tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27702254771946382922024-03-13T05:20:43.119-07:00Weekly Short N Sweet StoriesMy goal: To write one short story a week for a year for a total of 52 short stories.
If you like reading and/or seeing people challenge themselves, this is a good blog to follow!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-77787553178308271962012-02-29T20:06:00.002-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.689-07:00Story Stats and Novel Excerpt!Hello again everyone! Happy Leap Day! Last Leap Day, I was an eighth grader about to graduate. Now I'm a twelfth grader about to graduate. And next Leap Day, I could be a college senior about to graduate! It's crazy how these things seem to work in four-year stints. <br />
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Anyway, I am here with some new offerings: final stats on my stories and an excerpt for the novel I'm writing for my senior project.<br />
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First, the stats: <br />
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Overall, and not counting the title or the "The End" I would put at the end of each story, the total word count of my 52 stories is: <strong>123,736 words!!</strong> That is about 16,000 more than <em>Wuthering Heights</em> and <em>Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban</em>, and about 12,000 less than <em>A Tale of Two Cities</em>. <br />
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And in Microsoft Word 12-point Times New Roman font, single-spaced, again without the titles or "The End," my stories are: <strong>228 pages!!</strong> In a novel, depending on how it's formatted, that could be around 460-480 pages.<br />
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I must say, I'm pretty happy with those stats. I'm curious to see how my novel will compare! Speaking of, read further if you'd like an excerpt...<br />
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Edit: I have added the prologue to the excerpt.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>My novel is based on Story #18, <a href="http://weeklyshortnsweetstories.blogspot.com/2011/06/story-18-rebellion.html" target="_blank">Rebellion</a>. I used the same world and similar situations (especially in the prologue), as well as a quote that you may recognize, but I didn't use the same characters, although I did reuse some names. This excerpt is the prologue and the first chapter. It's a rough draft, so everything is subject to change.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><b>Prologue</b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The mother pulls up the blanket to cover her son. His fingers grasp the edge of the sheet as he blinks his wide eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“‘M not tired, Mommy,” the boy whines.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The mom ruffles his hair fondly and sits down at a chair next to her son’s bed. “How about I tell you a bedtime story?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Okay.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What should it be about?” the mom asks. Her bedtime stories are the stuff of legends. She has hundreds stored in her mind, and she can make up new stories instantly. Many times she’s woven a word-picture of the ocean for her son on a dry, hot day, or a calm meadow while thunder tries and fails to drown her voice. But now there is no weather condition, so she lets the boy decide.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Su’cide,” he says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What?” the mom gasps, her face going pale. “Why, Will? You know we don’t talk about – that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will makes an aborted attempt to shrug, but stops when he realizes he’s lying down. “Tommy talked about it before. He said anybody could do it. He said it’s not really bad.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Tommy said that, did he?” the mother asks, more to herself than to Will. Where can this talk be coming from? Surely no parent would tell their child something so obviously against the Regime’s philosophy. A child saying something like that – well, it can only mean rebellion. And if a rebellion is coming, she needs Will to be informed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He is still so young. She had meant to tell him later. But what is a mother for if not to pass down her beliefs to her children? The mother takes a deep breath. Will needs to know.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’ll tell you a story about suicide, sweetie. But only if you promise to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> tell it to a Regime official, but to hold it close to your heart to inspire others.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I promise.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Okay.” The mother leans forward on the wooden chair. “Here’s the most important thing to know about suicide. It’s not, as the Regime has told you, an evil act. You don’t go to Hell. And Tommy’s right, it’s not impossible. In fact, people accomplished it not too long ago. What you really need to know is that suicide is the most powerful form of protest, the ultimate act of rebellion against the Regime. It all started years ago…”</div><br />
<strong>Chapter 1</strong><br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“When it became clear that the Regime was going to win over the free people, many people were devastated. But then Jean-Baptiste had a great idea – a way to let the Regime know just how much they were hated, and inspire more rebellion in the rest of the populace. He organized a mass suicide. When the Regime overthrew the free people, they expected grudging acceptance and a lot of followers. Instead, they got hundreds of people publicly expressing their distaste and a loss of followers. Jean-Baptiste had at least three hundred people agree to commit suicide. The event was widely publicized. That’s why the Regime cracked down on the media. But still, everyone heard about it. The Regime had to spend a long time convincing everyone they really were in control. <i>That’s</i> why they’re so against suicide. It’s the most powerful form of protest, the ultimate act of rebellion.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The boy Will is trying to convince still looks skeptical. Will feels a headache coming on and resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Don’t you understand?” he says instead. “If you want to get back at the Regime, suicide is the best way to do it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“But I don’t want to get back at the Regime,” the boy says blankly. “I just want to die.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yes, well, might as well spite the Regime while you’re at it,” Will says, trying vainly to keep the irritation out of his voice. This recruitment idea sounded a lot better before he started trying it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The boy shrugs. “The Regime isn’t so bad. This place is okay. I’ve been feeling a little bit happier every day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will stares at the boy in disbelief. They’d obviously managed to completely brainwash this one, if he thought Smile Camp was an okay place. The awful paint job done on the buildings should be enough to keep anyone suicidal.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Never mind,” Will says. “Enjoy your day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The boy just nods at him, looking slightly confused. Will has that effect on a lot of people in Smile Camp. But at least he has someone who might not understand him, but is at least sympathetic. Walking quickly, Will makes it to his dorm and finds his brother, Jake, still sitting on the bed. It looks like he hasn’t moved since Will left at least half an hour ago.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“How’d it go?” his brother asks, looking up and affecting an air of interest.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will huffs and sinks down on the bed across from him. “Awful. No one seems to understand. They either don’t care or are worried about getting caught, which is stupid, because they’ve already <i>been</i> caught.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jake shrugs. “They have a point, Will. If the Regime officials find out you’re planning a rebellion, regardless of whether you have any followers –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’ll get some,” Will mutters. “I think I’m close to convincing Peter.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Whatever,” Jake says. “The point is, it’s dangerous, what you’re doing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will glances at his brother pointedly. “I thought you were supposed to support me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Not when you’re being an idiot. Which is actually quite often.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will sighs. “I’m being careful. But there’s a fine line between careful and useless. If I don’t say anything, I’ll never get anything going.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Would that be so bad?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will gave in to the urge to squeeze his eyes. “Jake, we’ve been over this. You know what Mom said –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I know, but we don’t have to do what she said.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will thinks back to the time his mother first told him about the power of suicide. She had painted a picture in his head like she always did, and this one had been impossible to resist – a world without the oppressive Regime, an escape that would help other people, and an in-your-face to the Regime. He can’t give up on that. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Listen, I know you don’t care about what Mom wanted –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“That’s not true.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will thinks about pressing the point (Jake didn’t know her like Will did, she died when Jake was still very young, he never heard her paint the word-picture), but he’s too tired to go into this right now. So, instead, he brings up the reason why Jake is in this suicide camp in the first place.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You want revenge on the Regime, remember? And there’s no better way than to commit suicide. Which is a win-win, since you were going to kill yourself anyway.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jake nods, chewing on a thumbnail. He always starts biting his nails when he’s thinking too hard. “I know, you’re right. It’s just, so far all your plan has done is gotten us both in this prison, and we’re no closer to revenge or suicide than before. If anything, we’re farther away.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Maybe, but we’re closer to the enemy. We can see how they operate… make plans…” Will trails off, because as much as he blusters sometimes, they both know things aren’t going the way they want them to. Again, this plan sounded better in Will’s head. But now he’s dragged Jake into it (well, sort of, he didn’t make Jake try to commit suicide, but he didn’t stop him). It’s up to him to get them out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m working on it,” Will says. “Liberating the Smile Camps does not happen overnight.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Or over a few months, apparently,” Jake sasses. Will lets it go. Jake had one of his seizures earlier this morning, and they always leave him exhausted and grumpy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Just give me more time,” Will says calmly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah,” Jake sighs. “Sorry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No problem.” Will gets up and paces around their small room. After a few months and relatively good behavior, they’d earned the right to a room for just the two of them. It’s ridiculously small, but at least they have privacy, something Will’s really come to value after constantly being on suicide watch. As much as he hates it, ostensibly behaving in Smile Camp has been a good idea. It makes it easier (and more satisfying) to go behind their backs and try to recruit people.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Try” being the operative word. But he’s been making some progress with Peter. Will decides to visit him tomorrow, after Reasons to Be Happy class. That class always puts Peter in a more receptive mood.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But for now, he’s all out of recruitment energy. Will quits his pacing and plops back on his bed. Jake still hasn’t moved much.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You feeling okay?” Will asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Huh?” Jake blinks, snapping out of a daze. “Oh, sure. I’m just a little achy. Nothing I can’t handle.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will frowns. “You don’t need more medicine?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jake smiles bitterly. “For some reason, that medicine doesn’t seem to help as much now that I know the Regime’s caused my… condition.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You still need it,” Will points out, realizing with a twist of amusement that he is actually the one being the voice of reason for the moment.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I took enough,” Jake says, eyes flashing. Will decides to let it go.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Classes tomorrow,” he says in an only slightly awkward subject change. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jake gladly accepts the new topic. “Too bad. I was enjoying the weekend, even if we still had to go on Happy Runs and they monitored us nearly twenty-four seven.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“They have to make sure we don’t get our hands on any sharp implements.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Like what? A really sharp piece of paper?” Jake jokes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’d be surprised at what these guys can turn into weapons,” Will says seriously. “They might be lazy when it comes to rebellion, but most of them are quite resourceful. If we wanted to just kill ourselves instead of staging a rebellion, I bet you we could do it tomorrow. That’s how bad the Regime’s security is.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Will sees a calculating look in Jake’s eyes and his blood runs cold. He should not have mentioned that. His brother has always put his own desire for suicide over Will’s desire for rebellion, and only when they match up nicely does this work. If Jake knew he could probably kill himself now and not wait for rebellion…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“But we don’t want to do that, of course, because then you wouldn’t get your revenge,” Will adds hastily.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Of course,” Jake agrees, but the calculating look is still in his eyes. Will resolves to keep a closer eye on him. He can’t lose Jake so early.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">If he doesn’t have his brother supporting him, then who does he have?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-64733105223840020882012-01-29T22:59:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.662-07:00Story #52 - MemoriesWell, everybody, this is the end. I can't believe it's been a year since I started this blog, and I can't believe I managed to write fifty-two stories. Soon after this last story, I'm planning to post some stats (the total word count of all my stories, for example) and then a list of the stories I am most proud of. And my next big project is to write a novel! It's for my Senior Project in order to graduate. In the coming weeks, I might post excerpts of my novel. And, of course, when I'm less busy, I will work on editing these stories.<br />
<br />
I would like to thank each and every person who read one or more of my stories, and especially the people who commented. I loved hearing what you liked and didn't like, and your comments helped give me the energy to continue writing. I dedicate this last story to all of you. Enjoy! :)<br />
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Title: Memories<br />
Warnings: mild, not graphic or violent crime<br />
Summary: Amnesia, conflicting memories, and plenty of mystery.<br />
Length: ~4,450 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. Genre is psychological thriller.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><strong><u><span style="background-color: black; color: #b4a7d6;">Memories</span></u></strong><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wake up with a groan. My head is killing me, and even though I must’ve been asleep, I don’t feel rested. Slowly I crack open my eyes, looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings. I’m in a nice room with cream-colored walls. There’s a painting on the far side of the wall that I’m either too tired to make out, or maybe it’s supposed to be an abstract blur of lines and colors.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Marie,” someone says delightedly. “You’re up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Startled, I glance in the direction of the voice. A tall, middle-aged man stands in the doorway, along with a blonde woman who I guess is his wife. The man had spoken. Is he talking to me? Is my name Marie? Why can’t I remember any of this?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m sorry, I can’t – who are you?” I ask, trying and failing to keep my voice from shaking.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The man smiles kindly. “I’m sorry, we should have introduced ourselves. I’m Tim, your father, and this is Meryl, your mother.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I stare blankly at him. “What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You have retrograde amnesia, Marie,” the woman – my mother? – explains. “A while ago, you were out rollerblading – you love rollerblading – and you fell and hit your head. And now… now you can’t remember anything from your past.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I try to process this. What did I do yesterday? The day before that? I can’t remember. Everything starts to go blurry and I realize I’m breathing way too fast. I take in great gulps of air, trying to steady myself even with the realization that I’ve lost my memory.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tim – my father – rushes over to me. “Easy, Marie,” he murmurs, his voice soothing. “Take deep breaths. You’re okay. We’re here for you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Slowly, I settle down. The panic attack has used up my meager resources of energy, and I close my eyes. Someone’s hand strokes my forehead.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Sleep,” I hear my mother whisper. “You’ll feel better.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I sleep.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The next time I wake up, I’m relieved that I can at least remember what happened previously – meeting my mom and dad, freaking out, etc. What’s a bit less reassuring is that the rest of my life is a gaping black hole. I slowly sit up and look around. I must be in my room, right? Maybe if I look around I can find some clues about who I am. But just as I’m about to get out of bed, the door opens again and my dad walks in. I settle back down. Asking my father should be another good resource to discover my identity.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hey, Marie,” my dad says. “How are you doing?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Okay,” I say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We’re quiet for a moment. My dad sits down at a nearby chair. We’re still quiet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Well, this is awkward,” I say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My dad looks up as if he’s been snapped out of a daze. “I’m sorry. Let’s talk. How are you adjusting?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I want to know more about me. Is there anything I should know about? Like, do I have diabetes or the Russian mafia after me or something?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My dad smiles. “Well, you’ve still got your sense of humor. Ah, let’s see… nothing too terrible that I know about, at least. I wish we had a journal to give you, but you never were one to keep a diary.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I frown. “What about pictures?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My dad shakes his head. “We don’t take pictures. We believe it takes away from the poignancy of the moment.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I nod, trying not to look so skeptical. This is my family. Their beliefs must be mine. “Okay, then, no pictures.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We’re silent for a moment. Then my dad looks at me and smiles. “How about a few stories about you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Embarrassing ones?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Nothing too bad.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Okay.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And so my dad begins to paint me a picture of Marie MacGyver. She once found a baby bird and nursed it to health. One time she “ran away from home” but only made it halfway down the street before deciding staying at home was better. She loved oranges and her favorite color was green. (I don’t know if I like oranges. And green’s all right.) She was a very good pickpocket.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The last one strikes me as strange. I stare at my dad, trying to decide why he mentioned that, but then someone knocks on the door. I’m surprised they don’t just barge in like my parents have been doing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Ah, just in time,” my dad says. “There’s one other person you should meet.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My blood runs cold, but I manage to stave off another panic attack. I can’t explain this sudden dread assaulting me. Who could it be? Do I have a boyfriend? Would that be a good or bad thing? It’d definitely be awkward. Muscles tensed, I wait for the person to walk in. It’s a boy, maybe a bit older than me. Oh, no.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Marie, this is your brother, Luke,” my dad says. I breathe a (hopefully subtle) sigh of relief. A brother, I can deal with. I have brothers at home.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Wait, what? Was that a memory? If so, of course I have a brother (brothers?). He’s right in front of me. Shaking off any confusing thoughts, I turn towards Luke.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hi,” I say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He grins. His teeth are straight and white. “Hey, Marie.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Dad was just telling me stories about me,” I say. “He says I’m a good pickpocket, but I think I’ve forgotten the skill.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Luke shares a quick look with my dad that I can’t read. Then he looks back at me. “We’re all good pickpockets. You’ll learn again in due time.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“That’s enough, Luke,” my dad says sternly. “Let Marie come to everything on her own time.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Sorry,” Luke says, not sounding entirely sincere. Dad gives him a Look. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’ve seen Marie, now get back to what you were doing,” my dad says to Luke.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My brother grimaces at me, and I pull a sympathetic face. I wonder if we always do this, a sort of sibling commiseration regarding our parent’s demands. Luke smiles at me, and then leaves. My dad picks up telling me stories until I beg off, claiming tiredness. But really I need to think.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m beginning to get a creeping suspicion that I live in a house full of crooks. All this talk about pickpocketing and the lack of photos (not fond of mug shots?) has made me suspicious. I’m probably overreacting, or maybe my deductive abilities have been ruined by my head injury. But soon I’ll have to find out the truth. I decide to ask Luke. He seems like the most approachable. Relieved to have made a decision, I quickly drop off to sleep.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I dream of two people, a man and a woman. They don’t look like my parents, but I immediately know they are my dad and mom. In the dream, I am outside a burning house and my parents are inside. Several men are holding me back from running inside. None of them look like Luke, but I know they are my brothers. I turn to them and we cry as we watch our parents and our house go up in flames.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">When I wake up, my heart is pounding and my hands tremble. I take deep gulps of air, reminding myself that it was just a dream. My family is fine. They’re right here with me. Still, I can’t quite calm down so I decide to splash some water on my face. I get up from the bed, surprised at how shaky I am. Slowly, I make my way outside. My dad said the bathroom was just down the hall and… either to the left or the right. I’ll figure it out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">As I walk down the hall, I stop when I notice a light on behind a door on the right. I hear murmuring voices – my parents. Curious, I inch up to the door and stay still, trying not to breathe. I can just barely hear them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“… the pickpocketing,” says my dad. “It spooked her a little, I think.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My mom sighs. “We shouldn’t have trusted him. We should’ve known he’d screw it up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“He’s still under our thumb. We’ll give him another shot,” my dad replies.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">They fall silent, and I continue on quietly, thinking over the mysterious conversation. They must’ve been talking about me and Luke. The callousness in their voices when they talked about Luke surprised me. He’s their son, but they act as if he’s just a tool. A tool to be used in the pickpocketing business? I feel a strong sense of having stumbled upon something rotten, but this is my life. I didn’t stumble upon it; I was born into it. And so was Luke.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I make it to the bathroom and splash water on my face, but I don’t wake up from this nightmare.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I need to talk to Luke.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It turns out that speaking to my brother alone is easier said than done. It seems that my mom or my dad is always there, regaling me with stories of my life. Sometimes Luke is there too, but most of the time he is away doing mysterious things (pickpocketing?). Some nights I tell myself that I will sneak outside my room and go talk to him, but I never do. A big part of me wants to trust my parents, callous pickpockets or not. Another part of me fears that talking to Luke will only make things worse. So now, weeks later, I listen to my mom tell a story about my high school graduation (apparently I’m through with high school, but am taking a gap year before going to college). I consider asking her if we are crooks. What would she say? Would she laugh? Tell me yes? Not answer?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Mom?” I ask.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yes, honey?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Can I take a walk outside? I haven’t been outside in ages, and I’m feeling a lot stronger.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She hesitates as I wait anxiously. “Okay,” she says finally.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I smile. Now, for the next step… “Can Luke come with me? He can make sure I’m doing okay.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My mom gives me a considering look. I try to look as innocent as possible. It must work, because she nods. “Sure.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Great!” I say, but inside I am second-guessing myself. Maybe I’ve only been imagining that my parents are trying to keep Luke and me separated. Sometimes I feel like my lack of memories has been replaced with an overactive imagination, or maybe I’ve always had that. I don’t know. But it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not, sometimes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Like the memories. More and more often, I’ve been having flashes (<i>a woman’s smiling face, a tasty apple, swimming on my school team, not-Luke’s brotherly jab</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">). None of them match with what my parents have told me, but they seem so real. I try to call it off as my overcompensating imagination, but it unsettles me. Maybe this chance to talk to Luke will answer my questions. Yes, I worry about it not turning out well, but it’s better to <i>know</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">A few minutes later Luke and I are outside. I gaze around, smiling at the sunny blue sky and enjoying the birdsong. I feel like I’ve always loved the outdoors. Beside me, Luke grins as we slowly walk down the street. “It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Yeah,” I agree. “Thanks for walking with me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“No problem.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">We walk a bit further as I muster up the courage to ask the question that’s been nagging me for weeks. Eventually, I go with, “So what do you do all day?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">My brother looks at me in surprise. “Huh?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Dad’s always telling you to get back to your work, but whenever I ask him or Mom about it they’re… evasive. Is it… do you…” What a weird question. But I take a deep breath and bite the bullet. “Are you a pickpocket?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke whistles through his teeth. “Man,” he says. “Uh, why would you say that?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">It’s an evasion, but I go with it. “Well, there was the weird story about me being a good pickpocket. And, I don’t know, a few things I overheard our parents say… I’m just, I’m curious.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I knew you’d figure it out,” Luke says. “Ti – Dad wanted to ease you in slowly, but he screwed up when he mentioned pickpocketing right away. He thought you figured he was just kidding, but I could tell you knew something was up.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Oddly enough, I feel relief. The question is answered, even if the answer is not good. “So we’re all pickpockets, then.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke shrugs. “Yeah… pretty much.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">We walk a bit further. I stare ahead, lost in thought, when suddenly Luke grabs me by the arm and hurries me down the street. Bewildered, I glance behind us, seeing only a familiar-looking poster and an old man far away. “What’s wrong?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I thought someone was following us,” Luke says breathlessly. “C’mon, it’s time to go back.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">My heart speeds up as we walk briskly back home. But it’s not because someone’s following us. It’s because I just figured out why the poster looked so familiar.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">It was a picture of me, smiling into the camera – a school photo, maybe. And beneath it was a large, bolded word – <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">MISSING</b>.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I can’t sleep that night. I don’t know how I even functioned the rest of the day. I don’t remember much – I must’ve been in a daze. My dad was mad at my mom for letting Luke and me go outside. He claimed that I wasn’t well enough yet, and that Luke was grounded, or something along those lines. But those creeping suspicions that were right about the pickpocketing are overtaking me again, and family drama pales in comparison. What if my family isn’t just full of thieves – what if they’re kidnappers? What if my family isn’t even my family?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I’ve gone over it countless times, but I’m positive that poster was a Missing poster of me. In the wide world, I am missing. But obviously I am right here. Here, in this house, with no memories and no pictures and no proof at all that anything is as it seems.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind immediately jumps to the maybe-memories I’ve been having. All of them had seemed so right and comparatively made my life now seem so wrong. My parents – the ones in my memories, the ones who burned to death – looked nothing like my mom and dad here. My brothers looked nothing like Luke. But they felt like family, and those memories felt like my life. The people here? As hard as I try, they don’t feel like family. They feel like a charade, a façade. I figured it was just because they were hiding their criminal ways. But maybe it’s more than that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Why would someone want to kidnap me? And is it even kidnapping if I don’t know I’ve been kidnapped? Maybe I should call the police. But I’m not sure I even have access to a phone. And what would I say? “I’m not missing, but I think I’ve been kidnapped”? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I toss and turn in my bed, heaving a huge sigh. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m alone in the world. If everything I’ve been told is a lie – if my family isn’t really my family, and they’re actually my kidnappers – that doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad. The life I have here isn’t so awful. My parents (kidnappers?) are nice to me, and I like Luke. Yeah, eventually I’ll probably have to become a pickpocket. But how do I know my old life was any better? From what I can remember, my parents died, and I don’t know what happened to my brothers. Judging from the fact that no one has come looking for me, maybe I’m all alone in the world. Maybe this amnesia, kidnapping, and pseudo-family is just what I need.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I won’t call the police, at least not yet. But I can’t let my “parents” know that I saw the Missing poster. They might laugh off my suspicions, but I was right about the pickpocketing. I could be right about that too.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke gave me a straight answer last time. He’s the weakest link, the one to grill for information. The next time I can get him alone, I’ll ask him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I finally get to sleep. In my dream-memories, I see the faces of my parents and brothers, and then I see Tim and Meryl and Luke. I see myself swimming, and then I see a faceless figure pickpocketing. <i>You are not a pickpocket, Rachel,</i> a voice from deep inside me intones. <i>You are not Marie.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I wake up in the morning, tired but feeling steadier than I’ve felt since I was reintroduced to the world with a blank slate for my identity. Tim, Meryl, and Luke had tried to fill it up, but the real me was underneath, just waiting to resurface.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I am Rachel. And today, I’m going to figure out what to do about my “family.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">My chance to talk to Luke comes earlier than expected. My dad – I guess I should just think of him as Tim now – is still angry with Meryl, and so they aren’t doing as good of a job at monitoring me as usual. Instead of going to my room to give me something to read or telling me probably-false stories, they’re holed up in their room together, talking. That gives me the chance to knock on Luke’s door.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Come in,” he says.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I enter and close the door behind me, looking around. I’ve never been in his room before. It’s surprisingly Spartan, with almost no personal touches. Luke is sitting on his bed, sketching something. He looks surprised to see me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Hey, Marie. What is it?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Don’t call me Marie.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Why not?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">This is it, the moment of decision. If I let him know I’m onto him, will he alert Tim and Meryl? Or will he help me?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I remember overhearing my “parents” talking about Luke as if he was just a tool in their belt. I think about how stern my dad – Tim is with him. I think about how Luke told me about the pickpocketing, but tried to keep me from seeing the poster. Can I trust him? I don’t know. But I want to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“You’re not really my brother, are you, Luke?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke’s eyes widen. I can see the indecision on his face. He has to decide – bluff, or tell the truth? He blinks, and I can see the decision is made. I wait nervously to find out what it is.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“No,” he says softly. “I’m not your brother.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He’s on my side. I want to collapse with relief, but instead I make my way closer to him. “I know my name’s Rachel, not Marie.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke nods. “You got your memory back?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Some of it.” I sit down in a chair beside the bed. I run a hand through my hair, and ask the most important question. “Why?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I don’t have to explain it. Luke sets aside his sketchbook and sighs. “Tim and Meryl have been running this for a while. They find people with amnesia – people who won’t be missed – and then they try to turn them into criminals who will get money for them. It’s kind of an <i>Oliver Twist</i> thing, but with a… twist.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I try to ignore the “people who won’t be missed” part and focus on getting answers. “What happened to everyone else?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke shrugs. “Most of them are in jail, never knowing they’ve been lied to. Some of them died. The ones, like you, who did regain their memory – well, they either end up like me, or dead.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I shiver at the thought that a few doors down lay my potential future murderers. “What happened to you?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I was just like you, at first,” Luke says. “An amnesiac that they tried to turn into a money-making machine. But I started getting my memories back, so I – I confronted them. I threatened to call the police. But Tim and Meryl said no one would believe me, and that no one cared about me. They said they were the only family I had.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“And you believed them?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke looks at me desolately. Even though I know we’re not siblings, I feel bonded to him, and strangely protective. He doesn’t deserve this life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“They were right, weren’t they?” he says. “So when they offered to let me in on their operation, I accepted. You were my first assignment.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">We’re quiet for a while as we both absorb what this means. The fact that Luke is telling me this now is proof that he failed his assignment. I feel honored that he would risk his safety for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I have just one more question for him. “Well, what are we waiting for? We have to go.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke just looks at me, listless and a bit confused. “Huh?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I stand up from my chair, glancing at the time. I don’t know how long I can count on Tim and Meryl staying in their room. “I can’t stay here knowing I’ve been kidnapped. And now that you’ve told me everything, you’re in danger, too. We have to go.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke shakes his head. “No, you don’t get it. They don’t have to know that I told you anything, just that your memory came back. Then you can join me, and Tim and Meryl. We can run this together. I’ll teach you the ropes, and we’ll do better with the next person.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I don’t even consider it. “No, Luke, you’re the one who doesn’t get it. I have more options besides die or join the evil. I can leave, right now, and later call the cops on Tim and Meryl. They’ll go to jail, and then we’ll be safe. If you help me and escape with me, you probably won’t even get a prison sentence.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke looks at me earnestly. “You can’t do it, Rachel. Tim and Meryl are strong, and more powerful than you think. It’d be better to just accept that now. And besides, what are you going to do once you get away – <i>if</i> you get away – and call the police? You have nowhere to go. You know nothing about your life. What can you do?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I take a moment to pause and look at Luke. I can tell he really believes what he’s saying. I can always hear an undercurrent of fear in his words – fear that has kept him a prisoner of Tim and Meryl for so long. He really believes that there is nothing out there for him, and that he can’t do anything to change it. But I don’t believe that. I can’t.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I can do a lot of things,” I say. “First thing is getting out of here. And you can either come with me, or stay here and probably get arrested along with Tim and Meryl.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke doesn’t move. “I’m sorry, Rachel. It’s not going to work.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I fight with a twin urge to cry and to scream. How could Luke be so stupid? I take a deep, shaky breath. “Last chance,” I warn.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Luke shakes his head.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I look at him one more time. He picks up his sketchbook again and starts drawing, the very picture of a content prisoner. I barely manage to leave his room without slamming the door.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I’m on my own. But even without my full memory, I can count on my perseverance. I quickly figure out what I need to take with me – some evidence to help convict Tim and Meryl, a change of clothes, some food, and money. That should be enough to get me started on my new life, whatever it may be.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I’m tempted to leave a note for Tim and Meryl. I want them to know that I figured it out and had the guts and the smarts to get away. I want them to fear the approach of the police. But I figure it’s better for them not to know, and it’s better for me not to have a confrontation with them. They lied to me, pretended to love me, and attempted to exploit me, and I would love to yell at them. But Luke does have a point – they’re dangerous. They’re thieves and kidnappers. It’s best to get out safely and get my revenge in a courtroom.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I carefully sneak out of my room and creep towards the door when I hear another door open. I freeze. Not Tim or Meryl – I was so close! I hear footsteps approaching, and I prepare to either run or fight with all I have. But as I turn around, I see Luke.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He looks frightened and his entire frame is trembling. But his white-knuckled grip holds a duffle bag similar to mine, and he’s not in his pajamas anymore. Could it be?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Luke?” I whisper. “What is it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m going with you,” he says. His voice shakes, but his expression is determined.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I smile, my heart feeling a thousand times lighter. I know I can count on my own perseverance, but it’s nice to know I’m not alone. Even if my ally looks like a breeze could blow him over.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You made the right choice,” I grin, beckoning him over as I head for the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He follows me silently. “After you go to the police, where are you going to go? What are you going to do?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I don’t know yet,” I say. I can see this doesn’t reassure Luke. I open the door and step out. Luke hesitantly comes up behind me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I know I had a life once, and so did you,” I continue. “But now we have the chance to make another one. We might not know yet what it’ll be. But we have a chance, and we have to take it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“We don’t know anyone,” Luke says. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“We know each other,” I respond. “That’s our starting point.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Luke stares at me. In the moonlight, his eyes look silver. We are heading down the street, leaving that House of Horrors behind us. Soon we will grab a taxi and head to a police station. I remember our first walk outside, how Luke seemed to have all the answers. He hid his insecurity well. Once again, I feel fondness and protectiveness towards him. I’m glad he’s with me now. It’s nice not to be alone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’re really something, Rachel,” he says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I smile. “I get the feeling people tell me that a lot.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We walk down the street, two amnesiacs with a rope of patched-up maybe-memories between us and definitely-bad memories behind us. We walk into our future, uncertain, bright, and full of memories to be made.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Life is good.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The End!!!! <span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-33180000653380918662012-01-22T19:01:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.619-07:00Story #51 - The Napkin StoryHey everybody! Wow, there's only one story left. Anyway, this week's story goes back a long way. Months ago, I was brainstorming on what story to write that week and my dad suggested that I write a story from the point of view of a napkin. Initially, I dismissed the idea, but it grew on me, and now I've decided to give it a try. I'd love to know what you thought! :)<br />
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Title: The Napkin Story<br />
Warnings: none<br />
Summary: A napkin learns a few things about life, security, and what it means to be a napkin.<br />
Length: ~1,650 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. Genre is other.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><u><span style="background-color: #d5a6bd; color: #0b5394;">The Napkin Story</span></u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I am about to see my new home. I wait eagerly for someone to lift the lid of the box. I have heard that I have been bought by a very wealthy family. That’s just as I wished – I am made of the finest blue cloth, and my maker has always said that I deserve to grace only the best tables. I hope my new owners are not complete fools and have a decent sense of color. I would hate to be a fine blue cloth napkin gracing (or, in this case, hiding) a hideous army green table. Do they even make army green tables? Well, I will soon find out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Someone lifts the lid and I can see the room and the table where I will be placed. It is a fine mahogany table underneath a grand chandelier and covered by a beautiful purple tablecloth. Purple – the color of royalty. My worries come to a halt. This family has good taste. I shouldn’t be so surprised – they bought me and others like me, after all, and we are the crème de la crème of napkins. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Someone scoops me up and places me next to a plate. I’m a bit surprised at how roughly they handle me, but I must accept that a napkin’s place is to serve the diner however they need to be served. If that involves being squeezed between their sticky hands or wiped across their mouth, so be it. That is what we napkins do, and at least I will be able to enjoy my spot at the finest of tables.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I wait and watch as my fellow napkins are laid around me. There are only three table settings. It is a small family, then. That is good. I am brand-new and have never served a family before, but I have heard stories of large families with many children and they sound fearsome. I hope the three places consist of a husband, a wife, and perhaps a grandmother.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">An hour later tells me this is not so. It’s lunchtime, and I see the husband and wife, but along with them comes a little girl. All of us wait nervously to see what spot she sits down at, and to my dismay, it is mine. I wonder if this is her habitual spot. Well, if so, I hope it doesn’t become mine. Humans often can’t tell us apart, and I can only hope that I would be switched to the husband or wife’s spot. As I’ve mentioned, no one treats napkins especially well, but children are the worst.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">This girl immediately grabs me and squashes me onto her lap. She is fidgety and lots of crumbs fall on me as she eats. I try to listen to their conversation – it is always good to get to know your family – but it is hard to concentrate as the girl keeps on picking me up and shaking me out. Eventually, she settles me back beside her plate.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I like Nappy,” she says. At least, that is what I believe she said, but I’m not sure what those words mean.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Nappy?” asks the husband/father. I am not the only one who is confused.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Nappy the napkin,” the girl explains in her little-girl voice. “We’re going to be great friends.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Nappy the napkin? Oh, no. No, no, no. She can’t mean me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Your napkin?” the wife/mother asks, delicate incredulity evident in her voice. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s</i> what you’re going to attach to, Celeste?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What’s wrong with Nappy?” The girl – Celeste, a decent name – asks. She picks me up (surprisingly gently) and hugs me. I did not expect this when I was getting prepared for today. I imagine that I can hear the scathing thoughts of the other napkins. The first day here, and already I am Celeste’s pet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Nothing,” the man says. “Why don’t you keep Nappy? We have plenty of other napkins we can use.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yay!” Celeste squeals. She runs off, carrying me with her, and I lose sight of the beautiful dining table. Celeste runs too fast, and I find myself wishing I were back safe in the box, or catching crumbs for the husband or wife. Why did I have to get stuck as the plaything of a little girl? This is not what I wanted to do in life.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We fall into a routine. During the night, Celeste drapes me across her pillow. I comfort myself with the idea that I am serving my purpose as a napkin by catching any drool, but Celeste hardly ever drools. During the day, Celeste carries me with her unless she’s at school. If she’s at school, I wait on her end table, which is neither mahogany nor purple, and is in fact a rather garish pink plastic. Perhaps wealthy families do not concern themselves with buying expensive furniture for children because they will just ruin the furniture. Or perhaps they let Celeste choose her own end table. That is more likely, and more tragic (for me, at least).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Whenever we pass the dining table, I wish I could weep. I see the majestic tablecloth and the nice box where my fellow napkins get to spend their free time while I am either dragged up and down stairs or left languishing on a plastic pink end table. Occasionally Celeste will bring me to the table during a meal, but she almost never uses me as an actual napkin. The parents accept this now, merely commenting several times about how “napkins are apparently cuter than teddy bears.” I believe that is a compliment, but even a boost to my ego cannot lessen my despair. Months ago, I came here to grace the table of a worthy family and serve them as a napkin to the best of my ability. But now, the only thing I am gracing is Celeste’s hair when she decides to hide underneath me, and my purpose as a napkin has all but been forgotten.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But I suppose it is not all bad. Celeste is kind to me, despite her insistence on calling me “Nappy” and her boundless energy. And sometimes, when I watch my fellow napkins during meals, I am shocked at how callously the husband and wife treat them. Celeste is a bit kinder to her napkin, perhaps in deference for me. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that a job of a napkin is actually pretty miserable. I do not know if being a child’s toy is any better, though, especially when I do not even get the pride of being a valued and beautiful object on a wonderful table.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Time passes and I begin to realize something that should have been obvious to me the moment I found out what napkins do. Napkins are not valued or beautiful, or at least humans hardly ever think of them as anything but a functional object. Napkins are made to be crumpled, and used, and thrown away. We clean up other people’s messes, we get stained ourselves, and then we lose our purpose. Cloth napkins have it infinitely better than paper napkins, of course, but cloth napkins are only slightly fancier functional objects.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Take today, for instance. Celeste had brought me to the dining table for supper. She set me down and everything went smoothly for a while. I found myself once again wishing that I could be a normal napkin and wondering why Celeste had so taken to me. Suddenly, I heard a gasp and saw that the husband had spilled his wine all over his napkin. He quickly stood up, tossing the napkin onto his plate. The wife leaned over to look at the wet, stained napkin, and frowned.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“That’ll stain,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah,” the man said casually, checking to see if the wine had stained anything but the poor napkin. It hadn’t. “I don’t think we’ll be able to wash it out.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">There was a moment of consideration. Celeste, the other napkins, and I all waited to hear my fellow napkin’s fate.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I guess we’ll have to get rid of it,” the wife said eventually. “We have no use for a stained rag.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Well, at least we were planning on buying new napkins soon anyway,” the husband said sheepishly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You can’t throw it away!” Celeste cried. I wanted to cheer her on. Save my fellow napkin!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Sorry, honey,” the wife said, ruffling Celeste’s hair. “It’s ruined. But don’t worry – even if you spill bleach on Nappy, we won’t get rid of him.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Celeste relaxed, and I did, too. I was safe.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">That was the moment I realized how important I am to Celeste, and how important she is to me. When I first arrived here, I never imagined that I would feel unsafe. I would serve my family, look good, and be admired, and this would go on until the end of time. But now I know better. I have seen my fellow napkins get crumpled, stained, tossed into the washer and dryer, and thrown away. I have heard sinister plans from the parents about buying a whole new set of napkins and ditching the old ones (they are going to get a golden tablecloth, and they would prefer purple napkins). I have never seen my fellow napkins receive admiration or respect or even love from any of the family they serve, but I have received all of those from Celeste. She values me, and without her, I would likely be thrown away the minute those new purple napkins come in. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But now? Now, even if the purple napkins look better than I do on the tablecloth, I know that I have won. Safety and love, even in the hands of a willful little girl, is much better than gracing a table and ultimately ending up in the trash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I am Nappy the napkin, and I am proud of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The End! <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-7568621343554775512012-01-15T20:19:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.687-07:00Story #50 - Good Morning, Mr. PresidentHello everyone! Wow, I can't believe I made it to fifty stories. Only two more to go, and I'll have fulfilled my challenge! That's pretty exciting. This week's story is a light, humorous sci-fi story. I hope you enjoy it!<br />
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Title: Good Morning, Mr. President<br />
Warnings: mild bad language<br />
Summary: Nineteen-year-old college student Kyle Turnpike and the President of the United States have much more in common than they thought.<br />
Length: ~3,300 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. Genre is primarily sci-fi and humor. Also, a brief disclaimer: I know next to nothing about how the White House works, so please excuse any plot holes.<br />
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<strong><u><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Good Morning, Mr. President</span></u></strong><br />
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wake up slowly, eventually becoming aware of a few things. My room just got a lot brighter. It’s kind of cold. And someone is saying something, but I’m still too sleepy to concentrate on their words. After a while, I decide to pay attention.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Rise and shine, Mr. President, it’s time to get up now,” the person says.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mr. President?</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Alright, I’m getting up,” I say, still refusing to open my eyes. My voice sounds weird – deeper and rougher and older. I hear the person leave the room, and I finally open my eyes and sit up. What I see confuses me.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is not my room. I am not in my bed. There’s no Dungeons and Dragons poster on the wall across from me. The bedsheets don’t have the Millennium Falcon on them (though admittedly, they’re a lot nicer than mine). The room is bigger, and brighter, and frankly a hell of a lot better than my room. But why am I in someone else’s bedroom? Hastily, I glance at the other side of the bed and around the room, but there’s no one else here. Either my mystery one-night stand is somewhere else or I didn’t have a one-night stand (which, let’s be honest, is more likely). That still doesn’t explain why I’m here.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s when I see the U.S. seal etched on pretty much every available surface. Then I see legal papers lying all around. A foreboding starts to build up in me, but I ignore it. Maybe I’m in the bedroom of a lawyer or government official. I scoot out of the bed and get up. My bare feet look different and I’m not wearing my own clothes. And everything is either much shorter here, or I’m taller.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t be… but that person (a staff member?) did call me “Mr. President”… but surely that was a joke…</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Filled with trepidation, I locate the bathroom. The first thing I see are towels clearly marked with the White House seal. And the next thing I see is the mirror.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can hardly hold back a scream. Because the person turning paler and paler in the mirror – that’s William Cogney, the President of the United States of America. And when I raise my hands to my mouth, so does he. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My God. Somehow I, geeky, nineteen-year-old college student Kyle Turnpike, have swapped bodies with the U.S. President.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okay. This has to be a dream. I pitch myself, watching out of the corner of my eye as the President in the mirror pinches himself too. Nothing happens. Growing desperate, I splash some water on my face, but all that does is get my face wet. I stare into the mirror at the President’s face (he looks exhausted close up) for long minutes, until a knock at the door startles me.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Everything okay, Mr. President?” the same man from before asks. I wonder if he is the Presidential Aide. Aren’t they supposed to follow the President everywhere they go and help him and stuff? In fact, what about the Secret Service? How will I ever be able to pull this off? They’ll know something is wrong right away, even if they won’t suspect what the truth is.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Uh, yeah, just gimme – uh, give me a minute, please,” I say. I feel the urge to slap myself on the forehead. That didn’t sound very Presidential. And did Presidents thank their aides? Is this man even my aide? Am I supposed to call him by name? Damn, I wish I was more politically aware. I wouldn’t even recognize the Vice President if he walked up to me.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure,” the man says. Before I can freak out over whether Presidents thank their maybe-aides, I hear footsteps walking away. Well, good. I guess I don’t have to worry about that.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I turn around and sit down on the closed toilet seat. It’s kind of pathetic, but for the moment this bathroom is my safe haven. In a minute I’m going to have to go out there and pretend like I know how to run a country. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve got plenty of experience playing Age of Empires. But that is not the same as playing Yeah Sure I’m The President Can’t You Tell I Know What I’m Doing. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But then again, my cynical, conspiracy theorist roommate Roger would claim that all Presidents play the I Know What I’m Doing game.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Speaking (well, thinking) of Presidents, I wonder what happened to the real William Cogney? Has he taken over my body? I think that’s how these things usually work. I’ve read a lot of sci-fi books, but not too many had to do with body-swapping. But I think it’s usually both ways.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">God, how embarrassing. My dorm room is a mess. And Roger? I hope he doesn’t do anything embarrassing. He is not going to believe me what I tell him this story.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There’s got to be a way out of this. In the body-swapping books I’ve read, something always starts the swap and something always undoes it. I just have to figure that out. In the meantime, I have a world of possibilities at my feet. I can read all the bills the President is supposed to look over… I could veto something I don’t like… I could introduce a policy for all college students to get better dorm food… or hell, better dorms in general. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The President of the United States really does have a lot of power. And for now, believe it or not, that President is me. All I have to do is play President well enough for people to believe me (and who would suspect the truth, anyway?) and then I can hopefully go back to normal. Maybe I can leave my mark on the world during it. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But on the other hand, maybe that’s not such a bright idea. It’s probably illegal to take advantage of swapping bodies with the President. Well, actually, I doubt there’s a law against it. But I don’t think the real President would be very happy when he gets back.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I decide not to do anything but play President and not decide stuff for the moment. Maybe I can say I’m not feeling well. I open the door and am walking out of the bathroom when I hear a ringing. Confused, I look around, but the fancy phone on the end table isn’t ringing. I follow my ears until I locate an iPhone lying in the suit pocket of one of the President’s jackets. Cogney has an iPhone? Nice!</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I look at the number calling me and gulp. I recognize that number – it’s my own. The President must be calling me. Quickly, I answer the call.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hello?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hello,” the voice replies. You know how it’s weird to hear yourself over the phone, like in a recorded message? Well, for the record, it’s even weirder to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">talk</i> to yourself over the phone. “This is going to sound insane, but –”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We swap bodies,” I say, accidentally interrupting the President. Bad idea. But hey, he sounds like me. I interrupt myself all the time.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes,” Cogney says with a laugh that I recognize as my nervous laugh. “Well, you know who I am. And you are?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Kyle Turnpike,” I respond. “Nineteen-year-old college student. But today’s Saturday, so you don’t have to worry about going to classes. Actually, I didn’t have anything planned for today, sir.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, as you can imagine, I had quite a bit planned,” he says. “What has happened so far?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m quiet for a while. It’s sinking in that I’m having a phone conversation with the President of the U.S., even if he does sound (and look, I’m guessing) like me. I’m not starstruck, exactly, but I’m a bit shocked.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hello?” Cogney says, his tone much politer than mine usually is.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sorry,” I say. “I spaced out. Um… so far, someone woke me up, and now they want me to come outside, but I told them to wait a minute.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Good. That was most likely Stephen, my personal aide.” </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hah! I guessed it.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I have a lot to do today,” the President continues. “I think it is in our best interests – and the country’s – to rectify this as soon as we can. Do you have any idea what could have caused this?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, I’ve read a few books or seen a few movies where this happened,” I reply. “Usually it was to teach the people a lesson, because they said something, or they did something at the same time. Like ate the same dinner and then magically swapped bodies. What did you eat for dinner, Mr. President?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Filet mignon with asparagus.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hmm. Nevermind, then. I ate mac ‘n cheese and then a five-hour energy drink. Besides, I’m a vegetarian. Let’s see… Another possibility is that we were both abducted by aliens and simply don’t remember.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“…”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, you’re right, that’s unlikely. But then again, so is this entire situation. Did you wish to swap bodies with a college student? I didn’t wish that I wanted to be President.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, Mr. Turnpike. I appreciate your enthusiasm in figuring this out, but I’m not sure if you’re approaching this the right way. Maybe you should consult with Dr. Leonard, my personal doctor. He of all people should be able to discern the cause of our transformation.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, sure,” I say. “Um… and until you make it to the White House… what do I do?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I listen patiently, trying not to appear overwhelmed, as the President tells me exactly what to do and how to behave in the White House, as well as how to let him, looking like a nineteen-year-old college student, into the White House. Basically, I have a meeting with the ambassador of South Africa that I’m to put on hold because I’m not feeling well, and I should contact Stephen and ask for the papers to review. Then I am not to do anything until Cogney gets here. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To which I say… boring! But I guess it is better for the sake of the country. Especially because, even in Age of Empires, I usually lost.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hey, running a country, virtual or not, can be pretty difficult.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I walk out of the door and am immediately surrounded by some dudes that are probably Secret Service and Stephen. They seem to be heading left, so I walk with them, trying to hold my head up high and look regal until I realize that the Presidency isn’t supposed to be a monarchy. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You know my meeting with the ambassador from South Africa?” I say to Stephen. I wish I remembered the name of the ambassador, but the President threw a lot of information at me and I’m no good with names.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, we’re heading towards that right now, Mr. President,” Stephen replies.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’re going there now? Damn! I stop in my tracks. “Actually, I’d rather not go,” I say.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stephen looks at me, surprised. “Why not, sir?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Will the under-the-weather excuse work? I don’t have any other card to play. “Truthfully, I feel like hell – uh, I mean, I don’t feel very well. It might be a better idea to reschedule the meeting and just give me the papers to look over. I’m not at my best or my most clear-minded right now…”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Which would hopefully be an excuse for anything out-of-character I do, because judging by everyone’s looks of surprise, Cogney doesn’t swear much. I try to look sad and sick, but it’s hard to contort a face that is not my own. What would look sad and sick on my face could look manic or bored on Cogney’s. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still, it seems to do the trick. After a miniscule study, Stephen says, “Of course, Mr. President,” and we head straight back to my (well, Cogney’s) bedroom.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cool. No international incidents. Now I just get to look at all the top-secret legal documents the President is trusting me with. I wonder if I could add any cool ideas – I wouldn’t have to change anything, but it’d be a really great and easy way to get my voice heard. I wonder how Cogney would feel about making Klingon or Elvish a national language or teaching it in high schools. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nah, it’s best not to say anything. When I run for President myself, I’ll have Cogney vouch for me instead. Assuming I end up running for President (unlikely) and that people still like Cogney by then (possible) and he’s still alive (who knows). </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few hours later, I’m both content and not. Being the President and living the high life is pretty nice. I have servants to give me food and medicine for my “fever” (Dr. Leonard has not come by, but in the phone call Cogney had decided not to tell him quite yet after all). But on the other hand, I understand why the President gave me these files to go over. They don’t involve any signing or any laws or anything and they’re boring as hell. Cogney probably looked at them already, but his staff doesn’t know that so they’re letting me waste my time on them. Playing Sick President isn’t nearly as fun as potentially playing Take Charge And Save The World President. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a while, Stephen comes in again. He looks confused and slightly annoyed. “There’s some kid that wants to see you, sir,” he says. “Apparently he’s very insistent. I told him not to bother you, but he insisted that you wanted to hear from him and had a meeting for him. His name’s Kyle Turnpike.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I try not to feel insulted by Stephen’s obvious annoyance at me (well, Cogney – if only he knew). I also try not to let my relief show. The President is here! We can figure something out. “Yes, I asked for him,” I say.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stephen looks dubious. “He’s very young.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, well, he’s actually not as young as he looks. He’s nineteen. But he’s like Frodo.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At Stephen’s blank look, I elaborate. “You know, Frodo the hobbit from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Lord of the Rings</i>? He looks really young but he’s actually fifty-something and quite wise. His name even means wise. Granted, Kyle only means narrow, but the point is that he’s wise, too, despite being so young.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stephen stands blinking at me and I realize that I’ve taken it too far. In the history books, they will probably refer to this as “President Cogney’s Crazy Day.” God, I hope it’s only one day. I don’t want to save the country by doing nothing forever, but I don’t want to actually have to be the President.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Please, send Mr. Turnpike in,” I say.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes, Mr. President,” Stephen says, still looking baffled. He leaves. I wait a little while, and then I walk in. Well, I know it’s not me, but it’s still a shock – it’s like looking in a mirror, but one that doesn’t follow your actions. An identical twin, maybe. But hell, is my acne really that bad? How embarrassing.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cogney doesn’t have any Secret Service tailing him. I wonder how he managed to arrange that. Or maybe I did. I’m the one with the power here.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hello,” Cogney says. My voice sounds really high even when it’s not on the phone. Everyone’s been lying to me when the assure me that I don’t sound like that.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hi,” I say. “I’m glad you made it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yes.” Cogney takes a seat at one of the fancy wooden tables. He moves around comfortably in this room, because he knows it, but he isn’t comfortable in my body. I don’t blame him. I still think I’m shorter than I am, and I stumbled over my larger feet once. (Actually, it should be President Cogney’s Crazy And Now Also Clumsy Day.)</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So…” I say. “What do we do?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ideally, we wait here until we change back into our true bodies, and then we leave as if we just had a meeting.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, how do you know we’ll switch?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cogney looks at his wrist (well, it’s really my wrist) as if he’s checking a watch, but I don’t wear one. “What time is it?” he asks.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I look at my wrist (really Cogney’s), and sure enough, it’s got a watch. “Seven p.m.,” I answer. It’s later than I thought.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Excellent,” the President says. “Hopefully, we’ll find out if my theory is correct soon.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I perk up. “You have a theory? What is it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The evidence is very circumstantial,” Cogney warns. “But I was thinking about what you said – that maybe the body-swapping has to do with eating similar food. You mentioned that you had a five-hour energy drink… well, so did I.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, great!” I say. “Maybe we’ve got something. But I actually had three five-hour energy drinks.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“So did I.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I stare at the President, surprised. I know five-hour energy drinks are bad for you, but as a college student, I figure they’re better than meth. I guess the U.S. President feels the same way.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That would be fifteen hours of energy,” Cogney continues. “And I woke up at six. Assuming that we swapped bodies soon after our energy drinks, we should swap back at about nine, if not sooner.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I frown. “You really think we swapped bodies just because we both had three five-hour energy drinks at the same time?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The President shrugs. “Those drinks are weird,” he says. “No one really knows what’s in them. And how often do two people drink three in a row at the same time?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Good point,” I concede. “So, in the meantime… what do we do?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The President and Kyle Turnpike are going to have a rather length meeting,” Cogney says.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I grin. This is too weird, but might as well take advantage of it. What a crazy way to get a chance to speak to the President!</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“In that case…” I begin, “How do you feel about teaching Klingon in public schools?”</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It happens at about 8:30. I’m going through the merits of using Star Wars military strategy with Cogney when suddenly everything goes black. I can only guess that I passed out. When I come to, I find myself slumped at the table Cogney was at, staring at Cogney waking up on the bed. He looks like himself again. I raise my hands. They look like mine. I’m wearing my clothes. Quickly, I run to the bathroom. The familiar image of Kyle Turnpike, acne and all, stares back.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, thank God,” I whisper, relieved to hear the sound of my own slightly high-pitched voice.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Wow,” I hear the President mutter from behind me. “It really was the energy drinks.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I quickly turn to him, becoming slightly starstruck now that he looks and sounds like the President. “Thank you, sir,” I say. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He looks at me quizzically. “For what?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I shrug. “For listening to me. For not freaking out. For making sure I didn’t screw up the country.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The President laughs. “Of course, Mr. Turnpike. And thank <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> for your knowledge of body-swapping books and for taking a sick day. Now, I think it’s time that you and I end our meeting. People will be curious to know what young Kyle Turnpike had to say that kept the President enamored for so long.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m almost afraid to ask, but I muster up the courage. “What are you going to say?” Will I have a legacy from this crazy adventure?</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cogney actually winks at me. “You’ll see.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the next day, back in my small dorm room with the Dungeons and Dragons poster and the Millennium Falcon bedspread, I see a few interesting articles in the paper.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“President pushes for law banning five-hour energy drinks!”</b> one says.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“President inquires about value of Star Trek and Tolkien linguistics!” </b>proclaims another.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“President honors nineteen-year-old Kyle Turnpike for ‘giving me new ideas!’” </b>says yet another.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I smile. My roommate Roger is going to have a field day when he sees this.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The End! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-73962149110932209312012-01-08T17:01:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.680-07:00Story #49 - Infinite UniversesHi everyone! This week's story is about the different things a meeting of two people could result in, depending on the circumstances. It goes over different alternate/parallel universes, but not exactly in a sci-fi way. I hope you enjoy it! :)<br />
<br />
Title: Infinite Universes<br />
Warnings: none<br />
Summary: A man and a woman and a stalled elevator. Five universes.<br />
Length: ~2,000 words<br />
Notes: Primarily first person point of view, but with large sections of third person/omniscient. Tense is present. Genre includes romance and a bit of sci-fi. I'm going to go with "general".<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><u><span style="color: red;">Inf</span><span style="color: orange;">ini</span><span style="color: yellow;">te </span><span style="color: lime;">Uni</span><span style="color: blue;">ver</span><span style="color: purple;">ses</span></u></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One moment can happen an infinite number ways in an infinite number of universes. Take what happened this morning, for example. I can easily think of a few different alternatives, probably playing out in other universes.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Universe One:</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A man wakes up almost late for work because his alarm clock didn’t go off. Cursing, he launches himself out of bed, throws on the nearest shirt and pants, grabs an apple for breakfast, and rushes outside. He debates whether to take the elevator or the stairs but ultimately decides that as he’s fourteen stories up, the elevator would be faster. He runs to the elevator, just getting inside before the door closes. There is only one other woman inside. She seems to be in her early thirties, like the man is.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man and the woman wait in silence. The man is out of breath and the woman glances at him out of the corner of her eye, wondering why he’s in such a hurry. Suddenly, the elevator jerks and stops.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” the man groans, while the woman sighs.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man stabs the red help button. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Yes?”</i> someone answers on the opposite end of the intercom. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The elevator’s stalled,” the man says. “Could you please get someone on this quickly? I’m going to be late for work.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“We’ll do our best, Mister. Just sit tight and we’ll have you out in a jiffy,”</i> the someone responds.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Okay,” the man says. He leans back on the elevator wall and sighs, glancing at the woman, who has remained silent. She looks at him, but before they exchange anything more than glances, the elevator suddenly starts moving again.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, excellent,” the woman says. The man only nods in agreement, already preparing to double his pace in order to arrive at work on time.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Seconds later, the elevator doors open and the man and the woman go their separate ways, still strangers.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Universe Two:</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A man wakes up on time with his alarm clock. He carefully selects a suit, brushes his teeth, styles his hair, and makes a bagel for breakfast. Then he leaves his room, walking into the elevator. There is only one other person inside, a red-headed woman clutching her purse. The man nods at her in greeting and presses the button for lobby. The elevator descends slowly, but then jerks to a stop. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, no,” the man says. The woman groans. The man presses the red help button.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Elevator’s stalled,” he says. “Please hurry – I don’t want to be late for work.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“We’ll do our best, sir,”</i> someone on the other end of the line promises.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man leans against the elevator wall and turns to the woman. “I guess we’re stuck here.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I guess we are,” the woman responds. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They are silent for a while. The man huffs a laugh. “This is so cliché.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman “Mmms” in agreement. “By the end of this, I guess we’ll be kissing.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man, stressed about possibly missing work, doesn’t bother to glance at the woman and just scoffs. “I doubt that.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman, insulted, says, “You don’t have to displace your anger on to me. I was just reading some of Freud’s work – displacement is a classic defense mechanism. You’re angry at being stuck in the elevator, but since you can’t realistically yell at the elevator, you’re taking out your anger on me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah, whatever, I’m not really fond of being psychoanalyzed.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The man and the woman wait in tense silence for another twenty minutes, but it feels more like an hour. Finally, the elevator begins to move again.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thank God,” the man says. He had been increasingly worried about being late for work, but he has enough time if he doubles his pace. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The elevator doors begin to open as the woman says, “Hey, I’m sorry for spitting out psychobabble at you. I just thought it was interesting.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the man, focused on getting to his job on time, doesn’t respond and rushes out of the elevator. The woman, miffed, walks slowly in the other direction, and the two part as worse-than-strangers, not-quite-enemies, definitely-not-friends.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Universe Three:</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A man wakes up already late because his alarm didn’t go off. Lying in bed, he debates whether he even wants to show up to work late, or if he shouldn’t go at all. He finally decides to go anyway, picking out an outfit and grabbing an apple for breakfast. He heads toward the elevator, when he sees the doors closing.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hold those doors!” he shouts, speeding up. He gets there in time, and sees a red-haired woman with blue painted nails holding the doors for him.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks,” the man pants.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure,” the woman replies.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The elevator starts downward, but stops with a jerk. The man rolls his eyes and the woman sighs.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“At least I was already late,” the man mutters before pressing the red help button.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Excuse me? The elevator’s stalled,” he says.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“We’re on it, Mister,”</i> someone answers.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thank you,” the man says. He slides down to sit against the elevator, glancing at the woman.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think we’ll be stuck here for a while,” he says. “What’s your name?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Miranda,” the woman answers. “And you are?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m Tom,” the man replies.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Pleased to meet you. And in an elevator of all places!”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I know, it’s so cliché, right?” Tom laughs. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I guess we’re supposed to be kissing by the end of this,” Miranda says.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tom, slightly startled, looks over at her. She’s smiling, and he realizes how pretty she is. But then he sees a ring glittering on her left hand ring finger. She’s married; she must be joking.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He laughs. “Maybe. But do we really want to fall into that cliché?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I guess not,” Miranda replies. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They talk for the rest of the time. Miranda tells Tom about the book on Freud she was reading, and she and Tom try to come up with less cliché excuses for him being extremely late for work besides, “I overslept and then got stuck in an elevator.” Eventually, the elevator starts moving again.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, excellent,” Miranda says. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Excellent? I still have to come up with a believable excuse!” Tom jokes.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Miranda smiles. “You’ll think of something. It was nice talking to you, Tom.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The elevator doors open. “You too,” Tom says, and then heads off to work. Miranda goes in the opposite direction, smiling, because she has just made a new friend.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Universe Four:</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tom wakes up already late for work because his alarm didn’t go off. Deciding to go anyway, he gets ready and goes into the elevator. Miranda holds it for him. He thanks her, and they exchange a smile and a subtle check-out before the elevator jams.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tom says. Miranda laughs. Tom notifies the someone on the other end of the line and then sits down against the wall of the elevator. Miranda delicately joins him.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think we’ll be stuck here awhile,” Tom says. “I’m Tom. And you are?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Miranda. God, this is so cliché.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah.” Tom grins, glancing at Miranda. “I think by the time the elevator moves again we’re supposed to start kissing.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Miranda smiles at Tom, but then he notices her ring. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Tom says, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t be flirting with a married woman.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m not married,” Miranda says, confused.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But your ring –”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, this? It’s just a nice ring I liked.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh. You have it in the place where most people wear their wedding rings, you know.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Really?” Miranda groans. “That explains why every single man I’ve seen has been avoiding me like the plague. I don’t know how I can read about Freud and Shakespeare and Newton and still not know where a ring is supposed to go.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Eh, they’re arbitrary rules anyway,” Tom says. “So, you’re not married?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nope.” Miranda glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and smiles. He’s pretty cute. “So that means the flirting is perfectly alright.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the time the elevator starts moving again, they aren’t kissing. But Tom has Miranda’s phone number and has promised to call her tonight so they can set up a date.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“See you later,” Tom says with a smile as the elevator doors open. Who knew getting stuck in the elevator this morning would result in call to set up a date with a beautiful woman tonight?</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ll stop now, but you get my point. There are so many different actions and reactions, so many choices we make every moment of our lives, so many things that can change. How did it really happen, you ask? Well, there is no “really.” There is no one reality. But I will tell you how it happened in Universe Five – my universe.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Universe Five:</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wake up late for work already because my alarm clock doesn’t go off. Cursing, I fling myself out of bed and rush through my routine before I realize that maybe I shouldn’t even go to work if I’m already late. But eventually I decide better late than never and make it out the door. The elevator doors are closing as I get outside, but someone holds them for me and I make it inside the elevator.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks,” I pant to the red-headed woman who held the door for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure,” she says with a smile. We wait in silence until the elevator jerks and then stops.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, great,” I groan. Maybe I should’ve stayed in bed. </span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I press the red help button. “The elevator’s jammed,” I say. “I’d appreciate it if you could get it going quickly.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Of course, sir. We’ll do our best,”</i> someone says at the other end of the line. I’m not sure how good their best is, so I sit down to wait. The woman joins me.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” she asks curiously. She’s probably wondering why I ran in here and seem so eager to get out. On second thought, maybe I shouldn’t be so eager – this woman is actually quite pretty.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Just work,” I reply. “And I’m already late, so I guess being later won’t make much of a difference.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman “Mmms” in agreement. We wait for a while in silence, until it starts to feel awkward.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We might be here a while,” I say. “I guess now is as good a time as any to get to know each other.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I guess so,” the woman says. “I’m Miranda. And you are?”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Tom.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nice to meet you, Tom.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Likewise.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After the introductions, we fall into silence again. After a little while, I say, “Stuck in an elevator. This is so cliché.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Miranda chuckles. She has a nice laugh. “I guess by the end of this we should be kissing.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I laugh as well. “Maybe.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">From there, the conversation turns to the books Miranda has read and the mischief her dog has been up to. She’s wearing a ring on her left ring finger, but she doesn’t mention any husband. I don’t bring it up.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually, the elevator starts moving again. I rise to my meet and help Miranda up.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks,” she says.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure,” I reply. “It was great getting to know you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Yeah,” she responds. “Here, take this.” She writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to me. I glance at it. It’s her phone number.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ll call you,” I say. She nods, and the elevator doors open. I head off to work and she goes in the opposite direction. I place her number in my pocket and smile.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Which universe is the best? There are always better and worse options out there. Unfortunately, Miranda and I aren’t dating (yet). But we aren’t strangers, and we aren’t enemies, and I think we’re on our way to becoming good friends. And pretty soon I’m going to ask her about that ring, and we’ll clear everything up.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is an infinite number of possiblilites in an infinite number of universes. But eventually, you just have to settle which the universe you’re in, because that’s the best you’re going to get. And I’d say that with me and Miranda, I got it pretty good.</span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The End! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-59367840429191235912012-01-01T22:22:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.646-07:00Story #48 - The Cure For CancerHello everyone. Happy New Year! I can't believe it's 2012. This week's story is a bit complicated. I don't know much about Japan or medicine, so I apologize if I got anything wrong. I hope you enjoy it!<br />
<br />
Title: The Cure For Cancer (suggestions welcome)<br />
Warnings: threats, slightly gory/sinister research, death, prisoner/hostage situation<br />
Summary: Finding the cure for cancer has never been this complicated.<br />
Length: ~5,000 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, tense changes between past and present. Genre includes a bit of sci-fi, crime, angst, and other things. I'm going to say it's medicine, because it's about the cure for cancer.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><u><span style="color: purple;">The Cure For Cancer</span></u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Twelve years, four months, and fourteen days. That’s how long it takes me to find the cure for cancer.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I came into <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Natsuki</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place> as a bright young eighteen-year-old girl. I was checking out the company because they were recruiting employees and they really wanted me to work for them. Truthfully, everyone wanted me. I’m a genius. I had just graduated from Harvard with the best grades they had ever seen and found the cure for AIDS. I’d told everyone I would be working on cancer next.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Natsuki was one of the many companies that reached out to me after my graduation. Because it’s located in my hometown of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Tokyo</place></city>, I came to check it out, but hadn’t impressed me. It’s a slimy building, a concrete block reaching up and up and up, with hardly any windows. And I didn’t know it then, but they also have dungeons belowground. I’d become intimately acquainted with those soon enough. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The building isn’t the only slimy thing about Natsuki. The stuff they do there – it’s bad, really bad. I didn’t know that when I first came to Natsuki. I just didn’t like the CEO, Susumu Takeda. You know how you sometimes get a feeling that something is extremely wrong, even if you don’t know why? That’s how I felt when Takeda walked into the room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The first thing he did was bow to me and then say, “We’re very honored that you are considering joining us, Aiko-sama.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Completely harmless, right? Even overly respectful. And yet immediately I got the feeling that something was wrong. As I continued to talk to him, I figured out what it was. His eyes are completely blank. Eyes are the window to the soul, and his soul – it’s not that he has shutters over it. It simply doesn’t exist at all.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I sincerely hope you’ll come to work for us,” Takeda said at the end of our meeting. He’d spent most of it explaining how great Natsuki was and why they were the company to work for. His eyes had flipped between soulless and almost desperately intense, and it was scaring me a little. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I will surely think about it,” I replied, and got out of there as fast as I could. As I left, I noticed many closed doors with armed guards around them, and doctors rushing all around. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The place and its CEO gave me the heebie jeebies. I figured I was done with them. But then, in the weeks following, they kept on sending me letters and calls, asking when I was going to work for them. And every time I went to interview for another company, something went wrong. One time, the CEO, who had been living with cancer for a while, suddenly died, and the company delayed its offer. Another time, the headquarters of another company blew up. One time my car broke down and I was late for the meeting. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I didn’t know Natsuki ruthlessness and reach back then. I thought it was all coincidence, or maybe that I was cursed. But eventually other companies stopped calling on me, and all that was left was Natsuki.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">So I went back. </div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda was still playing it subtle back then. He expressed his surprise that I wasn’t working for any other company yet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Your spot at <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Natsuki</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place> is still open, Aiko-sama,” he said, his blank eyes glittering. “We would be so very happy to have you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">At this point, Natsuki was my only option. As ridiculous as it seemed, no one wanted the girl who had found the cure for AIDS anymore. Worldwide, companies avoided me like I’d been blacklisted.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Now, I suspect that I had. At the time, I only knew that Natsuki was my only option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’d be happy to work for you, Takeda-sama,” I said.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Things were okay for a while. I had a top-notch facility to do my research, and I was making a lot of money. I had a beautiful high-rise apartment in <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Tokyo</city></place> right next to Natsuki. I was living the life, and I made sure to send large sums of my money back to my mother and my three little sisters in the town of <city w:st="on">Ugo</city> in <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Japan</place></country-region>. We wrote letters back and forth, and email when my mother had enough money to buy a computer. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Every day, I would see Takeda, and he would ask, “Found the cure yet?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I would laugh and respond, “Not yet!” I figured he was joking. It had taken me years to find the cure for AIDS, and cancer is more difficult. There are so many types.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Things went sour after I had been working for Natsuki for around two years, twenty-one days, and four months. The day I went into one of the guarded rooms.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I had been curious about those rooms for a while. There were so many of them, on all levels of the hospital. If I ever asked one of the staff about the room, they’d just say, “We’re not at the liberty to tell you that.” I have to admit, that irked me. I was used to the highest respect from everyone. (What a joke that is now.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Why are those doors locked?” I asked Takeda once.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m afraid you have not been working here long enough to learn this kind of information, Aiko-sama,” he replied apologetically. “I will tell you when I believe you’re ready to know.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That, of course, only made me more curious. So when I finally found the opportunity – an unguarded, unlocked door that I knew was usually guarded and locked – I took it. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and then I walked inside the room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I didn’t understand what was going on at first. It was just another hospital room, with cots filled with patients. I thought maybe they were high-profile patients or something, who needed their privacy. But all of them together in a room? That didn’t make much sense. So I looked at their charts out of curiosity. And what I saw made me physically ill.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">There was a man who was missing his arm. On the chart, it read, “TEST SUBJECT #6451. Involuntary. Stem cell research. Attempt to regrow arm. Arm cut off: 1/15/2019. Arm regrowth: Yet to occur.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Another who looked extremely ill. His chart read, “TEST SUBJECT #6449. Involuntary. Kidney research. Attempt to discover amount of kidney necessary for life. Amount of kidney removed: 94%. Test subject still alive: Yes, but very ill.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">It went on and on. I couldn’t read any more charts after a while, but the meaning was clear. <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Natsuki</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place> had been doing illegal, inhumane research on resisting humans for years, and they’d been getting away with it. I hadn’t even known, and I’d been working at Natsuki for over two years. It all seemed so obvious to me then. The locked doors, the guards, the breakthroughs only Natsuki had made (because much as I hated to admit it, you would tend to make the most progress through research on humans). The soulless eyes of Takeda.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I couldn’t work for Natsuki anymore. But I couldn’t let them know that I had discovered their horrible secret. I left that awful room as quickly as I could. I was just starting to understand their cruelty, and I did not want them catch me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">If only I had realized it was already too late. I would have been saved the pain of having my hopes crushed.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I went to Takeda that day. I was still naïve enough to try to do this honorably.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I want to quit,” I told him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">He blinked in surprise, and I thought I saw a flash of panic in his eyes. “Why, Aiko-sama?” he asked. “You have been happy here, haven’t you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yes, but I’ve had a family emergency,” I said. “My mother has died, and I need to look after my little sisters.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’d planned my story while making my way to Takeda’s office, and I was already looking forward to getting out of Natsuki forever. I didn’t want to leave my apartment in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Tokyo</place></city>, but maybe I could go back to the States, take my family with me, and start a new life, far away from the horrors I had seen here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’re lying,” Takeda said calmly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I simply stared at him. <i>How did you know?</i> I almost asked, but luckily I managed to hold my tongue.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I, um – why would you say that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Please, Aiko-sama, give me some credit. Do you not think we have security cameras in all of our rooms?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Shit. I hadn’t even thought of that. I was so, <i>so</i> screwed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I did not mean for you to find out about our activities that way, Aiko-sama,” Takeda continued. “But the guards were lazy. They have been punished. I apologize. I know you were not ready to see that. But we cannot let you quit.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What do you mean, you can’t let me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda frowned, contorting his face into a regretful expression that clashed with the blankness of his eyes. “Once we let our doctors or researchers into the activities we do, and the, ah… delicate nature of our research… they stay with us. They live here in the hospital, they will always work here, and they don’t leave, or quit. I would have liked to give you the choice. But now that you have looked into one of our rooms… I’m afraid you’ll be staying with us.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I chuckled. I couldn’t believe him. “So, what, you’re going to hold me prisoner here because I found out about your illegal research? That’s ridiculous. I’m not going to tell anyone, I swear. I just don’t want to work at a place that does illegal research on people. But I won’t rat you out. I just want to live in peace.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda’s expression didn’t change. I wondered if it was hurting him to look that sorrowful. “I’m sorry, Aiko-sama. But even if I believed you would keep your word, we still couldn’t let you go.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Why not?” This was a dream. A nightmare. It had to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“We need you here, Aiko.” It was the first time he addressed me without an honorific, and it was jarring. But what he said after was much worse. “We need you to find the cure for cancer, and we need Natsuki to take the credit. I can’t have you working for another company. I won’t let you leave.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I stood up from my chair, shaking with rage and fear. “Oh yeah? And how are you going to stop me from walking out right now?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda smiled. It was a slow, cruel smile, the kind of smile I imagine a serial killer would have as he scooped the marrow out of his victim’s bones. “You have seen our guards with their AK-47s. They are not afraid to shoot you if you attempt to leave. Nowhere fatal, because we need you alive. But you could still find the cure to cancer with only one working leg.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’ll stay,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda just kept on smiling.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">As you can probably imagine, things weren’t as fun after that. Takeda still asked me every day if I’d found the cure, and every day I said no. But there was no fun in it anymore. Takeda was keeping from prisoner at Natsuki, with all the other crazy doctors who actually supporting research on unconsenting human subjects, and I was being forced to find the cure for cancer under threat of death. I couldn’t understand why finding the cure for cancer was such a big deal for Takeda. So he wanted the credit? So what?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I didn’t think credit was important then. Now, I do. Now that I know Takeda will surely steal it from me. But at the time, I didn’t know his other reasons for insisting on my finding the cure.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That was another thing I found out by accident. I was working in my lab on the sixth year at Natsuki when I overheard one of the scientists outside my door. He was talking to a colleague, I assume. He said, “Takeda-sensei’s cancer is back again. He is very worried. He told me he hopes he can have the cure within this year…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That certainly cleared it up for me. And this is a terrible thing to admit, but it made me happy. In fact, I whooped a little bit and danced around the lab. I didn’t care that the security cameras were watching me. I was just happy to finally have some power over Takeda.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Because he was dying of cancer, and I was the one who could find the cure. Yes, he could threaten me and hurt me if I refused to work on the cure, so I would keep working on it. But if it was his life on the line, maybe he’d be willing to house me somewhere nicer than, say, the dungeons where I had been staying. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">This was good. This would help me.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I lived another three years after that, in a nice room in the hospital, being given everything I wanted as long as I continued to work on the cure. Takeda asked me every day if I’d found it, and every day I’d reply, “No, so try to live a day longer, Takeda-chan.” This cheekiness bothered him to no end, but he dealt with it, because we held each other’s lives in our hands. He could kill me, but if I didn’t find a cure soon enough, he would die. He was looking sicklier lately. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Another idea had occurred to me. All I had to do was take long enough to find the cure that Takeda died. No one was keeping me here, really, except for Takeda. Everyone just followed his orders. When he died, I would be free.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Unfortunately, he figured out that plan. And I began to fully understand the lengths he would go to keep me working at my best.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">He called me into his office. “Aiko,” he said. We’d dropped the honorifics by now, and not out of a sign of respect. How does one address one’s prisoner? “You must stop delaying finding the cure.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I lifted my chin stubbornly. “I am not delaying finding the cure. It takes a long time to find. And even if I were delaying, you couldn’t stop me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’re wrong, on both counts,” he said. “One, you are delaying, most obviously by still refusing to use human subjects. We both know your research would be much quicker if you dropped your silly moral scruples. Two, I believe I can stop you, or at least give you more incentive to find a cure, and quickly. I know you know I have cancer. You foolishly believe that you can delay finding a cure and in doing so kill me. What you do not know is that you are also killing yourself.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“We’ve been over this, Takeda,” I said. “You won’t kill me. Even if I try to escape, you’ll just injure me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I won’t kill you if you find the cure for cancer,” Takeda responded, his serial killer smile making another appearance in his wrinkled face. “But if you don’t, you will die. I won’t even have to have my guards kill you… you will die of the disease.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I could feel my blood freeze. He couldn’t have… “What are you saying?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda smiled. “You have cancer, Aiko.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What – how –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’ve had a controlled form ever since you’ve been working for us. Do you remember the physical we gave you when you first joined us? One of those shots gave you cancer, to be activated if you ever rebelled against us. One of <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Natsuki</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place>’s achievements has been discovering how to give people cancer, and how to choose when it starts to come into effect.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">But I feel fine. I can’t have cancer. I’m an expert on it, now. I would have known. “I don’t believe you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I thought you might say that. But the doubt should be enough to keep you working speedily. And if it is not… I can always activate it. Perhaps you will be lucky enough to live with cancer as long as I have. Perhaps you will not be. Do you really want to risk it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">No. No, I don’t. So from that moment on, I worked my hardest to find a cure, for me and for Takeda.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">My last and latest attempt at rebellion occurred after I’d been working for Natsuki for eleven years, and been a prisoner about nine. I was getting sick of everything. I had begun to use human test subjects in order to research faster, but it made me sick. I hated the bare white walls of the hospital. I hated Takeda’s constant questioning. The guards and the guns and the dormant cancer inside me no longer seemed to matter. My life no longer seemed to matter. I couldn’t work any longer knowing that I was being forced to save the life of a man I hated, and I wouldn’t even get any credit for it. I had already helped the world by getting rid of AIDS. Did I really have to eliminate cancer, too?<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I walked into Takeda’s office. It was like that day all those years ago that I had first discovered the human test subjects. But we were both older, and I was more cynical, and he was weaker. I hoped he would die every day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I quit,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda looked at me quizzically. “Aiko, you <i>can’t</i> quit. We’ve discussed this.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Discuss” was a nice way to put it. I had yelled about him keeping me prisoner here countless times, sobbed more times than I’m proud of, and threatened him many times. We’d hardly ever “discussed” it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care if you’re going to shoot me, or torture me, or activate the cancer inside of me. I don’t care if you kill me. I’ve had enough, and I’m not going to work for you anymore.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Ah,” Takeda said with a dark smirk. “So we’ve reached this point.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I got a horrible foreboding feeling inside of me. Every other time, Takeda had been a step ahead of me. But surely he couldn’t counter this?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You love your family, don’t you?” Takeda asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I frowned at the non sequitur. “Of course.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to them.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="PT-BR" style="mso-ansi-language: PT-BR;">Oh, no. Oh, no no no no no. “What have you done?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda grinned. “Catching on quick now, aren’t you, Aiko? We’ve been keeping an eye on your family for years, just in case we ever needed to convince you to work a little harder. You might be valuable to us, but your family is expendable. Your one sister – she’s twelve now, I believe? Think about how she’d look with a bullet between her eyes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Unbidden, a picture of Mai, bloody and broken, flashed in my mind. I had no doubt that Takeda would hurt my family if it suited him. I’d seen what he did to the human test subjects or to employees that he was unhappy with. That man is soulless, unnatural, and cruel. Yes, he was sick, but he was still powerful and corrupt. I would not allow him to stain my family, even though I hadn’t had a chance to communicate with them for nine years. They must think I’ve abandoned them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Forget I said anything,” I finally replied between gritted teeth.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda smiled. “I will.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Twelve years, four months, and fourteen days since I first started working for Natsuki. Ten years since I became a prisoner. About one year since I gave up all hope of getting out of my situation. And now, I’ve finally found the cure for cancer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">My first reaction is jubilant. There’s still that bit of me that’s the eighteen-year-old girl who wanted to save the world by curing cancer. I think of how happy everyone will be when they realize that there is a cure, and I’ve found it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">But soon after, reality crashes in. The first person to know about this will be Takeda. He’ll take the cure, and he’ll live. The cure can’t fix the ravages his body has suffered from the cancer he’s had for years. But it will stop the final hurrah, the push I was hoping just might kill him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">He’ll be cured. And then he’ll take the credit for himself. The years I’ve spent slaving away over the cure, under threat of my own death and the death of my loved ones, will be completely ignored. To the world, the once promising Aiko has disappeared. <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Natsuki</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place>, with Susumu Takeda in charge, will be honored as the ones to cure cancer. And me? Who knows what will happen to me? I’ll most likely be killed, to stop the spread of the secrets that I know. Or I will continue to live as a threatened prisoner while the world celebrates something <i>I</i> deserve credit for. But there’s no way he’ll let me go free.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">There’s nothing good about finding the cure, I realize now. It doesn’t change anything. It’s a lose-lose situation. Either I keep it quiet and continue to “search for the cure” and stay a prisoner, or I tell Takeda I’ve found it, save his life, and either die or stay a prisoner. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Or there’s a third option. I could keep quiet and just wait until Takeda dies. He’s been looking more sick than ever lately. He can’t have long to live. When he dies, that’s when I’ll truly be free. In the hole that will be left after his death, I’ll make my escape. Or maybe I’ll assume control of Natsuki. I don’t have to fear my dormant cancer anymore, because I have the cure. And the threats on my wellbeing and my family? Well, I’ll still be “working on finding the cure.” Takeda has every reason to believe I’m trying my best. He was right in that my best was good enough to save his life. But he doesn’t need to know that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">That’s what I’ll do. I’ll keep quiet about the cure and wait for Takeda to die. Perhaps I can even find a way to kill him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The nightmare of my life is almost over. I just have to hang in a bit longer.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin-left: 0.5in; margin-right: 0in; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Keeping quiet is much harder than I expected. It’s not even that it’s hard to continue my “work” when I’m already done, although that is pretty difficult. It’s the guilt that’s really weighing me down.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have a counter in my lab that lists the number of deaths worldwide from cancer. It’s always rising. I’ve always thought it was terribly morbid, but Takeda insists that it helps me remember what I’m working for. Like he cares about humanity. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The point is, every single rise in that counter now is my fault. I could be stopping these deaths, and instead I’m keeping quiet, for completely selfish reasons. Are credit and the potential for a good life worth withholding the cure for cancer? That should be an easy question. The answer should be “no.” But for me, it’s more complicated.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I hang on for a few months. I do nonsense research, mess up the results, try old tricks that didn’t work in the past. I keep on waiting for Takeda to find me out on that alone, but so far he hasn’t. And every day, I curse myself as I watch the number of cancer victims rise.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eventually it gets to be too much. I have let my morals slide, working for Natsuki. I’ve worked to keep a near-demon alive. I’ve experimented illegally on humans. But I’ve found that this is the limit. I’ve kept the cure for cancer to myself for three months, and now I can’t take it anymore. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">But I can still formulate a plan. I’ll tell Takeda I’ve found the cure for cancer, and I’ll propose to give it to him right away. I’m sure he’ll be eager. But instead of the cure, I’ll give him some sort of poison. I have enough stored up from all of my failed plans. Once he’s dead, I’ll take over <placename w:st="on">Natsuki</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype>, rename it <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Aiko</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place>, and be free. And the first accomplishment of <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Aiko</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place>, with credit going to me? The cure for cancer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I get everything ready. A few weeks later, I walk into Takeda’s office to talk to him for what I hope is the last time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Did you find the cure?” he asks me like he asks me every day. His voice is breathy and he’s trembling. He doesn’t look well. Well, my news will cheer him up… until it kills him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yes,” I say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">He looks taken aback. I’ve never responded in the affirmative to this question. “Don’t play with me,” he warns.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m not,” I say. “I’ve really found the cure.” It feels nice to say those words aloud. Even if Takeda always planned to steal the credit from me, he and I know who really found the cure. I’m a genius, and he’s just a sadistic, evil man.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Well,” Takeda says, and he’s smiling, but this smile isn’t a bad one. He looks giddy, disbelieving, shocked. “Do you need anything? When does it go into effect? Is it ready?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It’s ready right now,” I say. “In fact, I brought it up here with me. I’ve consolidated it into a pill. You can try it right now.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I bring out the poisoned pill and hand it to him. He brings it to his mouth, but then hesitates. My heart stops. He can’t be one step ahead of me again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Why don’t you try it?” he asks. “Get rid of that dormant cancer inside you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’ve tried it already,” I reply, relieved to have a reason not to try one of the pills. “That’s how I knew it worked.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Takeda is still hesitating. What can I do to make him swallow the pill? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’d feel better if you tried it first, Aiko. Just so I know you’re not trying to… <i>trick</i> me, or anything.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Why does he have to be so sharp? Maybe he is a genius, in his own way. That would at least explain why he’s always been able to outsmart me. I don’t know what to do, now. I have both poisoned pills and pills that contain the cure with me, but they don’t look the same. If I take the pill with the cure, Takeda will insist on having an exact copy, and he’ll be cured. If I take the poisoned pill, I’ll die. But then, so would he.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I gave my plans with the cure for cancer to my research assistant and told him to release it to the world if anything happens to me. It includes all of my work, all with my name, so I’ll get credit in death. I’d probably get more credit in death than I would in life. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">It’s me and Takeda dying and the world living, or Takeda living and most likely everyone else dying. The logical choice is clear. But as always with me, it’s more complicated than that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Well?” Takeda insists, still holding the poisoned pill. “I’m not trying it until you have.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Sure,” I say, my throat dry. “If you insist.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I take out a pill identical to the one Takeda is holding. My palms are sweating so much I’m afraid I’ll drop it, but I don’t. Instead, I slip it into my mouth.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I don’t have to swallow. Mental patients who don’t want to take their pills do this all the time. I don’t have to swallow.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Swallow,” Takeda says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I pretend to swallow. Takeda watches me carefully, and then places his pill in his mouth. I can see him swallow. But did he fake it, like I did?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">We stare at each other for a while. It’s a stand-off. It’s like we’re playing chicken – the first one to fall down loses, or something. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Suddenly, Takeda lunges at me and closes his hand over my nose. His grip is feeble, but shocked, I don’t struggle. He forces me to swallow the pill.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hah, I knew it!” he crows. “You gave me some poison, didn’t you? Thought you could outsmart me, Aiko-chan?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">He breathes in, and I can tell he’s about to spit out the poisoned pill. I cannot allow him to live, cured of his cancer, while I die. He’s always been one step ahead of me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t catch up to him. This time I lunge at him, and he’s too weak to push me away. I hold him down until I’ve forced him to swallow the pill, and then I step away. He glares daggers at me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Clever, Aiko. Very clever.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">We stare at each other, breathing hard. It’s a stand-off again, except this time we’re waiting to die. The whole situation is so unbelievable, but this is my life. It’s been unbelievable ever since I walked into the doors of Natsuki hospital twelve years ago.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">I slide down the wall as my legs give out on me. Across from me, Takeda sits down in his chair. I want to let him know that everyone will know <i>I</i> found the cure for cancer. I want to tell him that I included a tell-all about <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">Natsuki</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Hospital</placetype></place> in my research that my assistant will expose to the world. I want to say something clever and cutting. But my vision is getting hazy, and it’s getting hard to breathe.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The last thing I see is Takeda’s blank devil eyes, finally glazing over as he succumbs to the poison.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The last thing I hear is the ceasing of my shallow breaths.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The last thing I smell and taste is the poison that’s killing me and Takeda.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The last thing I feel is the slowing beats of my heart.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">The last thing I think is, <i>I’ve finally, finally done my job.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">THE END! <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-18652647568659384612011-12-25T13:02:00.001-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.610-07:00Story #47 - JellybeanHi everyone. Merry Christmas! I hope you are all enjoying the holidays. This week's story has to do with spreading a little holiday cheer. Enjoy!<br />
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Title: Jellybean<br />
Warnings: none<br />
Summary: Eloise is unhappy, and Tina wants to fix that.<br />
Length: ~ 2,500 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, past tense. Genre is "other."<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><u><span style="color: #cc0000;">Jelly</span><span style="color: #38761d;">bean</span></u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eloise Mapel was, in her own words, a “crotchety old woman.” She yelled at the kids playing across the street. She hated cold weather because it made her bones ache. She snapped at her maid, Tina, if she forgot to close the curtains at night or didn’t butter Eloise’s toast just so.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eloise hadn’t always been this way. She’d had a family once, people who loved her and whom she loved. But now, her parents were long gone, her husband was dead, and her son was off at war. She only had Tina, and as hard as she tried, Tina wasn’t enough to keep Eloise from becoming a “crotchety old woman.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So when the Christmas season rolled around that year, no one was very surprised when Eloise didn’t put out any decorations. They were unsurprised, yes, but also disappointed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’d think Mrs. Mapel could at least put out a light-up reindeer, or set up a Christmas tree, or even hang a star in her window,” Tina’s sister, Mary, complained as she strung up the Christmas lights around Tina and Mary’s house.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina was working on detangling another line of Christmas lights, but she paused as she thought over Mary’s comment. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I think you’re forgetting that she’s nearly eighty,” Tina replied eventually. “She’s quite active for her age, but setting up Christmas lights is still a lot to ask.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I guess,” Mary sighed. “But I think we all know that Mrs. Mapel just doesn’t want to celebrate Christmas. She’s a Scrooge, no doubt about it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina handed Mary the next string of lights. “I wish there was something I could do to make her happier. Maybe I could give her a present. She can be awful, but she’s employed our family faithfully for years, and I hate to see anyone unhappy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Mary shrugged. She worked at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barnes and Noble</i>, and didn’t have much to do with Mrs. Mapel besides hearing Tina’s stories about her. She had never understood her sister’s devotion to the old lady. “Just buy her a book. We’re having sales on all the Christmas books right now – <i>A Christmas Carol</i> is one of them – that’d be a funny one to give her –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“She can’t read too well anymore,” Tina interrupted, completely missing Mary’s attempt at humor. “Her eyesight isn’t the best. No, I want to get her something lasting, something that will brighten up her world…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It’d be brighter if she’d put up some Christmas lights.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina just shook her head, not verbally responding to her sister’s remark. Her mind was hard at work, trying to come up with something that could bring joy to Eloise, and to the rest of the community. Something to make her happy again…</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina let herself into Eloise’s house at eight the next morning. She and Mary had finished decorating their house for Christmas last night, and then Tina had tossed and turned in her bed, trying to come up with a perfect present for Eloise. Her mind had drawn a blank.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eloise was already up and eating breakfast when Tina entered the kitchen. This must be one of her good days. In general, Eloise liked to do things by herself, but sometimes she needed Tina’s help if her arthritis was acting up or if she was just very tired. Tina was both Eloise’s maid and her caretaker, but most of the time she didn’t need a caretaker.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Good morning, Mrs. Mapel,” Tina said cheerily. “How are you today?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eloise grunted and took a sip of her tea. Tina waited, but it soon became clear that Eloise was not going to give her an answer. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m going to clean the living room first, so you can take your time in here,” Tina said. “Don’t let me get in your way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Do go ahead,” Eloise said. “I detest that room, so you do not need to worry about me wishing to sit down there.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina suspected Eloise was just saying she hated the living room to be disagreeable, because Tina had often seen Eloise read a book there in the fifteen years she’d worked for her. But Tina simply replied, “Okay, Mrs. Mapel, let me know if you need anything,” and headed toward the living room. She had to pick her battles, and this one wasn’t worth it.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina saved all her energy for the lunch battle. She made Eloise a ham and cheese sandwich and some tea and sat down to eat with her. Tina had earned this privilege (if one could call it that) early on in their employment, when Eloise would get lonely and wished to talk to her maid.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“So, it’s the holiday season again,” Tina said cautiously. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eloise set her teacup down forcefully. “Idiotic carolers and busy streets,” she grumbled. “Everyone pretending to be charitable while really vying for the greatest gifts.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It’s not all bad,” Tina protested. “During the holiday season, acts of generosity rise by forty percent.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina wasn’t sure if this was actually true. She made up statistics like this sometimes. It made her feel clever, it helped prove her point, and most importantly, Eloise had no way to disprove them. She didn’t have internet or a smartphone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“How does one define ‘acts of generosity?’” Eloise questioned. “I would think that trampling shoppers to death in the haste to get a large television set is not very generous.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina could tell that this was not going to go anywhere good, but she had to keep trying. “Those are rare occurrences. And the thing is, Mrs. Mapel… I was wondering if you would like some help hanging up Christmas decorations. We don’t have to do anything major. Just one string of lights, or a small tree in the window… it would just be nice to join the neighborhood festivities by decorating a little, don’t you think?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No, I don’t think,” Eloise said coldly. “I have no interest in partaking in a Christmas celebration. There is nothing to celebrate. I do not want to waste my time.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It might make you feel better. Being surrounded by Christmas cheer…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No, Tina. I know you are only trying to help, but I am a crotchety old lady and I only wish to be left in peace before I die. I didn’t put up Christmas decorations last year, and I am not going to this year.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina restrained a sigh with difficulty. “Okay, Mrs. Mapel. I understand.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Thank you. Now, make me another cup of tea – this one has gotten cold while you have been speaking nonsense.”</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I need to come up with something to make Mrs. Mapel believe that Christmas and the holiday spirit is worth it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Mary groaned. “Not this again! It <i>isn’t</i> worth it, Tee. At least, convincing Mrs. Mapel isn’t. Just give it up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tina shook her head. “I can’t just give up on her. Everyone else has. Without me, she’d have no one. She can be a kind person beneath her grumpiness. I just need to find something to bring it out again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Well, it’s not going to be holiday spirit,” Mary said. “But regardless, if you give her a Christmas present, I still say get her <i>A Christmas Carol</i>.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina gave her sister a tired smile. “Maybe.”</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">A few weeks later, Tina was actually going to take her sister’s advice. She was fresh out of ideas, and any way she tried to liven up Eloise’s life, it didn’t work. Tina proposed taking Eloise on a walk in the park, but she preferred to stay at home, especially in the cold. Tina had brought in different foods, but Eloise had claimed that she hated all of them. Tina had worn a red and green apron and Eloise had scorned her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Several people had suggested that Tina should drop it. Eloise clearly didn’t <i>want</i> to be happier. But if someone brought that up, Tina would simply reply, “It’s inertia. All people tend to resist change. But that doesn’t mean they don’t want it.” That usually shut them right up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Nevertheless, it was a few days before Christmas and Tina couldn’t come up with anything else to do. So she “gave up” in the only way she knew how – by heading toward <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barnes and Noble </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to take Mary’s advice. Maybe she wouldn’t buy <i>A Christmas Carol</i>, but she could get a nice book and read it to Eloise. That might brighten up a few hours of her life, at any rate.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina parked her old <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Toyota</place></city> after searching ten minutes for a parking space. Too bad the bookstore was at a mall – everything was more crowded near Christmas. Tina looked around, scanning for the brightly lit <i>Barnes and Noble</i> sign. Instead, she saw another sign, red and green and flashing, seeming to say, “Look at me! Look at me!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KITTENS FOR <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">SALE</place></city></b>, the sign read. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">CHRISTMAS SPECIAL.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina hesitated. What she was thinking was crazy. But it was right there, and it seemed like it was meant to be, and what better way to brighten up someone’s life than with a kitten? They were fun, cute, loving, and a lot of work for an old, unhappy woman. But Tina could help… and it had to be better than buying Eloise a book…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Oh, doggone it. She at least had to look. What harm could it do?</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“He’s adorable,” Tina cooed, tentatively stroking the minuscule back of the sleeping black kitten. The sales clerk helping her nodded in agreement.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“He’s trouble, though, that one,” she said. “Thinks he rules the world, of course, and that everyone should always pay attention to him.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina laughed. “That sounds like every cat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“True,” the clerk conceded. “But Jellybean manages to look so harmless while he’s rolling your toilet paper all over the floor.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The kitten – Jellybean – slowly opened his eyes as if he knew they were talking about him. He had bright green eyes (perfect for Christmas, Tina couldn’t help but think). He yawned, his little pink tongue curling, showing sharp teeth. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina was falling in love with him already. But she needed to think reasonably about this. Did she really want to get the old lady she worked for a troublesome <i>kitten</i>? A book was cheaper and much less work. Tina knew that if she got Eloise a kitten, they’d both share taking care of it. She’d have to help pay for the food, the vet, the litter… and what if Eloise didn’t even want a kitten? Well, why should she? She hadn’t even wanted to go out to the park.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But then Tina thought about what a kitten could do for Eloise. Having that young, vibrant, purring life all around her. Having something to love and care for. Having someone to cuddle with at night. Having an innocent little creature remind you about all that’s good in life, what your son’s fighting for, what there is to live for. The potential for happiness that Tina could see in Jellybean was undeniable, and irresistible. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’ll adopt him,” Tina said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jellybean started purring.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You bought Mrs. Mapel a <i>kitten</i> for Christmas?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina winced as her sister’s voice reached a pitch that only bats should be able to hear. “Calm down. It’s actually a really good idea.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah, well so was BUYING A BOOK, which I THOUGHT you were doing, but SILLY ME to think you’d actually TAKE MY ADVICE –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I was going to buy a book, Mary! But then I saw a sign, and it all kind of snowballed, and <i>be quiet</i>, you’re scaring Jellybean –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Mary growled, but quieted down and turned to look at the cat carrier Tina was holding. Jellybean was huddled up in the back, green eyes wide. Tina watched with amusement as her sister’s face slowly softened.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“He is pretty cute,” Mary admitted.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina grinned. “If he can win you over, he ought to be able to do the same with Mrs. Mapel.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I can only hope. Otherwise, we might get stuck with him. Which wouldn’t be so bad, actually…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina looked at Jellybean, and imagined him curled up with Eloise, purring. “Nah,” she said. “He belongs with Mrs. Mapel. I just hope she realizes that.”</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Merry Christmas!” Tina exclaimed to Eloise as she came in Christmas morning, keeping the cat carrier behind her back. Eloise sitting on the couch knitting, and glanced up in surprise as Tina entered.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Tina! What are you doing here? If I am not mistaken, you don’t work on Christmas Day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="PT-BR" style="mso-ansi-language: PT-BR;">“No, I don’t,” Tina said. </span>“But there’s something I want to give you.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“A gift? Tina, you really must stop trying to ‘cheer me up,’ as you put it. I am perfectly all right. I just detest Christmas, and New Years, and this room, and this scarf I have been working on for my son, who did not receive leave for the holidays…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’ll like this present, Mrs. Mapel. And your son will too, when he comes home, which he will. Just wait and see. The war’s almost over.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I know that,” Eloise snapped. “I may be old, but I am not yet senile. I will have this scarf ready by the time he comes home.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina glanced at the scarf. It was almost done. Eloise must’ve been expecting her son to be home this year. Luckily, she would now have some other company. Tina brought the cat carrier out (Jellybean had been surprisingly quiet) and walked over to Eloise. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Mapel.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eloise stared at the cat carrier with Jellybean inside it for an unnervingly long time. Eventually she said, her tone expressionless and face inscrutable, “You bought me a cat for Christmas?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“A kitten. His name is Jellybean.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eloise still didn’t say anything. Oh no, she wasn’t allergic, was she? No, Tina would’ve known that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She continued nervously, “I know a kitten can be a big responsibility. I’m perfectly willing to help with feeding him, cleaning his litter, bringing him to the vet, anything you need… um, I can buy him toys…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She trailed off as Eloise lifted her hand to Jellybean. He padded forward and sniffed her from behind the wall of the carrier.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Let him out,” Eloise said softly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina hesitated for a moment, but then said, “Of course, Mrs. Mapel.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She opened the door and set the carrier on the floor. Jellybean stepped out primly, looking around with his wide, vivid eyes. To Tina’s astonishment, Eloise crouched down next to Jellybean and began petting him. Almost immediately, he started to purr.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“My son loves cats,” Eloise said as Tina watched dumbly. “But my husband was allergic. But now… you’re right, Tina. He will love this gift. As do <place w:st="on">I.</place> Thank you, Tina.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eloise gave Tina one of her rare smiles. Tina watched the pair of them – the small, purring kitten, and the old lady, seeming to gain comfort and strength as she pet Jellybean. They were an odd couple, all right, but they were good for each other – she could tell already.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tina smiled. She had made the right choice. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’re welcome, Mrs. Mapel,” Tina said. “Merry Christmas.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">THE END! <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-61565008866475438372011-12-18T21:12:00.001-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.659-07:00Story #46 - Fall From GraceHello everyone! This week's story is an idea I've been toying with for a while. I wanted to write a story about angels, but in a fictional way that doesn't necessarily represent any religious beliefs. Eventually, I decided to try my own spin on the story of the devil's fall from heaven, like in <em>Paradise Lost</em>. It involves an angel choosing between the doomed Lucifer (the devil) or God. I do not mean to offend any religious groups. This is simply a fictional story based on a certain belief, because I doubt my version is exactly what happened. ;) Enjoy!<br />
<br />
Title: Fall From Grace<br />
Warnings: the devil as an angel... pretty modern talk between angels ;)<br />
Summary: An angel must choose between his charismatic, rebellious friend Lucifer or God.<br />
Length: ~ 1,700 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. This story could be viewed as historical fiction, but because the subject matter is religious, I'm going to say the genre is mythology.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: #666666;">Fall From Grace</span></span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It is dark in heaven as the meeting of rebellious angels begins. I have come, as Lucifer’s friend, to see what he has to say. But I have an uneasy feeling about this.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Friends,” Lucifer begins. He hovers in the center of our gathering, shining brightly as always. “Angels, archangels, and Cherubim.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He has Cherubim gathered here? But they guard the throne of God. I thought this was a rebellion against God. Surely Lucifer hasn’t already convinced some of them to rebel!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Our Lord God is a tyrant,” Lucifer continues. This creates a stir among the angels. Lucifer raises his voice and says, “He has told us that we must bow down and grovel to his son. We already bow and grovel to God, and now we have to subject ourselves to his son as well, who is only a baby? And far worse, my friends, is that God wishes for us to honor mankind – those sniveling, incompetent wrecks that can never achieve our greatness. We can’t stand for this!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I can’t believe it. Lucifer has always been ambitious and power-hungry, but I never thought it would come to this. He hadn’t told me anything of his plans, not really.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“There’s a meeting of the angels later,”</span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> he’d said. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I’m in charge of it. We’re planning a rebellion. You should come – I’d like to hear what you think...”</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I had agreed and told him I’d show up. And now… I don’t know what to think. What Lucifer is saying is pure madness. God is a tyrant? But God created us. We owe everything to Him. He is kind, forgiving, omniscient… in fact, surely He knows about this meeting as we are having it…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“What do you propose we do?” One of the Cherubs calls out. Lucifer smiles, his teeth gleaming like ice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“I say we overthrow God. Why should he have all the power? We deserve the chance to rule, and I daresay we could do much better than he could. We cannot continue to be subjugated by God and now his little son and his little creatures, these humans. We do not owe anything to them. We have our own choices, and we deserve much, much more than we have.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Overthrow God?” someone says, their voice exemplifying pure shock. “How is that possible?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Among one of the many things I’ve been wondering, chief of which is, <i>Lucifer, when did you lose your mind?</i> I have to talk him out of this. I need to calm him down. We can’t overthrow God. Not only is it ridiculous, but it’s just plain wrong.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I’m not going to lie. I’m tempted by what Lucifer is saying. The ability to make the rules for once – just think of everything we could do. But I am used to Lucifer’s honeyed words, and I know how good he is at getting what he wants at the expense of others. If God is a tyrant, than what will Lucifer be? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">And, again, overthrowing God is not only impossible, but also wrong. God represents all that is good in the universe. We are supposed to be good too. We are not supposed to be plotting God’s downfall.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Simple,” Lucifer says. “We wage an all-out war. Look around you, friends. We have roughly one third of the host of heaven on our side. We have Cherubs, and archangels, and even a Seraph, one who is supposed to praise and burn for God for eternity. He has realized that he does not want to burn anymore, and he wants to speak more than praise that he does not believe. We can give him peace, and power, just as we can achieve all of this for ourselves. All we must do is fight.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Fight God. He’s serious. Fight <i>God</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“We will begin a War in Heaven today,” Lucifer continues, his voice swelling and seeming to fill all the clouds. God must be aware of this. Does He not even believe that this is worth bothering over? Lucifer has convinced one third of the angels that God is a tyrant. I’m sure he has tempted many more. What will happen to them? What will God do?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">What if Lucifer wins? I think about it, for a short while. As impossible as it is, Lucifer always gets what he wants. And if he wants to become God… if I were there, by his side, as I’ve always been… I could be more than an archangel. I could be like Jesus is to God – his right-hand man. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">But if Lucifer loses, which is much more likely… angels have fallen from heaven before. There are the two hundred rebellious Watchers, who left heaven to marry and have children with human women. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Fools,”</span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"> Lucifer had scoffed when he’d heard the news. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Why go down there, to lower yourself even more to human scum, when you could use your rebellious energies up here?”</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I should have realized sooner that Lucifer was more than just talk. Now I have to convince him not to wage this war before it’s too late, and I’ve only got a few moments to do it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">The angels around me are rowdy. Lucifer shines even brighter than before, so bright that I imagine he would be painful for any human to look at.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Friends, be prepared. Ready your weapons. Steel your souls. Remember why we are fighting. Remember that our Lord God is a <i>tyrant</i>, keeping the power from us when we have the will to use it. We will not bow to God, or his son, or mankind! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We will rule!</i>”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">One would think that a cacophony of angels would be a beautiful sound, but this one frightens me. Surrounding me are angels, archangels, Cherubim, and even a Seraph, all red-eyed with battle-rage and power-hunger. It is hard not to get caught up in their excitement, but I make my way through to the center, where Lucifer stands, smirking as he surveys his success. He seems like God already, looking down at his kingdom. One third of all the host of heaven. I can hardly believe all of them are this naïve and easily tempted. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Hello!” Lucifer grins when he sees me. “Well, what do you think? Amazing, isn’t it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I force myself not to catch his enthusiasm. “Lucifer, this is a horrible idea.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">His smile dims, as does his aura. He looks caught off guard for one of the first times since I’ve known him. He must be expecting my whole-hearted support. But how could he?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“What do you mean?” he asks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“You’re letting your pride and your ambition get in the way of your common sense. Think about it. We are angels. Our purpose is to serve God, not rebel against him.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Serving him is wrong,” Lucifer insists. “We should not be servants; we should be rulers.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“That’s beside the point,” I say, trying not to get irritated with his blindness. “It’s very impressive that you have one third of the angels on your side. But don’t you realize that’s not enough to overthrow God? Even if <i>all</i> the angels were on your side, it wouldn’t be enough. God is all-powerful and omniscient. We’re simply not.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“How do you know?” Lucifer replies. “No angel has ever waged war against God. Maybe he isn’t as strong as he pretends to be. It’s only fear that has stopped the other angels from correcting this injustice and removing the tyrant from his throne. I’m not afraid.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Then you’re stupid,” I say bluntly. “Seriously, Lucifer, where is your head? You know I am your friend, and I would like to support you in whatever you do. But I can’t condone this. It will only lead to failure.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">He shakes his head. “You’re wrong. You’ll regret this.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Lucifer is shining bright enough to eclipse all the other angels. He’s always had this undeniable <i>presence</i>. I think it’s what first attracted me to him, my fellow archangel. I think it’s what attracted all of the followers he has now. I also think it’s gotten in the way of his logic, if he ever had any.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“My only regret is that I can’t convince you not to throw away everything you have.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Lucifer looks long and hard at me. “Is this truly your choice, my friend? To side with God, the tyrant, over me, your friend?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I think about it for a moment. I don’t believe that God is a tyrant. There is nothing wrong with serving Him, or Jesus, or mankind. It is only Lucifer’s pride that finds an issue with it, and pride has no place in an angel. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I wish I could save Lucifer. I wish God could. But all of us have free will, and if Lucifer wants to damn himself, there is nothing I can do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“I’m sure,” I say. I feel like I should say something else, but what? I can’t wish him luck. Luck won’t help him, and besides, I don’t want him to succeed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“If you’re not with me, then you’re against me,” Lucifer says.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Someone else has a presence even more luminous and notable than Lucifer, the morning star. And that is God. Lucifer pales in comparison to Him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Then I guess I’m against you,” I say.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Lucifer nods once, jerkily, and then stalks away from me, his entourage of wild angels, archangels, Cherubim, and the Seraph following him. I stand alone in the middle of the clearing. Heaven is still and dark, but we all know a war is coming.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">A war that Lucifer will lose and God will win. There is no doubt in my mind that I have made the right choice. I have resisted temptation, reaffirmed the loving nature of God (and his power), and chosen to trust in Him alone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Millennia later, I remember the moment I made that choice. I was alone, but at the same time, I had God and two thirds of the angels behind me. And now, after the War of Heaven, Lucifer has been exiled to Hell, and his fallen angels with him. I could have been one of those fallen angels, had I allowed perceived injustice and Lucifer (I heard he goes by Satan now) and his charisma to convince me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I made the right choice. Yet every day I want to weep because Lucifer made the wrong one.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">THE END! </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-43535175918459148482011-12-11T23:42:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.626-07:00Story #45 - RedemptionHello everyone! As you can tell by the title, this week's story is essentially about redemption. I've always found redemption to be one of the most pure and beautiful concepts in the world, and I've always wanted to write a story about it. I don't think religion is always necessary for redemption, but in this case, it plays a role in the story. Also, this story doesn't reflect my views on capital punishment or religion or anything like that. I hope you enjoy it! :)<br />
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Title: Redemption (suggestions welcome)<br />
Warnings: character death, discussion of murder, violence, and gang life, death row, improper grammar<br />
Summary: Artie has one more day to live, and a lot of things to think about.<br />
Length: ~ 3,600 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. I'm going to say the genre is "crime," although there are definitely other aspects, like tragedy, angst, and spiritual.<br />
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<strong><u><span style="color: #c27ba0;">Redemption</span></u></strong><br />
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I’m gonna die tomorrow. But before you feel bad for me, you should know some stuff. I’m not sick. I’m not gonna kill myself. I can’t see the future. Well, I can, but not because I know magic or nothin’. I’m on death row, and they’re gonna kill me tomorrow. </div>
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When you live in the States, you don’t think they’ll actually kill you when you get on death row. Ever since I was a lil boy I heard stories of people we knew who were on death row and had been on there for ages and ages. Most people on death row die ‘cause they get too old, not ‘cause anyone actually kills them. So when I got on death row, that’s what I thought would happen.</div>
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I was scared, of course. I’m not gonna lie. I didn’t cry, though. Crying is for babies, and I haven’t cried since I was a baby. I was scared, but I figured I still had most of my life to live. It’d be like being in prison for life. It is, too – it’s just that my life is gonna be real short.</div>
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I dunno why they’re executing me so fast. I didn’t do anything that bad. Some of my cellmates here, though – they’re where the money’s at. Serial killers, terrorists, rapists, you name it.</div>
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Me? I killed a cop. Shot ‘im right in the head. (Stupidest thing I ever done. If he’d not been a cop I might not of gotten death penalty.) I stole some stuff, too. Necklaces and things, to support my family – my blood family and my stronger-than-blood family, the Phoenixes. </div>
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None of that matters right now, though. My ma’s dead and my pa was never part of the picture. And Johnny – who knows where he is right now. I hope he’s safe. I hope he doesn’t follow me. That’s the hardest thing about this world – if you’re born somewhere, you’re stuck there, whether you like it or not. I’d think that any guy born in Bill Gates’s lap would be happy to be there, go on cruises and burn money for lighting and stuff. But who knows. The way people are, they probably would wanna be born in my ma’s lap and not have any lighting at all. Just ‘cause it’d be somethin’ different.</div>
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Some of my homies were with me here. That had made me feel a little better, but now they’re all gone. All dead. Maybe they’re crackin’ down on the Phoenixes. Maybe that’s why I’m actually gonna die of execution instead of getting’ old.</div>
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Warden Greens stops by my cell and opens his mouth like he’s gonna talk. I like Greens. He ain’t mean like some of the other prison guards and wardens I’ve come across. One thing I’ve noticed is that a lot of the people here are nice to the inmates on death row, specially when their execution gets closer. It’s like, yes, they done wrong, but now they’re payin’ for it and we might as well be nice for their last days on Earth. Before I got here I think that attitude woulda bugged me, but now it’s nice to get some kindness, some face-to-face talkin', before I die.</div>
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“Hey, Artie,” Greens says.</div>
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“Mr. Greens,” I say.</div>
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He looks at me for a moment. I’m about to ask him what’s up, but then he says, “So, today’s your last day.”</div>
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I know that, but hearing it from him makes it all the more real. It’s like someone’s already stabbed the dagger in my heart. I don’t think they actually stab people with daggers anymore, if they ever did. But it’s like someone did just now.</div>
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“I know,” I say, when I can speak again.</div>
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“Prison policy is to give inmates on death row one last meal before their execution,” Greens continues. I’m glad he was getting somewhere with this and not just saying it to make me feel like I been stabbed. He’s a nice guy. “What would ya like to request, if anything?”</div>
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I think about it. I heard about these last meals. Kyle told me once that this guy from <state w:st="on">Texas</state>, I think his name’s <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Lawrence</place></city> something, he ordered some crazy big meal. Lots of people order a lot of food for their last meal, but his was really huge. I don’t remember all of it, but it had two chicken fried steaks, a cheeseburger, an omelet, a pizza, three root beers, some bread, some fudge, and some ice cream. They gave him all of it, and then he didn’t eat any of it. After that <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Texas</place></state> don’t do last meals anymore. </div>
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For a moment I think about doin’ the same thing here in <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Florida</place></state>. It’d be nice to make a name for myself, a better name than <i>Dumb Guy Who Got Thrown in with a Gang and Didn’t Know Any Better</i>. If I were <i>Dude Who Got Rid of Last Meals</i>, that’d be kinda cool. But who knows if <state w:st="on">Florida</state> would do what <place w:st="on"><state w:st="on">Texas</state></place> did. And I think everyone might be mad at me if I made 'em stop last meals.</div>
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I think I wanna eat my last meal, too. Though part of me doesn’t like the idea. It’s stupid. Why a last meal? They’re gonna kill you anyways. What does it matter if you eat nothin’, some grass, or a gourmet fillet mignon? But I think I wanna eat my last meal. I can ask for whatever I want. I don’t have to worry about whether it’s good for me or not. </div>
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Kyle told me that some dude just wanted one olive. Another wanted to watch <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> with his meal. Timothy McVeigh, this mass murderer, he wanted two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Kyle said Jesus had some sour wine before they crucified him. People have asked for all kinds of things. </div>
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“Gimme a moment, Greens,” I say. “Lemme think of somethin’.”<br />
“No problem,” Greens says. “Take all the time ya need.”</div>
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If I could really take all the time I need, I’d take so much time that we’d go past my execution time and then maybe I’d never die – from lethal injection, at least. But I know he don’t mean it as in take forever, so I set down to thinking fast.</div>
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What do I love? And more important, what have I always loved but never gotten to eat ‘cause it was bad for me, or too hard to get ahold of, or really pricey, or something? The only thing I can think of right now is some Outback steak. That stuff is <i>good</i>. Maybe I’ll ask for that. Some steak, some root beer, some mashed potatoes, and some vanilla ice cream. It's a bit of a wacky combination, but I’d like to go out of this world with some good food in me.</div>
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“I got it,” I say.</div>
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Greens takes out a notepad. “Let’s hear it.” </div>
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“An Outback steak, some mashed potatoes, a glass of root beer, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”</div>
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“Alright,” Greens says. “We’ll get it to you tonight.”</div>
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“Thanks, man,” I say.</div>
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“Oh, one more thing,” Greens adds. “Would ya like some sort of religious rite? We can have a priest over to bless ya or absolve ya of your sins, or if you’re Jewish or Muslim or something else we can have a rabbi or an imam over. Whatever religious ceremony you’d like, we can provide it along with your special meal, if ya want.”</div>
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I have to think about that. God has always been a messy matter for me. My ma used to be very Christian. She’d pray every day that we’d get through to the next, and sometimes we would go to church if she thought it was safe. But then at some point she just stopped praying. She never said why. She died before she could. But I think she lost faith. I think she looked around at her world and just lost faith. I don’t mean this in a bad way to her. My ma was the strongest person I know, and it hurts to think of her lookin’ down on me and sighin’. But I think that after years and years of praying and nothin’ to show for it, she got tired.</div>
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It happened to me too. I used to pray. I used to ask God to keep Johnny and my ma safe, and to keep me safe, and to help us all. There was somethin’ comforting in the silence God gave me back. He said nothin’, but I felt like he heard me. But then there came a time when the silence wasn’t good enough anymore. Bad things just kept happenin’ and nothing got better. So I stopped praying.</div>
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There was another part of it, too. I started to feel kinda bad. I didn’t wanna pray for God to help me steal a necklace. I knew it was wrong. And there was no way I was gonna ask him to help me kill a guy. And now that I’m on death row… I don’t have the right to ask God for help or a priest for a blessing. And even if I did, what good would it do? What does it matter how sorry I am before they kill me? I’m still gonna die. I dunno if there really is a life after death, but nothing’s gonna change the fact I killed a man. If all the priests in the world prayed for me, that still don’t mean I’m going to heaven.</div>
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I don’t wanna repent. I don’t wanna get blessed by a priest. I mean, who in this world or the next cares whether some priest says a few words over me? What does God care? If God cared, I wouldn’t be here right now.</div>
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“No thanks, Greens,” I say. “No blessings or nothin’. Just the food.”</div>
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“Alright,” Greens says. “I’ll bring your meal later. You just try to rest an' not think about tomorrow.”</div>
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“A’rite,” I say. “Bye.”</div>
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Greens leaves, and of course I think about tomorrow, and all my yesterdays too. How can I not? I’m gonna <i>die</i> tomorrow.</div>
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Hours later (I dunno how much) Greens comes back. He’s got all the food I asked for on a tray.</div>
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“Hey, Artie,” he says. “Here’s your food.”</div>
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He pushes it into my cell. It looks delicious, but suddenly I know how that Texan Lawrence felt. It’s hard to be hungry when you’re gonna die in a coupla hours.</div>
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“Thanks, Greens,” I say anyway. </div>
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“Sure,” he grunts. “Ya want anything else, tell me when I come back.” I nod, and he leaves me to my meal.</div>
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Partly ‘cause it’s gonna melt and partly ‘cause I never had a chance to eat dessert before dinner, I start on the vanilla ice cream first. It’s good. It’s hard to think that all too soon I won’t be able to taste anything anymore. </div>
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Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? Why don’t they have someone who will tell you these things, tell you for sure? Why is life such a guessing game? I wish someone would come back and tell us all what it’s like to die. I want my ma back. I feel like a lil boy again, needing her to hug me and tell me it’ll be alright. But she can’t do that, ‘cause she dead, and soon enough I’m gonna be, too.</div>
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After the ice cream I start on the potatoes. They're still warm, but not hot enough to burn my tongue. I didn’t eat potatoes enough in my life. I was too busy worrying about surviving to appreciate it when I ate it. </div>
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I think regret is the meanest thing God gave to humans. Why feel bad when you can’t do anything about it? Yeah, I wish I hadn’t killed that cop. I wish I hadn’t joined the Phoenixes at all. I wish I had gone to school and learned hard and gotten a good rich job like a doctor or lawyer. I wish I was someone my ma would be proud of. I wish I was a better brother to Johnny. But what good is all this wishing? It’s like I said – no one cares if I feel bad when I die. I’m still gonna die.</div>
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Well… no one cares, that is, but me. <i>I</i> care about my guilt, and I don’t want to die wishing and wishing and wishing. I wanna be like someone who would go up the guillotine and say, “Gimme all you got.” I wanna make a name for myself – not by being on death row, not by being stupid, not by gettin’ rid of last meals – I want people to remember me dying in a good way. Like, “That Artie, well <i>he</i> really knew how to go outta this world. He did it right.”</div>
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What is doing it right, though? What is dying right? The cop I killed didn’t die right. Falling to the ground bleeding in his head… I guess he died noble, though. Doing his duty an’ all that. My ma didn’t die right. She got sick and tired and sad, and she had so many regrets in her life. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I made so many mistakes,”</i> she’d said. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“But you ain’t one of ‘em</i>.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">” </i></div>
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I wonder if she’d say that now that I’m on death row for killing a cop and stealing stuff. I wonder if she’d feel better if she knew that I was sorry… that I asked for forgiveness.</div>
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That’s what I need – forgiveness. It’s a bit late for that, though. I’m gonna die real soon. I don’t have time to tell the family of that cop (‘cause man, he had family, didn’t he?) how sorry I am. They won’t care even if I did. Who wants to hear apologies from the killer? </div>
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I start on my steak. It’s good, so good I almost start to cry. But I hold the tears back. I’m not gonna cry. If you die cryin’, you ain’t dying right. Anybody could tell you that.</div>
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I think I need forgiveness from myself. I need to accept my life and my mistakes so I can die right. But that’s easier said than done. </div>
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I was an idiot, yes. I know that. I made all the wrong decisions in life. But there was good things in my life, too – love and friendship and family, fun times playin’ basketball with the gang and jumpin’ through sprinklers and starin’ up at the stars. What I wouldn’t give to see the stars one more time.</div>
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I hate that my life has to end. I hate that I brought this on me. But my life is what it is, and my death will be what it will be. My death, I can still control, even if I’ve screwed up my life.</div>
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Greens comes back just as I finish my meal. The root beer feels nice as I swallow the last of it.</div>
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“Hey, Archie,” Greens says. “Let me take that. Do ya want anything else?”</div>
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<i>I want forgiveness,</i> I think. Forgiveness. I think I know where I might be able to get that.</div>
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“Yeah,” I say. “Can you get me a priest after all? So I can confess my sins and get a blessing?”</div>
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Greens glances at his watch. “Yeah, we have enough time,” he says. “Does it matter what type of priest it is?”</div>
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My ma was Catholic, so… “Catholic,” I say.</div>
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“Okay. We’ll get you one.” </div>
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“Thanks. You’re the best, man.”</div>
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Greens walks away. I’m stuck thinkin’ again, but it’s not so bad this time. I feel like a weight has settled, in a good way, like I made up my mind and now I can relax. The priest will give me some feeling of forgiveness, both for how I ran my life and the mistakes I made. He’ll help me accept the things I can’t change, and die right. </div>
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I might not’ve lived a life I can be proud of, or ma can be proud of, or Johnny can be proud of. But it wasn’t all bad. I made friends, real friends, and I helped them. I ate Outback steak and I watched TV shows and I laughed. I took a man’s life and there’s nothin’ I can do to make up for it but die right and show him some respect. </div>
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“I’m sorry, man,” I whisper. “You didn’t deserve to die, just like I didn’t deserve the life I lived. And I’m sorry, God. I almost gave up on ya when I needed ya the most. Please forgive me.”</div>
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All I get back is silence, but it’s the good type of silence. The cop’s silence and God’s silence, tellin’ me it’s alright.</div>
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It’s the mornin’ of my execution, and Greens has brought a priest to me. He’s tall and old and friendly, but he looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. It must hurt him to see people like me. It’s good of him to come here.</div>
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“Hello, Father,” I say.</div>
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“Peace be with you, my son,” he replies. I hardly ever had someone call me ‘son’ before.</div>
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We start the confession. The words that my ma taught me come back to me like I never forgot ‘em. “Bless me Father for I have sinned,” I say. “I’ve stealed, an' lied, an' cheated. I’ve wasted my life on this Earth. But worse of all, I’ve killed a man – a good man, a cop. Please forgive me, Father, for I am so, so sorry.”</div>
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“God sees your humble repentance,” the priest says. “He asks only this for your penance – that you say three Hail Marys before you leave this world to join Him in His eternal kingdom.” </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re already losing your life, that’s penance enough,</i> I can imagine the priest thinking. “Thank you, Father,” I say. “I’ll do it.”</div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Then may our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and by His authority I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” the priest says, makin’ the sign of the cross.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Amen,” I say. “Thank you.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“God be with you, my son,” the priest says. “You have made the right choice today.” He leaves, and I do feel a bit better. Getting forgiveness from God didn’t fix everything, but it helps me forgive myself.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I’ve gotten that good silence from the cop I killed. I’ve gotten my sins absolved by a priest. I’ve eaten my last meal. Now there really ain’t anything to do but wait ‘till I die, and I hope I do it right. If there’s one thing I can be proud of wherever I end up in the afterlife (if there even is one), it’ll be that I died right.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“We’re ready for you,” Greens says what seems like minutes later. He and some other guards take me out of my cell and handcuff me. The cold metal chafes my wrist but I relish the feeling - any feeling. They lead me between ‘em to the room where I’m gonna die. "Lethal injection" they call it. At least it’s not the electric chair. I dunno if I’d be able to hold the tears back if it was the electric chair.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I feel every step. I feel the blood rushing through my body, my beating heart, my quick breaths. I’ve never felt more alive than in the moment I’m gonna die. Ever part of me is thrummin’ with life. Including my tear ducts, but I ain’t gonna let ‘em win.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">They strap me to the table. The room is dark and gray. One of them pulls out a needle. I always used ta be scared of needles. My ma wouldn’t hardly ever take us to the doctor anyways, ‘cause she didn’t have insurance, but whenever she would she’d make me and Johnny got shots. I hated ‘em. But I’m gonna take this one.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">For the last time, it hits me. I made a mistake – a series of mistakes, really, like some crazy domino set – and it cost me my life. Loads of people do this every day. They pick the wrong alley to walk down. They drink a bit too much before they go on the road. They get sick of this life and want to end it. Whatever the reason, plenty of people make a mistake that changes or ends their life. I just never thought I’d be one of them.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I chose bad and I sacrificed my life. And that sucks. But at least I’ve realized that. I’ve realized it, and I’ve repented, and maybe I can stop people from going the way I did. Maybe if Johnny ever hears about me – I dunno if he knows what happened to me, but <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Florida</place></state> has records of everyone killed on death row so eventually he might – maybe I can stop someone from making the same stupid, life-ruining mistakes I did.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Anything you wanna say?” Greens asks.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Yeah,” I say. “Johnny, if you ever hear about this – don’t make the same mistakes I did. Go to school, don’t get involved with gangs, enjoy your potatoes, and don’t give up on God or yourself. Anyone who hears this – listen to the wisdom of a dying man. Live your life the best you can, and don’t waste it, or you’ll end up just like me, tryin’ not to cry when someone’s about to stab a needle into you.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Good words,” Greens says. “Well-spoken.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I smile, and I don’t cry. Then one of them injects me, and slowly the world fades away.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I die right.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">The End! </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-58638409991491572632011-12-04T22:22:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.643-07:00Story #44 - A Funny Little Thing Called LifeHi everyone! This week's story was inspired by a picture I saw as I was surfing the Internet the other day. I've included it at the end of the story. Happy reading, and as always, thank you for the comments! :)<br />
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Title: A Funny Little Thing Called Life (suggestions welcome)<br />
Warnings: slightly angsty<br />
Summary: Nancy and her husband Wynn go to a high school reunion, and things don't turn out well.<br />
Length: ~ 1,400 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, present tense. I'm not really sure what the genre is, so I'll go with drama.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><u><span style="color: #274e13;">A Funny Little Thing Called Life</span></u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do we really have to go to this reunion?” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> asks Wynn as she laces up her boots. “I won’t remember anyone, and it’ll be boring and awkward.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Nonsense!” Wynn says. He’s all ready, standing by the door and waiting for <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city>. “There’s some people I’d really like to see. It won’t be so bad.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Easy for you to say,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> mutters, but she heads to the door anyway. “I only went to Paschal High for a year.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“And I’m glad you did,” Wynn says, pulling her in for a cursory kiss. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have had anything in common when we first met, and we never would’ve talked.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Right,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> responds. “Well, let’s get going.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She <i>is</i> glad she went to Paschal High and it all led to meeting and marrying Wynn. But that doesn’t mean she wants to go to the reunion. But she puts on a brave face and convicts herself to three hours of awkwardness and boredom.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Isn’t this great?” Wynn proclaims as he joins <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> at her table. She’d found a few people she recognized (apparently they’d been in the same Spanish class in 12<sup>th</sup> grade) and had sat down with them. She hasn’t done much else, but Wynn has been up and about. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I talked with Peter Grashon. You remember Peter, don’t you? We all had biology with him.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh, yes, he was the nicest boy,” one of the women at <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city>’s table says. “I think I saw you talking with Sandra Hellock, too. She was a sweetheart as well.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The woman turns to talk to someone else, but <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city>’s no longer paying attention. She looks at Wynn, who has sat down beside her and is fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “You talked to Sandra Hellock?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah.” Wynn shrugs. “It isn’t a big deal. It wasn’t awkward.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hmm.” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> isn’t sure whether she should believe him. Sandra was Wynn’s girlfriend all throughout high school. Wynn had never told her much about Sandra, but <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Nancy</city></place> had managed to piece together a story.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">They had only broken up because they were going to college and wanted to be free to meet other people. After the first year of college, Wynn found out Sandra had met someone and was planning to marry him. Soon after, Wynn met <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Nancy</city></place>, and Wynn and Sandra had gone their separate ways.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> would like to think that she doesn’t have to worry about Wynn and Sandra. She’d like to think that she’s being paranoid to worry at all. But she can’t help remember the wistfulness in Wynn’s voice whenever he mentions Sandra, as well as his declining attention towards <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city>. Yesterday he hadn’t even kissed her goodbye before he went off to work. They always kissed each other goodbye. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Wynn’s going for casual, so <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> tries to act nonchalant as well. “How’s Sandra’s husband doing?” she asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh, I don’t know, I didn’t ask. I didn’t talk to her for that long.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“She told me they had a divorce a few years back,” yet another woman at the table interjects. “She’s single now. It must be tough – approaching fifty and having no kids or husband.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“We don’t have any kids,” <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Nancy</city></place> says. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh,” the woman (her nametag reads <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mary Morrison</b>) says. She looks uncomfortable. Nancy wishes she could remember if Mary often put her foot in her mouth in Spanish class, but that was thirty years ago.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> glances at Wynn to see how he’s taking all of this, but he isn’t by her side. She looks around and spots him chatting to someone who could very well be Sandra. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> remembers what Mary just said about the divorce and gets up from her seat. She can scare this Sandra away and remind Wynn why they married each other.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She goes up to Wynn, and sure enough, the woman he is talking to wears a nametag that reads <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sandra Hellock</b>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hello, you must be Sandra,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> says, reaching out to shake Sandra’s hand. “I’m Nancy, Wynn’s wife. I’m sure he’s told you about me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about you,” Sandra says with a smile as false as her bright blonde hair. “It’s great to meet you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I was just telling Sandra about the time we went on that cruise to <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Hawaii</place></state>,” Wynn says. “It was amazing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh yes, it was gorgeous,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> agrees. She’s only half paying attention to the conversation. The other half of her is focused on observing Wynn and Sandra. Their body language seems a bit too friendly for two exes. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She’s being crazy. She needs to calm down and trust her husband. She’s claimed her territory and introduced herself to Sandra; now it’s time to leave and trust Wynn and common morals. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I think I’ll head back to our table,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> says. “It was nice meeting you, Sandra.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You too,” Sandra echoes with a random, tinkling laugh. <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Nancy</city></place> glances at Wynn, who smiles at her (his smile seems false too… or is that just her being paranoid?). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“See you,” he says, and turns back to talk to Sandra.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">After the reunion, things are tense. June turns into July, and Wynn hardly ever just talks to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> or remembers to kiss her goodbye. She tries to restart their passion for each other. She wears sexy clothes. She suggests that they go on vacation. She avoids talking about Sandra. She isn’t sure how long this awful non-communication will last. Eventually, she sits down with Wynn at dinner and asks, “Why can’t we make this work?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Wynn looks up at her. “Excuse me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> explains, “I – I feel like we’ve been drifting apart for a while now. I want to be close to you again, but… every time I try it doesn’t work out.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Wynn sighs. “People change, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city>,” he says. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> gazes at Wynn. Her husband. He has changed since they first met. His hair has thinned, he’s taken to wearing reading glasses, and he hardly ever takes her up on his back and gives her piggyback rides anymore. But he has the same kind, expressive blue eyes and the same dimples when he smiles. He hasn’t smiled for a long time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yes, people change,” <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Nancy</city></place> admits. “But we can still make this work, can’t we?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">They both know what <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> wants Wynn to say. But to her distress, he simply shakes his head and says, “No.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What do you mean?” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> asks, although she’s pretty sure she knows what Wynn means.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“We can’t make this work,” he says. “I’ve – I’ve been sleeping with someone else.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What?” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> gasps. “Who? When? Is it Sandra?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“This past month,” Wynn replies. “And yes, it’s Sandra. I’m so sorry…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">His apologies mean nothing to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city>. She hears a dull roaring in her eyes and worries that she’s going to faint. Her husband has been cheating on her for a whole month? She should have known!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She doesn’t know who she’s most angry at – herself, Wynn, or Sandra. “Are you – do you want to be with Sandra?” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> finally manages to ask, the words sticking in her throat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Wynn looks at her with his kind, sympathetic, lying, cheating eyes. “Yes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And with that word, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city>’s world shatters.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">They get a divorce. Wynn and Sandra only wait a month to marry. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> spends a lot of time fuming. She even puts a notice in the newspaper in the lost-and-found section.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lost my husband, Wynn, to Sandra who has no morals following 30<sup>th</sup> year Paschal High class reunion in June,</i> it reads.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She imagines how Wynn and Sandra will feel reading that and grins in relish. Serves them right! She’ll spread their bad name throughout the land.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eventually, though, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city>’s fire fades and she goes on with her life. Wynn and Sandra go on with theirs. When Paschal High’s 40<sup>th</sup> reunion comes around, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> decides to go. She’s ready to show Wynn and Sandra that she can’t be defeated by a divorce or loneliness.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It might not be so bad. Maybe they’ll even laugh together about her newspaper notice. Life is life, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> knows, and the best thing you can do is keep going, even when it doesn’t go your way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">At the reunion, no one mentions the newspaper message. Wynn and Sandra are still together, and <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Nancy</place></city> is still alone. She tells them about her cat and they tell her about their kid. <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Nancy</city></place> cooes and awws at the appropriate moments.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Life is life, and the best thing you can do is keep going, even when it doesn’t go your way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The End!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TR9sFwCf4Vw/TtxiyC8l6ZI/AAAAAAAAABE/W_A0eoH43RY/s1600/Lost+my+husband+to+Sandra+who+has+no+morals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" dda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TR9sFwCf4Vw/TtxiyC8l6ZI/AAAAAAAAABE/W_A0eoH43RY/s1600/Lost+my+husband+to+Sandra+who+has+no+morals.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inspiration for story. Check out the last entry. Saw this when looking at funny pictures. I don't know any of these people involved in real life, and my representations are merely fictional characters.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-5154005884249569202011-11-27T13:09:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.637-07:00Story #43 - Five Times Larry Got New Shoes (And One Time He Didn't)Hello everyone! This week's story is what in fanfiction is called a "five things 'fic." Basically, it involves five different events occurring, usually with a central theme and focused on around one character. It often has an added "sixth" thing that is somehow different from the other five. I've always wanted to try one, so I figured I could give it a shot on my blog. I hope you enjoy it! <br />
<br />
Title: Five Times Larry Got New Shoes (And One Time He Didn't)<br />
Warnings: eventual character death, mention of alcoholism<br />
Summary: Self-explanatory. Larry gets five new pairs of shoes, and one pair that wasn't for him.<br />
Length: ~ 2,500 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, past tense. Genre is a five things story.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="background-color: #0b5394; color: yellow; font-family: Calibri;"><strong><u>Five Times Larry Got New Shoes (And One Time He Didn’t)</u></strong></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was Larry’s first birthday, and his parents, Margaret and Stewart, threw a rather low-key party. Stewart didn’t see much point in celebrating a birthday before the birthday boy could remember it, and Margaret didn’t want to spend a lot of money or invite many people. So they just invited Uncle Jerry and Grandma and Grandpa and hung a sign on their living room that said, “Happy First Birthday Larry!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After munching on cheese and talking for about half an hour, everyone gathered around the table. Stewart brought out Larry and put him on a high chair. Everyone cooed about how cute he is.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Soon he’ll have almost as much hair as me!” Said balding Grandpa.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He has the most adorable smile!” Cooed Grandma.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You just want to pick him up and tickle him!” Explained Uncle Jerry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He is pretty cute, isn’t he?” Margaret said proudly. Larry was being quite well-behaved, and Margaret felt her heart rate start to settle. This was one of the only times she got to show off Larry to most of the family (at least the ones who mattered), and she needed it to go well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright, time for Larry’s present!” Stewart announced, coming in from the small kitchen carrying a wrapped box. Margaret caught Grandpa exchanging a look with Grandma.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Were we supposed to bring presents?” Grandma asked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, it would’ve been nice,</i> Margaret almost said. Instead, she said, “No, of course not!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“One-year-olds only need one present,” Stewart added. “Next year we’ll get him two. By the time he’s twenty he’ll have twenty presents!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Good one,” Uncle Jerry chuckled. Margaret laughed, too, but she had a feeling Stewart wasn’t kidding. She’d have to lay the rules down pretty soon. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No matching presents with age. Yes to matching presents with income.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Margaret’s palms were starting to sweat. She hoped Larry liked his present. Everyone gathered closer to watch as Stewart attempted to get Larry to unwrap the box.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Just pull on it, like this,” Stewart demonstrated. Larry reached out a pudgy hand and tore off a bit of paper. He waved it around happily, and then tried to stick it in his mouth. Margaret reached over to pull it away.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Babies,” she laughed. “Always chewing on things.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Grandma and Grandpa nodded understandingly. Uncle Jerry frowned.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Let’s see that present!” Margaret exclaimed. Everyone turned their attention back to the present, which was now entirely unwrapped. It was a shoe box.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He’s been needing new shoes for a while,” Stewart explained. He opened to box and showed the shoes to the guests. They were impossibly tiny white sneakers with Velcro straps and a small Nike logo.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Only the best for our Larry.” Margaret smiled. Stewart brought the shoes to Larry, who grabbed them eagerly. He was just wearing little white socks at the moment – his other shoes had fallen apart. Larry lifted the shoes clumsily and tried to eat them. Margaret once again stopped him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Babies,” she laughed. “Always chewing on things.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That was the first significant pair of shoes Larry received. They lasted him for a few months until he outgrew them. But his parents always kept them, to remind themselves of how far they’d all come. Larry from a tiny, mouthy baby, Margaret from a nervous wreck, and Stewart from… well… Stewart was a whole other matter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The second significant pair of shoes that Larry got was his soccer cleats. They were also Nike, and were black and white, baring a slight resemblance to a soccer ball. Margaret gave them to him right before his first soccer practice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They’ll help you run and kick better,” she explained. “I think they require them, too. I just thought it’d be a good idea.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry, who was twelve at the time, thanked his mom and tried them on. He could tie his own shoelaces by now, which was a relief – he had been an embarrassingly slow learner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once he had laced them on, he stood up and looked at the mirror. There he was, wearing his soccer uniform and his new cleats. He looked ready to face the world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Mom, can you take a picture and bring it to Dad next time you visit him?” Larry asked. He looked away from the mirror to avoid seeing the hope in his eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure, honey,” Margaret said, her voice gentle. “Let me just run and get the camera – it’s in the kitchen for some reason. I must have been taking a picture of that pie I baked the other day.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They only had a disposable camera at that time. Back then, the digital cameras were way too expensive, especially with Stewart no longer supporting the family. Their insurance covered his rehab, but Margaret still had to support herself and Larry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ve got it.” Margaret returned with the camera. Larry struck a noble pose, making sure to show off his shiny new cleats. He wanted Stewart to know that he had a son who played soccer. It seemed like an important detail. Larry hoped that instead of drinking alcohol, his dad would think about how well his son must be doing in those awesome cleats.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Margaret snapped the picture, and then took a few more for good measure. “I’ll get them developed as soon as I can.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks, Mom.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Margaret smiled. “Of course,” she said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry’s cleats lasted for two whole years. He scored many goals with those cleats. And when Stewart came back from rehab, ready to embrace life again, he watched Larry make some of those goals. Larry kept those shoes, too – they reminded him of his love of soccer and his dad, and the surprisingly strength of his mom.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Larry’s third pair of important shoes was shiny black business shoes. They were the kind of shoes you’d wear at black tie events or a business trip. In this case, Larry was wearing them for a job interview. But this wasn’t any job interview – it was his first job after getting out of rehab.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His phone rang as Larry was adjusting his tie. He picked it up after the first ring. “Hello?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi, tiger. It’s Mary.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mary. Larry smiled just thinking her name. She had been one of the reasons he had found the strength to stop drinking. They’d been together for two years now.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, hey, Mary! What’s going on?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to check up on you. How are you doing?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A little nervous,” Larry admitted. He glanced down at his new shiny shoes. “Determined, though. And not drinking.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I wasn’t even going to ask.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry glanced at himself in the mirror. He was clean-shaven, well-groomed, and his teeth were white. We wore a black suit that matched his shoes and his belt. You could hardly tell that a few months ago he’d been nearly at rock bottom.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I wish Dad could see me now,” Larry muttered, almost too low for Mary to hear.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He can,” Mary said. “He’s up there somewhere. And he’s happy you’ve stopped going down the road he went down.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It wasn’t alcohol that killed him, though,” Larry said. He felt Mary sigh on the other end of the line.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I know,” she interrupted. “It was a car crash. But are you sure it wasn’t a drunk driving accident?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I don’t want to go into this again right now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Larry had to stay strong. His dad had sober for over fifteen years. He didn’t want to believe that Stewart had fallen off the wagon. His dad’s death had been what caused Larry to start drinking heavily, but his dad’s life and triumph had been one of the reasons he’d stopped. Larry needed to believe the best of his dad, like he needed to believe the best in himself. That was part of the reason he’d bought his new dress shoes. If he looked good, he felt good, and then he’d act good.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sorry, honey. I know you’ve been through a lot lately. Let’s drop it. Are you ready for the interview?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry felt inches taller in his new shoes, even though they really only added a few centimeters to his height. “I’m ready,” he said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry didn’t keep those shoes. They got old and fell apart, and Mary insisted on getting rid of them. But Larry never forgot how they made him feel strong when he needed to be. And whenever he walked into work, he thanked those shoes for getting him that job.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Larry’s next pair of shoes was white slippers with bunny ears on them. He bought them when the kids had both gone off to college and he was working less and lying around the house more. Mary said they were because his feet had stopped circulating well in his old age. (She was 57, a year older than him, so her old age jokes always turned around on her.) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Truthfully, Larry got them because he could. They were on sale and looked comfortable and cute, and it was true, his feet got cold often nowadays – he hadn’t been circulating well. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He liked sitting on the couch with his slippered feet lying on the table. Larry and Mary had always yelled at their kids if they had their feet up on the table, but now that the kids were gone those rules didn’t apply. They hadn’t ever really applied to the parents anyway.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry liked watching TV in his slippers with his feet up. Sometimes Mary would join him, wearing her own pair of slippers. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Circulation not working so well in your old age?” Larry would quip, and his wife would smack him playfully. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“At least my slippers don’t have bunny ears on them,” she’d say. As if that was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">positive</i> thing, instead of a tragedy that affirmed how amazing Larry’s bunny slippers were.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Touché,” Mary would always mutter, and Larry would smile and pull her close.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry wore those bunny slippers until they fell apart five years later. They always kept his feet warm, but more importantly, they reminded him of how much he loved his wife. He always remembered the nights sitting on the couch with her whenever he wore them. Even after the bunny ears fell off and the white was more of a gray color, he kept them just so he could hear Mary’s smart-aleck comments. They never failed to bring a smile to his face.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Larry didn’t buy his last pair of shoes. He didn’t even ever put them on himself. Technically, he didn’t even own them. But they were his.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry’s daughter, Sandra, bought him new shoes for his funeral. He had requested to be buried, and to have an open-casket funeral, and Sandra wanted him to wear nice clothes. He wore a brown suit, so Sandra found some nice brown leather dress shoes. Mary helped her put them on. Both of them couldn’t help but think how it looked as if Larry was sleeping, and was ready to go to work the next day. But both of them knew he wouldn’t ever go to work again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It wasn’t a car accident, drunken or not, that killed Larry. It was simply old age, that vice that all people succumb too. He had lived a good life, overall.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His funeral was almost as small as his first birthday party had been. Uncle Jerry, Grandma, Grandpa, Stewart, and Margaret were all already up in heaven. There weren’t many other people important to Larry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Marry attended, of course, and so did her and Larry’s kids, Sandra and Ryan. A few of Larry’s work friends came, and some of the in-laws. The priest said a few words, as did the family members. Then people walked by to pay their last respects.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Several people admired the shoes. They knew how important shoes were when it came to Larry. Sandra accepted the compliments with an inclined head and a wintry smile. She was just glad to have done her best for her dad. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry literally took those shoes to his grave. They represented himself: tough and strong, made of good quality but still able to be weathered and worn. But they could also bend to fit someone’s needs, just like Larry bent to help his children or his wife. The last pair of shoes that Larry would ever wear was the best. And when Mary died a year after, Sandra buried her with brown leather shoes, too. So lay Larry and Mary, in matching shoes, just like their matching souls.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(+1.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry once received a pair of shoes, but they were not his. This was at the baby shower for Larry and Mary’s first baby, who would grow up to become Sandra. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The baby shower was probably the biggest party Larry had ever thrown. Lots of people came, even ones Larry didn’t even know – a coworker’s friend, or Mary’s cousin twice removed, or even the mailman. Best of all, they all came bearing gifts. Margaret was so happy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is how it should be,” she said when Larry and Mary were practically drowned in gifts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They got a lot of baby clothes. They got a crib, and toys, and books. They got diapers and food. But Larry’s favorite present came from his mom.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is similar to what we got you when you were just one year old,” Margaret explained. Larry opened the box (he didn’t try to eat the wrapping paper this time) to unveil a minuscule pair of shoes. They were pink Nike sneakers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They’re adorable!” Mary exclaimed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I love them,” Larry said, giving his mom a hug. “I’m sure our baby girl will love them too. Thank you, Mom.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Margaret beamed. Everyone cheered. Larry put the shoes away for a few months, until Sandra was born. Once she started wearing shoes, they could hardly get her out of them. She’d crawl around and start fussing if someone tried to take them off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Your entire family is obsessed with shoes,” Mary said once. Larry laughed, and Mary pulled him in for a kiss. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she finished.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Larry was proud of Sandra for many reasons. But one of the reasons he held close to his heart was that she shared his love of shoes. He knew that when he died, Sandra would find a good pair of shoes to bury him in. And she did.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sandra kept her baby shoes because Larry and Mary kept them. When she went through the box of their old things, she came around the shoes and smiled through her tears. She had the best parents in the world, and the best shoes. Her baby shoes were old and worn now. But she could imagine what they had been like in her prime, and she promised to get her own child shoes just like them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was important to start and end life with a good pair of shoes, and Sandra and Larry (and maybe even Mary) realized that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">THE END! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-28733531740534255582011-11-20T22:16:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.616-07:00Story #42 - A Rose is a Rose is a RoseHello everyone! This week brings us to Story #42 - meaning I only have ten more stories left before I've written a year's worth of stories!! Wow! I want to thank you all for sticking with me this whole time. Oh, and this is also my 50th post. Pretty exciting! This week we have another love story, but a more traditional one. Pay attention to a callback to my very first story. :) Enjoy!<br />
<br />
Title: A Rose is a Rose is a Rose (taken from Gertrude Stein's poem <em>Sacred Emily</em>, which I do not own)<br />
Warnings: none<br />
Summary: Jack thinks he's found The One, and he goes to buy her flowers.<br />
Length: ~ 2,400 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, past tense. Genre is romance.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><u>A <span style="color: #a64d79;">Rose </span>is a <span style="color: #ea9999;">Rose</span> is a <span style="color: #990000;">Rose</span></u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“See that girl?” Jack said, nodding to a slim blonde woman by the counter. “I’m going to marry her some day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Steve didn’t even glance at her before rolling his eyes. “Not another one, man,” he groaned. “If you married every girl you said you were going to marry ‘some day,’ you’d break even King Solomon’s record for polygamy.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jack protested. “Solomon had hundreds of wives.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Steve raised an eyebrow at him. “Exactly.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jack did his best to ignore his friend and glanced back at the woman. She was stirring her Coke with a straw with one hand and reading a book with the other. Jack couldn’t pinpoint what it was about her that made her seem special, but she had… <i>something</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m think I’m going to buy her flowers.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Dude! Seriously!” Steve finally glanced at the woman and then turned back to Jack. “Alright, so she’s hot, but really, Jack, don’t do this.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Fine. I’ll think about it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And Jack did think about it. For about three seconds.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">See, here was the thing. Jack did tend to fall in love with girls pretty often. He also tended to label any woman he saw walking down the street “The One.” His friends knew that about him, and he knew that about himself. What his friends didn’t understand was that every woman <i>could</i> be the one. How would he know unless he pursued every girl like she was his soulmate? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“She seems nice,” Jack said eventually. “And even if she’s not The One, that’s no reason not to date her for a while. I’m still going to buy her flowers.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Steve blew out a breath exaggeratedly, puffing out his cheeks. “Your funeral.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No,” Jack countered. “My future wedding.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Maybe.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jack went to <i>Roses and More </i>the day after he saw the girl (whom Steve had imaginatively dubbed ‘Blondie’ – he’d gotten her phone number but not a name, weirdly enough). Being the sensible romantic that he was, Jack had been to <i>Roses and More </i>quite a lot. But that didn’t make the task of choosing the perfect flowers for Blondie (the nickname was catchy, alright?) any less daunting.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He wandered through the aisles, breathing in the heavily scented air and looking all around. There were flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Peonies, violets, roses, sunflowers, lilies… Red, orange, white, pink, purple… Big and small, irregular and symmetrical – how was he supposed to know which one Blondie would like best?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He needed a woman’s advice on this. Luckily, he knew just who to call. Jack took out his cellphone and called his friend Alejandra, who picked up after the second ring. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hello?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hey, Alejandra, it’s Jack. How are you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh, hi, Jack! It’s great to hear from you. I’m excellent. What’s up?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jack paused by a yellow rose and ran his hand along its petals. They were very soft. But didn’t yellow mean friendship?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I had a question, and I figured a woman might be able to answer it best.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Women <i>always</i> answer a question best, Jack.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jack chuckled. “Sure. Okay, so, there’s this girl I saw yesterday –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Alejandra cut him off with a groan. “Not again!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hear me out,” Jack insisted. “There’s this girl I saw yesterday, and she’s beautiful. I think I might marry her some day. And to start, I want to buy her flowers.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Alejandra sighed. “Jack, that’s really, really sweet, and I know you mean well, but if you married every girl you said you’re going to marry –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’d have more wives than Solomon. I know.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I was going to say you’d have half the female population furious at you, but that works, too.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Jack sighed. “Can you just help me out, here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Okay, baby –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Baby?” Jack frowned. “Since when do you call me baby?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Uh – since you… started needing my help for everything! Anyways, Jack – um, baby, heh – let’s get to the point!” Alejandra sounded flustered. Jack could picture her tapping her fingers against her thigh like she did when she was nervous or embarrassed. The ‘baby’ thing was strange, but Jack let it go. He didn’t want to embarrass her further. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Um, alright… so, this girl, I’m buying her flowers. But there’s so many different types… so I was wondering… what’s your favorite type of flower?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“<i>My</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> favorite type?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Yeah. You’re a woman; I’m sure you can speak for other women.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Well, flower preferences aren’t exactly universal, Jack.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“But if you just tell me ones you like… I mean, you have good taste.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“You would say that, wouldn’t you,” Alejandra muttered lowly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Huh?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Yeah? Oh, forget it. Just – I like roses. You can never go wrong with roses.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Jack nodded. He was still in the rose section, so he glanced around a bit. There were a lot of different types of roses. “What color roses do you like best?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Pink or red are classics. But you know what I think’s really cool – a lavender or an orange rose.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Different, but still classy ‘cause it’s a rose, right?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Exactly. And purple means ‘love at first sight,’ while orange can mean ‘let’s get together.’” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Jack grinned. “Perfect! I hope Blondie knows her rose color meanings.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Blondie?” Alejandra scoffed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Steve’s nickname, not mine.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Right. Anyways, is that all the help you needed?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Yeah. Thanks so much, Alejandra. I owe you one… Hey, do you want to have dinner with me tonight? My treat.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Sure!” Jack could hear the grin in Alejandra’s warm voice. He could also hear the scowl in her next words: “Try not to future-marry any other girls between now and then, m’kay?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Alright, alright.” Did his friends have no faith in him? “See you at six at Arties?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Okay. Bye!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Bye.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">After he’d hung up, Jack walked around the roses section, searching for purple or orange roses. He wasn’t sure which one to go with – it had essentially been love at first sight, no matter how much his friends scoffed at the idea. But he also wanted to signify the desire for action – so maybe sending a message with orange would be best. Or maybe Blondie wouldn’t know rose color meanings at all, and he should just go for the one that looked the best?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Eventually, Jack found a bouquet of mixed purple and orange flowers. Figuring that more is always better, he brought it up to the cash register. Sophie, the main florist, was staffing the register.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Hi, Jack, it’s nice to see you again. Is this for any special occasion?” She asked as she punched in the price.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He smiled ruefully. “Nothing overly surprising – just wooing another girl. Hopefully she’ll be The One.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Sophie smiled. “You never know,” she said. “Brian met a woman a few weeks ago, and they’re dating now, and he says he thinks it might last.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“How are things with Brian?” Jack questioned as he paid. He had come to <i>Roses and More</i> often enough to know the personal lives of many of the cashiers, and Sophie was no different.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Sophie smiled. “He’s good. We’re talking a lot now. Let’s see… here’s your change. $3.50. Good luck with the girl.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll see you soon – whether it’s for this girl or another one.” <i>Or maybe I should say another One, </i>Jack thought wryly. Sometimes it was hard not to become cynical about himself. But how could he find the One without dating everyone?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Alright. See you!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Bye!” Jack took his bouquet and walked out the door. The next step was to call up Blondie and arrange a date with her, or someone find out where she lived. He needed to give her the flowers.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time Jack was done at <i>Roses and More</i>, it was practically six and time to meet Alejandra for dinner. Jack decided to swing by Arties without dropping his stuff off at home. He didn’t want to keep Alejandra waiting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">It was dark, but this part of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">San Francisco</place></city> had plenty of streetlights and Jack wasn’t worried. Who would mug a man carrying a bouquet of flowers? Arties was close enough to <i>Roses and More</i> that walking would take about the same time as driving, and Jack needed some fresh air. He’d walk.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">His friend’s constant doubt of his love life – or love search – got him down sometimes, as did his constant inability to actually find The One. Maybe there would end up being nothing overly special about Blondie. But Jack didn’t have any better options, so he’d give Blondie a shot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Ten minutes later Jack walked into Arties. It was five after six and Alejandra was already there, sitting at a booth. She glanced up at Jack and waved. Her brown eyes absolutely lit up, and Jack looked in confusion towards the direction of her gaze. She was staring at the bouquet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Oh, no. Did she think –</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Jack!” Alejandra rushed up to him and threw her arms around him. He staggered back a step, trying to stop himself and the bouquet from being squished. “I knew it! Once you asked me what <i>my</i> favorite type of flower was… aw, Jack, you’re so sweet!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Oh, no, this wasn’t – these are for – I didn’t mean –”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Wait ‘till I tell Steve! He thought I was a fool for liking you, but now you like me back! And these flowers – they’re beautiful!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Jack stayed silent as Alejandra took the flowers from his limp hands. She was sparkling with happiness and energy, her skin aglow and her smile perfect and wide. She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, and Jack gave in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He didn’t want to hurt her. And she was beautiful.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I’m glad you like the flowers,” he said.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The next day, Jack was once again at Arties, but this time with Steve, trying to make sense out of everything that happened.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“We stayed and talked for a bit after I gave her the flowers, and we kissed a few times. We didn’t go any further than that, but… I think she thinks we’re a couple now. And honestly, I don’t really mind. I lost my flowers for Blondie, but Alejandra’s probably a better bet than Blondie anyway.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Steve shook his head slowly. “I don’t like it,” he said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Jack frowned. “Don’t like what?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Listen, Alejandra’s a great girl, and I do want you two to hook up, it’s just – maybe you should tell her the truth.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“The truth? What, ‘I actually bought the flowers for someone else?’ That’s not what she wants to hear.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Steve leveled a look at Jack. “That’s what she needs to hear, dude.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Jack ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “When did you get so wise?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Steve laughed. “I’ve always been wise, man, you’ve just never listened until now.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I’ll think about it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">And Jack did think about it. For a while.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Alejandra was a really good friend of his. A really good friend who’s apparently had a crush on him for a while. Jack had kind of written her off as a resident of the Friend Zone, but now that he was viewing her in a different light he had to rethink things. Alejandra was funny, nice, clever, and pretty. They got along well. Did he really want to embarrass her by telling her the truth?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Steve was right, though. If he wanted this relationship to have a chance – and this one had way more of a chance than any of this previous ones – he had to clear the air.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">But first, he had to stop by <i>Roses and More</i> one more time and get some black roses and maybe some yellows ones, too – for rebirth, new beginnings, and apology. Then he’d be ready to face Alejandra.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Later that night, Jack had his bouquet (after being reprimanded by Sophie for being back so soon) and he was standing at the door to Alejandra’s apartment. He knocked on the door and waited, fidgeting with the bouquet. Finally, Alejandra opened the door.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Jack!” She said with a smile. She really did have a beautiful smile. “You didn’t have to get me more flowers…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I know, but I have something to tell you and you probably won’t like to hear it. So before I do that – here, have these.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He thrust the bouquet at Alejandra, who took it and placed it on her table, inviting him inside. “Black and yellow, huh? Death and friendship? Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to like this.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Her smile had dimmed, and Jack already missed it. He perched on one of her chairs and explained, “Actually, it was supposed to be rebirth and apology. Because, you see – that first bouquet that I gave you… it actually was for a girl I met the other day. What I’m trying to say is… It wasn’t for you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Oh.” Alejandra sat down across from him, keeping a careful distance. Her expression was guarded. “So… why’d you go along with it?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Well… I realized how much sense it made. I realized that this whole time I’ve been chasing all these girls who could be The One, and I never noticed that The One was right under my nose.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Alejandra gave a weak smile. “I’m your One, now? Do I get to join the list of future wives?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Jack crossed the room and took her hands, staring into her eyes. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you get to start a new list – a list of people I can actually see myself with.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Alejandra smiled, but then sighed, glancing at the older purple and orange bouquet in her vase. “Now I don’t really want those flowers,” she said. “Since they’re actually that whore Blondie’s.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Whoa, who said she was a whore?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Alejandra raised her eyebrows. “Come on, baby. Like half of your ‘The Ones’ have turned out to be whores.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Not true!” Jack objected. “It was really more like one fifth.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Alejandra laughed. Jack wondered how he never realized how musical her laugh was.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Anyways, that’s why I got you a new bouquet,” he said. “To start over without any of the confusion or misunderstanding, but still with all of the emotion.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I like the sound of that,” Alejandra grinned. “But they still represent death and friendship to me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Jack shrugged. “You’re the expert at flower meanings. I just looked it up on my iPhone.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Alejandra shook her head. “You’re an idiot.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“You love it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">They kissed, and Jack thought that maybe he finally had found the One – or she had found him, or they had found each other. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Sometimes misunderstandings turned out to be the best things of all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The End! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-9233673769097404782011-11-13T18:10:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.710-07:00Story #41 - Reason #1673985<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Hi everybody! This week's story is a light-hearted sci-fi one about a robot who falls in love. It was inspired by an episode of the TV show <em>How I Met Your Mother</em> that included these lines: "<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The robot found love/Confusing my circuitry/My software's been hacked."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I hope you enjoy this story!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Title: Reason #1673985</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Warnings: robots with feelings, a lot of numbers</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Summary: CleanBot #33422 has been malfunctioning lately and he's not sure why.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Length: ~1,800 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, past tense. Genre is sci-fi and romance and probably a little parody.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><a name='more'></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="color: #666666;">Reason #1673985</span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>CleanBot #33422 was not having a very good day. At 0100 hours he had short-circuited and no one had even noticed until RepairBot #9974 had just happened to pass by him. RepairBot #9974 had wanted to know why he hadn’t signaled that he was in distress, and then CleanBot #33422 had had to explain that when he short-circuited even his distress signal didn’t work. So now they thought something was wrong with him and he’d been sent home for the day. He had to come back tomorrow so they could check up on him and make sure he was doing okay. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>CleanBot #33422 was not used to having nothing to do. The Higher-Ups had instructed him to just stay in his chamber and not clean anything. Normally he powered down in his chamber, but they had even told him not to power down, just in case something was seriously wrong and he’d blow up if he powered down. Frankly, he thought they were making a bit deal out of nothing. He was perfectly fine.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Okay, maybe not perfectly fine. Lately he’d been malfunctioning more than normal. But it wasn’t in any of the 1673984 ways that he knew how to report. Except for maybe #100371: My Software’s Been Hacked. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe that’s what he should tell the Higher-Ups when they checked up on him. It could be that simple. It would explain why he short-circuited at 0100 hours and why even his distress signal was broken. He had been lucky he’d broken down by Road #17, the 2<sup>nd</sup> most travelled road in the greater <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">London</place></city> area. He’d been cleaning up some of the litter when suddenly he couldn’t move anymore. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It had certainly seemed like he’d short-circuited. Or like his software had been hacked. But CleanBot #33422 had enough Artificial Intelligence to be able to figure out causation and correlation and other c-words, and he was pretty sure circuits and hacking had nothing to do with it. He had figured out another cause all together – CleanBot #1561. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Every time he saw her lately he’d suddenly malfunction. It was confusing and embarrassing. Like just a few days ago, on 11/11/2111, they had been cleaning up Road #4 together. They’d both reached for the same piece of trash at the same time and their claws had touched. CleanBot #33422 could swear that had happened to him with other CleanBots on plenty of occasions. But with CleanBot #1561, something was different. He’d freaked and started sending out sparks and almost burned the whole road down. The RepairBots said it was just a malfunction. He’d agreed with them, but then similar things kept happening. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">When they worked together on Road #20, he’d suddenly lost control of his motion system and starting moving backward when he wanted to go forward, left when he wanted to go right, and vice versa. When they worked together by Dumpster #1 he’d suddenly been unable to grip things. Eventually the Higher-Ups were notified and they decided that he was allergic to CleanBot #1561, which was ridiculous. CleanBots weren’t ever allergic to anything. How would they do their job if they were?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But anyway, he hadn’t seen CleanBot #1561 since then – 11/13/2111. Now it was 11/16/2111 and this was the first time he’d short-circuited since. And now that he reviewed the data, he realized something – he’d seen CleanBot #1561 roll by him earlier today on Road #17, and then he short-circuited and couldn’t send a distress signal. Coincidence? His Artificial Intelligence thought not.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He could tell the Higher-Ups when they checked on him at 0800 hours tomorrow. It would be hard because Experiencing Malfunctions Because Of CleanBot #1561 was not one of his 1673984 ways to report a malfunction. But luckily #1673984 was Unknown Or Other Reason, so he could use that one.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">All right. With that figured out, CleanBot #33422 had nothing to do but wait until 0800 hours and try not to clean things or power down. As a hard-working robot, boredom wasn’t something he was really used to. He wasn’t sure if he was even programmed to feel it. But in the next few hours, he was sure to find out.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Five hours later CleanBot #33422 was finally being taken to see the Higher-Ups. He’d discovered that he definitely <i>could</i> feel boredom. He should mention that to the Higher-Ups as well. Whose great idea was it to let robots feel boredom?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">EscortBot #172 took him to the lab where the Higher-Ups worked. ScanBot #12 registered their serial numbers and credentials and then let them in. CleanBot #33422 had been in this lab often enough over the past few weeks, but it always impressed him. The ceiling was so high that even his night sensors couldn’t detect it. And the Higher-Ups were always bustling about in their long white lab coats doing important things. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">One of the Higher-Ups came up to them. Her nametag read <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ingrid</b>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Thank you, EscortBot #172,” she said. “You can go now.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">EscortBot #172 rolled away and CleanBot #33422 was left behind. Ingrid turned her attention to him and sighed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“CleanBot #33422 again, huh? What are we going to do with you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">His tone sensors told him this was a Rhetorical Question, so he didn’t respond. They proved to be right (so at least <i>that </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wasn’t malfunctioning), and Ingrid continued.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“So I heard you short-circuited again yesterday. I’m going to take a look at you and see if we can figure out what’s wrong.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">CleanBot #33422 powered up his screen and started writing. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">KNOW WHAT’S WRONG,</span></i> he typed. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh?” Ingrid said. “What is it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He thought about the best way to phrase it. Finally: <i>REASON #1673984: CLEANBOT #1561.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Right, we decided you were allergic to her. But we split you guys up, right? You shouldn’t be around her.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>YES, BUT WAS ERROR. SAW HER AGAIN AT 0100 HOURS 11/16/2111.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hmm, I see,” Ingrid hummed. “We didn’t keep you two apart well enough. We just need to split you up better.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">CleanBot #33422 felt a weird whirring, hot feeling at the thought of being split up for good with CleanBot #1561. He had to stop this misconception before it was too late. <i>NOT ALLERGIES,</i> he explained. <i>MAKES NO SENSE. CLEANBOT = NO ALLERGIES.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yes, we discussed that before, but Max and I decided that’s the only reason that makes sense. The other reason – well, it’s even more ridiculous.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">CleanBot #33422 couldn’t think of many reasons more ridiculous than allergies. CleanBots didn’t have allergies in their software. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>LOOK AT OTHER REASONS,</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> he urged. <i>THINK IT’S SOMETHING ELSE.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Okay,” Ingrid. “Why do you think you malfunction every time CleanBot #1561 is around?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>SAID ALREADY. REASON #1673984: CLEANBOT #1561. BUT NOT ALLERGIES.</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Ingrid sighed. “Alright… let’s try this. What do you think of CleanBot #1561?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">CleanBot #33422 paused. What a strange question. What did he think of her? When he was around her, he was usually embarrassed or incapacitated or both, and he didn’t ponder her in actuality much. But now he let his Artificial Intelligence take over. Eventually he typed, <i>SHE KNOWS HOW TO HANDLE HER TRASH.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Hmm. Interesting. Anything else?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>VERY SHINY AND <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>PRETTY. POWERFUL BECAUSE REASON #1673984: CLEANBOT #1561.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“So you’re saying she makes you malfunction because… she’s pretty? And good at cleaning?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">It seemed like a weird way to word things. But that was basically what he had said. CleanBot #1561 was shiny and pretty and he’d gotten distracted by that sometimes. When their claws touched and he had started sparking he had been amazed by how well she had handled the trash he’d nearly set on fire. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>THAT IS CORRECT.</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Hmm,” repeated Ingrid. “Fascinating. Maybe Max was right, as ridiculous as that would be.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">She looked around the lab at the other Higher-Ups and called out, “Hey, Max! Come over here!” One of the Higher-Ups peeled himself away from something else he was working on and approached Ingrid and CleanBot #33422. His nametag read <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Max</b>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“What is it?” Max asked. CleanBot #33422 was wondering the same thing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“This little guy here keeps on malfunctioning whenever he comes near CleanBot #1561. Remember, we had thought maybe he had allergies?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Yeah, you had thought that. I thought he might be in love.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>LOVE? WHAT IS LOVE?</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> CleanBot #33422 asked. The Higher-Ups ignored him. He searched through his database for anything about love, but all he got was Does Not Compute.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Exactly,” Ingrid continued. “I thought that was ridiculous, but when I asked CleanBot #33422 what he thought the problem was he said it was CleanBot #1561, and not because he was allergic to her, but because she’s pretty and shiny and good at cleaning.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Max whistled. “Wow. That does sound like love – what we imagined robot love would be like, anyway. But how is that possible? He’s not programmed to feel love.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>BUT I AM PROGRAMMED TO FEEL BOREDOM?</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> CleanBot #33422 questioned. Ingrid finally took notice of him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Boredom?” she frowned. “We didn’t program them to feel boredom, did we?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Max shook his head. “Everything’s pointing to his Artificial Emotion getting out of control,” he muttered. “Maybe we should take him to the Wiping Station, or destroy him altogether.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Now if that didn’t get CleanBot #33422’s attention, nothing would. Destroy him? Wipe him? No thank you!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>NO!</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> He protested. <i>ARTIFICIAL EMOTION IS FINE. DON’T NEED WIPE OR DESTROY.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Ingrid nodded. “I think he’s right,” she said. “I think his circuits are just confused. If we explain to him what’s going on he’ll stop malfunctioning.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“But we can’t have robots falling in love! He’ll never get any work done if he’d mooning after CleanBot #1561 all the time!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>STILL LIKE CLEANING. PLUS CAN CLEAN WITH CLEANBOT #1561 NOW THAT ALLERGIES REALIZED AS RIDICULOUS.</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“He’s right,” Ingrid said. “Sorry, Max, but I’m going to have to override you on this one, too.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Max muttered something that CleanBot #33422’s sensors couldn’t detect and walked away. Ingrid turned to CleanBot #33422.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>WHAT IS LOVE?</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> He asked again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">And Ingrid told him.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Ingrid took a long time to explain to him what love was. He still didn’t understand it entirely until he saw CleanBot #1561 again, picking up trash on Road #10. He’d been stunned by how beautiful she looked underneath the cloudy <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">London</place></city> sky. He’d rolled right up to her and helped her collect trash side by side. He talked to her and got along great with her and didn’t feel bored once. He understood then what love was. Love was picking up trash next to your loved one and having a great time. Love was admiring the sky because it reflected so wonderfully in your loved one’s screen. Love was nearly impossible to explain, but if you knew what it was, you’d know when you felt it. And CleanBot #33422 definitely felt love for CleanBot #1561.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">It was thanks to CleanBot #33422 (and, he supposed, just as much CleanBot #1561) that the Higher-Ups increased the list of reasons for malfunctions from 1673984 to 1673985. Reason #1673985: The Robot Found Love.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">THE END! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-75152433111280968232011-11-06T18:02:00.000-08:002015-08-08T17:49:03.683-07:00Story #40 - Live a Little<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Hey everyone!! Wow, Story #40!! I've only got twelve left and then I'll have written a full year's worth of stories! I can hardly believe it. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this story!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Title: Live a Little (suggestions welcome)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Warnings: lightly implied sexual content</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Summary: A comment from Theresa's mom makes Theresa worry that she isn't having enough fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Length: ~2,400 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. I'm not sure what the genre is.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><a name='more'></a></div><strong><u><span style="color: magenta;">Live a Little</span></u></strong><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You know it’s a weird world when your own mom accuses you of not having enough fun. I’ve just gotten off the phone with my mom, and the conversation went pretty much like this:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>*ring*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Me: “Hello?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: “Theresa?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: “Oh, hi, Mom. What’s up?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: “Just checking on you. I worry about you, honey.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: “Uh, I’m fine, thanks.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: “Mrs. Merriweather is having a little get-together tomorrow evening. It’s not just for old people like me – Mark’s friend Gary is going, and I think Sharon is too. You should come.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: *sigh* “Sorry, Mom, I can’t. I’ve got a twenty page essay on the DREAM Act due next week, and I need to start working on it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: “C’mon, honey, you need to live a little. It’s not due until next week. I haven’t seen you for ages.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: “Well, I’ve just been really busy right now. With Mark unemployed at the moment, it’s up to me to support us, and –”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: “I know, I know, but you never seem to have fun anymore. You need to learn to put your worries aside and just… just have fun for a bit. The party will be fun.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: “You realize how weird it is for a mother to be trying to convince their child to slack off, right?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: *laughs* “True, but when have I ever been normal?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*pause*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: “I’m sorry, Mom, I don’t think I’m going. And I’ve got to hang up – I’ve already spent too much time talking.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: “Fine… but do change your mind, sweetheart. I hate to think of you cooped up all week working on that essay.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: “I’ll think about it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: “That’s all I ask.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me: “Bye.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom: “Bye!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*click*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After that I went back to researching for my paper. But now while the page is taking forever to load I’m thinking about it. And I really so lame that my own mom thinks I should be having more fun and worrying less? That my mom is having more fun than me?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, why not? She’s in the prime of her life, barely 45, and her 23-year-old daughter is already out of the house and living with a guy, completely independent. Well, it would be nice of Mom would give us a little cash, but she’s already paying for most of law school.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Which, speaking of, I should get back to. The page is loaded. Thank God for Wikipedia. I scroll down to read some of the information and begin taking notes, but I can’t help but think of what Mom said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Live a little.</span></i></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark gets home at six after another day job-hunting. I look up from my computer (I’ve gotten three pages written) as he hangs his coat up. I can tell from his slumped shoulders that it didn’t go well. Still, I get up to kiss him hello and ask, “Any luck?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He shakes his head. “No,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, baby. The job market’s just such a mess right now.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Shh, I know,” I whisper, threading my fingers through his short hair. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I just feel awful that you’re having to work on top of law school so we can keep this apartment. I should be helping you. You’re working so hard.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, God, please don’t tell me I’m no fun too,” I groan, sinking down onto the sofa in our living room. Mark joins me after a second, face twisted in confusion.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What are you talking about?” he asks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I shrug. “Nothing really. I got a call from my mom earlier today. You know how she can take it out of me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark nods but says nothing. He’s waiting for me to elaborate, I guess. I thought I didn’t want to, but Mark’s gentle silence opens the floodgates like nothing else could have.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“She said she was worried about me. That I need to ‘live a little,’ that I never have fun anymore. My own <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mom</i> is worried about my social life. How pathetic is that? She wants me to go to this party tomorrow, but I can’t. I have a huge paper due – you know, the DREAM Act one. I can’t go, but that doesn’t make me boring or lame, does it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, Theresa, of course not,” Mark soothes, drawing me into his arms. I go willingly, suddenly fighting the urge to cry. Mark continues, “You have a lot on your plate right now. So what if you don’t have time to go to some parties? When you graduate from law school, we’re going to have a party a billion times better than the one tomorrow night.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I smile. “I doubt it’ll be a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">billion</i> times better.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, it will be,” Mark says solemnly. “You’ll see.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, that’s if I graduate,” I mutter. “The way things are going, we’ll probably be throwing a dropped-out-of-law-school party instead.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, we won’t. Don’t talk like that. You’re always telling me to be positive about looking for a job – well, you be positive about law school. And together we’ll shine so bright that it won’t matter that our landlord threatened to cut off our power.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I laugh. “You’re so cheesy.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Only way I know how.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe I would be more fun if I made stupid jokes like Mark. I don’t really joke much, do I? Well, time to change.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks, Mark,” I say warmly. “Your advice really hit the spot. Now I know not to use pot!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark stares at me. “I wasn’t talking about pot at all,” he says.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Um, I know that,” I say. “Nevermind.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Note to self: rhyming does not a joke make.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is the night of the party, and I’m working on my essay. I just got back from my day job a few hours ago, grabbed a snack and started word on what I’ve titled in my mind The Vampire Essay. “Vampire” as in it’s sucking all of the fun out of me. Which I’m totally not worrying about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I should listen to what Mark said. He was such a sweetheart about everything. And not to mention right and totally logical.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Feelings aren’t logical, though. That’s one of the first things you learn in life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I glance at the clock. It’s 8:30. The party started at 8:00. I definitely have enough time to get ready and show up fashionably late. If I only stayed a few hours, then I’d still have time to work on my essay. But it’s not fun to show up to a party and not commit, right? If I go in planning to leave early because of my essay, that’s almost worse than not going at all because of it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark isn’t back yet. Hopefully that means the job hunt is going well and he’s in a really late interview or something, but I doubt it. Knowing Mark, he’s probably blowing off steam at a bar (hopefully by playing pool and watching sports and drinking beer and not by getting into bar fights). He likes to pretend that the job search isn’t getting him down and that he can deal with everything without any vices, but he’s only human.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe that’s what my problem is. I’ve been trying to be superhuman with my job and law school and everything, when really I should be blowing everything off and partying like a real person. Maybe that’s what Mom was trying to tell me?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What does she know, though? Her tendency to “party like a real person” is what got her pregnant with me. Which I guess I should be grateful about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I glance at the clock again. 8:47. Totally still time. I only think about it for a few more seconds before saving my work and turning off my computer. I need some time for fun before I forget what it is entirely. I’m going to the party.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">An hour later and I’m walking up the driveway to Mrs. Merriweather’s house. I’d forgotten how hard it is to walk in high heels. I clutch my purse tightly, trying not to teeter too noticeably. Finally I get up to the door and ring the doorbell. A few seconds later, the door swings open to reveal Mom.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Theresa!” she beams. “You came!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She’s wearing a red dress that woman over forty really should not wear. Her makeup is tastefully done, but I can’t help but feel like she’s trying to look younger than she is. Mom has always been like this – trying to reclaim the youth she never had or something like that. Maybe she’s so worried about me because she doesn’t want me to turn out like her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I lean in to give Mom a careful hug. “You convinced me,” I say ruefully. “When a daughter’s having less fun than her mother, you know something needs to be fixed.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom laughs her tinkling laugh. “I’m glad you could make it. Is Mark coming?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Uh, no, he’s still out.” I feel kind of bad leaving him to an empty house. But who knows how late he’ll be out?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well, come on in,” Mom says, ushering me inside. She points vaguely towards the buffet table and says, “I think Gary’s over there somewhere. See you around, sweetie!” She gives me a kiss on the cheek and hustles out. I notice that she’s wearing high heels too, but seems to walk much more gracefully in them than I do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wander over to the buffet but don’t see anyone that looks like Gary. There are a few 40-somethings and 30-somethings, but no one my age. I wonder just how truthful Mom was about this party. They’ve got music playing, though, and it’s contemporary pop, so that gives me some hope.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">About an hour later I’m ready to leave. It’s not that the party sucks, exactly – it’s that I really have forgotten to have fun. As the minutes go by, more people my age have been trickling in. Some of them I know, some of them I don’t. People are milling about, some talking and others dancing, but I’ve spent most of my time either by the buffet table or a chair. My feet are killing me. One guy asked me to dance and I had to tell him about Mark. After that men have pretty much been avoiding me, while women that I know come up to talk with me but we only make extremely boring small talk. Have parties always been this lame or have I really just forgotten how to have a good time?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually I run into Mom again. “Darling!” she trills. “How are you doing?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I think I’m going to leave soon,” I say. “It’s getting late.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mom frowns. “It’s only eleven.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Exactly, eleven. I still need to work on that essay.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I never thought I would actually be grateful to the Vampire Essay, but if it helps me get out of this party, then I’ll never curse it again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“If you say so,” Mom says with a long-suffering sigh. “I’m glad you could get you for an hour, at least.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I give her a hug and say my goodbyes, then I hobble back to my car. On the drive home, I ponder the party. I got myself all psyched to have a good time tonight and to put off my essay, and I didn’t even enjoy the party. I feel like such a failure.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The light is on when I get home. I let myself into the apartment to find Mark sitting on the couch watching TV. He’s got a five-o-clock shadow on his face and bags underneath his eyes. For the first time I truly realize how hard he’s had it lately, too. Ever since he got laid off he’s been spending all his time searching for other jobs. Well, not all his time – somehow he finds time to go to bars and watch TV.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He glances up when I come in and mutes the TV. His eyes are clear and curious. “How’d the party go?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Good, he got my message. I make my way over to the couch to join him, tossing off my shoes as I go. I collapse beside him. “It was awful,” I say. “I think I’ve forgotten how to have fun.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Or maybe the party was just really lame.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Maybe,” I say with a tired laugh. “It was stupid. I shouldn’t have gone. It’s like you said – we’re going to have way more awesome parties when I graduate.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark sighs. “I’m gonna say something, and I want you to really listen to me, okay? Not just pretend to be comforted like you did yesterday.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I wasn’t pretending, I just overthought –”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Just listen, okay?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Okay.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark takes a deep breath and begins. “Therese, I don’t love you because you’re a party girl or because you’re always the life of the party. I love you because you’re the most dedicated, hard-working person I know. Some people can get away with partying all the time. It works for them. But can you really see yourself acting like your mom every day? If you had acted more like her, you would’ve been pregnant already! Instead you’re doing great in law school and we’re waiting on having a kid. And that’s how it should be, for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us</i>. Maybe not for someone else.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark’s words wrap around me like a blanket. I snuggle up next to him and smile. “How do you always make so much sense?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Feelings aren’t logical. That’s probably why Mark’s words didn’t work on me the first time. But now, after trying and failing to be fun and “live a little,” and realizing that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Mark’s words help solidify that impression.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Still,” I say after a moment. “I got all ready to blow off my essay tonight. And I guess I did, but… well, I didn’t have fun.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mark turns to me and waggles his eyebrows in a mock-seductive manner. “I can think of something we can do that will be fun.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“My feet hurt too much,” I groan. “So only if you don’t care if I don’t move at all.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I don’t care,” Mark grins.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hit him with a pillow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We end up watching TV together for a while, and then we do wind up in the bedroom. And for once, the Vampire Essay doesn’t even cross my mind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, except for just now.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The End! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-4543807151940450622011-10-30T18:33:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.632-07:00Story #39 - Uncle Edgar’s Burial (and How it Went Wrong)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">This week, for Halloween, I wrote a silly story about zombies. ;) I hope you enjoy!!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Title: Uncle Edgar's Burial (and How it Went Wrong)<br />
Warnings: zombies</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Summary: Uncle Edgar's burial goes drastically wrong.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Length: ~1,900 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, past tense. Genre is closest to parody, probably.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><u>Uncle Edgar’s Burial (and How it Went Wrong)</u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a gray, rainy, wintery day. The birds weren’t singing and the sun wasn’t shining. It was almost ridiculously in tune with the somber mood of the funeral service. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> almost felt like the weather was too perfect and matchy-matchy. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The world is just mourning Uncle Edgar with us,” <city w:st="on">Alice</city>’s Aunt Mabel had said when <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> had expressed her unease. “The sun can’t shine without Edgar.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> didn’t exactly agree. It was stupid, but she’d feel a lot better if the sun would shine for a second or if one bird started singing. It was nice to think of the world mourning Uncle Edgar along with them, but <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> was getting more of a “calm before the storm” feeling from the dismal day. The world wasn’t mourning Uncle Edgar. It was preparing for something.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> muttered to her friend Denise as they milled about before the service. To her surprise and relief, Denise nodded.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I agree,” she said. “It’s too quiet here. The atmosphere is just… creepy. Then again, that could be because we’re in a cemetery.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Good point,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> conceded. “Still… the sooner this is over, the better.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> felt a bit guilty saying such a thing about her uncle’s funeral. He deserved a decent burial. But she didn’t want to stay one second after that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Fifteen minutes later, the service started. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> did her best to sit up straight and pay attention. There weren’t too many people at the burial, but most of the people there had tissues or handkerchiefs that they were sobbing into. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> was glad of the slight drizzle that had any tears that may or may not be on her face.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">To her right, Denise was sniffling. Denise had known Uncle Edgar very well – she had called him “Uncle Edgar” too. It was only natural, because Denise was practically part of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city>’s family, in everything but last name.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">They were maybe halfway through the service. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> could still feel the dread creeping through her and eating up her insides. She couldn’t explain it, but something was definitely wrong with this day. <placename w:st="on">St. John’s</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</placetype> stunk of wet soil and worse things that <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> didn’t want to think about. And she kept on hearing weird sounds from the graves, like they were sinking into the ground, or maybe like something was trying to come out of them. Which was ridiculous, of course, but it still creeped <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">When it kept to the choice of feeling safe and honoring her poor old Uncle Edgar, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> would choose feeling safe. Too bad he had wanted to be buried and not cremated. She’d feel better (and warmer) inside next to a fire.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Near the end of the service, it had gotten to the point where all <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> could hear were the weird grave-sucking/climbing noises. She glanced around, trying to gage what the noises were and if anyone else noticed them. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Most of the people were too busy wiping their eyes to hear any noises. But Denise was looking around too, her eyes narrowed. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> leaned toward her and whispered, “Do you hear that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Denise nodded tersely. “Yeah. And if that’s what I think it is, we better get out of here fast.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> felt the dread that had been running through her veins freeze. It was getting hard to breathe. <i>Calm down,</i> she scolded herself. <i>You’re probably overreacting.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What do you think it is?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Denise bit her lip. “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The noises were so loud now that everyone was taking notice. The priest had stopped talking and was looking around. The mourners had also taken notice. There was definitely something going on, and <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> needed to know what it was.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You can tell me,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Denise took an agonizingly long time to reply. Eventually, she said, “I think what we’re hearing are the classic sounds of a… well, a zombie outbreak.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> was glad she wasn’t eating anything at that moment, because if she had been, she definitely would’ve choked on it. “I’m sorry,” she said, “Did I hear you correctly? A <i>zombie outbreak</i>?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city>’s friend sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> opened her mouth to – she didn’t know – placate Denise? Laugh at her? Tell her to lie down? – but the loudest squelching noise yet quickly brought her attention to where the priest was. It sounded like it had come from Uncle Edgar’s new grave, of all places…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The priest slowly moved away. Everyone was staring, frozen, in the direction of Uncle Edgar’s grave. The sound was definitely coming from there. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> watched, mesmerized, as the earth on top of Uncle Edgar’s grave started moving. It was almost as if someone underneath was pushing it forward…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>A zombie outbreak.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">No way.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Denise was the one to break the spell. Just as a hand popped through the soil and waved around, a hand that looked exactly like Uncle Edgar’s (and whose else would it be, anyway? They had to be logical here), Denise stood up and faced everyone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Everyone RUN!” she screamed. “It’s a zombie invasion!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Various people screamed. The priest began praying while helping to usher some of the older folk out of the cemetery. People scattered and left one by one. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> was still in her seat, busy thinking about whether a zombie invasion was better or worse than a zombie outbreak. Denise was still there, getting people to leave, as was <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Alice</city></place>’s Aunt Mabel. Maybe she wanted to see her husband come back to life.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It was the sight of a different hand poking through a different grave that finally got <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Alice</city></place> to stand up. This hand was almost creepier than Edgar’s, because it was only a skeleton. It must’ve been from someone who had been dead much longer than Edgar. <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Alice</city></place> didn’t want to think about the hands of people who were in-between Edgar’s state of decay and Unknown-Skeleton’s.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> tore her gaze away from Unknown-Skeleton and saw that Uncle Edgar was almost out of his grave entirely. He’d gotten both arms out, and his head, and most of his torso. Most of him looked like the Uncle Edgar Alice had known, but his hairstyle seemed to have gotten frizzier (from the soil or reanimation, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> wasn’t sure) and his eyes were devoid of intelligence. Also, he kept on mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “brains”. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“That can’t be true,” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> muttered to herself. “Zombies don’t actually eat brains, do they? That’s ridiculous.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Honey, I think there’s a lot more ridiculous things to focus on,” Aunt Mabel said. She was to the left of <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city>, keeping a careful distance from her zombie husband. She had about as much color in her face as Uncle Edgar did.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Denise came to the rescue. Her black hair had fallen out of its tight bun and she was panting. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> was mildly surprised to see that she was carrying some sort of gun – sort of like a pistol, but somehow different. It could’ve just been <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city>’s stunned mind trying to make sense of things, but it seemed like the gun said “Zombie Destroyer” on it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Come on, Aunt Mabel, you’ve got to go,” Denise said. “Uncle Edgar isn’t going to recognize you when he gets out of there – he’s just going to want to eat you. And that’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not want you want, believe me. So c’mon, let’s go.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Without further ado, she ushered Aunt Mabel out of the cemetery. Now it was only <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Alice</city></place>, Uncle Edgar, and a bunch of nameless zombies in various states of decay.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on">Alice</city> didn’t know how many people were buried in <place w:st="on"><placename w:st="on">St. John’s</placename> <placetype w:st="on">Cemetery</placetype></place>. But it was probably at least a hundred. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> wasn’t sure if all of the corpses were turning into zombies, but she wasn’t exactly keen on sticking around to find out. If only she could get her legs to work.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Uncle Edgar was out of his grave by now. He stood up to his full height, which was intimidating even though for some reason he was standing a bit hunched. He swayed back and forth, not even bothering to clean the dirt off his nice clothes. Well, Uncle Edgar had always been a bit of a slob.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Brrrrains,” Uncle Edgar mumbled. His eyes rolled around in his head until they focused on Alice, who was directly in front of him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Now would be a really good time to start running,</i> <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> told herself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Brrrrrrrrrrains,” her uncle moaned.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Brrrrrains,” groaned another zombie nearby.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Brrrrrrains,” yodeled a third.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> looked around slowly. She was surrounded by zombies. And all of them were heading toward her. They shambled along, arms outstretched, reaching towards her. Now, even if she could unfreeze her legs, she’d be doomed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“My brains aren’t even that good!” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> squeaked. “I got a D on my last biology test!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The zombies just continued forward. They clearly didn’t care. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> felt herself begin to shake. She couldn’t die here! Not like this! Would she turn into a zombie? This was all so unreal! And where was Denise when you needed her?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Just in time, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> heard a gunshot. She flinched, ducking instinctively to the ground – well, her legs collapsed under her – but it hit the skeleton-zombie on her right. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> covered her ears as more gunshots rang out. Zombies fell down one by one, and didn’t get up again. Maybe they could only come back to “life” (because what life was being a zombie, really) once. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Eventually, the space around <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> cleared enough so that she could see her savior. It was Denise, looking tough and composed with her zombie-killing pistol-thing and now some sort of clothing that looked like armor. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> breathed a sigh of relief. Until she saw Denise lift her pistol once again, aiming at Uncle Edgar, the only remaining zombie around <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No!” <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> yelled, jumping up, finally getting her legs to cooperate. “Don’t shoot him!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Denise glanced at <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> with sympathetic eyes. “I have to,” she said. “He’s not Uncle Edgar anymore.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> glanced at Uncle Edgar. He was chewing on his own fingers, his eyes rolling about, seeming frightened off by the gunshots. Either that or he couldn’t figure out how to get over the zombie corpses in front of him to get to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> sighed. “I know,” she admitted. “It’s just…”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I understand,” Denise said. “You might want to close your eyes for this.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Denise raised her pistol-thing again. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> closed her eyes and covered her ears. After she heard the muffled shot, she slowly opened her eyes. Uncle Edgar was lying in front of her, looking similar to how he’d looked before his burial. Except for the weird new hairstyle. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> sank to the ground as she looked around her. There were maybe seven dead zombies (corpses?) around her. The weird noises had stopped. Everyone was gone. It was just her and Denise and the dead.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Alice</city></place> couldn’t believe what had just happened. She knew she’d have to come to terms with all of this and think about it for a time later. But right now, <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Alice</place></city> had only one question. She looked up at Denise and asked, “Do we have to have a second burial for Uncle Edgar now?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The End! </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-49986048563977979812011-10-23T20:21:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.634-07:00Story #38 - Breaking It OffHi everyone! This week's story deals with a heavy topic - an abusive relationship. It's all in the past, and nothing is too graphic, but I just thought I'd warn you. It's more about acceptance than anything else. I'd love to hear your thoughts!<br />
<br />
Title: Breaking It Off<br />
Warnings: past abusive relationship, some language<br />
Summary: Julia needs to see Sean one more time to know that she made the right choice.<br />
Length: ~1,600 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, present tense. Genre is closest to drama.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><strong><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #a64d79;">Breaking It Off</span></u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m flying to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Cleveland</place></city> tomorrow,” Julia says pseudo-casually over tea with Sonya. She then braces herself for her friend’s reaction.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What?” Sonya nearly shouts. “You can’t be serious! I thought we agreed that you would never see him again!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Relax. I’m not going to get back with him or anything.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sonya just shakes her head, and Julia can tell that she doesn’t understand. “But why are you going at all? I’m assuming you’re going to visit him?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Julia nods.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sonya groans. “You’re going to get back with him. God, Julia, it took you so long to break free of Sean, why would you –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“That’s just it, though,” Julia interrupts. “I haven’t broken free of him yet, not really. I need to know, really know, that I made the right choice. And to do that – well, I need to see him again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sonya puts her head in her hands and doesn’t say anything.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m not going to get back together with Sean. I’m going to tell him that it’s over between us. And then I’ll fly back. I’ll be back by tomorrow, I promise.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sonya lifts her head up from her hands, and Julia is startled to see tears in her eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Just be careful,” her friend whispers. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Julia leans over to give Sonya a hug. “I’ll be careful,” she promises.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">On the flight back to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Cleveland</place></city>, Julia thinks about how all of this began. <i>This</i> as in the general this – <i>this</i> as in how she and Sean began.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sean had been one of the sweetest boyfriends that Julia had ever known. He’d written poems for her, sung songs to her, baked cakes for her. She knew he had really loved her. But he’d always had a bit of a mean streak, a bit of a violent streak. One time he got so upset at a poker game that he punched the table. Just the table, but still her friends (mostly Sonya) advised her to break it off with Sean.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You don’t want to be with a guy like that,” Sonya had said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It’s fine,” Julia had reassured her. “We love each other.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Soon enough that became Julia’s constant refrain. When they let it slip that Sean thought it was funny to call Julia a whore – “It’s fine. We love each other.” When Sean hit Julia for the first time – “It’s fine. We love each other.” When Sean stopped writing her poems and singing her songs and baking her cakes and demanded that she pander to him instead – “It’s fine. We love each other.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And they really did love each other. That was what kept Julia sane throughout it all, what helped her hold on. There were time when Sean was still the sweet boyfriend that she used to know, and even when she could see the demon rise up beneath his soft blue eyes, she knew that boyfriend was still in there, somewhere.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Actually, Julia isn’t sure now if her faith in their love is what saved her or nearly killed her. It kept her sane, but it also kept her with Sean for way too long.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You can’t be with a guy you hits you!” Sonya had screamed when she found out. Julia had played it off – <i>it’s fine, he didn’t mean it, he apologized</i> – but of course she knew the truth in Sonya’s words. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She had tried to break it off with Sean that night, but he’d been so kind and loving and sincere. He had loved her, and she had loved him, and it seemed like any pain between them could never last, like their love could conquer it all.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course it couldn’t. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It had been so hard to break it off with Sean. Julia knows why Sonya is so worried about this – she doesn’t have the best track record with telling Sean no. But things are different now – Julia is stronger and more confident.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She’ll be okay. She promised Sonya.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When the plane lands, Julia listens to the voicemail on her phone for possibly the twentieth time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Julie,”</i> Sean says, and his voice is so familiar and so broken. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“It’s Sean. Listen, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be calling you like this – but I have to talk to you. I’ve changed. I’m better now, and… I miss you. Call me, okay?” </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This voicemail is the first of many. Julia hadn’t ever called him back. Instead, she’d gone for a more drastic option – to visit him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Part of it is to see if he really has changed. She knows from experience that Sean is good at pretending to be better. She wants to see.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But most of it is to let him know that it’s over between them, completely and utterly. </div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Less than half an hour later, Julia stands in front of the decrepit door to Sean’s house. She knocks on it three times, careful not to break it down. Then she fidgets with her necklace as she waits for him to answer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Just a minute!” Someone (Sean) calls, and she hears footsteps walking to the door. A shiver runs up her spine at his familiar voice. That voice had called her the sweetest things and the worst things.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The door opens, and Sean is standing there. He looks good – beard trimmed, hair clean, eyes clear. His eyes widen as he sees Julia standing in front of him. “Julie?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She offers him a tiny smile and a small wave. “Hi.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sean stands dumbfounded for a moment, and then some sense of manners seems to come back to him. He opens the door a bit wider, showing more of the inside of his house. Julia glances inside, searching for beer bottles, smashed glass, some of the signs that had been so apparent when they’d lived together. She sees nothing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Here, come on in,” Sean says, stepping back a bit. But Julia shakes her head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No, that’s alright. I’ve got something to say and I’m going to say it, and then I’m going to leave.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Okay.” Sean looks a bit confused, but he steps outside and closes the door, leaning back against it and crossing his arms. “Go ahead.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Julia hesitates. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here alone. Sonya would’ve been willing to go with her, and she could’ve offered some protection. But Sean is on probation. There are probably security watching them right now. She’s safe. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I got your calls,” she begins. “All seventeen of them.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sean winces. “I’m sorry about those,” he says. “I was stupid and lonely and depressed, and I missed you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“And drunk,” she adds. “You were drunk.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No, Julie!” His blue eyes look so genuine. “I don’t drink anymore. I don’t do a lot of things anymore. Listen, I’m so, so, so sorry about what I did to you. You deserve better –”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah,” Julia says coldly. “I do.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m better now,” Sean continues. “I can be better. You make me want to be a better person.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Julia shakes her head. “You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i> a better person, Sean. You were the nicest boyfriend I ever had, for a while. But then, something changed. And I haven’t gotten you back since then.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sean latches onto her first words, the hope in his eyes almost painful. “I can be that person again, Julie. I just got messed up, started thinking things – hell, I don’t know what I was thinking, I just got so <i>angry</i> sometimes. But I can be that person again – I can write you poems again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No, Sean, you can’t. And don’t call me Julie – you lost the right to call me that when you landed me in the hospital with a broken arm. Actually, you lost the right to call me that when you first hit me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sean just stares at her, and he looks so broken and sad. Julia can’t help but feel that he really is sorry for all of this.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I love you,” Sean says at last, a last-ditch attempt. “Isn’t that enough?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It should be,” Julia whispers. “But it’s not.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">No one says anything for a while. Julia stares at her feet, the painted-red toenails gleaming through her sandals. Sean closes his eyes and leans his head back against the fragile door.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Julia wonders if what they have – had – really is love. Love isn’t hurting people, calling names, and making each other miserable. She wonders if either of them have ever really known love.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I’m sorry, Sean,” Julia finally says. He opens his eyes to meet hers, and behind the despair in his eyes, she thinks she sees a glimpse of the darkness that he sometimes tried so hard to hide. The darkness that had destroyed them. “We can’t be together. We’re bad for each other.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sean nods. “I think I knew that. I just missed you. Maybe… can we still be friends?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Julia bites her lip. “No, Sean. What we need is a clean break.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sonya would argue that what they had was a clean break and that Julia was unnecessarily bringing it up again by visiting Sean. But she had never completely understood. Julia needs this confrontation. It’s one thing waking up in the hospital and being told that Sean would never hurt her again. It’s another thing to make sure of it herself.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I should go,” Julia states.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Julia looks at her ex-boyfriend. He had written poems for her and beat her, insulted her and cared for her. Was what they had love? Or just two peoples’ need for a connection?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Bye, Sean,” she says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sean looks at her with his soft-demon eyes. “Bye.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">As she walks away from his run-down house, Julia decides once and for all – whether or not they loved each other, she had made the right choice.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Now she could get on with her life.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The End! </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-28078817917450170902011-10-16T17:09:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.613-07:00Story #37 - The SAT: > or < Friendship?Hi! This week's story is a friendship drama about the SAT. I hope you enjoy it! :)<br />
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Title: SAT: > or < Friendship?<br />
Warnings: a few swear words, questionable morals<br />
Summary: Cass has to do well on the SAT.<br />
Length: ~2,800 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, present tense. Genre is drama.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><u><span style="color: black;">The SAT: > or < Friendship?</span></u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So, you’ve got a big day tomorrow,” her dad says, carefully and neatly picking up his rice with his chopsticks. When he is done chewing, he looks at Cass, like he expects her to respond. She’s not sure what he wants her to say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” she says eventually. She looks down at her own plate. Her rice and chicken are practically untouched. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Unfortunately, her dad notices. “You should eat,” he says sternly. “I know they say that eating a good breakfast is the important before taking the SAT. I’m sure that applies to dinner as well.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right,” Cass says. She glances out of the corner of her eye at her mom, who’s been pretty quiet so far. Sometimes she’ll cut in and tell her dad to lay off on her a little, but it seems like tonight that isn’t going to happen. Cass’s suspicions are proven correct when her mom looks up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your father’s right,” her traitorous mom says. “You should make sure you have proper nutrition anyways, but especially the night before your big test.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.” Cass stifles a sigh and picks up her chopsticks. At least one of the upsides of being at the point of her life where she’s taking the SAT is that soon enough she won’t have to listen to her parents anymore. Or at least they won’t know if she’s not listening.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you ready for this test, Cassandra?” her dad asks. He’s looking at her intently, and as so often happens with him, Cass can feel his expectations and goals for her like a smothering blanket weighing her down. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of course I am, Dad,” Cass says, sitting up straighter and trying to look confident. “You know I am. I went to all those classes. I read all of those books. I’ve taken like twenty practice tests.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t exaggerate, Cassandra,” her mom scolds. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not.” And she isn’t, really – she’s probably underestimating the exact number.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Nevertheless,” her dad continues doggedly, “make sure you’re as prepared as you can be. Study a little bit before you go to sleep – don’t do a practice test or anything, but maybe review some of the strategies for writing the essay or analyzing the reading section.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Okay, Dad,” Cass replies. She can’t help but notice how robotic her voice sounds. But she can’t help it. She’s been practically living the SAT for months now. She can’t put any enthusiasm in her voice.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She knows she’ll do what her dad says, though. Because she needs to get a good score. For herself, yes, of course. But mostly for her parents. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Make us proud,” her dad says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>No pressure</i>, Cass thinks. “I will,” she says.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">When she gets into her room, she closes the door and calls Sophie. She needs to vent to someone, and Sophie’s usually pretty good at listening to her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hello?” Sophie answers the phone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hey,” Cass says. “It’s me.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Oh, hey, Cass! What’s up?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass sighs. “Nothing much. I’m supposed to be studying for the SAT.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie huffs a laugh. “I hear ya. I’ve hardly studied. I’m gonna be <i>so</i> screwed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“No you’re not. You’re super smart. I bet you’ll still score like 200 points higher than me even though I’ve studied and you haven’t.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Ha. I wish.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass can’t help but wish for Sophie to score lower than her. She doesn’t want to hear the refrain from her dad – <i>Why can’t you be more like Sophie?</i> He had stopped saying that recently, because she’d been getting better grades and studying hard. She doesn’t want their SAT scores to ruin that. Maybe she just wouldn’t tell him what Sophie got on her SAT – but Sophie’s mom was sure to tell Cass’s mom. Parents. Which brought her back to the original reason she’d called Sophie…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“My dad’s been harping on me about getting a good score again. I hate being the future of the Chang family. It really takes it out of me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie hums in sympathy, but Cass knows that she doesn’t really understand. Her parents aren’t nearly as strict as Sophie’s. And besides, she’s probably never really let them down before.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You’ll do great,” Sophie says. “And if your parents aren’t happy with your score, screw them. This is about you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I know. But I want to be happy with my score, too.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“If you’ve studied as much as you say you have, then you will be.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass wants to believe Sophie, but she can’t. Yes, she’s studied a <i>lot</i>, but some things still escape her. She can’t seem to answer properly in the Critical Reading section no matter how much she studies.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I should probably go,” Cass says. “I just wanted to complain to you a bit, but now I probably should study.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Alright,” Sophie says. “I guess I should too. Have a good night, and I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Don’t remind me,” Cass says, but good-naturedly. She doesn’t mind getting up early. There’s something so beautiful and peaceful about the morning, with the sun low in the sky and the birds singing in the trees. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Bye,” Sophie says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Bye.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass hangs up the phone and then turns to her Princeton Review SAT book. She hefts it onto her desk and opens it to “Tips for the Critical Reading Section.” She begins to review.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She needs to do well on this. She needs to do better than Sophie.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">In the morning, Cass eats a hearty breakfast – two bowls of Life cereal with lots of milk. Her dad is already at work, but her mom drops her off. She gives Cass a kiss on the cheek before letting her out of the car.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Good luck,” she says. “Make us proud.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass just nods and nearly sprints into Franklin High. It’s not her own high school, so she wants to have enough time to find wherever she’s supposed to be. Luckily, they’ve made it pretty easy for everyone. There are signs pointing where to go. Cass follows them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She makes sure she has her student ID, admission ticket, and calculator. She’s good. She’s also gone over this probably fifteen times, but it helps keep the nerves away. God, she’s <i>so</i> nervous. What if she freezes when the test starts? What if she does everything wrong?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Well, she’s done the first thing right, at least. Cass follows the signs until she reaches Room 17 – from Bulligan to <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Davis</place></city>. This should be her room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sure enough, she walks in, says “Cassandra Chang,” gets her name marked off the list, and she’s good to go. She looks around and finds that Sophie’s in the same room. Sophie waves her over, and Cass takes the seat next to her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hey,” Sophie says with a smile. She doesn’t look nervous at all. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Hi,” Cass replies. “God, I’m so nervous. I can’t believe today is the day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Don’t worry, you’ll do great,” Sophie says. “And remember, you can always retake it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Again, Sophie doesn’t understand. The point is not having to retake it. And not just because it would be a pain, but because Cass needs to be good enough the first time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah,” Cass says. “That’s true, but I’d rather not retake it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">A few minutes later, the proctor calls everyone to order and begins reading the directions. Cass can hardly hold the pencil because her palms are sweating so much. This is ridiculous.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The proctor tells them to begin. The first test is the essay. The prompt isn’t too bad – something about whether honor is an individual or societal thing. Cass goes for both. She manages to get everything down and write some good examples, and she’s feeling pretty confident.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Next is math, which is no problem. But after that comes the critical reading. The very first vocabulary question stumps her, which is never a good sign. The easy problems are supposed to come first.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass looks up at the clock, and in doing so glances at Sophie. She’s on the critical reading section too, and doing a lot better by the looks of it. Cass looks at bit closer, squinting her eyes, and realizes that she can see what question Sophie is doing. It’s the same question as Cass. They must have the same version! That was unusual.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass turns back to her own test booklet and tries to continue working, but she doesn’t understand any of the questions. She can’t even focus on reading the terribly boring passages. Sophie seems to taunt her, hardly even pausing before filling in answers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie’s smart. She’s probably getting everything right. Cass isn’t, but she can see Sophie’s answers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Would it really be so wrong if she were to… well, copy Sophie’s answers?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass tries to catch Sophie’s eye to signal to her, so she can – who knows? ask her permission to copy or something? – but Sophie is focused on her test.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass bites her pencil as she considers. She knows cheating is wrong. But she also knows that she isn’t going to do well on the SAT without cheating. And what matters more, in the long run? What will get her farther in life?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie wouldn’t mind. They copy each other’s homework on the time. It’ll be okay.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Her mind made up, Cass continues with the section, quickly filling in what Sophie fills in. She can tell her during the break. It’ll be okay.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass doesn’t end up telling Sophie during the break. It just seems like a weird thing to say – “Hey, just so you know, I’ve been copying your answers for the critical reading section.” That just isn’t something that you tell someone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Besides, it’s not like she’s copying everything. She wrote her own essay, she does all the math questions herself, and the writing section. She even answers some of the critical reading question that she’s sure she gets (and yeah, she checks to see if Sophie wrote the same thing. It’s just checking her answers, though, <i>that</i> part isn’t cheating). </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass can’t help but have a really good feeling about this. She’s acing every section. Her parents will be so proud – and she’ll be proud, too. Still, thank God for sitting next to Sophie! Cass isn’t sure what she would’ve done with her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Near the end of the test, Cass and Sophie are working on a critical reading section (the last one, thank God). Cass looks over to see what Sophie’s filled out for question number nine and sees Sophie staring straight at her. Cass smiles, but Sophie just furrows her brow.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Who knows what’s gotten into her! (Hopefully she doesn’t suspect anything.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">After the test Cass and Sophie are waiting for their respective rides when Sophie pulls Cass aside. Cass turns to her, curious. Sophie’s been unsually quiet, and Cass can’t help but connect it to what’s she’s termed That Look near the end of the test. Sophie doesn’t know, does she? And she wouldn’t care, would she?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Cass,” Sophie says, and she twirls a piece of hair around her finger. Cass recognizes this as Sophie being nervous, and feels a small ball of dread form in her throat. Why would Sophie feel nervous?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah?” Cass tries to sound casual.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Um, I’m not sure how to say this,” Sophie says quickly, “and please don’t get mad if I’m way off, which I probably am, but, uh – were you looking at my test when we were taking the SAT? It – it kinda seemed like you were copying down my answers.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass’s first instinct is to scoff and toss it off as Sophie imagining things. That seems to be what Sophie is leaning towards. Now it’s time to see how good of an actress she is.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Uh, no, of course I wasn’t copying your answers! Ha. Don’t be ridiculous. I would never do that. I can do critical reading just fine on my own!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass suppresses an inward wince at how her voice seems to have jumped up an octave. Okay, so maybe acting isn’t in her future.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sophie gives her a narrow-eyed look. “You did seem to look over a lot during critical reading.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um, no I didn’t.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“It’s just that, y’know, the SAT is really strict. If you cheated… I mean, I could report to CollegeBoard that someone cheated in the test center, and they’d cancel your scores.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass stares at Sophie in disbelief. Sophie bites her lip, but Cass recognizes that look in her eyes. It’s determination. She’s not going to back down.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Sophie… you’re joking, right? I mean, we copy off each other all the time. What does it matter that this test is just a bit more famous than the others?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie closes her eyes briefly. “Then you did cheat?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass crosses her arms and shrugs, staring at the ground. “Technically, yeah,” she mutters. She feels stupid now. It had made so much sense in the test room – it had seemed like the only option. It <i>had</i> been the only option, because failure was never an option.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie looks at Cass with wide eyes. “How could you, Cass? I know doing well on this test means a lot to you, but – how could you be so <i>stupid</i>?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass straightens up in an instinctively defensive posture. “It’s not stupid,” Cass says. “I’m not stupid. And I thought you were my friend. I would’ve let you copy down my answers if you wanted to.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">(Would she have? Well, that’s not important. It’s not like Sophie would ever need to.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Cass,” she says. “You need to cancel your scores, or I’m going to have to report you. I can’t allow you to cheat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“What?” Cass says loudly. People near them look around, so Cass lowers her voice, but puts as much venom as she can in it. “Who do you think you are? You don’t have any authority to tell me what to do, or to be so self-righteous. I thought you were my <i>friend</i>.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I am your friend, and that’s why I can’t let you do this! You’re sabotaging your future, Cass! You can’t go through life cheating and copying others’ skills. You need to have skills of your own.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie’s words seem to pierce Cass through the heart. Sophie thinks she has no skill of her own? Why is she even friends with Sophie? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You think you’re so much better than me,” Cass whispers. “You’ve never understood anything. I need to do well on the SAT. I need to make my parents proud, and if I have to copy down your answers to do that, fine. But you can’t make me cancel my scores. And you’re not going to report me. Because if you do – then you know what, our friendship is over.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie stares at Cass, her eyes a maelstrom of emotion. Cass sees shock, hurt, and anger – but maybe that’s just how she feels herself. Sophie probably doesn’t care.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You know what, Cass?” Sophie finally says, quietly. “Keep your damn score. I really don’t care anymore, and you obviously do. So keep it. But I want you to know – it’s not worth it. Just like… just like you’re not worth it. I’m done being your friend, Cass. Goodbye.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Sophie turns away before Cass can say anything. Cass thinks about calling her back, but what would she say? And why should she say anything, anyway? What she really should say is “good riddance.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Her mom picks her up. She asks how the test went, and Cass answers the best she can. She has a sudden desire to blurt, “I cheated!” but it passes. She doesn’t want to lose anyone else over a stupid thing like this.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Weeks pass, and Cass gets her SAT scores back. She got a 2340, way, way higher than she expected. Her parents are ecstatic. They take her out to her favorite restaurant to celebrate, and don’t even complain that it’s Mexican food. Her dad tells Cass that he’s proud of her, and her mom lets her stay up as late as she wants. Her dad doesn’t even mention Sophie (who apparently got a 2300, not that Cass would know, because they aren’t talking).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It’s weird not talking to Sophie. They see each other at school (hell, they sit next to each other in some classes), but they don’t interact. But the day that their SAT scores come, Cass finds a note in her locker. It’s written in Sophie’s large, cramped handwriting.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It reads, <span style="font-family: Amienne; font-size: 18pt;">2340? I hope it’s worth it, Cass. I hope you’re happy. You earned it - oh wait, no you didn’t</span><span style="font-family: 'Curlz MT'; font-size: 14pt;">. </span><span style="font-family: Amienne; font-size: 18pt;">- Sophie</span><span style="font-family: Amienne; font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass throws the note in the garbage. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Later that day, she goes home and stares at her SAT scores. Then she stares at a picture of her and Sophie at Sophie’s fifteenth birthday party. Their arms are around each other and they’re smiling. They both look so happy and carefree.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Cass looks at her SAT scores again. 2340.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It’s worth it. It has to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">THE END!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-66679245074393756022011-10-09T20:57:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.668-07:00Story #36 - CoffeeHi everyone! For this week's story, I wrote about an age-group I haven't really tackled before - middle-aged! ;) As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, especially on how I did with this new perspective.<br />
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Title: Coffee (suggestions welcomed)<br />
Warnings: none<br />
Summary: A middle-aged divorcee looking for romance.<br />
Length: ~2,600 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, past tense. Genre is... drama, I guess.<br />
<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #e69138; font-family: Calibri;"><strong><u>Coffee</u></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Charlie walked quickly to the elevator. He was running a bit late for work, but not late enough that someone would notice right away. He had to squash his urge to literally make a run for it (the elevator doors were closing!) because he knew that at this point actually running would be way more noticeable than being five or so minutes late because he missed the elevator. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still, he was usually so punctual! But this morning had started off badly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shelby had overslept, and he’d had to get her all ready in time and drop her off at school and he’d had no time to get ready himself. He had dropped Shelby off while wearing his pajamas. Not something he was proud of, but at least he’d managed to get her to school on time. And almost make it to work on time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie had to admit that these things were easier when he’d had Claire around helping him out. But the divorce was for the best – it just hadn’t been working out between them, as much as they’d tried. And he was grateful that he got Shelby during most of the week, even if sometimes it made him late for work.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie made it to the elevator just in time to see the doors closed. He sighed, crossed his arms, and resigned himself to waiting. Part of him wanted to take the stairs, but going up twenty flights would probably take longer than waiting for the elevator.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie glanced at his watch. It was exactly 9:00 am right now. His meeting started at 9:30, but he had wanted to get to his office in time to sort through all his notes and make sure he knew what he was doing. Plus, Arthur had said he might stop by to discuss the lawsuit. He didn’t want Arthur to come to his empty office.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally! At 9:03, the elevator doors opened again. Charlie picked up his briefcase, adjusted his spectacles, and stepped inside. He pressed the button for floor 23 and was about to press the Close Doors button when he noticed a woman half-hurrying toward the elevator in the same way he had been earlier. So instead he pressed the Open Doors button for her, until she made it to the elevator (it took her a bit longer than him, since she was wearing professional high heels which seemed difficult to walk in).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks,” she said a bit breathlessly as she walked into the elevator.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No problem,” Charlie said, finally releasing the Open Doors button. “Which floor?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“24,” the woman said. Charlie pressed it for her and they waited in silence for a bit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie glanced surreptitiously (he hoped) at his watch. 9:06. Okay. That was fine. He had about 25 minutes to prepare. He just had to hope that Arthur hadn’t stopped by his office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You got somewhere to be?” The woman asked him, raising a thin eyebrow.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, sorry,” Charlie said, not sure why he was apologizing. They were at work. Of course he had somewhere to be. “It’s just, I’ve got a meeting at 9:30, and I want to be ready for it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman nodded. “Ah,” she said, tucking some wispy strands of blonde/gray hair behind her ear. “Are you a part of the group that’s working on that Toyota lawsuit?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie nodded. He suddenly felt an absurd urge to impress this woman, who didn’t seem easily impressed. “I’m actually in charge of it,” he said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hmm,” said the woman noncommittally. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before they could say anything else, the elevator dinged. They had arrived at floor 23. Charlie wasn’t so eager anymore to get into his office, but he couldn’t stand here chatting to this mysterious woman all day, as much as he’d like to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“That’s my stop,” he said idiotically, even going so far as to do a little bow in the woman’s direction. She shook her head and smiled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Good luck in the meeting.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks,” he said, and stepped out of the elevator. He waited until the doors closed on her (giving her a little wave) before turning and heading to his office with a grin.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He hadn’t felt a connection as instant as that with anyone since Claire. Part of him was wary of that feeling, because it hadn’t worked out with Claire. But he was older now, and wiser, and surer of his feelings.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He hoped this wouldn’t be the last he saw of that woman.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few days later, Charlie was running late again. This time it had been because Shelby had spilled oatmeal all over herself (you’d think she’d have outgrown the clumsy stage by the time she was thirteen, but he guessed that she was just doomed to be a klutz for life). He’d had to try to get the stain out, and then announce it hopeless and get her some new clothes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She’d been late to school. They had had a little tussle over whether he should mark “Parent Fault” or “Student Fault” on the tardy form. In the end they had compromised and marked both.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Compromise,” he’d said. “It’s when two people both give up a little something in order to reach an agreement.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Like a divorce?” Shelby had asked, her eyes wide and innocent and yet so jaded.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Uh, not exactly,” he’d replied, but he hadn’t had time to elaborate before Shelby had to go.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Divorce was more what happened when people <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">couldn’t</i> compromise. But he supposed there were compromises in divorce. Like with custody over the children and pets. Shelby always talked about how she missed their cat, Socks, when she was with him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie stopped in his tracks, realizing that he had almost run into the elevator. He really needed to stop brooding over this divorce. It had been months now. But on the other hand, he had been with Claire for over thirteen years. So didn’t he deserve at least thirteen months to get over it? A month for a year, or something.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The elevator doors opened, and Charlie walked in and pressed the button for his floor. Then he stared at his shoes, lost in his thoughts, until someone next to him (he had hardly even registered the presence of another person in the elevator) said, “Hello?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Blearily, Charlie looked up, adjusting his spectacles to see properly. When he saw who it was, he couldn’t contain his smile. It was his mysterious woman!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hi!” Charlie said. “We meet again!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman laughed. “If it isn’t the Toyota lawsuit leader!” she said. “Running late again?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie grimaced. “Just a few minutes late,” he said. “And aren’t you too, unless your job happens to start at 9:07?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It actually starts at 9:30,” the woman said. “I’m an accountant, and we need the extra thirty minutes to make our coffee so we can calculate correctly.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, she enjoyed coffee. Okay. He could do this. He just had to make it seem casual. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Coffee, eh?” he said. His voice cracked like a teenager, not the mid-forties man that he was. So much for casual. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Coffee, eh? The lifeblood of all corporate workers. Y’know, my job doesn’t start ‘till 10:00 on Tuesdays… do you want to go out for coffee some week?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He took a deep breath when he was done. Man, that had been harder than he thought. He turned to look at the woman, who smiled at him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure,” she said. “I’d love to.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just then the elevator dinged. But Charlie had said everything he wanted to say, so he was all right. “See you around.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Wait,” the woman called as Charlie made his way out of the elevator. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s Charlie.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m Sharon.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sharon. That was a nice name. It fit her. “Nice to meet you, Sharon,” he said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She smiled, and then the elevator doors closed. Charlie walked to his office with a bounce in his step.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That night, as he tucked Shelby in to bed, Charlie announced, “Your Dad asked a lady out to coffee today.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He wasn’t sure why he was telling his daughter this. She probably wouldn’t know what to make of it. She was only thirteen. But one thing Charlie had realized in the months following the divorce was that Shelby caught on to more than he had originally thought.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Another thing was that Claire had apparently gotten all of their friends in the divorce. He hadn’t realized how many of their friends were really just Claire’s friends until he was too late. He hadn’t realized how much he had pushed away his old friends when he was trying to be with Claire. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What it really came down to was this: he really wanted to tell someone about Sharon, and Shelby was the only person around to tell.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You mean like a date?” Shelby asked, her little nose crinkling up adorably. When Charlie nodded, she said, “Ew! Dad, people over forty shouldn’t date!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Why not?” Charlie asked, mock-offended. Shelby’s antics never ceased to amuse him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dating is for teenager,” Shelby said sagely. “Like I am with Daniel.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Whoa, hold it! Who is this Daniel and why don’t I know about him?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shelby waved her hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. The point is that old people don’t date. Mom says she’s not going to date again.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, that would be because she had already found another man. But Charlie didn’t want to say that. “Don’t call me old,” he said instead. “I think thirteen is pretty old, too.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shelby smiled. “You’re silly, Dad.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“No, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you’re</i> silly.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie straightened Shelby’s covers as she squirmed. When he was done, he stood up to turn off the light.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Dad?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He turned back to face his daughter. She looked so small in her bed, but somehow so wise.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I want you to be happy,” Shelby said. “And if that means dating even though you’re over forty, well, then that’s okay.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie smiled softly. “Thanks, honey,” he said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His daughter was really something else.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next Tuesday, Charlie was working on his computer when he heard a knock on his office door. “Come in,” he said, looking up to see Sharon open the door. She was wearing a skirt and had her hair down. She looked beautiful.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hi,” he said with a smile. “What is it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well,” said Sharon, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “It’s Tuesday, so I thought maybe we could go get that cup of coffee together. But if you’re working –”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, this?” Charlie scoffed, gesturing to his computer. “It’s not anything important.” He had the urge to throw his computer against a wall or suddenly turn it off or do something else drastic to prove just how unimportant his work was compared to their coffee date, but luckily he managed to hold himself back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Great,” Sharon smiled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Just give me a few minutes,” Charlie said. Sharon nodded in understanding. Charlie turned off his computer, put his papers away, and then headed out with Sharon. A few minutes later, they were once again in the elevator together.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Just like old times, eh?” Charlie said. Sharon chuckled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Of all the places to meet,” she said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I don’t know,” Charlie ventured. “I think it’s pretty romantic.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Romantic?” Sharon looked at him, her eyebrows crinkling. Charlie didn’t know her well enough to read the expression on her face, but it didn’t seem positive. He quickly backtracked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Uh, nevermind. So, where do you get your coffee?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sharon still had that expression on her face, but she shook it off and said, “Starbucks. There’s one on the second floor. You knew that, right?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Vaguely.” He might’ve gone there with Claire once. That would be a weird coincidence.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The elevator dinged and they stepped out together. The Starbucks was directly in front of them. When they ordered, Sharon insisted on paying, even though Charlie protested. It was his date; shouldn’t he be the one to pay? But he guessed Sharon was just like that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They sat down at a table when they got their coffee. It was 9:11 am. They had less than twenty minutes. Where had the time gone?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They chatted about random things for a bit. Charlie was gearing himself up for some kind of romantic confession – nothing so forward as “I love you,” not even “I really like you.” He wasn’t sure about anything yet. But he could go for something semi-casual…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Your hair looks beautiful down,” Charlie finally confessed, accidentally cutting Sharon off mid-sentence. She raised one eyebrow, but then smiled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very sweet of you. My boyfriend always says that, but…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie didn’t hear anything more after that. He was stuck on “boyfriend.” Sharon had a boyfriend?? Who had a boyfriend at forty? Well, who was he kidding. He had wanted to have a girlfriend at forty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You have a boyfriend?” Charlie asked, probably cutting Sharon off again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">She nodded. “His name’s Evan. We’ve been together for five years now.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh…” Charlie said. “I thought…” He found himself blushing. He didn’t want to say it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sharon gasped. “You didn’t think – you asked me out for coffee? Oh, no… Listen, Charlie, you’re a great guy, and I like you a lot, but I didn’t know – I mean, I don’t –”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s okay,” Charlie cut her off. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He should be well over this kind of embarrassment, but God, he felt like such an idiot! “I didn’t think that you… thought about me like that. I mean, I have a daughter. I’m divorced. I’m not looking – I just didn’t think you had a boyfriend, is all.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sharon’s eyes were still wide and pitying. “Are you sure? I mean –”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m sure. And it’s nearly 9:30,” Charlie interrupted. “You’ve got to get going. Listen, Sharon, I’m sorry about this misunderstanding. I think –”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We can still be friends, right?” Sharon broke him off earnestly. “If this really was just one awkward misunderstanding. We can laugh about it later.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie looked into Sharon’s eyes. He had really thought about having a future with this woman (even if the future only extended to another date, but this time not in the workplace). But she was taken. She had a boyfriend, who would probably end up being a fiancé and a husband. But was that reason enough to not be friends with her?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes. For a while it was. He couldn’t be friends with Sharon while still thinking of her as a potential wife and stepmother. But then again, he needed some new friends. And Sharon could be a great friend.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Of course we can still be friends,” Charlie replied with a smile, only half-forced. “I’ll see you around.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And he would. And he’d be okay with it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That night, when Charlie was tucking Shelby in to bed, she asked him, “So, Dad, how did your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">date</i> go?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Man. Of all the times for his daughter to take an interest in his life! He wasn’t sure he wanted to share his humiliation with her. But he sighed and resigned himself to it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It turns out it wasn’t quite a date,” he said. “The woman I went to coffee with – Sharon – she has a boyfriend.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh.” Shelby frowned. “I’m sorry. I would be sad if Daniel had a girlfriend.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Now who is this Daniel?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shelby rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, Dad… I’m sorry. I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to have someone.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charlie brushed a strand of Shelby’s hair – black like his – behind her ear. “I have you,” he said softly. “I don’t need anyone else.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Shelby smiled and leaned in to give him a hug. As Charlie returned it, he realized that he had spoken the truth. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All you need is love – and love from your daughter is more than enough.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">THE END! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-55241552593559220162011-10-02T21:05:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.640-07:00Story #35 - Gift-GivingHi everyone! This week's story jumps back and forth in time, but it should be pretty easy to follow. It's a relatively fluffy, "feel-good" type of thing. I hope you enjoy it! :)<br />
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Title: Gift-Giving<br />
Warnings: none<br />
Summary: Two gifts for two different yet similar occasions.<br />
Length: ~1,800 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, past tense. Genre is probably closest to romance.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
<strong><u><span style="color: #a64d79;">Gift-Giving</span></u></strong><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1994</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Ben walked quickly down the aisles of the store, searching the shelves frantically. Nothing seemed good enough. It had been a stupid idea to come here. Ben kept walking and only slowed down when Jenny called out in a breathless voice, “Hold on! Not all of us have legs as long as yours, y’know!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben stopped and turned, noticing that Jenny was lagging far behind. She jogged to reach him, her sneakers making a pitter-patter sound as she approached. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I didn’t realize I was walking so fast,” Ben said apologetically.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny was leaning over, her hands on her knees. She waved one hand in the air absently before returning it to her knee. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” she said, after catching her breath.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben started walking again, slower this time, Jenny at his side. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Nothing seems good enough for her,” he said. “I want to get her the most perfect gift ever.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny nodded several times. “We can find something,” she said. “We just need to look harder.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>2009</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben walked down the aisles of the store, glancing at the shelves and smiling occasionally. He hadn’t been here in a while. He used to take Nathan Wong’s kids here sometimes, but when they got older they wanted to go to the mall or a movie theater or some place other than a toy store. Ben had been the same. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still, now he was back, shopping for a present again. It was hard to believe that so much time had gone by, and yet so much was still the same.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben glanced at the wedding ring on his finger. He wanted to get his wife something really special for their first-year anniversary. And what better place to shop for it than in <i>Toys R Us</i>? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Okay, so it wouldn’t be the most romantic gift, at least not to an outsider. But what was the point of being married if you couldn’t enjoy some inside jokes or secrets every now and then?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>1994</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What does she like?” Jenny asked, after they had gone through all of the aisles and Ben had rejected everything.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben turned to her with wild eyes. “I thought you knew! You’re her friend! Don’t girls talk about this sort of stuff?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny shrugged. “Not everything they say about teenage girls is true. Like we don’t all paint our nails. See?” She shoved her hands in front of Ben’s face, wiggling her fingers insistently.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, okay,” Ben said, batting her hands away. He suspected that Jenny didn’t paint her nails because she was awful at staying in the lines (or nails, or whatever), but since she’d agreed to help him with this he didn’t say anything to antagonize her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You have a point,” he said. “But you said you could help me with this.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know,” Jenny replied. “I can. I was just testing you. Seeing if you had anything in mind.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I was thinking a really great toy. Maybe a water gun or something? But a really advanced one.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny stared at Ben in disbelief. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?” he said defensively.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny shook her head. “Not everything they say about teenage girls is true,” she repeated. “But one thing is – most of them don’t want a water gun for Valentine’s Day.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>2009</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They had gotten married when he was 30 and she was 29. It hadn’t been a very big wedding, in scope or in emotion. Ben thought that part of it was that it felt like they had been married for a very long time, even before they were officially married. The wedding was just finalizing something they knew already.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He still wanted their anniversary to be a big deal, though. This year had been tough on both of them, with her losing the baby and him losing his job. Ben figured they deserved to celebrate surviving a year together.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now he just needed the best toy in the store. He didn’t have Jenny with him this time, but he thought he was up to the task. He didn’t want to get her exactly what he’d bought all those years ago, when he was 16. But he wanted to get something from this store. The only question was what to buy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>1994</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, then what am I going to buy her?” Ben threw his hands up in despair. “Are you sure Summer wouldn’t like a water gun?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pretty sure.” Jenny was still looking at him like he was insane.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I thought it would be cool,” Ben muttered quietly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nevermind. Um, what <i>do</i> teenage girls generally like?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny frowned. While she thought, Ben took in her sporty jacket and soccer shorts. Maybe she wasn’t the best person to ask. She was practically still a tomboy. But he didn’t really have any other girl friends to ask. He could’ve asked Jorge’s sister. But then she would’ve talked to Summer and then she’d know that he hadn’t gotten her a gift until the day before Valentine’s Day. And that wasn’t very romantic. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Girls like dolls!” Jenny proclaimed. “But Summer would probably say she’s too old for that kind of thing. And I don’t think she likes dolls all that much. I’ve never liked them, myself. You could get her a necklace… I don’t know if they sell necklaces here, though…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben sighed. “This was a stupid idea,” he said. “I should’ve just done what everyone else did and gotten roses or something.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where’s the fun in that?” Jenny said with a bright smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll find something.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>2009</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben had learned a few things in the fifteen years since he bought that first present for Summer. One thing was that roses and chocolate might be boring and cliché, but they were appreciated. Another was that creativity often got points for effort.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So this year, he was going to combine it. Buy a creative gift at <i>Toys R Us</i> and buy chocolate roses as well. (Hey, a toy, roses, <i>and</i> chocolate would be overdoing it. But a toy and roses made out of chocolate? Genius.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As he walked down the aisles, his mind meandered to Summer. She had been so into his first gift. He smiled at the memory. It had seemed like a stupid idea, but Jenny had insisted that Summer would love it. And she had been right.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He probably could use Jenny’s help for this gift. But hey, if she helped him with every gift he bought, he’d never get the chance to learn for himself. It had taken him several Valentine’s Days to buy a gift on his own, and several more before he bought one that Summer liked as much as she had liked the first one.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>1994</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know what we can get Summer!” Jenny announced after nearly an hour of searching the entire store. Ben looked at his friend eagerly. Any new idea would sound good right now.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Play-Doh!” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Except that. Ben frowned. “Play-Doh? Really?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure, why not? Play-Doh is super fun. Both boys and girls like it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but <i>teenagers</i> don’t.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny scoffed. “Right, act like you understand gift-giving now. Seriously, Ben, you were going to buy a sixteen-year-old girl a <i>water gun</i>!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It would’ve been cool,” Ben muttered rebelliously. But then he thought of Summer – beautiful, long, lean, prissy Summer –and he had to admit that giving her a water gun for Valentine’s Day didn’t make a lot of sense. But neither did Play-Doh, which brought him to his point.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Play-Doh might be a fine gift for a kid. Or even a teenager. But on Valentine’s Day? There’s nothing romantic about Play-Doh.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And what’s romantic about a water gun?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Man, he was never gonna live this down. “Well, you get wet, and so then you start taking your clothes off –”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ew, ew!” Jenny cut him off, laughing. “Okay, I get it. I wouldn’t call that <i>romantic</i>, but whatever, you’re the one who’s been with Summer for ages.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben glanced at his watch. It was getting late, and he and Summer were planning on watching <i>Sleepless in Seattle</i> together. One of the downsides to having a girlfriend, he’d discovered, was getting roped into watching chick flicks all the time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, fine,” Ben said. “I’ll get her Play-Doh.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny squeaked and bounced in excitement. Ben just sighed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe Play-Doh would be more romantic if he put a pink ribbon on it?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>2009</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So he wouldn’t buy Play-Doh this year. But he wanted to get something similarly eccentric for her. She was definitely too old for dolls by now, even if she had liked them. Ben searched through the aisles as he searched through his mind for any good ideas. He was a bit better at separating his good ideas from his bad ones by now. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe he could get a card game or a board game? But that wasn’t eccentric enough. Ben found himself in the boys section, and some action figures caught his eye. Power Rangers – those still existed? He found a pink one that he thought was a girl, and smiled. This would be perfect.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Summer had always liked Power Rangers. So had Jenny.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>1994</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tell me whether or not she likes it,” Jenny asked with wide, earnest eyes. “No – tell me <i>how much</i> she likes it. ‘Cause she’s gonna love it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben smiled, thinking of Summer kissing him in thanks. Hopefully. “I think I’m going to make a Play-Doh heart to go with it,” he said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jenny nodded. “That explains the extra pink Play-Doh. That’s not a half-bad idea.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks, Gift Genius,” Ben said, punching her shoulder affectionately. Jenny grinned.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s what I do,” she said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>2009</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ben called Summer as he walked back to his car, carrying the bag with the pink Power Ranger in it. She picked up after the second ring.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, Ben. What’s up?” (Caller ID in cell phones. It still creeped him out a little.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi, Summer. Guess where I just was?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um… I don’t know, where?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>Toys R Us.</i>” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She laughed, and he grinned. He had always thought her laugh sounded like bells. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What for?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m getting Jenny our one-year anniversary gift.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow, has it been a year already? It seems like you guys got married just a month ago.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Summer had been at their wedding. It had been years after she and Ben had broken up, so it hadn’t been too awkward. She and Jenny had talked about the good old days, and Ben had danced with her after he danced with his bride.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I got her a pink Power Ranger,” Ben told her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Summer laughed again. “That might be even better than the Play-Doh.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, the Play-Doh <i>was</i> pretty rad.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But not quite as rad as Jenny.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The End! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-68024246084309311032011-09-25T22:27:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.671-07:00Story #34 - Of Knights, Dragons, and MaidensHello everyone! This week's story was inspired by the thought that I haven't done fantasy in a while, and never classic fantasy like the knights fighting a dragon to save a maiden kind of thing. That led into a good-natured parodying of that genre. ;) I hope you enjoy!<br />
<br />
Title: Of Knights, Dragons, and Maidens<br />
Warnings: none really, just parody, some silliness<br />
Summary: The medieval world from a Dragon's point of view.<br />
Length: ~2,000 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, past tense. Genre is fantasy and parody.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Calibri;"><strong><u>Of Knights, Dragons, and Maidens</u></strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stella the Dragon had a good life. She got all the best sheep and had the best treasure pile of all the Dragons. But lately she had been very annoyed. It seemed that lately, those irritating Knights had been targeting her more than any other Dragon. The Knights never did any actual danger to her or her treasure, but they sure put her in a bad mood fast. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’re fun to tease,” Ike the Dragon had said when she complained about the increase in Knights trying to challenge her. “Just come up with new schemes to make fun of them.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She had, and that had worked for a while, at least on the Knights that didn’t turn tail and run when they saw the size of her. Stella suspected that the ones that weren’t scared off by the size of her were enticed by the size of her treasure pile.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What could she say? She liked shiny things, and had collected quite a few over the years.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In fact, she was starting to think it was one shiny thing in particular that had caused this increase in Knights.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A couple of suns ago, she had scooped up something carrying a shiny thing and brought it to her lair. The shiny thing was on the neck of this creature, which had resembles to the Knights but wasn’t quite the same. It was softer and gentler. Stella thought it might be what those Knights were often going on about – a Maiden. But anyway, the point was that this Maiden was wearing something very shiny around her neck. Stella hadn’t wanted to try to get it off in the middle of a field somewhere, so she just picked up the Maiden (and the shiny thing) and brought them to her lair.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The problem was that Stella still couldn’t get the shiny thing off. And she didn’t want to cut the Maiden’s head off to get it. She was proud of never, ever having a bloody lair, at least not past the ledge outside her lair where Stella sometimes brought sheep she found. She’d been to Suzy the Dragon’s lair once, and only once. Let’s just say that Suzy had never heard of cleanliness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The end result was that Stella had had this Maiden in her lair for quite a while. Maybe even a season. And in that time she had noticed a vast increase in the amount of Knights.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re popular lately,” Ike had commented near the beginning of it. All of them had knights come maybe once or twice a season – the Knights always wanted a stab at their treasure (or the Dragons themselves). But in the past few suns since picking up the thing that Stella later decided was a Maiden, Stella had had more Knights than Ike and Suzy combined.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, it’s weird,” Stella had said. “My treasure pile’s only a little bit bigger than yours.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This had led to an argument about who had the most treasure, and Stella had forgotten about the increase in Knights for a while. But they kept coming. By the end of the season, Stella had had more Knights than Ike, Suzy, Ralph, Lawrence, Jenny, and Melissa combined. That’s when she finally figured out it must be the Maiden. Nothing else distinguished Stella from the other Dragons, at least not drastically enough to cause the dramatic increase in Knights. (Of course, Stella had the best treasure pile, but she didn’t expect the Knights to know that. Everyone knew that the Knights were not particularly smart.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once Stella found out, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to spread the word about Maidens being Knight-attractors. Sure, Knights were annoying, but there was also something sort of flattering about having a bunch challenging you all the time. She’d even had a few that were smarter than the average. One had almost made it past her by distracting her with a shiny plate and then trying to sneak under her tail. Luckily her tail was very sensitive, so she noticed. Also the Maiden was making a bunch of squeaky noises that had drawn her attention.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stella had a feeling that the Knights wanted the Maiden back, or maybe the shiny thing around her neck. They weren’t getting the shiny thing, but once Stella could figure out how to get it off neatly they could have the maiden back. She didn’t care.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is the Maiden fun to have around at all, though?” Lawrence the Dragon had asked when Stella mentioned it. “Is she entertaining? Can you play with her?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She’s very fragile,” Stella said wisely, feeling like the expert on all things Maiden. “Once I tried to carefully get the shiny thing off her neck and she started bleeding. So I haven’t tried to touch her again. She isn’t difficult to have around, though. She doesn’t try to escape. At least not very much. Sometimes she’ll have these weird bursts of what she calls ‘Feminism,’ but even then her escape attempts are more beneficial to me than they are to her.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stella’s Maiden had played beautiful music to her once. Stella didn’t know much about music, but sometimes she heard it coming from the Castle and it made her want to cry, if Dragons could cry. It was a melancholy feeling, but a good one. The Maiden had found one of the shiny things and started doing something with it and it made music. But the Maiden also kept dropping off to sleep in the middle, which confused Stella until she realized that the Maiden was trying to get her to fall asleep, and then supposedly escape. It didn’t work, but Stella got to enjoy the music until sundown.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another time the Maiden had pulled some thread and a needle from her voluminous clothing. Stella had gotten a bit worried when she saw the needle, but it was too small to do much harm and she could melt it with her fiery breath if she had to. The Maiden had worked with the needle and thread for quite a while. Stella had mostly ignored her, figuring it kept her occupied. Eventually, the Maiden had presented Stella with a sort of floppy, knitted… thing. After much gesturing, the Maiden got across that she wanted Stella to wear it on her head. It was supposed to protect her from rain, or something.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stella suspected that the Maiden was trying to blind her so she could sneak out, but the hat wasn’t big enough to blind Stella and it did keep out the rain quite well, even if Jenny made fun of her for it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And now that it’s getting colder, she doesn’t try to escape anymore,” Stella told Lawrence. “I heard her murmured something that sounded like ‘Furnace’ the other night. She keeps on inching closer to me when we sleep, too. I think she likes that I’m warm.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All in all, having a Maiden wasn’t bad. It was kind of like having a pet. Melissa the Dragon had tried to have a pet sheep once. (She was a weird one, Melissa. She had come from another Dragon Colony and had kept some of their weird customs and words, like never eating sheep and “Vegetarianism.”) The sheep had been too scared of Melissa for it to work, though. But the Maiden wasn’t too scared of Stella. She used to be, but after a season of living together without Stella doing anything too bad (she had apologized for accidentally slashing her neck; she didn’t think the Maiden had understood but it was the effort that counted) the Maiden had lost her fear, mostly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No, having the Maiden was okay. All the Knights were pests but flattering. And the envy of the other Dragons was definitely worth having. It wasn’t a bad life. Stella just really wanted that shiny thing on the Maiden’s neck.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After sundown another Knight came up to her lair. He was panting and puffing, probably from having climbed up the cliff to get to her lair. He brandished his sword and shouted a lot, advancing a bit and stabbing in Stella’s general direction and then jumping backwards in case she struck. Once he jumped a bit too far and almost fell off the cliff. The only word he shouted that she understood was “Maiden.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The Maiden’s right here,” Stella told him. “You can have her if you can get off the shiny thing around her neck.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Knight just shouted a bit more. Stella had always thought that the Dragons and Knights would get along much better if they didn’t have this language barrier between them. Of course, Stella knew some words in Knight language. Like in his shouting right now, Stella recognized “Beast” and “Roar.” (She wondered if the Knight had understood anything she had said. Maybe Maiden? It was a Knight word, after all.) She was starting to get a bit tired of this Knight. He was a bit smarter than the others, but not enough to be entertaining or even much of a challenge. At least her Maiden could be entertaining sometimes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still, she was in a gracious mood so she let him prattle on a bit longer. Stella glanced back to see the Maiden watching the exchange with wide eyes and shivering a bit. That was when Stella realized a snowstorm was beginning. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Great. The Knight would probably be stuck here until the storm passed, which would be who knew how long. She wouldn’t be the first Dragon to host a Knight for a night – sometimes the stupider ones couldn’t figure out how to retreat for days. Ralph the Dragon had once had a Knight outside his lair for half a season. A bit like Stella and the Maiden, come to think of it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyways. Stella didn’t particularly want to host the Knight, but he had hunkered down on the snowy ledge and was starting to look a bit blue. She knew if she let him near her he would try to take the Maiden away and probably some of her treasure too. But she didn’t want to have to clean up a frozen Knight the next time the sun rose.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reluctantly, she moved aside her tail and ushered the Knight inside. He stared at her for a long time in disbelief, but she kept on beckoning him inside until he got the point. He kept his grip tightly on his sword (which would at most give her a sore neck if he tried to cut her head off) and walked inside. Quickly Stella covered the entrance, not letting any snow in. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Knight rushed to the Maiden. They flung their arms around each other and pressed their faces against each other for a while. It looked like they were trying to eat each other. Maybe they were hungry. But Stella had been serving the Maiden cooked sheep, so that couldn’t be it. Eventually they pulled apart and started babbling. Stella heard “Beast” again and felt a flicker of annoyance. Melissa had said that “Beast” wasn’t a very complimentary word.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Whatever. The Knight was here for now and she had to make the best of it. Maybe he could help get the shiny thing off the Maiden’s neck for her. And hey, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. She just noticed that the clothes he were wearing were kind of shiny. Very shiny, actually.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Score! Wait ‘till she told Ike. He always wanted to get his claws on the Knight’s shiny clothes, and this Knight had a shirt shinier than any she’d ever seen.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a good life, being a Dragon. Better than being an idle Maiden or a stupid Knight, that was for sure.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">THE END! </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-13965902743096103272011-09-18T17:37:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.604-07:00Story #33 - UntitledHi! So for this week's story, I decided to challenge myself to write a story in "drabbles" - short pieces of writing that are exactly 100 words. Also, the way it turned out (I noticed this halfway through and then continued it deliberately) is that one drabble has dialogue in it, and the next doesn't. They alternate. Anyways... it was interesting to cut each section down to 100 words. I had to be more concise than I normally am. I hope you enjoy the story! :)<br />
<br />
Title: Untitled (suggestions welcomed)<br />
Warnings: one swear word, cancer<br />
Summary: Karen's mom is diagnosed with breast cancer.<br />
Length: 1,700 words<br />
Notes: Third person point of view, present tense. Genre is... I'm going to go with "family".<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen is still a little drunk from the party she left an hour ago when the phone rings. It takes her a while to locate it and manage to read the caller ID. Chrissy. Why would her sister be calling at (she glances at the clock above her stove) 4:00 AM? She fumbles with her phone before picking it up and flipping it open.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She hears unsteady breathing that must be Chrissy. Then – “Mom found a lump a while ago. She didn’t want to worry you in case it was nothing. But it isn’t. She – she has breast cancer.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After the phone call Karen sits and thinks for a while. She thinks about a few hours ago, when she was out partying and her mom was learning that she had breast cancer. She remembers Grandma’s battle with breast cancer, how painful and futile it all was. She thinks about how breast cancer can be hereditary. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Is that all that awaits her in the future? Cancer? And what about Chrissy?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They might both have a death sentence.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen needs to visit her mom. She needs to be there, whatever happens.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She goes online and buys a plane ticket to <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Houston</city></place>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My mom has breast cancer.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The words shock her, bringing reality to the situation. Her friends look at her with wide eyes. She sees their compassion and it’s almost her undoing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m leaving tomorrow, so I can be with her. They – the cancer isn’t terminal. With chemo she should be okay. I should be back in a week.” It’s all she can afford to take off from work.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“God, Karen, I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?” Mark asks. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen shrugs. Trisha puts her arm around Karen’s shoulder and it turns into a group hug and Karen just breathes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the plane ride, Karen tries to read. She bought all of this stuff on breast cancer and cancer in general and how to deal with it and what to expect and all that. The oncologist will probably tell her all this later but she feels better having read it already.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But as the hours slip by and she keeps reading she feels her mother’s identity slipping away, replaced by textbook phrases and key words and medical jargon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She can almost feel it in her head, the way <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">strong mother</i> is turning into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cancer patient</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She stops reading after that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chrissy meets her at the baggage claim. Her mascara is smudged and her eyes are red. She clings tightly to Karen when they hug and Karen, for once, clings back. For a moment she feels the distance between them close. How ironic that it is cancer, past, present, and future, that unites them.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually they pull apart but Karen still feels warm and she sees the answering warmth in Chrissy’s eyes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ll get your stuff,” Chrissy says. “Mom’s at an appointment right now, but she’ll be back in about an hour.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Karen nods and wonders if she can handle this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The car ride home is silent. Karen has questions but she isn’t sure how to ask them. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Does Mom look different?</i> she wants to ask. But of course she will. Karen remembers Grandma in her last days, how pale and thin and waif-like she looked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Karen does not want to see her mother like that. She wants to remember her mother as the strong woman who created her own Jazzercise class. Who could eat more hot dogs than anyone Karen knows.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her mother is strong. Karen knows this. But seeing her battle cancer will make it hard to remember that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The house is empty when Chrissy and Karen enter. Karen takes a cursory look around. This is not her childhood home. When Karen and Chrissy moved out and Dad died, Mom moved into a smaller, more manageable house – this house. A few years ago, when Mom married Steve, she thought about moving but decided to stay. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“This is my home now,” she’d said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Karen has visited enough to get a feel for the house. It is small but cozy. It has a quiet strength to it, just like Mom. She hopes Mom can live it in for many more years.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steve and Mom come back in about an hour, Steve rolling Mom in on a wheelchair. She has her eyes closed and looks small and frail. But when she sees Karen and beckons her over, she gives her a hug that belies her fragile appearance. Karen clings to her for a bit, telling herself that she’s trying to transmit her strength to her mom but really knowing that she’s taking comfort in her mother’s embrace. She’s never been good at giving comfort.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After hugging Mom, she turns to Steve to hug him, trying to hide the tears in her eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m glad you came to visit,” her mother says later. She’s sitting up on her bed, carefully eating some oatmeal. Karen is perched on a chair by the bed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Of course I came,” Karen says earnestly. “I wish you would’ve told me earlier, so I could’ve been with you when you got the diagnosis.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her mother fiddles with her spoon a bit. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually. “It’s just, sometimes I forget you’re not a kid anymore.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s okay.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Besides,” her mom says with a smile, “This cancer’s got nothin’ on me. I’ll be right as rain soon. You’ll see.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her mom is tough. Karen’s always known that. Her first husband – Karen’s dad – died from cancer (that seems ironic and sadistic, now) when Karen was seven. Mom took care of her and Chrissy all by herself. And she was a damn good mom. That is why Karen was so afraid before. She couldn’t see how the Strong Mom she knows would go with the Cancer Patient Mom her mom is now.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What she hadn’t realized was that Strong Mom is still very much in Cancer Patient Mom.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It makes her wonder if Strong Karen can be in Everyday Karen, too.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The cancer is treatable,” Steve says. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Karen just nods. They are sitting in chairs by her mother’s bed. (She is trying not to call it a deathbed but it feels like one.) Her mom is sleeping. Her energy is not what it used to be.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“They caught it early,” Steve says.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Karen just nods again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They sit in silence for a while. Steve brushes a lock of her mom’s hair behind her ear. All Karen can think about is that soon Mom won’t even have any hair.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s going to be all right,” Steve says.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Karen tries to believe him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen soon falls into the routine of it. They take Mom to different appointments, sit with her while she’s undergoing chemo, talk to her about random things or watch the TV if she’s too tired. It’s hard to deal with, watching her mom lose her strength and her hair (but not her life). Of course it’s hard. But it’s not as bad as Karen had feared. Her mom is still her mom, not exclusively a cancer patient. Her life is still her life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She should have known that not even breast cancer could get her mom down for very long.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen calls Trisha the fourth night she’s in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Houston</place></city>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s just been talking with Steve and she feels unsettled and raw. Trisha picks up on the third ring.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Steve wants me and Chrissy to get tested for breast cancer,” Karen says without bothering with a greeting. “They can look for this gene that would mean we’d have a much higher risk of getting it. Since Grandma had it and now Mom does, they want us to do the test. Just so we know.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you going to do it?” Trisha asks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t know,” Karen says, barely above a whisper.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen doesn’t really want to know if she’s at high risk for breast cancer. Part of her figures that she already is. But most of her just doesn’t want to know. She just doesn’t want cancer to be her life. Surely her mom will understand – she’s done everything she can to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live</i>, not just live with cancer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But on the other hand, she wouldn’t want Karen to suffer through what she has if Karen could try to prevent it. But how much can you prevent cancer, anyway? Not much. Eating all the vitamins in the world wouldn’t keep it away.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you want me to get tested to see if I’m at high risk?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, honey, I don’t know. That’s your choice.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen glances at her mom. She’s wearing a pink scarf, covering up what’s left of her hair. Her hand shakes as she reaches for the remote. She’s spent all morning throwing up her breakfast. But when Steve asked her if she needed help, she just said, “Cancer and I are just learning how to get along.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t think I’m going to do it,” Karen says. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mom nods and looks at her and Karen knows that she understands.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It is her last day in <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Houston</city></place> before flying back home. The chemotherapy is working nicely (as nicely as poison can work, anyway) and the doctors believe that her mom is going to be just fine. Karen finds herself believing it too. It is hard not to, with her mom’s optimism and strength (mental if not physical). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She and Chrissy aren’t going to get the test. Steve doesn’t understand, but he accepts their decision. Karen feels like instead of giving up something, some knowledge about her life, she is gaining something. Surety that her life is her own, maybe. Peace.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen hugs everyone when she leaves. Her mom feels small but familiar in her arms. Steve is a strong, solid constant, and Chrissy is a part of her. She smiles at each of them.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll visit again as soon as I can,” she promises. “I’ll miss you all.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They say their goodbyes and Karen takes a cab to the airport. She sends a text to Mark and Trisha in the car. <i>I’m coming home.</i> Then she sets her eyes to the <state w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Texas</place></state> horizon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her mom survived cancer. Karen survived dealing with it. She feels like she can do anything now.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-91922178050852218732011-09-11T22:17:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.708-07:00Story #32 - Charleston CountyHi everyone! This story's a bit different than my usual. I had fun with it. It involves a sort of distant, semi-ominescent narrator and a more specific setting than is used in most of my stories. Also, it has only second-hand action and little dialogue, and a very specific voice. I'd love to know what you think about it! :)<br />
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Title: Charleston County<br />
Warnings: references to bullying<br />
Summary: Charleston County - "Where even the squirrels can do no wrong."<br />
Length: ~2,000 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, past tense. Genre is... um... I'm going to put it as "other" for the moment.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
<strong><u><span style="background-color: orange; color: #783f04;">Charleston County</span></u></strong><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charleston County had always considered itself to be a moral, upstanding, God-fearing community. The sign welcoming visitors to the place announced, “Welcome to Charleston County, where even the squirrels can do no wrong!” Yes, I’ve thought that maybe they were a little full of themselves, the people of Charleston County. But in their defense, they had good reason to be. They had the lowest crime rates of all the South, and the highest happiness rates. None of them were really sure what “happiness rates” measured exactly, but surely having the highest ones were a good thing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Charleston County was the kind of place where you could walk down the street and people would tip their hats to you and say hello. The place where you could drop a lemon and someone would pick it up for you. Not that you’d want the lemon after it’d been on the ground, but that wasn’t the point. In Charleston County, you could walk into a church (there were many churches there) and they’d welcome you like you were the second coming of Jesus. Well, that wasn’t a perfect simile, considering the second coming of Jesus technically meant the end of the world, and people might not be super welcoming of that. But the point was that the people of Charleston County made everyone feel very welcome. Everyone, that is, except for Louie Palsco. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t know what it was about Louie. He wasn’t a bad kid. He wasn’t any different from any of them, really. He dressed in khaki pants and a white collared shirt. He never wore jeans. He went to church every Sunday. He enjoyed playing baseball. He seemed like a normal enough kid, but there must have been something off about him, something vulnerable. It was enough to make all of the kids of Charleston County High jump at him every moment of every day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some of the stories Louie told me… jeez. All I can say is I’ve never heard of more mischievous, borderline-cruel kids as those who lived in the County Where Even the Squirrels Can Do No Wrong. Louie was the butt of everyone’s practical jokes and pranks. He was the kid that people stuffed into lockers and flushed down toilets. Well, flushed their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">heads</i> down toilets. I’d never heard of anyone actually doing that, but they did that to Louie. He was their scapegoat, too. Anytime something went wrong, it was all – “Louie did it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think maybe it was because Louie looks a bit like a baby bird. Knobby knees, skinny arms, big brown eyes. Except I don’t think birds have brown eyes, but you get the point. He looks like if he had any feathers they’d be either soft and downy and useless or wet and sopping and sad. He has a sharp small nose. He even sounds a bit like a baby bird. Kids can’t resist heckling baby birds, even moral, upstanding, God-fearing kids.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Louie told me that he spent a lot of his time growing up trying to figure out why everyone was so mean to him. He had a lot of theories. At one point he thought he was a changeling, found somewhere unknown outside of Charleston County and adopted by his parents. That would explain why no one seemed to let him fit in. (This theory was disapproved when he realized how much he looked like his parents.) He had another theory that it was because he collected Pokémon cards like there was no tomorrow. (He soon found out all of his peers did the same, though.) Sometimes he tried telling himself that everyone was jealous of him and wanted to try to break his cool by pranking him, but he could never really make himself believe that. Probably because he never really had much cool in the first place.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me, I’m not sure why. But like I said, I think it’s probably because he looks like a baby bird. I haven’t known any baby birds who fall out of their nests that don’t get eaten by cats and stuff. And Charleston County High – well, if you were there, you’d fallen out of the nest. And cats like to play with their food. There’s a coherent metaphor in here somewhere.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now I can’t possibly give you the whole story here. But I want you to know that Charleston County is not a horrible place. I’ve visited there a couple times, and it’s really flattering to just have people curtsy to you and stuff while you walk around. One priest even offered me a bit of lemonade for free on a very hot day. And Louie did not have a terrible childhood. I mean, maybe he did, a little – he got bullied. But that happens to people, and they can still be happy, you know? I’m not saying what those Charleston County High kids did to Louie was okay. No one should tease another kid that much, and more importantly, no one should single out a kid so much. But what I’m trying to say is, Louie could take it. It was all he’d ever known, really. It got to be just how he went about his life – go to school, avoid classmates, dodge practical jokes and pranks, etc. Smile at people as you walk down the street. Play baseball.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Louie said baseball was the only time when all the guys stopped pranking him. I was a bit surprised at this. I mean, wouldn’t that be the perfect time to trip someone, or something? But I guess that’s the good thing about sports. No one would jeopardize a sports game by teasing someone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So Louie lived okay. Charleston County carried on okay. But what I really want to tell you about is the day everything changed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was all thanks to this kid named Peter Johnson. He was the one to reach out to Louie. I’d like to say that Louie and Johnson are great friends now and go out for tea every Saturday or something, but that’s not true. They went to different colleges, or maybe Johnson didn’t even go to college, but anyways they went their separate ways. No tea parties or anything. But Louie and I will always be grateful to him, and to Father Petty come to think of it, for what he did.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So apparently not everyone could stomach all the teasing of Louie that went on in Charleston County High. I’ve already mentioned that the squirrels could definitely do wrong in Charleston County, despite what the sign said. But I think if they changed that sign to “Welcome to Charleston County, where even the squirrels feel remorse for teasing kids!” they might be a bit more accurate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Basically, Peter Johnson felt bad about teasing Louie. He realized that there was no reason everyone was picking on him, except that he looked like a baby bird, and baby birds ought to be protected, not eaten. So anyways the guilt ate Johnson up. (Pun intended. Oh maybe that’s not a pun, exactly. Play on words intended? But what is a pun, besides a play on words?) So one day Johnson went to the church (one of them, there were like five or seven, I forget which, but there definitely wasn’t six). He found Father Petty and confessed to him. He probably confessed other stuff too, but I think he mostly confessed about how all of the kids were so mean to Louie who had never done anything to them. Did I mention that? He never did anything to them, although he told me that sometimes he really wanted to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But anyways. I bet Johnson thought he could just get away with a few Hail Marys and go scot-free and remorse-free too. He probably had brought his rosary and was all set to say a few good ones. But instead, great ole Father Petty (you gotta love that guy, even if he’s got the most unfortunate name on this side of the planet), he told Johnson to apologize to Louie, and ask for his forgiveness. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">How do I know this stuff? C’mon, you don’t get as old as I have and not find out the stories behind things. More accurately, you don’t get as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bored</i> as I have sometimes and not find out the stories behind things. Especially when sometimes Louie tries to be so secretive. Baby birds can’t keep secrets; he shouldn’t even try. But anyways, back to this story.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So Johnson had to apologize to Louie. The next day he went up to Louie. He was all like, “Hey, Louie, I need to talk to you!” But understandably, Louie wanted nothing to do with him. Louie told me that he thought Johnson was tricking him, getting him to come over so he could throw spitballs at him or something. Except throwing spitballs would actually require a distance, so he wouldn’t get Louie to come close, but anyways you get the point.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually Johnson convinced Louie to talk to him. Louie was still a bit wary (even more so when Johnson said “I’m sorry” and “Can you forgive me?”) but eventually he began to believe that Johnson meant what he said. So Louie, good ole Louie, looked Johnson in the eye even though he had to crane his neck a bit to do it. He looked his tormentor of who-knows-how-many years in the eye and said, “I forgive you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that was that. Johnson nattered on about sports and Louie let him. They never really talked that much again. Like I said, no tea parties. But after that, people stopped making fun of Louie. I don’t really know why. Maybe they realized that forgiveness isn’t really a quality that you find in a baby bird. So they stopped treating him like a baby bird. Louie said he thought that Johnson had his back, after that. That could be it too, maybe. I think maybe the kids were impressed with him. A guy who can forgive another guy who’s been nothing been mean to him for no reason for years – well, that guy’s got to have a big heart. As cheesy as it sounds, I think guys respect guys with big hearts. Guys will respect anything that’s bigger than them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So Charleston County went on. The guys tipped their hats, the girls curtsied. The churches donated to charity and prayed for people’s souls. And the kids of Charleston County High left Louie alone. Some of them actually became friends with him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Listen, no one’s perfect, and no place is perfect. I think that’s part of what went wrong, for a bit, with Charleston County. They tried too hard to pretend like they were perfect, and that put pressure on the kids. Pressure they had to take out on someone. But confession, Father Petty, Johnson, guilt and shame, God – they helped put things to rights. Better than put things to rights – they helped Charleston County grow.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">No one’s perfect. But I think Louie’s as close as anyone can get. The day that he forgave Peter Johnson, I think he finally grew wings. I think he finally got feathers that weren’t soft or wet. He got primary, patterned feathers that he could use to fly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And he has flown, many times, since then. He flew out of Charleston County. He flew to me. He’s flown over me, sometimes, with his ability to forgive and forgive and forgive (but never, really, forget). He flew back to Charleston County just last year. He told me the sign still says that thing about the squirrels.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think they should change it to “Welcome to Charleston County, where through dubious measures we help baby birds grow feathers so they can fly.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hey, it’s better than the holy squirrels, right?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Right.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">THE END </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-44963668668409996212011-09-04T19:41:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.629-07:00Story #31 - Prank CallingAlright, here's this week's story. It's a memoir about the time I was a bad kid and prank called people, and then got caught. Man, was that a harsh lesson! ;) Enjoy!<br />
<br />
Title: Prank Calling<br />
Warnings: naughty children<br />
Summary: The night I decided to prank call was one of the worst nights of my life.<br />
Length: ~1,100 words<br />
Notes: First person point of view, past tense. Genre is memoir.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><strong><u><span style="color: #999999;">Prank Calling</span></u></strong></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">One evening, my friend and I were home alone, and we were bored. Our parents were out at some dinner or grown-up meeting and we had nothing to do. We had already finished dinner and done all of our homework together. There seemed nothing else exciting to do. We were both in elementary school then, so it’s not like we could go wander around the neighborhood. We weren’t supposed to leave the house. My friend was probably about 11 and I was eight. My friend decided to pass the time prank calling – calling random people, making some stupid joke like “Is your refrigerating running? Because I just saw it pass my house” and then hanging up and giggling. I, being very bored and eager to do what my older friend wanted to do, agreed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">We got out my red elementary school phonebook, a flimsy paperback with the numbers of everyone in my school. It didn’t occur to us that calling the numbers of people that we went to school with might not be the best idea. But at least we didn’t call people that we knew personally. We picked names of people that we didn’t know (or at least that we thought we didn’t know) and started dialing, fingers shaking and clumsy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">At first, it was loads of fun. I still remember the giddy high I felt, doing something <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bad</i>. For most of my life, I was a good kid; I usually followed the rules. It was exhilarating and liberating to break them, especially when there seemed to be no consequences. On our prank calls, we mostly got answering machines (I think we only had two or three people actually answer the phone). We thought we were so funny and clever, saying things like, “Congratulations, you won the lottery!” or, “The oranges! The oranges are going to take over the world!” (Long story – something my mom had told me once that I had told my friend about.) Then, we’d hang up before anyone could pick up. We took turns, each time trying to think of a funnier joke and cracking ourselves up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">After we hung up on one of the prank calls, giggling to ourselves, the phone rang. Without a thought, I picked it up. It was a woman – apparently, she was the one we had most recently prank-called! I think we had tried the “oranges” one on her, and she hadn’t really appreciated it. I didn’t understand how she had gotten a hold of our number, and that was the first thing that frightened me. (Later, my parents told me she had just used the call back button. At the time, I thought she had some terrible psychic power to sniff out prank calling criminals.) Then, to make matters worse, the lady began scolding me in a harsh, cold voice, telling me off for prank calling her. At first, my shock at her talking back to me (I thought it would be one of my parents calling, or my friend’s parents, or someone random, not someone that we had prank called!) was so complete that I didn’t hear what she was saying. I felt cold all over, frozen with the terror of the realization that I’d been caught. But soon enough, words began to filter through to my brain, words like “parents” and “call” and “disappointed”. Before I knew it, I was crying, full out sobbing, apologizing over and over to the woman for daring to prank call her. I was absolutely petrified – the woman made me think that my life was over now that I’d been caught prank calling, that prank calling was the worst thing I could ever do. I don’t know how much of that was my young, shocked mind and how much was the woman herself, but she seemed to compare prank calling with murder or some other heinous crime. She sounded so angry, and I couldn’t do anything but cry. I always cried when people were angry with me, or even if I just thought they were mad at me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The woman was a little bit kinder once she realized how young and afraid I was (I think she realized I was usually a good kid, and also hopefully felt bad for making me cry), but I still don’t remember her as being particularly nice. She tried to reassure me, and took back some of her words that made me feel like this prank call was the end of the world. When that didn’t work, she just told me to call my parents, so I did. I was crying on the phone, my voice cracking in fear. I asked them to come home, and told them that I had done something Very Bad. My poor, worried parents drove home, and I explained the whole story to them between sobs, hugging them and fearing for my life. They soothed me and my friend (who was just as worried as I was, having seen me break down, although not having heard the lady on the other end of the line). My parents were disappointed that we had been prank calling, of course, but I think at that point they probably figured we’d already been scolded enough. They were probably also relieved that the Bad Thing wasn’t really all that bad. But I thought it was.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I think that was the first time I was ever caught doing something <i>bad</i>. In all honesty, it was probably the first time I ever really did anything <i>bad</i>. And it taught me this – no matter how exciting it is to break the rules, it’s not worth it. Sure, we were having fun until we got caught. But the way I felt when that woman yelled at me was way worse than the high I experienced from prank calling. It’s like that saying – “Everything’s fun until someone gets hurt.” In this case, it was until someone gets scared, but still. I’ve never made a prank call after that day and I never will. Just thinking about prank calls make me feel vaguely ill (as does thinking about that lady). I know I won’t cave in to peer pressure on that issue, at least. In fact, I told an elementary school student I mentor my terrifying prank call story when she mentioned wanting to prank call someone. I don’t think it impressed her as much as I had hoped, but then again, <i>she</i> didn’t hear that lady yelling at her. So I guess I should thank that woman for teaching me that lesson, even though the thought of her still scares me a little.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-91747978722518247252011-09-04T19:38:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.705-07:00Story #30 - Speaking AgainHi everyone! Today I will be posting two stories - one for last week and one for this week. This story is for last week. It's the longest storyI've ever written, and also the most convoluted. It has a lot of subplots. I'm thinking I might write a sequel or prequel to it later. Anyways... enjoy!<br />
<br />
Title: Speaking Again<br />
Warnings: mugging, trauma, discussions of trauma and violence... I'd say PG-14 in general.<br />
Summary: Chris gets mugged. But somehow, he seems to have lost his voice too. Can his friends get him to talk again?<br />
Length: 5,450 words!<br />
Notes: Third person point of view (two characters), present tense. Genre is drama.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><strong><u>Speaking Again</u></strong></div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> It’s about midnight as Felix heads back to his apartment. He’d thought it was much later. The restaurant had closed down hours ago, and they (minus Chris, who had mysteriously been missing) had all gone to Tony’s house, where they had proceeded to hang out and goof around for another hour. Felix had thought about crashing at Tony’s place, but he likes his own bed too much for that. Tony’s couch is possibly the most uncomfortable surface in the world. Well, the second-most uncomfortable. The most uncomfortable would be the ground, which – whoa, someone’s sprawled on right now. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Felix approaches the someone cautiously. He’s just a block away from his apartment, which isn’t exactly in the best neighborhood. He should probably just go on his way. This person could be dangerous. He or she is probably some bum or addict or both. But he can tell that the person is hurt. He can see blood pooling around the figure. It looks like someone just tossed aside him or her like trash. It’s a he, Felix discovers and he makes his way toward the figure. Something about him seems familiar. His clothes are a bit too fine for a bum, and wait a minute, that jacket…? A leaden ball settles in his stomach. It can’t be… </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Felix is pretty much in front of the man now. He crouches down slowly. The man makes no response. Asleep, or unconscious. At least he’s breathing. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Felix doesn’t want to look more closely, but he’s never been a coward, so he forces himself to peer into the man’s face. The sick jolt in his stomach confirms his fear. That face – and that jacket – are familiar. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Chris…” Felix breathes in dismay. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> He carefully takes his friend by the shoulders and lifts his torso up enough so that he’s reclining against the wall of the nearest building. Chris’s head lolls forward and he looks dead, his face eerily skeletal in the harsh lighting of the streetlamp. Felix gently examines Chris, his panic fading a little as he gets a better look. It’s bad, yes, but not as bad as he feared. The blood is mostly from a cut on the back of Chris’s head, matting his dark hair together, and from what looks like a broken nose. It looks like someone beat up his friend pretty bad. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Felix clenches his fists. Who would do this to Chris? No wonder he hadn’t met up with them tonight. While he, Tony, and Linda were devouring their burgers and playing Wii bowling, someone was beating Chris up! And probably mugging him, Felix notes, realizing that Chris has nothing on him except for his tattered clothes. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Just as Felix is deciding whether to call the police first or the hospital, Chris groans and his eyelids flutter open. He looks up blearily, blinking as he attempts to focus. Felix hovers in front of him, unsure what to do. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Hey, buddy,” he says after a moment of silence. Chris’s eyes swivel towards him and Felix is relieved to detect a glimmer of recognition in them. “You okay?” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> It’s a stupid question, but Chris nods after a slight hesitation. Felix stays frozen for a bit longer, wishing that there was a manual on “What To Do When Your Friend Gets Mugged.” It’s probably good that there isn’t one. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I’m going to call an ambulance,” Felix says eventually. He should’ve done that when he first saw someone hurt on the ground. Stupid. “You could have a concussion, and you probably should get that nose checked. And then I’m going to call the police. You – you were mugged, right?” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Chris nods, eyes suspiciously shiny. Felix ignores it, but not out of courtesy – something is starting to worry him. Chris hasn’t spoken a word since he woke up. That’s not normal, especially for Chris. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Um,” Felix says tentatively, “This is silly, but – could you just – say something? Tell me what happened, or, if that’s too… traumatic… Just… talk to me?” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Chris just stares at Felix for a moment. He opens his mouth, but soon closes it again and resumes staring. Felix can’t read the expression on his face. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Okay, okay, that’s fine,” Felix mutters aloud to break the silence. “We can wait. I’ll just, uh – make those calls. Concussion, that’s probably what it is. We’ll have you right as rain in no time.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Chris stays silent. Felix makes the calls and tries not to worry.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The ride to the hospital is silent. Chris still doesn’t say a thing, which leads to some confusion when Felix attempts to answer the questions the paramedics ask. Eventually Chris is whisked away into the hospital room, and Felix is stuck outside waiting and worrying. To pass the time, he sends text messages to Tony and Linda. It’s late and he doesn’t want to wake them up, and he isn’t sure how serious this is. But he knows they’d want to know what’s going on. Especially Linda. God, they had only broken up a few months ago. Chris could have been going to her place if they hadn’t… he might’ve not been mugged… but it was stupid to think of the what ifs and could have beens.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Eventually the doctor comes out of the room. Felix stands up and wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans. As no one in Chris’s family is here or lives anywhere near, Felix is his next-of-kin. The doctor sees him and walks over. Her face is expressionless. Felix wishes doctors could come out with either bright smiles or heavy frowns, and then you’d known right when they opened the door whether the news was good or not. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Your friend was lucky,” Dr. Grosbard (according to her nametag) says when she reaches him. “His head injury was very shallow, but I would still keep watch over him for a few hours. Make sure he doesn’t drink any alcohol or caffeine, and if he wants to sleep, wake him up every few hours to check on him. His nose wasn’t broken, just bloody. And besides a few bruises, that is the extent of his injuries.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Felix allows himself to slump in relief for just a moment, before another concern makes him stand up straight again. “Has he… said anything?” Felix ventures cautiously. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Dr. Grosbard gives him a slightly surprised look. “No,” she says. “I had assumed he was mute.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Definitely not,” Felix mutters, remembering those painful moments when Chris would start (loudly) singing along to *NSYNC whenever they came on the radio. And his general talkative persona, which now appears completely gone. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Well, nothing’s physically wrong with him that would stop him from speaking,” Dr. Grosbard says. “It could be the trauma. You might want to get him in touch with a therapist.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> She hands him some sort of business card, mentions a few other things, has him sign some forms, and then she’s ushering him out of the hospital, Chris by his side. Felix is starting to feel like he’s in just as much shock as Chris probably is. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> But at least he can talk. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> The next morning Felix calls Tony and Linda over to his apartment to talk to them. Chris had gone back to his place about an hour ago, still without saying a word, despite Felix’s best efforts. Felix figures it’s time he got Tony and Linda up to speed on the situation. Hopefully they would have some idea what to do. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Presently, the doorbell rings. Felix opens the door to find Tony and Linda. He steps aside and ushers them in. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “We got here as fast as we could,” Tony says as he takes off his jacket. “Where’s Chris?” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Yeah, is he okay?” Linda adds. Her eyes are wide and worried. “You said he got… mugged?” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Chris is back at his place. And yeah, he got mugged, at least that’s what I’m assuming. His wallet is gone, no cell phone…” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Dude, what has he told you?” Tony asks. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Felix sighs. “That’s the thing. He hasn’t spoken at all since I found him.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Tony and Linda exchange concerned glances. “W-what’s wrong with him?” Linda asks tremulously. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “I don’t know,” Felix replies, beckoning his friends over to his couch. He sits down and puts his head in his hands. “I’m worried about him.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Linda puts her hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Felix isn’t sure if she’s trying to comfort him or herself. “Let’s just give it a while,” she suggests. “We’ll all be there for him, and – and in no time he’ll be talking again, and as annoying as ever.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “Yeah, man,” Tony adds, sitting down beside Felix and rather awkwardly patting his other shoulder. “Maybe he just didn’t feel like talking to you. I know sometimes <i>I</i> don’t.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Felix can’t help but crack a smile at that. “Maybe,” he says, and hopes. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Two days later, Chris still hasn’t spoken. The four of them are sitting at a booth at Mama’s Diner, trying to keep the group afloat. Felix isn’t really sure what they’re talking about, just that they’re all talking (well, everyone but Chris is) and sort of ignoring Chris because they don’t know what to do. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> “My point exactly!” Tony says in response to whatever Linda just said. Felix wonders if any of them know what their point is. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"> Felix glances over at Chris. He’s quiet (of course) and withdrawn, slowly ripping his napkin into small pieces.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Chris,” Felix says quietly. Chris looks up in surprise, and Felix realizes just how much they’ve been ignoring him. He also realizes that he doesn’t know what he was going to say. “Uh… are you going to eat all of those?” He points at Chris’s fries.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris smiles slightly, shakes his head, and pushes his plate over to Felix. Felix nods in thanks. He can do this no-talking thing.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It does make conversation difficult, though. But he’s going to try, for the sake of Chris and the group. Chris has obviously been through something extremely traumatizing, and has been… traumatized… by it. He needs someone to talk to. Um, someone to talk to him?</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How’ve you been holding up?” Felix asks. Chris shrugs. Felix ploughs onward. “It must be scary. Getting mugged, I mean. Maybe you should… talk to someone.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris just looks at him, and Felix can’t decipher the look in his eyes. He’s never been that good at reading people, and when they won’t say anything, that makes it even harder.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dr. Grosbard gave me this.” Felix hands the business card to Chris. “It has a therapist she recommended you see. I think you should give it a try.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris takes the card, but barely looks at it as he puts it in his jacket. He then gets up to leave, tossing some bills on the table and waving goodbye to everyone. Tony and Linda (who had quieted down, watching Felix’s sad attempt to talk to Chris) wave back. Felix just sighs.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When Chris is gone, Linda turns to Felix. “That was a good thing you did there,” she says. Tony nods in agreement.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He didn’t even look at the card,” Felix says bitterly. “How are we supposed to help him if he won’t help himself?”</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By the second week, Felix is starting to think that they’re the ones who should be in therapy. On the surface, Chris seems fine – calm, cool, and collected. His persona isn’t so much “I’m too traumatized to talk” as “I’ve given up speaking for a while.” But Felix isn’t the only one to notice how often Chris flinches now, and the dark, haunted look that comes into his eyes when he thinks no one is watching him.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dealing with this new version of Chris is hard on all of them. Felix has been friends with Chris since childhood. Linda had dated him for almost a year. Tony was his college roommate. They all know him so well, but none of them have any idea what to do. Talking to a therapist about this would feel really good right now.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He, Tony, and Linda are all sitting on Tony’s couch, staring at the TV but not really watching it. Chris is still at work. Felix wonders how he can work as a lawyer when he won’t talk.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A few more minutes go by. They all avoid looking at each other. Felix wonders if he can ask Chris for the therapist’s card back. Suddenly, the sound cuts off and Felix looks up to see that Tony’s muted the TV. Felix and Linda turn questioning eyes on Tony, who sighs.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Guys, we need to talk about this,” he says in his deep voice.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>None of them have to ask what “this” is. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s killing the group,” Tony says. “And I’m starting to think that’s more our fault than Chris’s.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix nods. “It’s just… it’s hard,” he says. “We can’t talk to Chris anymore, not really.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve been trying to learn sign language,” Tony says. “He won’t write anything down, but maybe he’ll do sign language. I think –”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Chris doesn’t even know sign language!” Linda interrupts, green eyes flashing. “And we shouldn’t cater to him anyway. Maybe when he realizes how hard it is not to talk he’ll start talking again!”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">catering</i> to him,” Tony insists. “It’s just – he’s been through a horrible ideal, and now is the time for him to have our full support and love, not us trying to trick him into talking!”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix takes a deep breath and prepares to ask the question they’ve all been skirting around. “Guys… what do you think happened to Chris?”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They’re quiet for a while. Eventually, Tony says quietly, “You said he was mugged.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” Felix sighs. “But – well, most people don’t turn mute when they’re mugged.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you think – I mean, I guess I figured they threatened him or something, told him not to talk, so he got scared and just… stopped talking,” Linda says.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But the way he flinches any time anyone comes near him – I mean, I found him all beat up and cowering. His – his clothes were torn, too.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda’s sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room. She gnaws on her thumbnail as she asks, “You don’t think – he was –”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Guys don’t get raped,” Tony interrupts, loudly and scornfully. “That’s ridiculous.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Actually –” Felix begins, but Linda cuts him off.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Felix! This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chris</i> we’re talking about. He can’t’ve – he would’ve told us. Or… that can’t have happened to him.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix sighs. “It was just a thought,” he mutters. “I don’t really think he was… y’know. But I just – I wish he’d tell us what happened. Why he’s so scared to say anything.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe he isn’t scared,” Tony says, but he must know that none of them believe that.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We need to get to the bottom of this,” Felix says. “Only then can things get back to normal.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda looks up from where she had been staring at the ground. “I – I think I made some progress last Tuesday,” she says.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix looks at her questioningly. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why are we just hearing about this now?</i> he wants to ask, but instead, he simply says, “Oh?”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda nods. “Chris brought me to one of his therapy sessions.”</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda is sitting by herself at the coffee shop when Chris sits down in the other chair. She looks up in surprise. She hasn’t seen much of Chris lately, especially just the two of them, alone – she thinks that their friends have been purposely keeping them apart, afraid that they’ll relapse or something. (Would that really be the worst thing?) And then, after the… mugging or… whatever it was, none of them have seen that much of Chris.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,” she says, and takes a stab at a warm smile.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris nods hello, and then slides a business card over to Linda. She picks it up. The paper is worn and obviously thumbed over often. “Dr. Maria Prachett, M.D. – Psychiatrist,” it reads. Linda raises an eyebrow.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is this for me?” she asks in confusion. She’s not that messed up, is she?</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But Chris shakes his head, and points to himself. Linda smiles. “Oh, you’re going to make an appointment? Good. Do you want me to make it for you?” She shouldn’t help him in this no-talking thing, she knows. But if it’s to arrange an appointment for him, than that’s okay. The good outweighs the bad.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris nods, and then points to her, and him, and her, and him, over and over. Then he gives her an expectant look.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It takes her a while to figure out what he’s asking. Sometimes the weirdness of her formerly talkative ex trying to communicate like a child – worse than a child – throws her off from actually trying to figure out what he’s saying. But, eventually – “You want me to come with you?” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris nods. Linda can’t suppress the warm feeling that rises up in her chest. “Of course I will,” she says.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The next day, a Tuesday, she waits with Chris outside the office of Maria Prachett (Dr. Prachett). She isn’t really sure how this is going to work. Does Chris want her to do the talking for him, or is he actually going to talk? She’s heard about the patients that psychologists have, the difficult cases, the ones that won’t talk the whole session. But they usually open up after a few sessions, right? Chris deciding to see a therapist at all is a good sign. She’s just here for moral support.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The receptionist stops typing for a moment and looks at the two of them. “Dr. Prachett can see you now,” she says.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda stands up with a deep breath. She turns to Chris, who looks at her with wide, slightly panicked eyes. She gently takes his hand. “Come on.” </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris visibily swallows, and closes his eyes for a long moment. She wonders if they’ll be watery when he opens them. No, they’re hard and determined and they make her remember why she loved this man. And also how much it hurt that they didn’t work out.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She turns to face Dr. Prachett’s office. It’s time to deal with Chris’s issues, not hers. “Let’s go,” she says.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maria Prachett is a small, mousy woman of about 30. She wears a simple blouse and a pencil skirt, and pink glasses with pink lipstick. Linda doesn’t really like her.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After the introductions are out of the way, they all are sitting down, Dr. Prachett behind her desk and Linda and Chris on the couch in front of her. There’s silence for a while, and then Dr. Prachett says, “So. Chris. You haven’t been feeling like talking lately, I’ve been told?”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda wonders who told her. How do these people get the information on their clients? It’s a little creepy.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris nods.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well we’ll just have to find a way around that until you’re ready to talk,” Dr. Prachett says gently. “But I want you to know that anything you say in here is completely confidential. You don’t need to be afraid to say anything in here.” She glances at Linda. Is she supposed to show her support too? Well, that’s why she’s here, right?</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” Linda says inanely. “You don’t have to be afraid.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris just nods. Linda stifles a sigh. Dr. Prachett’s expression is inscrutable.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For now, let’s just try some yes or no questions,” she says. “How’s that sound?”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris nods. And they go on from there.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An hour later, Linda walks with Chris to his car. Chris is silent behind her. She wonders what he’s thinking. They hadn’t talked about anything very important in the session (although Linda had been impressed with how much Dr. Prachett could cover with only yes/no questions). Linda knows it’s good for Chris to see someone professional about this, but… what if he never makes any progress? If Dr. Prachett won’t push him, they could spend years nattering on about stupid yes/no things while he still doesn’t talk.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What Chris needs is a friend, someone to push him even if it’s hard. Linda thinks she’s tough enough to do that. She hopes Chris is tough enough to handle it. He’s not broken. She’s wondered, sometimes, like when he flinched away from Dr. Prachett’s handshake. But no, he’s not broken, not irreparably. She can fix him. And he’ll let her.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No one says anything for a moment after Linda’s story. Felix thinks they’re all absorbing it, trying to figure out what it means. Chris went to therapy – that’s good. He still didn’t say anything – that’s nothing new. But Linda’s determination to fix him single-handedly? </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“He trusts me,” she’d insisted. “If nothing else works, I can help him talk again.”</i></div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She had sounded so sure. Felix can’t help feeling a little bitter. He’s known Chris for longer, but Chris didn’t ask him to come to the therapy session. He asked his ex, who made him miserable when they were together. He allowed the person who he would logically want to appear least vulnerable to see him at possibly his most vulnerable. Linda says they didn’t talk about anything important in the session, but still.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But Felix is being petty. He should be happy that Chris seems to be coming out of his shell. Maybe he’s ready to learn how to talk again. And if Linda’s the one who can help him with that, so be it. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix will be there for his friend if (when?) things go wrong.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Chris asked me to come to the next therapy session with him,” Linda says. “I think he’s really making progress. He might be ready to tell someone what happened to him soon.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The way she says <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">someone</i> makes it sound like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Great!” Tony says. “I have to admit, I’m curious. If they have some mugger going around somehow intimidating his victims into not speaking, I want to know about it.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix nods in agreement. He’s been so wrapped up in Chris’s problems that he hasn’t really thought about any danger to himself. Maybe he should buy a book called “How Not To Get Mugged.” It probably exists.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, it’s getting late,” Linda says, with a glance at her watch. “I should get going.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bye.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Stay safe.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix stays for an hour after Linda is gone. He and Tony watch TV and go back to avoiding talking about anything important. Felix thinks about Linda, and Chris, and therapy and muteness and talking. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When did his life turn into such a mess?</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s been six weeks since the mugging, and Linda has been with Chris to all four of his therapy sessions. And she’s about to burst with frustration. Dr. Prachett never pushes Chris at all. When she had finally run out of yes/no questions, they had just sat there in silence for maybe twenty minutes. Linda really wants to know what they’re teaching in Therapy Class or whatever it’s called these days. Don’t do anything, and maybe something good will happen?</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda’s been pushy, though. And she’s made more progress than any M.D. She started calling Chris about a week ago, in a ploy to get him to answer the phone and talk. He never answered the phone, so Linda switched to texting. For the longest time, nothing. Chris seemed reluctant to communicate in any way, whether it was speaking or writing. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But last night, she had sent him a cryptic text – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ive decided that blue pineapples would be a rly good gag gift for tony</i> – and he had responded with, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">?</i></div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda had squealed out loud when she’d seen that question mark. That was the most response he’d ever given. See? Progress.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda has her theories. The whole incident is so shrouded in mystery that all of them have thought of everything. But she tends to go with the muggers having guns and threatening Chris not to speak about them or write about them or something. And she believes that Chris is starting to realize that the muggers won’t come after him if he says anything, or writes anything. Even a question mark.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Linda calls Felix to share the news. She’s already told Tony. She and Tony have been friends for a while, but she’s only known Felix for about a year or two, when she got involved with Chris. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, Felix!” she greets him when he answers, unable to contain the excitement in her voice. “Guess what?”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did Chris talk?”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Is she that predictable? Well, that has been her crusade these past few weeks. Felix and Tony seem fine to let Chris disappear into silence. But she won’t let him, and neither will Chris, or he wouldn’t keep going to these therapy sessions. To sit there and not talk. But anyways.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” Linda sighs. “But he’s on his way. He responded to one of my texts. I made some stupid comment, and he sent me a question mark.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow, a question mark,” Felix says sarcastically. “Today a question mark, tomorrow a full rendition of *NSYNC’s ‘Bye Bye Bye.’”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uh, yeah,” Linda says, a bit thrown off. “That’s the hope.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, you go get ‘em, tiger,” Felix says. “You’ve known him for a third of the time I have, after all.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing, I’m sorry.” Felix sounds tired. Maybe he’s drunk. That would make this conversation make a bit more sense. “I’m glad Chris responded to your text. Maybe he’s getting better.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve got my fingers crossed,” Linda says, belatedly crossing her fingers.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix chuckles half-heartedly. “Keep at it,” he says. </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I will.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Felix hangs up, and Linda sits on her couch for a moment, thinking. That was a weird conversation. It was almost like Felix was – jealous – of her. Because she got Chris to respond to something? Well, if Felix tried to talk to Chris, maybe he’d make some progress, too.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mystified, Linda shakes her head. Whatever. She has more important things to worry about. She picks up her phone and texts Chris back.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s Felix’s turn to take care of Chris today. After awkwardly avoiding him for the first few weeks, the three of them – Felix, Tony, and Linda – got a kind of schedule going. Linda’s days are Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Tony has Monday and Friday. Felix has Wednesday and Sunday. On their days, they are always ready to do something with Chris, or just keep him company if he wants them. It’s a fine line between being supportive and coddling, but then again they have Linda to keep Chris in line.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She got him to respond to a text. A text. Why hadn’t Felix thought of that? He and Chris used to text all the time.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Anyways. Today he is going to go bowling with Chris. He gets to the bowling alley and looks around until he sees the tall silhouette of his friend, already lacing up his bowling shoes.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,” Felix says when he joins Chris. Chris smiles in greeting.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you ready to lose?” Felix asks. Chris laughs, and Felix smiles at the sound. That’s one of the only times he gets to hear Chris’s voice now. And to think, it used to annoy him sometimes. He’s gotten used to a quiet Chris, and there’s some good in a quiet Chris, but it’s times like this when he realizes how much he misses his friend. And not just his voice – the closeness they used to have between them. When had Chris began to feel like he had more to share with Linda than with Felix?</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So I heard Linda’s still on her crusade to get you to talk,” Felix comments in what is hopefully a casual manner. Chris shrugs.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No one’s going to hurt you if you talk,” Felix says. He stands in front of Chris, waits until Chris looks at him. Chris’s eyes are wet.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We all miss you,” Felix says. “The real you. The you that would sing along to *NSYNC songs and embarrass all of us. The you that could talk for hours about the most random topics.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris sniffs and looks away.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know you’ve been seeing that therapist with Linda,” Felix continues. “And I’m proud of you for doing that. But I want you to know that… well, I’ll always be here for you, man. You can talk to me. You’re my best friend.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chris blinks away a tear, and Felix feels a prickling in his own eyes. He feels like this confession goes against being a man, but he’s willing to sacrifice a bit of his manliness if it helps Chris. Chris, who raises shining eyes to Felix. Felix doesn’t need him to speak to understand the gratitude in those eyes. And when Chris stands up to hug him (in a manly, pat-on-the-back way), Felix feels his resentment and jealousy toward Linda slip away.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He goes on to beat Chris, 129 to 47, in the bowling game.</div><div style="border-bottom: windowtext 3pt dotted; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; mso-element: para-border-div; padding-bottom: 1pt; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: dotted windowtext 3.0pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s been three months since the incident when Linda gets a text from Chris on her phone. It reads: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I need to see u.</i> She stares at it in surprise for a moment. Chris had been slowly getting more confident and frequent with his texts, but this is the longest one he’s ever sent. Then the meaning of the message gets through to her. He needs to see her. What happened? Is he okay?</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Coming</i>, she sends in reply, and quickly gets her keys and jacket and heads out the door. Chris needs her, and he sent her a text message to tell her. She won’t let him down.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He opens the door immediately after she rings the doorbell. He’s wearing the tattered jacket that he was mugged in, and jeans are slung low on his hips. He looks absolutely delicious, but she’s soon focused on the look in his eyes. He looks a little wild, a little apprehensive, like he’s about to take a crazy risk. Linda hopes it’s a good one.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He beckons her inside, and shuts the door after her. Linda looks around the house. It hasn’t changed much from when she last saw it, before they broke up. Same flatscreen TV, same maroon rug, same stainless steel kitchen appliances. Everything is in its place… except, wait – Chris’s wallet is lying on the glass table in front of the TV. His wallet?</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You got your wallet back?” she gasps, turning to Chris for confirmation. He nods, biting his lip.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How – they didn’t come back, did they? Put a – a threatening note in there or something? Don’t worry, you can tell me if they did.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God, that would be awful. All their progress, gone. But Chris shakes his head. He walks over to the wallet, opens it, shows to her that it’s empty. That was what she was expecting. What she’s wondering is how he got – </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You – did you go back there? To the place where you got mugged?”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She thinks it’s a crazy hope, something that would never happen, but Chris nods with a big smile. When Dr. Prachett had mentioned revisiting the scene of the crime, Linda had seen the fear in Chris’s eyes. She had never thought he’d actually do it.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did you go alone?” she asks, eyes wide. Chris shakes his head.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Tony?” she guesses. Chris shakes his head again.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Felix?” Chris nods. Linda smiles.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m so proud of you, baby,” she whispers, the endearment slipping out before she can stop it. She winces slightly, but Chris just grins wider.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He walks until he’s standing in front of her, and slowly takes her hands. She looks at him in surprise. He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens, closes.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come on</i>, she thinks. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You can do it.</i> </div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Linda,” he says, his voice raspy and unused and the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. “I – I think I’m ready to talk again.”</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He stares at her with radiant eyes, and she feels light and floaty, a balloon filled with happiness. She’s not sure what it was – Dr. Prachett, revisiting the scene of the mugging, Felix, Tony, her and her texts – but Chris is fixed. Finally, finally fixed, or at least definitely on the way. Later tonight, they are going to blast some *NSYNC and belt it out together. They are going to call up Felix and Tony and get together and talk and talk. Maybe they’ll talk about what happened to Chris, why it made him so silent. But mostly they’ll just enjoy having Chris back.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But for now, Linda throws her arms around Chris and kisses him. She drinks in every noise that he makes. She feels his arms encircle her, and it feels like coming home.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Welcome back,” she whispers to Chris.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s good to be back,” he replies softly.</div><div class="yiv178864551msonormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It is,</i> Linda thinks.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It really is.</i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2770225477194638292.post-602394835303782282011-08-28T19:11:00.000-07:002015-08-08T17:49:03.649-07:00Birthday Surprise StoryHi everyone! Today's story was not written by me. My mom wrote it for me as a birthday present (my birthday's coming up). I'm still going to post my own story later this week, but I wanted to share my mom's wonderful story. I think there's a bit of the writing spirit in her, it's just been hiding all these years. So, without further ado:<br />
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As a birthday present to Julianna, I've decided it's time to give her a brief respite and so I will fill in for her on her blog this week. Being just as verbose, but not nearly as talented of a writer, I am loathe to attempt any type of fictional story. Therefore my writing will have to be from the "true story" variety. The following is a love story. All quotes are verbatim comments made by Julianna and lovingly recorded by her mother.<br />
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<strong> More Than Infinity and Past Forever</strong><br />
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I was not a stranger to love. There were things I loved such as chocolate, books, and the ocean. There were people I loved such as my mother and sisters. I had even found and married a true "soul-mate" with whom I shared an amazing love story including an initial meeting in <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1314582826_0" style="border-bottom: #366388 2px dotted; cursor: hand;">England</span> at a romantic estate on the Thames followed by a trip throughout <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1314582826_1" style="border-bottom: #366388 2px dotted; cursor: hand;">Europe</span> getting to know each other. So I thought I was pretty experienced in this particular emotion. But I wasn't even remotely prepared for the love story that was still to come.<br />
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I wish I could describe the first meeting between this new love and myself, but I have to admit, I barely remember it. In fact, the first few weeks of this relationship were a bit hazy. I wasn't sleeping much and all my energy was focused on this new love in my life. I had only felt this type of overwhelming unconditional love once before, when my son was born. And now, looking down at my daughter's beautiful face, I realized I was hooked again. This tiny little thing had me completely under her spell.<br />
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Over the next 17 years, this spell only grew stronger. This little girl, surrounded by a family that loved her, radiated it back from the very beginning. When she was only 6 months old and I would hold her on my shoulder and pat her back, she would take her little hands and pat me on the back too. Her ability to empathize with others has made her a strong and loyal friend to her peers and a soothing and calming influence in our home.<br />
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My daughter comes from a long line of Irish women and can lay claim to the Irish "gift of gab". As soon as she began to talk she jumped from a few single words straight into full sentences. By age two she was already giving us a running commentary of her life ("Me go see mommy. Me color. Me all done. Now mommy draw"). By age three, she had even become a bit of a philosopher ("If it do, it do. If it don't, it don't") - we still occasionally use that sage piece of advice when there is something that we can't control. And now of course, she writes short stories every week - an amazing feat especially when combined with her schoolwork and other activities. But that's the gift of gab - there's no stopping an Irishwoman once she gets going!<br />
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Another one of my daughter's many gifts is her ability to roll with the punches and easy-going nature. Once when she was about three and a half, I was trying to get her off to preschool and running short of time. I thought I had managed okay but when she got home she said "You forgot to put a sandwich in my lunch". Before I could apologize, she followed that up with "I just ate a pretend sandwich". At age four, when I was trying to come up with some choices for her and couldn't think of many, she looked at me solemnly and said: "It's okay to have only two possibilities". Even now, as a teenager, she has managed to maintain that easy-going disposition. Of course she can get frustrated and disappointed but she always picks herself up and tries to find the silver lining. She really is a "glass half full" type of person.<br />
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Another thing that is immediately apparent about my daughter is her wonderful sense of humor. Once, while walking her home from grade school, I thought something had fallen on my head and asked her "What's on my head?" "A few gray hairs" the little imp answered. When she was eight, after listening to her talk about a number of different topics I teasingly asked her how she knew so much. Looking at me with her sparkling smile she replied: "Eight years of experience!" That same year I was lecturing her (once again) about not putting any paper near her clock because it had electricity and I didn't want her to start an accidental fire ( yes, I was a bit paranoid). She innocently looked up and said: "Whoops! I forgot . . . I'll write a note to remember and put it on top of the clock". <br />
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My daughter still makes me laugh every day with her wry and witty comments about life. I know that will be one of the things I will miss the most when she inevitably moves out to start living life on her own. I'll also miss the loving supportive hugs when the day has been difficult, the reading dinners when we find ourselves alone in the evening, the marathon DVD shows we watch together, and the secret stops at Sees Candy on the way home from school. But I know she will excel in whatever she decides to do with her life and I will delight in watching her share all her many gifts with the rest of the world.<br />
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When I was younger, I used to be quite a handful; trying to jump off the doghouse with an umbrella to see if I could fly like Mary Poppins and climbing under a moving car to see how the engine worked. When I had my first child, my mother jokingly said "I hope you have one just like you so you can see what it was like for me" (actually I did, but that is another story). Well that is what I am wishing for you, Julianna. One day (far in the future) I hope you have a little girl just like you so that you can see for yourself just how wonderful it was for me to have had the privilege of raising and loving you.<br />
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