Hey girl, hey.

Hey you. You look so happy, you think you’re on top of the world. The stupid messages and comments, the wonderful banter that puts the sparkle in your eye.

I wish I could warn you. I wish I could save you; not as a price charming saves a damsel but a down to earth honest to goodness woman to woman intervention.

You wouldn’t listen to me. You wouldn’t listen to her either; or her, or her. Because with you it’s different, with you it’s real- in a way that we never managed or could even understand.

Girl you go. Go and prove us wrong, make him understand that YOU ARE WORTH IT. Because in that moment we will all have become WORTH IT. And if you fail, well we will be right here, and you will be one of us. Join the club.

We’re thinking about getting jackets.

Mass communication

Sitting on the fire escape her life seems oddly distant. Friend with the long brown hair and savvy style has gone; spending another one of her days teasing synthetic locks and presenting girls with newly crisp bows on their dollies hair.

The street smells; coming from the land of the pine and the sea this stink is wonderful. Take a deep breath and fill her lungs with filth and pollution. Grey snow is quickly soaking through her jacket but she doesn't feel her skin numbing; in her mind there are footlights and pyrotechnics and face-paint. In reality there are old cigarettes in a dish made in some long ago ceramics class. But this, this is REAL. This must be what LIFE smells like.

And then she scrambles back through the window, scared that somehow she has trespassed on some great TRUTH that should not yet be discovered. Inside is chilled and now she feels the wet on her jacket. There is nothing here to do, nothing to keep her mind off of everything. So she tries an experiment. Mass Text 101.

Happy new years from the Big City.

Two recipients. Just to make it fair, she considers adding a third to this small trap of morals. But the irony, the simplicity of those two names side by side...too perfect to spoil.

The first response she doesn't really need to look at. It's perfect and sweet and wondering why she is so very many miles away in the cold heartless city.

The second, was not as she had hoped but just as she expected.

"Hey, I'm here too! What are you doing tonight? Just got in from Jersey."

Disgusted, fling the phone onto the couch and sit by the window. Breath in, breath out. So very grateful for the thousands of people in the city to protect her from that one poison.

"Next year" she vows "things will be different. Next year there will be a boy who loves me and he will kiss me at midnight and then I will turn into a pumpkin."

And she reaches for the phone and scrolls down her contacts. One deep breath, two deep breaths; not today. Today she won't play coy games, today she isn't the cynical city girl she so wishes to be. Today she is from the ocean and the cliffs and the sickly sweet pine trees.

REPLY

I wish I was there with you too, I miss you lots and lots. But there will be plenty of walks when we get back to school.

SEND.

American Dream

It's a balmy evening; the white fur wrap sliding off her shoulders seems like overkill. It goes though, goes with the cherry red lips, the formfitting gown, the youthful eyes and dark curls. Breathing into his ear she is pouting, simpering.

"Oh darling, can't we please just go now? I don't want to wait to run into any more old acquaintances and I can't bear not having you in my arms for one minute longer!"

He smells of whisky and cologne, and his hands on hers is strong and reeks of power.

"My darling you know we can't leave until they announce the award, it would be unthinkably rude."

"Oh please...."

A sigh and a hand casually creeping up the pinstripe of a thigh. White elbow length gloves keeping the whole thing lady like, of course. This is a perfectly lady like entanglement.

A deep inhaling of breath and he stands, a dashing smile pasted to his lips. She takes his offered hand and the two of them quietly take their leave.

Outside the night is pierced by the yellow flashes and fast question slung by the ever eager reporters. No, she was not unwell, just had a slight headache and wished to be taken home at once. No, she had no comment on any of the scandals vaguely attached to her name. No, he would not be spending the evening with her, he was simply dropping her off at the Chateau in his car.

Draped in the leather seats in the back of his car her long fingers toyed delicately with his jacket lapel.

"Darling, come out with me tonight."

"You know as well as I that we must stay inside, preferably in separate estates entirely."

"But darling, I will be bored. Please, just come in for a quick drink. I won't make a scandal, I swear it."

Being an actress has taught her just how to play on men's emotions, and the honest question in her eyes was answered by his arm drawing her in just a little closer.

A whoosh up the gravel drive and they are home, her home at least. Inside is dark and cold and elegant.

"Don't lets be inside. It's too warm and wonderful out. Let's go walking." She is sliding her white drape off and her red dress too, and right there in her great hall she is standing with moonlight on her skin and no shame in her eyes. She wraps herself in a robe and slips off her shoes and walks barefoot out the front door.

"There are stories here. There are stars in the sky and a green light across the harbor- there, and there are stories." Silence. The night is breathing and for a while, they let it.

"Tell me a story."

"You wouldn't like these stories. They all end in death; or worse in life without dreaming."

"I don't mind." The night breaths again; exhaling in little puffs across the bay.

"The lawn, that one over there. There are people dancing and drinking and dancing some more."

"Drinking? Scandal!" Her legs are over the side of the dock, she is brushing the water with the tips of her toes. His fingers search her shoulder, looking for some imperfection that does not exists.

"And there, you see your swimming pool? There is a body there. Not an actual person, just the idea of someone, floating I think."

"Alive?"

"No."

The green light is winking at them. The slow whosshhhh as the water slides up and down the shore is keeping time with the clunk of the rowboat pulling at it's mooring. She is staring at the stars and plinking pebbles into the water.

"This is it, isn't it? This is all we have. The rest is a lie, this nothingness, this is what we really own. This is what we will live for and die with."

"Yes."

"Nothingness."

"Yes."

She stands, abruptly.

"Goodnight Scotty, I think I will go float in my pool for a bit."

"Goodnight."

She turns to leave, then pauses standing still with her back to the water.

"I'm leaving you know."

"I know."

The next day the headlines that would have been splashed with horror and intrigue remained focused on stocks and innovation and style. When the police had left and the house staff dismissed he stood there, still. She wouldn't want him to waste such a perfect delusion. So he went home.

"Maternal love."

Go ahead, tell me it's impossible. Tell me that I'm going to fail, and that even more then failing people will point and laugh and I will lose and friendship or self respect that I ever had.
And yet, I'm going to wad cotton in my ears and hum a little and not listen to your poison.
Deep down you're jealous, you see me so close to things you dreamed about once. And maybe I will fail, and in five years, ten years I'll end up sleeping on an old mat in some alleyway; trying to convince strangers that I didn't drink myself into this condition.
But in failing, at least I will know that I'm alive.

Scene

Lights up.
I know what you did last night.
Said you were going out, said you were headed to the bar with the boys. Smiling I kissed your cheek and murmured "I'll be waiting for you when you get back."
Shut the door and passed the hours, reading and watching the old half broken tv that sits in the corner. Show after show after show, finally a marathon about PI's that catch wayward husbands and fiancees. Silly women, girls really, to be conned by the same tricks over and over and over again. At some point, don't they deserve what they get?

1:45 exactly and the door slams. unzip the old ratty hoodie and toss it aside, trying in my lacy tank top to keep some illusion alive.
"Hey baby...." Your arms are around me, I look for a kiss by get a squeeze instead. You detach yourself and go to the kitchen; I can hear the faucet filling one of our cheap plastic glasses with water.
"How was the bar?"
"Smoky."
Silence. You lean against the doorframe, old green and yellow t-shirt draping casually off your frame. I remember when you bought that shirt, we were together and I said it made you look distinguished. Now it's bleach stained and hole ridden, but it goes well with your unshaven face and calloused hands.
Sliding off the couch and striding towards you, I wrap my arms around your waist and look up into your eyes.
"I got our wine. And dark chocolate. Want to watch a movie? Just like in school..."
"Not tonight baby. I'm tired, work tomorrow, up at five am..."
Trail off and I nod in agreement.
Climb the stairs with a slow and deliberate tread, and I open my dinosaur of a laptop looking for more virtual solace. An instant message waits for me, not ten minutes old. Kara.
"It's so nice of you to trust him like that, going to visit her at this hour."
Visiting her? Her her? He did have a strange lack of booze and cigarette odor. Deep breath, one...two...three. Reply.
"I just trust him that way. He wouldn't lie to me."
"Still, tell him to be careful! The hill gets pretty slippery in the winter and we just had our first snow..."
"Thanks. I'll tell him."

Snow? In October? I hadn't even noticed. Snap the computer closed and walk to the front door, ease it open. Sure enough, about an inch of white clinging to the ground. Snow changes everything, the whole world seems innocent, the whole world is beautiful. And then close the door, snap out the light. Walk upstairs and climb into bed with my own beautiful deceiver.
Blackout.

Explosion

Kaboom!

My life is disappearing in a cloud of blue and gray and little orange tongues. I never thought that my whole existence could be packed into seven bankers boxes. Seven, what a lonely number. Seven ash boxes of cinders in the shell that used to be a compact SUV.

New auburn hair, I can't bring myself to say red. It's in my eyes and mouth and so now the world tastes like hair dye as well as smoke. The chemicals create the most delicious palate.

In that car in one of those boxes is a laptop. Technological genius to devise something that can store so many stories in one sleek piece of plastic. I did some digging, before I set it to sleep for the last time. A time capsule of stale emotion, I should have known better.

Meridith was cold this night. And who's to say that she did not deserve to be cozy? It's not like he wasn't enjoying himself...if he wanted more he had a phone full of names he could try. She knew this, and somehow it made her feel better. Being used was infinitely easier then using people.

Funny. Looking back today those words seemed to have been written about the wrong person entirely. And so I closed the laptop and placed it gently on top of a pile of black and gold trinkets and a high school playbill. It was one easy move to put the lid on the box and the box in the car and walk away. The spark had been trickier, I didn't know how quickly the thing would catch, never having torched any sort of vehicle before. First I had tried tossing matches at a kerosene soaked interior, but they extinguished mid-flight. Bigger, I told myself. think bigger. That's when I remembered my brother. Well, he's not my brother anymore I suppose. He used to tell me that I always overdo things, that sometimes I should just take the simple way out. Looking around at the empty kerosene containers that littered the ground I grinned at what he would have said. Sis, you always have to be dramatic, don't you? Simple is better, just get the job done as efficiently as possible.

My bag beside me, the few essentials I had decided to save. Why did I think I would need hairspray, anyway? And it's perfect, I suppose, that I should use an old white shirt, something that I knew I shouldn't save to begin with. The last drops of cologne would only make it burn faster. Knot it and spray it- a routine usually performed on my own locks pre-shows.

Burn baby, burn.

The Kaboom! was in my mind. In reality it was a poof as the knotted shirt hit the seat and my old life went up in smoke.

Blue eyes open and I see you in the back seat, body struggling to return to consciousness. Your shirt rests beside you, and for the first and last time I see terror. And now I turn and walk away, new red hair swinging in the breeze.

Snap.

"You have no right to make me laugh."
A finer trembling on cold metal. One hand steadying the other-eyes swimming in and out of focus. Tears? Perhaps.
"Baby, stop it, come on hon. Let's just talk, ok?"
A calloused hand reaching forward in an offering- palm up.
"No!" Stay where you are, stay the fuck where you are!"
Eyes squeeze shut for one moment and-
SNAP.

**
Two days ago I spilled something red on something blue. Now I'm trying to scrub it out, I know how mad you'll be when you see it. Nothing I can do about the hole but that reddish brown, that I can lift with persistence. You're in the basement, you just went down for a second, any moment now you'll holler up the stairs and I'll ignore you-as always- until you come up and speak to me like a human being. This annoys you, I know, so I'll scrub this stain away and maybe you'll forgive me.
**
Today those spots on my arms and back faded almost away. It's been nearly a week but the blue turned green and yellow and now is nearly gone. I can just barely see the ghost of your hand, just there, on the left side of my throat. A lasting caress and a reminder of your love. And to show you mine, I've been mending the hole in the blue. It's almost finished now, see?
**
Some people came to the door today. Said they saw your car and wondered why you weren't in work. Neighbors I guess; I told them you were in the basement and expected any minute. They didn't guess they ought to wait, they had a pot roast on. I told them I had a casserole in the oven, that was the delicious smell that filled the foyer. They wrinkled their noses in disagreement. Casserole can't be everyone's dish I suppose.
**
I found a rat today. In the kitchen. A great fat one, and I think I heard it's brother foraging last night through the pantry. It scampered down to the basement when I threw a dishtowel at it- a rat so rounded must be eating well- I'll have to remind you to check the dry goods down there when you come back. The casserole smell hasn't left, it gets more potently delicious every day.
**
The last time you loved me you smiled. You threw me against the wall and when my head banged off the picture of an old fishing man you smiled. I know that loving me that way must bring you joy, so I smiled back through the red dizzy haze. You wrapped a loving hand around my throat then and smiled wider. This must be a fun game for you. Today I threw myself down the stairs to see if I would smile without you. It seems the joke has gone out of the game.
**
They came again today, asking about you. You were fixing the boiler, but you would be up in two shakes of a lambs tail. They smiled, but not your smile. Theirs was full of pity and a little bit of terror. They left then, and I turned back to my pickling.
**
Men in blue came today. They saw my pickling and asked where you were. Their blue reminded me of yours; I told them you were downstairs but that I would show them your blue while they waited. They saw the blue and the gold buttons and then they saw the hole. I tried my best to patch it, but not good enough. They saw it and they were angry and said it would be best if I went with them. I told them I would, but that I wanted to write this note to you to tell you where I had gone. They seemed to pity me, but they let me. I'll leave it here on the table next to a jar of my latest pickling project. This way, no matter what, I'll get to keep you to myself for a long time. Pickled goods last for a long time.

The Summer

Summer time and the livin' ain't easy.
Mindless work and no one to keep me even the slightest bit lukewarm at night.

Late sometimes I'll read what passes for our early correspondence. Filled with anger, flirtation, and passion just like it should be-never mind that in this age of technology it's an Instantaneous Message and not a well thought out letter.

Then I'll cry cry cry myself to sleep (things happen in threes right now, don't ask me why they just do.) All of it makes me shiver still, the conversations and the early fights. The things I told you about him...the things I felt when I wrote of my despair and broken heart. Wish sometimes I never told you those things, because then I wouldn't have to read them now. And then I cry some more, thinking of wasted time and thought and emotion when you were right there, right there, right there.

Summer smells like stale tears on a pillow case and the last bit of cologne that clings to fabric.
This is supposed to be tragic and perfect, two lovers ripped apart by cruel fate and all of that. But, sometimes, I wonder if it's really you that I miss. That's when I'll begin dangerous contemplation, thinking and comparing and thinking again. Those early conversations we had seemed so fun and giddy and passionate. Now it's silence after long silence, until the whole world seems muted and I want to scream just to know that I still can. And that's when I go back and read other conversations with other people, and then the shaking starts and the tears and the pillow is my only anchor to reality. Thinking and crying and thinking again.

It's not fair. I know. I'm not fair. I'm selfish and greedy and jealous and unreasonable and you don't deserve any of it. I told you to run once, to leave while you still could. You wouldn't. You, like any honorable perfect gentleman, wouldn't let me go that easy.

You deserve better. But hey, I warned you.

Summer.

Liberal Arts Education

The wind whistled past the automobile as it rushed on through the heavy mist. It's passenger was dressed in light summer frock, as the car speed forward the girl's sash whipped up to dance in her face. Terror was in her eyes and the hands that clutched at the steering wheel, willing herself on, pushing the limits of sixty miles per hour. Not two minutes behind her another engine purred, a feline stalking prey.
The girl's dancing shoes slipped off the gas momentarily, the fast deceleration almost caused the car to stall. Sharp turn, a branch across the dirt road almost sent her spinning into the trees. Righting herself, she peered forwards towards her destination. Slamming the brake the car skidded forward and jerked to a halt. A lookout, on a clear night you could see over the whole sleepy town and university beyond- with majestic mountains to either side and a sheer drop to the valley below. The coeds had nicknamed this spot "lover's lane," but tonight it was eerie, draped in a rolling fog.
Slamming her door she ran, and seconds later heard her pursuer cut his engine and pant after her. A rock in her path twisted her ankle the wrong way; she slammed to the ground and lay there, head spinning in pain. She had to go on, couldn't stop now. Dragging herself up, half limping half running forward; she was on grass now, muffling the sounds of her steps instead of echoing them. Just a few more yards...and a hand caught at her dress. The silk ripped and she almost broke free, but another hand was grasping her arm. Biting and kicking she tried to break away, but her leg wouldn't support her weight on it's own. A swift kick upward yielded results as it connected with something soft and fleshy, a grunt and she was scrambling forward again. A few sure steps and then her left foot landed in air. With a small gasp she looked back as she plunged down through the night-down, down, down into the valley below.
*****
The stuck key jangled uselessly in the door, refusing to turn to either lock or unlock the storage room. An exasperated sigh and Anna was forced to put down the box she was balancing in her free arm. With both hands she manhandled the key until it reluctantly clicked into place and the door swung open. The room that greeted her always gave her the creeps. Peeling mismatched wall paper that dated from the turn of the century through the fifties, cracks on the wall and exposed pipes in the ceiling. This one room was frozen in time in a building that could boast all the modern necessities; it was the only room not to be wired for cable and wifi. Short makeshift partitions divided it into fourths, all with huge padlocks lest anyone felt curious about other organizations carefully guarded secrets. Not that they would find much, other then an old pinata, stacks of glass coke bottles, and an assortment of old scrapbooks. Anna grunted in disgust as she surveyed the mess. The box of modern composites and photos wouldn't fit anywhere without a struggle. "Why the fuck did I think joining a sorority was a good fucking idea?" she grumbled, not for the first time that day. Sullenly she played tetris with boxes for a while, before growing thoroughly peeved and slamming down a crate of old song books. "WHAT THE HELL IS THE PROBLEM WITH GREEK LIFE AND ORGANIZATION??!" In disgust she swung her foot at the wall, but instead of the satisfying thud she was expecting the wall swung in with her foot. "Great job Anna. Just wreck the fucking building why don't you?" Nursing both her pride and her foot she sat down to see how best she could hide her destruction. As she peered closer she discovered to her astonishment, not a hole in the plaster, but rather a small hinge cleverly disguised by the peeling wall paper. The tiny cubby it revealed had things scribbled on it in pen and pencil, too faded to make out. She let a finger trace the outline of a scrawl that looked like Greek letters, and to her further astonishment her fingertip brushed paper. Anna pulled it out and found herself examining a clip from the Campus Herald, published in 1936. It was yellow but in otherwise good condition, the room was dry and apparently free of mice. The headline of the clip read "Campus Queen Killed in Tragic Accident."

Thursday, May 16-
The campus community was grieved today to hear the news that Grace Turner's body has indeed been found. The search, which commenced late Tuesday night when she failed to return by curfew after a fraternity dance, was ended when Turner was discovered near the popular parking spot known to some as "Lover's Lane." She had apparently mis-stepped in the fog and gone over the edge of the cliff that the overlook sits atop. Her car has yet to be found, anyone who sees a black and red convertible ford is asked to report it immediately to the local authorities.
Turner was very active in campus life and will be missed by many. Though only a sophomore, she was recently named May Queen, and was the vice president of the Literary Society, as well as an active member in the Alpha Gamma Theta sorority. Services will be held in her memory this Sunday at the chapel, money is being collected for a scholarship in her name.

Anna shivered involuntarily. The Turner Scholarship, a prestigious award given to one incoming freshman interested in studying English or Journalism. She had been the recipient for her class. "This is crazy..." She let her words trail off as her fingers traced the photo that accompanied the article. Turner, after just being crowned Queen on May Day. She was in a white dress and surrounded by her court, framed by a fountain that must have been lost in the campus "Modernizations." She was a striking girl, with a chiseled face and dark hair. Turning the scrap of paper over in her hands Anna saw that someone had made an addendum to the back. "Gracie, you will be missed. Tony Parson deserves death for what he did to you. Gamma Theta love forever." The black sentiment was scrawled in perfect cursive, for some reason this made Anna shiver more then the article had. Suddenly she was struck by the urge to leave as fast as possible. Stuffing the article back into it's hiding place of more then seventy years, she scrambled to make her way out of the mess that she had inadvertently made worse. Only once she was safely out of the Alpha Gamma Theta storage room did she realize that her heart was racing at twice it's normal speed.

To be continued...

What the moon saw

Translucent pillars of green stand near and watch as the snowflakes swirl around us in the cold winter air. The dark midnight sky, littered with stars, hangs over head barely lighting our way as we explore this forsaken town.

It's cold, very cold. I'm trying not to let him see how cold I really am in the hopes that I can prolong this evening. I'm upset about something, another betrayal or heartbreak or growing pain. He cares, it angers me slightly. Tonight I just want to feel unloved. We talk about nothing in the hopes that something will be said.

One of us are here reluctantly, the other by choice, neither of us happy. We walk for miles while hours seem like minutes chatting about anything and everything. Making our way north, we follow an all too familiar route. A right turn here, a sweeping left there, strolling as if we are being pulled along train tracks paying no mind to our destination. Soon we arrive at the fair grounds.

There are no stars here like at home, just a few straggling pinpoints in the endless blue. It never gets truly dark, even when we pass the water tower and leave all signs of civilization behind. For weeks I have thought about this spot, about how perfect it could all be. But for me dreams remain dreams, and reality is simply a nightmare I live. The ground is too soft, in my dreams I didn't slip from slush and ice. This then must be real.

Large and empty, we admire the evening view as more light shines down from the heavens upon us, thinking only of each other and how wonderful it is to be alone. Climbing up icy stairs and reaching the top of the grandstand, we embrace…and talk…and kiss…and in this moment my world stands still, yet spins wildly within my soul.

My hands are in his pockets, his jacket smells like old campfire and the barn I grew up in; the most comforting smell in the world. Here we are teetering on the top of the world, icy stairs disappear down into the darkness and only the chain link behind fence stands between me and romantic doom. Then my dream is real, and he is holding me close, and I am enthralled. Complete perfection, it lasts for precious seconds. And I am thinking again. He asks me what's the matter, and I try to answer, except that I don't know what's wrong. It's the first time I've been happy in months, this perhaps is the problem. I have forgotten how to be happy.

The man on moon peaks an eye out from beneath his cover and watches and smiles knowing this is perfect…this is meant to be. Finally, we leave. Upon arriving at your door we share one last embrace, one last kiss for the evening.

And then he leaves, like I knew he would. Recklessly we embrace on the front step-and now I know this is what I want. No more hiding, no more sneaking up and down stairs or across brick paths. Just this, simplicity and contentment. But I know better then to expect that for myself. Simplicity is for others, I am intrinsically complicated.

As I walk home I look to my friend above and without words he tells me everything I want to hear, and I couldn't be happier.

Must Love Dogs

Cold, and dark, and I'm hurrying to get back to you. We both know that neither of us is really happy, I think, but we've put too much time and energy into making this work to let it go. Committed, what a dark word. I'm freezing and thinking about other people, as usual on these long and nowadays solitary walks.

There was a dream once, a poor shabby Utopian dream. We both must have known that it would never, could never work. Living happily on next to nothing, having jobs we liked and kids and dogs. We ended up with careers, and brats, and a mutt. Some dream. I wonder what they're doing some days; if he's living this gray life, or if he's got the husky puppy that he wanted and is following his parents into government work. Then I shut it out again, back to reality and tediously long days and longer nights. Whatever we once had that made those evenings magical has disappeared into your TV and my novels, we each live our own separate fantasy worlds.

In the alley next to the "cozy" apartment is a girl on her cell phone. Silly young thing, shouting and ranting to whoever is on the line, tears and rosy anger boiling in her cheeks. I want to tell her to give up now, accept the mediocrity; but she has years ahead of her to learn that. Tomorrow she will go to the coffee shop that she works at and and there will be a message and a brownie and she will forgive and sigh at her own dream. My key scraping in the door drags me back to my own story, and the snotty nose that is waiting for tired hands to wipe it.

Just Livin' the dream.

Kinda, maybe, sorta.

Cold that night, at least I think it was cold. All of my memories from that winter seem to be covered in a permanent frost. Must have been too cold for walking anyway, because we were in the car; we were roaming along back roads and unintentionally circling the small town that had become such a trap. Music playing, country probably, and I was probably rolling my eyes and secretly wishing he would sing along.

An unused logging road, or at least that's what I would think of it as. I have no idea if logging ever happened in that tiny town, but to my northern brain that's what seemed logical. Turning the lights off, kissing, and staring and kissing again. And cliche, cliche seemed to have become my life I suppose. And I suppose it didn't really matter after all, cliche or not for that moment it was perfect.

And soon, too soon we both grew sleepy and turned the lights back on and drove home. Later we discovered that the car was leaking fumes, that we were lucky to shake off the sleep and drive away that night. But in blissful ignorance of imminent danger, we lingered and said the things that are sometimes more important then death.

In the next months and years I would replay memories like my favorite movies, again and again until I could recite the lines along with the shadow people in my mind. This night however I purposefully didn't re-watch, didn't want to remember in the same way. I wanted the corners of the picture to remain crisp and exact, so that on those days that I gently took it out it would still be shining and new. The details have faded because of this I suppose, but the feelings are as wonderfully spontaneous as they were on that chilly chilly night.

True Love

He's sitting there with the TV flashing-talking into a headset with a wire that needs replacing; thanks to his habitual chewing on it. He's so engrossed in the game he doesn't even see me. Ten minutes I stand there, watching-more then watching- observing him in his natural habitat. Fingers flick deftly back and fourth, when he's not chewing on the wire he bites his lip. His head never moves, only his eyes follow the fiction living onscreen.

"Well, you had the second most score of the match...I got three Molotov cocktails that last match too."

He stretches, and for the first time notices my reflection in the TV. Reflections are funny like that, you don't see them when you watch what's on the screen, you only realize they're there if you're looking at the surface of things.

His finger pauses on his virtual trigger control as my fingers tense around my actual kitchen knife.

He cocks his head slightly to one side, confused. For a few long seconds, neither of us move, we are suspended taking each other in. Then he stands, still confused, eyes darting around for a defense. But here in this living room there are no convenient hidden weapons, no second player to back him up. It's just me, and him, and the kitchen knife. I speak, finally. I feel like I should say something fitting.

"You're not going to regenerate from this you know."

Trying to sound tough, the sentiment falls pathetically in the air. Leaving words for action, three steps of action, I am in front of him. He doesn't do anything, years of controllers have paralyzed his defense. First cut the cord, taking care to leave his headset intact. Then press the knife slowly and firmly into his chest.

I didn't think about ribs, but they crack as I twist and jiggle the knife. I scrape away flesh and muscle, searching and ignoring the shrikes from the still conscious man. Then I reach both hands into the small cavity I have created, feeling around and squishing fat between my fingers. I brush more satisfying muscle, and grin. He is virtually dead to the world as I use the knife tip and one hand to pry the side of the organ out, ripping and tearing at the sinewy strings that are still attached. The severed arteries pump blood onto the old gray carpet, and I am finally holding the mutilated and still twitching heart in my hands.

And for a second I think I see his eyes twitch, and I know that for the first time in years he has seen me in actuality.

A gift

There is a box. It's one of those square old-fashioned ones, with the lid that fits on top and a ribbon wrapped in two directions. The ribbon is red, or maybe even pink; it's wrapped in stripped orange and red paper. It must have been a very bright and cheerful box once, the kind that children dream of for days before Christmas and birthdays. But now the paper has faded, and there is a layer of dust turning the ribbon to some unidentifiable hue.

Once, a very brave soul opened it. She knew what she was doing, knew that the lid was meant to sag eternally, and still she pried it off. Out burst whispering clouds and images, faded and cracked in sepia tones.

There was a boy, he drifted close enough for her to hear his faint articulations.

...But material possessions, that's all we care about these days, you know? It just seems silly. People sleepwalk through life...

He adjusted his cap and settled back down into the swirl, an image of two people huddled together took his place. The bedspread was tacky, and she kissed his shoulder and sighed

...This could be forever...

The picture melted, and then the girl was alone, dipping and weaving across a dark road. Coyotes in the distance made her jump, she thrust her hands deep into her long black jacket and shuddered onward. Her drunkenly sober steps had her stumbling and almost falling into a ditch before she caught herself on her hands and knees, turning a tear stained face to the starless sky.

...it will work out, it will work out, it will work out, it won't work out...

The vapors were frenzied now, the breeze was enough to rustle the happy go lucky paper and faded ribbon. No longer many images, one picture floated above the box. The girl, one hand clutching the phone, the other her stomach. Words, indiscernible, she was sobbing without control. Dropping the phone she writhed and choked out half-sentences through the tears.

...I'm sorry, I love you, I'm sorry, I love...

The not so brave soul quaked at this, and with all of her strength slammed the lid down on the mist, forcing it back to the box of nightmares.

There it remains, tucked neatly in the back of someone's mind until some fool once again becomes curious.

Catch a tiger by the toe...

Things are spinning around so fast I can't catch my breath. One second, I am eighteen and alive, drinking in the wonderfully polluted city air. The next I am sixteen again, shyly sitting in a classroom and doodling fans and hoop skirts in my notebook. I am flying forward and back in time, until past choices and future all blend together into confusion and color and high pitched squeals.

This is a chance, an opportunity to change the past and the future all at once, right the wrongs and move on. And here I am, under the same old too-short comforter, cold feet sticking out and sticky tears on my face. The decision is no longer what the right thing to do is, but which right thing is actually the correct choice.

And if I fail? I fall apart some more, if at all possible. So for the time being I fly by the seat of my pants; eeny-meiny-miney-moo-ing my way through life and hoping to some greater unseen force that things just turn out.

I will write happy things again, I promise.

Boomerang

Coffee seeps over the table, invading force of brown conquering everything it comes in contact with.
"Damn, Damn, DAMN!" Throwing ruined magazines on the floor, grab a pillow and fling it in frustration. The pillow sails in a graceful arc and poofs unsatisfactorily off the wall. Screaming into my hands, slumping down on the couch. I want to break something, ruin, smash, demolish. Too many adjectives and not enough action.
"Hey there beautiful." Without looking up,
"How did you get in?"
"You've never lock your door...luckily, your magazines are ruined." Pointless observation; reply laced with acid.
"Please leave." A few seconds...seems like much longer, and peer up through laced fingers. He is still standing there, looking down with a infuriating look of concern. Barely holding onto spiteful words, spit them out when he moves to sit beside me.
"I told you to get out. Leave now."
"Fine. As soon as I'm sure the coffee doesn't ruin the CD I lent you. And that book, you'll be sorry tomorrow, I promise. You love that book, remember? You were telling me about that Cynthia character the other day..."
Furiously launch off the couch, returning from the kitchen with a hand towel. Throw this down on the spill, and then stand with arms crossed and fingers ticking. He moves to put a hand on my arm, swat it away.
"Don't touch me." Swaying, lean back against the wall to make the world flatten out. Must be tears in my eyes, wipe them away, angry and this betraying body. Turn my face away, look down, pretend that this will keep him from seeing. Want him to think I'm still furious, not crying like some sappy girl on a CW show. A finger on my back, hesitating. Bit by bit a coaxing hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to face him.
Stare up into those green brown eyes. Hating and loving, with a sudden urge to pluck them out with my fingers and dash them against the wall like the pillow. His hands are on my wrists, stroking, teasing me into calm. A second too long looking into those eyes and the sobs make a dash for freedom.
"Damn it!" Face in his chest, his arms around me just like those sappy CW shows,
"Never leave again, ok?"

Stratagy Game

You revel in the stench of death. It seeps from the clothing, the tent, and most of all your skin. This is your love; you need nothing but this and the grey-brown lifeless environment that stretches for miles and miles. In the sticky sweet sun you hoist your gun, black and shining. You take better care of it then you do yourself. You don't have friends, a woman, or even enemies you love to hate. Instead this gun is everything, it has personality, you live and die with it as you would live and die with any comrade.

Standard issue camo, sure. All of this comes with the part, but you have made it exceptional. Boots, heavy, scuffed with devotion. Instead of a shirt, white Hanes wife beater, grey streaked with desert and sweat stained. If you weren't so terrifying you could be Brad Pitt's next big role. Pants, neat but by no means clean. Dirt is caked around you shins and crusts slowly off, leaving small whirlwinds in your wake. All this is nothing to the maniacal elation in your eye as you level the M16, waiting, watching and waiting.

A month, how long you were calculated to survive out here. Who knows, you have been here a day, a year, perhaps you have died already and your body has yet to notice and stop functioning. Except for killing, you have left your senses safely behind with your humanity. Grey eyes, blue once perhaps, vapid and dessert worn.

The wind flaps at the remains of your tent, now a single piece of nylon stretched across the ground that your crawl beneath at night. Today it bothers you, noise bothers you-gently place the gun on the ground and kick sand maliciously at the sound, burying your shelter without thought of the future. Your hands are cracked and sand now is buried deep in the rivets, your flesh is slowly becoming part of the desert.

Out on the horizon something white, fluttering briefly then disappearing. Nature does not flutter, not out here. Slowly you drop to one knee, cradling your companion. Lying belly down in the sand, your patience has now run out. Waiting, watching, they are fine, but here is Action and you want it now.

Someone is coming this way, someone clad in white, an ironic shroud. Did they know today would be their death-day? The figure must be a great distance away, an ant on the horizon. But they are coming this way at a good clip, running and stumbling across the dunes. A piece of black falls from beneath the white, whips and dances. Hair, you realize. A woman. More like a girl, alone out here in this wasteland. She is half running half dancing to the top of the sand drifts, she pauses now and cloth the white fall from her head. Floating out behind her the white shroud reveals her long hair and uplifted face. Wings, floating behind her, she is free and so very alive.

Too far away for a direct shot, and a direct shot is what is needed. You know she is not a girl, not a human even. A dot to be exterminated before it grows to it's full monster potential. You trust no one, not even Death.

She slips down her small sand wave and spins, face turned upward and eyes closed. Arms out she turns, letting centrifugal force take over her body.

A squint, a tensed finger, and a crack. The spinning ceases and the shape crashes to the ground. The white cloth takes on a life of it's own, no longer a captive of grasping fingers. You don't even pause to think. You know one shot was all it takes, and even if you did the unthinkable and failed to cause death instantaneously, the desert soon would.

Spring up from the sand and grab the only corner of nylon that the wind hasn't completely covered. Your shelter in one hand, gun in the other, stride away from the once human life form and off towards the distance, already thinking about your next opportunity to kill.

Film Noir

"Alice, c'mon. Just this once Al, just this one time."
Hand searching, breath in one ear, on a neck. Whispers, always whispers with him. The silver necklace is sharp, it hurts when he unknowingly presses it into my chest. The admonition is lost somewhere and turns into a sigh of ghastly pleasure. Hands are pushing the skirt up, up, up...and then a crash from the stair.
"You're brothers are horrible awful people!"
He grins, scotch rolling off his breath. Crash again as two oversized boys tumble into the landing.
"Good going C-man!"
"Awooo awo!"

Guilty laughter, falling over each other; pin curls have fallen out ages ago and are now limply slipping into my eyes. I am pressed into the contours of the hearth; massive dinosaur that heats the second story. Finally senses return enough to utter
"Have to go, dorm mother, friday then?"
"Gee, if I could get my hands on that woman just for a second..." violent gestures. Kiss and run, run all the way down the long long brick walk, drunk penny loafers slipping and sliding.

**
The next day he is across the cafe, my sisters don't notice. Neither do the brothers, except the two that wink and blow kisses before a blow ends their display. Smile to myself, then go back to comparing Betty D. and the new Vivian L. Neither of them are good enough for Clark G, it's decided.

**
At night, we light candles and sing songs of eternal friendship and bonds that cannot be broken. My guilty little secrete is locked at my thigh, in the garter where I have slipped his pin. Too soon, he says, to tell anyone. They won't approve, it must be a slow type of thing. So we continue in black secrecy.
"The years are binding us girls together now, restless sorrows shall try to tear us apart, but never shall we be..."
Not me. Sorrow is not my enemy...sorrow is loneliness and never shall I be alone.

**
I am draped in chiffon, cobalt blue. Matches my eyes, he says. The scotch is gone from his breath now, and he is holding me close close close as we waltz, foxtrot, sway the night away. We are on the landing again, the rest downstairs enjoying the Formal Dance, including our dates. But these stolen perfect moments...
"Won't the girls be pea green when they find out?"
"Green, sure...just dance with me now doll."

Hand on my bare shoulders, back, fingertips leaving a trail of shivers down my spine. Then a zipper being slowly pulled apart, down down down-fabric sliding off my shoulder. I'm scared, do my eyes show it? Whispered reassurances, kisses on my neck, shoulder, firm hand drawing me though the door into a room. For a second I think about stopping it, running downstairs to my safely boring date-the rich son of an executive who talks nothing but sales figures and deficits. No.
This is Life, giving in is delicious.

**
He is sitting in the little gorge under the bridge. This is our place; here he told me he wanted forever. She sits next to him, simpering, sweet, bouncy curls swept perfectly out of her eyes. Whispers in her ear, a hand casually on her knee, leaning in just a breath too close and they are staring into each other's eyes. And I am here, common peeping tom, watching my sister and my love.

**
His pin on my breast, I am proud now. Walk head held high into the house. Brothers open-mouthed, staring.
"Alice, hey sweet stuff where are you off to in such a hurry?"
Don't answer, just push through them and their clutching hands. Up the stairs, so familiar from dark rendezvous, open the door without knocking. He is there, white undershirt holding a tumbler, more scotch. How pathetic, drinking alone in his underwear. Slam the door shut, they won't bother us now. Brotherhood philosophy on perturbed females is to let them have their fun before then soothing with lies. How many times have I seen this?

"Al, what's wrong sugar?"
"Not sugar. Not to me at least." Silence, and then with a sigh, "Your pin, Charles."
For the first time, he sees my chest. Ironic enough, that's normally the first place his eyes wander.
"You're wearing it, Baby I thought we talked-"
Fingers fumble, take it off, palm outstretched, then fingers closing over it again."
"Just wondering, will you give it to her now?"
"Wh-"
"No, I just want to know is all. I mean, how many others have slipped it into their garters before me."

Don't cry, won't cry, I swore that to myself at least. Offer the pin, calmly slowly let him take it. He stands there, confused perhaps. A hand at my elbow, shake it off. Peel the white gloves off, finger by finger. The hearth is three short steps. Place the gloves on the mantle, carefully avoiding dust. Turn and raise the poker.
"Whoa, Alice...you need to cal-"

Smash and he's on the floor, skull cracked. But why stop now? Dead is not humiliated. Raise and lower it, over and over with thuds as I connect with bone and cartiliage. Blood and grey matter are strewn across the floor now; the perfect face is mangled and unrecognizable.

Ten minutes-stop. Carefully replace the poker. The gloves are pristine, put them on one finger at a time, casually lingering.

**
Outside a girl is passing by, hurrying to return before Dorm Mother admonishes her for being out without a Permission. She is passing the stone steps when a figure plummets from a second story window, landing headfirst on the bricks below in a graceful dive.

The Age of Innocence

One little

Two little

Three little freshman...

All snug in one bed!

And there is a girl, and she is confused and breathless-innocently blissful to find herself in this situation.  A month ago she would have balked at this idea, and now here she is...

And there is another girl, and she is wondering if she's losing this tenuous connection, and she worries that she doesn't have anyone here, and she wants someone, something now please.  

And there is a boy, and he is confused and doesn't know what will get him the best possible results.  He is linear, very linear, and quiet and possibly very smart or maybe very vapid.

Squinch your eyes together, squinch them tight and believe... believe.  In the movies it works, if you try hard enough.  And we will fly back in time; just like when you play a video backwards, our innocence and wide-eyed curiosity will be sucked back into ourselves.

We will walk to the graveyard and call ghosts with seances, clutching each other with delicious fright.  We will throw snow at each other and clip magazines and go to Floor Activities with enthusiasm and fervor.  

And then the second girl will find her place in a house of smoke and Men, leaving the boy behind.  And the first girl will wait a while, lingering before she too abandons the boy and the frivolity for real Mature Fun.  And the boy will forget about them, because he will find a girl to lie in a bed with, just the two of them now.  

Years from now one will pull out a candid shot, all three with limbs intertwined.  A smile and a memory, and then back to Reality.

*

*

*

"All three with limbs intertwined..."

Another suitcase in another hall

There are lights on in the house.  The old rundown house that I used to fantasize of fixing up; the one with wild grapes climbing the white picket fence outside.  In it's dilapidation it was transformed from just one more New England farmhouse to a romantic daydream.  In this dream we fixed the garden out front and painted the siding, and maybe even broke the padlock off the front door and cleaned the inside too.  There would be bright curtains in the windows and the whole town would marvel at the fairy magic that happened overnight. 

My best friend told me an old lady used to live there.  She had two little dogs, a black and a white one, and they used to bark and whine in the tiny yard when she creaked outside to give them a "walk."  Then, one day the black one was missing.  Soon she didn't go outside, and then there was a lock on the door.

And now I'm here, remembering fair grounds and dark rooms, dancing in smoky basements, being scared in the woods and that last kiss.  And somehow in some other universe those moments are happening still and always; and in a dark hotel room I am putting a ring on a nightstand and at the same time we are shouting "I'm likable, damn it!" and I am in still trying not to fall.  And that girl, that version of me, will always be there, and she will always be trapped in those minutes... and she is frustrated.  But now I can't see, there are too many tears because I didn't, couldn't cry earlier.  I am shaking and cold despite the wood fire.  For the fist time in my life, the very first, the smell of the ocean is disgusting and vile.  This scares me, because maybe this time things won't turn out all-right, maybe this is the end of good and happy and here I am, trapped.  And I built this trap, I made this cage for myself but I can't help it, can't stop adding bars.  

People tell me that this is temporary, but I don't believe them anymore.  This is Life, and so this is it.  And in some parallel cycle I am stuck in the same place I was all those years ago; the days when I didn't think things could get any worse.  I gave up on humanity as a kind thing during those two years, and began to see mankind as evil, malicious, out to hurt.  Perhaps that's too much, too far.  But overstated or understated true.  Melodramatic, but true.  And here I am and here I have given up on myself, too.  So I'll force myself back to those places of evil memories, tell myself it's the right thing to do.  And I'll sit shaking in the swing that was my home, and remember what it's like to not have a friend in the world.

And I thought that Meadville was worse, so much worse.  And perhaps now I can't return without the shaking and nausea in my stomach.  But in some sick joke, I left my heart behind in Pennsylvania.  And I don't know why or how, but I know that I'm useless without it.  So now for a while I'll be a shell again, and maybe I'll start listening to more country and trying to learn obscure sports terms and pretend that this can change things.  But every time I have ever loved someone they have left, or I have left, and it always goes the same way.  Two weeks and we talk daily.  A month and we are repeating the same dry meaningless stories.  Two months and life is too much to relay, we fall back on pleasantries and meaningless small talk.  Then the talk stops, fizzles away and I am left alone, normality I suppose.  And I'm used to this, I know how it works and so I must again go through the motions... but each time it's harder and the hurt covers more of me.  And so here I am... putting my memories in a box and praying with absolutely no hope that this time will be different, this person can do what no one else has managed to before.  Don't let me slip away, please.

And now there are lights on in the house, and I am alone.

Rotten tomatoes

To clarify:

You never meant a god damn thing to me.  I mean that.  Whatever I thought was real and good turned out to be rotten like the tomato that you refused to clean out of the fridge.  It was your tomato, I don't eat the yellow kind.  Once upon at time you read what I wrote and pretended that you liked it and pretended even harder that you understood it.  And I would laugh and play along and try to write simple things so that you would understand.  And there we were, under a bleach stained green comforter eating crackers dipped in Campbell's tomato soup.  And you would ask me what I loved about you and I would say your evil grin and your fingers and the curve of your nose; really your grin is lopsided and your fingers fat and your nose is long and too arched.  

That windy spring night it was raining, we were at that bar.  My bar, I call it, and you would claim it to be yours.  We had both been going there on odd days for years, and had never seen each other.  That night you went on a thursday, not wednesday- I don't remember the reason, coworkers or a breakup or music.  And you took my hand and asked me if I played piano with my long long fingers. I didn't but somehow later we were at my apartment, and then right when men decided to stay and play you kissed me on the cheek and walked out the door.

Weeks and months and years later we would still go to my/your bar and still sit in the dim smoke; only when we went home it was to our apartment and you kissed me on the lips and closed the door behind you.  It was a  a singular event stretched over a long long time, taffy syndrome I liked to call it.  And then one day I was ordering my long island iced tea and when I turned around you were caressing her fingers and asking if she played piano.  And I took your key off the bar and handed her the drink and walked walked walked away.

And you didn't hurt me, you didn't because I hurt myself because I knew better.  And you didn't, and you don't mean anything to me.  My regrets include walking away, not from you but that poor girl, the one who also knew better and who also pretends not to.  Someday maybe you'll read something I wrote,  you'll actually read it and you'll understand it.  And then you'll realize that I didn't walk away, you did; that I'm that one, that singular one who got away, and you have to live with that.

Retrospective

Had someone told me, almost two years ago when I first set foot on this campus, how life would look today I would have laughed in their face. I've changed so very very much in such a short time, and I'm not sure that change is done. If someone had told me, almost a year ago when I was being dragged back to PA kicking and screaming, everything that would happen this year I would have laughed again and turned away. But now here I am, 5:28 am the week after Easter; and I'm getting ready to leave. But leaving is something I would rather not think about, packing is going to be an excruciating process. So let's think about all the outlandish and crazy things that happened this year.

*We started a magazine. Well, technically we started it last year, but we caused such a stir on this campus that they tried to kill us, figuratively and literally I think. Which was one of the most exhilarating things to happen on this campus, for once people here developed brains and opinions and actually cared about something, too bad it didn't last.

*Juicy Campus deserves a mention I guess, it did cause intense amounts of dramatics. Though the most unbelievable thing for me was seeing my own name there-I know who put me up, or at least I'm 90% sure, but for some reason I don't care. It's since been overshadowed by the other more spiteful and hurtful attacks on my character.

*I fell for someone, hard. Granted this someone was otherwise involved... otherwise involved all over the place. Unfortunately for me this person embodies some extraordinary qualities; I mean to meet someone while waltzing, I fell before I even learned his name. Maybe I was just played, I know I was played.

*I had countless people tell me they cared, in every meaning of the word. I don't understand why, I'm still a bit shell-shocked and overwhelmed. Usually I'm translucent, people see through me to my dazzling friends. Or even worse, they see me as a way to them. This is the life I'm used to, the life I'm comfortable with. I've never thought of myself as desirable, attractive, or of that nature. I'm just me, plain old me; I still believe that somehow lots of people here are mistaking me for something and someone I'm not.

*I found a wonderful friend, one who's meals I will always pay for. I don't know why I could talk to him like I can, but for some reason he always ends up getting my life story plus some. At times, I know, he's embarrassed of me. My fault, entirely. But I value his opinions above almost anyone else's; anyone but, perhaps...

*the other amazing person that has helped to keep me (mostly) sane. Long long walks through the sketchier parts of Meadville, exasperated cries of "I'm likable, God damn it!" as we continued on our parallel roller-coasters. Then, from going up stairs and down hills to legitimacy; both of us still in wonderment that normal relationships are in fact possible. To her I owe everything, for I would have been lost without her.

*And then of course disaster, in so many ways. Beginning with one simple instant message from one very cool girl. Of course I didn't know at the time how much we had in common, I only felt resentment and jealousy. And I resigned myself, repeating over and over and over "full of grace and fading fast, full of grace and fading fast, full of grace..." Still. My world collapsed and I again had to pick myself out of the rubble and move forward.

*As a last spiteful act, sickness. He got me sick, denied it, and I couldn't move or think or want to eat. Forcing myself to change pj's every so often, disgusting life that I lead surviving on the contents of the brown paper bags from the health center. Thought I had hit rock bottom, my heart and my health perfect mirrors of each other. Not true.

*Then, leaving snow laden campus with a suitcase and fresh insults. He continued to talk, all through break, trying to assure himself that I would wait, would be there when he finally ended things with the Legitimate One. No promises though, being treated like meat was strangely leaving a raw taste in my mouth. So, when time came to come back, start fresh, I ignored everything; did the correct thing and kept my mouth shut and eyes on the ground.

*Returning to find a new semester-and a group of young men that I admired and trusted. For once I felt safe and happy; and for thirty seconds almost everything was perfect. And then, again, the crash came. Rumors started, people talked, the one group that I trusted wanted me to leave their lives forever. I'm used to being on my own, used to doing things by myself; silly of me to get so accustomed to having people who cared around. It didn't last all that long though, a few months in reality. I never thought people existed like the mean girls in Disney movies; that is until I saw this group of young men at their worst.

*Then, one day just when I thought things were at their worst I got an email that reminded me that Allegheny means nothing, really. Much more upsetting things can happen with my real friends in the real world. Someone very dear to me, throwing his life away, wasting it because he does not understand how amazing he is. I want to tell him, wish I could say the right things... but that's impossible, now and forever.

*And, I suppose the most amazing and outlandish thing this year I have left out, purposefully. I let someone in; partially unknowingly, partially subconsciously. I thought I could remain in my right head, think rationally; act, as I always do, to make everyone around me happy. But I couldn't give him up, and he wouldn't give up, and for the first time ever I told the others to go fuck themselves. So here I am, as a very dear friend would say, "a kept woman," and happy that way. I'm still crazy, messed up, insane as ever. But he won't believe me when I say those things, or maybe he knows and just doesn't care. And now a part of me belongs here, belongs close to him. And now, I'm leaving.

Little Emily from those years past would have rolled her eyes and turned up her nose at any of this. She was above it all, for of course things like this don't happen to her. How silly she was, that girl with her nose in a book and head in the clouds. How I wish I could tell her... so so many things. But now she knows, and now here I am, and now I'm going away. I know that I'm not coming back, I know deep down this is the end. So goodbye, and for what it's worth, I learned more about how the world works then any professor here could have taught me. I shall miss it, parts of it. And as for the rest... I needed my heart broken and my dreams crushed. All my love,

~E

So far, in pictures...

Kinda, sorta, maybe...

Dancing in the rain

True friends are found at 2 am

How happy we were

This one's for you, Jon

True skeptics

Finding family

Just a college coed

How wide-eyed we were...

A Dream

Today I stayed in bed. 

Didn't leave until late late late-

Until my poor stomach made it's discomfort loudly known.

I would have gone back after that, would have slept my life away again.  Lord knows I wanted to.

This dream comes back and back and back to me.  Dreaming of bells, and thunder, and rain.  Dreaming of terror.

A parade, a parade!  I am nine and today is perfect.  A marching band, followed by the shriners in their funny hats and little go-cart cars.  Up and over their float they go,weaving fast and dangerous figure-eights and turning back to do it again and again and again.  I am sitting high on my fathers shoulders and my brother stands beside, darting out occasionally to collect the double bubble gum and jawbreakers thrown from generous floats.  It's hot hot hot today, my back is already turning a bright shade of pink-I don't care.  Then, out of nowhere...

Boom

And there are huge kettle drums in heaven, foreshadowing disaster.

Boom

And I know that everything will change now, and I know how. "The rain!"  I shout, "It's coming!  Run Papa, run fast please!"  And my Papa has scooped my brother up into his arms and I am holding on to his neck and we are sprinting up the hill.  Everyone is running too, and now the rain has started and some people were too slow.

Halfway there and two abandoned children, my age, cry in a Red Flyer wagon-their pare

nts have opted for their own salvation.  There is a tree at the top of the hill, and now all of the people are gone and there is a rowboat tied to the tree.  The water is high now, much farther up then where the little red wagon had been.  Papa throws us into the boat and gets in himself, and we drift away from the hilltop, and the little tree is now completely submerged.  The booming continues, the drums keep on and keep on.  Sometimes I hear thunder too-and then there is lightning and my little brother cries harder.  

And  we drift near to the town's center and then I remember, realize something terrible.  A lone figure is standing at the top of the many steps that led to the Municipal Building, except the steps are numbering less and less by the minute as the water rises.  "Papa!  Papa!"  I point and the wind takes my voice away, but he sees and understands.  "Mama, we have to go get her, she's there, Papa she needs us now!"  

Boom

Papa is rowing now, pulling hard and fast and we can't get any closer.  I can see her expression, she is scared.  My Mama who can take on the world is scared.  And we are all rowing now, brother and I wit

h our hands and papa is pulling, pulling and the water is at the third  to last step now.  And we are too far away, and I think Mama is  crying.  The second step and I realize that I am screaming and crying too, and the water touches the top step and 

I wake up sweating, it's freezing cold and I am sweating.

Three, five, blankets and my warmest pj's and nine year old me is shivering and scared.

And I am nineteen and I am still scared-

screaming myself to sleep some nights

and staying in bed alllll day long.

And this dream keeps on coming back to me and coming back to me-

bells and thunder and rain.

And terror.

For You

I hope you read this as much as I hope you don't, and I have no idea if you will or not.

I mean, you, you know the crazy things about me that I don't tell anyone, I don't even tell myself.  And yet you call me unreadable, a puzzle.  You brush my too-long hair away and call me beautiful and for the first time I almost believe it.  And so when you walk away, because you will walk away, know that I can't tell you and I don't know why.  The thing that I need to say- words, three of them, choking me into silence.  So put this down.  Put this down on the old coffee table stained with rings from our tea mugs.  Put this down and walk through the kitchen with it's mismatched dish towels and oversized cutlery.  Walk out through the door painted  a peeling blue and let the screen swing, bouncing shut behind you.  Out down the driveway and across the street to your car.  Maybe it won't start on the first or third or fifth try, it was always temperamental, but you will get it started and you will drive away and away and away.  

Some year, I know, you will be back.  A newer, shinier car that starts on the first try, and you will drive up, and down, and up again.  You will wonder if I still live in that crumbling piece-of-shit house, or if some other poor bohemian girl has inherited the low ceilings and slowly sinking foundation.  And it doesn't matter, because whoever is there is still me, somehow, because I am frozen at 23 and now you are the Successful Man you always dreaded.  Then you will nervously curse me and the whole rotten place, with it's disgusting lifestyle of nothingness and happiness.  But you see in the rearview as you drive away a ghost of a figure in need of a haircut; and you choke up and now you understand because you can't speak or breath.  You take a piece of paper or a bit of a cardboard box and you try to write because you can't say these things out loud but when you do it all seems so silly, so you throw it away.

I want you to know all this, but I can't tell you because you have to know on your own. And I wish that I could save you from the hurt or the pain but if I do, you will have lost something because of me.  I hate you for putting me here, I do but I can't help coming back because you are you.  So I hope you read this, but I also don't.

Ten years

I am trapped, so trapped in this box some call a dorm room.  Things are spinning all of a sudden, my head, my heart, somehow I'm guilty and mad and ready to cry all at once.

Typical, cliche, I HATE cliche (in case you hadn't noticed) and somehow for the last seven months my life has become a stereotypical tale of angst and self-discovery.  Except perhaps the self-discovery part. I mean, I know I must have learned something but I have no idea what yet.  Somewhere, my nine year old self is still struggling to understand divorce, how is that nine year old girl supposed to understand all of this?

So enough already.  I have options.  Write "fiction," changing small details and making it end in glitter and romance and perfection.  A CD, lists of old songs that I can listen to over and over again until they offer some sort of comfort whenever I'm feeling nostalgic.  The mists of pain will come and go, but somehow I know that one thing will be timeless throughout all sorrows-my memory.  I can't erase it or make it go away, and that is what scares me so.  

Years from now I will be able to look back to today.  I won't remember the details; the fact that the carpet has a burn from where Erin set the iron while making rush sweatshirts, the colors of the ripped magazines that make the words "I believe" scrawled across the wall, the purple curtains that I threw together the first day on campus.  But I will remember this feeling.  This lost drowning feeling that I can't do anything to stop.  And though the years should part us relentlessly, I'll be here still.  

Ten years ago I was nine.  My father and mother sat me down on our old yellow couch.  That couch used to be my great grandmothers; it was Victorian looking with light thin pink stripes diving the gold.  I loved it up until that moment.  I was staring at a calender, my mother's handwriting that I had noticed days and weeks before.  "Judge appt."  I figured it out ages ago.  No one in my family was getting sued.  No one was in jail.  So I had spent the last weeks crying at nothing and being alone as much as possible.  And then they sat me down one day in spring.  Who knows, it could be nine years to this day.  And when they told me I didn't cry.  They were surprised, I know, at the blank expression on my face.  I wanted to tell them that the tears they were looking for were out in the woods behind the cemetery, and on my pillow, and on my little brother's pajama's as we held each other and cried ourselves to sleep.  But they wouldn't have understood, so I, with all my nine years of wisdom, kept my mouth shut and just inhaled.

Ten years later and I'm still keeping my mouth shut, still inhaling.  And now things are different, but somehow behind my eyelids that scene remains in the spring afternoon light.  And I'm still nine, still kicking my feet against upholstery.  Opening my eyes to this room, this box of a spinning room, and nothing and everything has changed. And nothing will ever change, while I live and love and grow older and learn and forget.  

Funny, I thought I was upset about something entirely different.  Maybe nine year old Emily just felt lonely.

Scandal and intrigue

A deal.  Let's make a deal.  You keep my secret, I'll keep yours.  Ok?  Ok.  Everyone wins.

Except that everyone doesn't win.  Because I am sick of secrets.  What, you think I can just watch you walk out of my life?  That that's not going to hurt.  Not at all actually.  Because, I mean, you know things, know things about me that no one else does.  Yet.

So in keeping your secret, and mine, I'm giving you power, letting you hold this over my head. And someday, when you spill the beans, it's all going to be over for me.  You, not me, get to choose the time and the place for this catastrophic revelation.  I don't like this.  I don't like other people having power.  I guess I'm a rebel.

A rebel, you called me that once.  Only you meant it as a complement, some kind of a sick come on.  Sure.  I'm a rebel then.  But don't you think that you too should watch your back?  You're arrogant in believing that I won't screw both of us over just so that i can take back my power.  You should really know me better.  We're so much alike, after all...

So really.  You like to play this game. Play it.  But when I win, because I will win, I will beat you so thoroughly that you won't know which way is up.  It's only fair to repay in kind.

You have been warned.

Idealist meets cynic

Out the window, two brick smokestacks expel a shimmering mist over the sixth story view of DC suburbia.  A parking garage is below, and directly across stacks of windows in rooms just like this one stare back at me.  If I'm lucky someone will leave the blinds open and I will get a clear view of scandal and intrigue in their room.

You can tell so much about a school from it's dorms.  This one is long hallways that twist at right angles-a maze of identical doors only distinguishable by the hall-themed name cards.  I've gotten lost, three times, wandering in circles until I find elevators and begin again on the top floor.  Every third or fourth door had sparkles, balloons, signs that declare "Phi Sig Princess" "Chi Omega Star!"  Glitter trails down the hall, open doors show crepe paper and silly string  covering beds, desks; any surface that will stand still long enough to be bedazzled.

The lounges are windowless boxes; complete with the standard old furniture that has been there since the 1970's.  If these couches could talk.  Screams down the hall, people enjoying their inside jokes loud enough for everyone to hear.  Typical college freshman, everyone believing that their experience is individual and unique.  Maybe I'm just idealist turned cynic, but nowadays this all seems so cliche, life seems so cliche.

This school is full of worker ants, happily running around their concrete cells.  Worse even then Meadville, these people run on clockwork without ever pausing to consider things larger then their own small corners of the universe.  I would like to believe that someday they will come to realize that they are wrong, success is not measured in pinstripes and pumps, but in sunlight and trees and life.  But I know, or believe that I know, the way the world works, and the chances of these people changing their lives are slim at best.  

So it's left to the cynics like myself to see this, and lament the tombs that most people spend their days in.  But, for the record, much as I worry about the rest of the world and it's single-mindedness, I just have to live.  I have things those people will never have.  I have the ocean, I have my books and my movies, and right now I have love.  More cliche.  But somehow, I don't care...