WORD Volume II Issue 1

1winter 2012 | vol. II issue 1 online at issuu.com/wordmagazine

Horace Mann’s Creative Prose Publication

Volume II Issue I

W O R D

Creative Writing & Art

Vol II Issue 1

HORACE MANN SCHOOL

2WORD magazine | horace mann schoolonline at issuu.com/hmwordmagazine

welcome to WORD



S iobhan Fitzpatrick was a sixteen-year-old girl who had very particular tastes. She liked imported cheeses, beige coats,

cigarettes, and burgundy lipstick. She disliked smelly things, people with greasy hair, and the beach in the summer. Siobhan started smoking cigarettes when she was thirteen. Nobody in her tight-knit family, or anyone else for that matter, was aware of it. Her father was a psychiatrist, a simple and stern man who insisted on over-medicating the children. Siobhan’s mother was a frantic Irish homemaker. Her hobby was cre-ating aromatic soap bars and selling them to the neighbors. Siobhan hated the soaps and she hated medication. In some ways she was slightly shocked at being the offspring of such delusional people. She spent her time in her bedroom, the single window wide open. She smoked her nights away,

her ashtray. Siobhan thought she was plain looking, as it were. She had straight brown hair that she had attempted to abuse many times in her youth, chopping off random chunks in an attempt to look less like her father. She had the unfortunate privilege of having her mother’s muddy blue eyes. She had a petite nose and sharp, angu-lar features. They did not match the rest of her body, which was almost shapeless (her mother often referred to her as the equivalent of a hu-man paper doll). Siobhan saw in the mirror an awkward teenager in the middle of developing into an even more awkward adult. In public, Siobhan tried to subdue her inner awkwardness by never speaking unless spoken to. She always looked angry, and she always looked sad. Siobhan liked to tell herself she had no

feelings, or no moral compass. Of course, this was just a simple way of attempting to convince herself that she was slightly different than the average angsty adolescent. Her only friend was a vertically chal-lenged Galician boy from upstairs;; his name was Constancio and he was wonderful. His parents worked at a museum of His-panic Art, and Siobhan remembered her child-hood consisting mostly of Constancio chasing her through the abandoned North Building, nearly knocking over priceless paintings and sculptures, not a care in the world. These days when Siobhan and Constan-cio were together it was mainly a matter of nasty silences and failed small talk, perhaps a shared satsuma, if the weather was nice. These meetings would last just shy of an hour and at the end Siobhan would just tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and give him a look that said ‘this is over’. On Siobhan’s seventeenth birthday, her family organized a party and invited Constancio and Siobhan’s brother, Andrew. Andrew was eighteen and an idiot. He was infatuated with his physics teacher and wrote disgusting things about her in his journal (diary). On this birthday a chocolate cake was ordered from the Chinese bakery on 148th and Broadway. This cake was covered in catastrophi-

-zoned with “Happy Birthday Shavan!” Siobhan made no reaction to this, although she desper-ately wanted to. She shut up and ate the cake. It tasted like hard-boiled egg covered in caster sugar. After the party, however, Siobhan had the experience of getting her wisdom teeth yanked out. For months her jaw had been ach-


and felt the pointy bits of her new teeth emerg-ing. Distraught, she called her dentist and man-aged to make an appointment. Siobhan hoped that scheduling the appointment on her birth-day would save her from a party, but her par-ents insisted. As Siobhan walked to the dentist, which was four blocks away, she wondered what it would be like to be sedated. On the Internet, she had seen (probably fake) videos of people act-ing nutty after getting teeth pulled out. It was amusing, but she wasn’t sure if it would be good for her. In any case, she told her mother to come pick her up afterwards. When she got there, a platoon of oral surgeons shoved enormous pills down her throat, rubbed her arm, and got her on an IV drip of the sedative. After the dentist told her to

-thing became cloudy. A small Asian woman, re-ferring to Siobhan as “Honey”, told her to open her mouth, and then everything went black. When she came to, Siobhan was in a bleary room with mustard yellow walls and a

“Siobhan, are you all right?” her mother’s voice jangled loudly like church bells in her brain. For a moment, Siobhan had no idea what that meant. “Yes…” Siobhan slurred. She raised her hands. They looked pretty, twisting and turning in between themselves. Then she saw the light. Her mother’s face was wavering in front of it. Siobhan pointed. “You’re in there, mom…” A deep, slow laugh responded, “But I’m right here!” “Oh. So you are.” Siobhan looked in front of her. The sur-geon, wobbling between being two surgeons and one surgeon, stood at the door. Siobhan used her free hand to try and push him back to-gether. “How many are you seeing of me, two or three?” “Two…” Laughter, again. What was so funny? Going home was a blur. They came home in a taxi even though their house was so close. Siobhan felt dazed the entire time. When she arrived home, Siobhan went upstairs, feigning exhaustion, and locked her bedroom door. With bleary eyes and much

trouble, she lit a cigarette and began to read the -

stancio, Pride and Prejudice. After getting a lit-tle over halfway through chapter one, Siobhan closed the book and threw it across the room. Her eyes were still having trouble focusing. It hit the opposite wall with a dull thump. “Love,” she mused, “what is it good for? Nothing.” Siobhan giggled maniacally for some reason. How deep, she thought to herself with a smile. The early spring breeze blew through the window, putting her short hair in slight disarray. Siobhan shivered and reached for her beige pea coat, an unnecessarily expensive piece

to put her hand onto the coat itself. She missed many times, but eventually, she grabbed onto it. She put it on over the nightgown her mother had helped her slip on. A motorbike raced by,

few seconds later. Her perception of things was

was going on. She gazed without much interest at the other buildings. Every time she looked at

scandalous occurrence going on inside. In the ten years in which she lived in her building, she had yet to see anything. As if her passive prayers had been an-

across the street turned on. Siobhan’s attention was immediately drawn to the bright light directly in front of her. She stared as a girl approached the window. She was wraith-like, with waist-length blonde hair. Her bones looked as if they were attempting to break free of her skin. She was wearing a black shirt and a pair of jeans. She stared out the window at something below her, but Siobhan was unable to see what she was looking at. The girl moved to her bed, and Siobhan craned her neck to see more. Her cigarette was dropping ashes onto her sheets;; Siobhan was too doped up and con-fused to notice (or care, for that matter.) Siobhan had never seen this girl. She

years;; it was directly in her line of sight. The girl was making her bed meticulously. She patted it down and smoothed the blanket to make sure

the bed so they looked casually tossed. The girl straightened out all the things on her bedside table, then moved away from Siobhan’s view. Siobhan wiggled her toes and looked away


from the window for a moment, deeply fasci-nated with the movements of her toes. Then, she looked back. The girl was standing in front of the window again. She seemed to be looking at everything. Siobhan would usually take the time to wonder if the girl was leaving but her mind would not stray from the images she was seeing. Suddenly, as if in a robotic, jerking dance, the girl began to remove her clothes, one piece at a time. She unclasped a necklace, took off a ring, then slowly removed her shirt. She seemed to contemplate tossing it on the ground, but decided against it. Instead, she moved away and folded it on the bed. She did the same with her jeans. Her shoes were tucked just beneath the bed. Siobhan’s eyes were closing, but she willed them to stay open- Siobhan was complete-ly mesmerized. The girl exited her room. Before Siobhan could close her window, however, the

thought she should stop her nosy intrusion. The girl was wearing a white dress and fairy wings, like the ones of a child. She was barefoot. Tiptoe-ing to her bookshelf, the girl pulled out a book. Siobhan didn’t have good enough eyesight to tell what it was. However, she could tell that it was by Austen judging by the cover, which was iden-tical to her copy. The girl said something like ‘Love, love, love’ as she closed her eyes and opened the book. Pulling out a worn piece of paper, she set it on top of the perfect pile of clothes on the bed. Siob-han didn’t know what was going on. Her brain’s functions were too slow today. The girl, with some effort, opened her

movement she made. The girl cautiously hoisted

city. The girl spread her arms and pretended she

Siobhan lost interest;; she was just too tired. She smashed her cigarette into the soil of

in the little cigarette graveyard. She drifted to sleep. At eleven the next morning she woke up.

and onto Siobhan’s face. She realized that her mouth was swollen and hurt like Hell. She poked her cheeks and noted that they were puffy. She assumed that she must have looked like a chip-munk. For a moment she lay in bed, exhausted and pounding with a dull pain coming from just behind her molars. She suddenly sat up.

“The girl…!” Siobhan murmured. She pulled the shade away from the window and

eight—Siobhan could see through the window

she cursed the human race for not having de-veloped eyes with a zoom function. But then she noticed—the room was empty. No bed, no dresser, no bookshelf, no fairy girl. In fact, it was completely unfurnished. It looked like it was up for sale. With a dejected sigh, Siobhan dismissed the entire exciting thing as a dream. As she sat in her room in silence, she couldn’t help but think that the dull thumping in her head sounded very slightly like someone speaking, repeating something with four letters. She lay back down in bed and rested her puffy cheek on the pillow. Siobhan Fitzgerald was a seventeen-year-old girl.


Ripples braid into her dampened jeansWater trips over her quaint galoshes

The curve of her smile awes allThe twist of her hair bewitches allThe gait of her steps enraptures all

As in spring she splashes through the watered walks of Brooklyn

Sun butters her shoulder crestsDew and grass sway with her hipsFaint rose blushes her cheeks

Her dainty ankles amble through lilting tulips

The length of her lashes stuns allThe arc of her back captivates allThe grace of her limbs astonishes all

As in summer she skips through the cobblestones of Brooklyn

Delicate breezes spin into her scarfLight weaves through the tresses of her hairOlives and emeralds shine through her eyes

Her hands throw reddened leaves to the whistling air

The arch of her brows allures allThe slope of her neck amazes allThe point of her toes entrances all

As in autumn she crunches through the rusted leaves of Brooklyn

Flakes coat the twist of her curlsCrusted silver ensnares her feetCrisp snow dusts her lashes

Her boots rake small tracks through the streets

The rose of her cheeks charms allThe spark of her eyes enchants allThe peals of her voice delight all

As in winter she patters through the crisped white streets of Brooklyn


According to the Oxford English Diction-ary, claustrophobia is the fear of being enclosed within a small space or room,

without the possibility of escape. I believe this -

pass the emotions involved in such a panic at-

claustrophobic individuals are helpless in the face of either broom closets or tightly knitted sweaters. In reality most claustrophobes are af-

family trip. Up until this point in my life, I had a fairly normal childhood with hardly any no-table bathroom related incidents. However, halfway through the plane ride, I decided that it was high time to enter the world of adolescence. I told my father, “Daddy, I’m go-ing to use the bathroom.” I was not asking permission, rather stating a fact. My father, concerned for his young child, rose to fol-low me, but I stopped him with a hand. I was a man and would go through with this alone. As I marched into the laboratory, which highly resembled a water closet, a brief sense of dread came over me. I know this feeling sounds absurd, but to this day I remember walking in and feeling an eerie sense of fear encompass me. The next 30 seconds are notable only be-cause they were the last 30 seconds the lavatory was used for normal purposes. I walked in, latched the door as my parents had showed me on previ-

washing my hands (with soap!), I felt extremely proud of all I had accomplished on this fateful day. My parents were going to be so proud of me.

Click. Click. Click. The door was stuck. This was not sup-posed to happen. I stood there for several seconds wondering what an adult would do. I decided to bang on the door, but there was no response. Oh foo. At this point, the cool, suave mannerisms I had adopted tore away, and suddenly I felt very alone. Four dull green corners trapped and taunt-ed me, the little boy they had captured. They hes-itated for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then the pathetic excuse for a toilet passively com-manded, “Get him.” They rushed me. I screamed. “Mommy! Daddy! I’m going to die! Mommy where are you? Get me out of here! Help me!”

-gates opened, and tears drowned out my voice until the only audible sound was a gargled, “Why’s this happening to me?”But it sounded more along the lines of “WHYSZ TIS HAPWENINGTAM EEEEEEE?!?!?!!?”Eventually, after what seemed like several months of tortuous agony, a voice respond-ed to my wails and pleas. “Hello,” my savior called out tentatively. “Is someone in there?” “GET ME OUT OF HERE,” I yelled. I was in no mood for small talk. “I will, but you have to calm down,” the voice replied impatiently. “Just slowly tell me what the problem is.” As a note to the reader, I personally do not recall any part of this conversation. In my stricken state of mind, I was in no place to re-member mundane conversations like this one. My parents had rushed over by this time, having heard small inaudible yelps, akin to that of an angry Chihuahua, reverberate across the plane. “Alexander, sweetie, are


you all right?” asked my mother. “Alexander, it’s okay. Are you sure you remembered to un-lock the latch?” inquired my father. “YES, AND IT HATES ME.” I screamed.

attendant struggled to grasp the situation, the Captain recited a broadcast over the loud-speaker to the entire plane;; a message that still sends shivers down my spine. “Good after-noon ladies and gentlemen. We are currently experiencing a bit of turbulence and would kindly ask that all passengers please take their seats. We should be through this rough patch in about 15 minutes, at which time you will be free to move about the cabin. Thank you.” I still wonder how neither my vocal chords nor the plane’s body exploded from my tumul-tuous scream that followed this announcement.

The following 15 minutes were possibly the most terrifying experience of my life. With no way to get the door off its hinge until we reached calmer skies, I was forced to endure heavy tur-bulence in a small, vile death trap, whose walls and plumbing devices despised me with a pas-sion. I will not bore you with the details, for they were dreadful, but just know that this experi-ence has instilled a fear of airplane bathrooms

took the door off the hinge, and my parents es-corted me back to my seat. The airline apolo-gized to my family, and I was able to speak with

However, the damage was done. To this day I am unable to use airplane lava-tories. I swear relieving myself in public sounds much more inviting than using one of those terrible excuses for a bathroom again.


“Nerin!” her mother loudly shrieked to her on the rough waves only moments before disappearing into the green oceanic depths. All Nerin could see was the red and blue blur of her bathing suit twirling with her in the water’s cloudiness of the kicked-up sand. It seemed as if two hands had grabbed her feet and was dragging her further out to sea, deeper into the depths of the scary aquatic world. Us-ing her hands and legs for support, she kicked, broke free, and reached the surface, calling out to her family. They were close—she could see her sister’s white bikini top and her brother’s reddish-blonde hair from where she was. “Mother!” she desperately cried in be-tween a gulp of salty water. They frantically at-tempted to reach her, her father taking the lead. “Daddy!” she yelled as she choked on the next thunderous wave of water. The myste-rious being with the two hands reappeared be-

with greater strength, he started to pull her down into the ocean. Nerin fought violently to get the surface but her ferocity did not last for long;; soon her eyes closed and calmed by the lull of the ocean, she fell asleep once more.

. . .

“Human? Are you alright?” spoke a voice smoother than the sound of a lullaby.

A creature’s face appeared above her, a creature that would have appeared to be hu-man if its pupils were narrower and there were no gills that opened and closed slightly

with the rise of the female creature’s chest. Nerin opened her mouth to scream when an-other hand clasped her shoulder roughly. “Human, be still. We will not hurt you!” The hand whirled her around to face another wide-eyed creature, one who looked a little younger than Nerin. This girl had sea-green eyes that stared unblinkingly at her. Nerin’s own eyes darted around her—there were three girls in a large room with the thin air and peeling coral walls that made her feel a bit dizzy. Nerin burst into fearful tears when she saw that the girls did not have legs at all and instead had the tails of

“Where am I?” Nerin asked in anguish, yanking free from the clammy hand and dash-

as she clutched the unfamiliar gossamer robe that hung upon her naked body. The three

-ping their long tails to get to the poor girl who had huddled into the side of the opposite wall. “Shore-Seeker, you should have been more careful when you brought her down!” chided the oldest-looking of the three. “Tis not my fault the human struggled the way she did! She could have drowned!” the middle one called Shore-Seeker protested vehemently, casting a livid glance at Nerin. “Stop bickering! She’s fright-ened!” snapped the youngest heatedly, caus-ing the other two to stop mid-sentence and bow their heads. The youngest swam clos-er to Nerin, careful not to touch her again. “My dear…would you like something to…?” Nerin shook her head violently. What-ever it was that these beastly girls were going


to offer her, she didn’t want it. She only wanted answers. Her voice cracked as she asked again, “Where am I?”

the mermaid stretched out her smooth hand and intertwined it with Nerin’s wrinkled ones to lead her to a small window. She stopped short of the window and motioned that Nerin look

and despair as she saw a whole city of mer-people around the room—houses made of mon-strously large anemones and the bones of dead whales, the glitter of scales as the mermaids swam through the busy paths lit by sparkling

existed around the huge sphere that seemed to contain the entire merfolk’s colony. After a while, Nerin slowly turned back to the mermaids and

-der her, unable to process where she was and with whom she was. She looked up at the mer-maids, who all have seemed as different from each other as tidal waves in the ocean are from stagnant waters in the middle of a thick woods. Observing closely, Nerin noticed that Shore-Seeker had murky-brown hair, hair that was the color of clear iced-tea. It wrapped around her in sleek straight coils that were al-most twice the length of her entire body. Next to her, the mer-girl who had rebuked Shore-Seeker had grey eyes that matched both the scales on her glossy tail and her wavy long hair that was twice as long as her body. The kindest mermaid that was the youngestn had solid ceru-lean eyes that glimmered brighter than the many silver and blue scales on her tail. Her hair was the color of deep indigo, and it was entwined with strands of pearls and amethyst gemstones. “Shore-Seeker,” said the brown-haired mermaid, and pointed to her chest. “Dolphin-Chaser,” said the grey-eyed mermaid, and pointed to her chest as well. “Surface-Dancer,” said the third

-passion, touching the center of her chest. “We welcome you to our divine city. May the waves carry you where you desire.” With that statement, they stretched their

-ing, she was about to say her own name when a sharp knocking from the window freed them from their calm trance. Dolphin-Chaser swam to the window and hovered over Nerin.


“There is no one there, Your Majesty.” Surface-Dancer’s eyes glinted with doubt but she turned back to Nerin, leaning forward so that they were at around the same height. “Human, we wish to please you, not to harm you or to cause you worry.” “But how am I here? Why…” no question could truly express how she felt at that moment.

a city of mermaids lying beneath the waves.

with water and breathable air at the same time” explained Surface-Dancer. Seeing Nerin’s skepti-cal look, she added wisely, “It’s all ancient magic my dear. Humans have forgotten, but please, give us credit. We also are a forgotten race, af-ter all.” She took a tress of her indigo hair and

that celebrates the life of the mer-folk…our be-ginning, our history, and eventually, how we shall die out at the hands of humans. It’s a…precious and meaningful ceremony practiced all around the world by us mermaids. For the ceremony, we require a human ancestor to be present. My mother sent that wave to choose a human wor-thy to participate—one who would not accept our existence with greed or with malice, but had the ability to believe. It chose you. We offer you a choice, however—return you to land with no recollection of what had happened, or…” she turned away now, though it was clear from the tone in her voice that she had started to whim-per, “be offered an opportunity that will never happen again, no matter how many lifetimes you live.” Nerin’s heart was fraught with longing she had for her family above the surface. She was suspicious of the mermaid’s sudden emotional-ity…but she decided that she would only stay for the ceremony, and that as soon as it was over, she would return to her family. She would have amazing stories to tell. “I accept,” she declared. They offered her shirts engraved with pearls, decorated with broken sea shells, and striped with sticky green strands of seaweed.

-sisted. They had no clothing similar to pants, but they offered her long dresses made of sturdy black

and shards of glass that they had found along the shore. They fed her sweet grass and delicacies

it’s sacrilege.” Dolphin-Chaser said solemnly

when Nerin had asked for meat. Everything was raw, but Nerin’s tolerance grew stronger with each meal, and she even developed an apprecia-tion for the vegetarian treats the mermaids gave her. She began to admire how long her black hair had become and how much longer she could stay in the open water with her friends without having to dash back into the “air room” to breathe. Soon, her thoughts became less focused on returning to land and more on what adventures she could have with her dear merfriends who offered her all the warmth of friendship that she had never truly experienced in her “old” life. There were so many

try on. All the merfolk took a liking to her immedi-ately, often coming up to the air-room so that she could actually speak to them instead of answering with a nod or shake of the head in the open water. However, one merman was different.

stoic young man who rarely spoke and talked sharply when he did. His scales were rough and his hair was double toned, not in the unnatural colors of mermen, but with only the slightest hint of the green highlighting his honey-yellow hair-- a human hair color. Whenever he saw Nerin, he never acknowledged her presence and never spoke a word to her, no matter how much Sur-face-Dancer coaxed him. This procession con-tinued, up to the day until a grand meeting was called for all the mer-folk to discuss about the celebration Nerin had agreed to participate in. All mermaids, from the young ones who swam in their eager lines to the old who swam in me-andering curves, were called to the glittering pal-ace in the center of the city, everyone except for Nerin and “Wave Breaker.” Nerin anticipated a long period of silence between them and as usual tried to distance herself as far away from him as possible so he would not be annoyed by her pres-ence;; but on this one ocassion he surprised her by entering the air room looking disoriented and

had done this for a minute, he locked the heavy doors of the room—making it just the two of them. “Human.” his voice was not at all pleasant and his eyes looked cold. He swam towards her, awkwardly leaning heavily to one side—he had never been a good swim-mer from what Nerin could tell. He reached forward and grabbed the hem of her shirt tightly, lifting it slightly over her belly button. “What are you doing?!?” she cried as she


tried to pull away, but he only pulled her hand back—and with his other hand he touched one side of her neck--cupping it gently. Nerin struggled to breathe—but she couldn’t. It was like breath-ing through her mouth, always gasping for more air but never taking in enough. After a few sec-onds, he released his grasp and brushed his hand roughly across her stomach;; the hand did not slide over smoothly but instead met with resistance--rocky, budding scales the color of her warm skin emerged from her waist. “You’re hurting me!” she yelled as she yanked herself away, and shivered. He swam back and took the stance that meant a mermaid introduction was about to be initiated. “Human” he said, stretch-ing his arm towards her. Bringing it back to point to himself, he said, “human.” In that moment, her head cleared from the vanities mermaids were so famous for. She saw clearly with human eyes another human trapped in a merman’s body. His eyes were not dilated and his gills seemed to gasp for water more often than those of other mermen;; By the way he swam, the way his scales were rough and raw, he was clear-ly more human than merman, though she had simply never noticed his imperfections before. She touched the side of her neck softly--she felt the breaks in her skin—the smooth slits of gills. She ran

-kling scales where she once had smooth skin on her belly, right where a mermaid’s tail should start. “Why...did I never see any of this?” she

nothing as he clutched his engagement ring but she understood that—they had both fallen in love with the mermaids. Who would want to leave such a beautiful place with beautiful people…who could ever return to the surface once they had tasted the perfection that lived underwater? No one would. “No…” she cried weakly. “I want to go home…don’t let them…” Wave-

like him, realized what the mermaids were doing all along with this “celebration of life.” He had re-

with vanities like the others. Nerin was loyal, al-ways telling stories of the world above the surface, always seeming ready to go back home without hesitation when the occasion would occur. The girl was no person special, just a girl caught in a wave and kidnapped by mermaids as a vengeful act in compensation for their own fallen mem-bers. She had been ensnared like many others—

lured in by the mermaids’ honest affections, but at the cost of her own humanity. Had she revealed her name, she never would have been able to leave. She would have lived as a mermaid for the rest of her days, for human names were quickly forgotten once said aloud, and once lost, the vi-tal part of her would remain with the mermaids. Even if she escaped, after telling her name she would only be an empty bottle without an iden-tity, without the name of her soul, which mer-maids were experts at harvesting. Wave-Breaker reached for her hand and helped her up, mak-ing sure she was still steady on her own two feet. “Swim.” He whispered. And with that, he took a heavy mirror from the vanity and smashed it against the one window in the room—causing water to gush through the hole. Nerin took a gulp of air before Wave-Breaker pulled her under, squeezing them both through the hole. With a surge of power they made a dash for the barrier of the mermaid colony—to the edge of the expanse;; the gateway from the mermaid world to the hu-man world. The merfolk at the main castle saw

-phin-Chaser, and Surface-Dancer took off behind them, quickly gaining speed over the two awk-ward humans. They all broke through the protec-

of Nerin’s senses at once. She struggled to keep conscious but eventually knew…she was human, she was Nerin. She had retained her identity. Willing the expanse to carry them to safety, she let herself succumb to the black peace of the water. She woke up retching water on a cold, rocky beach. Nerin’s entire body shook, shivering in response to the cold air. She stood up quickly, almost losing her balance at the presence of grav-ity. Breathing loudly, she gently touched the side of her neck. She felt rips in her skin, but it no longer

gingerly and found that besides a few tiny bruis-es, everything seemed normal. Why had her mer-maid symptoms only left scars? She called out to-wards the ocean: “Wave-Breaker!” She called his name until her voice turned hoarse, but she still heard no answer. She had just turned to leave and

the sand close to the area where she had woken up. Kneeling down, she read the words over and

waves carry us to each other again someday.”


I regret not speaking up. Why didn’t I? I wonder. All the opportunities lost,

All because of my parents.

“It’s impossible!”Everything’s possible. I wonder. What would have happened if I had pursued my dreams?Maybe I wanted to try something new, Something I thought I’d enjoy.Maybe I wanted to prove to them that I can do it. My dream isn’t lost.Maybe I’ll speak up in the future. Try again.


who tortured her softhearted parents with her temper, who never cleaned up and always was rude,who never had enough and always was unhappy.the softhearted parents pampered the sweet child, the white, lace-trimmed angel they had always wanted, and hoped the dawn would rise when their sweet child awoke as their sweet child, but hard as they hoped, the hard-eyed child remained her spoiled self. Concern took hold in the hearts of her parents – Their eyes once attuned to the white lace trim of their darling angel all at once saw the devil sprouting from her wings. The softhearted parents, unable to tame the devil within,searched for a solution to the plaque of evil encompassing their child.Launch out on this story, parents, of the savior of families,Marypoppinalaus.

By now,the parents’ hopes for their angel have all but diminished.Many a nanny they have hired, but none has succeeded in changing the dreadful ways of their daughter Penelope.Lily, with beautiful hands, quit within an hour, after cold-blooded Penelope drew all over her clothes, in every color of her 100 pack of crayons –For each nanny, the story differed only slightly,nanny after nanny quitting after experiencing the hopelessness of teaching hard-eyed Penelope to behave.It seemed nobody could help her.Thirty-three days and thirty-three nannies passed,and still no nanny could help the cold-blooded Penelope.

But now,courageous Marypoppinalaus saw the parents of hard-eyed Penelopeand took pity on them. She called a council and all the nannies living in the mansion in the clouds gathered.

“Oh how the softhearted parents of Penelope suffer!For Thirty-three days, they have searched desperately for a nanny,without success. Nannamemachus, Head Nanny God, have you forgottenabout the family with cold-blooded Penelope. Both of the softheartedparents, Anticlus and Nausicaa, have always been kind to us nannieswhen they were of Penelope’s age. Of course – they were not such a case as hard-eyed Penelope. What have her parents done to us to deserve such neglect from us Nanny Gods?”

“My dear Marypopppinalaus,” replied Nannamemachus,


“how silly you are. Of course I have not forgotten about Anticlus, Nausicaa, and Penelope.It is not I who have made Anticlus and Nausicaa suffer so,but the Lord of the Businessmen, Businessapicus.Anticlus, an American conscious of obesity rates, caused Businessapicus’s up-and-coming food chain to plummet,for he revealed publicly that the restaurant was extremely unhealthy.Now, Businessapicus plots revenge on Anticlus,torturing him through Anticlus’s own daughter. –He urges Penelope to do each dreadful thing she commits,and therefore brings unhappiness to Anticlus.”

“How terrible!” exclaims Marypoppinalaus, “The family shouldnot be tortured so! Why, I must help them!

with my umbrella and become Penelope’s nanny.Here, I will help her defeat Businessapicus’s evil demandsand free the family from their pain!I will leave at once, with your consent Nannamemachus.”

success in your endeavors.”

Taking her umbrella out, Marypoppinalaus walked to the edge of the mansion on the clouds

to the house of Anticlus, Nausicca, and Penelope.walking up the steps to their house, Marypoppinalaus thought of a cover name for her mortal disguise and rang the doorbell.

Nausicca opened the door, looking very weary,

“You must be the new nanny!” said Nausicca, mustering as muchenthusiasm as she could, “Welcome! Dinner is ready – let us eat and then we shall discuss business matters. However, so I know how to address you, what is your name?”“My name is Mary Poppins,” replied the courageous Marypoppinalausas she stepped into her new adventure.


I spent a part of this past summer in France, staying with a small family just thirty min-utes outside of Paris. Now, this may sound

exciting to you, or maybe you’ve done some-thing like this and you don’t think it’s so exciting at all. Regardless, I doubt you would react to the idea of such a trip with quite the same emotion that I did: utter and complete terror. The idea was almost a joke, really. I’d been told that staying with a family in France was something I might want to do someday, to immerse myself in the language, but I’d always sort of nodded and then laughed it off. After all, I would never be caught dead doing something as bold and adventurous as that. I’d be much too afraid. I’m not sure why I thought I would be too afraid, except that I am easily frightened in general, and there are lots of fully reasonable things to fear in this kind of situation: the lan-guage barrier, talking to strangers, making an exponential number of mistakes (even for me), being unable to explain myself, and being away from home, family, friends, and internet for al-most two weeks. Yet somehow, I let myself be talked into it, much the way I was once talked into sleep away camp. This family was close with a friend of my mother’s, and she assured us they were absolutely wonderful. There were three young, adorable children, a cat, a dog, and a brand new swimming pool. It sounded like the beginning of a hilarious, quick-read sort of novel, and I think that’s part of what persuaded me. Plus, my mom’s friend used the word kitschy to de-scribe these people, and I am prone to falling in love with anyone and anything of that sort.

to France with me, planning to wait and meet my

Spain, where she would spend her ten days with

trying not to think about the next day. Would the family mind that I was terribly jetlagged and

-sion? Would I be able to talk to the three year old, who spoke no English whatsoever? I had communicated with the eleven-year-old daugh-ter over email, and she reminded me strikingly of the American eleven-year-olds I knew, but that was little comfort to me in the moment. I probably should have had some excite-ment in me, some sense of positive anticipation, but to be completely honest, I was dreading the arrival. (And that’s saying something, as I hate

land). I wondered what I had gotten myself into, and whether I could, at the very last minute, get out of it. We landed in the Charles de Gaulle just

exhaustion had taken precedence over my ter-ror. We had several hours to wait, and so we sleepily collected our bags and sat in one of the

This, at least, cheered me up. I remem-bered how much I liked French food, and how glamorous I found French coffee, so I left my gigantic suitcase with my mother and ventured towards the counter to buy a cappuccino and chocolate doughnut. I decided, somewhere in-side my mind, that this would be the a little test of fate: If I could successfully order in French,

would be a good vacation. If not… Well, at least I’d brought six books with me. I wandered over to the display table, my heart thumping because I could not tell where I was supposed to order. With people milling around nearly every inch of space, it was impos-


sible to tell if there was a line anywhere. There were some directional signs, but they were in

state of mind to decipher them. I stuck myself somewhere by the glass display, praying someone would take pity on me and simply ask me for my order. After about a minute of standing, I real-ized that the other people were confused as well. Some of them were natives (or at least I guessed they were), and yet they didn’t understand where they were meant to order either. Regardless of my failings in communication, at least I wasn’t alone. Within seconds, a bit of an argument broke out. Several women with suitcases started bickering with the man behind the counter. The French was very rapid and very loud, but I believe they were trying to place their orders and he wasn’t letting them. Another woman, a little to the side, rolled her eyes conspiratorially towards me. She mut-tered something in French that I didn’t under-stand, and then smiled. “Welcome to Paris,” she

said, shaking her head. I decided this meant good luck. Maybe it was because someone had welcomed me (don’t things like that always happen in books?) or be-cause afterwards I managed to ask, semi-success-fully, for my coffee and my doughnut, and they were both very delicious – the coffee did spill all over the saucer as I carried it to the table, but hey,

-titious about the whole experience, and I abso-

too-real life. I sipped my coffee and read my book, and within a few hours the mother of my host family arrived to meet us. By that time, I was still ner-vous, but the caffeine had helped and I was also looking forward to the trip. A little bit. After all, my test had succeeded, hadn’t it? I had ordered coffee. No, it wasn’t the same as keeping conver-

And in case you were wondering, it turned out to be an excellent ten days.


I am in a classroom in the Horace Mann Nursery School. I have taken a cab with my mommy, waited in the lobby of the school,

and been called to go to a classroom. I walk up the stairs, excited and enthralled by all the new colors, textures, and places. The classroom is as bright as walking out of a movie theater, al-though I haven’t been to many movies. There are tiny wooden chairs no higher than three and a half feet from the ground, but then again I am three and a half feet from the ground, at most. There’s someone talking to me. Her name is Mrs. Rodgers. She has black hair that is slowly fading to gray. She is very sweet and welcom-ing, and though she towers over me, she is just

felt-tip pen and clutches her blackberry as if she were preventing it from falling from a cliff, but I don’t know why. Everyone here is so friendly. The room is welcoming like a colorful ball pit at an amusement park. There are lots of lights, cubbies along the walls, and toys in one section of the room. There are picture books and posters. The book Mrs. Rodgers reads to me is Good Night Moon, one of my favorites. My dad reads it to me all the time. I feel very happy here, yet I’m very curious to see what else is around. I’m seated at a small maple table near the door, with some animal crackers I have lined up. Mrs. Rodgers keeps asking me about shapes and col-ors. It’s a little boring, but looking around at all the new things in the classroom makes me ex-cited so I’m laughing and smiling as always. The balloon is blue! Circle, square, circle! I hope I get to come back here! Suddenly Mrs. Rodgers says thank you and my mom say thank you as well and she takes me out. She looks very happy with me.

kindergarten class. Maybe this is because they are both at school, and in the same building. I

think that when I remember this story I try to

remember all that much. Therefore, I remember other memories from my early Horace Mann years. While I don’t have that many memories from the threes, I have so many from kindergar-ten. They are as simple as those of the kids who were in my class, to talking to my two teachers at their table during lunch, to learning addition

memories of kindergarten. I can barely remem-ber the threes, but kindergarten is so vivid to me. There are small faded light grey tables

the door to the other end of the classroom by a window. There are small plastic chairs of all different colors: dark red, indigo, bright green, everything. The ground appears to be wood,

however, when you touch it, it is soft and a tad squishy. It is not actually wood, so that if kids fall, they won’t get hurt. In the front and cen-ter of the room there is a rug where all the little kids sit. In front of the rug is a light brown stool next to a board where the teacher writes about the weather, what day it is, and other things like that. To the left of the rug is another small light grey table where the two teachers sit to have lunch. To the right of the rug is a play area. There are stuffed animals all around, lots of books, and a soft, fuzzy, bright blue rug covers the square shaped area. Next to this play area is a large window looking out onto another red brick building across the street. Maybe when

better and those memories took over my young-er ones because I was older and maybe that is the age where memories really start to stick.


Inside an orange...I think it’d be peaceful in an orange.

While the garish orange skin is pitted like a small pox suf-ferer’s, Inside, it must be sunny and smell of fresh air, Like summers spent lying in the golden light and green grass

The air thick, sweet, and heavy with scent and feel, Coagulating time like old blood.

Is an orange perhaps gear and spring?A strange clockwork to tick out your yearsDoes an orange tree measure the time that sweet summer seems to eat? Is that sweet nectar my memories?That intoxicating scent my childhood summers?I don’t quite know. It seems so long ago.I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’ve quite forgottenWhat it was To be that alive.


Catching up with Allison Chang was not an easy accomplishment. I had to cancel two meetings and rearrange my entire

schedule for this week just to accommodate Ms. Chang. But she came through, showing up promptly at the Starbucks on 61st and 3rd Avenue in New York City. In fact, she got there before I, though I had left my home ten minutes

She was sitting in the corner of the store,

Her right leg was crossed over her left, as she stared into Blackberry Bold, probably email-

-cant. Hesitating before stepping forward, I took

Allison. She looked up as I sat down at her ta-ble, a look of confusion on her face. But then it seemed she recognized me and so she surprised me with a slight smile, most likely of triumph. I brushed off the slight insult, not caring whether or not she liked me;; I was not a Facebook status. I was here to inter-view the woman and get it over with, to present a wonderful story to the rest of the world, possibly exposing some dark secrets.

-nally catch up with you.” I smiled sweetly,

have noticed, for her left eye twitched slightly. “It’s been okay, um, it’s been re-ally busy but, it’s, it’s okay.” Surprised

look of astonishment, clearly interested. “How has it been busy? Are you feeling well?” “I had two ambassador things I had to do today.” Of course she did. Ms. Chang was a professional tour guide;; I should have known she would have been busy that day showing people around the hot spots in the city. Know-

ing full well that these tours are excruciatingly tiresome, I asked how it felt to be an ambas-sador, and if it had been hard to become pro-fessional. I had heard rumors that she had just sucked up to the workers providing her with a job, and here my slight knowledge was con-

insight and reasons why she should be elected as head, she wrote things like “I love Horace Mann” or “ I ‘heart’ Horace Mann.” It is con-ceived that these phrases were written many, many times;; “like, forty times,” as Allison put it. Horace Mann is a very prestigious

only a few years, but these few years have proved plenty. Ms. Chang lives in a four-story complex on the Upper West Side, where she resides with her family, who still push her to do more. Digging into the details of Ms. Chang’s life, I pressed for more information. I asked her about her childhood, but the response I heard was not very informa-tive. “Uh, well, I’m still in my childhood,” she stated. As if that hadn’t been obvious? I laughed sarcastically, feeling like I had hit a solid wall. Brushing off my recent defeat, I dropped the topic with abhors, (This line doesn’t make grammatical sense) and attempting to make a quick recovery, I moved on, asking if she had a therapist. Obviously not wanting to expose this, she asked me if I knew. Hadn’t I done re-search on the star before this meeting? I blink-ed rapidly and replied back. “Well, had she one?” I asked her. “Therapist is a strong word.” Another rock wall. I decided to move on to her personal life. What is she like with her friends? Her co-workers? Her family! Allison’s answer was all but happy, though. She replied that her friends consider her sarcastic at most times;;


otherwise she could be described as cynical or mildly depressed. This intrigued me. I went further into the subject, and asked about her mild depression. Had she ever visited rehab? “Rehab is a strong word.” I sighed. Then I accepted the answer. I was not going to get any more on the subject. I heard a sudden chirping and Allison’s iPhone buzzed, but she ignored it. Ms. Chang was Korean, and so she was assumed to be incredibly smart. Though it didn’t seem like Ms. Chang could “do it all,” as some Asians seemed to do. I asked her for her favorite hobbies and her re-ply was somewhat funny. Well, I had laughed. “The good Asian answer would be study-ing. But that’s not true.” Instead of studying con-stantly like the stereotypical Asian, Ms. Chang writes poems and short stories. Though the stories are very short, as someone usually dies. I thought of suggesting rehab.

It seemed like a good idea. But I held back. Ms. Chang’s phone buzzed again. Her aspirations, as I later found out, are also very cynical. At the moment, it is to survive the present. Tomorrow, she inferred, will be to survive tomorrow. This lady is deep, I thought. “Speaking of deep,” I said brightly, “what would be a fear of yours? Besides not surviving the present or future, of course.” “Two words,” Allison stared me dead in the eye, “B plus.” I guffawed and the cashier stand-ing near by could be seen raising her eyebrows. “Allison, do you feel Asian?” “No, that part never really came out to me.” Minutes later, I thanked Ms. Chang for her time. I walked up to the amused ca-shier and bought from her a black coffee. Paying and then taking the drink, I waltzed out of the Starbucks on 61st and Third, and left Ms. Chang to her iPhone, on which she was now nonchalantly chattering away.


Sing to me of the princess, Muse, the princess with a placid and kind disposition

The truly evil sorceress,She was predestined to fall under a sleeping spell On her sixteenth birthdayAnd only toawaken by a true love’s kiss.One day when she was left unprotected,

Invoking the curse.

The poised princess Remained in a deep sleep,On a bed with pink throwsAnd was waiting to be awoken by her true love’s kissThat would be planted on her rosy pink lips…

But the other princesses, safeAnd at home in their kingdoms,Joined together at Princess Belle’s PalaceTo discuss the fate of poisoned Aurora,With her sleeping violet eyes.

“Princess Belle, daughter of King Maurice, Our intelligent and empathetic princess,My heart breaks for poised Aurora,The kind and shy princess,Who was cursed with an unfortunate fate years ago, And remains under an eternal sleeping spell,Unable to enjoy her youth and spend time with her loved ones.Princess Belle,Have you forgotten her?”


“O, Ariel,” bold Belle, the headstrong princess replied,“Naturally, I have not forgotten poisoned Aurora,With her shy violet eyes.How could I forget her?Her dresses for the balls were always the prettiest,Second to mine, of courseAnd her braiding skills surpassed those of any other princess.”

“Well, I for one do not want to save her,” dreamy Cinderella said snootily“Ever since she disappeared,My face, Instead of hers,Is plastered across Page Six, And blazons the cover of every tabloid.With her gone,

“And you think I would want to save her?” cried sweet Snow White“Ever since she has fallen off the face of this kingdom,My ruby red lipstick has been a top sellerRather than her rosy pink lip gloss.”

“Well then,” said bold Belle, the headstrong princess,“If we want to dispose of the competition,We should elect a man,So vile and classless,That he would ruin her reputationAnd wake her up to a nightmare.Princesses, any suggestions?”

“My stepsisters’ ugly cousin?” offered dreamy Cinderella.“Grumpy, Sneezy, or Sleepy?” suggested sweet Snow White.“Perfect!” bold Belle exulted with a sneer on her face.


ETHAN:

It’s just another day living the good life. At least, that’s what I tell myself whenever I’m depressed about the way things are going. Either that, or I just stop my complaining and take the next person’s order. I just remind my-self that this place is home. The chips in those antique brick walls, the dust on the blackened

-ing, everything – the yellowed, cracked pic-

dough in 1959, and Old Joey’s two sons, Al-

honor for their father’s small-town pizza shop. This place is where I belong—or so I think Sometimes, when business isn’t too good, which is most of the time, Benito, the head chef, gathers us into a group at one of the tables and recounts some of Old Joey’s dreams for the shop. “He wanted the best pizza in the world to come out of his brick ovens,” Benito al-ways tells us. The chef never loses the enthu-siasm that persistently weaves through his words, regardless of his obviously discon-nected audience. “And he dreamed that one day, we was gonna get to New York City!” By this point in the story, told count-less times, we’d all be rolling our eyes. One of the boys would cynically mutter under his breath, “Yeah, that’s gonna happen.” Anoth-er would lean into his buddy’s ear and spit,

that there was no way in hell we were ever go-ing to go any farther than 1126 Webber Street, Fayetteville, North Carolina. We were low on cash, couldn’t pay rent, didn’t have any con-nections. We were staying right here and we knew it;; it’s just that none of us ever said it.

So it was no surprise that one bleak, rainy Tuesday morning, I was in no good mood. At such an early hour, 99% of our customers came only for the perfectly rich Italian cof-fee we brewed (with the secret recipe passed down to Alfredo and Mateo, and then to us), but the brick ovens had to be started up anyway. Halfway down Richter Boule-vard, I dripped out the remainder of my gas. This meant I had to push the car an-other sixteen blocks, in the rain. But well, it was just another day living the good life. Still bleary-eyed with fatigue, I tried focusing on a news article framed on the wall, one that I’d read a million times before. “Great Pizza, Great Prices, Great History—Old Joey’s on Webber Street Wows Critics”. If we were so great, I thought, we wouldn’t be located in a 36 square foot dump. But I guess the pizza’s okay. Interrupting my train of thought, the rickety glass entrance door whooshed open with a creak, and the torrential rain found its way

the mats we set up to avoid this from happen-ing. In came a very pretty lady, about my age, closing her massive umbrella. After leaving it in a rack, she dusted the droplets off her dark blue blazer, and looked up to eye our menu. That’s when I felt a huge pang of dejá-vu. Maybe it was her lengthy, shining golden blonde hair, the color of morning sun-shine, that fell into curls towards the bot-tom. Maybe it was the full, plump, pale pink lips, or her beautiful peach-colored, pale white complexion that made her piercing blue eyes resemble two perfectly round blueber-

strikingly familiar, she was, indeed, gorgeous. “Hello ma’am, I’m Ethan, welcome to


Old Joey’s. What can I get for you this morning?” Still looking at the menu hang-ing overhead and not once looking at me, she monotonously gave me her order. “Uh, medium soy latte with extra Sweet ‘N’ Low, please?” As she read off what she wanted, she opened her wallet. I don’t know what about it was so damn familiar, but I just knew I’d seen it somewhere before. I mean, what other grown woman had a pink zebra-stripe duct tape wallet? Even her order struck me as ee-rily recognizable. Who did I know that loved excessive Sweet ‘N’ Low in their latte? Who was it? I shook my head, try-ing to forget the strangeness of the situation. I came up with her total, jamming

always promise to replace but never do. “Alright, ma’am, that will be $2.69, please.” She nodded, handing me a credit card. “Can I have a name for the order, please?” “Yeah, sure. It’s Annabelle.” And then it hit me.

ANNABELLE:

Today had been a really annoying day. It started off with me waking up thirty minutes late, because that faulty alarm clock

But there was no way I could be late. The cli-ent I was meeting with that morning was part of the biggest case of my career so far. Stepping outside, I noticed the tor-rential rain. Checking my dad’s stainless steel TagHeuer, which now resides on my wrist, I saw that I had exactly thirteen min-

taxi I found, I closed my umbrella and got in. “1126 Webber Street,” I demanded.

I saw that just the walk from the curb to the door of the restaurant would be enough to drench me. Once I had gotten through the door, a warm, cozy atmosphere greeted me;; the air was permeated with the smell of freshly ground cof-fee beans. This place is even better than Star-

bucks, but not by much, since Starbucks has big, inviting armchairs. Old Joey’s smells like pizza during the day, and offers some rickety chairs with uneven legs, and shaky tables that are never big enough to hold all your food. But this place

in this town does. I went to high school just around the corner. High school was the best time of my life, and I often like to take a min-ute, when I’m feeling stressed or sad, to travel back to those carefree days. The party I threw when I got into Princeton;; the Senior Sleepover at the swanky hotel in town;; and, of course, go-ing to Old Joey’s with my friends every day after school. We never really ordered anything – we just brought along our boyfriends and hung out. Shutting my umbrella, and sticking it into the little holder by the door, I took in the familiar scenery of the restaurant. The same

businesspeople reading their newspapers with a cup of coffee, some workers in the back, ty-ing on their maroon pizza aprons with an ex-hausted expression. Nothing at all has changed. As I approached the man at the register, I ordered my coffee, the same way as always, just the way I like it – with tons and tons of sugar. “Can I have a name for the or-der, please?” the cashier asked. “Yeah, sure. It’s Annabelle,” I re-plied, watching him as he swiped my card. But then, he froze, holding it in his hand, let-ting the receipt print out, without even hand-ing it to me. Confused and irritated by his sudden stop in motion, I wasted no time in asking what in the hell he was doing. “Is there a problem, sir?” I asked, matter-of-factly. He stared at me blankly as a long pause separated my words from his. As his eyes searched my face, his lips parted, releasing the faintest whisper of repetition. “Annabelle Sands,” he said sheepishly.

this man look like he was having an epiphany? “Yes? Is there something wrong with my card?” “You’re Anna-belle Sands,” he repeats again. “Yes, we’ve established that. Is there something I can help you with?” I paused, straining my eyes to see his nametag, “Ethan?”


And then it hit me.

ETHAN:

“Oh my God. Annabelle. You…. you’re…Annabelle Sands?” was all I could muster out. As I heard these stupid words pass my lips, I was too astounded to feel em-barrassed. I could not believe it was Anna-belle, who I had not seen since high school. And goddamn it, she looked exactly the same. “Ethan Bates? As in, Fayette-ville High Panthers Quarterback Ethan Bates?” she asked, looking dumbfounded. “Fayetteville High Panthers Head Cheerleader Annabelle Sands? Presi-dent of the Mock Trial Club Annabelle?” Swallowing her words, she nodded. “Ethan! It’s been, what, almost ten years?

“Me neither! Oh, man, this is insane!” I gaped in disbelief. “How are things since gradu-ation? I can’t believe we let so much time pass!” “Oh my gosh, things have been great!” She gleamed, emptying yet another Sweet ‘N’ Low packet into her coffee. “I didn’t expect to get so lucky. Right after I graduated college, I took a year off to rack up some money, and then right to Princeton Law School. Two years later, here I am!” She was glowing. After a little while, her voice suddenly tuned out. Out of nowhere, I felt

-ger on precisely what was making me feel guilty, but with each word she said, half-smile she pre-sented, or gesticulation she made, the sound of silence gnawed at my ears. What was it about the last time I saw Annabelle that was subconscious-ly giving me this feeling of incompletion and guilt? She must’ve noticed my disconnection, be-cause she shifted the conversation towards me. “But, hey, enough about my life. How’ve you been, Ethan? How’s life treating you?” Suddenly snapping back into the present, I processed her question, and then real-ized what I was feeling so eerily guilty about.

getting into an argument with her boss. The look of despair that crossed her face led me right back

I think that the look of realization on my face

sent her back in time to that moment as well.

ANNABELLE:

I remembered now what that lingering feeling was about, the feeling that made me want to cry when I saw this man. It was my junior year of high school. I caught this Ethan, my boyfriend at the time, kissing my best friend after cheer practice. It crushed me. And here I was, talk-ing to him, completely forgetting that moment. He never even apologized. Realizing that I wanted to share a coffee break with him for not a minute longer, I mut-tered an excuse and promptly made my way out of the shop and into the rain of the world out-side. I opened my big umbrella, turned towards

away from that awful man as I could. So much for traveling back in time with an old “friend.”

ETHAN:

Before I could even voice my memory, I saw a mix of misery and pure anger cross her gentle features. Without looking at me twice, she stormed out of the shop, leaving her coffee on the table, and leaving me with only a few lingering words, “I’ve gotta go.” She remembered. I just knew it. Dropping my head into

-counting that fateful day. I had just started my job here at Old Joey’s, as a teenager, saving up for college, from which I promptly dropped out. Her stupid friend convinced me to cheat on her, and I was senseless enough to do it. Annabelle was the most beautiful, amazing girlfriend. I was such an idiot for letting her go and making no

There she was, ten years later, working as a ridiculously successful civ-il attorney. She moved on to better men, never again to give me the time of day.And here I am, ten years later, working at that same pizza shop in downtown Fayette-ville. Lesson learned, the hard way. Nev-er, ever again, will I let another girl go.


Designed in flurries, I’m thrown onto a soul and slipping on rain. Someone hears none of his wishes walk, what do I mean “none”? What do I mean “his”? I’m collecting your dust on a leaf as if

you’re crawling into my own nothingness. We turn on the bottles, so I can’t escape you. You’re that sinful, beastly, an old form of story. Ah, I believe, therefore I grow the gold I split myself on.


Tshowy than harmful, it was meant to intimidate and weaken their

opponents’ morale. The booming explo-sions did little more than deafen them, but Annie’s mind, along with those of the other students, was racing to think of what the noise could mean. Where is

us? Have they set traps on our own land? Her wondering was cut short as the door was knocked down, and a group of darkly dressed people burst into the room, like black motor oil ooz-ing out of a bottle. They could have knocked. Sheesh, no manners, thought Annie, rolling her eyes. It was easier to

your head. And easier to kill them. An-nie’s hands itched for a gun—a Firestar, a Browning, anything!—as she charged towards the intruders, her new sword feeling awkward in her hands. She spied a few people trying to shoot at her general area from the corner of her eye and took grim satisfaction in the panic that was setting in their faces as none of them experienced the customary jolt in their arm that came from shooting a gun. No one had told them the rules—that elemental magic often canceled out man-made technology, including guns. As soon as she approached the intruders, she panicked and went on the offensive, slashing wildly, ex-

actly like her instructors had told her not to. She singled out an opponent and kept him, and their battle was full

were evenly matched, but the boy was stronger, and Annie was tiring. Annie snarled in frustration, and her oppo-

-member the hours and hours of repeti-tion of sword moves her instructors had forced upon her, to disarm her oppo-nent, and to run her sword through his stomach, making sure she had enough momentum to drive her sword in. Her sword met something hard. Annie wasn’t sure if it was bone or what. She didn’t think she wanted to know any-way, and yanked back on her sword, pulling it out of the boy’s stomach as he collapsed. She felt a surge of magic from him as a last attempt to take her down with him, but she stomped on it easily, thinking no more about it than if it had been an ant. He was no battle mage, as they were rare, and his pow-ers were hardly good for attacking. Annie was tired and so she stood still in the chaotic battle, feeling very much like a steady rock in a rushing river, as the clash of swords rang out about her and bodies swarmed about. A sword ap-peared with a hand and an arm attached to the end of it, and, though she was ready for it, there was a sharp spike of panic as the tip plunged right into her heart.


“Good aim,” she called, before pain racked through her and she died. Annie took off her goggles as she sur-veyed the room. The arcade was full of

chairs in front of the game screens and the next person waiting in line took their place. She stood up and walked away from the screen, stretching as though she had been through strenuous work, when in reality, she felt nothing of the inju-ries she had sustained during the game.

was moving to some lame town in Iowa/Idaho/Illinois – she still couldn’t re-member which state this was – she had been expecting it to be a complete step down from the Manhattan she’d lived in her whole life. Imagine her surprise when she found out the town’s secret – the kids were secretly hoarding an illegal Virtu-Reali game. VirtuReali games had long been outlawed, and nobody quite under-stood how they worked, but that didn’t really matter. All Annie cared about was that there was actually some excite-ment in a town where there were liter-ally cows living within a mile radius of it. She caught up with her friend, Emma, and they began to leave the arcade. “You so died on purpose,” Emma accused. “Yeah, you’re a beginner, but you’re a total natural, and way better than that.”

“Yeah, so? It was getting bor-ing. Anyways, do you think we’re go-ing to make Varsity? Coach’s mak-ing cuts tomorrow. I was doing okay all week, but then I missed that pass yesterday,” Annie moaned. “So that’s why you weren’t into the game as usual!” Emma re-

-sured her. “She can’t cut you off for one tiny mistake. That’s stupid.” “You only say that because you’ve been playing perfectly the whole week,” Annie muttered, but she smiled to show she was only joking. Emma rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. You’re obviously going to make the team. You’re so—” Emma stopped short. “What the heck is that!” she shrieked. Annie looked down at her shirt to see a dark stain right underneath her left collarbone. As she watched, the stain grew bigger and bigger. It couldn’t be what she thought it was, could it? She slipped hand under her shirt and inspected it. Even as she saw her hand smeared with bright red, she knew what it was when familiar stabs of pain started to rack through her, only this time she didn’t black out after a few seconds and return to the real world. Annie was bleeding from a vir-tual wound.


In Manhattan (I don’t remember where), his eyescrazed, glassy, looking at nothing, were in the state of New York and hypnosis. One eye cried and the other shouted. It was fatethat we met. Though we had hopedfor directions to the George Washington Bridge, he possessed an empty cart, no map, no telescope,no phone. He barked. It seemed the leasthe could do. We didn’t despise each other. We were in the same state,a red light. His bark roseinto the night, like a gate of a skyscraper that broughtus to the bridge by Burger King.


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WORD Volume II Issue 1