one witnesses it, then how can anyone confirm that it happened at all? I am the witness, I am the proof of existence. Or at least I told myself that. As I moved around the room, she entered. Apparently she was one of the makeup artists for the event, She was there to make it look like the students had just been in a car crash. I was taking photos of a group that was across the room from the entrance. I had only noticed her arrival when she walked past me to speak to someone at the table. I looked back into my camera after taking a photo, and noticed a beautiful girl. When I looked up, she was gone. I turned around and there she was. I pulled the camera to my face, and snapped a photo as she reached towards a box of makeup on the table before her. I looked down at the photo I had taken, and she rushed over to me “Oh, How did it turn out?” she placed her arm on my shoulder, and slightly pulled me down so that she could see the photo. I was taken completely off guard. “I-it turned out alright. I think?” my face instantly turned red. For a moment I thought that I might die. She took her hand off my shoulder, and I felt as if I could breathe again. She smiled, flashing her dimples at me, and said, “It looks pretty good. I see why they hired you.” She turned away from me and returned to the makeup table. I turned back to the rest of the students, and continued with my work. Occasionally, her dimples would flash back into my mind, and I would begin to long to see them. I would take photos of her, simply to sneak a look, and occasionally she would show me her dimples. As I thought back to that day three months ago, something caught my eye and pulled me out of my daydream. A waving hand. As I snapped back into reality I realized that the waving hand was hers. I was completely flustered once again. I thought that the best way to recover from being caught staring was to pretend as if I was not. I jerked my head back slightly, and began to wave reluctantly, pretending as if I didn't know she had caught me staring. We flashed smiles at each other, and returned our attention to our respective groups. My face began to boil in embarrassment, but I was relieved of this feeling of dread when the lunch bell rang. I rushed to class, and began to put the whole ordeal behind me. The next morning I woke up to my 6:00 AM alarm. I fumbled with my phone to try to turn off the loud ringing and after a minute or so I succeeded. I promptly threw my phone across the room. I slowly pulled myself up and began to get ready for the day. I left the room to brush my teeth and when I returned I felt the need to check the time. I walked around my room looking for the phone I had thrown earlier. I picked it up off the floor and turned it on. It read 6:08 AM and beneath the time, there was a notification from Instagram “xoSunflowerox sent you a message at 12:08 Am”. I opened the message and saw that it was from Summer, *“Hey! Sorry, I thought you were looking at me during lunch yesterday. That’s why I waved*.” I was dumbfounded and began to think to myself. How did she know my Instagram? She texted me at midnight, she must have been thinking about me. Yeah she probably was thinking about me. Thinking about how creepy I was. I continued down that chain of thought for a couple of minutes before I realized that I should probably respond. *“Na it’s alright, I was just lost in thought thinking about graduation.”* I thought that I would stick to my cover and play dumb. I sat down on my bed and several minutes later she responded *“Oh yeah that’s right! You’re graduating soon. I’m going to miss seeing your cute face around campus”.* I fell off of my bed. Was this really Summer? This had to have been some kind of elaborate prank. I double checked the account and it was undoubtedly her‘s. My mind flashed through possible responses that I could make. I climbed back onto my bed and in my best attempt to sound cool I typed. “*Yeah I kinda blows because you’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”* After I pressed send, I reread the message, and fell off of my bed once again, cringing at myself. In pure desperation I turned off my phone entirely, and continued to get ready for school. When I exited the front door of my house I came to the conclusion that I was being pranked. As I walked to school I began to think about who would hold such an elaborate prank on me. Luckily I didn’t know many people so my list of potential pranksters was short. The issue that I had faced was that within my short list there was no one that I was aware of, who had a friendly relationship with Summer. I reached into my pocket for my phone to check the time. I turned it back on, and the first thing I saw was a notification from Summer “xoSunflowerox has sent you a photo” I reassured myself that this was it. Now the prankster would reveal himself and we would both have a good laugh. I opened the message and it was a photo of her. The orange morning sun lit her white skin turning it golden, and the light showed the intricacy of her beautifully brown eyes. However beyond the highlights of the image were the dark little patches of shadows where her dimples were. There was a graphic in cute pastel colors that read “Thank you”. I half tripped when I saw her photo. I thought that even the most untalented photographer could make masterpieces with her as a subject. She’d be perfect for me. As I looked more closely at the photo I realized that she was at school and I was not. I looked at the time on my phone and it read 7:03 AM. Classes started at 7:20 and I still had a 20 minute walk ahead of me. I threw my phone into my pocket, not responding to Summer, and ran towards the school. My first class of the day was calculus two, I had barely made it in time before the late bell, and took a seat beside my friend Peter. After the teacher performed her opening lesson, and we were all working independently, I began to confide in Peter the events of my morning. “It’s definitely a prank.” He said callously, “There is no way that a beautiful girl like her would ever take interest in you” “Right!” I agreed, “But I wonder who it is.” Then, in contrast to his last statement, Peter said, “But if it is genuine, and you approach it as if it isn't, you could really be blowing your chance with a beautiful girl.” “You suck, don't give me hope like that.” I had only shortly played around with the idea that Summer's advances towards me were real, but I simply couldn’t believe it. No girl had ever been so forward with me, and so why would one be now?“Well, I mean. If it is a prank, and you fall head first for her, yes, you look like an idiot. But only for like two weeks. The real question is can you live with yourself if it's genuine and you blow your opportunity.” I buried my head into my arms in search of hopeless respite. He made a solid point. By accepting her advances, I had more to gain than to lose. All that was at stake was my pride, and I really didn’t have much of that to begin with. “Why are you acting like I have a chance?” I asked. “Because, Ollie, at the end of the day, I’ll be here to help you out whether it's a prank or whether it's not. I mean regardless, it’ll be entertaining for me.” “You’re a shit friend.” This was our relationship. I had never felt like Peter was particularly rooting for me, but I also never felt as if he was ever really rooting against me. It was like he was just around to watch and see what would happen. Maybe that’s why Peter was such a good photographer. I smirked at him and began to return to my work. As hard as I tried however, I could not get the image of the golden sun hitting her face out of my head. I kept thinking about Peter’s reasoning more and more. Then I began thinking about why I was thinking about Peter’s reasoning. I finally concluded that it was because I wanted him to be right. I wanted it to be real. I wanted Summer. During Lunch, I didn’t sit with Cassidy, the summer sun was not too harsh today, and so I sat alone outside in the quad, and drafted my response. *Hey sorry for the late response, your photo made me speechless… and late for class.* I thought about the message, concluding that it was just playful enough that it could work in my first step on trying to woo her. A figure appeared before me, but before I looked up to see who it was, I sent the message. I then heard a phone chime and looked up. There she was, as if on queue, a light breeze blew her hair slightly to her right. “So here you are? You weren’t with your usual crowd. You hiding from me?” She smiled playfully. I couldn’t believe it. Her brash approach towards me threw me off completely. I wondered if she had even considered my feelings in all of this. Did she not realize that with her beauty, she could give a man a heart attack? After a moment of silence, I realized that she was waiting for me to respond. “W-well, I can only behold your beauty once a day or I think I’ll, I’ll MELLLLTTT” I began to slide down the bench I was sitting on, towards the floor. She lightly laughed and covered her mouth as she did so. I wished that she hadn’t so that I could see her beautiful smile, but the gesture was attractive in its own way. Before I hit the ground, I pulled myself up and sat back down. “Well that makes things a lot harder, now doesn't it?” she said, while taking a seat next to me. She was so close that our elbows slightly touched. I wondered if this girl had known what she was doing. I wondered if she was planning on killing me. “I suppose that just means that we should spend the whole day together.” Her cheeks were rosy. I awkwardly chuckled to myself to try and gain my composition. Then I was caught by the thought that this was genuine. No girl could laugh at my pathetic attempts at humor if she didn’t like me. No girl would be able to fight the natural cringe of my cheesy remarks if she didn’t like me. I was expecting to wake up at any second but I never opened my eyes. After our small bit of banter, we sat in silence for a moment. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. She was sitting beside me with her legs pressed together and her hands resting on her knees. There was a sense of tension as if both of us were waiting for the other to make a move. It was like two cats had locked eyes and were preparing for their showdown. When I thought to make the first move, I had realized that I knew virtually nothing about this girl. As my mind scrambled to find something of value to say, I decided to choose my default student question and asked her about her classes. She told me, “AP U.S. History, Psychology, AP literature, and precalculus.” Initially, I thought that she might be smart but her class lineup proved it to me beyond a reasonable doubt. I found myself a little intimidated. “What major are you planning to take in college?” I thought for a moment and said, “Political Science. For a while, I thought about Astrophysics, but the only money to be made there, is in the best of the best. And my calculus grade shows me that I am not in that margin.” “Political Science and Calculus, huh. Those are two very different fields.” There was a moment of silence, then she said, “ You should help me study for my precalculus final!” She dug into her backpack and pulled out a worksheet and showed me her progress. I was taken aback, for a moment I suspected that all she wanted was a math tutor. But the plot seemed too convoluted to be true. A third of the paper was complete, and the majority of the answered questions were wrong. I thought to myself that regardless of whether or not this would score me points with her, this girl needed major help. I grimaced wryly at her and said, “Oh man, we're definitely going to need a table…” I stood up and she watched me for a moment, before following suit. We began walking towards the library. As we approached she grabbed my arm and stopped me “Umm actually, can we not go to the library?” I thought that maybe her boyfriend was the librarian’s aide, but then I remembered that the librarian’s aide was a girl. Maybe she was a lesbian? I broke my strange train of thought and made a questioning expression towards her and she said, “It’s just I owe two books, and the librarian has been hunting me down.” I instantly understood how she felt, the librarian terrified me. Before I found myself in Cassidy’s clique, I often stayed in the library during lunch. I would watch the librarian hunt down rowdy students. Once, when I was studying alone, listening to music, my headphones unplugged when I reached for my backpack and the music played out loud. Before I could turn it off, she stood before me menacingly. Her gaze pierced my soul, and she kicked me out of the library. She half dragged me out, because my body was too afraid to move. As shivers ran down my spine I said, “Okay, lets go to the photography room then.” It was once my personal safe haven, but I hadn’t gone in a while so it wasn't the first place that I had planned to go. We walked toward the photography room. As I opened the door, I shouted “Hello! How are you!” There were three people in the room as we entered. The teacher, Mr Cardenas greeted me, and I walked towards my desk, and Summer sat down next to me. Summer questioned my strange greeting and I explained, “During fourth period, I hold the door open and greet everyone as they come to class. It started back when I was the teacher’s aide for the class.” She nodded like she understood. Peter walked over towards me, and patted me on the back as we walked past me. My face began to feel like it was on fire, and I had wished that he wouldn't make such obvious gestures towards me. For the rest of the lunch period, we quietly worked through the problems on the worksheet. We worked closely, trying to share my small desk, which was already limited in space due to a computer monitor. Occasionally our heads would bump into each other, and I would feel her soft hair brush against my face. We came across a question that was so utterly incorrect that I questioned to myself if she had even taken the class. “You have to erase all of this.” I said. “What? I’m sure that there is something salvageable here.” she responded. “Yeah, no. This one is so wrong, I can’t even begin to find where you went wrong.” She pouted at me, but I didn’t understand why she was upset. This was math. Numbers are cold and uncaring, and they love to express how incorrect you truly are. “I guess I really am dumb.” the brightness of her face dulled, and I couldn't understand why. I spoke coldly, “You’re not dumb for making mistakes in math. Even the greatest mathematicians, make mistakes. Would you tell Albert Einstein that he was an idiot for discovering relativity earlier? Or Newton for not realizing that it was gravity that brought things towards the earth? If making a mistake means you’re dumb then everyone is an idiot.” There was a still silence, not even the other people in the classroom spoke. Summer looked at me, her cheeks were red. I couldn't tell if it was rage, or embarrassment but I could tell that it wasn't good. I was frustrated in myself, I had a bad habit of speaking in an abrasive way, and it was obvious now, that my lack of social skills were backfiring. I might as well have just told her that she was an idiot for thinking that she was an idiot. I had to apologize. I began , “I-I…” “I’m sorry.” She finished my line for me and threw me for a loop. “I guess, I just don’t really believe in myself.” She looked down, and the light from her face faded even more. I only longed to see that light again. “Yeah, well. We’re following the path of intellectual titans. People that can only be described as perfect and the fact that you can begin to understand any of this is proof enough that you have a right to stand beside them.” She nodded and I assumed that she understood that I was trying to compliment her. She smiled at me, flashing her dimples. I had succeeded, but I couldn't help but feel guilty. I had dragged her through the mud only to clean her off afterward. I wished that I didn't have to do that. Why did I have to be like a sour patch kid? First sour then sweet. Why couldn’t I just be sweet? While I sat there thinking to myself, I hadn’t noticed that the lunch bell had rang. “Well, Mr. Tutor. Will you walk me to class? It’s precalculus so I might just skip.” I was pulled back into the dream that was, being in her presence. She began to put her things back into her bag and stand up. How could she just change the atmosphere on a dime. A moment ago I was flustered that I had borderline insulted her, but now it was as if all was well in the world once again. I felt that this might be an opportunity for me to make a cheeky remark and so I said, “It might be best that you just skip, and have me teach you.” She smiled at me and said, “I might just take you up on that offer.” Her response made my heart skip a beat. She made her way out of the classroom, and I followed her, leaving my things in the classroom. It wasn't fair, I could have sworn that I had the upper hand, but her beauty was too much. She was cheating in this game of banter. We began to walk down the hall together. “Wow, how can you be so bad at math? Do you pay attention in class?” I joked. But then I instantly regretted the words that escaped my mouth. Hadn't I just told her that it was okay to not be good at math? “I’m more of a reader than a math person, you dick.” She playfully pushed me to the side. She seemed to have picked up on my playful tone, and responded accordingly/ I moved back to her side and retorted, “Good, then you can read your math textbook.” I chuckled at my own joke and we walked in comfortable silence to her class. When we reached her class, we stood outside for a moment. This was it. Every moment, every sly remark, had led to this moment. “Uh, you know. I really recommend that you need a tutor for math” I used my hand to pull my hair back and attempted to avoid eye contact, “so could I have your number?” “I’m not sure Oliver” my heart broke. It had all been for naught but before I could respond she said, “Because apparently I’m just no good with numbers.” This girl was something else. Did she not know she could give a man a heart attack? She pulled a piece of paper out of her backpack, wrote her number and handed it to me. “I hope that you could solve this problem without my help.” She smiled at me showing her dimples, and I smiled back. She turned and walked into her class, but the smile on my face would not go away. I ran back to the photography classroom, and when I entered, Peter, Michael and the Photography teacher were waiting for me. I dramatically raised my hand holding the piece of paper, and we cheered.


Mo and Bo lived together in a forest in Northern Ontario. More specifically they lived in a tent on the edge of a cliff by a lake. Mo was always taking good care of the animals who lived in the forest, including Bo, whom Mo humorously considered the most endearing animal of them all (Bo and Mo were both humans). Bo on the other hand was a bit more careless, but because of this Bo was more willing to be put at risk in order to protect Mo and the animals. Despite their differences Mo loved Bo and Bo loved Mo. That is, despite even their different needs for the bonfire they kept outside to warm themselves in the cold winter nights, they found a way to live harmoniously. Mo didn’t need much heat from the bonfire to feel warm, so if too much lumber were added to the fire Mo would feel hot and uncomfortable. Bo felt cold fairly easily, so if not enough lumber were added to the fire Bo would feel cold and uncomfortable. Most nights they would keep the fire at a nice even level. Mo would be okay with keeping the fire a bit warmer than Mo needed, if it meant that Bo would feel a bit more comfortable. Bo would be okay with keeping the fire a bit cooler than Bo needed, if it meant that Mo would feel a bit more comfortable. Sometimes Mo would even add a bit more lumber to the fire to make it warmer, because Mo wanted Bo to be happy. In the same way Bo would sometimes add less lumber to the fire to make it colder, because Bo wanted Mo to be happy. One very cold night however, Bo decided to add more lumber to the fire than usual, Bo thought Mo would not complain, as it was a very cold night after all. But alas, when Mo and Bo sat down by the fire to stargaze Mo started to feel a lot warmer than usual, even though Mo hadn’t added any extra lumber that night. Mo was uncomfortable about this. “Bo did you add more lumber to the fire tonight?” asked Mo, cautiously. “Yeah it was really cold today so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I added some extra lumber.” replied Bo, with a defensive tone. “Well I’m really warm right now” Mo retorted, grabbing the iron stick they kept by the fire and pulling some of the lumber out. “How could Bo not care about how I feel?” Mo thought. Bo was visibly frustrated, Mo was deliberately removing lumber to make Bo more cold! “How could Mo not care about how I feel?” Bo thought. “I’m freezing cold now Mo, what’s the big deal?” Bo furiously inquired. Bo grabbed some of the extra lumber they kept some feet away from the fire and threw it into the flames. This time, Bo added more lumber than the first time, and the fire was even warmer now. “Well I’m really hot with all that lumber, don’t you care?” Mo exclaimed and once again removed some lumber. This time, Mo removed more lumber than the first time, and the fire was even colder now. This back and forth continued, Bo added more lumber, and Mo removed more lumber, each time the temperature of the fire getting more extreme and Bo’s and Mo’s temperaments likewise. Bo and Mo were no longer acting like themselves - Bo wanted Bo to be happy, Mo wanted Mo to be happy. Mo became exhausted of this tug-of-war and to create a stop to this Mo started throwing the lumber they removed down the cliff and into the lake. Bo was not happy at all about this “Why are you doing this? Can’t you see how much I’m shivering?”. In fact at this point the fire was so weak even Mo was shivering, but Mo was so upset that Bo would make the fire so hot it would hurt that Mo preferred to feel cold. The back-and-forth continued, but each time Bo had less and less lumber to feed into the fire. The fire got weaker and weaker, and Bo could no longer sustain a fire warm enough. Noticing Mo was also cold, Bo gave up, hoping that Mo would start adding more lumber themself. Maybe without Bo’s pressure, Mo would feel comfortable with a warmer fire. But what Mo gave Bo was what Bo least wanted, and least expected. “This fire is so weak there’s no point in even keeping it alive, we might as well light it off. We can each just build our own fires and go our separate ways.” Mo said, in a sad, defeated tone. This is not what Bo wanted, Bo didn’t want to lose Mo, and deep down Bo knew Mo didn’t want to lose Bo either. Mo cared for Bo and didn’t want Bo to feel cold. Mo also cared for Mo and didn’t want Mo to feel hot, so even though it hurt, Mo thought this seemed like the best solution. “I don’t want that, you can build the fire and add as much lumber as you want, I’m okay with feeling a bit cold.” Bo finally managed to respond after a long silent pause. “No I care about you I don’t want you to feel cold, you’ll feel warmer somewhere else.” Mo said. Bo knew this wasn’t right, and for very good reason. “There’s nowhere in the world I’ll feel warmer than in your arms.” Bo, with a calm yet poignant demeanor told Mo. Bo’s and Mo’s eyes locked for what felt like minutes, and before moving their gaze away Bo saw Mo’s eyes slightly brighten up. Reluctantly but with a more relaxed tone, without saying anything Mo grabbed a piece of lumber that was still lying around and threw it into the fire.


Back in 1982 a young man from a neighborhood community disappeared. None really cared because he had a reputation of getting into trouble, harassing and assaulting people. He also was known to assault police officers when arrested. So let's say when he disappeared not too many people in the area really cared. No one in his family even filed a missing persons report which was odd. I wanted to go to college but my family didn't have the money. I got money to go to college in exchange for helping out someone who really wasn't college material but wanted to have the experience. Anelia Ivanov was the name of my room mate. Very nice, quiet, shy type of woman. I found out that most of the people in the dorm that I live in were from a neighboring country that had cut ties with Bulgaria back in the 1960's.. The name of the country was Varna which was a province of Bulgaria. The majority of people who lived there were Bulgarian and the main religion was Eastern Orthodox. My father Andrey Petrov was from Varna, he came over in 1950, joined the US military, went to Korea for 3 years became a citizen. by 1954 he had gotten an honorable discharge, met my mom in Chicago. They married in 1955 and had 2 children. My sister was born in 1956 and I was born in 1962. In 1967 my father went out one day and never returned. My mother who was a Swedish Lutheran converted to the Eastern Orthodox faith after marrying our father. The church we attended from time to time was the Varna Eastern Orthodox Church. Nearly all of the people who were members of the church were Bulgarian. My sister looked like my blonde blued eye Swedish Lutheran mother and I looked like my dark haired brown eyed Bulgarian father. Part Swedish and part Bulgarian. My mother Christina named my sister Maud and I was named Svetlana. I was named after a much older sister of my father whom I've never met. She had died during World War II. My mom made sure we had exposure to festival and events in both communities. We moved to Florida in 1969. As I said earlier we sometimes went to the Lutheran Church and the Eastern Orthodox Church. My sister and I were baptized Eastern Orthodox. August 1980 Orlando area Varna Eastern Orthodox College When I moved into the dorm, I met Prince Antoni and his younger brother Prince Anzhelo. Both were very good-looking men. Their father King Andrian was the ruler of Varna. They knew that my father was from Varna. When I seemed surprised they told me because I was rooming with their sister, they did research on me. They told me they knew more about my family than I did and laughed about it like it was a joke. I didn't doubt this. Prince Anzhelo was a freshman just like I was his. His older brother Prince Antoni would be graduating from college in May. I thought it was odd that Anelia wasn't a princess but I soon found out why. She was their half-sister and her mother was their father's mistress. She and her mother actually lived in Daytona Beach, which was about 30 miles away. Her mother Louann Hawkel roots went deep in the South. I was somewhat surprised that the brothers tolerated her as usually in a case like this, they might be angry about it. I couldn't imagine most royals attending a college that their half-sister who was the result of an extra-martial affair attended. This royal family seemed to march to the beat of a different drum. It wasn't long before Prince Anzhelo and I started dating. Anelia had a boyfriend, a nerdy type guy. Her brother liked him. Daniel, the boyfriend was sort of scared of them. Of course they made it clear to him that they would have to deal with them if he hurt her or made her cry. Daniel was always helping Prince Anzhelo out as he liked to party more than he liked to study. His older brother was so serious about everything. Of course he was heir to the throne, so he had to be. I must say that he was impressed with me because I could speak Bulgarian, well the Varna Bulgarian which Bulgarian didn't consider to be the proper Bulgarian language. Basically it was the same, but with different slang, different meanings, kind of like the Queen's English and American English. I had learned how to speak Bulgarian at some classes at the church in Orlando. My mom insisted that Maud and I attend these classes. Maud could speak enough to get by. In May of 1982 Anelia was taking some pictures of the Varna Eastern Orthodox church when some guy parked in front of the church was involved in some type of criminal activity. He saw Anelia and started yelling at her. She got scared and ran. Got back to the dorm but forgot to lock the door. This guy got in the courtyard and started screaming. I called the police and they came and arrested the guy. Anelia was sobbing. I remember the knock on the door. I opened the door and Prince Antoni. He was furious. A female officer was in the room talking with us. About ten minutes had passed. "What happened?" "I was in front of the Varna church taking pictures and I saw some guy trying to sell marijuana and he thought I was taking pictures of him. He started yelling that he was going to kill me. I didn't look where i was going and almost got him by a car. I managed to get away but forgot to lock the door. he got into the courtyard.... "Where is this piece of garbage? Is he still here?" "He's been taken to the Orange County Jail, Prince Antoni." This seemed to calm the Prince down. Anzhelo told me his older brother sometimes had a short fuse and had a bad temper. I could see this. Prince Anzhelo rarely got mad about anything. This man bonded out of jail but came back to the apartment complex. Made good on his promise. This was a big mistake as Prince Antoni had his security people ready. He had done research on the guy. Someone at the jail had tipped him off when the guy would be getting out. Prior to the guy coming, they were in the courtyard talking in Bulgarian about what they were going to do. I pretended to be napping as before they started talking, Anzhelo came into my room and I pretended to be asleep. I heard him say that I was asleep. Anelia was in a fitness class. They talked for over an hour. I peered out the window. I saw Prince Antoni give his brother some money and told him to take me out for the evening. He told him to take me out to dinner immediately. It was a little early about 5:00 pm. Prince Antoni waved as we left. Also coming with us was Anelia and Daniel. We all went out to dinner, a movie and then I went back to Prince Anzhelo's place which was nice. The Prince told me that the guy had bonded out of jail and had threatened to harm Anelia. "She doesn't have to worry about him. He will never bother anyone again." I nodded. This made me uneasy as I knew they wouldn't be telling him nicely to leave Anelia alone. They wouldn't be paying him off or telling him to go away. They were going to settle the score with him. Most likely he would never been seen again. Prince Antoni had joked about his father making people disappear. It really wasn't funny but in order to be in his favor, you had to laugh like it was a joke. I knew it was no joke. He was dead serious and told Anelia so. She thought it was a joke. She couldn't imagine him doing something terrible to someone but I could. I really didn't want to know what they did to this guy. Prince Anzhelo was never involved with this although I'm sure he knew what happened. I played dumb and acted indifferent but it bothered me a little. "Dont' worry about this guy, Svetlana. He isn't going to hurt anyone again. Do you really think police are going to look for a guy who has assaulted them, threatened them or who is a thorn in their side? " "Probably not." I said. The police never came around and questioned no one. I was later told that the case had been closed. This is the type of power the King had. Very powerful. I found out that my father was alive and well living in Varna. There had been an uprising in 1967 and he had come back to Varna and had was loyal to the King who took power after taking over the Province. He broke away from Bulgaria and had access to nuclear weapons which caused the Russian to back off. Varna was recognized as a country in 1970. My mother couldn't understand when my dad left why the US military didn't want to give her military benefits. They wouldn't tell her and she wondered if Dad had left to go fight in Varna. The uprising of 1967 was a major concern for NATO. Finally after nearly a year my mother got the benefits. It was not surprising when Prince Antoni told me this shortly before he graduated. He knew everything and I mean everything about me, my family and everything else it seemed. The Bulgarian royal family didn't recognize them as being royals. Other royals didn't either. This family was about 15 times removed but there were distantly related to the Eastern European Royal households. The US sort of recognized them but were leary of Varna. I went to Varna in 1984 during spring break and I saw my father. Maud came with me. My mother chose not to but she knew about it. He was quite ill from smoking too much over the years. My mother was angry with him. We just wanted answers and he answered our questions. I must say that both Maud and I were surprised when he showed us pictures. Some from the church had filed him in with what we were doing all those years. I guess the real shocker was when he told us that the King made sure my mother got those benefits. My father was one of his security people and had saved his life on more than one occasion. I hate to say it but the King was a feared dictator. Whenever you have a dictator he's usually extreme left or right wing but this guy seemed to take ideology of each. Mixing of both. A example of this would be he believed that women should be traditional but also educated at the same time. His economics were similar to those in the US that were conservative but he believed that government could do this best. Allowed religion to practice but only on his terms or what he believed. The Russians and Bulgarians never admitted that they were afraid of him but they were a little. The US was leary of him (He wasn't a communism nor was he Hitler) but you didn't want to tick him off. Anyway, enough of that. My father died a couple of hours before we were to leave. We left a couple of days later. My father was given a state type funeral. We knew that people were watching us. The King talked about how wonderful he was. Loyal servant to the state of Varna. Shortly after graduation Prince Anzehelo and I went our separate paths. He had hinted this to me throughout our relationship. I never developed deep feelings towards him but was careful not to reveal this. I told him I wouldn't be his mistress and he understood. He would find someone. He married a woman who his father had picked out for him. A woman who was educated and suitable for bearing children. A virgin of course. The virgin part was more or less understood not actually written in stone. I was given a parting gift which was a new home in Orlando. Life went on. The man was never spoke of again.