The Ocean Side

“It’s just on the other side of those hills,” Mr. Little said reaching out for the small hand of his son Warren.
Warren crossed his arms.
“Why can’t we live over there then?” he asked. Little Warren Little’s eyes puckered pulling at the neck of his shirt. He imagined the sand tickling his toes and the taste of the cool salt water just to the west of the mountains. Nothing was sweeter than the taste.
Dave Little passed his dense hand through his thick brown hair, smiled, and reassured the boy they would visit the ocean side as much as possible. An optimistic yet foolish promise but Warren was just young enough to appreciate it. His bright blue eyes showed nothing more than innocence, naivety even.
The Littles were new in Old Mayfield. Their moving van had somehow wandered the valley roads long enough to find the tired nook of a town where stores locked the doors at eight, and the pungent odor of grass moved languidly about the air. Enveloped around the mountains and crisp trees, Old Mayfield was almost scenic. The weather was always temperate as if the air was suspended in the last day of summer, not to mention the savory, smoky taste of the valley. But every now and then, you would hear the rustle of the leaves in a sort of domino effect down the hillside. Finally, it would hit you. If unprepared for it, the gust of wind was like an unfriendly neighbor pushing you out of the way as it raced down the horizon. Old Mayfield might have been a pleasant, maybe even popular place to settle down if it wasn’t for that the sweet, cool ocean air that seeped across the mountains. Therefore, the town was merely inhabited by drifters and dreamers. The Littles were average nobodies living in average nowhere.
Early that September, Warren excitedly raced to Mrs. Peterman’s class for his first day at Old Mayfield Elementary. Warren quickly handed her a note, and Mrs. Peterman sat him next to a chubby- cheeked blonde named Sammy Gull, who wouldn’t stop smiling. Once Warren’s butterflies dissipated, he noticed a buck-toothed boy was standing in front of the class.
“Continue, Rodger,” said Mrs. Peterson.
“Anyways I’m gonna be a fireman like my daddy,” the boy declared, “…the end!” For a small runt, the kid had an unusually bellowing voice.
The class responded in a round of applause and Mrs. Peterson groaned exhaustedly as she stood. “Warren would you like to join in show and tell? We are presenting our goals for the future,” she said grinning forcefully.
Warren jumped out of his seat racing to the front of the class. “I’m going to live on the ocean side!” his words came out partially mumbled because mouth couldn’t form the words fast enough. The class was silent, their faces frozen in awe. Tired Mrs. Peterson awoke from her daze. “I’m going to have a big house and a dog and a ton of friends and the prettiest wife and –“
“That’s enough!” Mrs. Peterson interrupted, “Warren, we are talking about GOALS not wishes, not fantasy! Are you hearing me?”
Warren looked puzzled as his eyes melted into the back of his sockets. “Why can’t I live there?” he asked insistently. Silence.
The teacher rose from the chair behind her desk, walked over to Warren and stuck her twelve inch tush in the air as she bent down to his eye level. A smug smile ran across her face. “M-o-n-e-y, Mr. Little. You better just forget about that ocean,” she whispered audibly. They say Old Mayfield was a town of drifters and dreamers, but Mrs. Peterson fell under a new category, the defeated.
That afternoon, the lunchroom was filled with chatter about the new boy.
“He’s a loon!” Rodger White called causing everyone to heave in laughter by his funny inflection.
“I’ve never met a poor snob before!” joined in Danny Hanson. Another round of laughter ensued.
Small, stubby Sammy Gull took the empty seat next to Warren. “Hi,” she said sweetly covering her mouth. Warren noticed her nose was a bright shade of red opposed to her pale complexion. “Why aren’t you eating?” she asked taking a mouthful of grilled cheesse. He fumbled with the two dollars his father gave him that morning to buy lunch.
“I’m not eating,” he answered, “I’m saving to buy a house on the ocean side”.
“Oh.”
Maybe it was the way her pigtails were so perfectly uneven or the way her baby fat still curled around her body so delicately or maybe it was just because she chose to sit with him, but for some reason he didn’t feel any judgment from her.
Years went by and Warren Little never visited the ocean. Although it seemed so close that he could literally feel the ocean breeze and smell the salty water, it was actually a more difficult endeavor to get across from the valley side. His father was a single parent, always at work, always sleeping, always dreaming. However, Warren Little was not a dreamer, or a drifter, and certainly wasn’t going to be defeated. He left home (if you would even call it that) with all the money he saved to finally live on the other side.
Soon Old Mayfield became a distant afterthought. Warren picked up a job bartending at the Dolce Club and catered lavish beachside parties to pay his half the rent in his shared condo. For a while, no two nights were the same on the ocean side. The Rutherford party on Friday, the Selsburg Anniversary on Saturday, even week night bar hops where new people always seemed to show up. A different girl every night, each one exceptionally beautiful and out of his league, a round of the hot new novelty drink, and not to mention the new money he was obtaining. After opening his own catering business at 30 years old, he was able to buy just about anything on the ocean side.
But now that he had finally made it and owned a villa along the ocean, he realized that he had forgotten the original reason he wanted to live there. Scooping up a handful of sand, he examined it against the sunlight. It was dull and grainy, almost gravel-like. He let the sand fall between his fingers. Thinking it was some sort of hoax, Warren thrusted his hand optimistically into the thick ocean water. He took his index finger into his mouth. His tongue recoiled as he spit the water out. It was no longer savory sweet, but a sickening, stale and familiar flavor.
It was the taste of the drinks he made day after day, it was smell of the people he knew who were all the same, it was the shallow ocean view he admired, it was the same dissatisfaction he understood all too well. That day Warren Little went back home for the first time.
To his surprise, much was the same; Old Mayfield truly hadn’t gotten any older. The trees were as crisp as ever, the grass just as acrid, the temperature a relaxing 67 degrees, and the valley tasted blackened again. Warren walked into town nervous yet excited like the first day of Old Mayfield Elementary. In a way, he hoped someone would recognize him as he nostalgically roamed down the dirt road. “Hey!” Rodger White would say, “You really made something out of yourself didn’t you, guy?”
Danny Hanson would follow up with, “God! You must have everything you ever wanted!”
“I misjudged you,” Mrs. Peterson would say artificially, but it wouldn’t matter. Anyhow, he wouldn’t know how to respond to any of that. It’s not like he was happy now that he had the perfect life on the ocean side.
“Warren Little!” called out a sweet faced blonde carrying groceries. As she approached, her dewy face was completely recognizable. He waved, “Sammy Gull!”
She laughed a bit, the cute laugh where she covered her mouth slightly. “Actually it’s Samantha Pearson now; I haven’t been called Sammy in fifteen years.”
“Samantha… Pearson?” In his state of shock, Warren didn’t realize his mouth was somewhat slack-jawed. He never pictured stubby little Sammy ever getting married; she was too awkward for the sort of thing, too unconventional to be a wife certainly. She had sure changed though; he thought to himself, surely she was slimmer and seemed to hold herself more confident. Her body was no longer short and stubby but petite, her shoulders were held back and away from her ears, and the only fat she still retained was a little in her face. Samantha told him about the salesman named Chris Pearson who ended up in Old Mayfield two years ago after the downturn in the economy. But Warren’s mind was still mulling over the thought of her married and why this Chris Pearson bothered him so much.
“What happened to you?” Warren blurted, almost in a yell. As if she knew exactly what was bothering him, Samantha put her arm around his neck and pulled his ear next to her mouth. “It’s good to see you again,” she said gently. For another moment she held on, then she let go and walked away with a bag of groceries in her hand. It was the last time Warren ever saw Sammy Gull.
It would be the first time Warren had seen his father since he ran away 17 years ago. Once he got to his childhood home, he found it a devastating state. Tree limbs decorated the roof, paint was chipped off the siding, windows were boarded. A cool gust of wind blew over the mountains and a moment later he felt it pass through his back. The house moaned a sigh of grief sending the fallen leaves swirling along the porch rail. He watched them for a while just fluttering, caressing the air in the salty ocean wind… then in an instant, the leaves made their way back to their home on ground. The soft dirt was so inviting, Warren wanted to lie in it too. He wanted to smell the aromatic odor of life and death. Taste every fiber of the Earth. Feel some sort of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach.
Warren Little, for the first time in his life, understood why his father moved to Old Mayfield. To him, it was roots. Hearty. Substantial. The reason he never left. No more martinis, appetizers or ocean water; Warren now no longer had to go to bed hungry. Kneeling at the base of the porch stairs, he cried long and deep. A heavy tear ran down his lip. He savored it as it touched his tongue, the perfect mixture of salt and water.

Willie & To Whom It May Concern

Never once did he sleep in that dog house. I wondered why we even bought it. Probably it was for show, like lugging home a ten pound bag of food from Petco over the shoulder without a cart or anything. A cart would have been easier, but in all actuality it was just to be seen carrying home Eukanuba across the parking lot. But maybe we bought that plastic piece of shit because of he loved being outside. I know, mostly all dogs love being outside, but he wouldn’t even go inside at first. When we brought him home from Desoto that night, he just plopped himself down inside the 12 inch hole inside the gardening hose. He was an awfully cute puppy; soft auburn fur, little white strip down his nose, and those eyes. He had the prettiest amber eyes. The first few months, my parents had trouble putting the camera down to say the least. But he was more than puppy dog eyes, he was behaved too. The first car ride home he didn’t yelp or whine, didn’t piss all over the Jimmy, he just sat their quietly as if contemplating the universe not even moving an inch. This little car ride was made into a legend at family gatherings by my mom along with the “how Kelley and him chose each other” story. My mom and dad, always so proud of him. When I tell Willie “I’ll be back” he just lies down, they would say, and then he’ll jump all over me when I come home.
He did jump a lot. A petite five year old like me at the time was an easy target; I’d just fall like a domino against his lean body. Whenever he contracted those legs, I learned to stay out of the way. Deer! Springing up like a gazelle, his back legs looked like they were in a race against each other as he’d zoom from pavement to grass. Ears perked up and eyes consumed with raw excitement, he’d run into the woods, fearless.
I used to play with him on the deck when we were younger. I remember ripping the squirrel out of his mouth and throwing it over the green roof of the doghouse; he’d catch it and run away, asking me to chase after him. After a few years later, I got tired. The game had just gotten too immature for me, too childish. A couple runs around the couch, he’d be hiding behind the ottoman waiting for me again, wagging his little brown nub, the little squirrel’s rangy head peeping through his mouth. I would just look at him, smiling as if it made it all better, and walked downstairs. No “I quit” or anything, just a stupid smile. I stepped on the second stair and looked back; he was still waiting for me, stretching out onto his back legs, eyes eager. Yet, I took another step and another, and gradually he faded out of view.
Now, I regret it. Now, I wish I would have taken a step up instead of down. Now, I wish I would’ve grabbed that squirrel by the head and pulled it out of your mouth just to throw it one more time. One more run around the couch. One more wet sandpapery kiss that you gave out so richly. I promise I won’t take any of it for granite this time.
There were so many more things I wanted us to do. I wanted us to be closer. You and I on my bed all night with the windows open so we could listen to the wind and you would rest your head on my lap as I’d put my fingers through your hair. I would comfort you when there was a storm. But you didn’t like the basement, and I was too tired.
You’re so weak now. I’m afraid to even touch your fragile body, so boney and hollow. Your cancer took us by shock. The doctor said it could have sprung up over night, and all I kept thinking about was your back legs springing up like a gazelle just a month ago chasing the mouse that lives under the basketball hoop. Just six months ago, I didn’t think it could be your last Christmas or your last Easter in April. Even three weeks ago, I didn’t even think it could be your last weekend at the lake.
Before you leave, I just want you to know I have learned so much from you the past 11 years. I’m so envious of your excitement for each day, even if your only plan is a five hour nap at 1. And I can’t help but admire your strength, especially when you can’t even stand on those back legs anymore. I know it kills you. Most of all, I’m in awe of your compassion. Protecting me even when I turned my back on you. Just forgiving and loving me again.
Wherever you go, know that I’ll be back and I love you.

An Artist's Laundry

They asked her why she did it. She ran her fingers through her hair hiding her wrists and didn’t really know what to say except, let me show you.
See, she was an artist, a painter to be exact. She used every color in her $30 paint set, mixing all afternoon and painting all night on paper, canvas, whatever she could get her hands on. In general, she was good. Her style was dramatic and mysterious but always sincere. She burned a hot streak of red down the paper, and the rest of the painting came to her instantly. Quickly and precisely, she made purple, orange, and blue strokes down the easel. She hardly thought about it; every movement was fluid and necessary. They waited impatiently watching her seamless painting come to life.
Although she was clean on paper, her clothes were often grossly overlooked while she painted. She always sported paint specks and blotches. Even in her room, the stains blemished the carpet and walls. Sometimes the little spots would bother her so much, she would avoid the den where the paints always were just to liberate herself from the greens and reds and whites. But she would always stumble back into that den eventually, and like a medication, she would twist open the orange’s cap with anxiety and exhilaration. After a long night of dipping and swishing, she would put down her brush and take off her dirty clothes, stained with little drops of perspective. The bathroom horded piles of clothes. Often, she couldn’t even close the door properly because the dirty clothes. Clothes and paint, she hated them.
One day when they weren’t looking, the clothes and paint made her do it. She wasn’t the type who would, but there was too much paint and too many piles that day. Her hand hovered next to the paper as she thought about it. Her poor skin, it had no chance. It tore so easily, and the blood bubbled so quickly, it was hardly memorable. She just remembered sitting there on the dirty, paint soiled clothes crying sickening tears. Her eyes hurt so badly afterward, but she felt the relief immediately. All her toxins were temporarily gone, all that bad blood. Quickly, she rinsed off her arm thoroughly under the cold tap and went back to the den.
“Done,” she announced stepping to the side. They viewed her work with predisposed scrutiny and beady eyes. However, she was uninterested in their verdict. Although she wasn’t very good at laundry, she wasn’t an addict either. She would always be a painter with her paint set and dirty clothes.

Diary of a Dream Home

When Lindsay and Mark got married, they built a beautiful home on Waterbrook Drive, one of the more expensive neighborhoods in Elk Cove. Charming red-brown bricks and four strong standing columns guarded their house with a two level deck in the back. In the front yard, maple trees lined the driveway and elegant rose bushes were neatly trimmed by the front door. “Our house is by far the best one on the block,” commented Mark. Lindsay nodded. The couple couldn’t be happier.

Years passed and the young couple now had a child. The gorgeous baby girl’s name was Megan. She had blue eyes with a green silhouette and fluffy auburn hair. Shortly after her birth, Mark’s mom was a regular guest. They cooed over Megan for hours and forgot about House’s bath. House didn’t mind though, it preferred waiting another year for the living room window scrub, because usually Mark’s squeegees tickled House.” Lindsay and Mark are just too busy with Megan and work,” House reassured himself, “I kind of enjoy the activity anyway”. After all, the busy family was still happy.

More years went by and the family still appeared happy. Megan, Lindsay, and Mark were all in good health, including their cat Luke. House remained in beautiful condition. However, their perfectly wrapped family was coming undone. Inside their room, the lovely couple fought about everything sometimes even House. While outside the door, little Megan cried grasping her doll. Every night when tensions would rise, House stand tall as it was instructed and would not speak. When the family set out with smiles each morning, House still felt the ugly shadows left behind and still said nothing. Eventually, House lost his voice. Now the family could only be seen happy on the wall by the stairwell.

Even more time slipped by and the house was still considered a dream home to envious neighbors. It was immaculately clean; a cleaning crew came once a year to wash the house’s windows. They never used the ticklish ones. The deck glowed with a weather resistant coating and the lawn care service always did a good job keeping up with the grass. Nevertheless, the beautiful house was alone. Mark “took a job in the city” last year, Lindsay was always at work or something, and Megan ran a lot after school. All the pictures by the stairwell were taken down after Mark moved out and all traces of their happy family were missing. On the outside the house was still great, but the inside was hollow and drafty.

The Witch on Main Street

“There’s where the witch lives,” said Johnny pointing at the sun bleached wooden house down the street. He bounced his kickball against the garage door and smirked slyly at Billy. “C’mon,” he called dropping the ball in the lawn, “Let’s ring her door!”

“Are you crazy?!” Billy cried flapping his arms at his brave little friend. Johnny proceeded inattentively toward the end of Main Street. The two boys only made it past the first beige house with the blue door when Johnny’s dad spotted them coming home from work. “Where you boys going?” he asked wearily. His dad was a tired man, ever since Johnny could remember, never up for games or adventure.

“He’s making me go to the witch- ouch!” Billy yelped rubbing his pudgy foot, “Why did have you step on my foot?” He glared at his friend. “Nowhere,” responded Johnny. His dad lowered his sunglasses, and his vibrant green eyes squinted over the horizon. The sun was still caressing the hills with seemingly endless light even at supper time. “Be back before dark,” his dad said driving away. The summer heat made the sun stay out longer, which was good for the boys.

Finally after many beige houses with blue doors later, the two boys had made it to the witch’s house. Billy let out a yelp as Johnny’s foot crunched the dead grass on the lawn. Moving as quickly and lightly as possible, Johnny crept toward the doorbell. “Three more steps, two more steps,” he counted.

On the sidewalk, Billy’s eyes jolted back into his head and barely could gasp for air. Through a yellow stained window, a dark shadow hunched over, motionless. Only its long fingers brushed along the sill. “Johnny!” he screamed. Dong… dong. Suddenly, Johnny’s legs froze. He slowly turned his head to Billy who was pointing at the moving figure in the window. “Run!” Billy shouted, “she’s coming!” Johnny panicked. All he wanted to do was run away from the disturbingly hollow shack, but his legs were confined to the wooden step. The witch must have done it, he thought, she must have put some sort of curse on him. “Help! My legs are stuck!” he cried. But Billy’s stubby legs were already wobbling down the sidewalk in distress.

“They always run away,” a voice murmured. Johnny felt the breath crawling down his neck. He prepared for the worst as he turned around and in return, received exactly what he imagined. The witch was aged; her pale skin was dotted with discolored bumps and her wrinkles seemed more like cuts with closer inspection. Her eyes, however, were untouched by the years. The blue color looked as though it was painted on. A mix of ocean water and summer skies.

“I-I’m sorry,” he quivered. The words tingled off his lips so coarsely, they stung. The old woman sighed looking down the overgrown cobblestone pathway. A gust of wind blew the last leaves off the dead tree in the yard, and the empty house wept as the warm air struck. “Please come in,” she said offering the chair in the corner. Slightly intrigued, Johnny took a seat on the red velvet armchair placed next to a warm fireplace. The old lady carefully placed herself in a quaint rocker across from him. Johnny smiled thinking how wrong he was about the witch. Although she barely said a couple sentences, the house itself contained most of the charm. An antique chandelier hung above his left and fragrant flowers sat in the center of a round coffee table. However, the entire room looked like an old photograph, Johnny noted. He blinked a few times to make sure. But in fact, the house seemed yellowed. The rugs, the windows, the furniture all stained in shades of umber.

“What is your name?” she asked pouring a glass of water from the coffee table offering it to him. He kindly accepted.

“Johnny” he answered, “and yours?”

“It’s Emily.”

“Who’s that?” Johnny curiously pointed to the 10 inch photo centered on the fireplace. The man was handsome and oddly familiar; a genuine smile showed only a hint of his teeth and his chest was raised as though he was taking in a breath of refreshing air. The picture was faded, but the tint of the room made it less noticeable.

“Jack…” Emily’s blue eyes drifted off into the photo, “doesn’t he look happy?”

Johnny nodded.

“He and I were happy then. Yes, we spent all our time together. Soul mates, we were. Me and Jack…”

“Then what happened?”

“I’m not sure,” she said clearing her voice. Johnny took careful inspection of the photo and noticed his eyes were green. Quickly he set it back noticing the reflection of his face melt into the frame.

“You remind me of Jack,” Emily smiled.

Johnny’s throat tensed.

“Your curiosity I suppose.” Slightly relieved by this, he concluded it was just a coincidence.

“Well, you better run along home,” she said, “but I did enjoy your company”. Johnny looked out the window to see he had just enough time to get home before dark. He smiled at Emily and left quietly from the rotted front door.

Unfortunately, he forgot about the sunset colored windows. The night had already consumed the pale blue skies. It couldn’t have been more than an hour, he thought, I can’t believe I was there that long.

He shook off the house’s stale odor and breathed the night air. Even though Johnny knew his dad would be angry about missing the curfew, he couldn’t wait to tell the boys at school he went inside the witch’s house.

The Quiet Life

“Becca, be a dear and take this to the table,” Aunt Carol says handing her niece a steaming pot of mashed potatoes. Hastily, Becca complies and then continues her game of chase with the little ones downstairs. “If I only had their energy!” comments grandpa as Becca speeds past. Aunt Carol smiles as she stirs the gravy wiping the spilt excess off the stove then alters the subject into chiropractic doctors for his back. “Carol, don’t be so worried,” grandpa teases, “I don’t feel a day older than 50.”
In the living room, the young couple Natalie and her husband Eli are perched on the fireplace talking to Uncle John and his wife Katherine about their summer vacation in Italy. “I’ve been dying to go to Tuscany!” exclaims Katherine stroking her plump lap dog with her exquisitely manicured nails. Burly uncle John’s giant palms rest on her delicate shoulder and jokes, “Another thing to put on the list!”. Natalie and Eli laugh in harmonious pitches complimenting each other perfectly.
“Dinner!” yells Aunt Carol. Everyone huddles around the dining table.
The bathroom door is closed. Roy flushes the toilet quietly and slides out of the bathroom without a sound. He pulls a neatly sealed card from his coat pocket and hands it to Becca as she trots up the stairs. “Happy birthday,” he smiles. She rips it open plucking the twenty dollar bill out. Quickly, she thanks him and runs over to be seated next to her favorite cousin Lindsey, the one with a butterfly tattoo on her hip.
Aunt Carol encourages Roy to sit next to her and her husband, soft spoken Sam. Roy joins them at the end of the table. He lays his napkin on his lap and grazes his eyes over the selection of food. Finally, he spoons himself a modest bowl of soup against his will (his recent weight gain prompted him to cut back).
Light-hearted conversation is sprinkled over the table. First Uncle John tells the story of how he caught “ole’ big eyes” last weekend at the lake, proceeded by grandpa’s ten year old fish tale, and then Natalie and Eli’s future expedition through Lake Champlain. Roy was about to chime in with a funny story at a lake involving one of his work colleges, but he remembered his current unemployment status and decided against it. Anyways, the conversation had already carried on to another topic, air travel. He smiled and laughed on cue knowing suspicious eyes were watching for weakness.
At 7:00, Roy eventually left reluctantly to his empty home. Only Aunt Carol leaned in for a hug before he left, but her open sympathy just put him in a worse mood. In his small home, he watched Dateline and went to bed at promptly 10:30.
Lying in bed, he felt the silence perturb the room. It opened the door like an unwelcomed guest slithering in suffocating every corner, sucking life from his body, and thrashing his world. Roy tried muffling the sound by holding a pillow to his ears but the sound only got louder. Sshhhhh. It moaned and whined but the silence couldn’t be quieted. “I don’t want to be alone!” he cried, but the silence only echoed his fear. Roy knew it was too late.
The next morning Roy took out the trash while an elderly couple sat on their porch drinking coffee. “Morning Patty! Roger!” he called gently opening the bin. They waved, “Hello Roy”.
“Say mister, why is a nice boy like you single?” asked Patty smiling with a hint of sympathy. Roy smiled back but said nothing as he walked inside. “What’s wrong with him?” Roger asked rubbing his stubble. “Just rude, I suppose,” answered Patty rocking back in her chair.

Eggs

“Eggs again?” I asked my mom sitting down for another Monday morning breakfast. She only hummed tossing the eggs gently with her spatula. “Your eggs are nasty,” I said trying to evoke a response.
“Sunny-side up,” she said smiling sliding the white oozing mess onto my plate. Geeze, I thought, if she would just pay more attention to the eggs, they’d be fine. Nothing bothered me more than her eggs. With a prolonged sigh, I dipped my fork into the white part. My tongue revolted; the egg was bland and runny. The yolk was even worse. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I felt its artificial flavor cling to my taste buds. It was a complete disaster! “Did these eggs come from chickens or factories?” I asked wiping the egg particles from my mouth. I left for school without touching the rest of my decidedly bad egg.
Even though I left early for school, before I knew it the 8:16 bell rang before I even walked in the building. In the process of running to chemistry, my books slid across the floor. A girl stopped to help but I much too busy screaming profanities down the hallway to care.
Four painful classes later it was lunch. I was standing in the lunch line with my friend Liz when Katherine-the-creature started talking to me. “How was your weekend?” she asked revealing her yellow teeth. “It was awful,” I replied, “I got grounded and my phone got taken away. That’s why I couldn’t text you back to say I couldn’t make it to the mall Saturday. Sorry!”
“Oh don’t worry about it,” Katherine smiled. I waved as she crept away on her boney chicken legs. Like I’d really hang out with her! As she passed within earshot, I laughed. Liz stared at me utterly confused. “She looks like an ugly-ass-tranny-hobbit!” I howled. Surprisingly, Liz didn’t even smile. In fact, she only displayed a look of distain and ignored me the rest of lunch.
At 3:05, I was more than excited to get home. “What a way to begin the week,” I said plopping myself in front of the television. Why was everything going so badly? My friends hate me, I’m failing chemistry, and it all started with… eggs. That’s right! It was that stupid, artificial old egg I ate this morning. Hmm, who knew one bad egg could do so much harm?

To my favorite person on Valentine's Day:

I almost felt sorry for my single self today, I’m sorry to say. I almost made the click to my “depressive music” playlist. What stopped me you ask? My realization that I haven’t learned to love myself. Maybe the reason I have stayed single for so long is the fact that I can’t appreciate have I have to offer. Being focused on looking for someone with the right qualities for so long has strayed me to believe relationships are about finding the “one”. In reality, relationships are simply about taking away good qualities from every person. How am I supposed to find someone to discover good qualities about myself if I don’t even know?!

For where I am in life, I can say I’m satisfied. I have a best friend I can always count on, I have a nice house to relax in, I’m pretty smart, a passionate writer and I have Sex and the City season 4. What more could I ask for? This Valentine’s Day I toast to you, Kelley Bauer; you’re the one person I can always count on, one heck of a girl, and I’m happy to have gotten to know you.

Love Bites

I sat on the porch that night wondering if she’d come home. I didn’t mean to hurt her, I swear. A mosquito buzzed in my ear; with a swift motion I swatted it away, but it kept coming back. “Go ahead!” I told the bug still hovering over my ripe earlobe. After contemplation, the mosquito left. It knew my hand was fully capable of killing. The endeavor was much too risky. He’ll come back though; I said to myself, they all do.
I still remember the way she left. First, I heard her suitcase shut. It didn’t close all the way, though (carried her emotions everywhere). “I’ll find you,” I said as she locked the suitcase. She said nothing only slamming the screen door on her way out. As she left, I saw a bruise on her hip. Quickly, I looked away. What kind of animal would do that to her? She’s so young. She’s so beautiful. I wanted to punch the guy in face that abused her like that, but I couldn’t very well punch myself (I’ve tried though). I knew it was bad, but I was crazy for her and she misused me. She threw me around like the recycle; never really understanding me. She hurt me.
I decided I should go inside. There was no use in waiting. I’ve suffered many loses in my time and each seemingly greater than the last. All I could do now is learn from my mistakes. “Ouch!” I yelped. I raised my hand to the source finding a bump on my left earlobe. I knew he’d come back, but I never thought he’d arrive now! Oh well, I’m sure the itch will go away in a bit.

For the dOrks

It’s been one of those days. Yes, you know exactly. The day you’re sitting in class chewing on your thumbnail, you hear a crack, and notice you were actually chewing on your thumbnail. Or how about that day you forgot to put on deodorant that morning. The rest of the day you end up sitting arms crossed, stiff, and looking slightly constipated. In other words, you just feel like a complete dork.
School is intimidating enough. 2000+ teenagers in one building is sure to frighten any parent away. Especially with girls- let’s call her Suzie- running around the school with gorgeous hair and perfectly un-chipped thumbnails. What makes these Suzies so damn flawless? Their confidence.
Going up the stairwell to journalism today, I saw the Suzie. She was right in front of me wearing the absolute prettiest shade of light blue. With each step, her curls bounced in unison. Suddenly, a voice called out Suzie’s name from the top of the stairs and she looked up. With one graceful misstep, she lost her footing. The stairs caved beneath her and she rose un-phased with only a smile strung across her face. Her friend, still laughing at the klutz move, shook her head and both girls went off down the hallway.
If girls like Suzie could fall down, then there must be hope for the rest of us but to get back up with a smile takes a whole different kind of self-assurance. The truth is we are all just closet dorks but some of us are just better at hiding it.

Day in the Life of an Islander

I live on an island. Although you may think it would be relaxing, sometimes the hardest part about living on an island is trying to relax. The weather isn’t always 60 and sunny, the tourists aren’t always nice, and the nearest bar is 20 miles away.
As I said before, visitors sometimes stop by. A couple of them show up with black suitcases around 10 AM. Stragglers. Curious, they step off their boats and meander around the grounds. I watch them closely; some are not always welcome on this island. Alarmed by my unforgiving stares, they hurry back into their boats. As much as I hate to chase people away, it’s one of my jobs to protect the island.
A call comes through around noon just as I’m about to take a nap. It’s from the mother country. I pick up immediately, “This is the Island, what can I do for you?”
“A new shipment of residents is coming in, could you handle that?” asks the mother country councilman. I agree, groaning. New residents from the mother country were often very nice but were significantly flawed personality wise. They never stayed too long either.
At 3 PM, I left my post to go to the Cloud Nine Café. No one was there. “How’s business?” I asked the man at the counter unrolling a new pack of quarters. “Not so good,” he replied, “people don’t come around like they used to”. I sighed and looked down at my cup. “It will be fine,” said the man seeing the thoughts of hopelessness running through my head, “the island’s drift might do some good”.
“Island drift?” I asked looking up.
“See the building over there?” I fastened my head toward in the direction he pointed. Squinting the hardest I could, I only saw a faded lightening rod poking into the horizon. “No, I can’t,” I said.
“Exactly, we are drifting. Why a couple years ago you could see the whole building from here.”
“If there truly is an island drift, then wouldn’t that mean less people coming to the island from the mother country?”
“Probably, but who knows? Maybe we’ll have better luck without the mother country.” The man finished sorting the coins and went back to the backroom. Who ever heard of an island without a mother country? The man obviously had too much Cloud Nine juice…