Distraction

I’m staring out the window,

of this elderly school,

Some bricks have rusted,

while others seem new,

The grass isn’t perfect,

but it’s green and it’s growing,

This day will pass quickly,

the way things are going,

Outside there’s a warehouse,

a massive tool shed,

and beyond that there’s woods,

where the leaves are long dead,

There’s a truck by the tool shed,

but the words I can’t read,

The colors are vibrant,

they stick out in the weeds,

It’s winter and chilly,

fog feathers each pane,

I wish I could leave now,

but time still remains,

I can feel myself out there,

away from this class,

admiring the woods,

the bricks and the grass,

But I’m struck by reality,

what’s wrong and what’s right,

I have books I must read,

and papers to write,

I turn away from the window,

with just one last glance,

It’s my time to focus,

this is

life

not a trance.

Right or Privilege

Juliana pulled two black curls of hair behind her ear and sighed, staring down at the floor. “It’s not that I resent the counsel, I just don’t feel like I belong with them. I think that they’re duties are definitely important to the community, I mean I know mine were. I just need a change of pace, a change of career. That’s all.” Although this seemed like a simple request, it was the complete opposite. Juliana realized this the moment she began to plead to Mr. Beyer.

“You’ve been told before Ms. Jones, the job that was chosen for you in your drawing years ago will be your job forever, whether you like it or not. The chip is inserted, and to take it out would make you a disgrace to this community; remember Harry Wilburn?” She did remember him. In fact she remembered him quite well.

Harry Wilburn had always seemed a bit odd to her. He had been in her class during school each year, and he had always been a troublemaker. Or had he? Some days he would be mouthing off, but others he would be apologizing to someone for something, or taking the blame for someone else’s duties. He was brilliant at music; that she could never forget. The council had suggested he could be a musician and although he loved music, he refused and said he would simply take the random drawing just like everyone else. Music, he said, was just a hobby. Well, next thing you know, he was picked as a musician. He begged for them to detach the chip, “I beg of you!” he’d say to anyone who’d listen. “Help me get this out!” Street-watchers would repeat the rules to him, which only seemed to aggravate him more. Then one day he decided to take it out himself.

What followed for Harry was the worst kind of pain. He wasn’t a doctor so he didn’t know how to remove it surgically, but instead he cut his own arm off. The next day he went to the hospital, begging for some kind of bandage to help him refrain from bleeding to death. To his dismay every doctor there shunned him, not willing in the least to help him. Nobody came to Harry’s funeral, in fact he was simply thrown in a nearby ocean, to be forgotten forever. But Juliana hadn’t forgotten him in the slightest.

“Yes of course I remember. But I don’t have the will to cut my arm off, and besides it’s not like it would be so hard to just remove it.” This had come off more hostile than she had intended it to, and because of instinct she backed away from Mr. Beyer slightly, as if virtually preparing herself for something.

Mr. Beyer glared at her shaking his head. “Many people wish they could be council members. They want the responsibilities and privileges you have. If I were you, I would stand back and appreciate my career, and maybe watch my back.” Was that some kind of threat? His eyes were ice cold, and his body was still, almost in a frightening sense as if he had turned into a statue. Juliana was silent, eyes wide and expectant. “Is that clear?” Mr. Beyer snapped causing Juliana to take another step back.

“Yes sir.” She quivered, fear striking her. For some reason it was proving very hard to lose eye contact with Mr. Beyer, it was as if her eyes had to be dismissed. But she was a grown woman, with rights too. She would dismiss herself.

“You're dismissed, Ms. Jones.” Mr. Beyer said with a sly smile. Juliana walked away with a new sense of loathing. The next day she did not appear at the council meeting.

Old Friends

I saw him again in the most unlikely of circumstances. I mean, sure he was moving in my general direction, but there was a lot of space in which to move. It was very general. Everyone was migrating south, myself included. I kind of already lived in the south, but it was north-south, on the border, and the winter was still unkind there. People had been moving south since September, but now, in early November, the Changers had started a mandatory evacuation. We were supposed to go deep into the continent, close to the equator, although no one knew specifically where. We just had to follow everyone else, they said. Soon children would only dream of sledding down cotton ball hillsides; snow would only fall in old tall tales spun by older generations.

While many people were heartbroken about leaving their homes, possessions, and memories of this border place behind, I was more than ready, or at least I had been. Even before the Change, I was chomping at the bit to leave, standing as far to the edge of cliff as I could, waiting to jump. I’m seventeen years old. What seventeen year-old doesn’t want to try their hand at the world? The Change, as they call it, never changed my desire to leave. It gave me a reason to leave.

I’d be lying if I said being forced to leave was exactly the same as choosing to leave though. Before, I was eager to leave my parents and their protection behind. Now…I would give anything to be wrapped in my mom’s arms or to become victim to one my dad’s bristly kisses. Because you don’t exactly realize how much you will miss those things until they are gone.

I don’t know where my parents are. I haven’t seen them for nearly two weeks. They both work for the EPA, my dad is a research scientist developing better water treatment technology and my mother is a corporate lawyer. Last Monday morning they both went to work and last Monday evening neither came home.  I didn’t really know what to do with myself. Of course, there was no way to communicate with them. Cell towers had been down for months and private internet via cable modem or other devices was shoddy at best. Even the mail had gone under. I couldn’t think of a rational reason why they would be missing, why they would not come home—no business trips, no visits to the hospital a couple hours away to see my grandparents—these are things they wouldn’t do spontaneously or without telling me. I tried email, even calling—it was all pointless. I curled up in my parent’s bed, wearing my dad’s favorite scratchy sweater, and didn’t move for three days.

People came to the house—neighbors, mostly, knocking and yelling for me. They all left after about ten minutes. Ignoring them became easy, but it was annoying to put up with the knocking, so eventually I filled out the evacuation form and put it on my door, making it look like I had left. I had to wait for my parents. I couldn’t evacuate without them. I couldn’t leave by myself—I was only seventeen for godsakes!

At three weeks, I was beginning to think the worst. Kidnapped by some Changers? Not a stretch—they had information. Simply killed like so many people have been? Possible. It stopped mattering at week four. Whether they were coming home or not, I was staying home.  The radio had stopped at three and a half weeks. The streets were silent now. I was rationing the food—my parents had stocked enough for a few months. Ramen never got old, right? It seemed like some kind of sick joke. Here I was, living on my own, parent free, weeks at a time, eating Ramen noodles like a starving college student.  I couldn’t go outside—Changers patrolled every few hours or so, driving down every street, looking for looters or rebels. As long as I stayed inside, I felt somewhat safe. Somewhere in week four, I found a semi-automatic that my dad had hidden in the back of his closet. I didn’t know how it worked or what I would do if I ever had a reason to use it, but I had this feeling that a gun was better than no gun.

I tried to keep busy. I read, I read a lot. There were tons of books stacked in every open space in the house, it was a hobby of my dad’s. He bought books constantly, convinced that someday he would read all of them. After five weeks, I was closer than ever to achieving this goal. I finished Tender is the Night around the time the electricity went out. Halfway through Leaves of Grass I took my last hot shower.

I had just started 1984 when someone broke through a window. It was downstairs, in the kitchen. At least that is what it sounded like. For a second, I didn’t do anything except finish the sentence I was reading. It had not sunk in, not really. My life had been silent for a month now. December ninth and 30 days had passed without talking to anyone. The idea of people interacting with me or having to interact with anyone else was foreign and strange.

But that was beside the point. The window had shattered, and now I heard someone walking around. I stood up from my perch in the corner of my parent’s bedroom. Lately I had been curled up in the chair in the corner, with blankets cocooned around me like a nest. My situation was not great. Being upstairs, I was sort of cornered—whoever was in the house could very well come up and where would I go? I had to beat them, get downstairs. I reached for the gun I always kept few feet away. I was wearing leggings and another sweater of my father’s.  I wasn’t quick, or very quiet, and hardly knew my way around a gun. But I had to try—I had waited for so long—what if my parents were trying to break into the house I had locked up? This may be good—this may mean I don’t have to fend for myself anymore.

The rational part of my brain knew this was unlikely.

I heard the person downstairs walking around loudly—it sounded like they were wearing heavy shoes or boots and obviously thought they were alone for the noise. I crept towards the bedroom door, terrified to open it, half convinced the intruder would be on the other side. Slowly I turned the knob, the gun held limply in my right hand.

Nothing. I paused, waiting to hear if the person had noticed. They didn’t seem to, but it sounded as if they were in the living room. If it was a looter, they would be heading for the tv. For some reason, you could still make money off of that stuff or at least that’s what the radio broadcasts were saying three weeks ago, even though it had very little purpose anymore. I don’t think the value would last much longer.  

My heart seemed to catch in my throat as I made my way down the hall and towards the stairs. I had to make a decision—when to announce myself. Should I do it now in case it’s my parents? Should I wait if it is a looter? If it is a looter should I shoot them? I was hesitant to use the gun—I don’t think I could kill another person. Besides that, someone may hear, and I may be found. That would be terrible. And what would I do with the body? I would have to use it to threaten only.

I took the first step down the stairs. I was bare foot, which at least made me quiet.

Second step, and the person hadn’t stopped moving. They were shuffling around the television.

Three four five six seven…eight was a creaky step. This would give me away. I stood, perched on the seventh step, halfway down, waiting for the intruder to make a noise loud enough to make the way down without them noticing.

Ten twenty thirty forty fifty sixty seconds GO! Something was dropped, apparently on their feet, and in the shower of expletives I ran down the stairs and turned into the living room, raising my gun and waiting for him—it was a him, not my dad or mom but just some guy—to look up.  He looked up at me after about five seconds, and then we both froze.

“Peter?”

A Very Merry Easter

    Maurice really hated Easter. He always had, ever since he could remember. Each year his family, the Ketters, would meet up to hunt eggs and reflect on Jesus. The whole thing had always creeped him out to be honest. He went to sleep at night in terror, dreaming of a neon rabbit breaking into his home. Sometimes Jesus would be there cackling and throwing eggs around.These dreams were particularly disturbing.
        Even now, at the age of 15, Maurice was dreading Easter. This year was going to be even worse because the Ketter family's once egg-hunting children were now opinionated teenagers, and being one himself Maurice had his own fill of attitude.
     He hated his cousins, well his girl cousins anyway. Jim was okay. Jim was 13, and he was quiet so Maurice didn't really mind him. He did however, mind Jamie and Delia. He could only explain his hatred for them through the articles of clothing they wore: skinny tank-tops, and preripped, artificially faded jeggings so tight that their feet appeared a slight shade of blue. Their wrists were riddled with glittery  jelly bracelets that said things like, "4ever" and "True Sis".
     Maurice thought of his own sister away at college. She had hated Jamie and Delia too. how he missed her.
   He cringed at the sound of the doorbell and hesitated to walk down and greet them. If heir roles were switched, his cousins would not greet him. No, Delia and Jamie would lock themselves in their rooms,and scream as if they were being murdered when Aunt Polly asked them to the dinner table! Still, Maurice was better than that, and he met them at the door along with his mother. "Hello!" she quipped cheerfully. "Come in, come in! The chicken is still baking, why don't you have a seat in the living room."
       Aunt Polly walked straight to the kitchen, probably to beg for some kind of cooking task that would relinquish any guilt she had about not having Easter Dinner at her house. Uncle Max went to the living room, a beer in hand that he must have brought himself, and turned on some football game. there was always a football game to watch.
     This left Jim, Maurice, Jamie, and Delia in the foyer to scrap up some kind of awkward conversation. There were few times that Maurice wished for the scary bunny. This was was one of those times. "Um,so..." he started hopefully,but nobody was listening. Except for maybe quiet Jim. It didn't take long anyway,  for Jamie and Delia to rush off to the kitchen and begin to complain about their hunger and their weight, and just how HUGE their pores were.
     Quiet Jim joined his dad in front of the television,and Maurice was starting to think that watching football might unfortunately be what he was destined to do right now too, in the world of gender.
     Instead though, he stepped outside and called his sister. This stabilized his sanity and reminded him that his cousins could become a simple antic dote some day if he wanted them to. He walked back inside with a different attitude. Instead of dreading his family's every move, he would savor them. Who knows? Maybe Jamie and Delia could make for a good story some day. 

Fall

I hadn't heard a word they said.

The phone was silent and I had no idea whether the conversation was over, the line had died, or they were waiting on me to answer a question. I should've known.

But there was this leaf.

It was shimmering on the tree outside the window, a solid breeze blowing it and every other leaf up and away from its branch, only to be snapped back by the strength of its taut stem. One leaf, but somehow, it caught and held my eye. In fact, I couldn't NOT see it. Like working until the duck in that picture turns into a rabbit, then struggling to see the duck again. There was only that leaf.

It was straining, torn by wind and stem. I couldn't say whether it yearned to stay or to break free. My eyes still fixed, I considered the relative merits--freedom or security, familiarity or
novelty.

Back and forth, the tree shook. Orange, amber, and pale green scattered as dozens of leaves followed the breeze. But mine--the one I could not release--it rattled on.

"Hello?"

My eyes shifted. Not long, but long enough.

"Still here," I said. "Just wondering if there's anywhere else to go."

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled. "You scare me when
you're quiet so long. Seriously, I'm shaking like a leaf."

There was a tiny crunch as a single dash of brownish gold was pressed
against the window, them quickly spirited away.

The Perfect Wall PT 2

Dominic Rowen inspired the piece. It took all of ten minutes to write and I think its a bit too melo(n)dramatic. Okay.

“Once upon a time there was a perfect wall.”

She would hide behind it.

The wall would tuck her away from her fears and insecurities and all the times she thought about the word no.  Every time she felt the word no she would hide behind the perfect wall. It was comfortable there, it was just large enough to cover her; she could snuggle up to it like a blanket and no one would guess she was hiding at all. It was dependable, too. She could make the bad things go away whenever she needed them to.

As she grew older, though, the wall didn’t always fit quite right. She had to adjust. Sometimes she had to bend down to hide the top of her head, and other times she had stand sideways instead of facing the front. It was disconcerting. The wall existed for her because other things had let her down. What was she supposed to do when the wall disappointed her, too?

The worst day was when the wall went away. She searched and searched for her hiding place. It was missing. She wailed and wailed and cried out. Her insides were raw and her outsides didn’t matter anymore. Now she could see the no. She could feel the pain. She was terrified.

It was hard to say goodbye to the wall. A couple of times, she thought she felt its phantom arms close around her, but she knew she was just imagining things. A few years later, she felt for sure like the wall had returned, but instead of embracing her it felt more like she was being strangled. Without the wall, she felt more vulnerable, but then she thought, I am I supposed to be? Maybe it was better this way.

Maybe.

My Diner

The Shoebox Diner was always one of those places you could never forget. I remember going there with my family all of the time when I was little; sitting on the spinning bar stools, coated in a deep red velvet. Placed in the corner, there was an old jukebox that played real vinyl records. I used to scout my house for quarters whenever I had the chance, just to fill that old jukebox. I would play You must have been a Beautiful Baby by Bobby Darin over and over; I was convinced he’d written that song about me.

                Sometimes I would make a stop there on the way home from school, and order a milkshake while I did my homework. Ernie Fletcher, who owned the diner, kept my milkshakes secret from parents because that was just the kind of guy he was.

                You could walk in there and always be greeted with warmth from Ernie, even if it was two in the morning and he had to wake up to serve you. He had waiters and waitresses on second shift of course, but every now and then he would turn on the bell, so it would wake him up to serve late night customers. It was a twenty four hour restaurant, and he was going to do whatever it took to keep it that way.

                I remember one time, when I had just gotten brand new roller-skates; I decided to ride around the block in them. I raced around the sidewalks of the city, dodging people, and subway grates on my way. It was tricky, but I had it all figured out. At least I thought I did.  Coming straight at me was a woman walking her dog, and she’d taken up the spot that I used to dodge the grate. I remember feeling my heart pound as I got closer, knowing I was going to fall.  “AHHHHH!” the woman screamed as I neared her. She pulled her dog out of the way. But this only made things worse.

                The dog’s leash wrapped around my legs and forced me to the ground, giving me no option but to put my hands out. There was a second where the world froze, and it was just me and the pavement, getting to know each other.  Then there was the second after that. “Owwwwweeeeeeeee!” I screamed at the top of my nine year old lungs. I didn’t want to look, because I was pretty sure that my hands had been sliced off by the force my arms slamming against the concrete.

                Pretty soon, I felt arms hook around my shoulders and carry me inside the diner that this whole thing had happened outside. It was Ernie. I didn’t start crying until I saw him. “It…it hurts really…bad.” I mumbled through my sobs.

                “I know, I know, your mom and dad will be here in just a second. I just got off of the phone with them.” For some reason, this made me wale harder. I still hadn’t looked at my hands; I had only looked at Ernie. “I’ll be right back kiddo; I’m going to go make sure my boys are still working. They’ll use any commotion as an excuse to stop” I decided to take a look around. I’d never been in this room before.

                It was an office, Ernie’s office to be exact. A mountain of papers surrounded each corner of his dark, business-like desk. A gigantic rolling chair sat behind his desk. It was one of those chairs you could just imagine sinking into, and forgetting about everything that had ever bothered you. I thought that maybe I would like to sit in that chair. So, I slowly clambered up off of the bench seat I’d been crying on, and made my way to the chair. The only problem was that there was another door that led to another place I’d never seen. It was right next to the chair. It was a fine door, too. Tall, and dark and enticing, the door stood there waiting to be opened. It had one of those little windows at the top, so I could maybe get a glimpse of the other side without opening it. The only problem was that I was too short to even see out of the window. So I decided to pull he big chair over and stand on it, in this way I could see through the window!

                Next thing I knew Ernie was back, with my parents. “Honey, no don’t-“my mother started urgently.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just my apartment. You feel better kiddo?” Ernie asked disregarding the fact that I was standing on his chair completely. I realized that the stinging in my hands had completely stopped, and looking down I noticed that they were only a little scratched up.

Ernie was the kind of guy that cared about the lives of others more than his own. If I was trying to look into his apartment, he didn't mind. If I dropped by when I was supposed to be doing something else, he'd shrug and make me a burger.

We used to spend every single Thanksgiving at the diner, and we were not the only ones. It seemed like our whole community showed up for it, and Ernie would smile and laugh at the applause he got every time he put the turkey in the fryer.

I don’t think he ever had his own family. I had never asked him about what his life was like before the diner, or if he had any brothers or sisters. Now I wish that I had.

Ernie Fletcher had a heart attack, and sadly did not live through it. It happened just last year, and I didn't go to his funeral.

I watched the diner collapse without him. It went out of business, and was bought out by some 80'stheme chain called “The Alley-way Cafe". Tonight it opens, and I'm walking there now. I haven't been there since he died.

I walk in and find myself in a black and white checkerboard everywhere I look. Michael Jackson is blaring from the boom box that has replaced my jukebox. Above it is a fake bullet- hole, trying to be decorative but really just looking out of place.

It isn't right. It's so foreign and strange, and it reminds me of Ernie so little that I feel like I need to find something familiar to hold on to. I walk toward Ernie's office and slip inside, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. I'm lucky, and find that no one is there.

Next I open the other door, the one to his apartment. The jukebox sits there waiting for me, and I walk over to it, pressing the number I'd pressed so many times before, inserting a quarter. “Goodbye diner." I say. I think of Ernie and smile. He was the diner.

                

Diversity Means...

This is a piece I wrote for school. We had to write about the topic "Diversity means..."

Everything except the ice cold drizzle had been planned. It was unusually chilly for a September morning, and the rain was not pleasant.

That’s okay though, it’s motivation for me to finish so I can get inside like a normal person, Lissie thought to herself. She had lost count of how many races she had ran in by this point. This particular 5K was just another one in a long line of meaningless gift bags and stale catered post-race breakfasts. She did not even enjoy running that much; she was not on her school’s cross country team or even track and field. She didn’t make great time, she got sore and hated the feeling of sweat pouring down her back when she ran in the summer. Sometimes she thought about stopping altogether. What’s the point? She didn’t run with anyone. Her parents supported her but could not understand the attraction. Racing was expensive, too, because she had to pay for shoes, races, and the hundreds of hair bands she went through in a six month period. (She had no idea where they all went, it was as if they hated being constricted to her hair, and escaped from her frizzy brunette prison, one at a time.)

The obvious upside was exercise. Lissie considered this as she stretched to warm up for the race, which started in ten minutes. The muscles in her calves strained against her skin as she spread her legs a part and touched the ground. Exercise was essential, and she valued the endorphin release that came from it most of all. She could be angry, depressed, or just anxious, and after running a couple of miles she would be distressed. Just like that. She started running as a release. When she was fourteen, her parents sat her down to tell her they were going to split up—something Lissie had never expected. She did not want to deal with the pain, with the reality, she just wanted to run away. That’s exactly what she did. Lissie had made it through the divorce and a ton of other little hardships, and her Nikes had absorbed the shock of every consequential release of stress.

It was dumb, having to volunteer at these races. My mom told me it would benefit me somehow, but I couldn’t see the value. It was mostly painful for me to watch. I mean, I used to win these things. And now I’m the stooge that hands out the dinky Dixie cups of Gatorade, only to have them thrown right back at me. In this gross rain. Embarassing.

I don’t mean to go off on some tirade where I just feel sorry for myself. I really don’t. I just miss running—so much that sometimes I think about going outside late at night, like three am (so my mom will not find out) and feeling the concrete beneath my feet, the swish of my ponytail, like a pendulum, the thumping of some crazy loud band in my headphones. I fantasize about this like people fantasize about winning the lottery. People don’t get it. When I tore my ACL, my track friends were jealous. “You get to miss practice! I wish I could just veg out at home like you,” said one of my less sensitive friends. Unlike most of them, I loved it. Running was my passion, and this ACL injury was really getting in the way.

Don’t get me wrong, I know I will run again. I literally can’t wait. I just hate that I have to start from scratch. I’ve been working on this since I was thirteen, and five years later I have to start all over again. My mom said volunteering at these races would make me feel better, but seeing all of the seasoned runners pass me by is depressing. It’s as if every muscle in my body is aching to join them, every fiber in my being is yelling let me run let me run let me run.

He had never expected to finish his first race, much less his second. Sure he was starting small, with a few 5Ks here and there, but each mile was huge to him. A mile was a milestone, and landmark, an achievement worthy of a memorial. Eli conquered them all and then some, running past 5Ks to 10Ks and half marathons and then a marathon. What had started as a personal test of endurance and perseverance had grown uncontrollably into what can only be described as an addiction. Each mile represented something different to Eli.

His first complete miles represented hope—a reason to continue running. If he could run three miles without walking, he was sure he could do anything. That’s why he started running in the first place. Eli wanted to prove something to himself. He wanted to try something new, something no one in his family did and something his friends didn’t really understand. He wanted to try it and he wanted not to fail. It was an experiment in his will, in his strength and in his dedication. If he had given up, he had no idea what his life would be like now.

When Eli crossed the finish line that morning, he had a smile on his face. His shirt was plastered to his back, a mixture of sweat and cold rain. He hadn’t won, but then, that hadn’t been his goal. He had worked for this. He had not given up. He had finished.

The 5K had been a complete success, despite the rain. Runners are a different class of people. They wouldn’t skip a race for something so trifling as drizzle.

A Love Letter;

She was in love with the skyline. Every tower and point and crevice was committed to her brain. She breathed the air in, her steps pumped in time with the heart beat of the sidewalk. The breeze fell over her, she fell into the breeze. Every skyscraper and park and tree and person created her. She loved that city because it had raised her and it knew her so well.

It was her cushion, it was her backbone. It supported her, it would never change. She would memorize the cracks in the sidewalk before her city would disappoint her. She was enamored with the traditions the city observed every year—it was a comfort to live a life full of history and memory and happiness. She had not missed a single tree lighting since she was four, she always went window shopping at Christmas time and loved doing random things like watching the toy boat races in the park. She had many traditions of her own, like the walk she took from her apartment to the little Strand kiosk at the edge of the park. She remembered her dad spreading out a blanket in the Great Lawn and reading her picture books. There were so many trips with her mom to meet her dad for lunch. Great long subway rides, exaggerated in her memory, when often times on the way back her eyes would flutter shut with the intonations of “Stand Clear of the Closing Doors.”

As she grew older, the city seemed less of a magical mystery guided by her parents and more like an unexplored land. It belonged to her now, not only to her mom and dad, and she depended on it. She was the one sailing the streets in search of life. She was scouring the city for treasures unknown. She dug up books and music and food. She discovered people that hurt her and people she never wanted to be a part from. She was the queen of this city, she learned more than anyone or anything had ever taught her. She fell in love that year; not with a man but with a place. Her tie, her connection to the invisible forces of the city was mighty and impenetrable. Perhaps people and interests would come and go, but this would never change.

She loved the city because it was always there when she woke up in the morning. She loved the city because she could walk down the street alongside a Hindu man and exchange smiles as he walked his daughter to school. She loved the city because she could eat the same breakfast at the same café every day and the waiters would know her, or she could eat a hundred different breakfasts at a hundred different little cafes if she really wanted. It was a city with a pulse. There was always something happening—every window she walked by represented a different story. This family is breaking up, this woman is feeding yet another cat, this woman is going to try to talk to her brother for the first time in years. She could never know them all, but she imagined all of their secrets and whispered them as she passed them in the street.

In a city of eight million strangers, she never felt alone. In a city of thousands of buildings, she felt like each was her home. In a city of untold stories, her story was her own.

Perfection: Chapter 5

Two weeks later, Jimmy was proud to say, that he was having no dreams at all when he went to sleep each night. This made him feel ordinary; a feeling that had wavered for a couple days after his fieldtrip to the zoo. Being ordinary was the goal of every person in Shorben Valley, and why not? It’s embarrassing to be different and stick out amongst a group of people. Most of the people that weren’t ordinary were criminals that got kicked out of Shorben Valley.
At the moment, Jimmy was out with Michael, and a girl that Michael seemed to be fond of; Edith. They were walking through the vast woods that surrounded the section of Shorben Valley that they lived in, and debating which career was more interesting: quantum physics, or agriculture and the study of food. Jimmy was outnumbered in this argument, because Edith was studying QP (that was where she met Michael).
“While food is the main thing people care about on the market, the idea of moving particles is much more…compelling.” Edith nodded agreeably at Michael’s statement, turning to see Jimmy’s response.
“What could be more compelling then corn?” Jimmy joked, smiling at the expected laughter. Today had been a good day so far, and Jimmy had a feeling it would stay that way. The weather was great, as it was everyday, and the satisfying crunch of the leaves beneath his feet gave him hope for a normal life.
“Oh, looks like we found the next breaking point.” Michael was right, about twenty yards ahead of them there stood a building that supplied water, and a restroom. “I’m going to use the restroom, are you two?”
“No, I think I’ll stay back.” Jimmy answered politely, making his way to the bench placed next to the building.
“Me too.” Edith said joining Jimmy.
“Alright then.” Michael said with a yawn before heading into the bathroom.
Edith smiled at Jimmy in the silence that followed Michael’s absence. He smiled back. He had never really been alone with Edith before, so he didn’t really know whether it was necessary to start a conversation with her. He decided it was only right that he did, she was Michael’s friend after all.
“So, you seem very interested in your career choice, what made you want to study it so closely?”
“Oh,” Edith giggled. “It’s really just the family career, I’m not as serious about it as I come off, but you know… Michael likes things to be serious.” Jimmy laughed at this statement and pondered its unusual structure. It wasn’t normal for someone to joke about another behind their back, but Edith’s joke hadn’t been mean in anyway. He wondered if he should joke about her behind her back, as part of the governor’s rule, but he decided to let it go. It made him laugh, that was what mattered.
“I found your views on agriculture very unique by the way,” she added, “the way you see it as a form of entertainment, r enjoyment; rather than a staple for survival.” Jimmy flinched at the use of the word unique. It was a word he loathed, because of its negative connotations.
“Oh, well you’re right of course; it is meant to be a staple. I just like the taste of it in my mouth, you know, when the textures just right, and the temperature is perfect. It’s almost a form of leisure on its own.” It was funny to hear himself say these things out loud. He had always felt this way about food, and he wasn’t completely sure why.
“Leisure.” Edith repeated, lost in thought. “I think that’s a very nice point of view, I mean what is life without enjoyment?” She looked down at her shoes for a second, biting her lip and thinking. Then she looked back up at Jimmy. “People in Shorben Valley seem to be moving in one direction, and that’s efficiency. I’m not saying that it’s a bad thing, but I do wish more people would think like you, and understand that life is not about getting to the point where there are no mistakes; it’s about being happy.” Jimmy felt taken aback by Edith’s spontaneous way of speaking. He was surprised that she could just put her opinions to words so easily and give them over to him as if they were nothing. What surprised him more was what he said next.
“Perfection is not one of my goals. Happiness is.” And before Edith could respond in any way, Michael exited the restroom and waited for Edith and Jimmy to join him, before heading back on the path of the woods.

Overheard

“One day,” he said. He held his hat in his hand. The bill was dusty and worn. His hair stuck to his head in sweaty patches where the hat had been.

I had been sitting across the diner from him, in a booth next to the window. I had been looking at my phone, at people passing on the street—everywhere but at the bar stool he had been seated on. When I heard his voice, I turned and saw him starting to rise. That’s when he said it.

“One day.”

The words hung there, not said to anyone that I could see, not said in my direction certainly. The stool next to him spun. I couldn’t tell if he had bumped it or if someone else had just left, even less noticeably. The stools spun easily of course; they were the kind I always longed to sit in as a child, and never sat in now, even when alone.

He reached up with one hand and ran it through his hair, which, though not gray, seemed to have faded from what its original luster might have been. I’m terrible at judging a person’s age, but he was not young. His face was lined and seemed almost dusty, like the hat. He did not look in my direction. Without moving, he simply radiated a sensation of gathering himself together. He moved toward the door. No check on the counter, already paid presumably. He took with him only the hat, and any clue as to what his words had meant.

I did not stop him. I did not ask if he had been making a promise, to himself or an unseen companion. I did not ask what he had missed, whether he was also a dollar short. I just watched him walk out the door, donning his hat and pocketing his story for another time.

One day, I thought.

Henry's seen it before though

The Washams, are quiet, innocent enough to look dumb, but not dumb. Mrs. Washam you are the sweetest creature on this earth. I'm not in love with you. I just.. think you're beautiful. Your husband doesn't say a word, he catatonic. His eyes bulge out of his head, his hair tangled, never combed. His posture is formative. You help him eat, never press conversation. No one pays attention to you guys.

Henry's seen it before though.

One day though, when I wasn't even bothering to look, you were laughing. He had whispered in your ear. The silent stoic Robert Washam uttered a humorous phrase to Margaret. They don't even share rooms anymore. They are separate at night and dine together, but Margaret, you'd be liar if you weren't looking over your shoulder for him when you enter the dining room early. That's love. Mrs. Washam when he goes, you're going to be fine. You're going to take each last day that is yours and walk forward. Maybe the other ladies will reach out to you, you'll take it, its kind of them. Life will roll on until your day.

[Henry stands outside greeting the members of this congregation for the first time. Everyone thoroughly enjoyed what Henry had to say. In fact the above may need to be sensationalized a bit. What Henry did today was surpass age and life experience. Henry made the folks of this particular congregation touched and moved in a unique way. Henry is young, unknown, but his sermon was relate able and thus these people felt they could trust him by using his principles in their own relationships. An old lady leads her family in walking up to Henry to tell him of how happy he has made her.]
Old Lady: Mr. Trotter, I just had to tell you. You made me feel the best I've felt since Winston passed, my husband.
[As she speaks her family creeps up behind her as if they are the parents of a young and excited 6 year-old. She is one of those elders who holds their own with just a look and Henry sees this look despite what the others may see. To the world this is seen as Henry establishing a relationship with the public and thus binding them with God and acting as a vessel. Between the lady and Henry though there is a very different understanding. Both individual are not on the same page, but they are both playing separate roles. She has age and Henry does not. Henry notices that absence, doesn't try to get cocky and pretend he knows where she is coming from. If anything Henry tries to figure out how he can be sure about what he said today. Her family smiles at Henry and they start to move, but Henry and the lady are still in eye contact. Her eyes show appreciation and tell Henry he has promise keep trying son, you'll be brilliant. Henry's eyes keep on her, as if she is some type of messiah. Here's the deal, maybe we aren't remembering this as well as cameras, but the point is to get the heart of what this moment did for Henry. The look in her eyes moved Henry farther in his life than he had been moved before. Those eyes wouldn't pass Henry along straight to success. Advice comes more in knowing glances and last words than physical pushes by loved ones. That lady is long dead, but Henry remembers her better than his best sermon.

More...

I added this to the entry called "Total" so my English piece would make the word requirement of 1,300. Nothing special. I feel kind of silly posting this, actually.

“Young lady, do you have a watch I could borrow?” The man speaking to me from the other side of the counter is probably in his late eighties. He is at that stage of old when all the mottled skin on your face just seems to fold over another pallet of skin. His eyes seem to barely be able to make out anything from behind the drooping skin that has become his eyelids. His glasses are comically huge for eyes so small, big aviators that were popular thirty years ago, if that. Working here has shown me age in every possible respect—from people who age only on the outside, to those whose personalities sour as much as their skin. This man, at least, is nice. He is one of the many old men who seem to make it their duty in age to tell jokes to all the girls who work behind store counters.

“I don’t have a watch actually, sorry,” I reply not unkindly to this obvious joke opener. I hate these jokes because they are never funny and almost always very sad.

The man’s eyes widen a little behind his skin flaps and he says, “Well that’s a shame, because I sure am running out of time!” His stomach shakes with his laughter and he smiles and I fake my “ha, ha, ha” because I want him to feel good after telling his joke. I can’t make much difference in this man’s life, but I can at least laugh instead of leaving an awkward silence for this man to mull over as he walks out the door.  So I laugh and he laughs and then I grab his usual pack of cigarettes (Misty Ultralight Menthol 120’s, $4.25) and he pays (like he always does) with $20.25. He walks out the door and I don’t spend too much time thinking about the experience. The whole thing lasted less than three minutes and would probably happen again very soon.