My Short Stories...

[tazraven]

I just wrote this. I submitted it to a short story competition online, and I decided to post it here as well to see what you guys thought. It's less than a thousand words. The thought process of a young woman who lost her lover.


A Year


It’s been a year since you died. A year of jokes I couldn’t laugh at; movies I couldn’t enjoy. A year. An infinite amount of moments that I didn’t share with you; couldn’t share with you. They were stolen from me. Stolen. Amazing how your entire future was erased in an instant. My entire future. Ours. We planned it all. I remember every talk we had, every dream you shared with me. I still remember.


There were children. At least two. We never could agree on that. I always wanted two and you always wanted three. I joked with you and said we couldn’t have two and a half kids. You said we’d just have to round up.


A home. It’s what we always wanted. Not a house though, a home. A place to play board games during rainy weekends. To make dinner and do mundane chores. A place to make love and put children to sleep. A place to raise a family.


But we won’t have that. We will never have that. We won’t ever argue about money or hold hands. I won’t ever kiss your lips again or hold you as we sleep. I will never again feel the pleasure of your fingers against my skin or cry out in ecstasy as we make love. And it hurts. I thought heartbreak was an expression, an emotion. It’s not. It’s experiencing everything we could have had but won’t every single day. It’s knowing that we are not always, were not always.


I wasn’t sure I believed in souls before you died. But then you left, and I felt something rip away from me. I realize now it was my soul. The part I had given to you. It was violently ripped from me as you passed, leaving me half a person, half a life. I don’t know if I believe in heaven, but I know I want to. I want to believe that you are somewhere better, somewhere beautiful. That you are somewhere high above the turmoil of the world, and not stuck in the cold ground.


I wanted to kill him. I wanted to so badly. I remember I told you once. If anything ever happened to you, I would kill the person who did it. I would kill them and not care. But you made me promise. I don’t know why you did. Could you have known one day it would happen? I can’t imagine you did. But I don’t know. I can’t ask you. I feel like everyday there’s something I want to tell you. I turn to look for you, but you’re not there. You’re never there.


I remember your funeral. It was in your will, that you wanted to be buried and not cremated. You said that it was nice for people to have somewhere to go, so that they could mourn. I don’t go there though. I mourn you every second; it doesn’t matter where I am.


Only once did I visit your grave. To bury you. It was sunny. I would have thought there’d be rain. There was always rain in the movies. Your family was there, and so was mine. That was always our biggest worry about a wedding, getting both of our families in the same room. I never thought that the first time would be at your funeral.


Your parents cried, and so did mine. My sister cried as well. Your brother tried to be strong, but there were tears in his eyes. I think he waited until after.


I cried. But you knew I would. You always knew me so well.


I tried to say something. I had a speech written. You would have thought it was beautiful. You probably would have cried if you heard it. But I couldn’t say it. The words wouldn’t come. I stepped forward, but my hands were trembling so badly. The paper tear-stained and shaking in my grip. My sister read it for me. You always said she had a beautiful voice, so maybe it was better that she did.


There was a trial. It was a month ago. They asked me to testify. I did, and I looked that man straight in the eyes while I talked about you. I’m crying now, thinking of what he did to you. We used to joke that you’d die a virgin. Used to say that what we did didn’t count, since I wasn’t a man. But you didn’t die a virgin. That man. Monster. That bastard touched you as no one ever should have. But it wasn’t enough for him. He slit your throat. Slit. Your. Fucking. Throat.


They gave him life. Life in prison. I thought that was ironic. He stole your life and used it to live the rest of his behind bars. They should have given you life. They should have stolen his and given it right back to you. To us.


I don’t know what to do with my life now. He didn’t just kill you. He killed me too. When your life ended, I died with you. My soul died. My dreams died. My future died.


Our life died. Our future died.


It’s been a year since you died, but it may as well have been a day. An hour. A minute. A second. The hurt is just as bad as it was the moment you died, and it will never go away. And now I await a future of an infinite amount of moments without you. A future without you, until I die too.



~Sara

[aerynmoon]

Wow. This story makes me sort of depressed, but I mean that in the nicest way. Just wow.

[tazraven]

Another short story I wrote. It's called "Cold"


Cold


It’s cold in here. The sheets don’t keep me warm enough. Every time you come to visit, you get the blanket from the closet. You drape it over me, and I pray that this time the thick barrier will ward off the chill. But it never does, and I can’t imagine ever being warm again. Except with you.


You are my warmth. Surrounded by lifeless machines and cold doctors, you are my only warmth. Everyday you visit, and you curl up to me. You drape your arm over my body and ward off the chill better than any blanket ever could. But it doesn’t last. And every time you leave, I wish that this wasn’t happening. It’s not real when I’m surrounded by you. When all I can feel is the beating of your heart and the heat of your body so close to mine.


But you do leave, and you will always leave. And when you’re gone, the world comes rushing back. The beeping of the machines intensify in my ears, until I wish that I was dead if only to stop the noise. The doctors visit and address me by my illness; their rapport colder than any of the equipment surrounding me. Nurses enter my room and leave with parts of my pride. I don’t have any left. Months of being in this cold place has left me with nothing but pain.


And the pain. I never tell you, because when I do I can see the hurt reflected in your eyes. I would rather live through this lifetime of pain than be the cause of any to you. I know you’d be mad at me if you knew. Angry for keeping my pain from you for so long. We always shared everything, and now here I am. Keeping the only thing in my life from you. The only constant. Except for you, and your warmth.


I know that I’m dying. The doctors told me today.


A month is how long they gave me to live. A month to say goodbye. A month to memorize every curve of your face, every speck of color in your eyes. A month to remember every touch I’ve ever experienced, or every talk we’ve ever had. I told them it was impossible.


I told them that it would take an eternity to say goodbye to you.


They said I could be the one to tell you. I haven’t told you yet though. Every time I look into you, I see the love we share, and the words die on my lips. Would it be better if I told you? Would it be better for you to come here every day and know that it’s one less day of my month? One less day of our life together?


You’re back again. You climb onto my bed, and lie beside me. Lending me your warmth and your love, if only for a few hours. We talk about everything and nothing. Nostalgia and what ifs. Laughter and tears. It all happens there, on the bed that’s only warm because you’re there.


A nurse enters and you rise from the bed and look away. I don’t blame you, because I know why you’re not watching. It’s not because you don’t care. It’s because you care too much. She turns me over, and I start to cry. It’s not that the pain is unbearable, which it is. And it’s not that I’ll remember this forever, since my forever is only a few weeks now. It’s because I can feel the cold coming back. Washing over my skin and bones and what’s left of my muscles with every touch of the nurse’s hands. The cold seeps in, and it pushes away any warmth you left behind.


The machines surrounding me begin to play their monotone symphony again. But something is different. It’s slower. My heart is conducting the new piece and I can hear the machines follow its direction. You’re still here. But now you’re standing over me and grasping my hand. Your mouth is moving. But there are no words. I can’t hear them. There are tears running down your face. They’re running down my face too, but I can’t feel them.


The pain is back. It burns like white hot shards of glass shoved into my stomach. My arms and legs. My heart.


And then it’s gone, once again replaced with the cold. You’re there, holding me, but there is no more warmth. You’re not there anymore. There is only the cold.


It’s colder here.



~Sara

[tazraven]

Here's another one I wrote. I'd heard that patients can sometimes wake up during surgery but not be able to move. This story is from the perspective of a woman who has woken up. It's called "Awake"


Awake


Awake.


I’m awake.


Why am I awake?


They told me I wouldn’t be. They told me I’d be fine. They told me.


There’s buzzing. My ears, what’s wrong with them. The buzzing’s stopped. I can hear them. They’re talking. What are they saying? Incision? What incision? They told me I’d be asleep. Why am I not asleep?


I should tell them. I’m not asleep. It won’t work. Why won’t my mouth work? My lips, my tongue. I’m trying, they won’t move. Oh god, why won’t they move?


No. You can’t. I’m not asleep. I’m not asleep! Stop! You can’t cut into me! I’m not asleep!


Oh god. I can feel them. I can feel everything. This can’t be real. It’s a nightmare. I’m going to wake up. I have to wake up. Wake up God damnit!


I’m awake. I’m already awake. I can hear them. My eyes won’t open. They’re still talking. They’re going to cut into me. I can feel the steel against my flesh. It’s cold. I can feel it.


It’s pressing into me. Oh god! Jesus fucking Christ! Stop!


I can’t yell. I can’t speak. I can’t move. But oh god, I can feel.


My blood. Warm. On my skin. I can feel it. I feel the sticky warmth, and the pain. I’m supposed to be asleep. Why am I not asleep?


I feel it again. The cold press of steel. They’re going to cut into me again. Another cut.


Fuck! Holy God!


Oh god.


It hurts. It hurts so much. Why am I not asleep? I’m supposed to be. I can’t tell them.


Jesus Christ!


Oh God, it’s in me. Something is in me. Oh God. Please. Stop. I can’t. I want to be asleep. Why am I awake?


They’re still talking. They laugh. Why are they laughing? I’m awake! God, can’t you tell I’m awake?


Music. They’re playing music. Music while they play in my flesh. While I’m awake and wishing I was asleep. Wishing I was dead.


This pain. Oh God. I can’t feel. There’s nothing but the pain.


I’ve never known a pain like this. Red and hot and burning. They’re still talking. I can hear them. One of them is humming. He’s humming along to the music, my pain.


Oh my fucking God!


Another cut. I didn’t feel the steel. I couldn’t feel it. Not compared to the pain. They’re still in me. I can feel it. The pressure. Their fingers playing with my organs. Oh God, why am I not asleep?


Shouldn’t there be blackness? I should be asleep.


Has it been seconds? Minutes? Hours? There’s no more cuts. What is that? That feeling. More steel.


A noise. Fuck!


It’s a staple. They’re closing me. Stapling my flesh shut like paper.


A noise again. Jesus Christ!


Another.


Another.


And another.


Oh god, this pain. I can’t feel anything but the pain.


They’re yelling something. I can hear them. Something’s wrong. Do they know? Can they tell? I’m awake!


Holy God, the pain. The blackness. It’s happening now. I can feel it. The fog that’s drifting through my mind. Replacing the pain. It stopped. The pain stopped.


Why am I awake?


Why am I not asleep?


I should be asleep.


Asleep.



~Sara

[dlline]

I've told you before, so I'll tell you again, these are really good. The pain is palpable, even visceral. Especially the last one.... gave me major wiggins.

Well done, Sara. Keep up the good work.

Diane

[tazraven]

Thanks Diane. I always enjoy giving people wiggins. Means I'm doing something right. Here's one I wrote about when I asked my girlfriend to marry me. It's called "Steak" oddly enough.


Steak


I couldn’t eat that night. We were all sitting around the table, the ship rocking slightly with each wave. The constant motion didn’t make me sick. No, the only thing that made me nauseous was the thought of what I was about to do. I ordered a steak, which in retrospect was probably not the best thing to order when coupled with a stomach filled with bats. Not butterflies; bats. The plate arrived laden with red meat, potatoes, and broccoli. I just sat there, staring at the meal I should have been eating, but could only glare at. Here I was, on a cruise ship, some of the best looking and smelling food I’d ever ordered sitting right in front of me, and I couldn’t touch it. Couldn’t even stomach a forkful.


I excused myself, trying to hide my grimace. You gave me a look; the one that seems to say, “I know exactly what you’re thinking.” I just gave you a tight lipped smile and told you I wasn’t feeling well. At least it wasn’t a total lie. Of course, you knew it wasn’t the total truth. I could see it in your eyes. But that didn’t matter. All the lying would be over within the hour.


I remember walking to the bathroom, talking quietly to myself. You always told me that I talked to myself when I was worried, and I’m sure the other passengers of the ship gave a wide berth trying to avoid me. I practically threw myself against the bathroom door in my effort to escape the thoughts I’d tried to leave at the table. It proved impossible. They followed me.


Still talking quietly to myself, trying to verbalize my thoughts for what I knew had to happen; I stopped and looked into the mirror. My reflection blinked at me. I tried to smile; hoping this time it would seem real. No chance. I still looked like a tax collector trying to seem genial while kicking out a family of ten from their house. Fake. I paced the white tiled floor, trying desperately to calm myself down. Luckily, no one else decided to relieve themselves during my stay. I fixed my shirt six times and re-did my hair seven.


The walk back to the table was deliberate. I made sure to take as much time as possible, not in an extreme hurry to return to a table full of talkative relatives, knowing green eyes, and a plate full of untouched steak. You welcomed me back with a small smile, and asked me with your eyes whether or not I was alright. I nodded slightly and tried to smile again, hoping that this time I didn’t resemble the tax collector. You went back to eating and I went back to staring at the hunk of red meat that sat on the plate in front of me, mocking me with its untouched condition.


When we finished the meal, I was torn between wanting to cheer and praying for the earth to swallow me. In the end, I decided to sit there stoically while I thought of a way for us to escape the table. Seats, I thought. We’ll save seats, I told everyone at the table, when in actuality I had no intention of watching one second of that night’s performance. Of course, my eight year old cousin thought I was telling the truth. Chad jumped up from the table, fixed large eyes on mine, and asked if he could tag along. I could see my sister trying to keep him there, as she knew of my plan, but he was determined. Seeing no way out of it, I nodded while trying to reign in my desire to just give up.


We walked to the theatre, my cousin walking between us as he chatted about anything that was interesting to him. We talked about Scooby-Doo. The theatre was packed, but we managed to find a few seats near the front. He sat down between us and the show started, making me realize just how good an idea giving up really was. The lights dimmed, and the auditorium grew dark as a man walked out on stage. Danny, our cruise director, a man paid to be hyperactive and excited about everything, started singing. Imagine an appalling lounge singer mixed with the songs of the Rat-Pack and a horrible voice, and you’ve got him to a tee. Twenty minutes later, after listening to the incredibly unappetizing sound of Danny singing “Cuando Cuando Cuando” and “Beyond the Sea,” Chad finally found his mother.


I dragged you out of the theatre and you gave me that look again. The one that this time meant, “Why are you acting like a spaz?” It didn’t matter though. This time, it was going to happen. We walked up a few flights of stairs and stepped outside onto an empty deck. Empty for a perfectly understandable reason. It was too much to ask for a cloudless night sky dotted with stars. I had to make due with a storm.


We skidded across the deck, the wind not only whipping our hair around, but pushing us across the wet wood, slick from hours of rain which was still falling, dampening your dress and my khaki slacks and polo shirt. It felt like we were walking through a wind tunnel as you held onto me for stability, your arms wrapped around my body and my arms wrapped around yours. I tried to think about what I was going to say as I held you, the feeling of perfection only making it harder to concentrate. We slid to a stop behind a barrier that prevented the wind from reaching us and you opened the door to a set of stairs, both of us silently agreeing it was time to seek shelter.


You turned your back to me to fix your hair, and I reached my hand into my pocket, feeling for at least the fiftieth time that night the box I’d been hiding there. My fingers wrapped around the box and I pulled it out in as gently as I could, despite my trembling hand. And as you turned back to me, and fixed your beautiful green eyes on mine, the only thing I could think was how right this was. And for the first time that night, my nervousness disappeared. In that moment, I realized that this was perfect. I knelt down, putting one knee on the purple patterned carpet, forgetting everything that had gone wrong on the way to this moment, and asked you the question I’d been dreading asking all evening.


After the congratulations from my family, I remembered my steak, and realized just how hungry I was. We ordered room service.



~Sara

[barnabasvamp]

Wow, tremendous writing! The ability to make the reader feel the pain, even if it's not real, is such an asset.

And steak... Just too sweet, your girl should love that one.

BV

[tazraven]

Thanks so much for the compliments barnabasvamp. I reall hope I'm able to convey emotion that the reader can feel. Part of the challenge of short stories is being able to make the reader care in a very short time, so for you to tell me that is a great compliment. And ya She did love "Steak".

~Sara

[Katharyn]

Hi Sara, I've been wanting to read some of your stuff for a while now, but had to avoid the BTVS flavoured fic as it deals with subjects I don't like to get into (that's just me - bitter and twisted!)

Imagine my relief when I saw you had some here...

I love this internalised stuff. I always have. I'm a sucker for it (and I have no idea why!) This is wonderfully written and so descriptive. Qualitively I have to say I think Cold and A Year work a little better for me, however Steak is a more satisfying read given the subject matter. Instead of a sigh I can just SIGH.

Awake - that's my damn nightmare!

Internalised real time events do, I think, work better with fast moving short lines as in Awake. I've always believed that the mind jumps all over the place - even when it's focused on something - and I like the quick paragraphs to show that. It's even more powerful reading it in the midst of the others being a change of pace and style.

Keep it up. Lovely.

BTW - did you get anything back from the competition you entered with A Year?

Katharyn

[tazraven]

Hey Katharyn So happy to see you reading my stuff. I do love writing short stories, and after discovering that writing in first person is a much more interesting way for me to express myself, it's really become my favorite way to write.

Awake - that's my damn nightmare!

You and me both. When I first heard about that happening to people, I knew I wanted to explore it. It's pretty strong, and I appreciate that you liked it.

BTW - did you get anything back from the competition you entered with A Year?

Actually, I did. Turns out it's going to be published, along with 24 other entries out of the 2,000+ that entered. Once again, really happy you enjoyed my stuff.

~Sara

[CrazyTaraWitch]

You are a truely beautiful writer... My 3rd time though "A Year", I finally didn't cry, but i still got shivers near the end. You capture the pain exquisetly. I hope to see more of your writing soon.

[tazraven]

CrazyTaraWitch: Thanks so much for the kind words I know how you feel, crying with that one. Depending on my mood, I cry too, and I can't even read it to my fiance. But I guess that's good in a way, right? The ability to evoke strong emotions.

I hope to see more of your writing soon.

Wish granted. I wrote a new one, and I'm not exactly sure how it turned out, since I'm not the best judge of my own writing but here it is anyways...




A Girl


A little baby girl. This little girl, hours old, crying for a comfort I can’t give her. I watch her through the glass, her arms and legs waving as she explores her body for the first time. Her eyes squinted shut and her mouth open in a cry I cannot hear through the barrier. A barrier that seems as if it will always be there. Whether it will be a hug she wants from you, a piece of advice she needs from you, or a bedtime story she should hear from you. That barrier will be forever between us, an invisible line neither of us will be able to cross.


In my mind, I see her life in a slideshow, a series of images that show me disappointing her always as she looks for something in me that is not there. Her first day of school, when both of us should be there to send her off, when she should be waving back at us as tears glisten in our eyes, watching the little girl that has grown up so well in such a short time. But instead, the tears shine in her eyes as she knows only I am there to wave a goodbye to her.


Another slide. Her first boyfriend. You should be there with me, glaring disapprovingly at the back of his head while we try and discern what his intentions are toward her. When we realize that this is just a part of her growing, and we wistfully remember our earlier days of being together. But you won’t be there for that. I’ll only be able to remember alone, telling her stories of our past, only inspiring sadness as we both realize you are not there.


Another. Her graduation. I sit in the front row as any proud parent would, a video recorder in my hand. You should be there beside me, telling the strangers next to us who our daughter is, as if they cared more about her than their own child. Embarrassing her by standing up and cheering as she walks up to the stage to accept her diploma. But once again, your absence is prominent. I record for the days when I’ll be alone in an empty house, watching these memories without you to reminisce with. She looks to me in passing; once again I see the tears in her eyes as she remembers you’re gone.


I can’t be enough for her.


That is my worst fear as I stand outside the glass, gazing in at the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Our daughter.


How many countless hours did I spend searching through profiles, trying to find genes similar enough to mine to combine with yours. Brown hair, blue eyes, five feet four inches, above normal intelligence. I was going to look for someone with average intelligence, but you told me to shoot higher. A thousand other traits that I searched through in an effort to find someone like me, only better. Someone without heart disease in their family or obesity in their blood. Someone with good eyesight and no history of Alzheimer’s.


You took a pregnancy test every other day for three weeks after each try, hoping that one time the strip would turn blue. When it finally did, I don’t think I ever saw you happier. The smile on your face was beautiful. We made love that night, both of us so ecstatic we couldn’t express it with words alone.


You had a textbook pregnancy. Everything was perfect, right down to the due date. Your water broke after exactly nine months, a Saturday. We kissed before grabbing your bag and driving to the hospital.


Ten hours later you were dead, and a little baby girl was crying for her mother. A tear in the uterine lining. Something so small at first that the doctor didn’t detect it, not until it was too late for you. There was so much blood.


So here I am now, standing outside a glass, watching the baby that killed you, and yet still loving her. How could I not? But I know, I won’t be enough. Every time she looks at me, I know she’ll see you. And every time I look at her, the same. Maybe she’ll grow up fine. She’s never met you, never been held by you. But in her heart, there will be a hole. One I will never be able to fill, nor would I want to. You are the only one who should ever be able to fill that hole, to love her so completely that she would never feel unwanted, unloved. Can I do that for her? Can I love her so completely that the hole would grow smaller each day, even though every time I look into her eyes I realize they are the same color as yours? That her nose is the same nose, and her hair is the same hair? How will I be able to love her if she’s everything you are, mocking me without meaning to?


She’s stopped crying now. Her fists balled up as are her toes, her mouth slightly open as she breathes. And her eyes, finally open despite the bright fluorescent light of the room. And I can see, they are the color of your eyes. She does have the same nose. Her hair is the same hue. And it makes me love her more.


~Sara

[CrazyTaraWitch]

That was...ouch...but in a good way. Your writing is magnificent, though at times upsetting. I love it all.

[dlline]

Hey!

Sorry I didn't jump on this earlier. Again, this story is painful and you've captured that in an almost horrific way. I can't say a lot about it other than to say its great and scary and visceral.

Well done, Sara.

Diane

[tazraven]

CrazyTaraWitch: Thanks again for your comments. I understand the ouch, it was hard for me to write. But thank you, for the writing compliment. Always means a lot when someone likes what I do

Diane: No worries I get what you're saying. It scares the crap outta me, which I guess is why I wrote it. But you know that. Thanks for replying.

~Sara

[tazraven]

Alright, I'm taking a creative writing class this semester, and so I've written a few more short stories for it. The first one, "Swarm," I wrote after watching a CSI episode. Just sort of sparked my interest. The second one, "Forks and Knives," was written as a response paper. I was supposed to try and "copycat" a writer's style. Stephen King was my choice. Finally, the third one, "Lunch," was just a creative way for me to talk about my lunch time memories. I hope everyone enjoys them.




Swarm


A swarm, hidden in the shadows, floating through the streets. Dark and cold, the cloud passes by, giving a chill to the elderly man out for a walk, the little girl riding her bike, the mother of two on the way to buy groceries. Night hides it, providing anonymity, stealth, until it spots its victim.


Shoulder-length brown hair, jeans, a white blouse, running shoes. There’s no reason, no purpose. Middle-aged or old-aged, woman or man, black or white, gay or straight. There’s only one factor. She’s alone, hidden from the busy street, invisible to the cars and pedestrians and shops and lamps. The dark alleyway becomes a deadly trap. An animal caught in a cage. A single thought, the hive mind, saying this is the one.


The swarm moves faster, and the woman hears and knows. She looks behind; terror clouds her face, her mouth open in a silent scream. Sneakers and high heels and work boots pound the pavement, coming closer, never slowing. Hoods hide the faces, black sweaters that cover features. And masks. Long noses and unnatural eye colors, making them look like goblins, monsters.


They become them.


A cloud that covers her, eclipses her in darkness, terror, and pain. She falls to the ground with a kick to her stomach, curls into a ball with a kick to her back. Cowering on the wet and grime-covered concrete, eyes closed, tears falling, mouth open, gasping for breath. Her lungs contract with every blow, unable to scream or cry. A rib cracks, the bone snapping audibly. Both cheekbones broken, her nose shattered. Blood streams from the cuts, opening everywhere, across her forehead and arms, legs and stomach. Nowhere on her body is safe.


The blood from her injuries splashes onto sweaters and sneakers, spray painting their bodies with what they’ve done. But there are no knife wounds on her, no bullet holes or brass knuckle impressions. Only bruises from the feet and hands that land solidly against her flesh.


We’re done. The hive mind echoes through the group. It stops, leaving the woman on the ground, bloodied and beaten to a pulp, her face red and purple, blue and black, a canvas of pain. The swarm floats into the shadows again, moving swiftly toward the next victim. It doesn’t know where yet, only that there will be one. It travels in the night, never once feeling guilt or pain or remorse.


The hive mind rules, and the swarm continues on.



~Sara

[tazraven]

Forks and Knives


Stephanie watched solemnly, sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, clad in soft cotton boxers and a plain black t-shirt. Straight in front of her she could see the kitchen, now empty barring a small amount of food, mostly peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches. No salad though. No mashed potatoes or coleslaw or ice cream or soup. Those items all required utensils.


The knives were the first things they took. Butcher knives and butter knives. Steak knives and paring knives. The forks, too. Drawers were emptied, cupboards ravaged, shelves bared. Pizza cutters and meat cleavers, even the spoons, all thrown in a brown cardboard box labeled “Silverware” and ferried out of the room.


Why the spoons?


To her left, Stephanie saw the bathroom, hidden from view by the mostly closed door. Painkillers and sleeping pills had disappeared from there five days ago. Ibuprofen and Ambien, Tylenol and Sudafed. The medicine cabinet became pointless, housing nothing but air. Schick razors and replacement blades, towels and toilet bowl cleaner, Lysol and Windex. It all went the way of the knives, the only difference being the label on the box into which it was all placed: “Bathroom.”


A twist of her head in the opposite direction led her eyes to the bedroom. No more pants or sweaters. No more long-sleeved shirts or dresses. Not even sheets. A thick comforter sat on the bare mattress.


Can’t tie a thick blanket into a knot.


Stephanie’s eyes dropped to her lap, a piece of the beige carpeting visible through her crossed legs. That was mostly all that was left. The carpeting. No more television or picture frames or lamps.


The glass shards.


Only Bill. Bill was left. The hospital’s appointed watchman. But Bill had stepped out for a moment to have a cigarette, as he had every day, every three hours for the past week. He was only gone for five minutes each time, but it was enough, because Stephanie knew something that Bill didn’t.


They forgot something.


Stephanie pulled out the shoelaces she’d taken from a pair of her shoes a week earlier. Calmly, she stood from her sitting position and climbed onto the folding chair where Bill usually sat. It was right below the fan. The shoelace looped around the fan blade perfectly, a fair amount hanging down as the two laces were tied together, a noose tied three days ago dangling right in front of her nose. A quick adjustment, and the loop was around her neck. A small jump off the front of the chair.


Finally.



~Sara

[tazraven]

Lunch


A boy much taller than myself pushed past, shoving me against a locker. “Out of the way, shrimp!” I heard him yell over his shoulder as he continued to press his way through the crowd. The bell for lunch, a grating beep that rang every day at 12:20 pm, was a Pavlovian trigger for most of the students; the signal to race from whatever classroom they’d been in at the time and walk to the lunchroom in a herd. It was the sound of food, the sound of talking to your friends. The sound of twenty-five minutes of pure school day happiness. A time for freedom and social normalcy, every student treasured the moments.


Except me.


A prime target for bullies and jerks, I stood barely five feet tall, a runt in any crowd. I never spoke, only adding to my peculiarity and further distancing myself from other kids. The glasses I wore and violin I played didn’t help either. And books. I had a book with me every minute of the day. Reading in class, while I walked, while I ate. A bookworm from the start, it only added fuel to the fire. I was a raging inferno of nerdiness. A geek to the core, I experienced a broad range of insults, most of them making fun of my height or my constant intake of the written word. Shrimp, shorty, geek, nerd, dork, bookworm. A veritable fountain of clever turns of phrase.


I walked into the cafeteria and quickly grabbed my lunch, a Styrofoam tray covered with soggy green beans, dry chicken, and some sort of chocolate dessert that most resembled an amorphous blob of brownie. Yum.


I walked to an unoccupied table with my head down, tray in one hand, book in the other. Avoiding eye contact lessened the name-calling. Pulling out the seat, I sat the tray down, and watched disgustedly as a drop of “brownie” fell from the plate and onto the faux-wood cafeteria table.


“Hey, bookworm!”


I didn’t have a name. I looked up from the table and to the right, grimacing as I saw the clique of popular girls who were more often than not my worst enemies.


“Reading another book?”


“Yeah,” I answered, wanting more than anything to just get back to my sorry excuse for food and a good paperback.


“Why don’t you try talking to people instead of reading so much?”


“Because,” I replied, in an unusual display of courage. “I like books better than you.” I didn’t continue looking to see what I’m sure was a face of disgust and outrage. Instead, I turned my eyes downward again and sat in the chair. The piece of brownie goop was still on the table. I slid my chair down a few feet and opened my book.


I hated lunch. Most of the time.



~Sara

[CrazyTaraWitch]

these are awesome...i can't decide which of the first two i like better. they both kept me guessing, and with the second i came up with two other theories before i figured it out. the end of the third story was also really cool...it reminded me a lot of my freshman year of high school, except i ate food brought from home outside, but i always had a book open and rarely talked, so i could really relate. thanks for sharing, and i hope to see more soon!