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.