August 2023 – The Ellipsis…

Revenge is Best Served Cold

May 4th, 12:02 AM, 2022: S Flowers

S moved through the crowd, saying “excuse me,” and “sorry,” as she passed by different relatives. She found her mother wearing an all black dress next to her father who was wearing an all black tux. She sidled up next to them, and her mother hugged her close, tears streaming down her face. S let out a sigh of relief. Even though she hadn’t really known Mae Flowers, her great aunt that had died recently in a freak accident, it was still terrifying. What if that happened to one of her parents? (Don’t remember it.)

“Are you okay?” S asked. Her mother knew Aunt Mae well, one of the only ones in the family. It must have been hard for her (knowing what her daughter had done).

Her father put a hand on her mother’s shoulder, answering for her, “Your mother just needs some time.”

S nodded. “Should I go?” she questioned. Her father gave a curt nod before walking off.

S sighed. It was always like this. Every year since S could talk, there had been a funeral in the Flower family. She turned and walked back through the sea of black clothing, spotting a girl under the shade of a maple tree, distant from everyone else. Might as well try to meet someone new. She thought, walking over to the girl. As she walked over she studied the new figure. She was wearing a tight black velvet dress, and next to her was a dog.

“Hey!” S shouted, waving her hand at the girl. She looked up, realized S was talking to her, and quickly looked back down at the ground, trying to ignore S. Wow, rude much? S thought, squaring her shoulders and confidently walking over to the girl. The dog looked up at her, and its tail started to wag. S ignored it, although it would be fun to draw later. She took a mental picture. She was good at remembering things. It was what made her such a good artist: she could remember every shape that she wanted to.

“Not much of a talker, huh?” S asked nonchalantly.

The girl ignored her. “Fine,” she sighed, walking away again.

She looked back over to where her mother and father had been standing. She couldn’t see them. Panic started to set in. Where are they? Where are they? Where- No. Don’t start spiraling. Not again. Never again. They just went to calm down. They’re fine. Don’t start again. She tugged at the edge of her hoodie, calming herself down until no traces of panic could be seen. Taking a deep breath, she looked over to the coffin where Aunt Mae’s body was. She smiled, today was a new day for S Flowers.

April 7th, 1:03 AM: S Flowers

S snuck through the house, cheap knife in hand. This is a horrible idea. Her brain shouted at her, but she didn’t care. She needed to do this. Her father had recently been fired, and her mother was a public school teacher. They couldn’t survive without this money. She took a deep breath and quietly opened the door to her great aunt’s bedroom. She swallowed. She had to make this look like an accident. The knife wouldn’t work. She dug through her pockets and pulled out the strychnine bottle. She looked for the cup of water her mother said Aunt Mae always had by her bed, and poured the whole thing in. It was clear, and she really only needed a small amount, but this ensured that Aunt Mae would die. She had to.

S turned to leave when she heard Aunt Mae waking up. “Child?” Aunt Mae asked, still groggy from sleep. S froze. “Has my time finally come?”

S felt a tear slip down her cheek. God, she was a horrible person. “H-how did you know?” She asked, turning back to face her great aunt. Aunt Mae had the drink in her hand. Why is she drinking it if she knows? S asked herself. The thought was not filled with horror, more of a sense of relief.

“I knew this day would come as soon as you were born, child.” Oh. “Will it be quick?” Aunt Mae asked. S just nodded, a mix of emotions stealing her voice.

“It’s best if you leave, child.” Aunt Mae said to her. S regained her voice at that moment.

“W-will you still take it?” S’s head was telling her that she was horrible, terrible, what was wrong with her?? Aunt Mae didn’t even flinch, just nodded. S whispered out a final “I’m sorry,” as she turned to leave.

The last words out of her great aunt’s mouth were: “Take care, S. You’ve dug two graves for us, my dear.” S shuddered, a feeling of ice sliding down her spine as she walked away; she could hear the cup being set down, and knew what had just happened. Great Aunt Mae Flowers was dead.

Bad Things Come in Threes: Chapter One

Nora

I stare at myself in Tricia’s mirror. I shouldn’t be here, in her bathroom. She hates when I mess with her things. I feel so awkward in this black dress she made me put on. It’s snug with wide skirts and made of velvet. I run the comb through my light blond hair. I remember telling me how when I was a baby, Tricia thought I was albino and was freaking out. When they divorced I thought I would die being stuck with her. I’m positive the only reason I’m still here to tell the story is Nino, my Maltese dog. Dad got him for me before the divorce. I’ve never seen him since (Dad, not Nino); he died less than a year later and Tricia refuses to tell me how.

“Nora!! What’s taking you so long? Come down here this instant!” A sharp voice from down the steps startles me out of my daydreams. That would be Tricia. She’s technically my Mother but the word couldn’t suit anyone less. She doesn’t have a mothering bone in all of her 207 bones. (She loves to brag about how she was born with an extra one.) Taking one last glance to make sure everything is in order, I scurry down the staircase and into the hall. Tricia awaits me on the Persian carpet by the front door. She surveys me with one eye and I fight the urge to squirm under her hard gaze. Finally she nods curtly, picks up her purse, and walks out the door. I follow behind her. Outside, the twilight air is frosty and I hug my Dad’s old jacket close to me on our way to the Sedan. Of course, I sit in the back, alone with my thoughts. Not that Tricia would have wanted me anywhere near the front anyway. It’s a long way to Flower, WV so we’ve started early in the morning. Does anyone understand silence? How it can be awkward and stiff, but yet bring beautiful peace?

Usually, in my experience, silence is best. I would never lay my problems down on Tricia. For one thing, she is a large portion of my problems, but even if she wasn’t, she isn’t an understanding woman, especially not to me, and she’d probably make things worse. Sometimes purposefully. Anyway, since Dad left, or I guess, I left him, there hasn’t been anyone to talk to. Dad understood my need for silence, but Tricia took him away from me. At least he’s away from her too now. But usually, even when you’re talking to a really nice person, whenever you try to talk to them they jump in, asking you a bunch of questions and steering the conversation the way they want it to go. When that happens I feel like one little drop in their rushing river of conversation, being carried along without any choice. I hate it. So I remain silent. It’s easier without the possibility.

* * *

I open my eyes to see sunlight streaming through the windows of the car. I feel hot and the air is stuffy. I rub my eyes and look around to see… no one

Sophie Levine lives in Bethesda, Maryland with her family. When not writing and reading, she loves hanging out with her brother and making memories together. (He is currently learning to swim!) She specifically enjoys writing poetry, realistic fiction, and essays. Sophie gives credit to her Writopia group, Nora will later meet characters from Caitlyn Levitan’s story and Nora’s story evolves from a group idea.

Crescendo: A Teenager’s Experience With Music

My left hand played with the hem of my dress clothes as I followed the stream of middle schoolers further backstage. We were all dressed similarly, with the boys wearing tuxedos and ties and the girls wearing fancy dresses. There was a buzz of excitement in the air. People were nervously talking to the people beside them, anticipating the concert that was to come. I looked at my clarinet that had accompanied me so faithfully throughout this journey, took a deep breath, and then walked onto the stage.

I was at the 2023 California All State Music Education Conference, and the past few days had passed in a blur. Despite being in the lower band of two for middle school, I was elated when I had gotten in, and I was even more joyful when I arrived at the site we would be rehearsing in. The sheer number of musicians that I would be rooming with, eating breakfast with, and most importantly, rehearsing hard with over the next few days, was astounding. In our school band, we had only seven clarinetists; in this one, we had thirty two!

Throughout the four days, we had quickly acclimated to the rehearsals and had gotten to know each other better. Our conductor, a white-haired lady who continued to have a burning passion for music to this day, was especially nice when working with us. I hoped to continue enjoying and playing music to that age as well, even if I couldn’t do so professionally. We had practiced together for hours, fine-tuning every aspect of our performance, and this was the moment when we would show the results of our work to everybody.

The Saroyan Theater looked huge from the stage. Seats stretched from the stage until they almost disappeared into the darkness, and if that wasn’t enough, there was a balcony as well. Standing on the brightly lit stage, looking towards the sea of tiger moms clamoring to catch a glimpse of their child, I felt like I was a gladiator in the Roman Empire, cornered and afraid, instead of a musician about to perform a piece. The many concerts that I had watched from the back simply hadn’t given me preparation for what was to come, but I had to dutifully continue forwards, following the person in front of me.

Finding my seat and sitting down, I adjusted the music stand a few times and then put my sleek black folder onto it, taking out the music in concert order. We would start off with “In the Center Ring,” a thrilling rendition of a circus performance, and then continue on to “Kvetchers,” a comedic musical march filled with jokes. After that was “Rippling Watercolors,” a more sentimental and slow piece, and then we would finish off with “Tudor Sketches,” three short movements depicting life in England during the Elizabethan period. I really enjoyed the variety of the pieces and how they made me play outside of my comfort zone. Although we had rehearsed these pieces many times and I had practiced for months beforehand, I couldn’t help but feel nervous at the thought of performing these pieces in front of everyone here. But after our conductor stepped on stage and patted my back before heading to the podium, I started feeling excited for what was to come.

After the applause had subsided, our conductor lifted her hands, and “In the Center Ring” started off quickly with a bang. I felt thrilled as I played my way through the quick runs that I had practiced. When the entire band quieted down and the clarinets could be heard playing a repeating phrase, I was entirely captivated by the music. Then the chaotic section repeated, and we had a solo by a tall, yellow-haired clarinetist and a young flutist. As they seemingly talked to each other with their anxious playing of a tightrope scene, the notes floating in the air and backed by the quiet and serene “safety net” of the accompaniment, I started thinking about what had brought me on this musical journey.

My experience with music had started when I was still quite small, perhaps when I was two or three years old. My mom loved playing the “Baby and Music” tapes and I would spend hours in front of the TV, watching as colors and images danced across the screen. But back then, I seemed more interested in the visual aspect than the music, and treated the sounds more as a background. Later on, when I was five, my mom bought a keyboard and eventually, a piano, and she would take me to lessons every week. It seemed a bit tiring and frustrating that I didn’t choose to do any of this but still had to go through with it. I remember that I would watch the toy basket eagerly throughout the lesson, deciding which one to pick when it was over. Music and piano was like a means to an end, and being impatient, I asked my mom many times in the car rides to and from the lessons why I had to play piano. It just didn’t appeal to me at all. I didn’t understand why pressing some notes on a keyboard in the right sequence was so important. I think that if my friend wasn’t there with me, I might not have continued playing.

But throughout the years, as I grew older and switched between teachers, I realized that sometimes music wasn’t just about playing the right notes at the right times, that maybe there was something more to it. I began to learn the theory behind it, dissecting chords and naming intervals. I took many mock theory tests and played more difficult pieces that involved increased cooperation and coordination among the two hands. I learned about body movement, balance, phrasing, articulation, and dynamics. But most importantly, I learned that music was all about putting your own emotions and feelings into your playing. I learned to think about the composers and their thoughts as they wrote those pieces. And I learned, after struggling with music and piano for years and almost quitting many times, to enjoy the feeling of liberation it gave me when I was playing soulful, tragic pieces by Chopin and Liszt and cheerful, light pieces by Bach and Mozart.

I was brought back to the present by the ending of the solo. It peacefully quieted down, and anticipation could be felt as it turned into silence. Then, with a crash, we were off again! The piece went through several more twists and turns and even featured a police whistle before culminating in a chaotic fanfare.

Next was “Kvetchers.” I positioned my clarinet while sneakily taking out a purple slide whistle that I had bought a few days earlier. As we started playing, I quickly put down my clarinet and picked up my slide whistle. The suspense grew as we got closer and closer to our arranged time, and then a few fellow slide whistlers and I blew hard into our instruments, making a shrill glissando that sounded both comical and piercing. Proud of a job well done, we quickly put down our slide whistles and continued playing.

Our experimentation with this piece had started the day we went to a showcase event and had come back to the rehearsal hall with slide whistles. The shrill sounds could be heard everywhere across the room as we played laughably bad renditions of songs, including an attempt at the Chinese National Anthem and the Titanic theme. Upon hearing this, our conductor told us about an idea she had: we could employ them in “Kvetchers” at a particular section. After multiple failed attempts, we almost scratched the idea, but it finally prevailed, and we ended up doing it on stage. This taught me a lot about thinking of music as an active act of experimentation; that improvements and improvisations could be added to the pieces that I previously thought were only supposed to be played by strictly adhering to the sheet music. I had thought that the composers’ will was final, but it turned out that playing music, even with a concert band instead of a jazz band, was more fluid and creative than I thought.

We finished up the piece and took out our music for the next piece, “Rippling Watercolors,” a more reflective and emotional piece. But before that, our conductor told all of us who learned how to play our instruments during the pandemic to stand.

The pandemic was a hard time for us all, and for people learning instruments during the time, it was extremely troublesome. From learning fingerings online to learning embouchures for wind instruments (a French word for the shape a mouth is supposed to make when blowing through an instrument), it might have even seemed impossible to start learning. But through these times, we persevered, and finally made it to where we are today. As I learned through a mix of in-person and online, I couldn’t even fathom how hard it was to learn completely through a screen, essentially self-learning with a video guide. Through this, I felt even more admiration for some of my fellow musicians currently standing. They were deprived of good conditions in which to learn music, and yet their love for it made them continue. This really showed me how music can bring out the best in people and motivate them to try their hardest.

And then we started playing. The piece started out slowly with the clarinet section. We breathed in slowly and played as one, and the woody timbre of the notes, when combined, made almost a shimmering, watery sound. The low notes resonated through the concert hall as everybody watched in silence. Then, it picked up, with more and more instruments joining in, making the sound louder but not any less delicate. Finally, it built up into a grand, sweeping melody by the brass, expressing the composer’s love and hope for his children. Then, it sank down, ending with the wistful, held out notes of the clarinets again.

This beautiful piece featuring the clarinet made me think some more about why and how I chose to play this instrument. The clarinet is a very versatile instrument, being able to play almost four octaves and featured in both jazz and classical music. That and its great timbre appealed to me when I was looking through videos of instruments in the sixth grade when my brother was going to start learning the cello. Unlike those earlier days of attempting to learn how to play the piano, this time, I was really happy to be learning a new instrument. I think this really represents my growth as a musician; the fact that I chose the clarinet myself really shows that I started loving music for what it was. And although this time I still struggled with learning how to play, I chose to keep going and never thought of stopping. In fifth grade, I didn’t fill in band class on my elective form for middle school despite my parents trying their best to convince me, but in seventh grade, I decided to try out for the advanced band of our school, and made it in through the help of my teacher. And although I was last chair in our school band in the beginning of the year, through practicing our school pieces and the pieces my teacher assigned me, and through much mentoring and hard work, I ascended the ranks to eventually become section leader. Through this experience, I learned that practice and hard work paid off greatly, not only in music but in life as well.

Finally, it was time for our last piece, “Tudor Sketches.” This was our longest and most complicated piece, sporting three parts, each about a different scene in Elizabethan life, from Hampton Court to meeting the Queen to hunting. It featured many of the older instruments such as double reeds, and, oddly, the saxophone as well. “Hampton Court” was regal yet exciting, “Old Queen Bess” was more stately and slow, and “Hunting at Chobham” was lively and full of excitement. Playing these three movements was a lot like being an actor. One moment it would be majestic and the next moment it would be playful. The song picked up its pace as we got through “Hampton Court,” but it slowed down once again to the solemn, awe-filled notes of “Old Queen Bess.” And finally, we were down to the final stretch in the joyful “Hunting at Chobham.” Everybody could feel the joy at having everything they had done until this day pay off. I played, feeling the unity in playing as a group, hearing every instrument at once and also how the seemingly disjoint parts interwove and connected with each other to form the melody that was presented to the audience. Playing in a group was simply unlike anything else. Everything was connected in a way that was awe-inspiring. And playing clarinet allowed me to be a part of the group, working together towards a common goal. In one way, playing in a band was a lot like playing soccer; we passed the ball to each other and worked together to create a stunning finish. And then, we finally ended the piece in a grand, sweeping finale. The audience was silent for a moment, and then we stood up together and bowed to their loud applause.

After the concert, as I slowly stepped out of the hall and into the bright daylight awaiting me, I could see that my musical journey, which had begun more than ten years ago in front of the TV, was still far from over. From ignoring music, to feeling indifferent about it, to despising it and then finally learning to love it, I had come a long way from these earliest days. I have played pieces more complex than my two-year-old self could have imagined and have learned the joys of the camaraderie felt in playing with a group. Playing music has made me a more motivated and committed person in the things I do. And yet, I know that I still have a long way to go, and much more to learn about the seemingly simple, yet complex art of making noises into melodies known as music.

A Pop Star’s Thoughts on the Universe

A Pop Star’s Thoughts on the Universe

What is the universe made of?

A cab without much of a brain. It’s so unbelievably stupid.

How did life begin?

The teen movie thing wanted this project for an easy paycheck.

Are we alone in the universe?

I worry there is a body. It is super thin. It happens all the time and it’s frightening.

What makes us human?

Sleep, a lot of days.

What is consciousness?

Wake up screaming at 7 in the morning and become an energetic California preppy.

Why do we dream?

The commercial validates that choice of sly silliness. It’s a satire.

Why is there stuff?

Absolutely, the prospect of becoming is interesting, a really cool one. Amazing, like a crash course.

Are there other universes?

I’ve always believed that. I felt from the beginning there are a lot of strange pressures. But you can’t live your lives in fear, a huge challenge for us.

Sources:

University of the People, “20 Big Science Questions to Get You Thinking” https://www.uopeople.edu/blog/the-big-scientific-questions/
Cinema.com, “Legally Blonde: Interview with Reese Witherspoon” https://cinema.com/articles/584/legally-blonde-interview-with-reese-witherspoon.phtml

9 Hours: Worth Much More

Every single one of the two million people who fly every day passes through the airport. Those people are there with purpose, whether to attend a funeral, go to a camp, or to return home. They all have their goals, and the airport is a stepping stone on their way to achieve things. For me, Dallas Fort Worth is the place where I missed my connecting flight to San Luis Obispo for a journalism workshop. It is the place where I was stranded for nine hours. But by the time I left Dallas, I had seen and learned so much. Because Dallas is also the place where I met Linda, a 72-year old woman with cancer who wanted to finish her bucket list before she died.

Linda’s yearning to experience new things as an older woman was respectable, especially as our generation has much trouble trying something different. In class, on the ice, or on the field, teachers and coaches offered, “Do you want to try a new play?” or “Would you like to join the coup club?” My classmates had tendencies to shy away from opportunities, as they have never done it before. However, Linda did not.

I first saw her at the American Airlines help desk, where tens of people formed a snaking line in the cramped space. Sweating, I shrugged my jacket off, hitting the woman behind me: Linda. When I first looked back, I saw an old lady I can only describe as “coastal grandmother.” She had a light blue headband on with a white dress and blue heels. She was under five feet tall.

She asked,

“Why are you here, honey?”

I shared my story about missing my flight. Linda shared,

“Oh, I just attended the most beautiful wedding reception for my nephew. It was so special, and nothing like I’d ever seen before. I had a splendid time.” She said she chose to attend their Muslim wedding instead of their Christian wedding the weekend before, because “I wanted to experience something new, something else.”

I was awed by how she was 72, and she still pursued uniqueness. For me, whenever I was placed into a situation I was not familiar with, I hesitated. For example, on my first day of field hockey camp, I judged it for being different from ice hockey and approached it with a preconceived opinion; seeing Linda with an open mind at her older age genuinely surprised me.

We decided to eat lunch together — two strangers in a busy airport who had no one else but each other. The one thing we did have in common was a lot of unexpected time. Linda embodied perseverance through problems that were significantly worse than those of young teens. For example, after our conversation, my broken nails and lost earrings felt like miniscule issues. I looked at Linda over my heap of buffalo wings to see her potato salad and corn.

“Would you like some, Linda?”

She declined, saying, “Too spicy for me, dear. I only eat soft foods. I have a feeding tube, you know. I’m missing large chunks of my spine.”

I’m sure my head popped up, surprised. My mother had badly injured her spine skiing, so to hear about Linda’s spine worried me. It also put her in a new light, one of a survivor and a fighter. As if that was not enough, Linda pointed to her stomach area.

“You see here, dear, it’s hollow. There’s nothing there, no stomach.”

At this moment, my emotional state was flabbergasted. In my mind, she barely had anything holding up her torso! There was little that could make this predicament worse, until Linda said,

“Don’t worry, angel. I’m still spiffy, though the cancer’s been slowing that down a bit.”

“Cancer?” I asked, stupidly. I could not believe the bad luck this grandma had. As an athlete, the prospect of losing parts of my body scared me a lot. I’d never met anyone missing an organ as important as the stomach, and her willingness to travel alone and be responsible for herself can only be called sheer force. She looked so frail in front of me, the spoon looking heavy in her hands as she scooped up some potato salad. Yet, she was a force, because who could pull off this sort of vacation in the condition she was in? I clearly remembered when my friend sprained her pinky and she acted as if the world was ending. I vowed to myself I would be like Linda, who, even with her unfortunate situation, kept a positive attitude and did what she wanted.

I admired Linda’s tenacity and sense of adventure. I listened as she recounted how she had sixteen countries she wanted to visit, out of a list she made in 2022. These were all the hometowns of her extended grandparents and great grandparents. Now, barely a year and a half later, she told me that she had three left to visit: Scotland, Croatia, and the Netherlands. I’d been to these places before, as I told Linda, and I thought it would truly be special when Linda saw the charming town of Split, Croatia, or Fife, Scotland. Croatia’s amiable culture and food would appeal to her a lot. For example, Peka, which is food “cooked under a lid,” is very soft and delicious, which Linda can enjoy. I told her it would be amazing to finish her bucket list in these towns where her ancestors were raised. The determination to do this as a dedication to her family was driven by love for the people she was surrounded by. During the time I spent with her, I felt that love and care too. She always made sure I was right behind her, that I was eating enough, that I was not cold, and not hot. I wanted to be able to support someone I care about, just like Linda.

My relationship with Linda was accidental, formed because of unfortunate circumstances, however, we turned it into something beautiful. We strolled around the airport, as she protected me, a 15-year-old girl, from “the vast airport full of crazy people,” according to Linda herself. I returned this favor by helping Linda find her flight. Linda’s gate and terminal changed four times over the course of a couple of hours. I was able to cross-reference many sources and deduce the right one at the end. On the AirTrain, for the third time that day, Linda said,

“Thank you so much, baby, you really saved me.”

I told her, “Bye,” because I could not think of how to condense everything I wanted to say to her, how I admired her, into a few seconds. She later texted me saying,

“I’m on the plane. Got at the gate four minutes to boarding. Thank you, Angel. You picked up the pieces when I started getting tired. You’re one heck of a 15 year old.” She told me she considered me one of her grandchildren now.

The impact a couple of hours could have on a bond between two people is very interesting, especially because we were raised in different time periods. My friendship with Linda in the end taught me to make the most of my life, to ask questions and to try something new. It also put into a new light how age does not hinder one’s attitude, so you should always keep a smile on your face.

Poetry by Emily Rose

it’s not christmas anymore

her bruised lips are stained with sickly sweet pomegranate wine
her hollow eyes drunk with power (and with pain)
the moonlight beams into the darkness through wooden blinds
casting shadows on long-forgotten coffee cups and takeout boxes
and half-full glass bottles (but those are not forgotten)
stacks of books are crammed in every corner and scribbled notes litter the floor
the faded colored lights draped on the walls have been there for months
serving as a reminder of what once was (and what will one day be)
not a word (and barely a breath) passes her chapped red lips
after all if she doesn’t say it, it cannot be true
repeat it together now: it cannot be true, it cannot be true, it cannot be true
but she knows you cannot erase what has already been done
the truth is written in the cracks of her broken heart and in the lines on her face
(even in in the gap between her teeth)
the bitter cold of late february seeps through the cracks in the windows and doors
hollowing her bones, leaving endless space for memories to fill
as her brittle breath fogs the air, tasting of fruit and regret (with a hint of hopelessness)

make it until morning

i swore off of praying when You left.
never again i promised.
why would i pray to ~~Him~~ him
when He he doesn’t even listen to me anyways?
after all, why would i pray
to a ~~God~~ god who would take You away?

back when You were in the hospital,
i prayed every day,
like You always used to.
by the big window
in Your empty room,
in our empty house,
in this empty apartment building.

in the morning, when i woke up,
i prayed for the heat to stay on;
when You left i could no longer afford it.
before dinner,
i prayed for the flowers You grew
outside on our patio
to survive the cold,
to survive the winter,
to survive Your absence;
when You left they began to wilt.
and before i went to sleep,
i prayed for You to
make it until morning.

but now
i wear two pairs of socks each day
and my tattered coat inside the house,
yet somehow i am still cold.
now all of Your flowers have died;
whatever scraps of You
which were planted on that patio
have been buried under a bed of snow.

Hello, what is your wish?

Come inside,
it is getting cold.
Take off your shoes,
I don’t like a mess.
Please stay.
was the wait long?
It was to me.
But I am lonely.
are you?

breath on a dandelion Exhaled.
wishes in the wind Whispered.
coins in a fountain Tossed.

my wishes Drowned in 1994
have you made yours?
regret is unnecessary
as is hope

the best time to do things? why would i know?

all i know is pink sand stuck between toes
and sticky, blackberry-stained fingers
and ‘get in, the water’s warm’

    the most important one? who am i to tell you?

all i know is the tide’s pull, back and forth
and salty film on cool skin
and the sound of crickets chirping

the right thing to do? what do you think?

all i know is floating under a warm Virginia sky
with the clouds above me
and nothing below

In Light Blue

Like a songbird with a broken wing

Who cannot fly but only sing

Like a songbird with a broken wing

Who cannot fly but only sing

Who sings in hope but stops in vain

For all that the songbird has known is pain

But when shadows creep through the night

The songbird is shown glowing starlight

Hope and love he once again sings for

The songbird knows he is alone no more

What is worth

If you don’t understand

How you are valued

If some say they hate

And others say they love

How can you see the truth

If you ignore that

Both can coexist

Some people claim to know you best

Better than you know yourself

Yet you show them a single side

And simply hide all of the rest

They claim to know the the way you walk

The secrets behind the words you talk

The thoughts that flash behind your eyes

Yet every one of those is lies

To tell the truth or tell a lie

To walk through fires or sleep and cry

To fall in love and stay safe in pain

To forget and wait in vain

They claim to see the things you hide

The parts of you that don’t see light

The secret thoughts and drooping dreams

The water drops through wilting seams

When all breaks loose and you are out

They realize and start to doubt

They ask and ask about why you lied

But all your trust for them has died

Just for a Selfie

Henri really hadn’t meant to mess up the old castle’s drawbridge. How was he supposed to have known that it would collapse and trap them inside?

“That moat is 6 feet deep and 6 feet across around the entire castle,” hissed Sarai, the other tourist who had lagged behind the rest of the group, “and you collapsed the only viable exit, since neither of us can swim. Plus, we’re probably going to get sued for destruction of private property now!”

“Mmkay. You do realize that if we don’t stop arguing and leave here soon, there will be no light for us to search with? This is an old castle, and the only light we have right now is from the windows,” Henri pointed out, making his way towards the stairs that lead to the main bedroom. Surprisingly, he didn’t hear any footsteps from behind him. In fact, the footsteps seemed to be going further away. He turned around and saw Sarai walking down the stairs to the servants quarters.

“What are you doing?” he yelled, his voice echoing through the stone hallway.

“Logically desecrating the servants quarters to make a raft,” Sarai replied, not even bothering to look back at him. “If you could just remove the curtains upstairs, we could probably escape. Besides, if they ask why we did this, we just blame the tour guide company. There was a clause that said that signing this meant that if we were missing without communication directly after an event, the guide would return to the last location they saw us.”

“You read the terms and conditions on the papers they gave us?”

“You didn’t? And hurry up,” she turned to face him. “The rope isn’t going to fly down the stairs.” Henri sighed and walked up to the first staircase window. The curtains were surprisingly flimsy, but looked like they would be a good rope when twisted. Henri was so engrossed in removing the curtains and trying to escape that he didn’t notice the small pling of a recording ending. Nor did he think to check his phone for cell signal, since the carrier he used didn’t work in that location.

Sarai smirked. Playing the role of victim was far too easy when Henri was so gullible. She’d recorded him ripping the curtains and managed to get a picture of Henri holding the lever as well. All she’d have to do now was send the recording and photo to the tourists group chat. It was easy really, and a foolproof method to turn the full blame on Henri. He had collapsed the drawbridge, after all, and Sarai wasn’t willing to pay the price for his stupidity. She hit the send button, and then slipped her phone into her purse.

“It’s getting late,” said Henri in a surprisingly loud voice. He was standing at the top of the stairs, looking at the small pile of wooden doors that Sarai had pulled off to make it seem like she was actually doing something.

“Really?” Sarai responded, injecting her voice with false surprise. “I hadn’t noticed. I was having some trouble removing doors from their hinges downstairs.” Henri frowned and threw some curtains that were tied into a makeshift rope near the three wooden cabinet doors.

“Couldn’t you have done anything more?” he complained, watching the sunset through the window.

“Are you complaining? You’re the one who got us into this mess! I don’t even know you, but you literally decided that leaning on an old lever for a selfie was a wonderful idea! You don’t get more stupid than that!”

“Stupid?!? I am an up and coming social media influencer! Everyone who follows me knows I’m on a trip to Europe and that photo would have been perfect! We just got to Spain, and of course everyone would want to see this old castle if I’m in it! I couldn’t let them down and lose most of the following I’ve just gained!”

“You’re so self centered that you couldn’t see it was an idiotic idea! And now you’ve dragged me, the unfortunate other tourist who lagged behind to see the tapestries, into your mess!” Sarai yelled, yanking out her phone and showing him the screen. “You see this! I sent the other tourists, and the tour guide evidence.”

“Evidence of what?” asked Henri, his voice calm and cold all of a sudden. Slowly he began to approach Sarai, reaching for her phone.

“Evidence of you destroying this place,” she hissed, pulling the phone back. “And it’s already sent, so you can’t do anything about it.”

“What? How dare you?” Henri hissed. “Give that to me. Now.” Sarai’s eyes widened with shock as she started backing down the stairs.

“How about no?” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “I am not getting incriminated for your crimes, nor am I becoming the victim of your next one.”

“And I am not losing my entire career-” Henri began, only to be cut off by Sarai.

“Your career? You call taking photos and putting them on social media a career? You literally only have 10,000 follows! You aren’t that famous, just a normal influencer who thinks he’s super famous,” Sarai muttered bitterly, being careful not to fall as she stepped down the stairs backward. Before Henri could respond, the ping of a notification came from Sarai’s phone.

Almost instantly, Henri lunged for the phone as Sarai pulled away and turned on the screen.

“We’re sending the police. Hang tight,” Sarai read aloud, relief flooding her eyes. “You’re done for.”

“If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me!” yelled Henry, grabbing a wood panel from the top of the stairs and hurling it at Sarai.

“Crap,” Sarai whispered. She started running down the cold stone stairs, hoping to outrun Henri. Catching her foot on a ledge, she tripped and her knee slammed against the stone landing with a resounding thud. “No, no, no, no…”

“I heard that! Come out; there’s no escaping now!” Henri said in a disturbingly sing-song voice. It was as if the thought of losing his so-called “career” had driven him mad. Taking shallow, quiet breaths, Sarai began to scoot across the landing and toward the empty doorframe near her. Grabbing the hinges, she pulled herself up and began hobbling into the hall. She’d barely made it to the cellar stairs when a figure appeared at the start of the hallway. Yanking open the cellar door, Sarai pulled the ladder out of the room.

Henri smirked, staring at the woman crouched near the cellar door. She’d set up her own trap. Slowly, he crept up to her, stretching his hands out.

Sarai tried her best to keep her breathing even, as if she hadn’t noticed trouble. Henri’s shadow covered her like an inky nightmare, blocking out the sun’s dying rays. She sat right at the edge of the cellar hatch; Henri’s arms were outstretched, ready to push her in.

“Like I’d let you win,” Sarai hissed, yanking Henri’s leg out from under him and shoving him into the cellar. She slid the ladder through the handle, and crawled unsteadily to the wall. A smeared trail of blood traced her path on that floor and she switched on her phone, breathing normally once more. The sound of now audible police sirens mixed with Henri’s screams, but Sarai hadn’t been more at peace in the last hour.

When the police finally came, Henri was arrested. It turned out that he was a criminal named Tauren Lakst in the States who had run a relatively famous vlogging channel. After evidence was found that he murdered his neighbor, his following dropped (who would, after all, follow a murderer) and he ended up on the run. He then killed the actual Henri Widener who’d owned the Instagram account @henri_awesome_travels and stole his place in the tourist trip.

“I’ll get back at you, witch,” Henri, or well Tauren, spat, as the police dragged him away.

“Sure you will,” said Sarai dryly. “We all know that you’re only salty that you snapped and got caught faster. Eventually, someone would have found Henri’s body.” Tauren only bared his teeth at her like a rabid animal, before the police pulled him away.

“That… was certainly an interesting vacation. I sure am glad I’m a British doctor. The states have a lot of murderers and so do the police,” muttered Sarai, hobbling out of the castle. There wasn’t an ambulance, but the police had two cars and could take her to the local hospital. Sarai was fairly sure her knee wasn’t broken, but after all that happened… eh. Small mercies, I suppose. Sarai looked at the window, watching the dying rays of the sun fade away.

Anxiety

Tendrils of my gray fingers twist and crawl

Infiltrate the chinks in your armor

Coil and squeeze around your mind

I will exploit you from within

I afflict cold chills, sweaty palms upon you: eerie instruments of my success

Vivid scenarios of doom; One wrong move will spiral into ruin

Bypass coherent thought with omnipresent hysteria

I tip the fragile scale of your sanity

Replace confidence with bleak doubt

My whisperings of panic have unbraided you

The despair leads to surrender of the treasure like no other

The hidden door to your subconscious

Leaving me alone at the control panel; I’ve changed the password, your entry is denied

Spud the Spud

Spud the spud was an ordinary spud. He did spud things like play in the mud. Spud was the spuddiest spud one could be, doing the spuddiest things, like climbing a tree. One day Spud, (the spuddiest spud), invited his friends to play in the mud. Spud was excited, his friends full of glee, and the spuddiest of them went ahead and climbed a tree. That was Spud of course, the spuddiest of all, but when he tried to climb the tree, Spud the spud did fall. He landed on a tall, yet oddly small wall, and Spud the spud’s friends all gasped in awe. The bravery, the heroism, that Spud had possessed, they didn’t want him to end up like the rest, so they climbed up the wall, first aid kit and all, and checked on Spud the spud, after his fall. Spud was doing fine, so they slid down a vine, back to the safety of the ground. Spud looked around, and sat on a mound, pondering if his spudly wisdom was sound. Spud eventually knew that you’ve just gotta be you, you don’t have to show off or make others impressed. His friends were so great, really, the best. So from that day Spud decided to just appreciate what he had, instead of worrying a ton that his friends would be mad.

The Satoria Program

Chapter One

The wild lands of Cordoba, Spain

April’s pencil shattered. She was an excellent pencil breaker. She groaned and grabbed another one from her bag. Her history teacher gave her a look. Scattered around the sand colored classroom‘s floor were dead pencil carcasses. Yikes.

“Nice,” whispered Brooke.

“It’s not a laughing matter.” Brooke laughed, and April rolled her eyes. Brooke was her best friend. At least in Spain she was. A couple of months ago April had moved from Baltimore to Spain because her Spanish professor father had come to study in Cordoba. So here she was in her international school. She sighed and turned back to her work.

“Do you want to go to the La Mezquita Cathedral for a picnic during lunch break?”

Asked Teresa. She was a native Spanish speaker but her English was really quite good. Since the students were encouraged to speak their second language out of class, April was her perfect English speaker; though nobody really spoke their second language out of class except for the English-speaking kids who didn’t have much choice if they wanted to have friends.

“Sure.” Smiled April. “Oh, sorry, Si.”

“¡Tu español está mejorando!“

“Merci beaucoup!” Said April, bowing.

Something that April had to get used to was the very different schedule of Spain v.s. the U.S. In Spain, school ran from nine AM to five PM with a two hour break between one and three, so you could leave school during that time to eat lunch. Since it was only November, she was still getting used to this. Tereza led April up to the Cathedral. Outside on a picnic blanket sat Nour, Gala, Rosa, and Brooke. They looked very peaceful.

“¡Holaaaa!”

“¡Hola!” Brooke was from Switzerland and spoke English, French, and Spanish fluently, but the rest besides Tereza spoke little to no English. It was a fun lunch, but it felt like a hundred degrees out, even though it was November. Rosa had brought a frisbee and the girls decided to start a game, passing and chasing after it. The plaza around the Cathedral was blocked off by tan walls, but nonetheless April managed to throw the frisbee over them.

“BRO!” Shouted Brooke.

“¡Haha, búscalo!” said Nour.

“Vamos. Geet.” Getting the frisbee was a shameful fate. The frisbee had gone over the west wall so she headed that way. She came out of the plaza onto the street and checked along the wall. Hmm, it wasn’t there. She walked along the street and looked all around– still nothing. She noticed a little wooden area up the street. It was odd that she’d never noticed it before; they ate lunch here a lot. Maybe the frisbee was up there.

For some reason her hair stood on end as she entered the woods.

“Ow!” she shouted. A small thorn bush had poked her. She rubbed her leg. Then she noticed something neon a little ways into the woods. It had to be the frisbee! She ran up to it. Perfect, a frisbee! But it wasn’t Nour’s frisbee. It was another frisbee. What a coincidence, she thought. Well, the frisbee could still be here; in fact, she saw something up to the left. It was a bit of an effort to pull it out of the tree it was stuck in. What… It was another frisbee. She looked around. More frisbees surrounded her! And there were balls too. Was that a whole bike? A skateboard? What was going on? Nah this is too trippy, thought April as she grabbed one of the frisbees and ran for it. Once she got out onto the street she ran straight to the plaza.

She saw her friends chatting. “Gente!”

“Tomó un lar-” Nour was cut off by April.

“I was in the forest next to that street on the west and I saw like five hundred frisbees and like balls and bikes and skateboards! They were everywhere! But I couldn’t find yours!” April was too weirded out to speak Spanish.

“What?” Gala asked “ No entiendo.”

Brooke raised an eyebrow. “ There’s no forest on that street. Cordoba is like a desert, there aren’t any forests. Maybe it was a mirage.”

“Um, no.” April said “ Because how would I still be holding-” She lifted up her hand to find nothing in it. “ What? But-but…”

Nour sighed.

“No frisbee!” They were all raising their eyebrows at her. Even Rosa, who had no idea what she was talking about, looked doubtful.

“I think you need to lie down.” Said Tereza.

“¡Español por favor!” Said Gala.

“Lo siento. Creo que Abril debe tomar una siesta.”

“¿Qué?”

The voices of her friends trailed off. Was April going crazy? Nour took her hand and led her inside.

“You really should go to the nurse, Abril– I mean, April.” Saadet, who sat next to April in Spanish, said as she tapped her on the shoulder. “You look really ill. “

“I am really ill.” April felt like throwing up. She raised her hand.

“Abril?” Her Spanish teacher asked.

“¿Puedo ir a la enfermería?”

“Sí.”

As soon as April was out of the classroom she barfed in the trashcan in the hallway.

“Yuck…”

On the way home April was burning up. Her parents didn’t have a car and relied on public transportation, so walking home was pretty painful. She called her parents letting them know she would be home soon. It was only a ten minute trip. When she got home her parents set her down in bed tenderly with an ice pack on her forehead.

“Okay, you should just lie down for a while,” Her mom said.

“Okay…” She trailed off.

The next morning April was still sick.

And the morning after that.

Finally relief came. “Dad? I feel better…”

“Really? May I take your temperature?” Her father said.

“Sure.”

“Oh good, your fever has broken. Let’s keep you home today just in case.”

“Coolio.”

April lay back down. While she was sick she’d had some weird fever dreams: flashing lights, maps of mysterious places, and a heck of a lot of frisbees. Her phone buzzed.

“hola cuando vuelvas a la escuela? “ Read a text from Nour.

“mañana” April texted back.

“:)”

She thought for a bit while she peered up at the ceiling. I really need to find the frisbee woods. I need to know I’m not crazy. I need to know. I remember the plaza, and where it was on the west wall. There was only one day left of school this week, so she needed to take advantage of it.

On Friday she packed some extra stuff in her bag. She planned to go to the woods before school so she woke up early. She had 45 minutes to explore the woods.

“Why the rush?” Her brother asked.

“Gotta meet with my teacher because I missed stuff.” Nigel raised his thick eyebrows at her. She rolled her eyes. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

The Cathedral’s plaza was just a little out of the way to school. She stood right at the doorway to the beautiful cathedral and found the west wall, heading out the entrance onto the street and–

Nothing. It was just a street branching onto another street. No, that’s not…right. April was not crazy. But if nothing was there… She felt defeated. Then she had an idea. She grabbed a ball that was in her bag and ran back into the plaza, tripping a little but too distracted to care. She looked around, found the west wall, and threw her ball at it. After a few failed tries, she finally got it over the wall. Then she grabbed her bag and went to the western street. Was that-? Yes! The forest was there! What was going on? A forest that only appears when you throw a ball or frisbee? Now she was worried. Was she going crazy or was this…magic? No, that would be crazy, she comforted herself. But she still approached the forest nervously. She was glad there weren’t people around to see her. Her hair stood on end again as she entered the forest. She saw several balls and frisbees, and this time she saw more objects and noticed that the forest went on for a long long time. An abnormally long time. Cordoba has an average temperature in November of 65˚ which, when combined with the lack of water, meant there wasn’t much forest. Something was in the air. It was gold, almost like dust, and it smelled like vanilla.

“Ow!” Shouted April as she tripped and fell flat on her face. A piece of gold dust settled on her hand. It looked like a piece of gold leaf but it moved through the air like it was moving through water. She saw an odd glow in the distance. She walked towards it, careful not to trip again. She pushed aside a bush and…

It was… a small female figure about five inches tall with long golden hair that fanned out across the forest like fog. She had tan skin and was wearing a short white dress with no sleeves. A long train of white followed her. Her eyes were closed, but she was standing up. No…not standing, floating. Suddenly her eyes opened and stared right into April’s. She floated higher and came to eye level with April, who felt like she couldn’t breathe. What was happening?

“Hello. My name is Cayetana.” April rubbed her eyes. Did it just…speak?

“H-Hello…?” April whispered slowly.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about…” Said…Cayetana?

“Um…can I get back to this meeting? I’m available next week.”

Cayetena looked majestically worried. “What?”

“I don’t think I’m really ready to discuss my impending descent into madness. Could we talk at 5:30 later today perhaps?”

“Um…okay..?” Cayetana said, looking confused.

“Great, bye!”

April skidadelled out of the woods. She could not handle that right now – she just ran to her school, not looking back. Did she really just postpone her meeting with a faery to after school? She’d have to tell Brooke about it and make her come with her. She couldn’t do it by herself.

“Brooke!!” April collided with her friend.

“April!!!!!!! You’re back!!?”

April had almost forgotten she had been sick. “Yeah, yeah, anyways come with me!”

“Huh? What is it?”

April grabbed Brooke’s pale hand and ran along the corridor to the bathroom. Thank goodness there was no one in there to eavesdrop. “Okay, Brooke, this is going to sound a little crazy but… do you remember when I lost that Frisbee and I told you about that forest?”

“You mean that one you hallucinated because you were sick?”

“No! I mean, well yes, but I went back this morning!”

Brooke put a finger over her lips. “Shh, you’re safe now.“

April smacked her hand away. “No! I went back and I saw a faery!”

“A faery?” Brooke asked. “I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be at school today if you’re not feeling well.”

“Fine.” April was getting tired of explaining. It would be easier to show her. “ Come with me after school to go see it.”

Brooke sighed. “Well, alright. I’m just worried about you. Seeing things is not a good sign, April.”

“I’m not seeing things, Brooke! You’ll see after school.”

They walked to class in annoyed silence. “Bye,” April muttered.

“Bye,” said Brooke.

April’s leg was bouncing up and down at top speed all day. She was so impatient to get out of school and go to the woods that she barely focused on her class.

Aya, a kid in April’s Spanish program whispered from behind her. “Why were you gone so long?”

April felt even more anxious since the intensive Spanish for non-Spanish speakers class meant she couldn’t leave for lunch on Fridays. She still had hours to wait.

“I was kidnapped by faeries,” April replied, seriously. Aya laughed.

It was almost 5 o’clock. And…the bell rang. April grabbed her stuff and headed towards the door.

“April, come stay with me!” Said Mr. Jimenez, calling for April, who rolled her eyes in the other direction and then turned to smile at him. “We should go through your missing work–”

“Can we please do it at a later time? I have something urgent at home.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Thank you so much, so sorry!” I hope my parents don’t find out about that one.

Brooke was waiting outside the door. “That took you a while.”

“Yeah, I got held up. Let’s go!” April almost forgot her backpack in her rush to get out of the school. She ran down the stairs while Brooke laughed.

“Are you unironically skipping?” She said.

“You got a problem with that, fool?” April honestly just wanted to go as fast as possible.

“Can you please explain to me where we’re going and how and why?” Brooke asked.

“It’s hard to explain, you’ll see.” She swung through the ivory pillars into the Plaza de Mezquita, then led Brooke to the middle of it.

“What…?” Brooke asked.

“You’ll see.” April threw the ball at the west wall and it soared over the top. Hole in one.

“Hey, is that my ball-?”

“It doesn’t matter!” April savagely yanked Brooke over to the west entrance of the Plaza. “Ah yes! Here it is.” April caught sight of the forest a second before Brooke, who looked over her shoulder.

“What…” Brooke’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. And no, not Tapas like a salad bowl. Full dinner plates – and you can quote me on that one. The forest was there. Brooke was very interested in plants and as she looked at it, she saw plants that should not have been growing in Cordoba. Plants that shouldn’t even be grown anywhere in Spain. And plants that should not be growing together. And plants that shouldn’t be growing at all. There is no way that was a Sitka Spruce, an Alaskian mega tree, growing next to a Plumeria Plant which was grown mainly in Hawaii. And…

“April…”

“Yes?”

“April, that flower right there, is a Cooksonia, the first Vascular plant we know about.”

“Oh, cool,” said April causally.

“No April. Not cool. That plant went extinct 25 Million years ago. “

“Wait, I don’t understand…”

“Yeah, me either,” said Brooke. As an avid plant lover she was very confused. “April, I know you said this before, but there is something going on with these woods.”

“See, I’m not crazy!” April laughed.

Brooke looked down at her hands. “Am I…on drugs?”

“What, no! Are- No!”

Brooke looked worried. “ Let’s just go,” Said April.

“No, April, stop. We’re not going into the creepy woods that aren’t always there.”

“I’ve already been in, it’s fine.“

April ran in and Brooke hesitantly followed her. She grabbed a Cooksonia plant on the way in and put it in her backpack. They were both in the woods now. Frisbees and small playable things suddenly emerged from the brush as they walked.

“Whoa, you weren’t kidding about these frisbees.”

“Yeah. I definitely was not.” April stopped. “ This is where I saw Cayetana.”

“Do you mean Cayenne? I thought that it was grown mainly in East Africa. I didn’t know it was this far north!!”

“No, not Cayenne! Cayetana, the faery!”

“Wait WHAT? Kanye??”

“It’s actually Ye. Get it right Brooke. “ April looked like Brooke should have known what she was talking about. “Y’know, that faery I told you about.”

“Yeah, I did not believe you.”

“Hey!” Said April sadly.

“Would you have believed me if I told you I saw a fairy in mysterious fake woods that most certainly do NOT exist?”

“Ok, fine, that’s fair.”

“Anyways, did you talk to this faery?”

“Yes, it told me its name. And it asked to talk to me.”

“Wasn’t it already talking to you?” Brooke interjected. “ Also isn’t “it” a little insulting?”

“It- I mean she wanted to talk to me about magic, I think.”

“And so did you?”

“No, I told her I was free at 5:30.”

“WHAT?! You blew off a magical Cayenne faery to go to school?!”

“I didn’t want to have to deal with that!” April looked upset. “ It was too much for one poor little 14 year old to handle. Yikes!”

“Well, what time is it?”

“5:28” So close, yet so far.

“Um… “ Said Brooke. “What is that?” April whirled around. What was that? A small purple glow was radiating from the brush a little ways away. April ran to the spot to find a small…portal? Hole? Purple hole? It was very small, big enough for a faery to fit through but not much else.

“April…what is that?” Said Brooke, her hand shaking. Suddenly something came out of the portal. Brooke jumped back and grabbed April covering her mouth. April objected but Brooke pulled her behind a bush.

“What did you do that for?”

“We don’t know what that thing is!” Exclaimed Brooke who looked frightened and worried.

“It’s a faery! What can it do!”

“Well lemme tell you something it can do: hear you! Shut up!” Brooke covered her mouth again. Then they heard another voice.

“Ugh, where are they?” Said a disgruntled voice.

“They’re here. Behind that bush.” Said a calm and deep voice. Brooke and April looked at eachother, eyes wide. “Come over here, you two. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

“That sounds very suspicious,” said Brooke.

April rolled her eyes and stood up. “Hi there!”

“April!” Yelled Brooke. “ We’re being subtle.”

“By hiding behind a bush?”

“Yes.” They both looked around and then at the two figures floating in the air in front of them.

“Wow,” Said Brooke.

The first one had tan freckle-covered skin, and the most fabulous hair. It looked like her head was on fire. She was wearing a short orange and red dress with a large fiery skirt that fanned around her. She had two wings on her back which looked like stained glass. They seemed to be decorated with an animation of her fighting a fire-breathing dragon. The wings barely moved, but somehow were always moving.

“Oh my god,” said Brooke.

The other one was the complete opposite. Her long blue hair looked like a cascading waterfall which dripped to the ground. Her skin was smooth and dark. She was wearing what seemed to be a blue romper which looked like a blue leaf with veins, but sparkled with large water droplets. It had a belt which looked like a rain cloud. Her wings were also stained glass with water droplets animated.

“Hello there?” She asked. “My name is Dew.”

“Hi, Dew.”

“We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

The Brief But Extraordinary Life of Stevie Dreger

Trigger warning: suicide

Stevie Dreger was the first friend I ever lost. He was also the last person in the world I would have expected to kill himself. But regardless of any previous premonitions anyone held to him, on that beautiful August day he still walked himself and his beat-up red chucks onto the bridge that connects Shelburne and Buckland and returned himself to the earth. Stevie used to tell me that he didn’t belong to anyone. He told me that one day 16 years ago, the various elements of the earth came together to form one imperfect being: himself. He never explained why; he just knew.

Stevie left notes before he died. He left notes to everyone in his life that he loved, or rather, everyone in his life that would want an explanation. He left notes for everyone he knew would be unsatisfied with simplicity. The simple fact that he was done with living. Not because he was depressed or angry at what the world had or had not handed to him, but because he had done everything he had wanted to do. For years after the fact, I was angry at him for that, but I knew the real reason I was mad at him. The most selfless person I had ever known had gone and done the most selfish thing anyone can do: deprive you of their presence. If the dead can be selfish, maybe they are more alive than we think they are. My anger made him real; more than a pile of dust secure in an ugly vase.

For me, Stevie left a checklist. A wrinkled piece of a legal pad, with five items listed on it. I spent night after night trying to decipher what it meant until I came to a conclusion. They were the five things Stevie wanted to do with his life. By each item was a check mark, written in thick black ink.

There were bystanders on the bridge the day Stevie died. A couple in a blue sedan pulled over as he swung a leg over the railing of the bridge. They said later that as he saw them sprinting in his direction he flashed his crooked smile and waved as he dove into the water, releasing a breath.

Along with the notes, Stevie left a very detailed description of exactly what his funeral would look like. He wrote that under no circumstances whatsoever was anyone to wear black. He also described how he would like his coffin to be brought down the aisle, with a rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain” playing in the background. We used to listen to “Purple Rain” on repeat after school sometimes. We would be in Stevie’s room, surrounded by posters of Bowie and Mick Jagger, reading or procrastinating on our homework. After a while of listening to it over and over again, Stevie declared it his favorite song of all time. He had determined that no matter how many times he listened to it, his ears were never bored.

And so there I sat, in my mid-length yellow frock and white sandals, in the chapel of the Immaculate Conception Church, watching the pallbearers in their sky blue suits carry half of my heart in a box down the aisle, tears soaking my handkerchief. I half expected him to open the casket, jump out, and have a laugh.

Stevie was a Catholic, and a devoted one. He didn’t believe in the religious aspect of it, the “God crap” as he so eloquently put it, but still, every Sunday there he was, his blonde curls pushed back, his tie loose on his neck, staring ever so intensely at the priest as he gave his sermon. I asked him once why he went if he didn’t believe any of it. We were lying in a field of dandelions, lying in the opposite directions of each other so our faces were side by side. He didn’t respond to the question at first. Instead, he picked a dandelion, uprooted it from the earth, and pushed my hair behind my ear. He wrapped the stem of the flower around the back of my ear so the pretty part would stick out from my hair. He turned his head and grinned as he told me he went because he loved to observe. Watching hundreds of people give up their time to worship something that he didn’t even believe existed was fascinating to him. He liked all of the old ladies sitting in the pews who always turned around to shake his hand. He liked that they always asked how he was doing, how his mother was and if he had a girlfriend.

I remember after the memorial service my family piled into our beat up white station wagon and drove over to the Dregers. Their brownstone stood at the end of Aster Street, three down from ours. The house looked like it had lost color; the already dull brown bricks looked sadder somehow. I remember their entire living room was crowded, not with family or loved ones, but with lillies. I remember the smell and how it smacked me in the face when I entered the foyer. I had to squeeze onto the couch between Stevie’s little sister and an assortment of colored lilies, each with their own crinkly plastic wrapping and obnoxious ribbon. They were ugly. Plain and ugly. And Stevie was none of those things.

A few months after Stevie died, I went to visit him at the Delphinium St. Cemetery. His headstone had just been finished, a pile of fresh soil surrounded it. Engraved on the stone was his full name: Steven George Dreger, beloved son, brother, and friend. Words that did not hold a candle to all that he was. It was December, and in classic New England fashion, snow piled up everywhere. Stevie’s mother had made sure that his headstone was untouched by anything that could damage it; I had heard from Ms. Richards down the street that his mother had visited the cemetery every evening since the day of his funeral. I brushed the freshly fallen snow off the top of the stone and sat. The snow soaked through my corduroys but I didn’t care.

Surrounding his stone were the putrid lilies that had been at his funeral. I turned my head to avoid the smell. Blended with the lillies was baby’s breath, a somewhat mediocre flower. The arrangement was less than beautiful, so I unwrapped the plastic and rearranged the flowers in a more suitable manner. Still, the bouquet was not perfect. I tried again. And again. At last, I gave up and left the flowers in a pile, the plastic wrapping crinkling in the wind. I stomped out of the cemetery in a fury, unsatisfied with the flowers, unsatisfied with their state of ugliness. Disgruntled, I stormed over to the florist, Mr. Beau, to demand that he make something better. Although Mr. Beau had nothing to do with my dislike of lilies and their putridity, off I went.

Freshman year of high school, Stevie and I went out for a while – only for about a month or so, and it didn’t work out the way we thought it would. Stevie’s stubbornness to reveal anything about his emotions led to our eventual breakup. Or maybe it had been my lack of, well, desire to be in a relationship with anyone. The true cause of our romantic downfall was never found, because two weeks later, his father was in the ICU for a heart attack. Every hole we had stabbed in the very fabric of our relationship was patched. I had been sitting in the lobby of the ICU, Stevie asleep on my shoulder, for three hours before the doctor came out to give us the news. His father was stable, or as stable as can be after a heart attack. Stevie collapsed on the floor in sobs of relief. That was the first time I ever saw him cry.

Mr. Beau called me on New Year’s Eve. I was watching Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve 1985 regardless of how much pain it caused me; Stevie used to love to watch the ball drop. Mr. Beau had called to offer me a job at the flower shop after I had given him a lecture on the importance of flower fragrance. He figured that he would rather have a motivated employee than a disgruntled customer. I started work there in the New Year, after winter break. The store was always humid because we had to keep the flowers warm in the winter. Nobody wants a dead flower.

After Stevie’s father’s heart attack, our relationship went almost back to normal. We still hung out after school every day, had dinner at each other’s houses and whatnot, but I don’t think Stevie ever looked at me the same way. Sometimes I would catch him staring in my direction, his head tilted to the side, his blonde curls falling across his face. “What?” I would say. “Is there something on my face?”. He would look at me in a way words cannot describe and shake his head.

By March, the flower shop had doubled its profits. Mr. Beau was so satisfied with my work that he gave me a 20% pay raise. I could anticipate the needs of every single person that entered the shop just with one look. A young woman in her mid-twenties with freshly manicured nails: a bride in need of a bulk order of roses. A small boy with a collared shirt and blue jeans, hair parted to the side: flowers for his grandmother. A middle aged fat man with a receding hairline: a late present for an anniversary forgotten. I would obsess over the orders, picturing the event in my head and letting my hands do the rest of the work. I watched each of the people walk out of the store, taking in the bouquet I had presented them with, feeling like I had done good work. But I also felt unfulfilled, like there was something missing. Like those people walked out with a bit of me. The bouquets were good, but not good enough – for me, or maybe for Stevie.

I started working overtime in the shop when school ended in May. I had the summer off before college, no internships or extra work that had to be done. I found myself on the stool for hours at a time, forming bouquets for nobody in particular. Customers were rare in the summer, as most people were off at the Cape for the season. While Mr. Beau was on vacation, I moved the lily stand to the back of the store. I couldn’t bear the smell. The days stretched into nights as I put together a million combinations of flowers together. I hadn’t brought any of my flowers to Stevie, it never seemed right.

The obsession grew into something bigger as the summer drew on. I placed orders for more varieties of flowers we could buy for the shop, more combinations that were beautiful, but not Stevie’s beautiful. It reached a point at which I was using so many flowers and wasting them on unsellable bouquets, that Mr. Beau had no choice but to fire me. I was completely devastated, I couldn’t sleep for days, images of multicolored daisies and violets floated in front of me. I felt incomplete.

The day before Stevie died, he called me. He wanted to know if I liked Italian Wedding Soup. I told him I had never tried it before, so three minutes later, there he was, outside my door holding a container of his mother’s homemade Italian Wedding Soup. I poured myself a serving and sat down with him in the breakfast nook. The sun reflecting off of his golden locks was almost blinding. He squinted his eyes intensely as I took a sip. It was delicious. I smiled at him and told him that it was the best soup I had ever had the pleasure of tasting. He nodded in satisfaction and told me that this was the last piece of information that he would ever need to know about me. I never understood the gravity of those words until he was gone.

Stevie never got his perfect bouquet. It was never going to be right. Everything beautiful about Stevie had died with him. But I forgave myself for what I had done. Maybe if I had been a little uglier, or if my hair had been shorter, or if my nose scrunched up at an odd angle when I was thinking, maybe then he wouldn’t have fallen in love with me and maybe then I wouldn’t have been the last task on his list. Because stuffed in the back drawer of my bedroom on Aster Street are the words that completed the short but vivacious life of Stevie Dreger. Stevie used to say that he didn’t belong to anyone, and maybe he didn’t, but as sure as the blue of the sky and the swiftness of the wind moving through the trees, I belonged to him.