The Structure of a Short Story Examples of Short Stories Tips for Writing a Short Story

The Structure of a Short Story

Examples of Short Stories

Choose from the list below:

Adolescence by Josh D., Tappan Zee High School

Closure by Stephanie V., Tappan Zee High School

Honestly by Amanda N., Tappan Zee High School

In the Days of Our Youth by Naomi S., Tappan Zee High School

Life as a Possibility by Alex R., Tappan Zee High School

Adolescence: A Reflection By Josh D., Tappan Zee High School 

            Silkworm Peabody failed to clean all the Raisin Bran out of his teeth that morning, and hundreds of the brown pieces squatted on his poorly rinsed toothbrush in vain, drying out for later. The boy thought about what it would feel like to starve as he tongued his upper right molar in search of leftovers, still bearing taste. He couldn’t wait to get his braces off, but somehow feared the unknown in most areas, especially dentistry. The news of his battling wisdom teeth had cut like a scalpel a few days before. The specter of surgery was looming in his near future but nevertheless he kept a metallic smile on his face. Of course when a girl walked by, he pretended to be angry and deep to seem as sexy as humanly possible. The eye contact with which he was met, interpreted as admiration, was only curiosity with a sharp hint of disgust.           

It was any other day. He tightened the straps of his backpack to facilitate everyone’s view of the new pants that he bought over the weekend. He forgot to shave this morning, and he wore the brown stubble like a badge of maturity. Little did he know it made him look more like a careless hobo than the desired George Clooney. He wore the same shoes he wore every day, their age showing in the grossest way possible. The boy’s chest was displayed unattractively through his tight shirt, as were the small rolls in his stomach, which should have been concealed. He chose to view them as something else, a firmly toned example of abdominal glory, the sight of which was a privilege to all who beheld it. 

             With a quick nod to all of the men Silkworm used to climb the social ladder, he made his way to class. He liked firm handshakes, really solid reassuring grips that were concrete symbols of companionship. Anything else felt like a lie to him. Peabody sat down next to a young man, who commenced a diatribe about a silly television program from the previous night. The other student’s eyed were garnished with a yellowish crust around the edges, which Silkworm wished to wash off with a fire hose. The teacher began class robotically, and he scribbled on his page to

fool the teacher and give the impression that he was hard at work. The scheme worked to please his teacher, but to his dismay, the student would not shut up. Silkworm didn’t know why he was smiling and nodding, encouraging the crusty pupil was the last thing he wanted to do, but he continued nevertheless. 

            Peabody always looked forward to second period. This was the forty minutes that Tiffany Sanchez, angelic Tiffany, sat next to him. Every day he marveled at the perfection of her shiny hair and lustrous nails, and wondered what spell she used to eradicate pimples and blemishes. He greeted her using a silly accent he slipped into sometimes when handling women, a sort of nervous habit. She giggled out of pure pity. Her need to reach out to the less fortunate (being the true martyr she was) caused her to strike up a conversation with Silkworm. Maybe Hans, leaning regally on the blackboard, would become jealous. As he stepped away from his improvised throne, chalk marks decorating his rear end, Tiffany laughed out loud, and turned towards Peabody to find a grin spread across his face. The boy claimed her laughter as the prize for his latest witty remark, and his naïve misinterpretation added to the girl’s pity. She looked at him dolefully, and started to copy Silkworm’s homework.  

Tiffany had moved to Porksville from lands far, far away, sometime during eighth grade. Her innocence was quickly claimed as she grew faster than Silkworm’s dirty fingernails. She never ceased using her un-cool classmates with pristine intentions, or at least that’s how she felt about it. In short, she managed to breed vanity and charity with Miss Universe-type grace. She didn’t realize that nerds were falling in love with her right and left, led on by her intentional kindness. Many realized the insincerity of her actions, but those who were desperate enough to misuse their IQ and misinterpret her, were sadly denied.

            As the rest of the day passed, Peabody recollected the good reactions he had been receiving from his peers. He thought to himself how he must have done a good job dressing, and must smell very nice. He thought about how easily he could find a girlfriend, if his friendship wasn’t so valuable to the masses of females. Maybe, he reflected, withholding some of his charm and charisma would cause the ladies to want it more. That must be it.

Nobody told him that his fly was open.

He discovered this as he sat down in his desk for English class, and in fixing the problem created the loudest zipping sound in history.           

Later that day, Peabody decided he needed to make things happen between him and Tiffany. She obviously had feelings for him, but couldn’t be open about them due to her introverted tendencies. It was time to act. He approached her after school, jogging awkwardly after her to catch up as she left the building. He commented that she seemed to be having trouble with her schoolwork, and generously offered his time to help her. Her parents had been pushing her to take more initiative in her school life, so she agreed. They were to meet at Silkworm’s house on Sunday evening with their thinking caps armed and ready. Of course, the boy had other plans.

            She arrived at Peabody’s house about a half an hour late, but nevertheless ready to learn. In preparation, the boy had altered the environment he once knew as his room. Earlier that morning he had procured about two hundred rose petals and placed them romantically in a path to his bed. He adorned his night table with an empty bottle of wine, which he filled with grape juice. A small box of chocolates rested on his pillow, in the shape of nothing else but a heart. He left his textbooks in school, so there would be no turning back. After being introduced to his parents, Tiffany was led dramatically into Peabody’s love-laden chamber. She felt her temperature rise as soon as she stepped on the soft petals.

 She was about to throw up.

When Silkworm presented her with a brimming glass of grape juice, she was pushed too far. The boy was met with a slammed door and a large red stain on his carpet. The only other time he cried in his life was the moment he realized that he was more than likely going to be alive for the death of his parents.

As he walked into the bathroom to get some tissues, he looked around. He saw the gunky toothbrush, the electronic scale, his unused razor, and his hair-gel. The bottle caught his attention for some reason, and he picked it up, reflecting. As his eyes scanned the label, it all made sense to him. THE GEL HAD EXPIRED. When he glanced up at the mirror, he saw that his hair didn’t even HINT at the ‘slept in’ sheen promised on the bottle. Why hadn’t he noticed? Tiffany didn’t even need a keen eye to tell that Silkworm looked like a mess. No wonder she hadn’t cooperated. Peabody had learned a lesson: Pose in the mirror at least once again after the primary session. It is supremely important for one to have an accurate self-image.

 Closure by Stephanie V., Tappan Zee High School

     It always rains in Seattle.

        When we went for the first time three years ago it was raining for the whole four days we were there, and the second time we went three weeks ago it rained still, leading to my completely valid conclusion that the sun simply does not exist in Washington. Which of course is bad for one’s health because everyone needs sun, which therefore means I should steer clear of anywhere near Seattle for purely health reasons. And when I say steer clear, I mean really clear. I mean a billion miles across the U.S. in New York clear.

 But of course all the powers that be work against me and I am hopeless in trying to avoid the inevitable. The event that I was sure would ruin my life three years ago has decided to lay down right in front of me so I can trip over it now and never get up and turn back around.

            One day I will sue the computer company that hired my dad. I will sue them for ruining my life, or my high school life anyway. I don’t care if we have some beautiful house out there with beautiful cars to match, because I don’t want the money. I want this. I want New York and all of its boredom, I want anything but Seattle.

            But of course at this point there is nothing I can do. All I can do is sit and watch everything being taken away from the present and put in that messy file room of my brain named “Memories.” The house, the neighbors, the school, and most importantly the friends are going to be gone. And the fighting is over. All I can do now is make sure that I can close those filing cabinet doors neatly before I leave.

            Its funny how you think your whole life you’ll have a never-ending amount of chances to settle your demons or anything else that needs settling. You think you have this infinite amount of time to do all you have to do, say all you have to say. But you’re so wrong. You know you’re dead wrong when time smacks you in the face and says it’s not running on your preferred schedule. I knew I’d have to do this all before college, which is only a year away, but still it seemed like forever. Now forever is one month in front of me and I need to completely settle and fix my unfinished business.

                                                         -------------------

            “I’m coming over.”

            “For what?”

            “I’m giving you back your things. I have it all in a box for you.”

            “What things? Presents?”

            “No. Just old stuff. Stuff you left at my house. I’m on my way.”

            “Oh.” There was a pause on the other line. “I don’t have all your things…umm… I might need some more time to get it all together…”

            “It’s fine I don’t want it. I’m halfway to your house anyway. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Bye.”

 I got off the phone quickly. I hadn’t talked to Aidan in at least four months and it was a little too uncomfortable to hear his voice again last Monday.  I could feel that lump in my throat rise and fall with every word out of my mouth; I needed to make the conversation brief before that lump appeared in my car in the form of my lunch. Don’t be nervous, I thought out loud. Just relax, he wont be tense. He’s moved on. But it didn’t matter what I said to myself out loud because in the back of my mind, actually not even in the back, but right on the surface, I knew I wasn’t worried if he didn’t move on. I knew he had. What I didn’t know was if I had.

It was so hard to finally watch it end. After a year and a half of a high school relationship, (high school marriage, actually) it was done. No more fights, no more distrust, no more crying, and no more insecurity. But now I was more insecure than before. Because there were no more dates, no more anniversaries, no more flowers, no more shoulders to cry on, and no more staying up until the early hours of the morning listening to him talk.

There was no more Aidan.

But that’s all right, right? Of course it would be hard. I mean, even though he was the one to finally end it doesn’t mean that I hadn’t ever wanted to break it off either. He’s fine. I’m fine. It’ll be fine.

The next thing I knew I was standing at the end of his driveway with a big cardboard box in my arms. I had been so engulfed in my personal pseudo pep-talk that I didn’t even realize I was finally at his house and nervous as hell. I wanted right at that moment to drop the box on his lawn and peel out, and I wished I had. But there he was. Aidan and his perfect face. Aidan and his perfect body and his perfect posture and his perfect clothes. Did he really have to look better than the last time I saw him?

“Hey you!”

“Hi.” While I was ready to shake the skin right off my bones, he was there as comfortable as before. Why wasn’t he nervous like me?

“How have you been, Julia? Long time no see, come in the house, sit down, get something to eat.”

Hah! There it was, that streak of anxiety. Why else would he be talking so fast? He was as uncomfortable as I was. Or wait, maybe he just wanted to get it over with and get me out of here. No. He was just nervous around me.

I told him I’d come in for a bit and then leave because I had some things to do. Some things to do as in watch television, eat ice cream, and dwell on how much I would miss everything, even him, which would lead to more depression.

“Here are your old things. Some old shirts. A few CDs. Other stuff.”

Aidan sorted through the box. “Well, if you want, I can drive by sometime with your old things. I had no idea you were on your way…I didn’t even know that you wanted to trade stuff back. Moving on, I guess, right?”

            “Yeah. Well just moving, actually.” Moving. That word was one most disheartening. Nothing beneficial came out of moving. Moving away, moving on, it had such an ugly ring to it.

            Aidan’s face froze and he stared at me. “You’re going?” he stammered. “Seriously, your dad decided to take the job?”

            I nodded yes and looked away. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore because the tears started to well up in my eyes. And I knew that if it would be hard to hold the floodgates with him, it would be absolutely impossible to hide the tears from my friends.

            “That’s terrible. You must be so upset.”

            “Gee, no kidding.” He was always awful with expressing his sympathy and ended up stating the obvious.

            He laughed a bit. “You know what I mean, I’m just saying…” He paused, picked up some old papers, and gave me a blank stare. “Jules, why are you giving them back?”

            I almost felt bad for him. Actually I felt horribly insensitive. Here he was standing in his kitchen with a pile of his old letters, feeling completely unappreciative. The thing was, I did appreciate them, so much in fact that I knew if I took them to Seattle with me, reading them would make me miss home even more. Letters like that were not meant for storing in those memory files of mine. The burden would weigh me down so much that all the memories of everything here would spill out.

            Aidan’s face had “crushed” written all over it. It was almost sick how I could feel so bad for him at the moment but feel stronger knowing that he was affected by this. That alone made me feel lower than scum. 

God, I had wished I just left the box in his yard instead.

            “Listen, I know it is over and done with. I know that were supposed to have moved on and not dwell on the past. But letters? Pictures, Julia, how could you get rid of these? I’m not asking you to sit there in Washington looking at these or reading these all the time, but a memory is a memory. All of this…it once did mean something to you, didn’t it? Why are you trying to forget that?”

             “Forget that? You think that I forgot everything? For months after we broke up, I cried over you. All I did was read those letters over and over. But that’s done now. I will and can forget everything. I’m leaving this town, and along with that I’m leaving you. Besides, you would know how easy it is to leave people, wouldn’t you?”

            Defensiveness. My biggest flaw. It reared its ugly head once again.

            And he responded to it right back. “We both know why I left. You left too…before I did, I just made it official. I might have broken it off, I might have stopped talking. But I won’t forget what this stuff meant. What we meant to each other. I won’t forget the curves of your face, the smell of your skin, the sound of your laugh, the—”

            “Stop it, really, just shut up!” I couldn’t listen anymore. “Why do you have to be so melodramatic? It’s done, we’re done, I’m moving.” I grabbed my keys off the counter and walked towards the door.

            “So you’re really moving…when?”

            “Soon. End of July.”

            “Oh,” he said with a slight air of disappointment. “I’ll see you around.”

            “No. You won’t.” With those last words, I pulled out of the driveway. I felt like my job was complete, but I felt at a loss at the same time.  Closure is supposed to be relieving, right?

                                                            -------------------

             Everybody who’s anybody loves DMB! The elite of Riverside High School made their mark of what was socially acceptable once again, parading into the hallways with their concert t-shirts. Dave Matthews, how deep! How wonderful that Riverside’s favorite touring band happened to make a stop in New York last night!

            I never had a problem with Dave Matthews. In fact, an old CD of theirs was sitting in the glove compartment of my car on that particular Thursday of my utter disgust with Riverside’s finest. What I did have a problem with was Dave Matthews Band becoming the staple music for all Riversiders to listen to. Can maybe 60 more people a year refer to DMB for their senior quotes? How original! How thought-provoking!

            I didn’t even have a problem with the “elite” class of Riverside. Some of my good friends were part of this Dave-loving cult. But that particular day, I hated DMB and their fans more than ever. And I hated the popular people. Because I had a goal. I had some unfinished business, and I needed to get it over with immediately. Three of the concert t-shirt-clad girls needed to have their pedestal kicked out from underneath them, and I was going to be the one to do it.

            I watched them throughout lunch. Tonya and her blonde, magazine-perfect hair. Her DMB shirt and her Abercrombie sweat pants. Sweat pants. Jeans I understand, but spending 50 dollars on sweats for the sake of acceptance made me cringe. Lourdes was worse. Other than the ubiquitous t-shirt, she wore Prada from head to toe. Maybe deeming her head to toe was a bit harsh. Because her bag was a Kate Spade. Variety at its finest. And last was the one I hated most of all: Kristin, at the head of the table, dressed as if, well, she didn’t get dressed. With a mop of red curls piled at the top of her head (a look that was supposed to say “sexy” but instead screamed “brush me”) and a pair of her brother’s old basketball shorts, her look was completed with a pair of socks and Adidas sandals. Sock and sandals. Why would one do this? Actually, why did everyone do this?

            Maybe it wasn’t even the choice of clothing that annoyed me as much as their conformity. Conformity in everything. Same typical wardrobes, same obnoxious personalities, same weekend plans of partying. I was never one to say that I was original or unique because people who do that for attention always bothered me as well, but at least I didn’t try to be the same. I didn’t want a label, and I didn’t want to be another stereotype. Stereotype jock, stereotype “Jap,” stereotype punk. Why not be, well, you?

            After lunch I had history with Tonya, Lourdes, and Kristin. Not actually history, but a free-for-all forum for everyone’s daily commentary and goofing off, not that I minded this in the least. Especially on that particular Thursday. I waited to hear what one of the three girls had to say so I could jump down their throats.

            “I can’t wait. My dress is sooooo pretty. It’s this pink satiny material with a droopy neckline…” Lourdes was explaining her dress for a sweet sixteen I supposed.

            “Oooh, that sounds so pretty!” the other two chirped. As my history teacher droned on with no regard to the incessant chatter in the room, I noticed that one particular person who usually paid attention no longer was.

            “That does sound really nice. It’s on Saturday right?” A new voice chimed into the sweet sixteen conversation. Jacqueline, who I had at least three classes with every year, started to detach herself from the Cuban Missile Crisis and onto the likes of the Armani Exchange. Jacqui was…interesting, to say the least. She was the anti “elite.” The unusual, quirky punk who wore all the “wrong” clothes and whose natural hair color was unknown. This was that other extreme of people that I didn’t appreciate, the ones who searched for attention by being “original.” But who really is original when there’s a whole group trying to be so? But Jacqui herself didn’t bother me. She kept to herself, never had anything mean to say, did her work, had some fun, had some goals. So despite her anti-label that was actually ironically just another form of conformity, I respected her. However, Kristin and company did not.

            “Why do know when Sarah’s party is?” Kristin said in her most condescending tone.

            “Because I was invited.”

            The girls exchanged confused glances and looked back at Jacqui.

            “How?”

            “Family friend. So what do your dresses look like?”

            “Mine is a black halter top and pants. Kristin’s is this baby blue dress with sparkles.” Tonya got a sly look on her face as she continued on. 

            “What are you wearing?”

            “I bought this sage green dress a little while ago for my cousin’s christening. I don’t know if I like it anymore though. It’s too loose I think. Where did you go for your dresses? I’ve looked all over and can’t find anything nice.”

            “Why don’t you just go to some Goth store. I’m sure they have a cape for you.” Kristin was the most horrible (and unoriginal) person I had ever met. Who says that to someone? And with no remorse or regret?

            I decided to interfere. What a perfect opportunity was waiting for me. The closure I’d need was set up perfectly.

            “Wow, that was really funny, Kristin. Goth store, ha ha ha. You must of come up with that one while rummaging though your brother’s closet for your outfit today.” A bit shallow I decided, but I knew it would strike a nerve in the heartless trio.

            “Who ever asked you what you thought?”

            “Well normally I wouldn’t care to listen to your worthless conversations about dresses and parties and the godly Dave, but honestly, where do you come off telling someone that? Tell me, what did Jacqui ever do to you? She’s going to a sweet sixteen, everyone does. And she owns a dress. It’s not abnormal. Just because someone doesn’t fit your particular clique or outlines doesn’t mean you have to knock on them. Newsflash: she, and anyone for that matter, can go to a party with the likes of you. It is not reserved for only you and your shallow friends. So,for once, why don’t you get off that pedestal that you’ve so firmly planted yourselves on and realize that even though you’re soulless, doesn’t mean everyone else is.”

            My ability to spit that all out with no hesitation astounded me. How could I be so jittery talking to someone that was my other half for over a year but was able to lecture the benefits of compassion to people I didn’t even get along with? I never quite understood how anger could make talking so much easier. And the three girls were speechless. Well almost.

            “You…you’re…you were so totally harsh and out of line,” Lourdes stammered.

            “Where do you get off talking to us like that? Come on now, and you know it’s true. Jacqui’s a freak.” Kristin’s brutality was almost impossible to fathom. But it was time I turned the tables on her.

            “Kristin, your dress is baby blue and sparkly? The one that was in the Rampage window about a month or two ago?”

            She nodded.

            “That’s cute, I have the exact same one! Jacqueline, since you can’t find a dress, do you want to borrow mine? I’m sure it will fit,” I said with a relishing smile on my face.

            “But I have that dress. I can’t wear the same dress as someone else,” Kristin stated.

            “Yeah, but now you’re wearing the same dress as Jacqui. Right?” I turned to Jacqueline, hoping that her embarrassment from that conversation wouldn’t get the best of her. But she understood.

            “Yeah, I think it’ll look great. Thanks so much Julia!”

            As Tonya, Lourdes, and Kristin showed their total shock with what had just happened to their Dave Matthews and designer shoes world, they exchanged quick glances, gave me the evil eye, and turned to the blackboard.

            It never felt so good to knock down the pillars of superficiality.

                                                --------------------------

             Sleepover. Movie night. Trip to the beach. Road trip. Road trip that will never end and will go nowhere near the state of Washington. As I aimlessly jotted down ideas for my last plans with my friends yesterday, I didn’t realize how impossible and helpless the latter of the list was. In those short two minutes (which seemed to tick by faster and faster in the days of my “moving” becoming “moved”) I managed to drive myself into denial and resurface more depressed than before.

            I couldn’t even believe it. In less than a month I was out of here. Not New Jersey out of here, but Pacific Coast out of here. Far away from everything I knew and grew up with. The friends I grew up with. I realized this would be the hardest to let go of, mainly because I knew there was nothing that I had to close. All of my friendships had been amazing, for the most part anyway. Of course there were fights, and the friends who I didn’t even particularly like, but I knew that I would miss them too. I didn’t need to conclude or complete anything with them, because friends are supposed to be undying. Why end something that didn’t need an ending?

            I plopped on my bed. It’s not fair, I thought. God hates me. I know it. While my whole plan of coping with the big move was to settle all my demons, I realized there were none to settle with my closest friends. But instead of rejoicing over the fact that I could get along so well with my friends that I didn’t need to terminate the bonds, I sulked over the fact that I was being forced to cut off the veins of life in friendships that were supposed to last forever.  It was easier to end things with other people because I knew there were no ties left with them. But now I had to end things with people I was intertwined with, just because they would be a million rivers, mountains, and plains apart from me.

I dug my face into my pillow, in a vain attempt to suffocate my thoughts from flowing. Of course the complete opposite was achieved, and instead my face was now drenched in tears.

            I let the rush of tears and pathetic sniffling reach its peak as I cried all throughout the night.  Then, a surge of old memories came forward. I remembered my history with my friends. I remembered the frivolous games we played when we were kids, the conversations we had, the trouble we used to get into, the places we used to visit. And at that moment, I came to an epiphany. Even if the move would sever ties with some friends, so be it. I would have the memories forever. Distance wouldn’t stop me from being able to look at old pictures, videos, or notes.

            I lifted my face from the now soggy pillow and turned to my nightstand. I looked at the collection of frames on the tabletop. I managed to break a smile when I looked at the faces of me and my clan of goofballs. And in the middle of this array of photos, I noticed a silhouette left in the dust. Something was missing.

            With that, I realized I had made the biggest mistake of my life.

                                                --------------------

             “I’m coming over.”

            “For what?”

            “I’m getting back my things.”

            “What things?” the groggy voice on the other line pauses. “You said you didn’t want your old stuff back.”

            “I don’t want mine, that’s for you. I want what I dropped off Monday.”

            “Huhh…?”

            “I’m on my way. Bye.”

I have unsettled business to finish. I am moving a million miles away across the country, and everything will be gone. The only thing I can keep are my memories. And that is exactly what I didn’t realize a week ago, and realized too late yesterday to do something about it then.

            I pull into his driveway and get out. The morning sun shines on my car and the reflection on it strikes my eyes and halfway blinds me. Maybe Seattle will have some advantages. At least UV vision damage won’t be an issue.

            Aidan comes to the door before I’m even at the steps. I look at his swollen eyes and realize that a wake-up visit at seven in the morning on a Saturday is not the most considerate idea. But that’s all right, because time is of the essence. I need to fix things before it is too late.

            “Don’t speak. I need to get some things off my chest before I get too emotional and mess it all up. My approach to moving has been all wrong. Well, all wrong with you. I’ve been trying to settle everything before I go so that I can remember everything good and discard any bitterness. Instead, I just closed the doors on our history and let in the bitterness in spite of myself. Why was I trying to forget everything? We had some good times…great times, and for a portion of my life my world revolved around you. And to throw that away…it’s like carving out a big piece of myself. I’ll just end up being empty.”

            He’s silent. Is this good or bad? I have probably said too little too late and he’s ready to walk back into that house.

            “I think I’ve confused getting over you with getting rid of you. Just because we aren’t good for each other anymore doesn’t mean we weren’t then. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry, Aidan. You were right. A memory is a memory, and if we can’t have us we will always have history. I was in denial trying to completely forget you. Because I know that when I look back at how it was in New York, I will realize that one of the happiest times here was with you.”

            He is dead silent still.

            “Um…you can speak now.” I let out a little laugh as he does too. What a relief. The last thing I would need now is to leave on bad terms.

            “Julia…I’m really glad that you realized that you don’t want to shut us out anymore.”

            “Me too. I was all wrong with everything I said the first time around. I really do need those pictures and letters back. What else will I have to remember this by?” I watch him walk in the house and bring out the box of memorabilia, untouched.

            “Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” he says, and I give a warm smile back.

“No, you won’t.” Maybe this is was the one thing I didn’t say wrong the first time around.  I get back in my car and drive away from Aidan’s house. I can’t close the doors on history, but I’m certainly not going to open up a new one for him to walk through.

Within the first few steps to closure, I have been successful. I’ve realized that my friends will stay if they’re true, and if not, their memories will remain. I’ve also learned how rewarding (and not to mention fun) it is to trash the trivial lives of those who credit themselves with undeserved self-esteem. And now I’ve figured out that destroying history does not lead to satisfaction.

I don’t want to move to Seattle, but there’s no stopping it now. All I can do at this point is settle all my unfinished business before I leave.

Its funny how I’ve thought that by shutting out my past I could feel the comforts of closure. But in that messy filing room of mine, its clear enough how wrong I have been. That cabinet labeled “Memories” needs to close neatly before I go. But I can’t do that by jamming it with bitterness, or filling it with emptiness.

I hate that it always rains in Seattle. And I hate that it’s forever and day away from home. But I have to be fair, I mean, its not all bad. Because Seattle has already done something for me. It has taught me the greatest lesson of my life thus far. The present lasts for a second and then it’s gone before you can even grasp it. History is all that you have. If you destroy it or forget it, you’re left with nothing but a void.

Honestly By Amanda N., Tappan Zee High School              

LEENA

The hallways are crowded, like miniature freeways.  People stop and talk at curves, shoot middle fingers or mutter curses at the slow ones.  The school itself is slowly falling apart.  Paint chips off in certain areas and the ceiling caves in from leaks in the roof.  But the steady stream of students makes the place look alive.  As I thread through the masses, I navigate, grinning from ear to ear, and coming face to face with my friend Lex who leans against my locker.

He is my “friend that everybody says I’m supposed to get with, but, ha, I’d rather date my mother.” Our classmates’ ideas never get between us though, and a nice warm feeling creeps through me when I see his smile.

It’s that “let’s make trouble and do bad things like write nasty stuff about people on bathroom walls” smile. Typical Lex, with more layers than an onion, whose smile suggests things that I could spend all day figuring out. I’ve always loved his smile, ’cause it’s so incredibly mysterious. It makes you raise one eyebrow and curl your toes in anticipation, expecting anything and everything. Makes you afraid too, because if you were hoping not to see something in it, you can’t figure out whether that specific thing is there or not.

Scary, but immensely fascinating.

The way I’m describing him, you might think I like him or something.  Well, here’s for all you romantics — I wiped his snotty nose when he was crying, band-aided every inch of that boy’s body (well...not every), had to smell him for hours after our many hikes through the woods, changed his sister’s diapers with him, tackled him numerous times in soccer, rolled around in the dirt with him, etc, etc.

How’s that for romantic?

I mean, seriously, we’re just in high school and people are expecting us to fall in love with each other when not too long ago we took baths together while playing rescue heroes with his action figures and my Barbies.

But instead of being attracted to him ’cause of all of this, I’m merely proud of him. Proud of my boy Lex growing up to be so handsome, proud of the way all my friends and basically all females follow him around like flies to honey.     

’Cause that’s what he is, my honey —  my boo. I trust him, and whenever he is down, sad, tired, or downright angry he comes to me. I’m the only one who can handle that, I think with a private grin. A grumpy Lex is something only a mother could love, or in this case, only a mother and me.

He leans against my locker like a little kid, that dangerous gleam in his eyes.  “Leeeeennnnaaaa,” he whines mischievously.  I can’t help but feel his spark creep into me, and I laugh.

“Get away from me you miniature devil. You’re corrupting me as we speak. I’m trying to be good and you’re not helping my cause,” I say, blocking my face with a folder.

“But you gotta help me, Leena!!! She’s stalking me! I’ve tried everything! I’ve tried telling her I’m gay, but that got killed real quick since all the cheerleaders jumped in to assure her, that, oh, if Lex is gay, he wasn’t on our date last week.”

“That’s what you get for dating cheerleaders,” I reply smugly, stuffing some books and papers into a locker that is flooding over like the Mississippi in springtime.

He throws me a dirty look.

“Thanks a million. I tried everything. I tried ignoring her, then hiding from her. Then I tried getting some girls to rough her up.”

I gasp.  “Alexander Keen!”

He continues.  “I did every freakin’ thing on this planet!!! As long as I’m single, that girl won’t leave me alone.”

“Serves you right,” I comment casually and playfully. Lex flirts. He really does. I’ve been seeing this coming for a while, but I didn’t expect it to be this amusing.

Silence.

“Aileen. I’m not playing anymore.”  His voice has gone from joking to soft and pleading, and his eyes have also gone deep and troubled in a second.  My full name, Aileen, such a rare sound leaking from his ever-running mouth, appears only in true times of distress.

Though his mom, sister, and I may be the only ones who know, Lex is a sweetheart deep inside. He hates hurting people. But he just doesn’t look, and the consequences after he leaps are, well, less than wonderful.

I slam the locker shut and look into his adorable face that attracts nothing but trouble for me to fix. I roll my eyes, and act exasperated and indecisive for a moment.  A sigh escapes my mouth, and I put my hands on my hips.

“Well, I need to check my planner but I think I can fit you in for a session tomorr...”

I never get to finish my sentence, as I am smothered by a pair of overly affectionate adoring arms that not only squish me and almost crack my ribcage, but also knock a smile onto my face.

“Thanks Leena! You’re the best. Tomorrow at your house at five after soccer?”

“Mmmpghhh, nnghfff,” I reply from under his jacket.

“Cool! Gotta run. Bell rang already,” and with that, he disappears down the crowded hallway, making a bubble around him as he moves effortlessly through the parting crowd.

I stand there grinning wildly, hair messed up and collar of my jacket rumpled. Lex is such a mess, but I love him to pieces. And I can’t wait to figure out this one.

After tennis practice, I head home. I take a shower, letting the cool water melt away my outer shell; I watch my worries swirl down the drain. I start to think.

Why is it that Lex and I get along so well? I mean, we clash. Personality wise, I guess you could say. And we never crushed on each other. Even though he’s all perfect looking.

Then I realize. It’s cause he’s not.

The reason I like him so much, is because I like his imperfections. The shape of the bridge of his nose from when he broke it looks a little bit Roman. The way his full but narrow lips always come out lopsided when they try to smile. The annoying way he’s always changing stations, changing girls, changing clothes, and changing moods. The one or two scars on his back and chest. His attitude (sometimes). The stupid insensitive stuff he says without meaning to. The imperfect things about him. That’s what I like best because, I, Aileen Cho, am very imperfect.

Stepping out, I dry my hair, and walk around in a towel while I try to find something to wear. Doesn’t matter what, anything will do. I don’t need to impress someone with imperfections.

I throw on the nearest, comfiest thing I see and brush my hair back to keep it out of my face.  The house feels cool and empty with no one here, and I clean the place up a little, remembering that Lex is coming.

“Speak of the devil,” I murmur to myself as the bell rings. So I open the door.

 ********************

LEX

And there she is, just her regular self, non-compromising Leena, with a definite Leena attitude. I knew she wouldn’t dress up for me.

She almost looks like a little boy, if little boys ever looked like faeries in little boy clothes. The faded, yet closely hugging jeans hang off her hips and curve with her, softly folding under her heel. On top she’s wearing an undershirt, plain white. I know it’s probably one of my soccer ones that she shrank to mold to her form. It wraps around her snugly, long on her waist, bunched up showing a little skin at the hipbone, moving up on her ribcage, and that’s where the little boy similarities stop. It tugs and pulls in all the wrong directions, making me want to look. Plain blue and white, faded, soft, and comfy, with delicate collarbones and a slender neck rising out of it.

“Hey!” her cheerful smile snaps me out of it as I give her my best smile.

“You gonna let me in or give me your plan at the door?”

I walk in, and notice the quietness. I open the fridge door as she turns on the radio, humming fragments. Grabbing a soda, I throw myself onto the couch, sprawling on the cushions, arms and legs dangling off as I lay my head back and examine the ceiling. The quiet whirr of the fan mingles with Leena’s lightly hummed melody and the sounds of her moving around the kitchen. She chatters softly as she washes a few dishes, and calls her mom. The sounds relax me and make me peaceful, calming my thoughts until I hear her yell.

“Slob!”

This brings me back into reality and I snap up startled.

She stands above me wielding a dishtowel, watching my reaction with a giggle.

“What?” I mumble grumpily.

“C’mere and help me dry these dishes. You can explain your situation to me meanwhile.”  I follow her into the kitchen, and absentmindedly towel the pieces she hands me.

“Well, it all started back around the time of the soccer championship. If that brilliant little ninth-grader hadn’t made posters of me, none of this would have happened.”

“If the brilliant Lex Keen hadn’t given her his picture, none of it would have happened.”

“AANNNNYWAY, that girl got a hold of one. And it was stark-raving obsession at first sight. She started out by writing me passionate anonymous letters about how she wanted me doing this here and touching that there and—”

“All right, all right I get the point, just get on with it,” says Leena, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“Then she decided to make anonymous stalker phone calls. The kind when you giggle and then hang up. Eventually she progressed to sounds. Almost gave my mom a heart attack once when she picked up the phone. I was still red the next day.”

“I bet you were,” snorts the amused girl beside me.

“Thank you Aileen Cho. Anyway, then she reveals herself, follows me around, sends me flowers, begs me to meet her, flashes me once and tells me she’ll kill herself if I don’t talk to her, yada yada, blah blah blah....”

“Lex! Pay more attention to these things. Maybe she’s serious!” I look down at the concerned face beside me, and give her a thoughtful look to satisfy her.

“I’ll be more careful. So anyhow, here she is saying that unless I give her a concrete reason why I don’t love her by Wednesday, she’ll do something drastic. And for the life of me I can’t think of anything to say. ‘My parents don’t let me love yet?’ Or, ‘Love? Ewwww!!! Cooties!’”

Leena convulses in laughter, sitting on the counter top, letting the joyful sound ring through the apartment. It filters out the open windows and neighbors sitting on the porch smile at the happiness floating on those girlish giggles.

I look at the little boy-woman-pretty girl beside me, taking a moment to enjoy that laugh. I can’t help smiling warmly at her. She reminds me so much of that girl that I’ve known from the beginning of time. So confident. So comfortable. So relaxed and sweet —  unaffected.

“Hold on, be right back. Lemme grab some teen magazines that deal with those issues and a pen and paper.”

She goes back to her room, and I sprawl out on the couch again.

From the way I’ve been describing Leena, one might think I had a thing for her. In all fairness, I don’t know if I don’t. Some days, she just takes me by surprise. I just look at her, and something holds me. I don’t know, it’s like her aura glows, soft and strong, and pulls me in with a smile. But she doesn’t know it. She’s clueless, giggling, free Leena, expecting nothing and wanting even less. And that’s okay by me. ’Cause I don’t know what I want, so why should I confuse and frighten her? Maybe it’s just lust kicking in. Anyway, I’d never sacrifice all the closeness we have for a confession. As we are right now, we’re closer than just a mere relationship. I can sleep next to her and she won’t think anything of it. At least I can be close to her that way. If I ever said anything, you can bet that would end.

She’s so clueless, and so happy.  And I don’t know why that bothers me.

She walks into the room like a sunbeam floats through the air, her soft, black hair glinting quietly. It moves like a curtain, a waterfall. Her bare arms, slim and toned from tennis, hold papers, and she glides, instead of walks. It’s like her feet never touch the ground, yet, it’s so realistic, so normal.

“Here we go,” she flops down next to me unceremoniously, breaking the picture, making it dissolve into thin air. A flood of glossy magazines land on my lap, and anonymous beautiful faces stare back at me.

“Here we go: How to Gracefully Refuse. ‘Tip #1: Don’t lie!!!!!!!!’ C’mon Lex, this is gotta be where we start. I mean, you’re not interested in her, so just tell her! That’s good enough reason there!”

“But I’ve told her to her face! She wants me to explain why! And I can’t just say I don’t like you ’cause you’re ugly and I think your personality sucks!” I moan, frustrated.

She purses up her mouth, and glares at me.  “If that’s how it’s got to be, it’s better than lying. That is, unless you have another reason.”

The later afternoon sun filters through the windows, setting her hair on fire. She looks up to me with the same determined yet compassionate frustration. The few soft beams dot the bridge of her nose, and glow like little sun kisses on her skin. We sit on the couch, glaring at each other in a deadlock, the stacks of perfect glossy paper faces between us, separating us.

“Or I could say I’m in love with someone else.” I say, softer, less stubborn.

“Hey! What an awesome idea! You could even play it up, saying how you’ve been suffering for this person for months, and that way she’ll be able to sympathize with you. Just tell her your heart is broken and you can’t love anyone right now.” Leena cheerfully pounces on the idea, completely missing my intention. She turned it over in her head, excitedly.

“It’d be perfect! Way to go, Lex. See, you didn’t even need me. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Wish I could skin her,” I mutter darkly. Which only sets her off again, and I can’t help laughing with her as we relax on the couch, letting the magazines fall and crumple to the floor. We laugh and joke, making mock plans of exposing my homosexuality, telling her that I only love animals like that, or that I’m suicidal. Telling her I’m moving to Australia and my evil twin is taking my place. Convincing her that I don’t exist.

All kinds of silly stuff like that, and it makes me feel better somehow.

She’s so clueless, and so happy. I turn around and stare her in the eyes.  “When’s your mom coming home, Leena?”

She yawns, and checks her watch. “Not till tomorrow afternoon. Business meeting in Washington. Why?”

The idea pops into my head, childish yet exciting, somehow frightening.

“Remember the sleepovers we used to have, when we played cowboys and Indians on the floor and broke vases and bruised our shins on coffee tables?”

She raises an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?”

“Whaddya think?” and I can’t resist giving her an Austin Powers smile. “Shagadelic, baby,” I croon, sticking out all my teeth and bugging my eyes.

            She cracks up again, then sobers. “I don’t think your parents would approve of that, ’cause, you know…it just looks wrong. Even though they understand we’re not that way.”

“That’s okay,” I reply.  “I’ll get someone to cover for me, probably Matt. His dad isn’t home tonight and I covered for him that one time with Jess. But I’ll have to say, I did it full well knowing that they weren’t thinking cowboys and Indians at that little sleepover. More like, horsies, let’s have a rodeo...”

She smacks me, eyes wide. “Stop playing!” Then she’s quiet. “Um, Lex, do you think, Matt and Jess have really....done...um...?”

I can’t help snickering. I catapult off the sofa and to the fridge in search of another soda. “Had sex? Done the nasty? Gone all the way?  Made sweet moan?”

The English joke bursts her into another fit of girlish giggles but I see her blush faintly, and I love it. I love how she’s still a bit of a little girl, not some jaded party chick that’s done it all. I couldn’t stand that. The question is still in her eyes.

“C’mon Leena, you don’t still think they’re just holding hands? In answer to your question, is the world round?  Is the sky blue? Is the pope old? Did Bill and Monica really?”

She blushes a bit and grins at my affirmation. But I see the surprise in her eyes.

“I mean, they’re juniors. It’s not that big of a deal, and wasn’t too long ago. As a matter of fact, you’ll hear a steamy detailed account from Jess in not too long, as soon as he gives her permission to tell ya. And, this will be one girl conversation that I won’t be trying to listen in,” I reply casually, and pop the top off a root beer.

“It does kinda shock me, ’cause I know those two aren’t into that scene. But I guess....it makes sense...”

I notice a laundry basket by the couch, and I saunter over, grab a pair of panties and stick them on my head, terrifying a hopelessly laughing Leena.

“Lex, stop! Put those back!”

“This song, is, um, dedicated to the loovvee of mah life, Jeh-ssseee.” I quietly drawl in my flawless Matt impression, flipping my superstar hair back. I strum a few imaginary guitar chords and clear my throat.  “I’m too sexy for my shirt, I’m too sexy for my pants, I make ya’ll ladies wanna dance.” I bust out wildly, snapping fingers, jamming my imaginary electric guitar.

She’s rolling on the couch, laughing hard and soundless, and I take the panties off my head and throw them in the basket as I join her.

I live to make Leena laugh.

I watch her as the happiness reflects off her face. I become an idiot for her, just to see her smile on those days when the world is cold and sad. When her face becomes drawn, and all the hugs in the world can’t make it better. That’s when I become her goofball, her clown. Anything to make that smile come out. Anything to make the sun shine.

I can’t stand seeing her sad. I don’t understand it in my typical male kind of way, but I can’t take seeing her unhappy. Makes me want to do stupid things. The last time she cried, I went out with Matt and found a street sign with her name on it. It was in the next town, and we drove for hours, risking arrest as the quietly unscrewed the sign in the night and drove away. When I gave it to her the next day. She was so mad at me and so delighted that she forgot to be sad.

I was just glad it worked.

And here we are, laying in the afternoon sunshine like two lazy pets on the couch, laughing like little kids. And it suited me just fine. Because when she’s happy I’m happy, and that’s all that matters to me.

“So, whaddya say? Can I? Can I?” I beg like a little kid.

She looks at me, and does the mommy impression. “Okay, but remember to bring your toothbrush, clean underwear, and one stuffed animal.”

I grimace. “I don’t sleep with animals.”

She giggles. “Then bring your lovable self.”

I bounce up, noticing the time. “I’ll pack and be back in an hour. Don’t do anything fun without me.”

Her grin is worth a thousand bucks. “I won’t. Get out.”

The door slams behind me, and excitement floods my veins and courses up and down, mixed with adrenalin and this sweet, warm feeling I can’t place.  I love her—the slim, lightly tanned girl with eyes so deep that if you accidentally fell in they could drag the bottom for days and never find you.

That’s what it is.

I love her.

And I wanna stand on top of the building and shout it, I LOVE AILEEN CHO! My heart feels like it’s gonna pound until it pounds itself to death; either that or that it might explode. I feel light. And beautiful. Beautiful like thunderstorms while it’s sunny, like little kids in the park, like making the final goal in the game. I might die from happiness.

But first I got to get home and pack. 

********************

LEENA

The door slams after him, leaving me standing there. I chuckle one last time, thinking of the afternoon’s jokes as I go to clean my room. Yeah, Lex is pretty special. But a sudden thought that I don’t like intrudes my head. He was really casual about that Matt and Jess business. I mean, casual as in, “so what, maybe I have too.” By the way, the Matt and Jess thing still shocks me. Knowing them, I guess I would expect it. But it still came as kind of a surprise, just because, well, I remembered when she was a spoiled brat in a pink hat and he was the little blond kid with big gloves back in the days when we all played house together. Guess they’ve all grown now. Maybe everybody is except me, and that thought makes me feel weird.  Especially thinking that Lex might be. He’s always been close. He grew from a bratty insensitive kid into my sunshine. Somehow, I can’t picture my sunshine with anyone in some backseat. So, somehow I’ll have to find out, otherwise, it’ll drive me crazy.

And that bothers me.

I throw some clothes in the dryer, and put some clean ones away as I tidy a bit and check to see if the sofa bed has clean sheets. Although I don’t really believe he’ll use it; we’ve always shared my bed. It wasn’t even like that; it was just a matter of friendship. We were comfy enough, and I liked having something to keep me warm. With a grin, I remember when we all camped at Jess’ grandma’s house one time. Lex got cold and lonely one night and crawled in so we could talk, and we fell asleep that way. Guess Jess’ grandma got a pretty big shock the next morning. She chased him out with a broom while I sat on my butt and laughed helplessly. We all did, and the poor confused woman threw her hands up and marched out, giving us sinister looks over breakfast and sermons about the recklessness and shamelessness of kids nowadays.

I wonder why it bothers me.

It might just be jealousy ’cause he’s such a close friend. Or maybe I’m just being stupid. But, he’s had a lot of girls chase him. Granted, he’s never stayed in one relationship that long. But then, he always got his way. Trust Lex to get what he wanted.  Be it a smile from me, a grade from a teacher, a victory in the game, or anything from a girl.

I shake my head, almost as if trying to shake the thought off. But it is lodged, stuck like an invisible thorn in my brain. You know how people say realization hits them “like a ton of bricks?” Well, realizations never hit me. They just creep in quietly and stay there, lodged — bugging the hell out of me.

I wonder why it bothers me.

I almost yell in frustration, trying to escape the thought. I march determinedly into the kitchen and start making dinner to distract myself. The noodles are simmering, and the veggies and chicken roasting in orange sauce when I hear the doorbell ring.

“C’mon in,” I yell from the kitchen, knowing it’s him.

“Honey I’m home,” he jokes with his classic grin. Sniffs the air, and makes a beeline for the kitchen, poking around, sniffing, and commenting.

“Yum, let’s get our eat on. I’m starved.”

“Hold your peace and go throw some utensils on the counter. We’ll just eat at the bar stools.”

            “Yes Ma’am.” He trots off obediently. “Now, that’s how I like my men trained. Like Lassie,” I tell him and he rolls his eyes.

We eat, and then watch a movie on cable. Afterwards, it’s dark, and I’m tired. We lie on the sofa, forgetting to pull out the bed. He’s sprawled across me, but my head finds its way onto his chest, just resting there, drooping. I yawn. He’s so warm and comfy, and he smells fresh and clean, that boy smell, a hint of cologne and just, him. I can hear his heartbeat if I focus, but I’m too tired to focus.

The words sneak out of my mouth, without my permission. I’m surprised and angered at them, but they don’t cower. They just ask, all sassy and disrespectful to me. I stick my tongue out at them.  “Um, don’t take this the wrong way, but back there; when we were talking bout Matt and Jess, you seemed pretty casual. I mean, maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m a little girl or something. But I kinda wanted to know, like, have you? You know, had sex?”

There. I said it. I feel him shift a little against me, and I pray the silence doesn’t mean anything.

“Well, once I almost got attacked by this cheerleader in the locker room, I had to beat her off with my cleats....” he murmurs.

The picture makes me giggle and relax, but I still wait for what I want to hear.  “Nah. Never found anybody special enough. Not for lack of choice, just...it’s just that...”

I’m desperately happy and I don’t know why. I wonder if he can feel my huge grin in the darkness.  “That what?” 

He’s quiet again. I can hear my heart in my throat, its singing, da-dum, da-dum, Leena, you’re dumb, da-dum...but it’s dancing too, laughing, glad that I am.

“It’s ’cause I keep comparing them to you, and even though they might be sexier or have supermodel figures and be flawless, they’re not you. You’re something else, it’s like you stole your beauty from those days outside in our childhood on a beautiful day. You took the strange quality that made everything beautiful and you made it your own. You’re not afraid of what people say, and you shine from inside out, like some kind of faerie. And I guess, not a lot of girls can stand next to that.”

My fingers tremble, and I felt weak and thin, fragile, like tissue paper, next to his chest. Why am I acting like this? His hands could’ve torn me up just like a kid at the birthday party shreds the delicate paper of his present; his fingers could undo all the bows in my head.  Now they study me like Braille in the dark, like he wants to read me and remember me for a test. They trace my nose, my chin, my neck.

I pull away, and so does he, both of us slightly embarrassed, I guess. 

“G’night Leena,” he says lightly and normally.

“G’night,” I say even more normally.

In my room, I crawl under my covers, still feeling the butterfly touch on my cheek, tracing me to my neck. I’m angry at myself for pulling away, yet confused. I don’t understand what feels different this time. Why it doesn’t feel like Lex is...just Lex.

I want to crawl back to him and do some of those things that Jess did to Matt.  Just the mere thought makes me ashamed. Mess up our friendship like this just because we are in the house, late at night, and just, being weird.

Or was it something else?

His breath. It didn’t come exactly right when I asked him. I knew he was telling me the truth. And somehow in a boyish way he explained why. It was just the reason why...and the fact he hesitated, trying to make what he said normal.

But it wasn’t the same.

I read Lex like an open book. And tonight, I opened to a chapter I’ve never read. And I don’t know how long it’s been there, or what it says. But I thought I got a glimpse of the title.

And it bothers me. 

********************

LEX

It hurts.  That she would leave the room so normally.  That I think she’s realized she isn’t just Leena anymore.  And now after finding out, she just chose to walk away. So this is why I never fell in love in the first place, idiot, I remind myself. To spare myself from nights like these when you feel like the darkness is laughing at you, and you can’t pinpoint it and kill it, because it’s everywhere.

To spare myself from hurt. And now it hurts.

But why her? She’s the one person I can’t afford to lose. And she’s the one person that I screw up on. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Now she knows. And she still walks away. She read me like an open book, and she didn’t like my topic. Or my sentence structure for that matter, I think ruefully. But then, math’s always been my strong point.

I try to imagine what she is thinking right now. I’m probably not too far off...she’s probably wondering if I caught feelings for her, how long...what I’m expecting...blah blah, blah…all those other girly things that girls wonder about.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and just hope she isn’t crying or being sad.  I can’t believe I would make Leena sad. I never want to do anything but make her smile in this lifetime. And the next and the next. Or in heaven if there were no following lifetimes. Or in hell, if she went down there and I had to follow her. I just don’t wanna make her sad.

I can’t help but give a little shudder, when, silently, above me, I feel a shadow move.  I don’t know what to feel. Delirium. Quick, gain control. Sweet ecstasy crashing over me in a huge wave, breaking me.

I know it’s her. And I can only hope she’s forgiven me.  As I feel her long, smooth legs sliding into the blankets so effortlessly, I know she has. And what this means, I can only imagine.

But imagining is okay, I can do that. Anything for her.

I can hear her breathing so close to me, soft and pepperminty, and a few strands of soft downiness brush my bare chest. I wouldn’t care if I died right now. I think, matter of fact, this might be the best moment of my life. When I passed all my tests with flying colors, and when I won the league championship, that was okay. I guess.

This is better.

********************

LEENA

There is nothing better than knowing somebody loves you, and knowing you love them back. I don’t care what kind of love. But this kind of love is best.

In fact, I’m glad it only took me a few minutes of quiet solitude to figure that out. And to think I never considered it in a lifetime.

I can hear his irregular breathing next to me, but I can also feel his smile. It glows down on me, and I know what it looks like. It’s mysterious, impossible to pinpoint and label. It’s infinite, and indecisive. It’s meaningful, but the meaning eludes me. It’s a lifetime of personal jokes mixed with longing, and a tinge of the boy Lex I used to know. The eleven-year-old who was always doing something stupid.

I love him.

Understatement of the year, but I don’t know how to say it better.

So I don’t say it at all. I just express it the only way I know how.

It’s not hard to find his mouth.  The first soft, small, chaste touch is slow, warm, damp and full of wonder. I can sense him shifting, squirming, melting under my unexpected movement. But he’s back in a second, adding a little bit of urgency in the soft kiss, his lips caressing mine gently yet, full of longing that he transfers to me. And under my closed eyelids I see fireflies.

Not fireworks. That’s not how it’s meant to be. Fireflies, small and softly glowing. He’d put them in jars and I’d beg him to let them go. They illuminated the darkness with soft little bursts of light, as his lips brushed my closed eyelids. Then he pulls me close to him, and I draw in a deep breath. Why does it feel so strange yet familiar, the way we are now?  I fit so perfectly inside his arms, and he softly wraps around me, holding me, while his magic fingers slide through my hair and he makes a little sweet happy sound as he buries his face in it.

I wonder how long he’s been waiting to do that.  And I wonder how long I’ve been wanting him to do that.

The long sensitive fingers continue to stroke my hair.  Slowly, carefully, as if it were a spider’s web, they trace the length of my hair.  Following through to my collarbones in curious wonder, they pause.  I turn and burrow into his chest like a baby, a little ashamed but wanting, sliding my hands up his back, feeling his strong shoulders tense from the restraint.

He’s restraining, because, he knows where this’ll lead. He’ll be there before I will. But I’ve never felt this good before, and like a drunk child, I feverishly seek out more.

Good thing one of us has self-control.

He rolls off to the side, and I can hear him breathe, heavily and irregularly. It’s the only way of reading his emotions in the dark, when I can’t see his face. And his breathing says, damn. I wish I didn’t have to stop. I don’t wanna stop. But I have to. But it felt so good.

I know what his breathing says ’cause I’m breathing the same way. And that’s what I’m thinking.

********************

LEX

I couldn’t have described that to you so calmly.

The things she makes me feel, I can’t understand. I’ve had a girlfriend or two that I’ve made out with, even further than this. So why does it feel like the end of the world and I can hardly breathe?

Didn’t feel that way before. Does now, and I study the ceiling intently. It could drop on my head for all I care. I feel like she picked me up and threw me in the sky and I broke into a million pieces, flying, and fell like little pieces of shooting stars.

I lick my lips; she tastes like peppermint and strawberry, soft and deep and sweet.  I swear to God I don’t know how I did it. I don’t know how I rolled to the side with her clinging to me like she wanted to make herself translucent and empty to let me in.

And I don’t know why I did it. Maybe ’cause now wasn’t right. ’Cause it was just the beginning. And we had all the time in the world.

Thank God.

But in my arms, she’d felt like a faerie, fragile, but unbreakable. Her body was balsa wood, bendable and strong, flexible and soft, on a slim frame. And her softly scented skin had almost killed me, if it’s possible to die from the sweetness of it all.

We turn and stare at each other. Her face wears a new smile, deep as forever, but new as a butterfly still wet from its cocoon. Her eyes glow softly in the dark, and she reaches out and gently strokes my cheek. “Goodnight, Lex,” she whispers innocently.

“Goodnight, Leena,” I whisper back, and blow her a small kiss. She smiles at the gesture.

“You’re not safe, you know. Better keep your distance.” I grin.

She replies with a delightfully naughty look, the look of a kid whose hand just got caught in the cookie jar and doesn’t care.

“I love you.”

And it all wells out of me, I want to laugh and cry, and tell her, YES!

“I love you too,” I reply and close my eyes.

We don’t awake till the first rays of the morning sun brush our eyelids in golden dust, illuminating the soft pink of her slightly open rosebud lips.

Dawn has arrived, and the long years of silence are finally over.

The Beginning.

In the Days of Our Youth: Good Times, Bad Times By Naomi S., TZHS

    In the days when our minds were consumed with Black Cows and Mars Bars, we were dorks. Utterly and completely dorks to say the least. We weren’t aware of this fact however, and in our eyes we were invincible, invincible and free. We were without a doubt the only rock band in all of Mayfield, Wisconsin who still valued our grades and our parents, who didn’t grow our hair to the floor or smoke ourselves into a senseless delirium before rehearsal. Still, we were going to be famous one day we thought—famous and listened to. We were going places, Jake, David, Alex, and me.

    On warm evenings, I discussed these hopes and most other things with my 18-year-old brother Dewey, who was always astounded by my ambition. We’d sit out on the porch counting lightning bugs by the dozen and discuss everything from Martians to Peach Schnapps. Sometimes we talked about deep things like song lyrics and Dewey’s “visions,” compliments of the Schnapps. Sometimes we talked baseball. Other times, Dewey would cut off my babbling, and, with a smirk, ask, “ So, how the girls looking lately, huh Sam, huh?” 

    Dewey didn’t really have a whole lot of goals to tell you the truth. He didn’t get along with most people and had trouble following “instructions” as my mother put it. She often told her luncheon friends, “My, why Sam sure did get the looks and the brains of this family.” The thing my mother didn’t understand though, was that Dewey knew a lot. He really did; it was just that he never seemed to know the things other people considered important/appropriate. For example, he knew about sixty different sex positions and could rattle off the entire history of the Dodgers since 1949, but he probably couldn’t tell you Darwin’s theory of natural selection.  My main goal in life was to make it big with our band, but my alternative to that was to grow up to be just like Dewey. He was one of two people who I classified as my favorite individuals. The other was Jake.

    Jake was, in many ways, much like Dewey, in that he held my utmost admiration, I had known him since I could talk, and if I ever got in trouble, it was probably his fault. Jake was everything that I wasn’t, and thus naturally what I wanted to be. He had big ideas and the charisma to back them. When he spoke, everyone listened, and some people did more than listen, like Anna and Suzie Hopper who started following him around just after the 7^th grade. That was the same year Jake started wearing sunglasses indoors. It was through Jake that I met Alex and, often to all of our regret, David. It wasn’t that we didn’t like David it was just well…we didn’t like spending time with David. I guess he was just more mature than we were, as my mother would say, but he often put a damper on our plans with his “good Christian morals.”

    When I try to pick out anything particularly defining about our childhood, I can’t. The only thing remotely unusual about us was that we were always together. Other than that, we were pretty average, growing up in a time when everything was anything but average. I think I speak for everyone when I say America’s optimism died in 1961 along with Kennedy. Everything got crazy after that, everything but us. Mayfield wasn’t exactly at the center of things. We heard most news through the radio, television, or newspaper. In other words, nothing ever happened.  For some people, the news of the President’s assassination or the bombing of Pearl Harbor was the turning point in their lives. For others, it would be when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon some years later, but for us it was nothing so dramatic. For us, it was merely the appearance of some nice English school boys on the Ed Sullivan show one night in late 1964.

    We were working on a book report in Alex’s basement that night. Well, at least Alex, David, and I were. Jake was slumped against the wall “surveying the scene” and the television as well for that matter. I was gluing photographs to a large poster board, and Alex was rattling off his own version of literary criticism to David, who frantically typed the information into the tired sounding typewriter. Then suddenly, Jake was turning up the volume and leaning in toward the iridescent screen, his eyes fixed on four small figures. “Twist and Shout” filled the room, and we all looked up from our work, even David. We were unable to tear our eyes from the screen. We were entranced by the artists we saw before us. Finally, Alex broke the silence, his head in his hands, as he mumbled still in awe, “these guys are good.”

    “They’re awesome!” Jake cried, “You guys, this Beatle Band is awesome!”

    The Beatles were the first thing that officially got us hooked, inspired us, or however you want to put it. Basically we were obsessed. We were fourteen at the time, and we moved from Lennon to Townsend and from there on off into the sunset of stars that would ultimately shape our lives for the next few years. Music became our motif. It was all we talked about, all we thought about. I don’t remember whose idea it was exactly, but it was probably Jake’s. He always thought of things first, and did it with great enthusiasm. Whoever it was isn’t really important. What mattered was that we ultimately decided to start a band. Jake and Alex already played the guitar and I was the drummer for the school band, so it only seemed natural. We weren’t sure what we were going to do with David at the time, but we were sure we would think of something.

    Jake’s mom was single and “a working woman.” In other words, she was never home. Thus, his garage became our studio and his kitchen our refuge. I flinch at the thought of how much Coca-Cola we consumed back then. Well anyway, the garage, the garage in Jake’s house was where we played. With its creaky floorboards and peeling paint, the small shelter made an ideal rehearsing ground for us future musicians. Much to the dismay of the neighbors, we managed to jack a stereo and David’s phonograph to the suspicious looking outlet coming through the plaster. David’s place in the band came through the discovery that Mrs. Wilkins was throwing out her rather antique piano. You see David wasn’t exactly the free spirited rock band type which we all “considered” ourselves to be at that point. His mother was the sort of woman who didn’t approve of my brother Dewey and his habits, and thus didn’t attend my mother’s garden parties. As a result of living under this sort of parent, David was the sort of boy who always looked both ways before crossing the street, couldn’t eat in front of the girls he liked, and sometimes threw up on the first day of school (which, I probably wasn’t supposed to know about). However, he had been made to take piano for over eight years, and so we figured that his technical expertise could be of some use.

    Over a period of two days, the piano and several pieces of a drum set were dragged all the way down Charleston Street and set down on the cement stage completely by manual labor provided by Jake and yours truly. On dry nights, we left our guitars and stacks of worn manuscripts lying around the studio. And on evenings when a monsoon appeared to be moving in, we tore down the road in an attempt to retrieve them. Alex wrote all our lyrics. Why? Well mainly because Alex knew all. In fact, he still does. He’s smartest person I’ve ever met. The onset of recording was still far out on the horizon, being that we only obtained a microphone after several months, the gadget being a rather mute one at that. I constantly asked Dewey about the sort of personae, which we should give off, and then, converted his advice to a form useable for four 15-year-old nuts. We spent a good deal of spring’s bright afternoons “polishing” our compositions and drinking pop till it ran through our veins. We smoked enough chocolate cigarettes to kill a man and took breaks every hour to work on our history papers and ditto sheets. All in all it was perfect, a studio set for Hendrix, and there we were, the four of us, convinced we were on our way.

    Well, the goings were slow at first, and we spent just about as many days mulling over how we were going to get a show or even an audience, as we did rehearsing our music. Most of these conversations took place during sixth period lunch around a picnic table at Mayfield Secondary School. The girls sat at one table picking at their fish cakes and peas, while we sat at another inhaling ours. Well David didn’t, I guess, but that was because he had taken a secret liking to Kate Larson who sat within his view, and thus had trouble swallowing. Jake stared at him critically, a disgusted expression on his face. Then, shaking his head, he turned to me, “Like I was saying, we gotta start letting people know we exist.”

    “Damn it Jake!” Alex cut in, “We don’t even have a name yet, how the hell are we supposed o get known if we don’t even have a name. What do you think, our identity’s just going to pop up out of nowhere?”

    “We’ll get a name, we’ll get a name,” Jake said, more to the sun overhead than anyone else. “Where?” Alex prompted.

    “We can get Nelson to do it,” David answered confidently.

    “Nelson?” we asked in unison.

    “He’s good with words.”

    “Well so is Alex,” Jake retorted, “but Nelson?” Nelson was my mother’s friend’s son, who liked anyone who liked him. He always had this perpetual smile on his face and rarely spoke. We tried to keep it this way, because when he did, well, well we’ll just leave it at that. We put up with him most of the time mainly out of pity, but we certainly weren’t having him name our band. That would have been one step too far in the wrong direction. I set both my hands down on the table and put an end to this disturbing idea.

     “We’ll call ourselves The Black Cows and my brother Dewey’ll do our publicity.”

    “Well won’t Parson’s be psyched!” Jake laughed.

    “Maybe they’ll even advertise for us in their window,” I pointed out. No one had an argument to that, so it was settled. We started a fund for a better amp, and some more cases of pop. Rock and roll became our main source of nutrition. Aside from Black Cows and candy, we ate, slept, and breathed it. No one except for the neighbors knew about us yet, but this would all change during that long summer.

    School was out, and we were in. Some guys had heard us banging around in the garage and told some people we were “so good it was groovy.” Dewey grabbed this opportunity to romanticize the boy’s observations and increase our popularity. After that, it seemed like coasting, and were sure that this was it; we were gonna make it big and that was that. It looked like we were gonna make it big in some other areas as well. It was the nice girls who liked us first, but their little smiles and deep conversations weren’t enough to let us know anything was up. We didn’t really notice until those other girls came into the picture. They were suddenly popping up everywhere, at our rehearsals, at our houses, and at the pool club. Now, let me just start out by saying that when you really take in a pink bikini for the first time, it’s…well, it’s amazing. Dewey had described it to me years ago, but back in fourth grade when the girls have cooties, two-piece bathing suits weren’t really the rage.  The truth was that we didn’t know the first thing about girls, and in reality didn’t care. We weren’t concerned with keeping them, just playing around was plenty fine for us, and what was ultimately most important was where and when we were going to get our next Black Cow. We were in way over our heads, but to us, this was of little importance.

    It was unusually warm for early June, and the line was unusually long for a Thursday afternoon. I scraped my sneaker along the pavement’s edge, growing more and more impatient with slow Jimmy the barber, and more and more annoyed with my father’s insistence that I get “a nice summer cut, to ward off the heat.” Jake stood opposite me and rolled his eyes. “This is really dumb,” he finally commented. Why the hell are you getting your hair cut again? You do know this is going to wreck our image. We’re called The Black Cows, not ‘Sam’s Day Out with the Military’ for Christ’s sake.” I shrugged, laughing, unable to explain to Jake the power of a father’s wishes. Jake’s father took off for Hollywood when he was five, and probably doesn’t know or care what his son looks like. Mine, on the other hand, is an accountant and apparently has the time and the motivation to make the length of my hair his first priority. The news of my crew cut didn’t sit any better with me than it did Jake. Actually, I had spent half the night complaining to Dewey about how the others would react. Drummers are characteristically the “oddest” members of bands, and now unfortunately, I was about to take on the appearance of a straight-laced conservative, the ultimate enemy.

    “So,” Jake interrupted loudly, “we’re playing at the park later right?”

    “Yeah sure, of course. Hey, you think Mary Anne’ll be there?”

    “Maybe, yeah maybe she will, Jake. But then again, maybe she won’t.” He pasted an impish grin on his face. “She’s a real looker huh?”

    “You aint kiddin’, man, she’s got the best pair of legs I’ve ever seen, and that hair…”

    “Yeah, she’s a sexy one,” Jake agreed.

    “Sam Slater. Next. Sam Slater,” the lady at the register called then. I snapped to attention and walked to the back of the shop, toward the man carrying the large scissors which would soon strip me of any hope I had in appearing what Dewey would call cool.

    The news came that night. We were at the park giving our weekly concert for the small crowd, which returned on a regular basis. For us, weeks now rotated around Thursdays instead of Sundays. We lived for Thursday nights, spending all week rehearsing and counting the hours, minutes, and seconds until the long awaited day arrived. However, this Thursday turned out to be even more eventful than usual. There was going to be an open mic night at the County Center, we were told, and we were expected to be there. This proclamation elicited much excitement, but also some conflict between us, so we decided to meet at Parson’s Luncheonette the next morning, in hopes of coming to an agreement.                                                             

    It was a “real sizzler” as my mother put it, one of Mayfield’s famous summer days, the kind that, according to my father, “can damn well kill you.” We sat in the back of Parson’s Luncheonette, in our regular booth, and as Jake read through the menu for the second time, I began to feel the pools of sweat starting to deepen under my thighs. Jake slapped his plastic pages shut and leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his longish blond curls. He smiled knowingly at the poor waitress, who (just between you and me) was a little on the slow side. 

    “So what’ll it be boys?” she asked for the fourth time. Jake cleared his throat and pretended to ponder for a moment. Then, apparently coming to a revelation, looked up at the waitress through his dark aviators and said,  “Four Black Cows is what it’ll be Frieda.” The waitress nodded slowly and then waddled away, her wool skirt sticking to the backs of her stockings as a result of the humidity.

    “Hey wait,” David spouted, “That’s amp money Jake. We can’t use that for pop!”

    “Just shut up will you,” Alex retorted tiredly.

    Jake leaned in, then sprawling himself across the table and pushing his sun glasses up above his eyes, said grinning, “Come on guys. This is going to be awesome!”

    “Yeah, but Jake, these people, I’m not so sure about all this. There’s probably going to be a bunch of grass an stuff…and what are we even going to do there except trip and smoke?”

    “Exactly,” was Jake’s only response to David’s good sense. Jake was always ahead of us four, always the first to do things, always taking as many mellow risks as possible. He probably wouldn’t be able to live with himself otherwise. He stretched, yawned audibly, and then looking David squarely in the eye said, “You know what I think? I think you’re a prude.” He slumped back into his chair, looking satisfied with his worst insult.

    Before the banter could go any further, I intervened. “Okay, you guys, look. We gotta do this. I mean how many chances do we get to play out here in Mayfield? This could be it, our big break. I mean really, do you think Lennon or Townsend decided to sleep in on the night of their first gig? This is big, bigger than big. We’re getting heard tonight!”

    “I know Sam, but…” he trailed off. We turned, following his gaze, and were at that moment privileged to witness the entrance of Janet and Mary Anne Duffy, the two most beautiful creatures who ever walked on two legs in all of Mayfield. The two sixteen-year-olds, with their luring seductive eyes and long swinging hair, were, to us, the ultimate sex goddesses of the time. They were more than just beautiful; they were dangerous and promised excitement. They represented that other side of the social line, which we craved so immeasurably to be a part of. To our ultimate surprise, they both headed toward the back of Parson’s, their hips swinging all the way up to our table. Janet, who was tall and chewed a lot of bubble gum, slid in next to Alex on the back booth. She was wearing the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen and was a little round in several likable places. She looked around with her lost eyes, attempting to find something they could latch onto and make her feel secure. Her cowardly gaze met Mary Anne’s chilling one, and then she returned her attention to Alex, who was grinning like a nut.

    Our waitress, Frieda, returned then, setting down our four ice cream floats. Janet took a straw from the dispenser and tore off one end of the paper wrapping. She then lifted the straw to her lips and blew the remaining paper tube into David’s expressionless face. Now, possessing a free and usable straw, she pushed it way down into Alex’s pop and took a long incredibly seductive drink. When she finished, she smiled and standing up, said, “So we’re going to hear your band play tonight right?” We all trembled, but said nothing. She turned to leave, beckoning for Mary Anne to follow. Mary Anne nodded and then leaned down, her sandy blond locks falling over my shoulder, “I’ll be watching you little drummer boy,” she said, and then turned on her heel and followed Janet out of the restaurant.

    Alex and I leaned across the table and both said at the same time to Jake and David, “We’re definitely going!”

    I tore down Collins Ave. toward the Ambler development where I lived. I prayed to God my mother had no family plans tonight, for since her decision, two months ago, that we “all didn’t spend enough quality time together,” she had been choosing select evenings when we all were to sit in the living room and watch the Ed Sullivan show and other such gimmicks as this. I took the front steps two at a time, trying to muster enough strength to erase the excited grin, which had taken over my face since late afternoon. I let the screen door shut with a loud bang and flinched, waiting for my mother’s scream.

    But there was none.

    I realized that there was not a sound in the whole house. The silence became more and more curious. I walked in the direction of the kitchen, all the while listening to the lack of noise, the stillness. Then suddenly, the swinging doors in front of me popped open, and Dewey stepped out. He smiled gently and then, putting his hand on my shoulder, said, “Hey, Sandy Koufax made the season strike out record.” He looked at me for a second, then he looked at me really hard and walked out the door into the evening dusk.

    I entered the kitchen and found my mother sitting erect at the yellow breakfast table, her hands trembling as they clutched a letter. She turned, startled by my entrance, her eyes full of tears. I looked her up and down.

    “What?” I finally asked.

    She looked down at her hands and said softly, “He’s going Sam.” She lifted her eyes to mine and said a little stronger this time, “Dewey’s going to Vietnam.”

    And so Koufax became a famous man and my brother Dewey went off to die in Johnson’s war of fear. And as we grew, we came to understand, that you can’t live behind blue eyes forever, and you can’t always hold someone’s hand even when you want to. As the years pass, it becomes more and more difficult to pretend. It isn’t that we don’t want to, but it’s that we know too much and so we can’t. It would be a hard day’s night for Jake, Alex, David, and I, and the times were definitely a’ changing. But we came to be able to look at things from both sides now, seeing that although the sun may set on our corner of the world, it also rises in the in the hills of the opposite. It was a hot summer in more ways than one, and now looking back I see that we lost that certain part of us that truly did make us stand apart from the rest. We lost our innocence, something much like Dewey, which once gone, will never return.

Life as a Possibility By Alex R., Tappan Zee High School

     When I hit 90, I put my seat all the way back and let go of the steering wheel. The car cruises for a moment, and then starts to fishtail. A moment later, the car begins to careen out of control, and I grab the wheel and turn it hard, letting go as I do. The car swerves back on the road with a jolt, hitting 100 and increasing. The dust cloud I’ve kicked up engulfs the convertible, and the straight desert road is invisible, but I punch the gas harder anyway. Finally my car breaks through the dust like a bullet, and I’m still on the road, still surrounded by these indomitable desert rocks and sky. 

     Grabbing my notebook and pen from the passenger seat, I jot down some ideas, inspired by something.  I begin to mull over some ideas for my next book. A smile crawls across my dirty face as I realize that I have a good idea.

     This moment is too much for me. The speed, the terrifying landscape, the seemingly brilliant new idea; I am so free. I think of myself, how I’ve gotten here, 32 years old with no connections, no responsibility, completely happy. I have to wonder how different my life could be.

Wow, 3 o’clock already, I have to get going. School is almost out for Charlie. I turn off my desk computer; grab my keys and head out the door. I’m late to the school (they’ve just lowered the speed limit on our road) but Charlie is still out of sight in the wide-open schoolyard. I sit with the car in neutral, NPR blasting, quietly humming to myself, unthinking. A few minutes pass, and I begin to feel a slight worry in the pit of my stomach, completely irrational. I finally spot him, sitting alone reading on a bench as other children run like rabid animals around him.

            My body flushes with love and pride. Seeing him makes me think of myself. How have I gotten here, 32 years old, with a seven-year-old son already?

I am young, but I still don’t regard Charlie as a mistake. Despite this, my life is incredibly stable. I have a great job, a newspaper that lets me leave early, my son is brilliant and precocious with a bright future ahead; my world is comfortable. I love my life. Although I have to wonder how different it could be.

 I remember high school with such indifference now. God, when I was young, It seemed like every girl I talked to and every test I took was the end and beginning of life. Now all I can do is remember and laugh at myself; my stupidity, my naiveté. Most of all though, I have to laugh at college. When I think about it now, I only wonder why I stuck around for so long. Typical backwoods art school full of starving artist types—struggling for something, but mostly just trying to struggle. The only good thing that came out of college was my one writing teacher who gave a workshop every Friday night.

             Mr. Taylor and his half an hour sessions were really the only thing that kept me from totally leaving. But then senior year, he lost his tenure for sleeping with a student. Everyone I knew at the college felt the obligatory moral outrage; I was the only one who came out in his favor. How can you tie a man’s personal behavior with his greatest skill, giving disenfranchised students like me a reason to stay?

            Anyway, I think he’s better off not at that school, leeches like me bringing down his brilliant writing with their inane questions. I remember his last day of class, after everyone knew he was being fired, almost all his students left after getting their final grade, I, and an quiet girl named Julie (a future girlfriend of mine), were the only ones who stayed behind for the scheduled class. Mr. Taylor paced the small classroom stroking his gray beard like some medieval mage.

            “Everything’s a total waste. Don’t waste your time. Thanks for the support, and I hope I’ve made a difference.” He picked up his empty briefcase and walked quickly out of the room.

            High school for me was really just a time for my true self to sleep. Being infatuated with every passing emotion and moment, just surviving until what I thought would be my end all, college. I remember it with a certain fondness, although there were of course times when my life there seemed completely asinine. But overall I think it was a pretty enriching experience, one that was totally unnecessary as it turned out, but still quite fun while it lasted. The art classes and everything were a great way to pass the time; a good way to be young. I remember particularly Mr. Taylor.

            He was a very charming and captivating teacher, but I remember senior year, everything fell apart for him and me. We had the last class, and it was only Julie and I who stayed. He just looked me in the eyes and said, “Everything I’ve said in class has been a total waste.”

            These final words really pissed me off. How could such a brilliant man become so bitter and ordinary as to lash out at the only thing that meant anything anymore, his legacy? This last statement was the last straw, at the time I wished I could have just taken him as a great example of what not to become, but it stuck with me. What was the bull****, and what was real. Catcher in the Rye had given me a good idea on how to find out, but Holden already had a head start.

            Pop culture had given me plenty of cues on how to go on the proper soul searching journey. Harley Davidson? Check. Hippie attitude? Definitely Check. I even had an American flag for Christ’s sake. So, with Julie at my side, I set off around the country. And for a while, everything was perfect.

             When I think about him know though, I mostly just regard it as a great example of how I could have turned out: the bitter art type who really just loses in the end. What I really took from the next few years was my son Charlie. Julie and I had had our first date the last day of school, a fitting beginning to an end.

            Taking Julie to England with me was a big decision. We had only been going out for a few weeks. The months we were in London were maybe the happiest times in my life. I worked at the BBC as an editor and eventually got a job as “The American Columnist.” Not too much money, but great fun writing every week. Everything was good.

            It hit me in an IHOP somewhere in the middle of the country. My face was numb, either from no sleep or all the drugs I was on. As I robotically shoved food in my mouth, I felt a sharp pain as my stomach began to eat itself. I made a mad dash for the toilet, hugging the bowl for dear life. Standing up and looking at myself in the mirror, tasting vomit, I finally gave everything some more thought.

            I had driven around the continental US and Canada, essentially from one rest stop to the next, dumping my girlfriend and any pretense for the nonstop drug binge my trip had become.

“Everything’s a total waste. Don’t waste your time.”

            I took out my knife and stared at the blade intensely, putting it to my tongue and cutting myself slightly. Putting it to my throat, I took one last look.

            “Everything’s a total waste. Don’t waste your time”

            I took the knife away from my throat, and finally got it. Everything is a total waste, so why bother.

            I finally cheated on Julie, but I don’t think she ever really cared. She went back to the U.S. on my 25^th birthday. I tooled around London for about a year until I got that fateful phone call. Charlie had been born, and I was definitely the father.

            I had to make one hell of a decision. But really I had no choice. I had brought a life into this world, and now it was time to take responsibility. So I moved back, the next town over from Julie, bought a four-door, and got a job at a local paper. There isn’t much important in my life besides Charlie now. Being a father really makes you realize how significant every moment in our lives are, how important everything, no matter how small it seems.

     It really is all a waste. So that’s why we all have to find something to cling to. For me, as selfish as it seems, I hinge on me. On the rush of being myself, being free. But I see these fathers in the park with their kids, and I don’t feel a youthful rage over their complacent bourgeoisie lives, but I just respect them for getting it. Nothing is important but what we are.

Tips for Writing a Short Story

• Begin with something that grabs the reader: a bit of dialogue, a surprising statement, a vivid description

• Create vivid characters that your audience will care about.

• Ask yourself, "What does my character want?"  Then make it hard for him or her to get it!  That's conflict.

• Use your imagination... Continually ask, "what if?"  What if my character loses her best friend?  What if my character gets caught stealing?  What if my character is held up at gunpoint?

• Use dialogue.  Let your audience hear your characters speak.

• Have something to say.  A good short story has a theme: a main idea or lesson to teach the reader.