The Music Box

The tiny ballerina twirled on her golden pedestal, a slight smile painted on her rosy lips. Her perfect golden locks were bound up in a bun on the top of her head, and her eyes were closed in Madonna-like bliss. She twirled and twirled, her leg bent gracefully and her arms in a perfect O above her head, heedless of everything but the Tchaikovsky waltz emanating from her music box. She did not notice the little girl who watched her with disheveled blond hair and blue eyes filled with tears, did not notice the yelling from the hall, did not notice the smell of alcohol or the sound of breaking glass. She simply twirled, oblivious to the world around her.

As Marissa watched the dancer in the music box, she sobbed. She thought back to when she got the music box, after her first ballet recital two years ago. It was a gift from her parents, back when Father laughed more than he yelled and when Mother smiled more than she cried. Everything she could remember from those days seemed magical, like a fairy tale-- no, like a dream sequence in a ballet that would never end. Now almost every night there was screaming and shattering and crying coming from the kitchen, as Marissa sat in bed holding her breath, dreading that the angry footsteps and slamming doors would find their way to her room.

One more bottle shattered, and the kitchen door slammed. Marissa heard the dreaded footsteps stomping up steps. She heard muttering now too, angry and threatening and dark. She heard the Tchaikovsky waltz still playing softly, the ballerina's dance winding down. Marissa looked at the golden dancer in the music box. "I wish--"

Marissa twirled on her golden pedestal, a slight smile on her rosy lips.  Her perfect golden locks were bound up in a bun on the top of her head, and her eyes were closed in Madonna-like bliss. She twirled and twirled, her leg bent gracefully and her arms in a perfect O above her head, heedless of everything but the Tchaikovsky waltz emanating from the music box. She did not notice the little girl slumped like a rag doll, disheveled blond hair nearly touching the floor, did not notice the muffled sobs and far-off sirens, did not notice the smell of blood or the glint of shattered glass. She simply twirled, oblivious to the world around her. 

Breaking Down

Edgar's perfect face glistened in the afternoon sun, his full lips curling into a smirk as he saw me waiting by his car. "Get in, darling," he said, voice as smooth and rich as dark chocolate. I loved him. I had always loved him. 


"Wait," I said, nearly tripping over my own boots as I tried to block the door. "We need to talk." 


He smiled, sunlight sparkling on his skin and glinting off his sharp, even teeth. "What is it NOW, Barbara?"


"That girl." I frowned. "That girl I saw you walking with. Who was she?"


"Baby, she's nothing," he said as he leaned in to kiss me. I tried to push him away, my fingers brushing against his cold marble skin. 


"I don't believe you."


"You know I'd never do that."


"I've seen the way you look at her. I've heard the rumors." I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and the tears well up in my eyes. I was sure I looked hideous to him now. But I didn't care. 


"They're not true, whatever they are." He drew closer to me, and I felt his iron grip tighten on my shoulder. "And besides. We aren't exactly in a position to say anything to anyone, are we?" 


I was crying for real now. "I'll tell them. I'll tell them all your secret. I'll tell EVERYONE in the SCHOOL! I'll do it!"


He wrapped me in his cold, perfect arms. "My dearest, I don't believe you will," he whispered, as he gently drew his fangs and plunged them into my neck. 

Thank you.

To everyone who's ever written a book,

Thank you.

To every author who's ever fancied her pen a wand
and picked it up and cast a spell on the back of a napkin
and captivated the world,

Thank you.

To every librarian
and every teacher
and every friend
who's ever handed on a book and said
"Read this. I promise, you'll love it,"

Thank you.

To every director who's ever picked up that book
and called up a producer
and said "Let's do it!"

Thank you.

To every costumer who's sewn a robe
and every make-up artist who's painted a scar
and every set designer who's built a castle
or a forest
or a yellow brick road
and every actor who's given up themselves to make a character live instead
even just for an hour or two,

Thank you.

And to every other fan
everyone else who's laughed with me
cried with me
screamed at a character in a book with me
waited in lines at 11:59 with striped scarves and lightning-bolt scars with me
and spent their 11th birthday watching the sky for an owl with a letter,

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

For letting us all believe in magic, just this once. 

Day 249

I am not alone. 


For two hundred and forty-nine days I have called this island my home. I have hunted and gathered, I have built shelters and made weapons, I have explored it day after day and night after night. I know it as well as I know myself, and yet today I find I am not alone. It's like finding a new mole on your arm. For all I know, it could be cancer.


He stares back at me wide-eyed and terrified, like some punk kid who just got caught with a can of spray-paint in his hand tagging a bridge. For a second I wonder if he's going to run. He doesn't. Neither do I.


I can tell he hasn't been here very long. His skin is still raw and pink from the sun, his hands not yet calloused from building and hunting. He's been here two days, three at the most. I wonder if he's even found anything to eat yet. I hear an all-too-familiar gurgle from a few feet away; likely, he hasn't.

Being alone on an island is a strange thing. Between your daily struggles for food and with nature you've got no diversions but those you can create. There's only so much hunting and storing and building you can do, only so many traps you can make and endlessly check. Your thoughts rage and hone themselves, your fantasies becoming more real than the driftwood in your hands. I think of how many times I'd imagined just such a meeting, carefully scripting and re-scripting what I'd say to another human mind that happened upon these shores. I faintly wonder what this scripted welcome was; all my mind draws up is the look of wonder and terror and hope in this stranger's stark blue eyes. 


My much-neglected vocal chords finally sputter into usefulness. "Hi."


"...Hi." 


I extend a tentative handshake. "Welcome to Zero Island."

Espresso Stories, 3/6/11

"The most basic rule is that they're just a sentence or two, totalling 25 words or less. Less hard-and-fast - but equally vital - are a theme, plot, characters, and narrative development. Everything you'd see in any good story - but short enough to fit into the time it takes to reach the bottom of that bitter little cup, as you ponder on how even the briefest experiences can make life more meaningful." (You can read more at http://espressostories.com/.) Some of ours are admittedly a little long, but here are our collective attempts:


When Maria came back, the stain had moved to under the chair.
--

She pushed each seed into the still-cold dirt, wondering how many more she had to plant before enough of them bloomed to choke the weeds out from her heart.

--

Their eyes met across the dusty road and with each step they took, another car blasted them apart.
--
Amy kicked back the last shot of alcohol, grimacing. The night was long, the party was far from over, and it was better for all involved if she spend it drunk.
--
Bridgette glanced awkward around the retirement center and held her breathe silently as they slowly shuffled past, vowing to kill herself before she got to this stage.
--
Roger knew then and there that he had never been so happy in his ninety-seven years as he had in that moment, Lois' age-spotted hand on his knee, asleep in her wheelchair parked by his bedside.
--
they didn't give her hair until they had to prepare her for the wake--twenty three hours after she stopped breathing, and twenty-three months after she stopped living.
--
"Nice cowboy hat, loser!" But Gary merely tipped his hat at the boys in the corner, winked, and kept dancing.
--
even as her last breathe was stolen by his magical lips the last thing he said was swallowed by the dirt as he hit the ground running.
--
The little girl swallowed the last of her cherry-flavored popsicle, absentmindedly chewing at the juice-stained stick as she sat in the back of the car, watching the hospital smear past the car window like fingerpaint. Today was a good day.


--Lynn, Patti, and Christie

Nuclear Spring

We stumble out into the sunlight, squinting. After twenty-seven months underground, I've almost forgotten what it felt like. The mayor shouts instructions through her megaphone as mothers try to shepherd their fascinated children and young couples whisper to each other, pointing at the trees and hills in awe. Some of the older women are crying. 

I hear a familiar voice behind me. "Hannah!" 

It's Darryl, stepping uncertainly out of the bunker, listening for the sound of my voice. "Over here!" I shout back, laughing. I grab his hand and lead him out into the field, past the snow-piles slowly shrinking to reveal grass almost afraid to turn green again. Instinctively, he turns his face towards the sun, amazed at the warmth the bunker's fluorescent lightbulbs never gave. 

"What does it look like?" he asks me.

I look around at the melting snow drifts, like clouds too lazy to stay up in the pale blue sky. "It's beautiful," I answer. 

In the distance, I can see the remains of the city, melted and charred in the aftermath of the war like a cake left too long in the oven. I shudder; I can make out the outline of what was once my office building in the mid-morning sun. I notice what remains of the city's residents around me peering over the hill crest, surveying the damage. The mayor says it's probably not safe to go into the city just yet, so we sit on the hilltops instead, sharing the last of our rations and wondering how to put our lives back together. Most of the survivors are women and children; some men stayed behind because of disability like Darryl or old age like the mayor's husband, but most were drafted to fight in the war. Once the bombs started falling, it's not likely that many survived. 

We're refugees now, that much is clear. Nobody knows how many other cities built bunkers; any communication we once had with the outside world has long been cut off. It's scary to think about how empty the rest of the world might be, about the billions of lives gone in a flash of fission and a mushroom cloud. I try not to focus on what's been lost, try to tell myself that we're part of a beginning rather than an end, but it's hard not to think about everything that's gone. They say that the winners of wars write the history books, but it doesn't feel like we won anything. 

Darryl and I are sitting on the ground now, his arm around my shoulder and his other hand trailing absentmindedly through the grass. Suddenly his thin, able fingers run into an unusual shape in the grass; he plucks it and presents it to me. "Is this what I think it is?" he murmurs. 

"It's a snowdrop," I answer in awe. I gently take it from him, marveling at the perfect white bloom. "I'm surprised one survived." I remember back to before the war, looking for snowdrops peeking through cracks in the ice as soon as it started to melt. Finding them was always like finding a new beginning; the little flowers seemed to reassure me that winter was finally over, that life could finally come out of hibernation and start living again. 

I turn back to Darryl. "It's beautiful."

"You're beatiful," he answers, although I know he can't see me. He brushes my bangs out of my face and tucks the snowdrop behind my ear, and we sit at the top of the hill in the sun as the world rubs its eyes and crawls out of hibernation, ready to start anew. 

--Patti

The attic story

1.) introduction.
---what's your name?
---i don't have one.
---you don't have a name? why not?
---i don't know? i was never... given one?
---never given one? BAH. i'll give you a name!
---oh...kay?
---yes! i shall name you...
---...?
---ann. your name shall be ann.
---thanks, i guess?
---you're welcome, ann.

2.)love
---ann, have you heard about the new boy at school?
---no, i don't go to school with you, remember?
---oh, right. where do you go to school, anyway?
---i'm not sure.
---well, you should go to my school!
---i hope i could
---anyway, there's this new boy at school
---a new boy?
---yes! he's really pretty too! my mother told me that everyone is pretty! do you think he thinks im pretty, too?
---who knows?

3.)light
---hey ann?
---yes?
---why is it so dark in here?
---i'm not sure. it just always is.
---i'm sorry! you should get some light in here!
light rustling, before blinds are pulled
---you see! it's light in here!
---i...guess.
---i never really saw what you're wearing before; that's a pretty dress you're wearing!
---thanks, i guess.
---it is! i like how it gets lighter at the bottom; almost like it's see-thru.
---hmm.

4.)dark
---hey ann?
---yes?
---aren't you ever afraid of the dark?
---what do you mean?
---i mean, you're always in the dark, what's it like in here?
---i guess... it's very quiet.
---...quiet?
---yes, quite so. it's actually very pleasant
---in the dark, listening to quiet?
---yes.

5.)seeking solace
---ann! ann! it's raining outside!
he's leaning against the window, hands perched on the window rail
---it's raining? gross.
---nah, nah, look outside.
---still, it's just rain.
---well, i happen to like rain.
---oh? explain.
---well, in english today, my teacher told us rain it just gods way of cleansing the world of sins
---sins? like?
---you know, loving thy neighbor, hatred, evil, homosexuality, racism; sins!

6.)break away
---hey, ann?
---yes?
---i think i have a problem.
he's sitting in the old chair, legs curled up against his chest
---what's wrong?
he glances at her, the familiar semi-transparent pattern flashing in the corner of his eye
---i think there's something wrong with me, that's what.
---what's wrong with you? i think you're just swell
---why, thank you. but, i think there is something wrong with me
---what? i bet it's nothing.
---no, no. no. no. i... there's this boy in my class. richard.
---wasn't he the boy who moved here years ago?
---you remember that?
---you were so excited.
---well... i think... he's really nice.
---so you like him?
---yes.
---what's wrong with that?
---i like him more than i should. what should i do?
---...
---i... i think im going to stop talking to him. if i stop talking to him, it'll all go away right?
---....

7.)heaven
---ann.
---yes?
---do you think heaven and hell exists?
---what do you mean?
---we talked about it in religious studies today; and i'm wondering what you think of it
---well, i'm not sure, myself
---i thought you would be
---why?
---because you... you're... nevermind.
---do you think i belong in either?
---i think you belong in heaven
---i think you belong there too. you've been a very nice friend over the years
his smile is lethargic as he glances out the window
---i'm glad i met you, ann
---and i you. it was very lonely here, before you first came.
her form is flashing and blinking like an almost dead light bulb

8.)innocence
---ann? are you there?
silence.
---ann? what happened? are you okay?
silence.
---ann? ann? Ann? Ann?
his voice has a tinge of hysteria in it.
---ann, please. i need you. please. ann? ann?
tears are falling down his face
---ann, please. please show yourself. ann, i'm sorry if i ever offended you or hurt your feelings. ann; ann please. ann please, please. please, ann!
he's hugging his arms around his form, fingers digging into his unnaturally thin sides
---ann, please, help me. ann, please. i don't... ann...
ann never showed.

9.)drive
he's flipping car keys through his fingers quickly
---hello?
---ann! hello there!
---what is with the keys?
---i'm driving somewhere, later today
---you're driving somewhere? where are you going?
---oh, you know. just a trip into the woods.
---camping?
---sort of.
---oh how delightful! i wish i could go with you
---i heard it's going to rain though, and i know how much you hate the rain
---i'd still go, just because it'd be a fun adventure with you.
his smile is bittersweet
---i'm sure it would have been.

10.)breathe again
ann is sitting quietly in her seat
---i wonder where he went
her transparent dress is flicking on and off all around her
---i hope he had fun on his trip.
she glances out the window, seeing nothing but sunshine
---i wish i could have come, it's all sunshine outside!
she glances away, still smiling
---ahh, well, i'm sure he enjoyed it.
she pauses, before glancing back out the window
---why, it's his car! ooh, he's back, isn't he!
she's watching with her fingers lightly touching the window
---why... is that not his family? oh, did they go with him! oh how much fun!
ann taps her fingers against the glass lightly
---oh but i do hope they didn't get over-heated during the trip
she pauses to glance back to her chair before back out the window
---black surely is a dreadful colour to wear, while camping.

response to my harry chapin addiction

Hannah and Jacob were the best of friends when they were growing up.

Their houses were right next door to each other, so it was only a matter of time before Hannah popped her head over the fence in between their houses, glanced around, and saw Jacob.

'Hey! You want to come over and play?' She called out to Jacob, who was sitting quietly on his lawn, two toy trucks in his hands.

'Play...?' He echoed. 'Play what?'

Hannah appeared to shrug her head, but since she was only appearing over the fence by hoisting herself up off the ground herself, it looked unnatural and awkward.

'I don't know! But come on, let's play!' She whined, her nose scrunching up as her arms shook, tired from holding up her body.

Jacob looked around his yard unnervingly, glancing between his red and yellow trucks, to the girls' head that was staring at him, before he shrugged his shoulders, and hopped up.

Hannah's face light up with a grin as she dropped from the fence, and Jacob dropped his toy trucks as he went around to the unusual girls front yard to do whatever.

And Hannah grins and grins, and Jacob smiles and smiles.

Years later, they're on Jacob's roof at around 2 A.M. Both of them are standing barefoot, and are clad in both jeans and ragged tank tops splattered with paint.

Hannah is laughing at a joke the D.J. pulled on the radio they're listening to that is balanced on the top of the roof. It's bright red blinking numbers are the only lights on on the entire block.

Jacob is looking around their neighborhood, before he falls backwards to sit down, not even flinching as the roof tiles dug into his palms. Hannah looks down at him, before she does a spin and falls down next to himl.

Neither of them talked as they just sit there, listening to the club music pounding on the radio next to them. It wasn't long before Jacob reached backwards and hooked his ipod into the radio, muttering how 'i don't want to listen to this electric-bass and auto-tuner shit anymore'. Hannah laughs loudly again, drumming her fingers against her knees.

After a few minutes of fiddling, Jacob swearing quietly, and Hannah admonishing him for swearing when he was such a 'perfect jesus-kid' Jacob finally righted himself, and and the sounds of two guitars started to play.

Hannah's face lit up and she laughed loudly before she hopped up on her feet, wavering only slightly before she started to sing in time with the song, 'My child arrived just the other day, he came to the world in the usual way,'

She grinned down at Jacob and smiled broadly when he slowly joined in as well.

'But there were planes to catch, and bills to pay, oh he learned to walk, while I was away'

Hannah was laughing and Jacob was laughing soon also. 'Dude, Harry Chapin? I knew you had it in you. The best folk-rock artist ever.' Jacob only scoffed and said, 'i always had his music on my ipod, you just never bothered to check'.

He finished with a wink before cupping his hands around his mouth, and shouted across the roof-tops, And the cat's in the cradle, and the silver spoon, Little boy blue and the man on the moon, oh when you comin' home dad? I don't know when, but we'll be together then, son.  You know we'll have a good time then.

And Hannah laughed and laughed and Jacob laughed and laughed.

Hannah is screaming in terror and her mascara is causing messy black lines to crawl down her face.

Her eyes are red from salty tears, and her throat is harsh and painful but she cannot help it. Her hands are clawing at her sides as she struggles to keep her composition, hair falling in her face.

Some of her shirt is on the ground, ripped and covered in mud and rain that continues to fall.

But her shaking eyes are still focused on the fight going on in front of her in this dark alley.

Jacob is there

Jacob is fighting.

Jacob is fighting for her. He's gritting his teeth and ducking under punches and smashing his fists and knees into the other, not holding anything back as he curses the body he's going against.

Soon, the ruckus is loud enough, what with her screams of terror and the horrible sounds of fighting that people are drawn to the alleyway, and quickly separate Jacob and the other body.

A few see Hannah standing in the back, and they see the black eye, and the split lip, and the harsh finger-shaped bruises on her sides, neck and arms. They quickly run to her, draping her in their jackets as her hands fall limply to her side, her shirt no longer providing adequate coverage of herself.

They are talking to her in hushed, rushed voices, asking her what happened, who did that to her, is she okay, what happened.

Her eyes are just only drawn to Jacob as he anxiously steps from foot to foot, adrenaline still rushing through his body as he talks to a few people, eyes accusing towards the other body which is sitting against the wall, blood pouring, a few people offering assistance, but not really helping.

Someone asks him a question, and he answers quickly, yet calmly. They nod, and repeat the information into their cellphone, and they walk away. Someone offers him a jacket, and he refuses before he slowly makes his way to the back of the alleyway.

Hannah only flinches visibly when she almost makes eye contact, and she looks towards the ground. The one standing next to her puts their arm around her for comfort, but she only inches away, fingers twisting with the zipper of one of the jackets thrown over herself.

Jacob stops in front of her, and stares at her face. He stares at the black eye that is vibrant against her pale skin. He stares at the mascara and eyeliner that makes tracks down her face, mixing with the blood from her split lip.

He stares at her silently, and she finally makes eye contact, and instantly her whole self crumples and she catapults herself at Jacob, twisting her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder loudly.

Jacob only hums into her ear, holding her up as her legs are shaking so much they are bound to collapse.

And the rain continues to fall overhead, as the people around silently circled them, or the other body against the wall, waiting for the police and ambulance to come for them.

and Hannah sobs and sobs, and Jacob hums and hums.

--lynn

Skinny isn't a compliment.

I climbed flightless stairs, trying to reach my destination.
At the top of the steps there was a feline.
She was the most majestic, maternal creature I had ever laid eyes upon.
Her fur begged you to feel it.
Her eyes warmed your toes and your soul and your heart.

"Hello," She meowed, her voice curling around like incense smoke, mysterious and intriguing.
"Hi," My eyes widened and my mouth murmured in awe.

"They call me," She purred sadly, "The Fat Cat."
She shifted her paws uncomfortably.
"But I am not fat," She said, "I am thin."

"You," I took an encouraging step forward, "Are beautiful."

Her ears perked up enthusicastically, "What is beautiful?"

"Beauty," I whispered, "Why, beauty is...it's special, it's untouchable, unreachable, beauty is the greatest compliment ever recieved, beauty is love in tangible form. Beauty is the eyes dessert, the ears most valuable image, the hearts most welcomed friend!"

"Beauty," She purred, "Beauty. Beauty. It is rather like being thin."

No. I thought to myself. Beauty and thinness are not alike at all. Beauty is round and robust, warm and inviting, inspirational and moving. Thinness is easily broken. Something thin may be beautiful, but not because of it's thinness, only because of the essence of that thin thing.

"Yes." I said gently to her, "Yes. Beauty is like being thin."

How would one explain beauty to such a cat?

--Julie 

balloons.

He does not ask for permission from the sleeping balloon stand man as he silently presses latex necks to the mouth of the helium tank. He does not say thank you as he fumbles with the balloon ends, struggling to tie them and attach them to strings. He does not say anything at all as he limps away with his helium-filled loot without paying. Such thoughts do not occur to the boy's mind as he makes his way down the street, this child with an oversize bouquet of carnival colors.

The need to ask for permission is not felt when one is a runaway left to fend for himself, living temporarily in a rusty, steel-and-concrete nothing of an elevator shaft with only his wits and the meager pittance he snatched from The Mommy two nights ago, which he uses for food from the 7-Eleven. The need to thank the world is deemed obsolete when one twists his right leg from tripping (of all things) over the base of a lamppost two hours after removing oneself from that nightmare called home, inhabited by The Mommy--not that gentle, loving Mommy of the cookies-and-hugs comfort he used to know, but a perpetually drunken Mommy who ruled the household with an alcohol-swayed fist and actions he must not think about...

In the lobby of the abandoned apartment building, he passes the stairwell, an option from which he has closed his mind ever since leaning on his right foot became too painful, deeming stair-climbing impossible. Above him, the balloons jostle and shift like so many marshmallow peeps bouncing around in a plastic bag; he adds them to a considerable quantity of balloons he had stolen yesterday. Yes, they would be sufficient, he thinks. With the entirety of his strung-up helium, he steps into the elevator shaft, a rectangular column of dingy, ashen-gray darkness braced with dust-coated steel bars lined with bolts, and he lets the stale mustiness fill his lungs. This is the last stop to his only hope.  The eleventh story. Words run through his mind as he appraises the light-filled portals that lead to each floor, mantras that make the freight train rounds insistently. Daddy is waiting there. Daddy said so.

A slight push against the floor using his functioning foot and he is rising slowly, balloon strings in fist, in a manner not unlike the way Mary Poppins uses her umbrella to sail skyward on the breeze. Five empty elevator doors pass beneath him--he is on the sixth floor, the seventh floor, the eighth. Somewhere along the way he discovers the ascent is made easier when one pushes himself up using the beams in the metal structure that cover the walls of the elevator shaft. Above him, some of the balloons silently deflate as the air seeps out through the inadequately tied knots; at first he is unaware, but by floor nine his lack of speed surpasses that of a dandelion seed sinking in still air.  The eleventh story, he thinks fervently as he uses his good leg to launch himself from the door to the ninth floor to the tenth floor. The eleventh story. Daddy is waiting there, Daddy said so.

Fingers trembling, he helps himself to his feet on the frame of the tenth floor, and at that moment, he glances up and sees the rotting fruit of his fatal mistake, already drooping earthbound. Despite the tight, dizzying storm of panic provoked in his chest, he cannot let this stop him.  Daddy is waiting--Daddy is waiting--have to get there--the eleventh story--he said so...

With pure strength focused to the future and unfettered by the past, he miraculously leaps to the eleventh story, and his fingers curl around the edge. Instinctively, his legs flail, scrambling for a foothold so he can climb to safety, and his right foot finds a supporting brace.  Daddy is waiting. One shift of his weight and he is secure--just as his wounded leg crumbles underneath the pressure and pain. The balloons, no longer brimming with helium, cannot support him now. Daddy is waiting--the eleventh story--Daddy is waiting...

His fingers grasp air, and he plummets, a bird shot from the sky.  Daddy said so...

No one sees the dead balloons, slowly descending like the last snowflakes of winter.

No one mourns for the boy's still form, sprawled brutally against the bottom of the elevator shaft with face bloody, legs askew, and ribs broken beyond mending.

No one sees the single white balloon that creeps toward the top of the dim tower of emptiness, nosing its way through the doors to the eleventh story.


--Christie

Consequence

5:50pm.

10 minutes till pickup.

-----

she took a deep breath.

and smiled.

her reflection was immaculate.

a vision in red flowers.

face perfectly toned with the right make-up.

legs showing but not to the point of vulgarity.

long jeweled earings droop from her head.

cascading brunette hair waved in ripples past her shoulders.

the emaralds in her eye sockets gleaming.she was ready.

picking up her crocodile skin purse, she walked outside.

and she waited.

she sat on her porch.

and waited.

and waited.

and waited.

for him to come along. to take her away.

6:20pm.

20 minutes after pickup time.

-----

she didn't text.

she didn't call.

she didn't communicate.

she simply waited.

she wouldn't be creepy, like those needy attention seeking gushers she went to school with.

she would be classy.

and wait.

for the boy she loved.

the sky began to turn a orange with burning streaks of red.

she looked at her watch.

-----

6:25pm.

25 minutes after pickup time.

-----

surely she hadn't been stood up.

of course not.

proposterous.

he was just as serious as she was.

right?

right?

her hands were clammy, and she was twiddling her thumbs.

now that she thought about it,

it was all rather out of the blue.

hadn't he one day just started talking to her?

was it just because nobody else would say yes?

paranoia.

had he changed his mind?

or was it all a joke from the beginning.

-----

6:45pm.

45 minutes after pickup time.

-----

she clutched her purse,

and stormed inside.

stood up.

for homecoming.

what person could do that? be so cold hearted?

obviously she had made a msitake.

she locked herself in her room.

put her headphones in her ears.

and listened to the angsty songs that had first contributed to her self-consciousness.

-----

she didn't see the bashes in his car.

how only one of the headlights was working.

how one of the windows was broken and there were cuts all over his face.

all because she couldn't hear the doorbell ring at 7:00.

--mark

Breathe

and there you are.

on my doorstep.

I can see your face peek through the window.

look around in confusion, as if expecting me.

I stand up and walk towards the door.

you see me now. 

you smile warmly.

my hand almost touches the handle.

but I pull back in fright, as if the handle were conducting electricity.

you're confused. so am I.

you raise your eyebrows.

you mouth the same words over and over.

let me in.

and each time my hand goes near,

I remember.

I remember why I can't turn the handle.

a tear rolls down my cheek.

you just look at me in confusion.

in sympathy.

I turn around.

I walk away.

I look at the kitchen utensils.

at the knives.

then I look at you,

and remember why.

why I can't pull a knife down.

why I can't put an end to this torture.

I sit and sob.

I can't look you in the eye anymore.

I can't breathe anymore.

--mark