Riddle

I am death. I am life.
I am everyone. I am no one.
I killed your parents, yet I gave them new life.
I am smart and funny and beautiful.
I am nothing more than a speck.
I am loved. I am hated.
I am my own worst enemy.
I know how to read, or at least how to listen.
I sleep, I eat, I live.
I will do more if I choose to.
I am of no accord, but I mean the world to someone.
I am never alone.
I am obvious.
I am who you think I am.

Crush

I loved her, but it was forbidden.
Drink it up, or break it down.
The dove has a broken wing,
and my spirit is failing.
Pinned down with no where to turn,
I think of the one I long for.
Beaten and dejected,
I will have my revenge.
I will destroy them.
I thirst for it.
Never forget your first.
Don't even try to forget.
It tastes too sweet,
even if the pain is too bitter.
Drink it down, or break it up.
It was forbidden, and so I loved her.

Thirteen Squared

One day two days ago, three thoughts popped into my head. For four years I had been working hard so that for the next five or six I could work even harder. Why was that? I remembered back when I was seven, life was so simple. My hardest decision was which of my eight dolls I should play with that day. I thought, that day, that I wanted that back. Nine months ago, I wasn't even thinking these things? What had happened? Even to go back ten years, back to when I was eleven, would be better than where I was now. Twelve more days. That's all it would take and I'd be done and moving on, but on to what? What happens on day number thirteen?

Those were my thoughts: feeling lost in the present, a memory and desire for the past, and uncertainty for the future.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and counted to twelve. I used to count to eleven, just because most people count to ten, but soon even that started to seem unoriginal to me, so that was why I increased it even more. I need those extra seconds, just like when I was nine years old and needed eight extra seconds to finish the races after the other kids. Maybe I didn't want to go back. Sure, I had plenty of dolls and toys back when I was seven, but what was I doing, really? Now that I think of it, even when I was only six years old, I wanted to go back, back to before I was five or even four. Back to a simpler time. There were only three things I needed back then, and really three things I need now: to love, to be loved, and to know what love is. I already have two of them. And maybe it is worth the rest of my life to find the final one.

Winning

Whenever I win or lose at any kind of game or competition, I ask myself, "Why?" The answer when I win is almost always: "Because I cheated." When I lose, the answer is: "Because my opponent did a better job of cheating than I did."

I can do anything I want, unless someone tries to stop me. And no one ever tries to stop me until after they've already realized what I'm doing and by then it's too late. The only time I can be stopped is when someone who is already just like me is going up against me. I know what I want, and I take it. That's what winners, what cheaters do.

I will always be this way; I don't think I'll ever change. I used to think I was unique, but I have come to realize there are many like me. I've met them. The only time I really have fun, really see a challenge, is when I'm going up against one of them. This game we play, it has whole new rules. You can't win unless you cheat, but cheaters don't always win when there is more than one of them playing.

There is no room for ties or compromise. Someone has to come out on top, and more often than not, it's me. There are people who have given me a run for my money, though. I am not someone who can't be impressed. But every time I am beaten, I learn something, and I grow stronger than before. Each defeat makes me stronger, and as I grow stronger, I am defeated less often. One day, I will be invincible.

But what is invincible really? How do I know when I've reached supremacy. Because no one else can win against me? Perhaps I have just not found a worthy opponent. And if there is a worthy opponent out there, I want to find him, because if I defeat him, I am one step closer to being unstoppable and if he beats me, I am still one step closer.

I learn; I grow; I do whatever it takes. One day, I will rule this nation, and then, the world. And it all started as a game.

For Your Own Safety

Words.
Written with you in mind.
They tell you to slow down, calm down, and be safe.
Be safe.
Isn't that the way to be?

They say rules were made to be broken.
Were bones made to be broken?
What about feelings?
Do you need help to keep your own self safe?

[Probably more to come... I was going to write more and lost my train of thought]

The Return

He sat alone at the small, round, mahogany table in the corner of the bar. This particular table was usually reserved for any pair of gentlemen who wished the ogle the serving maidens in relative secrecy, but there was no ogling coming from it this night and as much as the town didn't seem to appreciate what this man and his companions had done for them, the bartender at least appreciated this man's pain enough to not ask him to move.

The man had come into town a few hours ago with four other companions, the only people in the world he had been close to over the past 15 years, but at this point, even they had left him. They had all come expecting a glorious and joyous return and instead they had been greeted by emptiness and the occasional guilt. They thought they had wanted greater companionship, but after the way things had gone, they all decided they wanted less. And so each man, friend, adventurer, whatever they had become over the past 15 years, went his own separate way to find his own forgotten place in which to seek what little solace he could find.

This man chose this bar, far less unchanged than the people he had once gathered with here to drink in celebration or anguish or just because they could. Only now, he was alone and forgotten at this corner table that was the same as it had been 15 years ago but which he had never even sat out until now. He had never wanted to be hidden until now.

He was playing with a thin layer of dust on the table when he heard footsteps coming his way. He looked up to see a girl walking his way, he would have guessed her to be no more than 14 years old, but since she appeared to be six or seven months pregnant, and was no being looked upon by anyone else in the bar with shame, it was likely she was at least a couple years older than that. The next thing he noticed after these observations of the girl herself was the flagon she was carrying outstretched towards him.

"I didn't order anything yet," he said as she sat the mug down right in front of him.

"It's okay," she said. "This one's on me. You look like you need it." She just stood there, gazing at him intently, if he were more focused he might even have said lovingly, until he finally felt obligated to take a swig.

"Very good," he lied, for the taste hadn't even registered enough in his brain for him to determine if it was good or not.

She nodded and sat down in the chair across from him continuing to stare. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't quite know how to begin. Something within him jumped, and he felt a strange compulsion to want to help her, and as he sat looking back at her, trying to ascertain how he might do so, he felt an even stranger pulse of recognition looking into her deep blue eyes.

"I know you," he said simply.

The girl smiled, such a beautiful yet sad smile she had. "Yes," she said, placing her hands nervously on the surface of the table, "you do."

"You, you were one of them out near the street when we were walking by," he said, more excitedly than he should have. "You were sweeping your porch and you stopped to look at us when we walked by."

The smile dropped right off her face and she nodded, leaving her head in the downward position to stare and the nearly empty surface of the table. He didn't seem to noticed the change in her demeanor.

He frowned. "Why did you look at me like you did?" he asked.

She looked back up at him, trying to not look as heart-broken as she was feeling. "Excuse me?" she said.

"The way you looked at me," he said. "I didn't think of it at the time, but now, I think, it was somehow... different than how the others looked at me, almost as if you actually felt something about my being there."

She nodded. "I felt," she said, "that all the others ought not to have forgotten you."

He wrinkled his brow in confusion at this. "And you?" he questioned. "You didn't forget us? Were you even born when we left?"

She glanced down at her hands, which were fidgeting with one another, apart from her control, on the top of the table. "It doesn't matter if I was or not," she said. "No one should forget anyone who was once such a close part of their lives or the lives of others close to them."

He sighed heavily. It was clear this girl was just feeling guilty, perhaps about something entirely different. He doubted she even knew where he had been and what he had been doing over the past 15 years, and for some reason, whether she wanted to hear it or not, he felt compelled to tell her. "We were saving the world, you know," he said.

She nodded, still staring at her hands and willing them to stop behaving so badly. "Yes," she said rather morosely, "so I heard."

"It wasn't an easy task, you know," he continued, feeling compelled to take another swig of his drink, "and all we really wanted in return was for someone to remember and appreciate us."

She looked up suddenly, her hands stopped moving, and she seemed again as if she wanted to say something important, but instead all she said was, "Go on. Perhaps if you tell me the story, I can be the one to appreciate you."

Her words shocked him so much that he could think of nothing else to do but to do as she requested. And so, over the next several hours and nearly a dozen additional pints of ale, he told his 15 year story as succinctly as he possibly could. It was only when he got to the very end, and was very, very drunk, that he thought to go back to the very beginning and touch on the wife and child that he had so painfully left behind.

"She didn't even recognize me," he wailed. "And she didn't miss me, even if she had recognized me. She was with another man, had married him not five years after I left."

The girl grew somewhat annoyed at this, but he was to drunk to notice. "And what of your daughter?" she asked. "What was her reaction when she saw you again?"

The man shook his head solemnly. "I have yet to find out," he said. "My wife did not tell me what became of her, and I was too heart-broken to ask."

There was silence for a moment. The girl drummed her fingers a bit on the dusty table. She looked around at the mugs strew about them, then took a deep breath and leaned forward as much as her pregnant belly would allow her to. "I think," she said in a near whisper, just loud enough that he could make out her words, "that she never would have stopped loving you and thinking that you would return. And that when you did return, she would buy you a flagon of ale and sit there listening to you all night while she hoped she could gain up the courage to tell you as much."

There was silence again as the drunken old man sat there blinking at her, trying, in his inhibited state, to understand what she had just said to him. A few eternal moments passed and then she leaned away from him again and stood up. "Thank you, father," she said, stepping forward and squeezing his arm affectionately. "I know you did what you had to, and I appreciate it, even if no one else does. I always knew you would return, and I never stopped loving you."

There was no more pausing to look at him when she finished this statement; she simply released his arm and walked away. He sat there shaking from the alcohol or her words or the touch or all of these until she had faded away into the smokiness of the bar. It was not until this moment that he thought to jump up and shout, "Wait, come back!"

All this elicited was hateful stares from the other bar-goers who had forgotten he was even there and had wished to keep it that way. That beautiful young woman, his daughter, was no where to be seen. She had seemed too young to be his daughter, but he saw it now, it was as clear as every thing else in the world was not. Those eyes and that hair: she had been just a baby when he left her, but those things were just as he remembered them, if only he had remembered them sooner.

With sobs slowly starting to shake his body, he slumped back down into his chair and allowed the other townspeople to return to whatever it was they had been doing. He didn't care. For the first time since he had returned to this place, he was able to cry, and it wasn't because others had failed to remember him, it was because he had failed to remember her. All the pain he had felt, he was sure she was now feeling, and in his current state, he could think of no way to make it up to her. He simply let his head drop hard on top of the table and let his body shake in misery as the tears turned the thin layer of dust to a thin layer of mud. Everything else was forgotten at that moment. All he wished, more than anything in the world, was that she would return.

Return (,Waiting for)

I was a young girl when it happened, a very young girl. I barely remember what my father even looked like; I have only vague recollection of an unshaved face rubbing against my soft, baby-like cheek and bright blue eyes gazing lovingly into mine. I was just over two when he left.

As I grew a little older, perhaps four or five, and began to wonder what had happened, that was when my mother reassured me, told me that my father had gone to save the world, but that these things took time. She told me he had gone off to be a hero. At the time, I thought it sounded like praise, but in retrospect, I wonder if she had been just a little bitter. She had loved him, I know that, but I wonder how much you would really continue to love someone who chooses to leave you with a baby girl on the vague notion that he is required to "save the world."

By the time I was eight or nine, my mother stopped lying to me. When I asked if my father was coming home this year, she finally told me he wasn't coming back. Now you have to understand when I say she stopped lying, what I really mean is that she started telling me what she believed to be true. I never stopped believing that my father was going to return.

When I turned 13, I was told I should start thinking about finding a husband. I wanted to ask how my mother had found my father, but somehow I knew better. I knew she would make some comment about not wanting me to find a man who would only leave me, if she made any reference to my absent father at all. Based on the fact that she had remarried the year before and was pregnant with her new husband's baby, I was pretty certain she had forgotten him all together.

As it turned out, I didn't have to do any searching for a husband since he found me. He started courting me just a few months before my 14th birthday and my mother was thrilled. He was a good, hard-working man from a respectable family. I wouldn't say that I loved him, but I at least appreciated him, and I felt I could grow to love him. I could see why my mother wanted me to marry him. He was clean-shaven, brown-eyed, and seemed to have no aspirations of saving the world, nothing like my vague and almost forgotten memory of my father.

I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow, I ended up happy. My husband was a good man; he provided for me, it was clear that he loved me, and just as I had thought, I had grown to love him. I also believed, still, even after all these years, that my father would one day return to meet my husband and his grandchild who was now on the way, and it turned out I was at least partially right.

I was 17 and pregnant when the strangers came. Five men dressed in beaten clothing and covered with mud. I was sweeping our porch when I saw them walking through town. I knew I had never seen them before, and yet they felt familiar. It wasn't the familiarity that struck me though, it was the pain. They didn't have to look at me for me to feel it, but one of them did anyway, and my heard nearly skipped a beat when I saw his beaten face, rough beard, and bright blue eyes. Could it really be that after 15 years the father I barely knew but loved anyway had returned?

All I could do was stare. He sighed and looked away, and I know he wished more than anything that he hadn't returned.

Return

To return to the sweet sound of a cheering crowds, to trumpets and fanfare, this is what we most looked forward to as we made our journey home. We were heroes, and after all that fear and silence, we just wanted some noise and excitement and celebration. We wanted people to know what we had done, that we had saved them. We smiled to ourselves and to each other as we trekked onward. It was silent still, but it was okay because we knew what was to come.

We were exhausted and covered with dirt and grime as we reached the crest of the final hill. The sun was just starting to rise across the city. We saw the familiar yet nearly forgotten white walls shining brightly, beckoning us and welcoming us home. We could hardly contain our excitement, and as exhausted as we were, we raced down the hill, sprinting the last 200 yards, to reach the place we had longed for for so long. It was just as we left it.

Smiles beaming on our mud-caked faces, we gasped for breath as we reached the entry gate. We stood there for a moment, collecting all the thoughts and emotions flooding through our bodies, and then, slowly, but in an instant, all joy and hope drained from our bodies. We finally looked up at the guard who was looking down at us, and where we expected to see a smile of excitement, we saw a look of confusion. He stared at us a moment longer, and then spoke words more painful than any wounds we had sustained on our long and arduous journey: "Who are you?"

We had left that place almost 15 years ago, vowing to do whatever it took to save our city from the destruction that was foretold against it. After so many years of fighting and searching, we had found the hideous source of our distress and destroyed it, and then spent a full two more years traveling back. In all that time, we never lost hope because we knew we were fighting for a land that loved us and that we loved back. But now, in a moment, it became clear that what we thought to be true was not.

We had been warned there would be pain beyond any we had imagined, but we had assumed that would be in the journey and the quest itself, not now, not in our glorious return. It should have been a glorious return, but it was not. The city had forgotten we even existed, had left behind them any thoughts of danger, just as we had left behind the dead body of the very real danger that would have devoured them all.

Even our families had forgotten us. Our wives had given us up for dead long ago and found new husbands. Our children had grown old without us and found husbands and wives of their own. Our once faithful friends had found new men to drink with. Even the animals had either died or forgotten who we were. No one remembered and no one seemed to care, and those who did care cared only is as much as they wanted to keep on forgetting.

We forced some to hear our tale, but that's just what it was: forced. They didn't want to face the fact that we had saved them and they had forgotten us. Even worse, they didn't want to face the fact that they had needed saving at all, for if they admitted to that, they would be to blame for our non-triumphant entry.

We spent the best years of our lives in constant peril, only to return to this? Sad and rejected, we roamed the streets of the city that was no longer our home, ignoring the eyes of those who didn't want to see us. Time, in this case, did not heal wounds; it created them. It would have been better to continue in the dream, the hope, the lies. It would have been so much better to go on the quest, for we still loved these people, no matter how much they now despised us now, but after the mission was accomplished, never to return at all.

Options

Fight or flee. That's usually what it comes down to, and this situation is no different.

This was supposed to be my night. But now my lipstick is smudged and fading, my dress is torn, and my hair is such a tangled mess if I looked in a mirror right now, I'm sure I would scream. But there is no mirror here; there is only me and him, alone in this dark room, and if I did choose to scream, no one else would hear me anyway.

It started out such a pleasant night, and he seemed so nice and normal and here, I thought, was someone who would finally see me for what I wanted to be. I get so tired of the people who end up seeing me for what I really am, no matter how hard I try to hide it.

I've made many mistakes in my life. There have been many times when I chose to fight when I should have fled or visa versa. But I try to put the past behind me: to learn from my mistakes and then move on.

I remember smiling at him at the start of the night. I know my intoxicating smile is one of my best features. When he smiled back, I saw it was one of his best features as well. I could see the two of us being very happy together.

How did it come to this? I've never been in a situation quite like this before. This was supposed to be my special night to shine, and now I just don't know what to think.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.

He shrugged nervously. "I had no other choice," he said. "It's what they told me to do."

They. Of course by now I know who they is. Those sick bastards. I've known them far too long to expect anything more than this crap.

He knows I'm pissed; he can see it in my eyes. I see something in his eyes too: fear. He wants to calm me down because he's afraid of what's going to happen next, but he can't because he's too afraid of what's going to happen next.

He finally opens his mouth to speak, but I won't let him. "Shut up," I say.

I know he's a dog, a pig, a fiend. He deserves to die.

I stare into his eyes, such a dark brown they are almost black: pools of deceit and of rage now turned to helplessness. He knows I'm in control now.

I've never held a gun before, but it feels strangely comfortable: the cold metal against my warm and sweaty palms. I hope he can't see how I'm shaking. If he did notice, he'd surely think it was from fear. I don't want either of us to realize what it really is.

I want to say I'm sorry, but I can't. I don't know if it would be true or not.

He's scared now. I can feel it. I refuse to close my eyes. I pull the trigger.


I was chosen when I was very young: set aside to be someone special. Even after that, though, I never really felt special: I just felt weird. I could never tell anyone who I really was, and yet everyone somehow seemed to know.

That's why this night was so special. This night was supposed to be my night to put the past behind me, to change who I was and never go back. I thought I had options; I thought I was making the right choice, but clearly I was wrong.

It felt so strange to kill him like that. I've had to deal with many enemies in my life, but I'd always handled them another way. Of course, it's only to be expected that I would be unable to handle things like that tonight. The whole point of tonight was to leave those ways behind and so, of course, my sword was not with me. I had gotten so used to using it, but in this case, I had no other options, and it seems my new best option is laid clearly before me.

I look down at the gun in my hand and smile as I turn and walk away. Yes, this will do nicely.

Ideas

Like the sea, thoughts swirl inside of me.
Which ones will break free?

Like lightning, they flash, there and then gone.
Fleeting, tempting.

When will a good one come?

There are some many things I feel I could say
but I have no way to say them.

I have memories of having memories,
but the memories themselves are faded.

It's like an old picture from 100 years ago.
It once was so clear, but now it's turning to dust.

What was I going to write today?

Some ideas are gone
until someone else remembers them.

Like a Dream

Sometimes it seems like the things I notice in life must be figments, like they can't possibly be real. People who to horrendous things, things I would never come up with on my own, but must somehow be lurking in the back of my mind anyway. And even if they weren't there before, they are now, because I see them almost every day I turn on the evening news.

But its not all nightmares and evil omens. There are also people who do things so wonderful that I can't imagine their stories can really be true. Pure, selfless people who think of others before themselves; people who love the world so much, they would be willing to die to save just a portion of it: do such people really exist? The stories I've told would tell me they do.

As for my own life, it's not so exciting in either extreme, but still, most of the time, it just seems like a dream. It's little things really. Suddenly feeling like I can't remember something that I should have, like there's some detail that my brain just skipped over because it ultimately wasn't important. Seeing someone I've never met before but who still seems strangely familiar. Thinking something is going to happen and then seeing that come true. A glare from a nemesis or a smile from a potential friend or even lover. It's simple, but sometimes it's just so unreal, the things that happen in every day life.

The biggest thing though, is how little of it really seems to matter. The things that seem so important in the moment end up to ultimately be meaningless, to the point that I forget them later when another cycle of my life takes over. The dream seems thrilling at the time, but if I can't even remember it a few months or days or even hours later, what good is it really? Perhaps I have an impact on someone else's dream, and that's at least something, but I have no memory or knowledge of it myself. And that's the strangest feeling: knowing you had a dream, but having no recollection of it.

It's all meaningless in the end; well, most of it anyway, but that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. We all treasure our dreams as we're having them, but when we wake up, we realize that they were nothing more than dreams, and it's real life that really matters. When you're dreaming, you think it's real, and it's all that's on your mind. Our dreams are a part of us, but they aren't who we are. Who we are is who we are when our eyes are open. We love our dreams, as we should, but if all we have is dreams, we are left longing for something more.

Life is a dream, and I'm just a sleep walker waiting to wake up.

Dancer

She sways her hips and flashes her bright beautiful smile. She's like a princess, a goddess. I watch her glide and twirl around the floor. She knows how to capture the heart of any man, and I know she's captured mine.

I see him sitting there, watching me dance, and I know what he's thinking. It's written all over his face. I flash him a coy smile and watch his face brighten, almost as bright as my bright red skirt. I spin circles around my partner, but my eyes aren't on him, they are on the man watching me, the man who can't take his eyes off of me.

She knows I'm watching her. I see her staring at me. She pays no attention to that man she's dancing with, another one of the instructors I think. She doesn't even need to pay attention to what she's doing, she's just that good. I wish I could be the one holding her, the one spinning her around the floor, helping her look like a goddess. But still, I'm the one she's looking at, not him. I can't get that fact off my mind.

The song finishes and I thank my partner and turn away. I do a little hip sway, but its not the for the man I'm walking away from, it's for the man I'm walking towards, the man that hasn't taken his eyes off me all night. I lick my lips a little as I stride towards him. He knows what's coming, and I know he's nervous, but I know he'll end up loving it.

"May I have this dance," she says as she holds her hand out.

He laughs and shakes his head. "You know, I'm no good at this," he says. "I've told you a million times."

Her smile widens briefly and she replies, "Yes, I know, but every time I get you to dance with me, and every time you get a little bit better."

He takes her hand and rises. "That's because I have an amazing teacher," he says.

She pulls him close and whispers in his ear, "That's because I have an amazing student." Then she gives him a little wink and they walk onto the floor together so that he can make a fool of himself and look great doing it. But he loves it, because he loves her, and even though he's not very good at it, he loves to dance.

"I love you," she whispers in his ear.

"I love you, too," he says back.

And that's what it's like, at least in this case, to date a dancer.

Fear

I hate the feeling. You know the one. You feel trapped, like something you can't prevent is about to happen, and not just anything, but something terrible. Some people are afraid of spiders or heights or tight spaces or water. I have no idea what I'm afraid of.

I'm sure it all goes back to my childhood and some traumatic experience. That's what my shrink suspects. I trust she knows what she's talking about, because I really have no idea at all. I can't remember a thing.

I guess the one thing I am afraid of is forgetting to take my pills, because I know that if I don't take them, I'll be even worse than I already am. The one thing I do remember is how I felt before I started on the pills and I don't want to ever go back to that.

Do you ever get a feeling when you walk into a dark room that something isn't quite right, that something dangerous is somewhere nearby just waiting for you? That's how I feel all the time. I guess you'd call it apprehension. That's why I take the pills. It used to be much wore. It used to be more like paranoia.

I couldn't go anywhere. Even in my own home, I didn't feel safe. I never knew what it was. It was nothing, it was everything, but I just never could get rid of that fear. I didn't even know what fear was because I couldn't remember a time living without it, it was just the normal way I always was.

I don't remember how it happened, but somehow, Dr. Rodgers found me. I think a neighbor might have finally called about me, or something happened that made me wander out and do something that got me reported, or maybe she just knew somehow. Sometimes I think she knew me before all this because there are times when I just look at her and she seems so familiar. Not familiar in the obvious sense that I've had therapy sessions with her every other day for the past year (I think it's been a year), but in the sense that I actually know her as a person. We always talk about me (as best we can) but still, I feel like I know things about her. It's a weird feeling, but its a million times better than the fear I know I felt before I met her.

Slowly, I think my life might be getting back to normal, whatever that means. I don't remember normal, not even sure if I ever was normal. Normal people have a family they can remember and friends other than their therapist. Normal people have interests and passions. Normal people know where the money they get in the mail every week comes from. And normal people have fears, but they know what those fears are.

At least I can feel safe in my own home, usually. The apprehension will always be there, Dr. Rodgers has warned me of as much, but I don't feel so terrified that I can't even get out of bed anymore. After all, I have to get out of bed to go to my sessions.

That is mostly my life: sleeping, eating, staying clean, you know, the essentials, and then therapy. I see other people when I go in to therapy and they look so sad. I wonder if that's how I look to them. I worry about it sometimes, just like I worry about everything, but I'm fighting it, fighting to control it. Maybe someday, I'll even have interests and passions like a normal person. But probably not. This is my life, and I have to accept it. All I can hope for is making it a little less painful.

Making it a little less painful is what Dr. Rodgers is there for. The pills help a lot, that's true, but it's something about her. She just seems so kind and helpful, but more than that even. I feel safe with her. Once I get inside that office, for those two hours every other day, I feel safe, like nothing bad could ever possibly happen to me. I trust her with my life, because I know she saved it. She is the one thing I know I am not and never will be afraid of.

"Subject responsive to second round of drugs. Simulated paranoia decreasing. Two year trial period half completed."

She closed the case file and closed her eyes. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I should have never convinced you to do this. I know you'll never love me again when this is done. And that fear isn't worth any of this."

2083

There shall be angels walking among us, and we shall know them not, but they shall see our kindness or cruelty and we shall be judged accordingly.

Technology has come a long way in the last 100 years. The days of the super computer are long gone. I don't think anyone even remembers what a computer is anymore. They have transcended such simplicities and made them utterly unnecessary. Knowledge is meaningless because it is now so easy to obtain. It's a wonder schools even exist in any form. I give them 10, maybe 15 more years tops until they become obsolete as well.

I met one today, one of the angels, that is. She was beautiful. I could barely take my eyes off of her. She looked at me, and even then, I could not look away. I know that one day, I will make her my wife.

It is fortunate that people have not lost track of the important of being healthy. It's strange how much less strenuous health is than it once was. Every food seems to be enriched with this or that. And the indoor recreational options make facing the elements to get exercise completely unnecessary. Considering how hard it used to be, it is no surprise at all that people were so obese 80 years ago.

The angel had a name. The tag said it was Cindy. Funny that after all this time, coffee bars and minimum wage employees still haven't gone out of style. It's just that the coffee is healthier and the minimum wage more stretchable than it used to be, based on what I've heard anyway.

The only thing that still seems to mesmerize us is the stars. Planets seem to be widely understood, but stars still capture our imagination. New ways to use their power are few of the innovations that remain. And we still want to reach out and touch them and still can't. The only one we can really reach is still our own sun, and people question more and more just how long it will last.

She smiled at me when she gave me my coffee. I opened my mouth to say something beautiful, but all I could say was, "Thanks." She nodded, didn't say a word and walked away.

My grandparents tell me all the stories about the way things used to be. They seem nostalgic, but strangely happy with the way things are now as well. After all, it is the modern technologies that have lengthened their expected life span to nearly 100 years. It's too bad the knowledge they gather over those 100 years is meaningless to everyone but them.

I never got a chance to say anything more to her. I think she actually went on her break or finished her shift or something, because I didn't see her when I left, but I left a generous tip for her anyway, just in case she'd come back later to claim it. And even if she didn't, it would make someone happy. And that kind of emotion is all we really have left to rely on.

Love is a science. That's the way most people see it now. It is understood completely, in the same way basic physics or chemistry are, because that's really all it boils down to. Yet, it still manages to throw people for a loop now and again. Professional matchmakers are hot, promising to find you the perfect mate and delivering on their promise more often than our ancestors could have possibly imagined. But knowing how love works and actually making it work are two completely different things. And thus, there is still pain.

Many would have thought that with all the knowledge that exists, religion would be obsolete, but strangely, it seems stronger than ever. People want something they can't understand, and religion fills that whole beautifully. Sure, many religions are based on logic and knowledge, but none can be based entirely on it. There always has to be that element of faith and hope and not understanding. That's why the stories spread, now more than ever, and why more and more of the world is starting to believe in the angels that I know roam the earth.

Smile

That's all it takes.

Criticism

Some days it's all I can do to keep from hating her. She's so bright and chipper and optimistic when the whole world seems to be crashing down around her. She always tries to look for the good when no good exists.

She's had a terrible life. No, really. Her parents never loved her and she had no siblings to turn to. Her friends always moved away when she needed them most. She should be spending all her time feeling sorry for herself, and yet she somehow manages to smile. She never even talks about her past or her hardships. She just goes on making new friends and showing them her bright side, even though she knows in her heart that they will leave her in her darkest hour.

Sometimes I wonder why she even goes on living. I mean, she would never consider killing herself. No one should ever take it that far. But sometimes it just seems it should be difficult for her to get up in the morning. She should just stay in bed all day, every day, and slowly waste away. Death by attrition. That's what seems most beneficial to her. And yet, every day, she gets out of bed, even on those rare occasions when she is feeling a little sick or down, and prepares to face the day.

She walks through her lonely apartment with a soft smile that no one else can see. She brews her coffee and closes her eyes as the warm scent fills the air. She savors every taste because some days, this morning cup is the high light of her day. No one appreciates her at work, but yet she works hard. Her friends are usually too busy, but she always makes time for them. Her family never checks in to see how she's doing, but she sends them a card for every Christmas and birthday, expecting nothing in return.

She is truly exceptional, and the world does not appreciate it. She is full of the hope that things must get better because it is hard to imagine them getting any worse. She hears rain and immediately sees a rainbow. She tells herself the storm will clear, even though she knows it might be an eternity before it does.

Why does she see things in such a way? Why can't she just be a realist? Why can't the logical part of me make her see all she's missing? Maybe it's because she isn't missing a thing. She knows this all because I know it all, and yet she refuses to accept it as the way things must be. She is convinced a better day is coming, and so I am convinced as well.

But yet, day after day, she is afraid to face the reality of who and what she really is: just a person, lost and alone like the rest of us, hoping for something more, but not knowing if she'll ever find it. Her friends are a comfort for a while, but she knows she needs something more, something inside her that for all her optimism and hope is still somehow missing, and until she finds it, she can't really face who she truly is, who anyone truly is.

That is the true criticism I have for her: forcing herself to be happy without really having a reason why. There is no reason for her not to be happy, not really, because depression is just a waste of time, but there is no reason for true happiness either. And that is the reason that she, that I, cannot look at myself in the mirror anymore.

A girl (part 6)

And so, this is where our story ends. No grand revelation or deep conclusions. Just a simple story of a simple girl as was simply promised. There is really no more to say. You can go home now, either content in hearing a sweet but simple story with a contented ending, or you can walk off angrily, feeling you have wasted the few minutes it took to read this tale. Either way, it makes no difference to Anna. She simply is what she is, and that's all she can share with you.

---------------

"Anna? I've met many girls named Anna. Can you be a bit more specific? Oh, that girl from high school? I swear her name wasn't Anna, but oh well. Of course I remember her. She was the first girl I ever kissed. Brown hair, blue eyes, I think. She was a sweetie. She's working in New York now? Funny, I never really expected her to leave home. She was such a sweet, simple girl, so unlike the crowd I hang out with these days. I don't think of her often, but every once in a while, I wonder what might have been... She's the reason I still have a soft side, you know. And the reason I'm not afraid to let things go that aren't working out. New York really isn't that far. Maybe I'll look her up sometime, you know, in between girlfriends or something."

"Ah yes, I don't really remember the name, but I remember the girl. She stood out in my mind as being the quietest girl in class. She always just did her homework, handed it in, and moved on. No grand quest for knowledge there, nor any complaints when she got a less than ideal grade. It was refreshing, really, to have a student who simply was: neither an overachiever, nor underachiever. It is truly rare to find someone with such a perfect balance. Some would call it 'average', but truly, it isn't average at all. I've had thousands of students, so trust me, I know. I suppose it still might seem odd that I remember her from among those thousands, but from what I just told her, it shouldn't seem odd at all. Strangely, she renewed my love of teaching. I knew I was making an impact on her, even though she never spoke to me, never tried to suck up, never complained. So she married a mathematician? Somehow, I'm not surprised. I knew there was something there. Even if she was not in love with the field herself, I could easily see her falling in love with someone who was."

"I've had hundreds of students. I can't possibly remember them all. Was this the one from freshman lit in fall of 2000? I think I do remember her. Well, not her in particular, but something she said. We were reading this book, the specific title is not important to you, I'm sure, but it in was a young man who was always striving to be more, always seeking to be and achieve more than what he was. Some students saw him as a great man, others saw him as a tragic figure. Anna was quiet for a moment until I prompted her for an opinion. She took a few seconds to reply, but then she said, 'If he could learn to be content with where he is now, I think he would better succeed in what he wants to be.' I will never forget that. It was such a bizarre thing to say, that being content could push you to be something more, but somehow, it rung true. That is one of few things that really stood out in my mind from my recent years of teaching. I would have given her an A just for that statement. I think I ended up giving her an A- based on the other work she did. The work I can't even remember."

"The girl you are talking about was in my class senior year. I can say little other than she could have done better. It was a boy who got in her way. It always is. But even when I gave her grades that we both knew were not representative of her capabilities, all she did was smile. Now, I'm a professor of psychology, so of course I understand. That's why I did nothing to change it. But still, a mind like that is a rare thing. I could have given her an A+ and it would have made no difference. No matter what happened, she was really, truly, happy. I understand what makes a person like that, but I can't even make myself like that. I think of her, and I truly wish I could."

"Oh, Anna! Of course, she's our top receptionist! And so loved by the children. I wish we could let her do more, but the jobs simply aren't available. I always feel like she has a calming influence on the children. One boy in particular, from when she first started here, I remember he used to always be so hostile and refused to be honest with me. But shortly after Anna started here, I saw a change. He seemed more relaxed and, slowly but surely, began to open up more. I know what did it because I saw one day the way he looked at her when he was leaving the office and I was giving Anna some paperwork to file. He loved her, in that sweet, innocent, child-like way, and he wanted to get better because of her. I never told Anna, mostly for fear that her knowing would make things awkward, but now that that little boy has moved on, maybe I should. She really is a special person, even if it was just one little boy who noticed it."

STOP

Because you stopped, I met you. Because you saw I was frustrated and alone and didn't know what to do when my car broke down on the side of the road. Because you took the time to pull over and call a mechanic for me. Because you were so kind and helpful. Because you stopped.

Because you stopped before walking away, just long enough to ask for my number, so you could stop another time and call me. Because you smiled at me and stopped to take the time to not just buy me a drink, but also listen to what I had to say. Because you stopped looking at the other women for that one night and looked only at me. Because you stopped.

Because you stopped caring. Because I remembered when you did. Because I never stopped. You broke my heart, but I managed to put the pieces back together. Because someone else stopped to ask me if I was alright. Because someone else always cared. That's when I knew I had to stop.

Because I had stopped seeing things clearly. Because I felt lost and alone. Because I just needed a friend and someone to help me. Because I was walking by and just happened to glance over and see the flyer. Because I wanted to smile again, I found that I could. Because I stopped.

Because she stopped calling. Because I knew she was too stubborn to be the one to make amends. Because I wanted things to be like they were. Because I didn't want to hate her. Because I needed to stop and take the time to realize that this wasn't the time to stop, but I had to know what was.

Because I saw you had stopped. Because I knew things would not be like I wanted. Because I knew it wasn't meant to be. Because I knew I needed to move on. I stopped.

Because he stopped me. Because he wanted to know if I had the time to stop and consider. Because they looked so helpless and adorable. Because I stopped to consider all the blessings I have and so little I'd given back. Because $10 a month is really not that much. Because I got stopped.

Because you stopped. Because you realized you were making me unhappy and remembered a time we had been happy. Because you wanted to make things work. Because you still loved me and knew that would never stop. Because you stopped, I didn't have to stop loving you, too.

Sometime you don't want to remember, and sometimes you do. Sometimes you have to because it makes you who you are. Life is a journey, full of stops along the way. Sometimes you want to and sometimes you don't want to, but there is always a time when you just have to take a deep breath and stop.

A girl (part 5)

They struggled for a while, but eventually Anna got a job of her own working as an assistant/receptionist at a family counselling firm. She mostly did clerical work, but got to assist with some clients as well. She was rather perceptive and good at connecting with the children, however briefly. The doctors and other professionals who were in charge of things thought well of her, though never well enough to take full advantage of her abilities, limited though they may have been.

Still, Anna was happy to wake up beside her husband in the morning, content at work, and excited for the quiet evenings she shared with her love at home. Though they lived in New York, they saw very little of the city as they had very little money left over to spend on such frivolous things. Contentment was the story of their existence. And so it continued and does even now. There were of course other things like family visits and small groups of friends they somehow managed to acquire. There was even talk of starting a family in more recent months, but even with all this, Anna's life remains simple, just like she likes it. And if she touches even a few lives in some small way, even if its so small its not really worth mentioning, she will be content.

A girl (part 4)

Anna had a decent summer, though she spent a lot of it missing her new boyfriend, and came back for her second year of college ready to face whatever would come her way. Fortunately for her, she didn't have too much to face that year. Classes weren't overly difficult (she was able to get all B+'s and A-'s without overly exerting herself) and her relationship with her boyfriend seemed pretty solid.

It was junior year when a few unpleasant things happened. First, her grandma died. Then a few months later, her boyfriend dumped her, explaining that he felt they weren't going anywhere and that he had actually wanted to move on sooner but felt bad about the grandma situation. His concern for her was some consolation, and a healthy portion of ice cream combined with crying to some of the friends she had met i psychology classes helped with both situations. Sadly, it didn't help enough to keep Anna from ending up with a D halfway through one of her classes and deciding to withdraw from it. She felt a little bad about that, but she was still able to pull a B average in her other classes, so it wasn't so bad.

By senior year, Anna had recovered and was ready to start looking for a job in the real world. She was also ready, it turned out, to meet a new man. They met at a debate about social reform. It turned out he was actually a mathematician, but that didn't bother Anna too much. He was one of the rare breed of geniuses (or at least people who Anna viewed as geniuses) who somehow had also learned how to have a good time. And being from New York City, it seemed he knew even more about having a good time than Anna did.

Because of this man, senior year was Anna's best year yet. Her grades ended up being not quite as good as they could have been, but it turned out the same thing happened to him, and neither of them cared. Anna still ended up with a couple different job offers, but what mattered most to her was his job offer in New York City, the offer for the dream accountant position he had always wanted, strange as that sounds. Anna told him she would follow him there if that was what it took for them to be together, and the day after graduation, he forced her to prove it by asking her to marry him. She didn't even hesitate.

They threw together a simple wedding and somehow managed to be married in mid-August, just before he started work in late September. Anna had never been happier. Even working in New York, her husband was no great man that anyone would ever hear of, but he was her great man, and that was enough for her. Perhaps if she hadn't been such a simple, old-fashioned girl from a small town, she wouldn't have been so eager to follow him anywhere, but as it was, she was willing to do most anything for him, and in this case, that made them both very happy.

Snow

In honor of the first snow of the season today, I thought I would write a little something about it. Keep in mind that this is completely fictional, though. =)

SNOW

I always hated the snow. So many crazy people think it is beautiful. They talk about how white and pure and beautiful it is. They say it washes the world clean, makes us see everything in a new light. All I see when I look at snow is a cold, wet disease that gives people an excuse to stop trying and that kills all that once was truly alive and beautiful with its bitter frost.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that when I was younger, maybe seven or eight, my older brother stuffed my face into the snow. But most children have memories from before the age of seven, and I never can remember a time when I actually liked the snow. In fact, I remember very distinctly that the day my brother tried to drown me in that white monster I hadn't even wanted to go outside to "play." Of course my mother thought I was just being silly and that all children wanted to play in the snow. How little she knew. How little any of them ever knew.

Tommy always did say I was a strange girl. He often wondered why he loved me. He never said so, but I know he did. Either that, or he never even loved me at all. I don't blame him. What guy could really want to be with a girl that hates the winter so passionately that she won't even drink hot chocolate or curl up in front of a fireplace. It's just a good thing he wasn't big into skiing or something like that. If he had been, I'm sure we would have broken up much sooner than we did. Of course, it was during the winter that we did break up, January 19 to be exact. I've always hated the snow.

If I ever do get married and have children, I'm going to make sure they aren't born in the winter time, but at the rate I'm going, marriage doesn't seem all that likely. It's really hard to find dates around here, or at least to find dates that aren't crazy. I can't help but feeling I don't belong here, but they tell me I'm where I should be. What do they know anyway? It's my own life. I should be free to live it how I want. But I'm always the good little girl: doing what I'm told I should, what I know I need to. Sometimes I just want to get out, go somewhere else, somewhere it doesn't snow.

But no matter how much I complain, I know I don't really have it so bad. There are many people who have it much worse than me: people who don't have roofs over their heads or warm beds to sleep in or hot food to eat. I really shouldn't complain at all, but I can't help it. I am just human after all. That's what I keep trying to tell them. I'm just human. They can't expect me to be perfect.

We all have something we hate, truly hate with a passion. It's not weird or abnormal. What's abnormal is being so scared of spiders that you see a small piece of a cobweb and think they're crawling all over you. What's weird is thinking you can make lightning strike people dead if you feel so inclined, and that you've done so before. Those are the people you have to look out for. Those are the real crazies.

I hate the snow. I've always hated the snow. I don't hate people who love the snow, I really don't. They just get on my nerves so much sometimes I can't stop myself. I just have to act out. Is that really so bad? Should I really be looked down upon for that?

Maybe it wasn't my brother or the breakup that really caused my problems. Maybe it was my kitten that ran off in late November and froze to death. That was sure something to be thankful for while we were carving turkey. Maybe it was my friend who feel off the roof when pretending to be Santa for her nieces and almost broke her back. That was a wonderful Christmas. Maybe it was the terrible plane flight that almost crashed when my parents forced me to go to Times Square for New Years' that one year. There was no defining moment that pushed me over the edge, but maybe if just one of those things hadn't happened, then maybe I wouldn't have done what I did, and maybe, just maybe I wouldn't have ended up here.

I hear them moaning and mopping around behind me. They want to go out and play in it, but the nurses keep telling them its too cold. Stupid crazy people. They really don't understand. Why would anyone want to go outside and play in that? How could anyone think it was beautiful or refreshing or representative of hope? I guess these people find hope wherever they can, no matter how foolish and illogical it may be.

As for me, all I can do is stare. I sit here in my wooden chair with my hands on my thighs and stare. Every time I say something, they just think I'm wrong or insane, so I gave up on talking long ago. I take the pills, just like they tell me to, but it doesn't get any better. I still hate it, but still, all I can do is stare at those perfectly little atrocious flakes falling down because maybe, just maybe, if I can convince them that I don't hate the snow anymore, they will let me out of here. Then I can go away, far, far away where it doesn't snow anymore and I don't have to deal with it anymore. They tell me I have to be here, so I stay. What choice do I have? But really, I just want out. God, how I want out.

I hate the snow.

A girl (part 3)

The thought of college had always appealed to Anna. She enjoyed her childhood and growing up in a small, closely knit community, but a part of her also longed to explore and experience new things, and going to a university where her class size was larger than the population of her entire town would certainly be a new experience.

Anna had always been an average student, and so she chose to go to an average school where she received an average amount of financial aide and took average freshman classes as she explored what exactly it was she would want to do with the rest of her life. She was a good student, but did nothing to really make herself stand out among her peers. She spoke her fair share in her political science and literature classes. She quietly crunched numbers in mathematics and economics. Some professors knew her name, and others didn't. Some students started to recognize her and others didn't.

Anna joined a couple of clubs. She learned to play tennis and attempted to sing, which she quickly gave up on. She enjoyed film club, mostly because of her wide and non-particular taste in movies. Boys talked to her rather easily, but none went out of their way to get with her. She flirted a little with some of them: enough to get a boyfriend second semester, a nice boy who found appeal in her small town look and feel, whatever that might mean.

Overall, freshman year was a good year, and after taking an excellent class second semester, Anna chose her major: psychology.

A girl (part 2)

In the year 1982 she was born in a tiny town deserving of even less recognition than she and her family. She was the first and only child of a simple couple who had known each other since childhood and got married primarily because it made sense and there were not many other people to choose from within the town. Still, most who saw them would say they were in love and that Anna was the product of their love.

Anna herself was never lacking affection from her parents and other friends and family. She grew up a simple child in that simple town, but she never even knew she should have wanted more. She was well cared for and always seemed happy. She had a few playmates near her age, and never even considered that in a bigger town she might be free to choose her friends. The friends she had were the only friends available. Still, Anna was content.

Anna went to a rural school with several other children from surrounding small towns. The school had three teachers covering six grades. Anna never excelled in school, but she never fell behind either. She was, in all senses of the word, average. And it wasn't just in her studies either. She was well adapted to getting along with other children, but did nothing to make her stand out or make herself popular, as much as that could be possible in a school of six grades and only 49 students. Everyone seemed to like Anna, but no one adored her. At worst other students tolerated her and at best they enjoyed her company.

As Anna grew older, boys started to become a slight interest. Again, there was nothing outstanding to note about her skills and experiences in this area. She had her first kiss when she was 14, if you count a kiss on the cheek as a kiss, and went on her first "date" to a school dance later that same year after she turned 15. She danced tolerably and her date was moderately handsome, intelligent, and kind, much like Anna herself.

When she was 16, she broke up with him, mostly because neither of them was ever particularly fond of the other to begin with, and started in with her second boyfriend a few months later. He too was not much to speak of, and that second relationship lasted about as long as the first. For most of her senior year of high school, Anna was single, but that was okay because she was preparing for college anyway.

A girl (part 1 of ?)

Once upon a time there was a girl. Now how many stories about a girl have there been before? Stories about girls of great talent or beauty or courage. Tales of love and devotion or of independence and strength. Tales of gorgeous princesses or brilliant scientists or lady warriors who took the world by surprise. This story is none of these things because this girl was no great or magnificent creature, no sweet damsel nor powerful maiden about whom songs were sung for ages. This girl was simply a girl, a girl of no importance that no one would even choose to notice were it not for these words written now for no good reason. Her name does not even matter, but for the sake of making the story tellable, we shall call her Anna.

Now if you are expecting some grand surprise or shocking turn of events, you can stop reading now. This is not a story of a girl who started out simple and became great. This is a story of a girl who was born simple, lives simple, and in all likelihood will die simple. It is a simple tale with no real meaning or purpose other than to exist, much like Anna herself. So if you are looking for something deep or meaningful, turn to one of the great works of literature, for this is not a story you will want to hear. But if you are simple yourself, or wish to rediscover the simplicity you lost long ago, then maybe, just maybe, this is the very story you have been waiting to hear.

Beginnings and Endings

Short segments of the first and final lines of potential stories with nothing in between.

1. Trust is a strange thing. Some give it until you lose it and others withhold it until you earn it. Anna was in the first category, except she kept trusting even after she shouldn't have. Unfortunately for her, this cost her her life.

Her breathing slowed as she looked up into his cold, heartless eyes and somehow, even then, she managed to see something of a compassion there that no one else had ever managed to see. After all, he was still holding her there. He had refused to let her go. "I, I forgive you," she whispered. And then ever so slowly, she closed her eyes and drifted away. He held her head for a moment in silence and then slowly lowered her to the concrete below, his black gloves careful not to leave any more marks. And then, with a solemn face, he turned, walked away, and never looked back. Trust is a strange thing.

2. Spring is my favorite season: so full of life and love and happiness. Everything seems possible in the spring time. The birds sing their merry songs and the flowers start to bloom. Maybe this season, I might even find what I've been looking for.

Spring is my least favorite season: so full of false hope and lies. I never would have guessed before how far I'd come to realize this. Nothing ever turns out as it should. No one really knows what tomorrow may bring: it could be happiness or it could be heartache. For me, it's always been both, but the happiness is as fleeting as the birds or the flowers or the springtime. And somehow, strangely, after all this time, I'm finally okay with that.

Spring is my favorite season. It shows itself for what it is: new beginnings taking the place of old life. There can never be new growth without previous death. That is why its so beautiful: not simply because its new, but because its taking the place of something old that has faded away. I will always love the spring, not matter what it may or may not bring.

3. When someone loves you, nothing else matters, or so I've been told. Maybe someday I'll find out for myself whether or not that is true.

Even though it didn't last, I was happy, and I know it will be happy again. When someone loves you, nothing else matters. I know now for a fact that this is true.

4. It was always my dream to play in the orchestra. I knew I wasn't that good, but that didn't stop me from dreaming. We all have dreams, realistic or not, this is the story of what happened as a result of mine.

I think I must have cried off and on for weeks after that night. There's really nothing to describe such an experience; you just have to feel it for yourself. No matter what anyone else might say, I would never want to have it any other way. After all, I fulfilled the dream I had always truly wanted, even though it meant I had to give up the dream I always claimed I wanted. And that, my friends, is the secret of true happiness: sacrificing one great dream for something you know is even greater.

5. "Once upon a time in a far off and distant land." So begins he tale of a warrior, of a great man, written by a man greater still whose face we may never see and whose name we may never hear except in whispers and rumors. This story is just one of the rumors of things that surely never were and never shall be.

"And so," he wrote, "with these words, I finally slip away, my pen the greatest weapon of them all."

All I Ever Wanted

I wanted a man who could protect me: a bold, confident man.

I gave her a gentle man who didn’t flaunt his masculinity or strength.

I wanted someone who would always be there for me so I didn’t feel alone.

I gave her the space every woman wanted.

I wanted a man who wasn’t afraid to be honest and speak his mind.

I always listened to what she had to say and never tried to contradict her.

I wanted a man of passion.

I never got too intense.

I wanted to have fun and be happy.

I was afraid I could never make her happy.

I wanted to know who he really was.

I could have never shown her who I really was.

I wanted a man who didn’t have to try so hard.

I tried so hard.

He never understood.

I don’t think I ever understood.

Playing with time and details

Here's a short story I wrote shortly after taking a fiction writing class in the Summer of 2005. The class was taught by a professor who was a huge fan of seemingly random details, and so I attempted to make use of those little things in this story. It has no title and appears with only a couple very minor edits from how I originally wrote it.

All of my friends hated watching mystery movies with me. I’d always figure out who the culprit was less than a quarter of the way through the movie, usually within the first two scenes if the movie was exceptionally poorly done. All my friends got mad at me when I blurted it out, as if they really didn’t know themselves who was responsible for the crime. I never understood how they could not know.

I have to admit, Agatha Christie gave me a bit more of a challenge that the typical murder mystery. It usually took me three or four chapters to figure her out instead of the usual two, but at any rate, it was never any real challenge. Once you know what to look for in a mystery story, nothing is hard to figure out anymore.

When I was eight, I remember standing in front of the mirror wearing the blood red dress with the white lace around the edges. I looked like a glass of tomato juice. Not the tomato itself, just the juice. I didn’t really feel like smiling when I looked in the mirror, but I did know I had to put on a happy face when I marched down the aisle at the head of the procession. After all, it isn’t every day you get to meet the pope. I should know, since I’ve never met him, and probably never will, but it might be interesting if I do, and if I ever do, I will make certain to tell you about it. At the time, I didn’t know who the pope was, and the man who would be performing the ceremony for my sister and future brother-in-law looked enough like what I imagined a pope would look like for me to pretend that that’s really who he was. My brother-in-law was careful to point out that that wasn’t really the pope, but I believed it was for a long time afterwards anyway.

I would never answer the phone when it rang. I always left it up to my parents or younger brother to inquire as to who was calling. Then if it was for me, I could prepare myself before the first hello. The one time my brother told me it was for me, but refused to tell me who it was, I got pretty mad at him. I figure he just forgot to ask, but he pretended as if he just didn’t want to tell me. But it ended up to just be my best friend, Cindy, and I’m certain he would have recognized her voice, so I’m not quite sure what was up with that, but I didn’t much feel like pursuing it any further. Cindy never really had anything interesting to say anyway, so I doubt there was any sort of conspiracy between her and my brother, though it might have been intriguing if there had been.

I wasn't terribly fond of pets when I was little, but I did have a gerbil that I managed to keep alive for just over five years. I got him in the fifth grade. He was a gift from my parents, an attempt to make me take my mind off of more pressing and depressing matters. Whenever I first told someone about him or showed him to someone, I would challenge that person to guess his name. They never could. I was always torn between being amused and frustrated by their blindness. The rodent's name was Rumplestiltskin.

My first love interest was Peter Charleston. I was in the sixth grade at the time. I feel like I was right on schedule. Some girls get it early, others get it late, but I felt like I was just right. He had chestnut hair and eyes of the same color. He wore his hair just down to his ears and he had a dog that he uncreatively named Rover. I never saw the dog in person, but he showed me pictures of it, and it looked to me that it must be the type of dog that always had fleas and that you wouldn’t even bother bathing because it would just get dirty again. It didn’t even have a collar on in the picture, unless the long dingy hair was covering it up. Peter seemed proud of his dog Rover. It was about all he talked about. I’m kinda glad we never got around to kissing. I suppose if we had, he would have licked me with his tongue instead of using his lips.

The day that Cindy fell off her bike and scraped up her knee on the curb, I was all too excited about running back home and shouting out that Cindy was dying and that we had to call the ambulance. I was just about ready to dial 911, when our next door neighbor called and said that he had seen the spill from his window and helped Cindy into his house, where his wife was now washing the wound and applying hydrogen peroxide. I was a little disappointed when I looked at the damage later and realized it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. It turned out that most of the blood had been red paint from where our next door neighbors had just had the numbers 1128, their house number, printed on the curb near the base of their mailbox. My mother scolded us for riding our bikes in the street, which we were not allowed to do, and then popped some buttery popcorn for us to eat while we watched a movie about bears and elephants performing in the circus.

Everyone knows what a policeman looks like, even when they’re young, and so at the age of 10 I had no trouble realizing what was going on the instant my mother opened the door and we saw him standing there. The solemn look on his face gave it all away. I remember that his eyes were heavy and seemed to sink down towards his cheeks in a way that told me he had done this all too often before. All he had to say was “I’m sorry” and I knew exactly what had happened. Actually, I knew it as soon as he said to my mother, “Are you Mrs. Prescott?” You’d think they’d be a bit more delicate and tender about these things, but they have to go on like that and give it all away. Still, my mother didn’t start crying until he explained exactly what had happened. I never quite understood why it took her so long. I thought, somewhat bitterly, that trees don’t move and that I was certain my sister wasn’t the one doing the driving.

I wrote my first novel when I was 14, but no one would publish it. When I showed it to my English teacher, Mr. Buckner, he told me that plagiarism was illegal. I didn’t say anything more to him about it, but I was rather proud that he would think that. Most of the comments I got back from the publishers said that the mystery was impossible and that no reader could ever figure it out. I didn’t get it. It was much to obvious to me, even more obvious than the mystery movies I had just started watching on TV.

I met Andrew in English history, Jason in biology, and Matt in organic chemistry. They were all nice enough, but I wasn't really interested in any of them. They each asked me out, and I rejected each of them. It was the hardest with Matt because he was the cutest of the bunch, but I had had practice with the other two by then, so that made it a little easier. I think some rumors might have gone around my dorm building that I had sexual problems, but I ignored all such nonsense. I knew it wasn't really the problem, and I convinced myself that that knowledge was enough to keep me going.

My father taught me how to drive, and he was not a very good teacher. I could sense that he was apprehensive about the thought of me getting out on the road, but he was probably better than my mother would have been, so I suppose I should count my blessings. I often wonder if he was any better with my younger brother, but I haven't bothered to ask about it. Dad wouldn't let me get my learner's permit until I was 16 and all my friends were already driving on their own. I finally got my license when I was 18, a matter of weeks before I left home for college. I'm really glad that I did get my license before college because that way I could always be the designated driver whenever my friends went out to party, which was essentially every other weekend. I would sit and watch them get drunk and then I would drive them all home. I frequently caught myself almost starting to wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been there, but I was always able to stop myself before the thoughts crossed my mind. I knew that those possibilities were not alternate endings that I wished to explore.

I read as much as I possibly could all through college, and into my graduate years as well. The summer after my first year of grad school, I even went back to all of the old Agatha Christie novels I had completed years earlier. I made a game of seeing how many alleged plot twists and red herrings I could remember after reading only the first page of the story. I did pretty well. I think I only forgot five or six moderately important things out of all the novels that I revisited, but who's counting anyway?

When Cindy told me she thought she had found the love of her life, my immediate reaction was to shake my head and sigh. Of course, she could not see nor hear that response since we were communicating via instant messenger, but I think she sensed it anyway. After a pause to collect my thoughts, I typed back that I hoped she would be careful and then quickly added that I really needed to get to bed so I could get up early for class the next day. I could picture her frowning and moving her fingers off of the keys as she sat at her computer hundreds of miles away, and then she typed back, "OK, see ya." I think she might have been meaning to type more, but I logged off before I saw any of it. I really was tired and I wasn't up to dealing with that sort of thing.

I always thought that pelicans were funny looking birds. They had a few at the zoo, and I would go and visit them the first weekend of every month while I was at college. It was interesting to watch how they changed. The third time I went, one of the old ones had died and they had gotten a new bird to replace him. The ninth time, there were two new babies in the cage. The seventeenth time, one of the babies had been transported to another zoo and his brother had been refusing to eat. The eighteenth time, the brother was dead. I don't know if pelicans can die of broken hearts, but I'm quite certain that that pelican did. I wondered if his brother shared the same fate, but I never bothered to look into it.

I would have gotten an A in my sophomore composition class if I hadn't confronted my professor about his obvious infatuation with me. No one else in the class seemed to notice, but it was all too obvious to me. When I asked to speak to him after class one day, I had the feeling he thought that I was finally going to respond to his subtle glances and advances in a positive way. When I told him I wished he would stop hitting on me, he became furious. He acted as if he had no idea what I was talking about, but his darting eyes gave it all away. When he was finished with his rant, I asked him point blank if he could deny that he had feelings for me and he stumbled over his words for several seconds before finally leaving the question unanswered.

I ended up getting a C- on the paper that just a week earlier he had told me sounded promising. It was about the real life influences on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's character of Sherlock Holmes. The supposed reason for the poor grade was my failure to cite sources at six key points in the paper as well as my use of long run-on sentences at the bottom of page three and the top of page five, but he and I both know the truth.

The first of the three times I was in the cemetery, it was very cold. The weatherman had said it might even snow, even though it was only October. I remember the chilling wind blowing my hair and freezing the tears that trickled down my cheeks. I was very somber, as I should have been, but I couldn't help but think about how pretty she had looked in her casket at the church. I overheard my parents talking about how banged up her face had been before, but the undertaker or whoever deals with that stuff had done an excellent job covering it up and making her look almost as pretty as she had been before. I had glanced at him, but I hadn't lingered long. For one thing, I hardly even knew him and for another, I had still managed at that point to convince myself that it was his fault.

In the cemetery, the wooden cases were closed and wreaths of red and blue flowers were laid on top of them. The priest said a few words and then we all went back to the church for lunch. I noted that no alcohol was served and since the only other time I had had a meal at the church was after the wedding and I had never been to a funeral before, I wondered if that was common practice at a post-cemetery lunch or not.

I remember when I moved into an apartment for the first time at the beginning of my junior year. Before then, I had lived in the dorms. I really hadn’t gone through my stuff much since I first moved into the dorms at the beginning of my college career. I was amazed by some of the things that I found when I went through it all before moving into my apartment. Old notebooks full of my ideas for stories. I watched the progressions. First it was stuff about ponies and rainbows and that sort of things. Then it was acrobats and circuses and carnivals. Then there was the brief period of stories about happy families overcoming challenges to remain together and happy. Then came the mysteries. There were pages upon pages of mystery ideas. I even managed to find the one that I had developed into my failed novel. I was smiling as I went through the pages until I came to a page I had completely forgotten about. It was the romance page. I can’t even remember where that phase fit in, but at one point, I had considered romance writing. Stories of loves discovered, lost, and rekindled. I looked over my notes and was amazed at how easily I had been able to make characters fall in love. The only thing more amazing was how easily I had been able to break their hearts for the sake of a good story. A death in a romance was different than a death in a murder mystery, I contemplated. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so different after all.

Before I let myself think about it more, I opened up another notebook and smiled. It was my biology notebook from the most recent semester. Page upon page of chromosomes and organ names and animal family trees. I pushed the other notebooks aside. I knew who I had become. Admiring the work of others was one thing, but I could no longer create a masterpiece myself.

Cindy’s getting married next week and she wanted me to be a bridesmaid, but I wrote back and told her I couldn’t. I’m going to be out of town that weekend, in Alaska studying horned puffin mating habits. I don’t really want to go to the wedding anyway. I never quite figured out what was up between her and my brother and I figure that if he goes and I see him there, it will become all too clear to me exactly how they feel about each other. I don’t want to know everything.

I really do have to get to the airport now so I can catch my plane to Puffinsville, but I will be back, and I’d love to talk to you some more when I return. And I’d love to hear, when I get back, if you’ve figured out who done it with what in where.

Old Poetry

I have often pretended to be a poet. Most of my "poetry" is really just ramblings of emotion, without much true form or beauty. Here are a few (unmodified) pieces (among many) from years ago (high school and freshman year of college) that might be more bearable than the rest.

A Time to Love

There was a boy I loved once.

He was smart and handsome and strong, I thought.

I admired him and felt we could be deliriously happy together.

I tried to tell him how I felt, but he rejected me.

He said he didn’t love me like I loved him.

I treasured him in my heart, but it seemed I held no place in his.

As the years passed, we moved on.

There were other boys, yet I still thought of this one.

What could have been, if he had said yes?

Many years later, I saw him again.

He looked at me with gentle eyes

And pulled an old picture of me from his pocket.

“I love you,” he whispered.

I smiled weakly, stroked my hand gently along his cheek,

And said simply, “Good-bye.”

Then I turned and walked away.

It was too late.

I did not love him anymore.

Moments in Time

Stop. Pause.

Wait and look around.

Its a moment,

and its passing on,

dying forever.

You cannot stop

it.

At one moment,

I thought I knew.

At one instant,

I felt I was at the top.

Moments in time,

time ticking along.

Never the same again.

The raven had it right.

Never will we return.

Never will it be again.

Nevermore.

Breathe.

And life goes on.

What I had is gone.

Could there be something better?

Moments in time.

Seconds ticking away.

What is time?

What is the future?

Its different now.

Nevermore.

Yet it could be again.

And it could also be better.

I Never Realized I Was Thirsty

I never realized I was thirsty until you gave me something to drink.

I never realized I was hungry until you fed me.

I never realized I was empty until you filled me up inside.

I never realized I was dead until you brought me back to life.

I never realized how much I needed you until you fulfilled my needs.

I never realized you could love me so much until you did.

I never realized you were standing right there until you opened my eyes.

I did not know what thirst was.

I did not know what hunger was.

I did not know what need was.

I did not know what love was.

Now I do know.

I will never be thirsty again.

Chocolate

Candy coated craze.

Combine clusters.

Eat it all.

Savor.

Melting inside.

Pure, rich, creamy,

beautiful.

Such a treasure,

such a vice,

such a shame.

What a waste of wanting.

Amazing attrition of affection.

What a waste of love.

Luscious love weakens.

What goes inside this way,

is only skin deep.

Not all that is real is genuine.

Ingest something that matters.

The Flag Still Waves

“Oh say does that star spangled banner yet wave, ore the land of the free and the home of the brave?” -Francis Scott Key

In the dreaded darkness of night,

I thrust my sight up to the highest building.

There I saw a pure light shining on our flag, flying brilliantly,

The stars and stripes forever.

And I knew I was free.

Then I watched in horror as the flag plunged to the bitter earth below

And a great, wide chasm opened in the earth before me.

I looked across the dark and dangerous void

To where the once glorious flag lay dead and defiled.

And I knew I was not brave.

I need courage again.

Freedom is not enough.

My First Attempts

When I was very young, I fancied myself one day becoming a great author of fiction. As soon as I could move a pen to form words, I did so. Somewhere stashed away are notebooks full of my stories and ramblings. When I was a little older, I even joined a young writers' club and got a little something published in their newsletter. When my family first got a word processor (as a predecessor to a real computer) I was thrilled at being able to write and edit more easily. When I was in middle school and high school, I saw ideas for stories all around me and wrote them down as often as I could. And even now I have many works of fiction and poetry (most only started and no where near complete) saved on my computer.

So what happened? Why am I not the famous author I planned to be? My desire to be creative was always there, but it was eclipsed by my primary passion and talent of mathematics, and later (after I discovered it existed) of computer science. From a young age, I excelled in the more analytical and logical side of things. I studied in accelerated or advanced math courses starting in the fourth grade and continuing on through high school. During high school, I also discovered something even greater than mathematics: computer science, and I determined what path I wanted my professional life to take. In college, I attained a bachelor's and master's degree in C.S. as well as a second major in mathematics tacked on to the bachelor's. I loved logic, mathematics, and computer science, but as my passion and skill for what is now my career grew, the part of me that had once hoped to be a great creative writer was often pushed aside.

Especially in recent years, my secondary passion has truly fallen on hard times. I still write some, but not as much as I used to, and very rarely have I shared what I have written. This blog is my attempt to begin to change that.

I'm not even sure anyone will ever see this. I might end up keeping it a secret, as I have kept most of my writing so far, or I may not. At the very least, perhaps this will force me to write more, and to regain what I had when I was very young. I've been training my brain to go in one direction for too long. It is time to see if I can reclaim an ambidextrous brain.