Word Out 2014

27 thoughts on “Short Story Contest!”

1. Will only one winner be chosen?

2. Can u enter only once?

3. Hello, for this contest only one winner will be chosen

4. If you are willing to write more than one story then we would absolutely love to see it.

5. Do you just post your story here in the comments section?

6. Hi Yvonne, you can go ahead and post it here in the comments. We will collect all the entries from here at the deadline.

7. THE BOY AROUND THE CORNER – By Miri Potrison
   Once upon a time in a land far, far away, about seven houses down and around the corner, there lived a boy. Now he was not JUST a boy, he was THE boy. Like yeah, you’ve heard that one a million times but trust me this one’s special, and he’s mine. Well actually he’s not mine so to speak but he would be…if we ever talked about more than the weather and school or if he found me attractive or something like that.
   Tyson Anderson had lived in the house just around the corner of my street for about ten years. We first met each other in the Fourth Grade when we ended up in the same class, we were only nine then, but I knew I liked him so I did the only reasonable thing, I spit a chewed up wad of cheese in his hair. Of course I grew up and so did he, we both decided to let the past stay in the past and NEVER mention that incident again. I like to think that things have changed since then, although I know I’m still the same old awkward shy Silena Coles that couldn’t hold a conversation with the guy she liked, even if the fate of the world depended on it.
   Tyson was wonderful, he was funny, sweet, intelligent and just a downright great guy. He had beautiful black hair, and deep brown eyes that made me nervous as hell. Standing next to Tyson I reach about his shoulders, but that could just be because I was really short for a sixteen year old, he wasn’t very muscular (not that I cared), he was more the skinny/lanky type in an ultra cute way. I remember in the seventh grade when our class went on a skating trip, I twisted my ankle and couldn’t stop blubbering and crying (cause that’s how I roll), but he just walked up to me and made me laugh so hard I forgot why I was ever crying. Tyson makes me so happy without having to even do anything but I can’t even have a conversation with him. The last time the two of us talked was when we were having an argument about who was the better hero, Spider-Man or Iron Man (Spider-Man obviously!), which ended in both of us laughing but frustrated with each other. I wanted to do that with him, I wanted him to like me but that seemed to be getting more and more impossible.
   Tyson and I were both starting Grade 11 in September; we’d already been going to two different high schools since Grade 9, as if I didn’t already feel far enough from him. I only really see him during the summer now, and that’s just when I go for a walk around the neighbourhood and he’s out in the front gardening. I happened to go for a lot of walks by his house during the summer to the point where some people may consider it creepy/stalker-ish but I disagree, I just enjoy the outdoors and if I just by some crazy coincidence see Tyson after the sixth or seventh time I pass his house, all the better. Of course when I do see him all I could do was say ‘hi’ and ask him about school and he would stop what he was doing and talk to me then a minute later I would get so nervous I would just say ’bye’ and walk away. There had been times when I thought Tyson might be interested in me, but that was probably just my active wistful imagination. No more of that though because this would be the summer when I make my move, and I knew exactly where to start, The Internet.
   I did this a lot; it was just a small feel good confidence booster for me but some crazy people may say I’m a little addicted to the “Calculate Your Love Percentage” things, although that’s not even remotely possible. I just liked entering our names together and pressing refresh until I got a number that I was happy with, yeah maybe I had to get some of my priorities organized but calculating ‘my love percentage’ was A LOT easier than going out there and actually making something happen. So call me crazy, call me desperate, but when an ad popped up asking me if I’d like a genie to grant me a wish to make my love dreams come true…I clicked it. Yeah as if anything would happen, it was just for the fun of it, I never expected a hunky, glittery apparition to appear out of nowhere floating (I couldn’t see any legs) next to me in my bedroom.
   “Hello, you must be Silena Coles. I’m Chuck, you can call me Chuck. I understand you’re hoping to make something happen this summer between you and…” he said, then something that seemed like an iPad popped up and he started scrolling through it thoughtfully, “ahhh Tyson Anderson. Nice boy, lives right around the corner, this shouldn’t take too long.” The iPad type thing disappeared and he began to stretch his arms while floating around my room.
   “Ummmm, who are you and what are you doing in my room? You better not tell me that you’re the ‘love genie’ because there’s no way that’s possible,” I said but slowly I began to realize that this person was sparkly and floating around, all I could do was stare and wonder how this was possible. Chuck the genie probably also guessed the realization I came to by the look on my face.
   “Honey, I think you know what I am, you clicked the link, all that’s left is for you to make a wish,” Chuck said smugly.
   I took a deep breath, well there’s no harm in going along with this was there, and there was something I’d been thinking about for a while. “Make me the kind of girl Tyson would like. Do whatever you have to; change my personality, my appearance, anything you can.” I said all that in one breath and as soon as I let it all out Chuck the genie gave a big loud sigh.
   He started floating all over the place then ‘sat’ down on my bed. “Here we go again. You know back in my day things were so much simpler. ‘Make HIM fall in love with me,’ they would say, but we rarely get that one any more, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad people realized how disastrous that wish was but COME ON!” I just sat at my desk staring at him.
   “Did I do something wrong? Can I not wish for you to change me?” I questioned.
   “That’s not it, it’s just that this wish causes so many more problems, trust me you’re not the first teenager to ask me for this. Whenever the person who made the wish sees how much they’ve changed and how the person they like is suddenly acting so different towards them they realize they’re better off and wish to be changed back Are you sure that you want this?” he looked at me and I began to question myself. Did I really want this, what if I didn’t like what I saw or how Tyson had changed? I thought for a moment, well what have I got to lose, at least after this I’ll know if I should give up on Tyson or not.
   “I’m sure, take it away,” I said with a smile.
   Chuck smiled back and said, “Okay then. Some things you should know, this spell comes with a timer, it only lasts seven minutes after meeting the other person. After that you go back to normal, unless you want to make the spell permanent, if that’s the case then don’t worry I’ll find you. Ready?” I nodded.
   Suddenly I was tingling all over I couldn’t see what was happening but I felt nervous, then I realized I was floating out of my room, out of my house. I didn’t even have a chance to look in the mirror! I had no control of where I was going and then I saw him, I turned the corner of my street and was floating towards Tyson’s house…and he was in the front yard. Chuck was behind me, I turned around to beg him to stop this but then I saw him looking at me with these really kind eyes and I felt my confidence come back. I landed softly right in front of Tyson’s house and saw him look up at me from where he was crouching on the ground. Well no time like the present, and I was already his ideal girl so might as well.
   “Hey Tyson!”
   “Hey Silena! Nice to see you,” he said adorably, he recognizes me, that’s a good thing.
   The conversation just carried on from there, sure we started off by talking about the weather and school like always, but then we moved on to books and movies and our friends, then before I knew it seven minutes was practically up and I could see a reflection of Chuck coming over in the neighbour’s reflective glass fence.
   Well it’s over now I thought to myself, it was nice having an actual conversation for once but Tyson wasn’t actually talking to me, he was talking to the girl he’d like me to be and that’s not what I wanted. I was ready to tell Chuck thanks, but he wasn’t needed anymore because I didn’t want to make this wish permanent. I saw Chuck’s reflection right behind me and I don’t think Tyson could see him, but I did a double take so fast I thought I’d give myself whiplash. I looked at my reflection in the fence and started to smile like crazy. Maybe it was just the fence but I looked EXACTLY the same….what? The gears in my head started turning and I had this huge grin on my face that I didn’t think would ever leave. I looked into Chuck’s eyes through the reflection and saw him smile and wink at me, then probably realizing he was no longer needed, he disappeared.
   Tyson smiling too now looked at me and asked, “Silena are you okay? I love talking to you but don’t let me keep you, if you need to be somewhere.” I turned away from the fence still smiling and really looked at Tyson…and yeah my heart was doing somersaults.
   I shook my head and said, “No, I want to talk to you some more too.” The boy around the corner grabbed my hand and we began to take a walk together. “I was just thinking about the rest of this summer, it’s going to be awesome, I can just feel it!”

8. The Other Side of the Glass – – – – – By: Megan Li
   A dark and surreal self-reflection that blurs the lines of short fiction and poetry
   I was scared and threat was real, very real, but this wasn’t the first time I’d been in danger. Blight, the big, fat, aggressive lout, the school bully was stalking the playground to find his next prey. Ranked by four confederates, he preyed on weaker students, abusing his strength with aggression, building his ego on the shattered remains of his victims. And I, Charlie Steele was soon to be the lone deer in his lion’s gaze.
   For months, I watched him and his cronies pick on younger boys, separating them from their friends and beating them up. I knew what they were doing – I and everyone else at the school – but they were left to rampage in peace, no-one standing up to their truculent tactics as they savaged with apparen’t immunity. We were all equally guilty – guilty as Blight and his fellow perpetrators. We should have stood up to them collectively, nipped their aggression in the bud, put them in their place. The longer we stood back and accepted their behavior and the longer they were able to rage throughout the school, the stronger they became. And there was no chance of winning his games now.
   “Steele,” he yelled as he and his four cronies loomed towards me one day during recess. They swaggered towards me and formed a crescent of belligerency.
   “Steele, you four-eyed toad,” the bully said. “It’s your turn.”
   Such simple words, so much unsaid. I didn’t need any further explanations; I’d seen others after they’d had their ‘turn’. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.
   They were artists in this field, artists of hate. In time, they would have inevitably progressed beyond schoolyard aggression, sinking lower into the anti-social mire of the criminal underworld. They’d never be leaders, just thugs. They’d been well schooled in this art.
   To say I was scared of the imminent attack would have been an understatement – I was petrified. Overshadowed by five leering thugs, I knew that even in a fair fight I couldn’t possibly win.
   This underweight pre-adolescent David had been facing five physically mature Goliaths – five louts who tried to be rogues.
   I sweated in the still cold air, knowing what was waiting for me, wondering why he didn’t just lash out and ended this mockery, this teasing.
   I hadn’t realized then that he’d had to work himself into a frenzy so he could just hit, and hit, and hit. He liked hitting, but needed the frenzy, the blood-lust.
   “What’s up, Toad? Don’t ya want ya pretty face all smashed up?”
   “Why don’t you leave me alone? Go annoy someone else.”
   “Don’t go throwin’ your trash talk at me,” he snorted, searching for any excuse to start hitting.
   “Don’t be silly,” I whined, not at all mentally prepared for the inevitable assault.
   “Don’t call Blight ‘silly’, Four Eyes,” one of his cronies piped up, “Or I’ll flatten you myself. C’mon Blight, whip the punk and let’s go. It’s too bloody cold out here today.”
   “You call me silly, did ya,” bellowed Blight. He punched me in stomach, the first sign of physical violence.
   I backed away quivering in fear and pain.
   “Won’t ya stay and fight? Come on you little coward! Fight me!”
   “He was right, I was a coward,” I thought and I ran for my life. I circled around the soccer field and raced around the portables until I ended up panting in front of the boys’ bathroom. I cautiously walked into my only safe house on the school grounds.
   Using the mirrors behind of the sinks, I angled myself to check if any of the bullies were in the room, instead I saw a tiny boy huddled in the corner near the bathroom stalls. The boy’s eyes were swollen shut from tears and seemed to be out of breath. Fear seeped through his hurt expression when he noticed me standing in the entrance of the bathroom, but he didn’t push me away. I crept into the room. Careful not intrude his space and I crawled into the other corner of the bathroom so that we could only see each other using the mirrors. When the bell announced recess was over, I quietly got up and left without looking back.
   The next day, I saw the boy again in the bathroom after a brutal beating from the bullies, but he didn’t seem to notice me. On some days he does, on most days he doesn’t. But every time our eyes meet, he holds the gaze for only a second, searching and contemplative, then averts it abruptly and leaves. That’s okay. His eyes speak more than he does.
   I always saw him on the other side of the glass. He never appears on my side. I find that the most interesting part of the day is seeing him appear. I scramble to the glass whenever he does and seek out his eyes. His eyes are everything.
   “Hi,” I say to him.
   Only his eyes seem to respond. They twitch quickly, look to me and away, then back to me. Even through the glass, I can see he is searching for something, something elusive, something… something I can’t quite place.
   “Do you have a name?” I ask his eyes.
   “Charles.”
   “How odd, my name is Charlie.”
   I try to smile but he does not, and my smile falters. His pessimism is contagious, and before I can say anything else, he leaves again.
   The next time I see him on the other side I am already waiting. His eyes inform me that he is feeling heavy. They say he is no longer whom he used to be. And it shows.
   “Hey, Charles.”
   Only his eyes reflect any response. The most minimal.
   I try to ask him why he is feeling down, but he does not answer. I tell him that his world cannot possibly be darker than mine. The routinal beatings from Blight, the ignorance of my teachers, and my naïve paren’ts made up my miserable life in this dejected lifetime. I look at myself and nothing exists here but darkness, except for the light that I see through the glass. And him.
   Again, he is silent. His eyes, too, remain hushed, but they water as they meet mine.
   And he leaves again.
   The next time I see him, I can see he is different. He seems calmer, self-assured, and he meets my eyes without struggle, or fear. I can see into his eyes now, no mere communication. I see the knife in his eyes before I see it in his hand. And he raises it to his neck.
   I feel my hand moves towards my neck as well. But I never remove my gaze from his.
   I see tears run down his cheeks. He lets them run and fall from his chin.
   I can feel teardrops trace my face in the same manner.
   His eyes silently cry out to me, but I am at a loss for words.

9. The Angry Man
   Joseph Bloor was an angry man. Why was he angry? No one actually ever knew nor could they reminisce about a time in which they witnessed him smile the slightest of smiles. Some philosophized he came across this indignation after the death of his fourth wife. The jocose ones admonished it was due to his hideousness. The provenance of Joseph Bloor’s anger remained a mystery to everyone in the hamlet and there was only one person who knew how he came by it, and that one person was Mr. Bloor himself.
   Mr. Bloor was a retired, senile carpenter who lived off his meagre pension and what wealth was left behind by his deceased wives. Every day, at exactly 6 o’clock, he would promenade around the village, with his diary secured in his left arm, and berate anyone who came across his tyrannical path. His tirades were full of nonsense, yet harsh to ears both young and old. He was the closest thing to the Incredible Hulk back in those days.
   The villagers were growing weary of Mr. Bloor’s atrocious demeanour, so they concocted a plan to steal his diary, deducing that it contained the remedy to his ire. So on one hot day, at exactly 6 o’clock, Mr. Bloor set out on one of his usual rampages. When he approached the milkman to berate him on account of the mediocrity of his milk, a cow tackled him from behind. Mr. Bloor fell face first on the ground, his diary flying into the arms of a villager who briskly concealed it underneath their wool coat. The other villagers helped Mr. Bloor get back up on his feet, and instead of thanking them, Mr. Bloor resumed his tirade. The widower went back home that day, without noticing he had lost his diary.
   That night, the villagers attended a discreet symposium at the town hall and flipped through the pages of Mr. Bloor’s diary. The diary’s rigid façade was a picture of the widower himself, with his signature underneath. The diary contained the somber history of Mr. Bloor, from the deaths of his four wives to how heartbroken he felt after his daughter had eloped with another villager, taking all his valuables and wealth. The melancholic chronology of his life was far from tedious or soporific. Conversely, it brought tears to the eyes of the villagers. They realized that Mr. Bloor was not angry because he was hideous nor because he was a poor man. He was angry because he was lonely. This revelation came to the villagers as an epiphany, so the good-hearted villagers concocted yet another cunning plan.
   The next day, at exactly 6 o’clock, Mr. Bloor stepped out of his dilapidated domicile. He spotted the village mailman and decided that he would be his first target of the day. As he approached the mailman, the mailman smiled at Mr. Bloor and gave him a hug. The farmer, a few steps away, also came and embraced the widower in his arms. Soon after, the whole village encircled Mr. Bloor and gave him a warm, herculean group hug. When the villagers slowly dispersed, Mr. Bloor was handed back his diary. At first, his face was a perfect depiction of stoicism. However, his face started to loosen up, and a single drop of tear was shed from his eyes. Then the impossible happened: his face broke into a smile. Mr. Bloor was finally happy.

10. Milo, the Dog
    Milo was a three-year-old dog. He was a scrawny, dogmatic little creature, yet he was extremely ambitious and had acquired a zealous partisanship for animal equalitarianism. He had a large brown spot that stained his meager face and covered his right eye, making him look outwardly stupid.
    Milo was envious of his owner. His owner had two legs and two hands, Milo had four legs; his owner had hands and fingers, Milo had paws. To establish equality between animals and humans, Milo would endeavor to ride his owner’s tricycle, a stunt that would ignite a spark to cause a revolution that will bring about equality and egalitarianism between all organisms – did I mention Milo was a tad ambitious?
    One day, Milo noticed that his owner had left his tricycle on the cobbled road outside their house. Milo briskly climbed the adjacent stoned hedge and carefully leaped on to the tricycle’s leather saddle. The tricycle wobbled a little, however Milo quickly adjusted himself, oscillating his buttocks until they were finally in a relaxed position. He grasped the handlebars with his feeble paws and looked forward.
    “That’s one small step for dogs, one giant leap for non-mankind,” Milo exclaimed.
    With this maxim said, he tightened his grip on the handlebars and reached for the pedals with his bony legs – but as hard as he stretched his limbs, there were no pedals to be found, for his legs were too trivial, too small. Milo was crestfallen. Much to his ire, this fiasco did not make an iota of difference towards animal equality in any way, shape or form. Without thinking, Milo leaped off the tricycle and urinated on the front wheel. “If this won’t change society, it’ll sure change my mood,” elated Milo. Milo was disowned by his owner later on that day.

11. A Broken Memory
    Hi there folks, how’s life? Horrible, right? Your X-Box broke? Aww… I’m sorry to hear that. Oh no, you got a bad mark on your report card? That’s okay, I’m sure you tried your best; you’ll do better next time. You have a bad day every day? Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, so just suck it up and deal with it, my friend. All of those are horrible but I know what can make you feel better. I know, from experience, that when you know that somebody’s life is worse than yours, your, apparen’tly, horrible life is out the window and you feel great.
    Well, wish granted, folks because now, I’ll tell you a story.
    Hi, my name is Charlotte- Charlie- and this… story, you can say, is my life and it changed me… forever.
    *flash back*
    “Leave!” I yelled, throwing the book I was reading at her.
    She dodged the book and tried to get some sense into me. Ya right, like that’s going to happen. “But dear, you’re always so sad and depressed. We can do something together; it’ll be fun. And you can always tell me what’s bothering you, you know. I’ll try to fix it. C’mon, you get to pick, board game or shopping?”
    “You want to know what’s making me so sad and depressed? Are you wondering what’s bothering me? Well, guess what, the answer is YOU!! Happy now? You didn’t care what in the world happened to me for the last fourteen years, why the sudden change of mood, Sally?” she opened her mouth to say something but I cut her off, already knowing why she was giving me the stern look. “And no, I will NOT call you mom. Because you may be a lot of things but that is just not something you are good at. Real moms care what their child is doing or if they are actually eating. When is the last time you asked me how my day was? Easy answer, NEVER! Oh ya, almost forgot, if I remember correctly, you said you’ll try to fix whatever is bothering me and I’ll ask something from you, for the first and only time in my life. Could you just LEAVE!?!?!?!”
    I was panting by the time I finished, hard. My breath heaving, I looked up at my ‘mom’ to see such a pained expression that it broke my heart and guilt started creeping in. I quickly shook my head and remembered the time when she told me to leave her alone because her work is so much more important than her 7 year old daughter who couldn’t reach the cookies in the cupboard but was hungry. This is just a taste of her own medicine.
    She stared at me for a long time before getting her car keys and slowly retreating to the front door. She was just about to leave when she stopped, turned to me and said, “I’ll be back soon. If you need anything just call me and I’ll be there. And –and I’m sorry, for everything,” then, she left.
    Her words rang with such sincerity that tears pricked at my eyes and I almost forgave her but instead I kept chanting a single sentence in my head. She deserves it, it’s her own fault. She deserves it, it’s her own fault.
    *flashback ends*
    So what? I just had a fight with my mom, everyone does that, right? Wrong!
    Everybody might argue or fight with their paren’ts but definitely not for the same reasons as I do.
    Nothing much has even happened yet but it will. Just you wait… I remember what happened next very clearly. Yes, very clearly, indeed.
    *flashback*
    She said she’ll be back soon. Yeah, well, so much for that. I looked at the clock and saw that it’s 9’o clock at night. She’d been gone for 6 hours now, as we had our little scene at 2:00 p.m.
    The guilt that I’d been feeling is completely gone now, vanished. It was just an act to make me think that she actually cared about me and loved me; just like the acts she had been doing for the past 14 years.
    I got up and picked up the book I had thrown at my mom and started reading again. I was lost into the world of vampires and werewolves when a knock on the door brought me back to my attention.
    I looked at the clock, it was 9:45. I wobbled slightly as I got off the couch; my legs seemed to have fallen asleep. I walked to the door, knowing it wasn’t mom since she would’ve had her keys.
    As I opened the door, I was greeted by a police officer.
    “Um… hello?” I was confused, what was a policeman doing here, in my house?
    “I take it you’re Charlotte McKean?” he asked politely.
    I just nodded.
    “Well, Charlotte, I’ve some bad news for you. Your mom was driving home and she didn’t see a patch of ice until it was too late. Her car hit a tree and she flew out the window, snapping her neck. She died instantly. I’m sorry, Ms. McKean.”
    I stared at the police officer in shock. “W- What?”
    “You need to come with me to see your mother. And, if I’m correct, your dad died when you were two as a result of cancer?”
    “Ya,” I replied, grabbed a jacket and followed the officer out the door and to his car.
    *flashback ends*
    So… ya. I lost my dad to cancer when I was two and my mom died in a car crash when I was fourteen. Life is amazing, isn’t it?
    So, are you feeling better yet? Yes, you can get another X- Box, unlike my paren’ts, I can’t have them again. Wow, you realized! Good job!
    What happened next still buries me thirty feet deep in guilt.
    *flashback*
    I quickly got off the police cruiser and ran to the yellow tape that surrounded a tree, my mom’s car, and a few people that were kneeling around something. I looked over at the officer, silently asking if I can cross the boundary that has been made. He nodded.
    I ducked under the yellow tape and jogged over to see what the people were surrounding. I looked over someone’s shoulder and gasped at what I saw. It- it was my mom… her head was bloodied and her limbs stuck out in odd angles. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks and I didn’t move to wipe them.
    “They’re trying to figure out a way to pick her up without damaging her even more, as well as wiping some of the blood off of her face,” I hadn’t noticed the officer come up behind me.
    I nodded and clutched at my chest. I didn’t even look at the officer when he talked; my eyes were glued to my mom’s face, her once beautiful blue eyes that were now closed and never to open again.
    I watched as they finally managed to pick her up and put her in an ambulance. I looked up at the officer; his face betrayed no emotion but there was the tiniest trace of sadness in his eyes.
    “C’mon, I’ll take you to the hospital that they’re taking your mom to,” he said.
    I nodded as I wiped tears from my cheek and followed.
    When we got there, my mom was laid in a stretcher with a white sheet covering her from her feet to her chest. I tentatively touched her face with a trembling hand. It was still pretty warm, not cold like I expected. I moved her hair that was slick with blood away from her face when something caught my finger. It was a necklace. I moved it toward me and looked closely.
    It was THE necklace, the same one I had given her on her birthday when I was five. It was made of colourful beads and a plastic pink heart in the middle that said ‘Mom’ in red. The heart was broken in half and only one half dangled on the necklace.
    I grasped half of the heart, which was similar to mine now that it was half and broken, and faced the ceiling as tears escaped my closed eyes. She was wearing her necklace today, which I thought she had lost; or thrown away.
    I still remember the conversation we had when I had given it to her.
    “You’ll always wear it, mommy?” the five-year-old me had said.
    “Yes, dear, until the day I die,” was her reply.
    Oh, the irony.
    She did care, my mom. Too bad I realized it a little too late. A hysterical laugh bubbled up my throat, oh, the little cruel jokes fate plays.
    It was my fault. Mine, all mine. If only I hadn’t told her to leave. If only I hadn’t wrongly accused her.
    If only I’d known she cared. If only I had another chance.

12. Kyle and Elizabeth were huddled between their twin bunk beds and their older sister, Nancy’s bed. A blue wool blanket was draped over their heads as they gathered pillows and littered them on the blanket-clad floor like a bride’s flower petals.
    Finally they settled down, down onto their masterpiece of wool and polyester.
    “Do you have the book?” asked Elizabeth, settling deep into the cushions.
    “Don’t I always?” Kyle grinned. From the inside of his pillow, he produced a velvet cover writing book. Elizabeth mimicked his grin.
    “Did Nancy write anything new?” she asked, wishing her mom would bring more sodas when she came back from the grocery store.
    “I saw her writing early in the morning,” he replied, his tiny brow furrowed in concentration. He was leafing through the pages quickly, his brow relaxing when he came upon a story with the ink still bleeding and fresh.
    “Got it!” he shouted.
    “Hurry up and read then,” said Elizabeth excitedly, the sodas forgotten.
    “Once…”
    *
    Once, a little girl lost her teacup. She didn’t have a tea set, nor drank tea, but her tea cup was porcelain and had roses – and she quite liked both – so when she lost it, she was very sad.
    “Mr. God,” she prayed one night (her mother instructed her to call all unknown men Mister and the habit must have stuck). “I have misplaced my teacup and should very much like to get it back.”
    But before she could finish her prayer, her nanny shooed her away from the foot of the bed where she was kneeling and tucked her into bed.
    “My teacup,” she said, but she was already falling asleep.
    *
    “How old do you suppose this girl was?” asked Elizabeth. “And why doesn’t she like books or TV as much as the teacup?”
    “Shh,” Kyle shushed, and went back to reading.
    *
    But when she dreamed, her dreams were scary. She found herself in the companionship of a withered old crow. He (or she, she wasn’t very sure) was as black as sin and just as sneaky. He was perched on her shoulder.
    “Can you tell me who you are?” she asked, trying not to shake her voice.
    “I’m a crow,” the crow answered in perfect English. “I have no name.”
    “Okay,” she answered (she was not inclined to annoy the crow with her childish questions).
    She looked around the dusty room resembling an attic. Indeed it must have been and attic, for the ceilings were low and sloped on either side, cobwebs inhabited every corner (and occasionally dripped from the ceiling like raindrops), and the walls were stacked with miscellaneous objects more accustomed to garage sales.
    “I don’t mean to annoy you, Mr. Crow,” she started again. “But where are we?”
    The crow flew off her shoulder and landed on a dusty board game. A musky, old smell filled her nostrils.
    “You’re in The Land of Lost Objects,” the crow replied. “You inquired about your teacup?”
    The girl frowned. “Oh, my teacup!” she cried. “I shall find it right away!”
    ”You should,” the crow said drily. “You are only allowed to bring one thing back when you awake.”
    And so the girl wandered for her porcelain and roses teacup, when she stumbled upon a box of full of shining glass, except the light seemed to shine from the inside.
    “Oh, crow,” she called. “What is this?” The crow flapped his wings over and a look of sadness (or perhaps melancholy?) passed over his face.
    “That is lost hope,” he answered. “Except the light was not quite so dim as now when it is lost.” He touched his wing to a particularly dim piece, and shuddered.
    “Does one belong to you?” the girl inquired. The crow nodded, ashamed. Despair weighed in her chest upon never seeing her teacup again, something – she figured – was what the crow must feel. Another shard of glass fell into the box, the light flaring, then dimming.
    “No!” the crown cried, trying to reach into the box and pull out the shard. “You mustn’t lose hope of finding that teacup! You mustn’t feel what I feel!”
    This only made the girl tear up. “And what have you lost, Mr. Crow?”
    The light in his eyes hardening, he showed a spot of pink beneath his wing. The girl gasped.
    “I had a love,” the crow lamented. “And we were happy. But one day – one stupid day – as we flew into the breeze, a rock – or perhaps those terrible things people call ‘bullets’ – came whizzing by and hit her straight in her chest. Straight to the heart.”
    “And the scar?”
    “Her claws grasped me in vain, and took my feathers with her. And I dread that I shall never see her again.” And with that, the crow gave a great shuddering breath and cried.
    *
    “The crow, I think I like him best,” remarked Kyle, pausing.
    “Of course you like the crow,” Elizabeth said. “Because you’re still scared of girls.”
    “Shut up,” Kyle mumbled, but didn’t deny the claim. Elizabeth grinned as he begrudgingly read on.
    *
    The girl, upon hearing such a sad story, plunged her hand into the box of hope and pulled out the freshest piece – her piece – and offered it to the crow.
    “You can’take my hope,” she said. “You need it more than I do.”
    The crow, tears solidifying and falling to the ground with heavy thuds, couldn’t tell if she was joking. Seeing his suspicion, the girl took the necklace she was wearing and imagined that her shard of hope was attached. She closed her eyes in concentration. When she opened them again the shard shone brightly. She fastened it onto the crow’s neck.
    “You said I am allowed one thing,” she said imperiously. “And I choose you.”
    The crow was already bigger and his coat shiner when in possession of some hope.
    “But the hope and I are two things,” he sputtered.
    “No, you’re not,” the girl insisted. “People are made of what they desire, and the fulfillment of that desire springs from hope.”
    “You are wise,” said the crow.
    “Then you should listen to me,” said the girl.
    But the crow gave it one more shot. “But if you take me back, I cannot remain caged. I must leave you.”
    “What is the pleasure of keeping things if you know that they cannot leave?” she answered.
    “But your cup!”
    She faltered at that. “I will miss my cup, of course. Of course, I will. No doubt will I miss the porcelain and the roses. But you have missed more, you have missed life.”
    And the crow believed her, and smiled. So he perched on her shoulder.
    She left the musty attic (or officially, The Land of Lost Objects) and – quite by accident – woke up.
    When she awoke a single feather fresh with scarlet blood lay on her cheek and the shard necklace seemed to be slipped around her neck. Her nightgown was ripped on her shoulder and the wind coming from the open window howled furiously into her room. Her nanny had closed that window. She was sure of that.
    And so, when she tentatively stepped up to the pane, it came as no surprise to her to see thick black feathers jerking their way through the gale.
    And the gale, whispering, “Now I may find her.”
    *
    “So he died?” Elizabeth asked. The realization dawned on her. “No! But she gave him hope! He was trapped and she saved him!”
    Kyle closed the book and looked at his sister sadly. “The cage he said, maybe it was life?”
    Resolve made Elizabeth grit her teeth. “No, that won’t do. We must ask Nancy to fix the ending. She has to re-write that last part.”
    “But then she’ll know we’re reading her stories!” Kyle exclaimed.
    “No, we can’t have that,” she agreed. Elizabeth stomped out of the cloth fort and grabbed her sister’s inky black pen. “So we must re-write ourselves. Think about how happy that’ll make Nancy!”

13. “Party”
    Today, the Lucrum’s household was quite busy. The second son, Keith Lucrum had turned six; a cause for celebration if there ever was one. Mrs. Lucrum had decided that though the party would be small and all the guests attending couldn’t care less about the dust on the shelves, she would put in her best effort to keep her “precious wittle lumpykins” happy. And so minutes after the children arrived, Mrs. Lucrum tied one last balloon to a weight in a lonely corner by Mr. Lucrum’s golf bag. The weight was tattered and old; its faded blue wrapper was torn, revealing the cement within. The balloon, however, was a brilliant red and sported a cartoon T-Rex on its front. It floated at the perfect height, not too high, not too low.
    Despite being in pristine condition, the balloon was feeling self-conscious.
    “It’s a bit odd, don’t you think, just floating here?” It asked the weight.
    “Well, I wouldn’t know,” replied the weight, rather snappish.
    The balloon settled that if it was to be tied to the weight for the rest of its life, it ought to make friends with it and continued attempting to make conversation.
    “Exciting, isn’t it? Little Keith turned six!” The balloon said.
    “It is quite nice, yes. Though I must say his second birthday party was much better, with a bouncy castle and all. Actually, my favourite party has to be Richard Lucrum’s after prom. Things got quite interesting when…” The weight rambled on, reminiscing past parties.
    The balloon was pleased that the weight seemed to be enjoying the conversation, though it really wasn’t listening to what the weight had to say.
    “You know, I remember being just like you, a bit less clueless but just as curious,” the weight said.
    “Er –thanks. Do you mind telling me what exactly our purpose is?” The balloon asked.
    “Our purpose? We are decoration, meaning, our very presence enhances the beauty of this celebration, my dear,” the weight answered, pompously.
    “I’m not so sure about myself though. I feel like my knot is all wrong and my colour is fading. I’m the only balloon here with a stupid picture. I feel out of place,” the balloon said.
    It was a frequent worry of the balloon that it wouldn’t fit in with the other balloons, which were are gathered in groups at the other side of the room, all were solid colours. The balloon could’ve sworn they were all mocking its T-Rex picture.
    “Relax, dear, you look just fine, the most stunning balloon here, I daresay,” the weight assured.
    If it were possible, a reddish tinge would’ve stained the balloon’s already scarlet skin.
    “Thanks,” the balloon muttered.
    The pair then watched the party progress. The balloon was particularly intrigued, baffled, even, by the children’s behaviour; one by one, they repeatedly hit what appeared to be a colourful animal, which for some reason was hanging from the ceiling, whilst blindfolded. Even worse, the onlookers cheered.
    “See now, this is one of my favourite games! Nothing like a piñata, I always say, to make a birthday party more interesting. Of course, I’ve never played but it seems like such good fun” the weight proclaimed.
    “This is a game?” The balloon asked, horrified.
    “Ah yes, the piñata; originated in Germany. Or was it Japan? Or some other place in Africa, I think,” The weight said knowingly.
    “Why are they hitting the poor thing? Do they want to break it?” The balloon asked, not satisfied with the weight’s answer.
    “Of course they want to break it,” the weight said, matter-of-factly. Then, noticing the balloon was still silent and aghast, gently, “You see, the piñata is full of candy, when it breaks, the candy will spill and so the children will come and feast on it.”
    “If they are so desperate for candy, why don’t they go and buy it themselves?” The balloon asked coldly.
    The weight was about to answer when suddenly-
    *RIP*
    The piñata shattered, leaving an explosion of confetti and candy showering from the ceiling. Children swarmed the floor, filling their pockets with as much candy as they could hold.
    The weight cheered along with crowd, sheepishly stopping after catching the balloon’s expression.
    Silently, the balloon and the weight watched Keith prowl the floor, snatching every candy he could find and demanding the other children give him at least a third of their loot because he was the “birthday boy.” They giggled as he slipped on a bit of confetti, tripped on a table leg, fell into a bunch of balloons and-
    *POP*
    Bits of thin, blue, rubber scattered the floor. Keith began to cry, the volume of his voice threatened to pop more balloons. A small bruise had appeared on his shin. As Keith’s mortified mother attempted to console him with ice, the balloon looked on, appalled.
    The weight was the first to speak, “Alas, they all die young.” The weight’s tone was barely grim, as though this situation was nothing new.
    “He killed it,” the balloon said, its voice shaky, “he killed it and then cries about his stupid bruise on his stupid knee. H-how often does this happen?” It asked the weight. The balloon’s appreciation for parties was plunging at an alarming rate.
    “In all my years, I haven’t seen a balloon that didn’t die. Though, my dear, it was probably for the best it went that way, short and swee–er- spontaneously. Otherwise, it would slowly deflate, getting weaker and weaker until all its life is drained,” the weight said, soothingly.
    “Should I die, I would like to grow to be very old, an entire week, at least,” the balloon said.
    “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand, what is there to like about dying slowly?” The weight asked, thoroughly confused.
    “I would like… Just once, I would like to touch the floor. Even for just a moment before the final breath of helium leaves me. I imagine it quite nice to be settled on the floor, secure, knowing where you are and where you’ll stay,” the balloon sighed wistfully.
    “Strange. You are a strange one. You know, I’ve never really told anyone but I’ve always wanted to float,” the weight whispered as though revealing something scandalous.
    “Float?” The balloon asked, baffled by the weight’s desire.
    “Yes, float, hover, levitate, whatever it is you balloons do,” said the weight.
    “No, I mean, why?” The balloon asked.
    “Well it seems to bring on such an adventurous lifestyle, a thrilling escapade amidst the void of the unknown, if you will. I’ve always envied balloons just a tad bit, actually. When people think of decorations, they never think ‘I have to get balloons for the weights!’ No, it’s, ‘I’ve forgotten the weights for the balloons!’ Of course, not that I need a person to validate me as decorative object; I know that without weights like me, balloons are a latex-laden mess. And that alone satisfies me. Me, jealous, preposterous!” The weight ended its rant, miffed. Somehow, the balloon didn’t think the weight was as secure as it liked to appear.
    The balloon and weight then resumed watching the party. The people had the strangest traditions, of which included singing around a cake and blowing candles, like a cult ritual of some sort. In fact, the balloon found the entire cause for the celebration befuddling: Keith Lucrum, a tubby, spoiled, runt of a boy was born, as if that was an accomplishment.
    The children had taken up another game. This time, the children were to pierce a pin with string on it to a picture of a donkey, whilst blindfolded, of course.
    “What is it with people and their eagerness to be blindfolded? Perhaps they should use the pins and take their eyes out, and then they’ll be pleased,” the balloon remarked scathingly. It was quite obvious the balloon was still upset about the other balloon’s death.
    Before the weight so unwisely responded to the rhetorical question, its attention was drawn to game.
    It appeared that it was Keith’s turn. Blindfolded, with pin in hand Keith staggered in random directions, as if he’d had one fruit punch too many. Despite yells from his friends that he was headed in the wrong direction, the chubby boy stumbled toward a lonely corner by Mr. Lucrum’s golf bag.
    *POP*
    “Alas! They all die young,” the weight cried.

14. CASE FILE: 207
    Confidential!
    To: Kaj
    From: Mclean, Mary
    So, Kaj, you want to be an agent? Do you think you have the guts? Do you think you can climb buildings without so much of a care? Do you think you can stay in disguise in even the hardest moments? If you answered yes to all of these questions, than you may have what it takes to become one. Here is a case I had completed a few weeks ago. If you think you are ready, please proceed:
    Prompt number: 294
    My heart was pounding as I searched frantically around our dorm room. Today is not my day! I thought as I flipped over my dresser and began to paw through her things. I mean, I leave her alone for a couple hours to go on this stupid date she set me up on, and then she goes missing and all I find is this stupid note attached to our door.
    I got your little friend. I’ll give her back to you for a million dollars. Don’t try to look for her, or she’ll be missing a pinkie!
    – Bo
    “What kind of idiot leaves their name on a ransom note?” I said aloud as I searched in our bathroom. What I was looking for, I had no clue.
    I suppose I should explain myself. My name is Mary Mclean and I am a spy for the Central Intelligence Agency – CIA for short. Yes, I know. Why would the CIA hire a fifteen-year-old kid to work for them? Well, I’ve always been … special. On my forth birthday I could unlock any door and speak in four languages. On my seventh birthday, I had gotten my black belt in karate and Tai kwon doe. Plus, it kind of helped to have your mother work as one of the heads of the CIA.
    Anyway, back to the case. I was assigned to look after this girl, Rachel Riley, who was receiving threats, since her father happened to be a senator. Rachel attends Lewis Dale Prep, a very exclusive school for children of diplomats or senators.
    The minute I stepped into my Lewis Dale Prep, I practically fell on top of this guy named Carter Reid. Hey, it wasn’t my fault! I was pushed, pushed I say! Carter happened to be one of those smart jock types. You know the one who got super high marks in math and could still toss a foot ball?
    Rachel Riley was the first true friend I made there. Once she saw how red my face was getting when I fell on top of Carter, she immediately came to my rescue and shuffled me off to the bathroom and told me that she was sure that no one saw my big tumble. It was pretty sweet of her to lie to me like that, considering the whole school practically SAW my underwear.
    Tonight, Rachel set me up on a blind date since she thought that I was too lonely. Just because I don’t talk to anyone besides Rachel doesn’t make me lonely, right? RIGHT? Sorry, I get a little carried away sometimes.
    So, being the good friend that I am, I went on the stupid date. And do you know who I find sitting at the table? CARTER REID! My face turned into several shades of red once he spotted me and I tried to hide behind the waiter but he caught me and dragged me back to the table.
    “Hey, what’s up?” He said smiling that cute smile of his. Did I just say that? TELL ME I DIDN’T JUST SAY THAT!
    “The sky!” I laughed at my own corny joke, but stopped once I realized that I just snorted like a pig. A PIG!
    Carter was a gentleman, though, and didn’t comment on it. “So, um, did Rachel tell you that you were meeting me here?”
    I scrunched my face up in confusion. “Um, no, she just told me to put on this green dress after my shower and told me that my date of the night was waiting. I didn’t know it was you! Did you know it was me?”
    Carter ran his hand through his black hair. “Well, yeah. That’s why I came here.” What the hell?
    “Wait, you wanted to have dinner with me?” I asked incredulously, but before he could answer my cell phone beeped. Damn you technology! I smiled sheepishly to Carter and flipped open my phone. It was a text from Rachel. It said:
    Help me, Mary! I’m hearing strange noises outside our door! Come qui-
    The text stopped there and my blood ran cold. I stood up from the table so fast, my chair fell. Carter looked worried. “What’s wrong? You don’t like this restaurant, because we can go somewhere else!”
    “No! Can we have a rain check on this date! I have to get back, Rachel needs me!” I didn’t stick around long enough to hear his response.
    And that’s where we are now. The part where I’m tearing apart our room to find a clue on where Rachel may be. My cell phone beeped again and I took it out scanning my new text message.
    THIS IS BO! IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME THE MONEY IN HALF IN HOUR, THAN RACHEL HERE IS GOING TO BE LOSING MORE THAN A PINKIE. BTW WE’RE HIDING AT THE BASEMENT! OOPS! HOW DO YOU ERASE THIS MESSAGE? PRETEND I NEVER SAID ANYTHING!
    I grinned. This was going to be easier than I thought. I ran out of our room and took the stairs down two at a time but stopped once I heard heavy footsteps above me. I turned around and stared at Carter Reid hunched over with his hands on his knees, panting heavily.
    “Damn, for a girl that small, you sure are fast!” He said as he stood up and I couldn’t help but notice he had an adorable little dimple on his cheek when he smiled. Adorable? Where did that come from?
    I frowned. “You shouldn’t be here, Carter.”
    Carter rolled his eyes. “You really think I’m gonna let you take down a bad guy by yourself?” When he saw my gaping mouth he explained hurriedly, “I read your text over your shoulder,”
    “So, you’re sexist and a snoop!” I shook my head at him.
    “Hey! I only read that text because your whole face turned white when you read it!” Carter said, trying to defend himself.
    I turned my back on him and grumbled. “But you’re still sexist! What, you don’t think I can’take down this guy myself?”
    “No, it’s just that you look real fragile and I don’t want this creep to hurt you,” Carter said, giving her puppy eyes.
    “If you weren’t so cute I kick your face in right now,” the words were out before I knew what I said. I slapped my hand on my mouth and my eyes widened. Did I just call him cute, AGAIN?
    The brown haired boy grinned cockily. “You think I’m cute?”
    “Listen! We’re wasting precious time discussing whether you are good looking or not! Let’s go!” And with that, I turned on my heel and hoped he didn’t catch my red cheeks.
    We ran down a couple more flights of stairs and stopped at a door that read Boiler Room. I tried to turn the knob but it was locked.
    “Stand back,” Carter said and stepped back a couple steps before running and ramming his shoulder on the door. “OUCH!” He cried rubbing his shoulder. “That wasn’t supposed to happen!”
    I rolled my eyes, stepped back a couple steps, and did a flying kick at the door. It slammed open during the impact and crashed to the ground. I looked back at Carter and grinned victoriously.
    “Beginners luck,” he muttered before following me inside. The Boiler Room was also used for storage and had several boxes scattered around. We ventured deeper inside until we heard voices.
    “Pass me the knife,” a male voice said. I gasped. They were going to stab Rachel!
    “Here you go!” I heard a clatter and a scream and I moved closer.
    “Mary Mclean, CIA!” I yelled flashing my badge. My eyes darted around the place looking for Rachel, until I gasped, realizing what was going on.
    A couple people in black were sitting around a large table. My mother was there also, and she was holding a large cake that read, Congratz Mary! Rachel was sitting at the head of the table and seated next to an older guy that looked like her father.
    “What on earth is going on?” I yelled taking in the scene.
    Rachel smiled, showing off her braces. “You did it, Mary!” I heard a few people murmur in agreement.
    “What did I do?” Now I was getting mad. What the hell were they talking about? Couldn’t they tell Rachel was in mortal danger?
    My mom hugged me. “You passed the test! When you signed up for the CIA some people didn’t think you were ready, so we gave you this assignment to see if you were. Don’t worry though the kidnapping was all apart of it.” She said patting my hair.
    I stuffed my badge back in my pocket. “So, the threats Rachel was getting wasn’t real?”
    Rachel spoke up. “No they were real. They were from my step sisters that were jealous because I got the new Gucci bag and they didn’t.’
    “Oh, okay so the assignment wasn’t real?” They all nodded. “Uh, can I have some cake, or something?” I said tiredly.
    The party stayed longed until after curfew. So my mom ushered us back to our dorms insisting that I might as well finish the semester here. I was happy that I’d get to stay with Rachel for a few more months but sad that I was leaving. Lewis Dale Prep was a fun school. You know, despite everything that had happened.
    We reached our dorm door and Rachel shoved it open mumbling about how sleepy she was. I was about to follow her but someone put their hand on my arm.
    “Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” Carter said. I hadn’t really seen him all that much at the party, since so many people wanted to congratulate me.
    I looked back to my big comfy bed and sighed. “I’m really tired and – ”
    “MARY, WHAT DID YOU DO TO OUR ROOM?” Rachel shrieked.
    “On second thought, I’m not tired after all!” I shut the door quickly and we stood their awkwardly in the hallway.
    “So,” I said.
    “So, that was some pretty good kicking,” He said, his blue eyes twinkling.
    I blushed. “Thanks. Uh, how’s your shoulder?”
    Carter laughed. He has a nice laugh. “It’s getting better. Um, so you’re in the CIA?”
    “… Yes. Ugh! Now you’re going to think I’m a weirdo! Whoever heard of a teen spy? I know I haven’t!”
    “I think it’s pretty cool, actually.” He was really close now. I could practically count how many freckles he had on his nose.
    “Yeah?” I said, hyperventilating slightly. His head was inches away from my own. He leaned in and –
    Ah, well that’s up for you to decide. As they say in the movies: I so don’t kiss and tell. Agent Mary Mclean, over and out…

15. The Happy One by Paulina
    Tammy and I are twins, but we couldn’t be more different. Sure, we looked alike. We had the same paren’ts. The same family relatives. We shared everything, but there was something different about Tammy.
    For one, Tammy had always been the quiet girl. You could always find her in the library, reading books that were as thick as dictionaries. I always worried about her whenever she brought those books home. I told her that she shouldn’t be carrying so many heavy books on her back, or her back might hurt. She just smiled and told me not to worry about her that much.
    That was the thing about Tammy. She always smiled. There wasn’t a day when you couldn’t see her smile. I tried to count how many times she smiled but I easily lost count. She smiled at the simplest things. Oh, Mom made some sunny side up eggs? You’d see her smile from ear to ear. Did Marmalade, our amazing little kitten, slip inside her running shoes again? She’d be smiling like she won a million dollars. And that was normal, I guess. I didn’t really think much of it. Until Mom and Dad broke up.
    Now, you could imagine how much it hurt for both of us. My life was perfect up until that point. It was always sunny in my world, and then, here comes Mom and Dad’s divorce, the big storm that ruined my world. Suddenly, Dad moved out of the house, Mom had to find another job and soon, we barely saw her. So, all I had left was Tammy.
    I knew Tammy was hurt as well. I knew she cried herself to sleep every now and then. But during the day, it was as if nothing happened. She was able to face our new reality beautifully. You couldn’t say the same for me. I kind of shut down. I loved my paren’ts, but they hurt me. And if they could do that, I told myself, what’s to stop anyone else from doing that? What’s to stop any of the other people I loved from hurting me?
    You can fill in the rest. You know my story. My grades fell, my number of unexplained absences increased. I started hanging out in the park alone. You all know that. Yet none of you did anything. None of you had the courage to say anything to me.
    But thank God that Tammy did.
    I remember that day well. It was raining. I was on the couch, reading some book about a dead dog. And then, she sat down. She smiled at me. She had brought me a cup of hot chocolate. I smiled and took it. We sat there, silent for a while, until she spoke.
    “What’s going on, Pam?” she asked. “What’s happening to the best twin sister in the whole world?”
    I laughed when she said that, and then I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just, hmm..”
    I kind of stopped there, not knowing what to say to her, but I knew what she understood, because she gave me a hug. “Well, whatever it is,” she said, “always remember that I’m here for you, but I also need you to be here for me. I don’t think I’m interested to live in a world without my fabulous sister in it.”
    That made things better, and soon, I was back on track again. I stopped hanging around in the park too much. You saw me at school more often now. Everything was back to normal, well, almost.
    And then, Tammy was diagnosed with cancer. I told myself to be strong for her, because she would need me now more than ever. No matter how much I wanted to break down, I didn’t because of Tammy. Because Tammy made me strong. And Tammy was always in pain. I knew. Even if she never told me, I could see her trying so hard to pretend. But she was trying to brave. So I told myself, I had to be brave as well.
    After a few months, Tammy had to stay in the hospital because of her condition. So, I always went there after school. One day, I brought her some hot chocolate because it was kind of cold and it was raining outside. She laughed.
    “Do you remember when I did the same thing for you when you were depressed?” she asked, smiling.
    I nodded. “Yes. You really helped me there, Tammy.”
    She smiled again, and I took her hand. “Tammy, why do you always smile? I mean, look at you. You’re always in pain, and don’t you dare tell me otherwise, because I know. I’m your sister. I can see it. How come you’re always smiling? I’m not telling you to be depressed all the time, I just want to know how you stay happy.”
    She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, I listened carefully, because I did not want to miss anything that she was going to say. “I’m happy because I choose to be, Pam. And don’t give me that look, like I’m being so cliché, because it’s true. I know everyone says that happiness is a choice, but it is. You can choose to be angry at the world, or you can choose to be happy with what you have. I know we have problems, Pam. I know you’re mad because of Mom and Dad, and because of what happened to me, but Pam, don’t let them define you. Don’t be the girl whose paren’ts separated and whose sister has cancer. Be the girl who I love. The girl who always makes me laugh. The girl who is loved by everyone. The girl who is happy. Your problems are there to make you tougher, but they’re not there to take over your whole identity.”
    And after a few days, she died. So here we are. At her funeral. With me, giving her eulogy. Well, I probably talked your ear off already with my story, but here’s what I really wanted to say: You didn’t know Tammy. Tammy had a few friends, and I was fortunate enough to be one of them, and I was even more fortunate to be her sister. She didn’t do much to get noticed by many people, but she touched many lives with her smiles. Tammy was the happy one, and she was the first person to teach me that you can do a big difference in the lives of the people around you just by smiling.

16. “No Second Chances”
    Her pen scratches on the smooth piece of lined paper. Come back. Everything looks like a bunch of random, disorganized scribbles—illegible scribbles to the outside world, yet they, in her eyes, eerily resemble the colourful string of phrases she had thrown at him before literally throwing him out. Scratch, scratch, scratch, went the pen. ‘Stupid hormones,’ she thought, ‘I totally lost it, thanks to you.’ Even the elderly custodian had seen everything. She takes a deep breath, and her leg twitches.
    She inwardly flinches when she hears the distant roar of a sports car. It is not safe outside, especially not for a small creature like him. She stands and walks over to the window, watching the stream of cars flow steadily. Her heart starts to ache. Come back. The words are stuck in her throat. Come back. The pen slips and rolls on the floor before coming to a halting stop. Come back. A sharp screech of car breaks. She takes a step closer, pressing her face against the cool glass, her heartbeat quickening as she scans the streets desperately.
    ‘It couldn’t have been him,’ her thoughts are swirling in a jumble, ‘He’s too small, and far too nimble.’ Her leg twitches again, urging her to fling open the door and fly down to look for him. There’s no visible blood, and the car that came to a sudden halt starts again–when the stoplight changes to green. She scans the sidewalk, knowing that he couldn’t have possibly gone far. There hadn’t been enough time, and there were just too many people out there to weave around which would’ve made navigation very difficult for him. Well, it should’ve been difficult.
    ‘Where is he?!’ She scans the sidewalk again, fighting the panicky feeling rising up in her chest. ‘Where is he?! Where is he? Why did I throw him out and close the door on him… Please be safe. Please…Please…Come back.’ She scans the sidewalk again, looking for the faintest speck of dark brown and gold fur, before realizing she had been examining the far sidewalk. Oops.
    She sighs in relief and drags her gaze to the sidewalk on the same block and scans it. Nothing. Nada. Rien. She leans against the glass and scanned the sidewalk again. She froze. A spark of gold mixed with dark brown caught her eye. She narrows her eyes and follows the wagging piece of gold and dark brown fur all the way to the back of the dog’s head to its left ear that had a nick on it—him. Her eyes begin to sting but she somehow just can’t tear her gaze away. He’s sitting back on his hocks, facing the street, his fore chest puffing up proudly like always. She bit her lip, unable to let the flutter of hope building up against her chest escape into the atmosphere around her.
    It couldn’t be him. Then again, she’d know those ears anywhere. She’s staring at the back of the dog’s head, telling herself that it is horrifyingly rude to stare—especially at one’s lifelong companion. Nevertheless, she continues to stare. Is it? His head swings around for a brief second and dark eyes pierce green for a moment, before he faces the street again. Her eyes widen and a deafening roaring sound fills her ears. Hope blooms inside her, filling up every tissue, every organ, every muscle, and every limb. Regardless of only seeing his face for a nanosecond, there is no doubt.
    It is Finn.
    A roaring sound fills her ears and she spins away from the window, crashing into the corner of her desk.
    It is Finn.
    Her heart is pounding in her chest as she flings open her bedroom door and rush out.
    It is Finn.
    Her hands are shaking as she unlocks the front door and barrels through it, only realizing afterwards that she had exited with an unlocked front door, no keys, neon pink slippers and leopard-printed pyjamas with a moose in the middle. But seriously, who cared.
    Finn is outside. The dog is Finn. Finn is the dog. The dog has to be Finn. Finn is outside, and who knows where he could be in the next five minutes if she didn’t get him.
    She punches the elevator button with her forefinger and counts to ten before her leg twitches and frustration boils over. How could that thing be so darn slow at a moment like this?! A low growl rumbles in her throat as she does a thirty-second scan. Her gaze lingers on the translucent blue door on her left. Perhaps…the staircase would be more efficient. She speeds towards the door, and hurls it open.
    Stupid snail-paced elevator. Stupid legs that won’t move fast enough. Stupid hormones. Stupid me. I’m begging you, Finn, give me a second chance. Let me…let me go and get you back.
    She starts going down the staircase, taking two at a time. Her slippers slip at the fourteenth floor platform and she nearly goes headlong. A last minute lunge at the handrail saves her from a nasty face plant. Stupid slippers that had no grip. She picks herself up, legs trembling now—maybe from anxiety for Finn, maybe from the sudden near death experience, or maybe both. ‘Finn. I gotta get Finn,’ she told herself. Her feet slip and slide down several more staircases before she finally realized, after clearing the sixth floor, she would not face plant herself if she kept a tight grip on the railing while competing with time. She picks up the speed, clearing the last few floors. Gasping, she eyes the door nervously as it came closer.
    Almost there, almost there. Hang on, Finn, I’m almost here—
    Her left foot hits something wet, instantly soaking her slipper and she literally flies thanks to the speed she had built up. Catching herself with her hands, several curses fly out. Argh. Oww. Ouch. She gives into the pain, letting herself sit for a few seconds with her eyes closed. She takes a deep quivery breath and opens her eyes. Her left foot is bent in a weird position, and her ankle is sending sparks that invade her vision. Ow. Tears prick her eyes and threaten to fall as she gingerly tries to shift her foot to a more, well, normal position. Her vision goes blurry and a low voice cuts through.
    “I’m terribly sorry, Miss.” The custodian, “I was just about to mop the floors. Had you slowed down just a tad bit I could’a warned you. Humph, couldn’t even slow down a tad bit, could you? Tsk, tsk, tsk, teenagers. The world doesn’t revolve around you, you know?”
    She inhales sharply and remembers. Finn is still outside while she is sitting on the floor.
    “Anyways, I’d better not be scolding you too long or if my wife hears ‘bout this she’ll have my hide for not making sure you’re okay first—”
    Her hands propel her to her feet, and she rockets through the door and into the lobby. The custodian blinks at the empty space before realizing what happened. Her leg gives away when she puts too much weight on the injured ankle and she stumbles, but does not fall. She knows she cannot afford to lose anymore time. She half runs, half hops towards the revolving door at the main entrance, ignoring the thundering voice of the custodian ordering her to stop where she is before she worsens the sprain.
    Finn, you’ve got to be there. I’m sorry for everything. Wait for me, Finn. I’m almost there. I wish you’ll give me a second chance, Finn.
    Tears escape through her eyes, flowing down her cheeks as she pushes herself at the revolving door with the custodian lumbering behind him. Appearing on the concrete steps on the other side, she collapses at the bottom steps and surveys the patch of sidewalk where she had seen Finn through the window.
    Please.
    Her shoulders started to shake. Fin had been there, she had seen him with her own eyes. Yet he isn’t there. Why? A large hand lands on her shoulder, but her body stays frozen. She stares at the patch of grey cement with disbelieving eyes, but a part of her knew. That part of her that always second guessed her knew that Finn couldn’t have possibly forgiven her for what she had done to him.
    The custodian sighs and watches the girl crying silently. He had seen most of it, he always did. The custodian sighed again before sitting on the bottom steps beside her. His hand drops away and falls into her lap. There’s a moment of silence before the custodian opened his mouth, “There’s something you’ve got to know ‘bout life, young one. Sometimes when you push something away hard enough, it ain’t coming back to you. The world really doesn’t revolve around you. Some things just won’t wait for you, and some things won’t be giving you a second chance—” the custodian stops and watches in horror, realizing he had just set off another wave of fresh tears.
    Two blocks down, the golden brown dog pauses, sniffing the air. His left ear twitches, the nick gleams as it catches the sunlight for a brief moment. The dog pauses in its steps, and then turns back against the crowd of people forward, and starts weaving its way back.

17. There once was a time when all the continents of Earth were physically connected. Together, unified, one. This unity was reflected in the spirit of coexistence that prevailed among all things living. They knew balance; held to life; struggled to evade death’s inevitable grasp. This colossal piece of land was titled the Living Land. Green hills skipped across the plains, grass swaying to the whispering winds’ influence that skimmed the Earth. Vibrant flowers and fruits flourished the Land sprinkling sweetness and color. Ancient trees towered and cast soft shadows upon the ground. Mountain peaks carved out the skyline. Crystal clear springs hydrated the Land, some even diving and cascading off cliffs, slipping down mountain crevices, pouring into pools. The sun, provider of light and heat, rose from the waters, painting the dawn with pinks and yellows as it shifted into day; melting into the ocean once more at dusk, radiating pinks and violets, blanketing the land with night, leaving stars and the moon to reflect its glorious light.
    Eventually humans graced the Land; and like everything else, they reflected the Land’s life in their own every time they peered over those spring fed pools. That same still water rippled at the slightest of touches remained as yet diamond pure. Humans, however, were slightly differentiated from other animals. They possessed heightened capabilities. Not to say they were meant to be superior. It was perhaps their growth in evolution that led to their resolved fate.
    As the centuries and seasons passed by, time eroded and fractured the Land, forming continents, setting them free to sail the water covered world. Slowly these giant islands dispersed, falling apart just as friends do with time and growth. There came a day, though, when their drifting ceased. Similarly, nomadic humans discovered new homes upon them, and began to reform and industrialize the land and its life. Humans now stood apart, separated not only by water but by judgement of value as well.
    Humans craved and authored power, comfort and efficiency; grasping, draining, unrooting the world’s life, great wars erupted among them. Blood painted civilization. Gunpowder coated hands of the reckless. Defying acceptance of difference led to one slitting the throat of one and the same. A nuclear bomb cannoned into the depths of the sea, reverberating the Earth under its tremor. It was as if a grenade had been thrown into the spring’s once clear reflection, thwarting the lives of plants, animals and humans alike. Though not sufficiently potent to plummet the planet into oblivion, the bomb was enough to shake the continents from their slumber; and plunge humans into an endless static dream. The once pure reflection of water became murky from a splash of ebony ink that spidered through its clarity.
    Abruptly, the pieces of the Land, long-separated, were forcibly coalesced. The persuasion of the bomb’s ripples stripped the Land raw of all purity. Debris clothed and displayed the naked aftermath under the dead gray sky. The Land was sucked dry, crumbling, balancing over death. The Land was together but infinitely apart.

18. The title was Reflection Island.

19. You Were Supposed To Be the One
    Down by the far edges of the country town there wasn’t an abundance of buildings nor people. That was a good thing, for Alex at least. His mind and body had passively succumbed to his waves of emotions. He was exhausted.
    Not a lot of people as young as Alex was could say that they have been in love, but he could. How did he know? When it broke he broke and it felt like he was beyond repair. He truly believed that she was the one and still did. He was supposed to love her forever and have a family with her, and that probably would’ve happened if not for his career choices.
    All Alex had been doing since were gigs and song writing. He’s written songs for years now; it was a way to focus and convey his emotions or thoughts. It was his way of coping. Ironically his dreams of becoming a successful musician and his stubborn determination to achieve them led to his descent into a spiral of melancholy. Most people would mope around doing nothing when they were extremely upset; Alex couldn’t stop working for he feared that if he stopped he’d never see the light of day again.
    Alex wasn’t wandering around the town confessing his life and events to the moon and the stars in the dawning night. He was headed to a pub; the pub, contrary to its surroundings, was full of people. Alex sighed in an odd sense of relief. As if the ambience of the drunks in the room were loud enough to distract and drown his thoughts. They weren’t.
    Alex kept his head down and waved to the bartender who gave him a pitying look, a look you would give a child when their dog died. The place smelled of bad alcohol, sweat and smoke. He ordered shots, beers, vodkas and ignored the looks he received from the groups of men and their drinks.
    He must have looked like death to them for his consciousness walked a thin line constructed of dwindled sleep. His sea colored eyes were bloodshot with swollen bags hanging under them. Alex’s golden, greasy hair was tousled and disheveled. Alex was an extremist and somewhat sensitive if that wasn’t already clear. He was hunched over, forearms rested on the counter propped up on the tall bar stool in a gray hoodie.
    Alex stared at his half empty glass of sparkling amber liquid. His finger ran around the wet rim of the glass. Alex found himself distracted by the condensation on the sides of the cool beverage.
    Her face flashed under his eyelids with every blink. Her shoulder length brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her hand in his. Her delicate soft lips that broke into a beautiful smile. The necklace he had carved out of stone that rested perfectly in between her collar bone. He instinctively grabbed his part of the necklace only to find the ghostly absence of it; he had cut it off and it still lies on his bedside table.
    “Alex,” he could hear her familiar voice and sweet laughter echo through his mind along with the faint ringing in his ears, mocking him.
    “Who are we anymore?”
    “What do you mean?”
    Alex took a shot glass and poured the cold alcohol into his mouth and let it burn down his throat.
    “Look I know your dreams are important to you,” she sighed.
    Alex was speechless for a moment.
    “But I feel like we barely are actually together and I feel like I don’t know you well enough anymore, you’re never around.”
    His red eyes, prickled with tears, met hers.
    “I’ll be better, I promise, I’ll do whatever it takes,” he was on the verge of begging.
    “I don’t want to get in your way,”
    “You’re not,” was all he could say.
    “We’re falling apart Alex, admit it! And we’re going to fall apart even more with me going to UNI and you growing your following,” she stated the hopeless truth.
    A giant gulp tingled his mouth and tongue as he licked his lips.
    “I can’t do this anymore, we just weren’t meant to last,” tears ran down her face.
    She took off her half of the necklace Alex had made for the two of them and closed his hand over it.
    Fireworks blazed in front of his eyes and pounded his membrane.
    “There must be some way to work through this,” Alex stuttered through foggy eyes trying to blink them away. He felt his heart panic in his throat as his stomach twisted.
    “I’ll wait for you to finish UNI and I’ll find a way to see you more often…”
    “Please stay,” Alex breathed.
    “We won’t see each other at all if we part,” Alex said, “I won’t know you at all and I can’t bear to fathom that.”
    She shook her head sadly. Alex let the necklace slip from his hand and drop to the floor.
    The liquor was surely starting to concentrate in his body with the large intake he was compiling. His head spun, body tingly.
    Ever since their last encounter Alex has done nothing but sit in the darkness of his room and pour himself into the ink of a pen and wrote himself on paper, through songs while equally hopeless tracks spun in circles on his dad’s old record player. That and drinking of course.
    The glass cup slammed the counter top. Alex stood up and threw the cup to the ground, enraged. As he watched the glass shatter to a million pieces he felt the eyes of everyone in the bar muttering under their breath.
    “Damn it!” Alex screamed as silence chased after the sound.
    “Screw this,” he whispered.
    Alex was not an angry drunk unless he was drinking to mask emotion, which obviously never worked. He stumbled outside and the cool air smacked him in his dazed drunk face. He braced himself against a wall and watched the starry night spin.
    Once the fluid in his ears stopped sloshing around so much like the liquor he was swirling in his bottle a few minutes ago Alex proceeded to venture down the solitude road. A path deemed fit for him. It was lonely and tumultuous there were no choices on that road. Why? Because he had already chose all the wrong ones.
    He had no idea where he was heading nor did he give a damn; why would it matter? He had nowhere to go, without her, he was lost. Lost. Who was he and what did it matter when you’re a hollowed being? She kept him sane through his trek to his goals; through the dark hopelessness, the tiny successes and the dangerous liberties of living in a big city chasing every opportunity he could get to have his music heard.
    He could hear the echoed chirping of the crickets, feel the slight breeze brush off the sheen of sweat that had formed on his skin, see the vastness of the universe spinning way too fast over his head. Alex could breathe in the scent of the grass in the fields and smoke from the streets. His mouth felt dry with the aftertaste of alcohol and bile in his throat.
    Multiple times Alex tripped over his own feet in the darkness. He didn’t know how long he wandered around the town absent from the light but somehow he had ended up at an all too familiar doorstep at one in the morning.
    He supported himself against the doorframe under the dim porch light and rapped his knuckles on the door in sporadic intervals. Luckily her paren’ts were out of town, otherwise they would’ve surely chased away the messed up drunk boy out of their property.
    The door opened and Alex stumbled in, he fell to the ground as she closed the door behind her. She was in her pajamas but clearly awake. She was still beautiful even early in the morning, he thought as her struggled to focus his vision on her.
    “Emily,” Alex slurred and whispered at the same time.
    “Just,” he let his impaired brain and mouth catch up to each other, “tell me you don’t have a new muse and you didn’t actually agree to that asshole.”
    Emily shook her head surprisingly calm as she watched the relief wash over his pale face. The ‘asshole’ Alex was talking about was Gavin. His family had him in a gifted private school; he came from a wealthy background.
    He was a handsome gentleman at first glance and Emily has interacted with him for more than a few minutes. It turned out he was quite cocky and straight up rude. She turned him down and promised to herself that she should not have to subject to another male just because she was unchained from a relationship.
    She thought the next time she saw Alex she wouldn’t be able to take it anymore. The break up impacted and hurt her equally. She turned around and walked to the kitchen to make some tea for Alex. It seemed to engage him in somewhat sobriety.
    They sat on the couch. Emily watched Alex drink his tea in his mug with a garbage by her side for security. It really did break her heart when she saw Alex such a bad state. She’s seen him at high levels of intoxication but never this bad.
    Even once he’s cooled down a little she could see that the real vulnerable him was destroyed way more than his currently drunk self. She still cared about Alex a lot and it was hard seeing him take it to such extremes. Em wasn’t exactly taking the separation lightly but Alex seemed to be exponentially worse.
    Alex’s head was still pounding as he pressed the heels of his hands on his forehead. He ended up laying his head on her lap and closing his eyes.
    “Please don’t leave me,” his mumbles and slurs finally form as he repeats it over and over again.
    “I’ll do anything,” an unexpected tear rolls down his face; his usual sharp features were softened and more boyish.
    Emily wiped it away and nearly choked; he rarely cried in front of her, “Shh, calm down Alex.”
    He slowly gets up and kneels on the carpet, “For god sake Alexander get up,” Emily attempted to lift him to his feet. He was so dramatic when he’s this drunk and sad; never was a really good combo with him.
    “I know you don’t want to be together anymore but please,” Alex whispered, “I’m…” he struggled to find words.
    “I’ll never leave you.”
    “I’ll give it all up for you,” he stuttered and continued, “I’ll get a normal job, finish my education…” Alex trailed off.
    “Don’t be ridiculous Alex,” Emily soothed.
    “I’m empty without you,” his glazed blue eyes looked up at her.
    “Oh god, I’m so lost.” his voice cracked.
    “You have no idea,” he tried to steady his wavering words, “I miss you.”
    She could tell he was devastated but she was sticking to her decision, their decision. It’s for the good of their future, especially Alex’s. His aspirations were to become a musician, an incredibly successful one. She’d only weigh him down with gravitational strain of distance on their thinning relationship.
    “Hey,” after attempting to lift him of the floor she knelt down beside him and ignored the painful way her heart clenched.
    Her eyes soft, met his, “Everything’s going to be okay.”
    “We may not be together but I will always be there for you as a friend,” she paused, “as family.”
    “Promise,” Alex looked at her like a lost puppy.
    “Promise,” Em confirmed.
    “I should go,” he said suddenly as if he abruptly realized the rudeness of his intrusion so early in the morning. She could have sworn he had ADD or something.
    “Are you kidding? You’re way too drunk to go anywhere,” he was definitely not wandering the streets tonight.
    “Em?” Alex asked as she walked back with a pillow and a blanket.
    “Yeah?” she responded and tried not to flinch at the all too comfortably familiar nickname.
    “Stay with me?” Alex asked, “As a friend?”
    He knew it was over. Alex still couldn’t fully admit to himself that it was over. It was difficult for him to conceptualize because more than anything he still loved her. And now he was grasping at whatever was left of her that he could keep with him. He was dangling on a thread and couldn’t afford to let go.
    “Of course, go to sleep,” she replied softly.
    Alex, at that moment was so sensitive it was hard to say anything too harsh. Under the moonlight that spilled through the living room window there Alex slept on the couch while Emily sat on the floor and watched him. She wasn’t even sure Alex would retain the memories of tonight in his brain when he woke up anyways.
    She judged, from the bags under his eyes, that this was probably the first time in a while that Alex had slept. She glanced down at the necklace Alex had carved for her; no longer on her neck but in a special shoebox where she kept things that she wanted to remember. She rubbed the smooth white stone and knew that they would eventually find happiness and love within other people but they both will still have the memory of the love they had with each other. Everything would be alright.

20. Allow me to introduce you to a man named John Hughes. Come November, he will be 44 years old. John is homeless. During the day, you can find him at Queen Station, idly strumming away on his guitar. To most, he is invisible- just another part of the station.
    But John was once a person. He wore a suit, carried a briefcase. He strode through Queen Station wrapped up in the grand plans he’d made, the purpose he’d given himself. He didn’t have a beard in those days, but he did have those same, kind blue eyes. Back then, they shone with a worldly ambition. John had his own, brand new business. He had a beautiful wife, named Lana, and they were happy.
    Of course, life’s plans for John and John’s own plans for himself didn’t quite match up. The economy took a turn for the worse and, like many others, John stumbled on his path to success. He did all he could but sometimes, despite what the children’s books may say, your best just isn’t enough. Soon, John and Lana were no longer happy. Their love for each other was forgotten, left buried beneath an ever-growing pile of unpaid bills. There were screaming matches, coffee mugs thrown, and John spent many a night in the car.
    She left him in October. He saw it coming, everyone did, but John cried anyway. He cried because he was up to his neck in debt and now, he was alone. Most of all, he cried because he’d failed. He’d risked everything, and lost everything. Those months were the toughest and the darkest. There were days where John was more than ready to die. But he held on.
    Now, allow me to introduce you to James Bradford. This is a man who, through his 36 years of existence, has never genuinely struggled. John had to climb the stairs- James took the elevator. You can find him dressed in a designer suit, speeding around town in his prized Rolls Royce, a Rolex on his wrist and gel slicked through his black hair. His wife of 7 years is a lovely French model named Diane.
    But James’ life is not as straightforward as it may appear to be. He has his own personal problems, however miniscule, however shallow. Almost every week, he bundles them up and takes them to a semi-detached house on Orchard Avenue.
    This is where he meets Chrissie, a 38-year old singer. If you ask her, she was a major pop icon in the 80s. She also claims to be 27. Chrissie is James’ outlet. She is an escape from his oh-so troublesome life. No one knows James better than Chrissie. She’s special. At least, that’s what she tells herself.
    On this particular day, the first day of August, life decides to entertain itself by having these two, very different, paths intersect. James is on his weekly drive to Orchard Avenue, though he is visibly agitated and fidgety today, having just learned that Diane, after all these years, is pregnant.
    On the other hand, John is having a good day. He scraped together enough money for a haircut and a shave, and the sight of his own chin after so long lifted his spirits. He is walking along Orchard Avenue, his guitar case strung across his back, enjoying the simple August sunshine, when a black Rolls Royce speeds past him and into the driveway four houses ahead.
    The driver hastily gets out of the car, running his hand through his hair. John watches as a woman in red high heels and a white dress, with black polka dots, rushes out of the house. She escorts the driver up the driveway, rubbing his back tenderly.
    John thinks nothing of it and resumes his stroll. Seven seconds later, a black BMW sweeps in and hovers on the side of the street, next to the house with the Rolls Royce. A tall, slender woman in wide Versace glasses steps out of the car, her blonde hair wrapped up in a fashionable bun. She looks up at the house with evident distaste, pressing her handbag to her chest.
    The couple has left the door ajar and the woman lets herself in. A minute later, John is in front of the house. He hears a door bang open and a woman scream of shock.
    The same woman shrieks, her voice thick with emotion, “Sept années! Sept!”
    Someone says something at a lower volume and the woman screams again, but of rage. An object shatters.
    The man shouts, “Diane! Stop!”
    “Non, non,” she spits, “C’est des conneries!”
    A suit flies out of the window, followed by the man’s shoes, and a lamp. The suit and the shoes land with a thump on the windshield of the man’s car. The lamp, thrown with surprising force, finds itself in the driveway across the street.
    The other woman chimes out, “Diane, please!”
    “Ohoho,” Diane begins, before launching into a profanity-ridden tirade of insults, all in rapid French.
    While she curses, more objects are chucked out the window. A dehumidifier. A white dress, with black polka dots. A Rolex. Red high heels. And a wallet, with car keys tucked inside. It lands at John’s feet.
    “And of all the people, James, you pick cette grand-mère!”
    “Gra- I’m 27!”
    “Et je suis une girafe.”
    All three people are shouting now- no one notices the man in the yard, dressed in a familiar suit. Just like at Queen Station, John is invisible as he backs out of the driveway in the Rolls Royce, his guitar in the passenger seat. He glances at his new watch, 11:14 AM. The day has just begun. He runs a hand through his hair, grinning as he turns right, off of Orchard Avenue and onto a whole new road entirely.

21. I knew I was forgetting something- the title is Orchard Avenue
    🙂

22. Whoops, I meant to write: “His hand drops away and falls into his lap.”

23. I forgot the title. The story’s called “From Nancy’s Notebook”.

24. The Teddy Bear
    A teddy bear sat in the corner.
    This teddy bear was worn out, torn in some places, where his filling spilled out. His bead eyes stared off, as if sad to be forgotten. His thread mouth drooped. His nose was missing.
    * * *
    I woke up with a start. I savoured my first moment alive. I could see. There was a table far off, but I could only see the table legs. There were chairs surrounding the table.
    I could feel. The first thing I felt was pain.
    I could move. I turned and looked to find the origin of the pain. I gasped when I saw a big, deep cut on my upper left arm. Wool spilled out. Using my other hand, I pushed the wool back in, when I noticed there was a small hole on my right palm. No wool came out yet, but – oh! – It hurt!
    I could think. My first thought was, I can see! I can really see! Seeing has always been important to me somewhere in my little teddy bear mind.
    Then, I realized, I can’t smell! I reached up to touch my nose, but I couldn’t find anything where it should be. That was strange. A bit of wool spilled out from where my nose should have been, and I winced. Patting my imaginary nose, I looked down and noticed gnashes on both legs.
    I wasn’t sure if I could hear anything. There was no sound. I opened my mouth to talk, only to realize I was a mute, and my lips were firmly stitched together.
    That moment, I heard a door from somewhere creak open. So I could hear! I smiled happily. I walked to find the door, dragging wool behind me.
    I saw two rather large feet in purple high heels, followed my smaller feet in leather flats. I looked up to see a young girl in the flats. She looked familiar, as if I saw her in a dream. I waved.
    The girl smiled at me and picked me up. “Mr. Teddy Bear!” I smiled and nodded at my name. I turned and saw a woman in the high heels. She had dark hair tied in a neat bun. She looked back at me. I waved.
    She shrieked, and fainted. The girl – Emily – screamed and dropped me. I fell on the floor. Ouch. Emily leaned over the other woman. “Mommy? Mommy!”
    The woman’s gray brown eyes fluttered. “Emily? Oh, Emily! I swore I saw that stuffed animal of yours turn and wave at me.” She shook her head. “Strange dream.”
    “Mommy, it was real,” Emily grinned.
    “No, and you shan’t make up stories like that,” the woman said firmly.
    “Yes Mommy.” Emily picked me up and hugged me tight. I like Emily.
    * * *
    We were in a very pink room. Emily was sitting on something soft, still cradling me in her arms. I pointed at my arms and legs, where the cuts revealed white wool.
    Emily nodded. “I’ll get you fixed right away Mr. Teddy Bear!” she said determinedly. “I’ll send you to a doctor. He won’t hurt you. I promise.”
    I nodded, relieved.
    “Can you talk?” Emily asked eagerly.
    I shook my head and pointed at my sewn up mouth.
    “Oh…” Emily pressed her finger to my lips. “That’s too bad. Talking is a lot of fun, Mr. Teddy Bear.”
    I nodded and smiled.
    Emily suddenly got up. “I’m going to ask Mommy to take you to the teddy bear doctor,” she said, putting me down on the soft pink blanket. “You stay right here and behave yourself, Mr. Teddy Bear.” She waggled her finger at me playfully, and I smiled and nodded.
    After a little while, she came back and picked me up. “We’re going right away,” she whispered into my ear. We left the pink room.
    * * *
    “Hi, I’m Thomas the toy maker,” said a man. He had tanned skin, beige hair, and was wearing a dark green shirt.
    “Hi there Thomas,” said Emily’s mom. “My daughter has a stuffed animal for you to fix.
    Thomas crouched down to looked at Emily eye to eye. “Hi there. What’s your name?”
    “Emily,” Emily answered shyly.
    “That’s a beautiful name,” Thomas said. “Let’s see the stuffed animal, shall we?”
    From behind her back, Emily pulled out Mr. Teddy Bear.
    “Ooh.” Thomas winced. “He looks like he needs a lot of fixing up. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure he’s all better.”
    Emily nodded, kissed Mr. Teddy Bear, and handed him to Thomas. Thomas took the bear and left him sitting on the table while he went to chat with Emily’s mom.
    “Don’t worry Mr. Teddy Bear, the doctor says you’re going to be all fixed up,” Emily whispered to her bear.
    He winked and grinned at Emily, shooting her a thumb up.
    Emily smiled.
    “Alright, let’s see your bear, Emily,” Thomas said, settling into his work chair. “I’ll return him on Monday. He’ll be all better by then.” He smiled at Emily.
    Emily smiled back. “Okay.” Emily’s mom took her hand, and together they left the store, leaving Mr. Teddy Bear behind with Thomas.
    * * *
    It was Monday. I wasn’t hurting anymore, and I could finally smell. I was so fascinated by all the smells that I didn’t notice the strange, mysterious man standing outside the shop window, eyeing me with great interest.
    I could hear. I should have been paying attention when the mysterious man came in and started talking with Thomas. Slowly, they talked louder and louder, yelling, until the man came and grabbed me off the shelf and took off.
    His hands were rough, unfamiliar, and smelled like cigarettes. I wasn’t sure where I was going. I couldn’t see anything, because his thumb was firmly pressed against both my bead eyes.
    Finally, after what seemed like forever, the darkness turned to light. I was in an alley. Then, I heard a little boy’s voice:
    “Oh Pa! She’s perfect!” the boy picked me up and fitted me into a pink teddy bear tutu. “Perfect. I love you, Pa.”
    The mysterious looking man wasn’t so mysterious anymore. I realized he was the father of this young boy who had disgustingly mistaken my gender.
    I struggled to get the tutu off, but the boy’s hands were very strong. “I’m Markus, and you’re…” the boy thought for a minute. “I’m going to name you Minnie.”
    “That’s a very pretty name,” Markus’ mom said. Markus beamed.
    “Minnie, you’re my birthday present, so you have to do what I say, okay?” I had never lived by those rules since Emily gave me plenty of freedom, but I wanted to adapt. I nodded.
    Markus smiled happily and hugged me to his chest. I smelled root beer and mud. Ah, smells. I had no idea what I was missing when I first woke up.
    * * *
    “Carly. Carly! Wake up!” Markus’ dad shook his mom.
    “I’m awake! I’m awake, Gerry. What do you want?” Markus’ mom sounded annoyed and sleepy.
    “The teddy bear cost me. Not money, but I bet after stealing so much for Markus we are going to have to flee. We have to leave. Live a new life. Go to work, earn money, and give Markus a normal life.” Gerry sounded alert.
    “Okay, now I’m awake.” Carly sat up. “I’ll go wake Markus. Go pack whatever we have… what we’ve stolen.” She ran over to wake her beloved son.
    And together, Mr. Teddy Bear, Carly, Gerry, and Markus, headed off to a new life.
    * * *
    I was in a new house. I could smell Markus from three feet away, which was impressive for a teddy bear like me. We were living a new life. Markus’ family weren’t poor anymore. He could go to a real school and socialize under a new name: Oliver.
    One day, he took me to school. I was in his backpack, peeking through a crack. Suddenly, I gasped, and fell back on to his pencil case. I recognized someone. This someone was familiar! Even though Markus thought I was a girl, this someone knew I was a girl!
    This someone was Emily.
    * * *
    10 years later…
    Oliver (Markus) has almost forgotten his previous life. He is so used to being called Oliver. And now… he’s dating Emily.
    One day, Emily came over to Oliver’s house. Sitting in the corner was Mr. Teddy Bear. After being with Markus for such a long time, he was ragged and damages…
    He was worn out, torn in some places, where his filling spilled out. His bead eyes stared off, as if sad to be forgotten. His thread mouth drooped. His nose was missing.
    Emily gasped. “Is that…” Seventeen already, she should be focusing on school and her boyfriend, not a childhood teddy bear that she had cried for two weeks about. But she couldn’t focus on Oliver anymore. She ran to her teddy bear.
    “Mr. Teddy Bear? Are you okay? Did the bad robber do this to you? I’m so sorry I sent you to the doctor!” Tears streamed down her face.
    “Um…” Oliver stood there, awkwardly. “The bear? She’s nothing. Her name is Minnie by the way, not Mr. Teddy Bear. It was a present from my dad ten years ago, when I was eight.”
    Emily looked up, still holding Mr. Teddy Bear, tears still streaming down her pale face. “Oliver. Oliver! I lose Mr. Teddy Bear ten years ago… You don’t suppose your father stole him…?” She sniffled and found a tissue to wipe her eyes.
    “Maybe…” Oliver looked thoughtful.
    After Oliver’s dad explained what happened ten years ago, Emily and Oliver grew closer than ever, thanks to Mr. Teddy Bear.
    * * *
    Eight years later…
    Emily and Oliver are now married with one child, name Rosie.
    Rosie wandered into the dining room to find a snack one day, but instead…
    A teddy bear sat in the corner.
    This teddy bear was worn out, torn in some places, where his filling spilled out. His bead eyes stared off, as if sad to be forgotten. His thread mouth drooped. His nose was missing.
    And so, our story starts.
    The End

25. The Scorching:
    He remained dead.
    The victim was not my soul mate, after all.
    There was a scorching in my chest, a burn on my lungs, the shriek of my heart as if flat-lining and a trickle of sour between my lips and my teeth. I dropped to my knees. I spat out the victim’s blood and trudged towards my curse’s calling.
    I am a vampire and my species, we are destined to be alone until we find our soul mate. Until then, we kill and slaughter by draining blood from victims, they are unable to stop us and we are unable to stop ourselves. We consume their strength and intelligence along with their blood. More and more corpses fall at our feet and more and more blood ends up in our stomachs. The sole victim who does not remain dead is our soul mate.
    And I am still searching.
    All we ever wanted was to crush our world of solitude into where it belonged–an infinity of nothingness–and from its ruins, for us to rise and with a beat in our hearts.
    That was all. Absolutely all.
    …
    I littered my life with things of the shadows–poison, fear and danger–they crawled and creeped in my walls and in my mind. I hated it. The ‘why’ was out of my grasp and understanding, maybe it was repentance or maybe because I too was never born of light and my first cradle was anchored in the darkness. Anchored there. Forever. Why do demons live in everyone’s heads? Even the demons’ themselves? Stop. Stop. Stop. Too much thinking. I cannot stop to think too much, I’m rocking back and forth, I’m going to fall off the chair soon. I don’t want to. I can’t stop thinking though, I can’t. The chair is crumbling as I do and it’s slipping closer and closer to the edge and I am helping it to.
    I need to calm down. I need to bathe. Drown in cold waters, the coldest withstandable. Drown, drown, drown. Submerge. Temporarily. Maybe. I made my way to the end of the hall. A chaotic jumble of sizzling and clapping rung in my ears. The walls and doors, the hallways, my home melted and melded together with the darkness. The door was ajar.
    The door knob was clouded with smoke. I grasped it and snatched my hand away almost immediately due to a scorching and a nasty red hue. Someone was in here. Did I even dare to find out who? Or what? The sizzling faded, however, the clapping slaughtered the silence as it blossomed into a crescendo, louder and louder. I grasped the doorknob once again and flung the door open. The pale bronze-tinted tub was in the centre and smoke unfurled from it. I rushed to the tub and kneeled as I grasped the edges of it. In the water, was a gooey substance. Red polka dotted black flesh and blood, between liquid and solid. Melted. Burned. Scorched. My beloved pet, my black widow spider. Dear Celosiah.
    My breath rattled as I tried to breathe, really I did. I whipped around. She stood there, my room mate. Tangles and curls added to her appearance of being from the wild of which she was. Savage. Murderous. And about to be murdered. I lunged. I dug my nails into her sinewy neck as my fingers formed a circle. ”How…How dare you? Jade, how?” A growl, a raise of the chin, a tight forced smile and a knife of bone to the ribs was all I got in response. ”Well played.” I lowered my hands. ”But, I want the story. An explanation, now. Jadediah.”
    ”Fool. Celosiah burn for spell. Spell, my spell, was so you find love soon. You kill too many people, I keep too many secrets. Too long. Go, go find him. Spider or human, human is much more valuable. I, Jade, have helped you. Me, you owe.”
    I snarled in reply and pushed over the tub, the water gathered over and at her feet. I rushed out of the room. The cobblestones served as rough terrain for my feet clad in thin soles. My journey continued, twisting back and forth between left and right as I ran and ran. I darted into an alleyway and found my victim. The scent of his blood was tantalizing and alluring, I ran my tongue over my teeth and laughed as I ran towards him.
    I was knocked over by a man. A young man of the church. I pulled on his hand until I was standing. His hands were rough and the cross of his necklace scorched me as it barely skimmed my skin. Gosh, his blood was even more alluring than the other person’s. I couldn’t kill and slaughter but I couldn’t stop my hunger. There was a scorching in my throat, my stomach felt too empty, my knees threatened to falter.
    I closed my eyes and spun around, pushing him up against the wall with a hand curling onto his neck. His heartbeat thudded underneath my fingertips, I felt its acceleration of it and of his blood as it ran through his veins. I couldn’t. I could. I had to. The impulse grabbed me and I craned my neck as my teeth ripped into his flesh. Bubbles of blood frothed from his mouth yet he didn’t scream. His pulse decreased. I dropped him, dinner was done and regret was dessert.
    I felt something different this time.
    There was a warm melting in my chest, a sun on my lungs, the beat of my heart as if in love and a trickle of sweet between my lips and my teeth. I dropped to my knees. I swallowed the victim’s blood and trudged towards my curse’s ending.
    He did not remain dead.
    The victim was my soul mate, after all.
    ‘‘You…Will you love me? Do you not hate solitude, do you not want to crush it into where it belongs, an infinity of nothingness?’’ I whispered, walking closer and closer to him. I crouched, grasping his hand.
    He slowly rose and said in a pain filled but unrelenting voice, ‘‘I-I am a man of the church. I will not love a devil, a vampire. I…I will not love you here or now, I will fight temptation.’’ He pried his hand away and himself into the depths of the alleyway and separation. My vision wobbled onto a glimpse of something. We held each other’s hands, adorned with gold rings. His hand was cold, mine were warm. It wobbled again to a part of myself in a hospital gown.
    What? It wobbled once more and I shook my head, ran up behind him and grabbed his shoulder. My mouth parted in shock, I stuttered incoherently. ‘‘S-s-so, not here, not now. What about there and later?’’ The tall figure pivoted around and as he did, impulse ruled once again and I stabbed us both, the stake from my pocket, plunging deep into our hearts.
    …
    ‘‘Ma’am, during your earlier state of hypnotism, you were deluded into stabbing both you and your husband in an attempt to go to heaven and love. Your husband, we were unfortunately unable to save. In his will, he has given all of his possessions, wealth and land to you. You shall be released today from our hospital and care.’’
    What? I had no husband, I was a vampire, wasn’t I? Memories swarmed into my head and I recalled. I am human. I had married a sweet young wonderful man. Though…I had to do something. I had to do it, otherwise he would have left me.
    My fifth husband was dead. There was a scorching in my chest, a burn on my lungs, the shriek of my heart as if flat-lining and a trickle of sour between my lips and my teeth. Everything would have been perfect, if they had just loved me. They always left me, they never gave me what I deserved. Why?
    I had killed him. I killed and slaughtered all my husbands, they had nothing to offer me except of their possessions, wealth, land and their blood heritage.
    I…I am a thief of everything except unfortunately, hearts. I am a black widow. What did you expect?
    ~

26. Untitled:
    It was 5 a.m. and the demons were out. Demons like us, the fallen. The damaged. It wasn’t hard to spot us in this playground. Our faces were gone, hidden by the wrinkled and torn paper bags that hung on our heads. Paper bags with two holes to see out of. Our backs were home to deformed or missing wings.
    A and B were sitting on the slanted monkey bars in tank tops, frayed shorts and black high heels. Despite being small and huddled together, they still took up most of the space across the yellow bars. Five out of the eight bars. B’s iris and pupil, right cheekbone and the corner of her mouth peeked out from the rip in her paper bag. Her lipstick was different today, it was orange. A’s new favorite color. As A turned to her, B’s mouth turned up and as A’s fingers found hers, it grew into a full-blown smile that makes you almost forget the frowns she get. When she weighs herself and pinches the folds of her stomach desperately as if she was in a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. When her skeleton wing starts falling apart and she has to glue the mess of bones back together. When A feels bad.
    Everything was illuminated by a soft glow as if there were candles lighting this whole place up, from the fields to the pine trees to the baby swings. There was a shy yellow creeping up the edges of the sky, like watercolors staining paper. The grass glittered with tiny tears as if there had been fairies crying here all night long. This glow showed the black inked name on B’s wrist, A’s. This glow made me want to kiss this whole goddamn place over from the grit and mud to the weathered wood of the benches and picnic tables and to the green posts of the climber.
    C and D were lying down right beside the red and blue seesaw with their mismatched rain boots on. Navy on one foot and turquoise on the other. They were close to the crushed pop can half nestled into the black springs of the sseesaw. C’s on D’s wing, a wing that replaced a left arm. C’s tiny wings fluttered as she pointed out what another cloud could be. D laughed and placed her head onto C’s shoulder, her brown tendrils curling over and beside C’s arm. They knew constellations and imagination like the back of their hands but they couldn’t go see the sky up close.
    They had nothing but empty space on their backs, meant for more, meant for flight. Nothing but the wings of a baby, limited and unsteady. Nothing but a wing in the wrong place. Nothing meant for flight. But I’ve seen them smiling more often than when that space didn’t exist.
    It was warm outside like a half cooled hot chocolate melting on your tongue. Warm like a hug. The playground was small and I almost felt like I was just a bit too big to be here. Like it was a corner of a map meant only for children and I certainly wasn’t one. I liked reading here. I’ve written down the first few chapters of my favorite novel down on myself but they’re melting slowly. I like my words like I like my daisy chains. Right on my skin.
    It seemed as if there were spiders playing on my skin but it was only my hair tickling here and there. I heard the chains and the swings creak but when I looked, the swings were empty and barely moving. The thinnest of branches along with each blade of grass, swayed to a slow rhythm.
    E was different, she wasn’t happy. She kept on praying to go back to heaven. Kept praying for her wings back. To be forgiven. She was at the edge of the playground, at the bottom of the twin yellow slides. Away from the rest of monkey bars, seesaw and the bench I was sitting on. Away from us. Back turned, sequined with specks of sand and stone. Her revolver was half out of her pocket.
    ‘Don’t shoot!’ Please. Isn’t here better?’ I cried out and her head whipped around, strands of hair tumbling out.
    ‘Oh, don’t you get it?’ We fell out of grace, not to grace’, she whispered, her words almost travelling away with the wind. Her leather jacket was as dark and as shiny as the gun as if they’ve both been soaked in a million raindrops and millions more. There wasn’t a splash of color in her outfit from the white buttons of the sleeves and jacket, the lace edged gray shit and tights and black boots. ‘There’s a reason why our fall was consumed by hellfire. Why our wings turned out pathetic tragedies when the flames died. Why we’re ashes now’.
    ‘Some ashes don’t regret being burned. There’s love here,’ I stepped closer.
    ‘But love is hard,’ she whimpered, her voice cracking on the syllables, ‘and it hurts’.
    ‘Doesn’t that make it worth it?’ She stayed three quarters faced away from me and she stayed silent. And how that silence seemed like infinity. E finally turned around, hugging herself so tightly as if she was trying to make herself smaller, small to the point of nonexistence. She reminded me of a house of cards about to collapse, with her eyes sober and shining, blinking back tears. Eyes down before slowly looking up. Her eyes were on me and I couldn’t help but feel that she was looking at me like she was giving me a goodbye kiss.
    Like a goodbye but worse. It takes you by your throat and leaves you speechless. It morphs the butterflies in your stomach into birds. Birds with beaks and claws and feathers as lethal as knives. Birds that fly in all directions and birds that never tire of your destruction. It locks you both in a prison to which there is no way out or way in. Her eyes were on me but she wasn’t here. The tears were still there and her eyes still shone but there was something missing. Someone almost gone but I wanted her to stay. Hell, I needed her to.
    Her fingers grasped the revolver and she spun the cylinder again. She placed the muzzle against the left side of her paper bag and was about to start another game of chance. A stupid game. If the sole bullet is in the cylinder you’re shooting from, game over. A game of Russian roulette. E’s arm and hand stopped trembling. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and pulled the trigger.
    ‘No!’ I flinched, my eyes closing. Shut my eyes to the reality and prayed somehow imaginary meds will work. I didn’t hear the click. Didn’t hear the bang. I’m not losing myself when I see the blood. I wasn’t the one who slayed ten thousand enemies but also fifty thousand from my own side. I never broke down to the point I shot my own hand, just to see that beautiful crimson arc. Never went through the tremors and sweat of withdrawal.
    A crawled over to us and almost completely unpeeled a bandage from her left arm, revealing half of a pink raised scar and orange lipstick stains. Orange like fire, like B’s lips. She slapped it back on as quick as lightning and clutched her arm and slowly took a bandaid from the other arm. There wasn’t a cut on her right arm.
    She crawled closer to E and placed it on her chest, right over E’s heart.
    And then one over all of ours.
    And finally herself.
    We were still alive, damned but together.

27. I wasn’t the one losing myself when I saw the blood*

Comments are closed.