The Locket

Genre: General
Word Count: 1640

You meet a lot of strange people when you work the night shift out in a gas station just outside of town. It’s an experience, I’ll tell you, and one I’ll probably never forget.

It’s a rare feeling to look out the recently cleaned windows and spot those two glaring lights turning in for a stop at two in the morning. If anyone’s out at all, they aren’t stopping their car unless they really need to.

It’s a slow job, I’ll say, and most nights, after I’ve finished cleaning and rearranging the displays, after I’ve given up trying to get the ‘four’ in the ‘Open Twenty-Four Hours” sign to work, after I’ve counted and recounted the money in the old register, when there’s just about nothing else to do, I’d sit back in the plastic lawn chair I found out back and count the cars that went by.

It was a waiting game, one of those things that just tests your patience. You’d be just about ready to give up, just about ready to go back through and count the cash again when there’d be the faint glow in the distance, slowly coming closer, slowly getting brighter until those glowing eyes pass by, beams pooling ahead like some sort of crazy cones of light.

Sometimes, I’d guess how long it’d be before the next one passed. Some nights, it’d be half-an-hour. Others, two or three. If I was really bored, I’d keep track of my score, trying to figure how much I was off by every time those headlights came in the distance and the soft purr of the engine brushed by.

And then, of course, there was the occasional stopper, someone who was just so low on gas that they didn’t think they could make it over to the next city, to somewhere where there were actually other people, to some other station with their polished, automatically-opening, sliding doors and their bright signs screaming out the latest prices and bargains. Buy one get one free. Twenty percent off a new bottle of antifreeze. Twenty-four ounce fountain drinks for only a buck.

There was nothing like that here, just a bored night-worker and a small convenience store filled with the various trinkets and curios that had piled up over the years.

An authentic baseball hit by the Great Bambino over in the last game he played. A broken guitar string from some artist I’ve never heard about before I took the job. Some holographic trading card apparently worth thousands of dollars. But most special, to me at least, was this small chain of linked golden rings—not even the whole necklace, just a bit of it.

It had joined the stack of stuff at the shop only about six months ago, when he had said that he would return in about half a year. I took the fragile-looking chain and closed my hand tightly around it so I could feel those little golden rings pressing into the inside of my hand. I tried to remember that man’s face, his tired eyes, the wild, untamed wilderness of his hair.

I’ll be back, he had said.

When I had asked when, he only shrugged his shoulders, adjusted his scraggly jacket and reached out to stroke the chain he had just put onto the freakishly clean counter. Three months, two years, it makes no difference to me. He grasped the chain and let a thoughtful look slide onto his face. It came gently, as if it had been pushing all along and the man had only just given in. ‘Bout six months, I suppose. Look for me in about six months.

“You’ll be coming from the West again?”

The thoughtful look disappeared and his eyes returned to that smooth, glassy dullness. Finally, his shoulders rose, and then lowered. He let go of the chain and let it slide gently through his rugged hands onto the counter, like a quaint, golden waterfall over the beaten rocks. The West, the East, it doesn’t matter. When you don’t care where you’re going, any road will get you there.

I didn’t understand completely, but I took his chain and slipped it into a drawer, keeping it as he had asked. No doubt I thought he was just a bit odd then—most who stopped to talk were. I probably figured I’d never see him again.

Man, was I surprised when that letter came two weeks ago. Only five simple words, but they stopped my heart for a moment. Do you still have it?

Five simple words. No return address. There was nothing to do but wait.

I opened my hand and stared curiously at the nice little imprints the rings had left. For some reason, they seemed to beckon, almost as if there was some kind of hidden message to be found in those little grooves.

I looked up, and there, almost as if it had been planned, there was that tell-tale glow on the horizon, a small ghostly form, almost, stretching out and out until it became obvious that there was something coming.

The lights slowed, and then almost passed completely by, but not quite. The dark shape behind the lights made a turn into the lot, and I had a feeling that it was him.

A tall, thick form stepped out of the vehicle, and I left the chain on the counter and stopped out the door, going to offer whoever it was my help, just doing my job. He stepped into the dim light coming from the single bulb by the pump and my suspicions were confirmed. He was almost unrecognizable in the near-complete darkness.

I stopped walking, not wanting to move too far from the comforting oasis of light I had left behind me.

He looked up and saw me, and for the first time, his face was more exposed to the light. His beard had gotten slightly longer, and perhaps his hair as well, although I couldn’t really tell his dark, nearly black strands from the darkness around.

“You still have it?” the voice was surprisingly hoarse, almost guttural.

I started nodding before I realized how hard it would be for him to see my movements. I was about to say something, but he seemed to have gotten the message.

He took a step towards the small store. “’Kin you get it out?”

“Alright,” and I turned and made my way back towards the door I had just stepped through barely a minute before. I heard the door of the car slam behind me and then the sound of his heavy boots on the gravel.

He stepped into the store right behind me and homed in on the short length of chain on the counter right away. He looked as if he was about to say something, but only a sort of gulping noise came out of his mouth. He walked up to the counter and I followed him, wondering what he was doing here a second time.

In one quick movement, he had reached into one of the folds of his jacket and produced a small pendant hanging from some of an identical chain. The rings at the ends were popped open.

He dropped it next to the chain on the counter.

He was blocking my view of the two pieces now, and I could only make out a short length of part of the broken necklace. There was a glint of gold in the bare light as, for a moment, he lifted both together before him. A heart-shaped locket hung open along the chain—I thought there was a picture in it for a moment, but he had moved it too quickly for me to judge for sure.

“You found the rest,” I said, breaking the silence. The words seem to hang awkwardly in the air.

“I’ve always had the other part,” he said heavily, setting the now-completed necklace back onto the counter. I heard the soft clink of metal hitting porcelain.
He sighed heavily. “I had hoped it could be fixed but…” his voice died off into some sort of croak.

In one swift movement, he produced a hammer from somewhere and smashed it down onto the counter.

I stood, frozen, as the last waves of the blow faded away.

He slid the tool back into a loop in his pants, where it must have been hanging before. He turned slowly towards me, all of a sudden seeming completely exhausted. “Thank you,” he said tiredly. He stumbled past me to the door.

The remains of the necklace were still left on the counter. Most of the links were still intact, but the locket had been completely pulverized, the precious gold pressed into a heart-shaped foil on the counter. There was a barely visible rectangle raised slightly in the center, just about the size of a small picture.

Outside, a car started. With a cautious finger, I brushed the top of the flattened gold, feeling the barely perceptible bump as my finger passed over where a picture must have been entombed. It was a disquieting feeling, one that sent some sensations through my spine, not a chill, but more like a feeling of clearance, a feeling of completion.

Finally, I thought I understood the words he had told me half a year ago. Finally, I understood the reason the man had been driving so late at night in the middle of nowhere.

I lifted my finger from the gold, lifted my finger from the final monument to the now-destroyed love that must have brought the chain here in the first place.

I have loved, and I have lost, the words stared back at me from the small scrap of paper left on the counter.

It was a melancholy hand that finally threw the crumpled note into the wastebasket.

Written: Before 12/17/2007

Citrus Tea

Written: 17 June, 2009
Word count: 732

He visits frequently and just sporadically enough to keep me on my toes. I'll be watching from my fire escape, spraying my flowers, and he's standing there, the bottom of his Levi's slightly damp from the evening dew. My gut always gives a slight lurch, not wholly unpleasant, every time I turn and say, "Oh, you're here." Sometimes he flashes me his crooked smile or gives a slight shrug. Other times, he turns and walks away. Some nights he comes in, and I boil two citrus peels in honey water for him and watch him as he drinks.

Other nights, we sit on the fire escape and talk until we hear the first honks of the morning delivery trucks. We admire the unstable silence of the New York streets at dawn. I keep him talking. The week's late night soaps, the sporadic wars of the world, the woman across the street with an affinity for exotic herbs, the man downstairs with the peculiar tattoo, the mythology behind Orion's belt. I keep him talking in hopes of hearing him utter my name, ever so quietly into the heavy night air.

"Where do you go off every morning, Dave? So early in the morning. . . "
"I'll take you someday." He jokingly pushes my shoulder causing me to spill my tea. I run to the kitchen, and when I return with a patterned towel, Dave is gone, his cup untouched. No footsteps touch the stairs for the rest of the week. I keep a cup of citrus tea on the table every night, just in case.

My vigilance pays off when I hear a creak on my fire escape. I knock over one of my petunia pots in my fervor to open the door and shout, "Oh, you're back!"

"Say my name," I whisper, scared I'll frighten him.

"Why?"

"Just do it. Please."

"Karen."

The name drifts into the air and settles somewhere up higher than I can reach. Hoping to snatch a measly vowel or consonant, I desperately grasp for something tangible to keep.

"Say it again."

"I can't keep coming back."

My stupor breaks.

"Why not?"

"You haven't left the apartment in a year."

"I'm always waiting for you." I try not to sound like a child.

"I can't come back. It's been a year. I can't keep coming back for you."

He slowly makes his way to the bookshelf and grabs a pile of newspaper clippings. He flips past last week's garden club tips and the month before's book recommendations. Past the erotic horoscopes and crossword puzzles. Past the stock market quotes, the weather predictions. In a flash his hands sift through one years worth of useless information and delicately pick out one lone slip of paper. A rogue neuron in my brain fires, and I realize what he's trying to show me.

"No! No! We can keep going like this! Nobody can say my name like you. Please keep coming, Dave. We still have so many constellations to look at! Too many cups of tea to drink! You're all I have."

"I was all you had."

He drops the tattered article to the ground. I can barely make out the words and the accompanying photo through my tear glands now in overdrive. My hand involuntarily picks up the crumpled wad reading. I blot out the words with my tears until no one can ever read them anymore.

"No! Take me with you, please, Dave. Take me with you! Please!" I grab a corner of his blue striped polo in a fit of mental abandon.

"I can't, Karen."

I hit my side on a table corner and fall to the ground, wincing. I catch a last glimpse of him in the door, and the creak of his feet on the fire escape.

******

"Is this Karen Alexander's house?"

"Yes, this is. I'm Karen's mother. Please come in."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I can't. I just came to give my condolences. I live downstairs. I heard about the suici-- well, I'm very sorry about, well, I'll be glad to help if you need anything. Just down the stairs. Uh, yes, well, nice to meet you."

Karen's mother walks back inside and sits in the kitchen, staring out the window, a cup of citrus tea in hand.

Heaven's Messenger

Genre: General/Sci-fi?
Word Count: 1412

It was a cold night to be out, but I wasn’t going to be the one complaining.

“How much farther?” Hal asked, his breath coming out in a mist from his mouth. He thumped his gloved hands together. “It’s cold out.”

“It is,” Angela huddled close to me. She wrapped her hands around her as she walked.

“Oh, come on, Angie,” Hal thumped his hands again, “You have a hat and everything—coat, scarf, gloves, earmuffs—”

“My legs are freezing,” she huddled closer to me, and I put a hand over her shoulder, bringing her in.

Hal threw up his hands. “Oh, come on, you even have Joel to cuddle with.”

“Quiet,” Nolan stopped moving and shone his flashlight at the trees all around us. I finally saw that the path split ahead, and the light danced between the two trails. I almost considered losing face and going back to grab another layer, but finally, the beam stopped on the left path. “Alright,” he said calmly, and started walking again.

The three of us followed him, I on the left, a bit behind him, Angela next to me, and Hal on her right, a little behind.

“Damn, it’s cold,” Hal said finally, breaking the repetitive crunching sound of our feet stepping on the woodchip-covered path.

“It’s going to snow tomorrow,” Nolan said calmly without turning around.

“Ugh,” I stuffed my hands into my pockets, but Angela relocated my arm so she could hang on to it, “Snow. I hate it. It gets everything—shoes, floor, the bottom of my jeans—ugh!” She shivered. “I wish I lived somewhere else.”

“Really.” I thought I might have sounded a bit too unconcerned. Too late to go back now.

“Well, I wish you were there, too, of course,” she smiled at me, looking almost like a completely different person all wrapped up in her winter-wear.

“How much longer?” Hal’s voice came out again.

“Oh, not long now, I think,” Nolan’s reply was prompt. He flashed his light around, and showed that the woods were starting to thin. “We’re almost there.”

“Good.”

“Oh, come on, Hal,” Angela imitated. “You have a coat and everything. Joel’s only got a jacket.”

Hal wasn’t deterred at all. “That’s only because I’m not dumb enough to walk out here wearing that little. I mean, come on.”

I was freezing. I wasn’t even sure I could feel my ears anymore. Angela seemed to be looking at me expectantly, though, so I tried to ignore all of that. “I’m fine.”

“See?” she turned triumphantly. “He’s fine.”

I tried to keep my teeth from chattering. It’s an odd thing, something you’d never think could actually happen sometimes. It’s just one of those things that you read about in stories and that’s about it. You’d never expect it to actually happen. I tried to move my hands around inside the pockets to make sure they were still attached—they were, thankfully enough.

Below, the woodchips were more sparsely layered, and there were some dark stalks of grass poking through now and then.

Angela sighed loudly. “Look at the sky. It’s amazing.”

I looked up at the vast expanse of lights shining above us. The tree cover had dropped away behind us, and we could see the night sky naked before our eyes.

“There’re so many of them,” she breathed. “I never thought you could see so many.”

“It’s the lights in the city,” Nolan said, pausing for a moment to look up. “There’s too much light around to see the stars real well.”

The sky was like an inviting dark blanket with little sparkles thrown all over it. It was just full of stars, burning spheres of light, almost inviting —nothing like the sky I had grown so used to. I thought about how the first humans must have seen the heavens, resting around the fire after stuffing themselves with that day’s hunt. Warm. Comfortable. I almost asked to borrow a hat.

Angela took my arm again. “Thinking about something?”

“Nothing really,” I caught Hal in the corner of my vision, looking as if he were about to echo me mockingly, but he noticed that I had seen him and said nothing. “I was just thinking about how it must have been before…” I thought for another moment, “before electricity and cities and cars and all that.”

“Of course,” Hal said scathingly.

“Hal!”

“What?”

Nolan cleared his throat. “We’re almost there—we don’t want to miss it.”

“What time is it?” Hal looked to me questioningly.

“Time for you to get a watch,” Angela said quickly.

He ignored her. Reluctantly, I jerked my left hand out of my pocket and tried to make out the numbers in the dark. I brought my other hand out quickly and jabbed at the button to make the numbers light up. I stuffed the hand back. “Eleven fifty.”

“A few more minutes, huh?” Hal looked back into the sky.

I slid my left hand back into the pockets. I could barely tell the difference in temperature. Somehow, I didn’t think that was a good sign. Either my pockets were pretty cold—which they were bound to be—or my hands were starting to lose their feeling. For a moment, I tried to remember the symptoms of frostbite and the conditions needed, but I just couldn’t recall them. That only made me feel colder.

Nolan stopped and switched off his light. “Here we are.”

Hal looked around. I could make out his figure in the starlight. “We’re on a hill.”

“Yeah,” Nolan answered.

“We walked all the way out here to sit on a hill.”

“That sounds about right,” Nolan nodded. “Yeah.”

Hal looked confused. “Is there something really special about this hill?”

“Not really, no. We can go to another one if you want. What time is it now?”

I checked my watch again. “Fifty-six.”

Angela intercepted my hands before they could make it back to their shelters. She clutched them in her gloves. “Cold?”

I thought I saw Hal look gloatingly over. “A little bit,” I admitted.

“Want to borrow my hat?” she started taking off the pink, red, and white hat she was wearing. “I’ve got a hood on my coat.” She shoved the thing into my hand.

It felt warm, and I let some of the heat pass into my freezing hands.

“Well,” she put her earmuffs back on and then flipped the hood of her coat over her head. “Put it on.”

“Put it on!” Hall imitated.

“Oh, shut up, Hal,” she punched at him, but he skipped lightly away.

“You missed.”

Angela didn’t answer. I pulled the woolen hat onto my head, glad it was dark and glad that I couldn’t see myself wearing it. It made me feel warmer for a bit, but then the heat seemed to fade away and I couldn’t help but notice that I was trembling slightly.

“It should be about time,” Nolan stared up into the sky.

I checked my watch again. Twelve one, it blinked. Any time now.

“Where do you think it’ll be?” Hal asked.

Nolan took a few seconds to answer. “I don’t know.”

Angela pressed towards me. “Aren’t you glad it’s going to miss us?” she whispered, so that only I could hear.

“Yeah,” I breathed softly, watching the light mist of my breath disappear quickly in the night air. “But we were lucky.”

She suddenly pointed out into the sky a little above the tree line. “Is that it?”

As I looked out at the horizon, I saw a narrow streak of light burning through the night sky.

“There it is,” Nolan pointed as well.

Hal was surprisingly silent.

For a moment, I almost forgot about being cold as I watched the streak of light move across the sky. The line grew thicker and brighter as the asteroid moved deeper into the atmosphere. It would only miss by a few hundred miles. I shivered, nearly asked for the scarf.

The front end of the line ignited and now it glowed a glaringly bright white, obscuring the long tail of heat it left behind. The spectacle passed out of view behind the trees.

I realized that I had been holding my breath and let it rush out. “It’s over then.”

Nolan seemed to be nodding. “Thank God it’s over.”

“Amen,” Hal said quietly.

We turned and started walking back towards the car. I was in a mood for hot chocolate.

Written: Before 12/8/2007

Progress

Genre: Unknown
Word Count: 804

A/N: I haven't posted anything for ages... ugh. So I dug up this work from a LONG time ago in my writing history... from my days when I was a lot less subtle and skilled with writing. >.<

The door opened with barely a creak, and the president turned to face his assailant.

“I’ve been expecting you,” the tired-looking man slowly lowered himself into the expensive chair behind the desk. He faced the stranger.

The young assassin removed the remains of the guards’ uniform he had been using as a disguise. “If you knew I was coming, you should know what I have come to do.” He raised a gun.

“I do,” the president said impassively.

“And yet you did nothing to stop it,” the young man aimed his weapon, shifting from one eye to the other. He did not believe that his task would be this easy. “You are not an imposter?”

“And would I tell you even if I was?” the president reclined in the chair. “But that is not the case. I am the president.”

“The president of a land in turmoil.”

“Nonetheless, I am still president.”

“For the moment,” the assassin chose the right eye and prepared to fire.

“But,” the soon-to-be-dead man raised a hand, buying more time. He let the word linger slightly, gambling upon the curiosity of the killer. “Realize what you are doing with your bullet.”

“I am doing a great deed for the people,” the man replied mechanically, as if the answer had been drilled into his brain. Inculcated.

The president looked closely at the man holding a gun. He is little more than a boy. He should not be involved in this conflict. “Are you?” He replied questioningly.

“I am ridding the land of a tyrant. I am preparing the way for a bright new future—a rebirth in the history of our nation,” the reply was automatic.

“What makes you think the future will be brighter?” the president pressed, his charismatic face filled with a look that instilled doubt into the boy. “What do you think killing me will accomplish?” He waited for an answer.

“I will end the suffering of the people. I will bring a new, glorious age to our—”

“Suffering?” the president interrupted unexpectedly. “You will end suffering?” He laughed bitterly. “There will be no end to suffering, ever!” The president stared the boy in the eyes, unblinking, unmoving. The boy dropped his gaze. “Human beings are the definition of suffering.”

“You’re wrong!” the finger tightened on the trigger, but the president showed no fear.

“What has our race produced? All the years—decades, centuries, millennia—all those years of human civilization. What have we produced? What have we reaped?” He laughed again, mockingly. “The dominant trait of the human race is suffering.”

“That will change!”

“Will it?” the leader continued, nonplussed. “What will you accomplish? What will you bring?”

“I will bring freedom, prosperity, an end to suffering—”

“An end to suffering?” the well-known man shook his head. “People will suffer under a democracy and under a dictatorship alike. The suffering may come in different forms—physical suffering, emotional suffering, mental suffering—but there will still be suffering. Prosperity?” The leader’s voice increased in intensity. “How can there be riches without the poor? One cannot coexist without the other.”

“Plato says—”

“Yes, Plato. Your self-named leader. Does he envision utopia? Does he see better times? Progress, even?” the dictator clenched his fists. “Does he see himself in power?”

“The power will be shared by the people—” the boy began.

“Ahh… but there will be power nonetheless. Tell me. What is power, but the ability to cause suffering?”

“I…I…don’t—” the aim of the gun wavered, but held firm.

“Nothing is accomplished by your empty dreams. You seek progress? Progress is just the delusion that things are getting better. But suffering is still there… will always be there. Problems are still there—what will you have accomplished?”
“We will solve the problems!” The aim faltered again.

The dictator’s eyes followed the gun closely. “Will you?” he shook his head again. “Problems are never solved—can never be solved. They are only postponed. All solutions are only temporary—only problems are eternal.”

“Our lives will be better!” The boy exclaimed vehemently, but it was clear that he was weakening, becoming confused.

“Will it? What will the people live like in the instability after the fall of this government? What of your family, when there is no law? No one to tell the murderer to stop. No one to keep order.”

“It…will…be…better,” the gunman’s arm faltered and the barrel of the gun slipped down for a moment. The despot noticed and gave the signal. Behind the young assassin, two guards burst out and disarmed the boy.

“What is life,” the man who had murdered millions stood up triumphantly, “without suffering?” He threw his head back and laughed.

---

Outside, the sounds of the slaving people continued, never ceasing as the screams from the torture rooms began.

Written: Before 9/21/2007, exact date unknown (I might be able to find it, but it would involve a lot of searching into random piles of notebook paper for the original draft.

And We Think We Know Better

Genre: General
Word Count: 440

“I hate them all,” he told me quietly as he passed by. “I’ll tell you at dinner. They’re all so shallow!”

And he was gone, stalking off into the distance. It took me a moment before I recovered from his onslaught, though, intense words piercing me with his anguish and longing.

---

That night, he smashed his violin, all forty-thousand dollars of it. “It’s been through enough humiliation,” he told me. He stomped on the body a few times, and then fell down crying, picking up the pieces and stroking them. I attended the funeral and put roses on the grave.

---

The next week, he wore earplugs. I didn’t ask why, but he wrote me an answer on the board he carried around anyway. It’s too painful, the shaky letters said. He wouldn’t speak at all. I listened to Rachmaninoff. He pretended not to notice.

---

Yesterday, he refused to get out of bed. I found him there in the afternoon after visiting my boyfriend. He wouldn’t even shake his head until I poured ice water all over him. Then I dragged him down the stairs and across the street. We took the bus into the city, to the slums of Edmont Street, where my mother still lived.

We didn’t talk. Words wouldn’t have worked.

I took him by the hand and led him to the apartment, number four, room two. The lock didn’t work.

I opened the door a crack and made him peek in as I removed the earplugs. He didn’t protest.

I knew my mother didn’t work Sundays, and I knew the old piano was out of tune. When she started playing it was almost painful to me, but he didn’t move, just as I thought. My mother wasn’t very good, and the dripping water from the leaking pipes was almost as loud, but I left him there anyway and went back down the corrugated stairs and past the overgrown alley. I had a paper to write.

---

This morning he woke me up with his crying. Thank you, thank you, he seemed to say, but I kicked him away. My roommate was sounding an alarm, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I fixed my violin,” he said, and showed me a twisted monstrosity of an instrument.

“That’s nice,” I told him, and showed him out. He was arrested and booked, but not charged. He would return to a gaily wrapped parcel, all colorful ribbons and lace.

---

I know I’m going to need to take another job, but tonight I still hear the musicians laughing at me, and the phones are ringing Holden Caulfield.

(Written: 1/26/09. This one really wasn't written because I wanted to write a good story. This minimal work actually probably played a pretty important role in my development as a human being, although it might be hard to tell. I wonder what you guys make of it.)

Until the Moss had Reached our Lips

“Do you know what depresses me?” she asked me suddenly.

“No.”

She smiled lightly. “Well, that’s a good sign considering we’ve only known each other for all of five minutes.

“I suppose.”

A sigh. “But even knowing that, my mind seems to still feel a need to bridge gaps in conversation with socially acceptable constructs. Do you get what I mean?”

I didn’t answer.

“Guess not, or maybe you’re just one of those reticent types who have problems with self confidence,” she grinned. “Kidding, kidding—wow, that word is rather... hmm, I don’t like it. I was joking, not kidding. Kids don’t do this sort of stuff.”

She crossed her legs and then uncrossed them again. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t even know what you’re doing here listening to me—are,” she stopped, and then laughed, “maybe you think I’m physically attractive, no?”

She stretched and I blushed slightly.

She laughed again, “Maybe, maybe, eh? Maybe you’re just interested in how weird I’m acting, just blabbing—no, don’t like that word either—talking so uncontrollably all over the airport. Maybe you’re one of those connoisseurs of personalities or something—are you a writer?”

“N—no.”

“Awww, you look so cute!” she laughed. “I know you probably hate that don’t you, we being adults. Young adults, maybe, but still adults. Don’t you have a flight to catch?”

“The three o’ clock.”

“No. The Pan-Am 1744 to Vegas?” she laughed at my nod. “Figures, the random stranger I choose happens to be on the same flight—what are you doing, going to Vegas?”

“I’m meeting my girlfriend.”

Eyebrows raised. “Your girlfriend. In Sin City.”

“Her idea, not mine.”

Laughter. “So of course, that makes everything okay. I see! That’s alright, I’m an irrational human being, too.”

“I’m guessing you’re not always this... effusive.”

She sobered. “No, no, I’m not. Effusive. Very nice word choice, by the way. Are you sure you’re not a writer? Maybe a poet?”

“I’m an engineer.”

“Really.”

“I majored in mechanical.”

“Oh.”

She was silent for a long time. The energy was gone, and now she sat back in her seat, frowning. She was still looking at me, but I had the feeling that her mind was not really processing visually at the moment. I checked the time: still around half an hour before boarding would even begin. But she surprised me again with her next words.

“I think I’m depressed, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You didn’t seem depressed to me at first.”

She smiled weakly. “Yeah, I probably just seemed like a tramp or psycho or something. Something. Wow. I’m subconsciously categorizing certain less desirable members of society as objects.”

“Now that you mention it, I do that all the time.”

“I know,” she smiled bitterly. “It’s socially proliferate word choice now. I’m just trying to make myself feel bad for it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! I’m depressed, maybe that’s why.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

She laughed, closing her eyes, whole body rippling in bitterness. It was almost a minute before she opened her eyes again and regained control of herself. “Of course, you don’t know. I’m a PhD/M.D. Yeah, I know I look young—I graduated from high school at sixteen and finished undergrad at eighteen—that stuff doesn’t really matter though. I am a doctor, and I know myself best. I’ve done all the tests and everything, but I still don’t know how to fix it, because the source definitely isn’t physical.”

“See a psychologist.”

She shook her head. “I’ve gone back to school and I’m getting my second PhD in psychology right now. The Role of Self-Justifying Constructs—look for it in the Journal of Psychology.”

“So it’s not psychological.”

“Yes, and no,” she frowned. “You see, it’s more of a dilemma.”

“And you’re depressed because you don’t know what to do.”

“Because I can’t make a choice. Or, no, rather, I can’t find a choice I’m happy with. But then again, who am I to demand answers?”

“Mid-life crisis,” I smiled, hating myself for every second I held the position on my face.

But she laughed. “Yes, I suppose you can put it that way. My quarter-life crisis. You see—“ the excitement faded, “I don’t know why I keep acting the way I do.”

“Me neither.”

She half-smiled. “It really makes me wonder if there’s a God sometimes, things like this. Out of everyone in the whole goddamn—wow, the irony—airport, I pick just the one person who seems to understand at least a bit of what I’m talking about.”

“I’m sure there are others.”

She sighed. “Of course, of course. You... you don’t mind, do you? Be honest. I know you might feel bad to say no, but I’ll be perfectly fine if you don’t want to listen. I don’t want to push myself on you—wow, that was weird word choice there, too.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.”

She sat back. “Alright then. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you my problems—you, some random guy I met in the middle of the airport while waiting for a flight to Las Vegas. You’re probably wondering why I don’t just, say, call up one of my close friends instead. That’s part of the problem now.

“The thing is, I don’t think most of them would, well, really understand what I want right now. I mean, they understand me too well, but by doing so, they won’t understand at all. Do you get what I mean?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Let me try again. If say, I told one of my friends, she would give me the most sensible, most understanding advice possible. The problem is, I already know what she’ll say and I know that it’ll be the move that makes the most sense—but, I don’t want to make sense. I don’t want to go down that path because I don’t like where I think it’ll end up. I suppose you still probably don’t get it.”

“No, not really.”

“Well, basically, I’m not talking to any of them because they know me. They have bias, but now that I think of it, I suppose all that doesn’t really matter. What’s really the problem now—it may seem so silly and childish and everything, but... well, I guess you’re a smart guy—not like that should make any difference. I’ll start from the beginning.

“I’ve had a friend since childhood—well, I’ve had more than one, but you know what I mean. We grew up together, he and I, and we basically stuck together all through grade school, and even college, though we went to different schools in the end. We were always there for each other in just about every way possible. We were definitely, as we would say it in high school, ‘bff’s’, best friends forever. When he would have a hard breakup with his girlfriend, I’d be the first person he would call. Same for me—with my boyfriend. I would talk to him now except... well, you’ll see.

“The two of us never dated. We were never involved romantically—never. When we were younger, we would make out and all that just for the novelty of it and everything, but that was just in our innocence and it never went anywhere. He would find a girlfriend, and I a boyfriend, and we would go off on our own separate ways.

“I can still remember many nights we spent together—so many hours and memories. I’ll try my hardest to describe one so you can understand.

“I remember this one night—I think it was in my last year of high school—we were lying out in a field somewhere out past Mr. Reisen’s property. It was just the two of us, sprawled out on the grass. He’s always loved stargazing, and we would often go out like that, just a blanket and each other and we’d go out and admire the cosmos together. Sometimes, I suppose, we’d invite others and turn it into a party and all that, but that night, it was just the two of us.

“It was sort of late out, but we didn’t care. We raced to point out stars—Rigel and Betelgeuse and Aldebaran—then the constellations, and when we’d found them all, we’d spend time making up a few of our own, drawing out the shapes with our fingers and coming up with some myth about how it got there and all that.

“I remember that one night, I had just finished telling him how Ariel the Mermaid managed to get from the sea to the land, and finally to the sky, and then maybe the wind picked up a little bit, or maybe I just didn’t notice before because I was so intent on making the story, but I suddenly realized that, even with the blanket, I was cold. But of course, he realized that and he just grabbed my hand we lay there cuddled together on the blanket—spooning, almost, I guess you could call it. I can still feel his warm body so close to mine, the feel of his warm breath on my earlobes.

“We were both dating. We both had our own significant others, but right there, lying on the blanket, I didn’t feel as if I were cheating or anything at all. I just felt warm and close and, well, loved, but it was a different sort of love, if you get what I mean.

“I remember cuddling there with him. I remember my exact words: ‘If you were any other person,’ I said, ‘I’d feel slightly nervous right now.’ He just hugged me tight and answered that—I still remember what he said—‘It makes me feel so much better about myself that I can be so close to an attractive girl, but yet not be attracted in that way at all—His exact words, I remember.

“It was a beautiful moment. We almost just slept there that night, he and I out on the field behind Mr. Reison’s property, but there was school the next day and eventually, we both just got up and walked back. He told me one more thing before we separated, though. We were at the sidewalk in front of my house—I was just about to turn up the driveway to sneak back into my room so my parents wouldn’t realize how late I was up and all that. I can still remember the scene: the lamp in the yard a pool of yellow shadow, the fireflies flashing their quaint mating calls, the sound of insects all calling for love, and the two of us just standing there, so close on the concrete walk. ‘If you were someone else,’ he said—I could barely see him in the darkness, but we were still holding hands, my cold fingers entwined in his warmth—‘If you were someone else’—his exact words—‘I’d be so madly in love I’d do anything to just go off together right this moment and live happily ever after, but this is even better. I think what we have here is one of the most beautiful things in the world—if I could compose a piece, I don’t think I could capture it fully. If I could paint, there’d still be some subtle layer that I’d miss. Words wouldn’t do justice to what we have. I’m so madly in love with you right now, I’m not in love at all, and I know you know exactly what I mean and that just makes it better. Good night, Phoebe.’ And I told him good night and we separated to go, but first he just leaned over and kissed me, real light, on the lips, leaving me almost wanting more, but at the moment, knowing that what had just transpired was already more than enough.

“Oh, that moment was so beautiful, I... well, we just both stood there savoring for as long as possible, but then the lights came on and my mom and dad came out and I had to spend the next two hours or so trying to explain that, no, he wasn’t my boyfriend, that, yes, we were really just stargazing, and that, no, we didn’t try anything funny, and yes, I would go straight to bed, and no, I wouldn’t do anything like that ever again.”

She finished talking and her faced was all flushed in her passion. “Do you understand now?” she asked. “You probably know exactly what my problem is now. I know you do.”

“You love him, don’t you,” I said finally, not completely sure if saying that was the wisest choice. “Not in that way, but—there’s no need for me to elaborate.”

“Oh yes, I’ve always loved him, but this is a different love now. You see my dilemma?” She laughed. “Any of my friends would just tell me to go and tell him I love him, and then he would understand perfectly and love me back and then we would date and be married and have kids and live happily ever after.”

I waited.

“Except it wouldn’t be happily-ever-after. I know that already. If we ever had a happily-ever-after, it was that night on the blanket under the stars. There are things that just seem, well, more important, than happily-ever-after’s—or, no, maybe important isn’t the right word. More tangible, more real, more happy than happily-ever-after. Or maybe I’m just trying to deceive myself and—I just want to be irrational right now, you see? I’m going to Vegas to get drunk, maybe get rich, maybe lose my money, maybe sleep around and then come home and be so flushed that I won’t have any of the inhibitions I have right now and then live that happily-ever-after. I mean, there’s no happily-ever-after if there was never an unhappily-ever, right?”

She smiled again, and then, in a sudden movement, leaned over and hugged me. “There, now I’ve just bared my soul to a random stranger and am awaiting judgment. If it gives you any comfort, I don’t want to put pressure on you in any way. I think, at the moment, no matter what you tell me, I’ll still go and be wild and be a little disappointing to a lot of people who think a lot of me and love me dearly—but not in that way, of course—and then I’ll come back and realize that it was all for nothing because I still have the same problem and nothing I’ve done or will do will really affect it in the slightest—except I probably won’t be too wild either knowing what some of that stuff can do to me—doctor, you see. In fact—” she shook her head, “you probably don’t even need to say anything at all right now. If anything, you can just forget me now and go have a great time with your girlfriend in Vegas, or maybe, if you really want to after you mull things over, you can tell me what you think as we’re getting off the flight, but I don’t think that’ll change anything either. I think I’m done now. Thanks for listening to me.”

And she sat back and bit her lip absentmindedly. “Oh,” she turned one last time. “And in case you were wondering, I was asking whether you were a writer or not because they seem to know about this sort of stuff. Alright. I’m done for real now—not like anything is unreal. Thank you, and goodbye.”

---

Sarah and I were waiting for our flight back when I heard about the suicide. “I talked to her, you know,” I told her out of some random urge to talk with someone.

“Oh, you did, did you?” Sarah smiled lazily, half-asleep.

“I used to be a romantic, too.”

She yawned. “Used to?” and then seemed to decide that she didn’t want to know. “That’s nice. Is it time to board yet?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Wake me up when it’s time.”

“Alright.”

For the longest time, I could not take my eyes off of her, admiring her—she looked so pretty sleeping there. I couldn’t help thinking about that girl—no, her name had been Phoebe, I would try not to forget that. Others might forget, but I would try to hang on as long as possible, but—I guess I’m glad I chose mechanical engineering in the end.

I was glad I had Sarah, too, and—“I’m not afraid to say I love you,” I told her, stroking her hair.

She swiped away at an imaginary dream-shape in front of my face, as if something were creeping slowly to separate the two of us. “Don’t... hmmm... be silly...”

(Written: 2/3/09, 2/11/09, 2/16/09, 2/27/09)

Annie

She was sitting on the bench a little ways off the lazy footpath that meandered its lonely way around the quiet lake. From far away, she could have been anyone—but he watched a little longer and every once in a while, her head would dip down, and she would write something in the notebook on her lap. And then she would look out over the lake again, her blank and yet thoughtful look back on her face. It could only be her.

After a quick moment of indecision and hesitation, he walked over to the bench.

“Annie Zhang.”

She turned slowly, a lazy smile now on her face, almost as if she had been expecting him. “Colin.” She ran a hand absentmindedly through her black hair. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

He stopped as if to feel the sun on his face and the texture of the light breeze brush by before he answered. “Yeah, it’s real nice.” He closed his eyes for a moment and bathed a bit longer in comfort. Slowly, he sat down next to her. “What brings you out here today?”

“Oh,” she flipped her notebook shut, “nothing much. My brother’s playing in the game.”
He gestured vaguely towards the pavilion across the water and the fields beyond. If he tried hard enough, he thought he could see the young players battling away in the distance. “I didn’t know Asian kids could play soccer.”

“Oh, shut up, Colin,” and she swung her notebook at him lightly and—perhaps he was feeling too lazy to move—it hit him softly on the shoulder. Both of them laughed, but it didn’t last long; neither felt like sustaining it any longer. It was one of those lethargic temperatures.

He closed his eyes again. It was incredibly comfortable-feeling there on the bench, but he knew he didn’t really want to fall asleep, although his body was just begging for it. Finally, he shook his head groggily and forced himself to sit up.

Annie seemed to be staring dreamily off into space again. Her eyes were fixed on the far pavilion, but somehow, he could tell they really weren’t. She would be perfectly still, and then, as if upon some sort of signal, she’d suddenly jerk and move to write something into her notebook, sometimes having to flip almost excitedly through the pages to find the right place since she’d closed it after her last entry.

Her small fingers handled her pen dexterously, and they would turn out crisp lines of small print on the paper, neat enough for him to tell that it was neat, too small to read from where he was sitting. She seemed to know that as well.

“What are you writing?” he asked finally, yawning involuntarily. He leaned over as if to get a closer look at the words, but she turned slightly away from him and tried to cover her notebook with her hands.

“Stuff.” Her answer was accompanied by the sound of her notebook flipping shut.

“For school?”

She seemed to think for a moment before answering. Her voice came out in a poor effort to sound broken and accented, “What you think we Asians always to writing? It always maths problems!” He laughed, but she sighed. “I can never do it well. I guess I’m just not Asian enough.”

“You were fine!” he continued to laugh.

“No… not really,” she seemed to know the truth. “But yeah…” she sighed again, “I’m not really doing math problems.”

“How un-Asian of you.”

“I know,” she seemed somewhat depressed for a moment, looking at where the waters of the lake gently lapped against the soft grasses of the bank. “I’m just… writing.”

“… you’re writing,” he nodded approvingly. “I would never have guessed.”

“Colin,” she shook her head. “You’re an interesting person when you open up.”

He yawned again. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just, oh…” she seemed to be searching for a word, “you’re so quiet all the time. I rarely hear you talk out like that.”

He scratched his head. “Well, you’re not much of a talker yourself, Annie.”

She stared at her feet. “I know.”

He looked down, wondering if she had perhaps seen something around there. The squat, freshly-trimmed blades of grass stared back at him. His body was starting to feel tired again, and he tried to beat life into it by shaking.

She watched him curiously. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to stay awake,” he answered. He kicked out at the air with a foot.

“Really,” she seemed amused. For a moment, her hand strayed towards the notebook, pausing with one finger under the cover as she seemed to battle with her indecision. Finally, she moved it away again.

He looked her in the eyes and knew guiltily that she was probably realizing that he had watched her the entire time and could guess what she had been planning to do. “Had an idea?”

Her dark eyes blinked, and then she broke contact. “Sort of…”

“Hey, it’s fine if you don’t want to tell me, Annie.”

“Oh, come on, Colin. That just makes me look bad if I don’t tell you now.”

He looked confused. “What do you mean? Look bad to who?”

“Whom.”

“—Look bad to whom?”

She opened her mouth, closed it. Opened it again. “I don’t know!” shaking her head. “You make me feel bad to myself, then.”

“Sorry.” He wasn’t exactly sure what he should do. “Annie, you’re weird.”

“I know, I know,” she sighed and stared back down at the ground, seemingly fascinated by the questing ants toiling underfoot. “I am weird.”

“What do you mean? I didn’t actually mean it—well, everyone’s weird, in their own ways.”

“But some are weirder than others?” She looked back up.

He paused, unsure. “Err… I don’t know.”

“You’re weird, too, Colin,” she smiled.

“Thanks,” he blinked. “Just what I’ve always wanted to know.”

There was a silence again as both turned to look towards the soccer fields in the distance, the sudden realization that time was passing reaching both. Colin thought he could see the two separate teams forming up in their little huddles on opposite sides of the field. Was the game over already?

“Is it over?” she asked, finally.

“I… I’m not sure, but—yeah—I think so,” he squinted in the sunlight and put up a hand to shade his eyes. “Yeah… I think it’s over.”

“Oh,” her hands tightened their grip around her notebook, and, as if it was a battle at first, she stood up. “I’ll see you around then, Colin.”

“Yeah,” he remained sitting, “I’ll see you on Monday, I suppose.” When he looked up again, she had already gone a little ways down the path back towards the other side. He let out a long sigh, sounding somewhat of disappointment, but also somewhat of relief. After a few more moments, he seemed to gather the strength to get up, and slowly rose out of the bench.

He took one last look at the quickly disappearing figure in the distance before setting off on the opposite way back to the fields.

(Written: 12/24/07; a short character sketch)