Blue Thread

My heart is a spider’s nest.

It has no feelings or regrets.

But there is this little spiders.

That is nothing like the rest,

For one its painted blue,

The same color as your eyes,

and it knows your favorite songs,

so it often sings along.

It knows the features of your face

that I could never replace,

and I dont know the reason why

But it makes a special kind of thread,

That reminds me of you.

So I guess I should feel bad

But I couldnt help my self, you see

I had to string it through your hair,

and wrap it around your waist,

Tie it to your thumbs

and kiss it on your face.

Till I saw it in your eyes,

and I couldnt tell you why,

but that put me on cloud 9

So now I must appoligize 

For I simply cannot leave your side

Or it’ll pull my heart away

So please, just stay  

Runner

            Looking out I can see the helicopters’ blades slowly pick up speed as their pilots wake up and warm their vehicles. Soon enough the night’s patrols come in and land their crafts; I look across the rooftops and grip my satchel, leaving the overlook I set off to complete my job. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop, I make my way through the city; it isn’t till I pass the third checkpoint that I hear the helicopter’s hum and feel the pressing of the wind on my body. I quickly scan the area, and see the fourth checkpoint’s green window frame; dodging bullets and grenades, I dive into the open window, without stopping to catch my breath, I change directions and jump out of the westernmost window. As I exit the window frame the helicopter passes and, realizing that I don’t have enough speed to make it across the road, I grab onto the landing skids and swing myself through another, green lined window. The helicopter passes and searches the empty building, as I hide in the opposite one; after an hour the helicopter gives up and returns to its patrol, when I am clear of it, I climb the fire escape and continue to my destination. When I arrive to the apartment building, I look for my sign: a window opened with a red poinsettia, turned three degrees south of the rising sun. When I see the flower I carefully climb into the building and see my contact waiting by his television.

“Perfect timing, the news is about to start,” the figure says, slowly standing, “what did you bring me?”

“On behalf of the Mojave Express, I, Ocelot, present you with this letter,” I say as I pull a small piece of paper from my satchel, “I was told I would receive payment from you.”

“And you will, once I get the letter,” the figure says, stepping closer.

“Payment now or now letter,” I say, reaching behind myself to grip the pipe tied to my belt.

“If you must, then I can still arrest you. If not for treason, then for trespassing.” The figure says, drawing a military grade stun-gun, “I will get all of your little courier buddies arrested to, then executed.”

            Hearing this I jump at the gun, smashing his hand with my pipe, shocked by what happened, my contact leaves himself open and I take advantage of this, by slamming my pipe into his jaw and grabbing his arm behind his back I effectively grapple him.

            “Whom do you work for? The Crimson Snakes? The Steel Soldiers?” I ask, pressuring my pipe to his neck, “Tell me.”

            “No…The military.” He says, struggling to escape my grapple, now I can clearly hear the helicopter rotors below the window line, annoyed I bring my hostage to the window and force him over, careful to not let him fall out.

“Tell me why you were ordered to arrest me, and how did you get a hold of my information.”

“President Kimball ordered the arrest of all persons whom are suspected of suspicious activity.” He says, trying to escape and get away from the window and helicopter blades.

            “And how did you know how to set up my contract?” I ask, pressuring him further out of the window.

            “You know your little girlfriend Cathrine?” he says, smiling wickedly, “We got it from her.”

            “What did you do to fox?” I ask, forcefully pulling him back in, just so I can hit him again with my pipe.

“So much; first we beat her, then electrocuted her, broke her limbs, starved her, drew her, and now she is set to be gutted.” Full of rage, I send his head into the wall, and my metal into his shoulder,

“Go ahead and finish me, we can add murder onto your sentence.” He says, though blood, and teeth.

            “unlike you, I am no murderer.” I say, releasing him with a kick.

            “Last mistake” I hear as I feel a sharp pain in my side, I look down and see three metal prongs in my flesh and as the current flows I black out.

            My head is cloudy as a bucket of ice water is thrown on my face,

            “I am only going to ask you this once politely, who are you?” A familiar voice asks, familiar, but unknown who it belongs to.

            “If you want me to talk, then you better do your worst, then maybe I will talk.” I respond and a heavy fist meets my jaw thrice, before the voice asks again, but this time much angrier.

“Who are you?” I spit a bloody tooth at him as my answer, “not talking then?” He asks, getting a cattle prod, “don’t worry, I can fix that.”

            As I am tortured, I cannot help but let out a psychotic laugh as the voice and his minions try to pry my name using violence.

“You done yet?” I ask, spitting another bloody tooth out, “I can go like this for days, this is actually quite fun; we haven’t used the salt in a while, mind pouring that on my wounds.”

“You’re psychotic.” The voice says, stepping back, “utterly psychotic.”

“Psychotic?” I respond, looking into the man’s face, whom I recognize as ‘President’ Aron Kimball, “or determined to make sure you don’t get even the time of day from me?”

“We will get what we need from you, somehow.”

“You could always be polite, we haven’t tried that yet? Just punching.” I recommend. Aron sits down across from me and, as if humiliated, asks for my name, “Much better, my name is Ocelot.”

“Ocelot?” Aron asks getting closer, “tell me your real name.”

“I don’t have one.” I respond.

“You have a name now tell me.” Aron angrily demands.

“I have no name, no past, and no future, at least of my own design.”

“What are you talking about?  Everyman has their own future. And a name.”

“A future of what? Domestic Slavery? Oppression? Fear?” I say, raising my voice, and noticing that the leather straps that hold me down are wearing out from the stress form the torture, “You control everything, from when we are born to when we die, no citizen can even think their own thoughts without being arrested and executed, we are all slaves for you.”

“If you have no future why do you run then? What will it accomplish?”

“Tell me Aron, why do you eat, sleep and breathe?”

“To survive.” Aron responds.

“That is why I run, to stop means death for not myself but for the idea of a free city; I run not because I have to, not from anyone, but for freedom and to end your reign of oppression.” I say, staring him in the eyes.

“You know as much as anyone that freedom brings uprisings, chaos, and death; by controlling them I am saving them.”

“Freedom is life, imprisonment is death!” I yell at Aron, as he hits me, I start laughing, “You know, what I said about not having a future, well I did not tell you the truth entirely; What I said was if I stood around and waited.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Aron asks, getting closer.

“Only the weak wait for their future, the strong make their own.” Breaking free form the binding leather, I punch Aron in the face and thrust my knee into his gut. As he slowly gets up I pickpocket the cell keys and throw him into the wall opposite the door. I then run to the door and kick it open, locking Aron Kimball in behind me as I start to leave the cell block.

“This prison seems to be broken up into 8 blocks, A-H.” I say to myself, “I guess I should look for Fox, hmmm…the warden should have the master list.” I see a ventilation shaft a few inches off the ground, I carefully climb into it and head off towards the Warden’s tower.

Eventually I reach the center of the prison with the Warden’s tower, it is lightly guarded with only three guards, but each has a rifle and a bandolier of brassed ammo; I look around for a weapon or a way around them but all I see is a rusted pipe clinging onto the wall, I try to rip it off but make too much noise and lead starts to fly through the vent, knocking off the cover and forcing me to press myself down. The Bullets suddenly stop flying, I wait a moment before snaking up to the edge and looking down; the guards are being held up by some masked men.

“Ocelot you can come down now, the guards are subdued.” A loud voice calls out to me and I see Fox in the tower waving to me. Smiling I jump down and run over to the tower, “You must really like me to come all the way out here to rescue me.” Fox says, hugging me.

“You know I don’t care for other’s company.” I respond, pushing her away, “people get in the way of missions.”

“So you didn’t send these men?” Fox asks, confused, “then who did?”

            Suddenly the iron doors burst open and an army of the masked men rush in, securing the area, followed by a tall, stern looking man.

“Solidus!?” we both say in unison, surprised by the legendary courier’s appearance.

“Hello children, you have a nice time in Château le Locker?” he asks, sarcastically as he reaches the tower.

            “How did you find us?” I ask, shaking the hand of the fastest courier to have lived a man’s life.

            “I followed the helo as it passed my route, I saw you unconscious and decided to help, so I gathered the rest, and here we are.” He says, smiling to be out of his mundane schedule, turning to face the corridors he says, “This place contains all our runners, it was designed to interrogate and murder us.”

            “When you said you gathered the rest…what do you mean?” Fox asks, looking towards the masked men, “who are those men?”

            “There is one thing only I can do, what you see here is every courier in the time zone, both ours and where you are right now.” Solidus responds, lifting his overcoat to show the Mojave Express insignia, “The steel soldiers, Crimson snakes, even the Scarlett Herons all joined to reclaim their couriers…but there is one problem.”

            “What is this problem? You have men, more than there are guards” Fox responds, motioning over to the guards.

            “That switch will cut the power to every cell, they will open, but the alarm will sound, alerting every guard; we don’t have much of a chance against every guard in the prison, plus we are underground, so an escape is…complicated, but not impossible, however if we don’t pull the lever we can escape and comeback with more men, maybe more guns even.”

            “so we decide if we fight or run?” Fox asks, spitting on the floor, “Ocelot?”

            I stand there, pondering my options, “So I decide life or death?”

            “More like death in a prison cell or in battle, you don’t know these men, and you won’t, but you have to decide to leave or to fight” Solidus replies, looking into my eyes, “you have to choose, you can’t run away from this. I close my eyes and reach out to grasp the lever, inhaling deeply I open my eyes slowly,

            “Freedom is life Imprisonment is death.”

Trent’s Colors

                The letter crackled one more time under the weight of the heavy words it carried. Jean stared down at it, numb; as she let the words seep in and do their worst once again. Dead. Orphan. Please come home right away. She tried to hold in the tears, for she knew that if she let go now she’d never stop.

                “Miss, miss… this is your stop.” Came the kind call of the bus driver, snapping Jean back to reality. Jean smiled and nodded. Picking up her bag and moving to the front of the bus. She stopped in front of the driver and said, 

“Thank you for driving me so far… and for being a kind ear.”  The bus driver merely nodded his head and smiled kindly, as he opened the doors letting her out. Jean picked up her baggage from the ground and looked around for a familiar face.

“Jeanie!” She heard someone shout. Jean spun around to see her older brother Sam running towards her.

“Sam?” She shouted running to meet her brothers. Sam gathered her into a bear hug.

“It’s so good to have you home again Jeanie!” Sam laughed into her dark hair. Jean pulled back and smiling trying to hold back a tear said,

“It’s great to be back home.” As Sam picked up her bag heading to the old pick-up truck jean stopped him and asked “How is grandma handling this?” Sam shook his head opening the door for her.

“She ain’t doing so good Jean… she misses Dad… since he died… “Jean sat like a rock in the truck for the rest of the ride. Neither knew what to say, so as the radio played Jean glanced out the window. Jean watched the trees whiz by the truck window.

“How did we get here Sam?” She whispered mingling tears with sighs. Sam’s jaw clenched and he tightened his grip on the wheel, as a tear slipped down his cheek. Looking back out the window Jean had visions of their childhood and how fun it had bee. So full of life and gaiety when Mamma had been alive. The last days of her life lingered in Jean’s mind. She had been so weak… the cancer did its worst, ravaging at her body. As Jean relived her Mamma’s last moments she lulled off to sleep, Mamma’s face still with her.
                “We’re here Jean.” Sam said, as he swung his long legs out of the truck. Jean Stepped out of the truck into the soft earth bellow her.

“Land sakes! Jeanie! Jeanie, honey! It’s so good to see you!” Jean’s grandma laughed as she ran to her. All Jean could do was to run into the arms of her father’s mother. There she buried her face in her grandmother’s abundant girth and soaked up the love.

“Oh Grandma, I’m so glad to be home!” she muttered as her grandma squeezed her tighter, when she finally released her she held Jean at arm’s length.

“Oh Jeanie, honey, you look wonderful as pretty as a fresh glass of buttermilk.” She said full of smile and sweetness. Jean beamed as she wiped away the smudge of flour from her grandma’s chubby cheek. “Now Sam you carry those bags inside.” She called over her shoulder as she linked arms with Jean and headed towards the house. “I think there’s someone who’d like to see you.” She said with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

Here Jean smiled like there was no tomorrow that face running through her mind. She hugged tighter on her grandma’s arm. The two made their way up the creaky old stairs onto the veranda.

“I’m just going to have to get Sam to fix them there stairs.” Jean’s grandma muttered more to herself than to Jean. Jean swung open the screen door and entered the house. She just stood in the doorway for a moment taking in the sight. There in the corner was Mamma’s old rocking chair, the one she had sat in right before her death, and the one her Deady died in. Both parents had sought the sunlight. She walked crossed the floor weakly and sat in the chair.

“Now Jeanie, don’t worry for me… I’m going to a better place.” Jean’s mamma’s voice lingered in her mind, followed by the image of her father slumped over in the chair.

“Jean… he just gave up on life… after your mamma died he, just… died inside… it took a little longer for the rest to go.” Jean heard her grandma say with a hand on her shoulder. Jean merely nodded her head smiling, looking around the room. There above the fireplace was the old cross stitched picture that said, ‘God bless this Home,’ which her grandma had stitched for her son’s family.

“Jeanie how’d you like a cookie, honey?” her grandma said pulling her back to reality. Jean smiled faintly and shook her head no. making her way to the table she sat down. “Jeanie, there’s someone who wants to see you.” She said gently.

Jean stood up quickly and looked around the room. Smiling she said, “Where is he?” suddenly she heard the pitter patter of unsure feet making their way into the kitchen.

“Jeanie!” a little person stumbled towards jean, threatening to fall at any moment.

“Trent!” Came the reply to his cry. Jean reached out to the arms that begged to be held; all of a sudden her reason for coming home was in her arms.

“Jeanie y-you came home!” Came the slow small voice. Jean smiled, and sitting back in the chair she looked over the little boy. Looking deep into his eyes, she laughed looking at his fingers, still clutching a little red crayon. Kissing the small hand, she released the boy who by now was squirming to get down.

“How have you been Trent?” Jean asked the little boy, leaning forward. Trent seemed to have lost interest in the conversation, and Jean was quite alarmed. He was humming and coloring on the table cloth with his crayon.

“Oh, no Trent, honey! Here color on this!” His great grandma said a little rushed, as she slid a paper under the crayon. Still worried, Jean crept up behind Trent to see what he was drawing. Before her was a masterpiece.

“Trent, what are you drawing?” Jean asked him. This time he seemed to come alive. Brightening he said,

“I-it’s all of us to-gether… d-do you like it?” Jean smiled and hugged the small child.

“I most certainly do, it’s beautiful. How’d you like to help me unpack Trent?” She added at the end. When Trent heard this he nodded his head enthusiastically. “God on upstairs, honey, and I’ll be right up.” Gently she added. Helping him up from his chair, she led him to the stairs keeping him from falling. “It’s been getting worse… hasn’t it Grandma?” grimly she concluded once Trent was out of the room.

“Have a seat Jeanie, here have a cookie.” Her grandma said busying herself.

“Grandma… stop trying to patronize me… I have a right to know… its getting worse isn’t it?” the words thudded into the silent room. Her grandma sighed and sat down, folding her hands.

“Jean, I won’t lie to you, since your Mamma… and Deady died… Trent hasn’t been doing well.” She said starring Jean in the eye. Jean nodded and looked up at the staircase holding down the tears once again.

“I’m going to his school tomorrow… to get things straightened out.” She choked out. At this her grandma smiled and clasped Jean’s had.

“That’s it honey! I knew your Mamma was right in leaving Trent to you… Sam and me… you know we can’t handle anything like this… we don’t got the schooling that you’ve had.” Jean smiled dryly.

“Excuse me… I think I’ll go up and see what Trent’s up to.” She said standing, her grandma nodded.

“You go right on up sugar; Sam should’ve put your bags in your room” Jean steadied herself and went up the old stairs. Step one, Mamma kisses Sam’s knee to make it all better. Step two, Deady’s arms holding her as she cried from a nightmare. As she ascended the stairs these memories haunted her.

“Trent, what are you doing?!” Jean laughed as she entered her old bedroom. There was her little brother standing in the center of a big pile of clothes she had brought with her sucking his thumb. She stifled a laugh and bent down to his level.

“I-I’m sorry Jeanie, I wanted to try and help.” Came the innocent plea. Jean looked into the wide blue eyes that pouted up at her.

“Well… I don’t think any harms been done.” She said looking into is eyes. Her little brother yawned, and she had to chuckle. “Are we tiered Trent?” she asked him. He shook his head no, and she took him y the hand leading him to his room. After helping him get ready for bed, Jean knelt down with Trent for their evening prayers.

“God, please bless Mommy and Deady. Grandma says they are in heaven with you. And bless Grandma and Sam… and bless Jeannie… dear God please don’t let her go away again.” Jean brushed a tea away from the corner of her eye, as it tempted to bring a cascade of tears. “Jeanie… you won’t go away will you?” He whispered letting a yawn escape his mouth. 

“No sweetheart, I’m gonna be with you always.” She whispered.

“Promise?” he said lulling off to sleep. Jean smiled and pulled the red crayon out of his hand saying,

“I promise.” After kissing his forehead, she turned out the light and closed his door.

Closing the door in her bedroom, she knelt by her own bed. “God, please just help us make it through this… it’s so hard since… Mamma ad Deady died. I know you have a good reason for wanting them with you… just… please keep us down here.” Getting up she crawled into her bed. Turning off the light, she finally let the tears that had been begging to fall, do just that. After awhile of crying she gave into the sleep that came from the tiredness that crying brought, still holding the red crayon. 

“Trent… come on honey, wake up.” Jean said kneeling over her brother. The little elphin boy poked his head up from the covers.

“Jeanie… I dreamt about Mamma… she told me that you were here to stay with me… I-I love my Mamma… are you my new Mamma…”  The little boy said with such innocent eyes. Jean’s heart melted all over again; quickly she hugged the boy tight.

“Don’t ever change sugar; I want you to get ready for school now, okay? Breakfast is all ready. Grandma made pancakes.” She ordered gently. Trent got out of bed obediently and started about doing as she said. “Grandma… are you up yet?” jean whispered into the kitchen.

“Come on in honey, no need to tip toe around your own home. Pop a squat on that bench. Breakfast is comin’ right up.: her grandma said warmly. Jean shook her head smiling. This woman never ceased to amaze her. Shortly Sam made his way into the breakfast table.

“Mornin’ Jean, were’s Trent?” Sam said unfolding his napkin.

“I’m not sure, Grandma, I’m going to see what’s holding Trent up.” Jean said getting up from the table. Her grandma nodded without wavering from the stove. “Trent… are you up here?” Jean said opening up his door. Trent sat in the middle of the floor, still struggling with his socks. Jean knelt down, and helped him put them on.

“Are you taking me to school Jeanie?” he said looking up at her with a finger in his mouth.

“Well, I sure am sweetie. Would you like that?” she said occupying herself with a shoelace. The boy nodded his head fervently and bounded up, unsteadily racing for the door. The two headed down the stairs. Jean helped Trent sit at the table.

“Now, what were you two plotting up there?” her grandma said, smiling at Jean. Jean looked at Trent and smiling said,

“Oh, we were figuring out how to tie Sam’s shoelaces together under the table without him noticing it.”

“Hey!” Sam shouted flicking a spoonful of jelly in Jean’s direction. Trent clapped his hands and gave out a squeal of delight. Jean noticed how Trent was acting. She smiled to herself and sighed. Finally it was like old times again, they were around the table sharing a meal. Just as she was thinking to herself she barely dodged a spoon of jelly coming at her.

“Alright you two, stop it.” Their grandma said in mock sternness. “For twenty-something’s you two sure are immature. Sam, you get to work, and Jeanie, you’ve gotta get Trent to school.” Both siblings smiled, and getting up from the table both started on their ways. Jean gave her grandma a peck on the cheek, and followed Sam out to the truck with Trent. As Trent tried to pick his way along the ground, Sam stooped down and lifted him up onto his shoulders. Trent squealed and tugging on his brother’s hair he said,

“Sammy, Jeanie’s taking me to school.”

“Is that so little brother?!”  Sam laughed, tickling Trent as he swung him into the seat next to Jean. The trio headed down the road towards the school. All three were quiet for the beginning of the trip until little Trent piped up,

“Sammy c-can we listen t-to the radio… p-pleeeeease.” He began to whine.  

“Awww, Sam, let him listen to the radio.” Jean offered defending her younger brother. Sam shook his head, but turned the radio on.  Trent nodded his head to the music as they pulled into the primary school.

“Last stop, little Trent’s school.” Sam said opening the door. Jean smiled at him, and taking Trent’s hand in her own, headed towards the little school house. She looked at the halls and all of the artwork on them. Looking down at Trent she thought to herself how wonderful his art was.

“Here we are Jeanie.” Trent said, stopping in front of his class tugging his sister towards the door.

“I’ll be in with you in a minute sweetheart.” She said releasing her hand from his. Trent looked up at her pleading, but nodded his head and went into the classroom obediently. Jean made her way down the hall towards the counselor’s office. These hallways held so many memories for her. Running down these very halls with her brother Sam. Letting a dog loose in the halls, and ending up… right in front of the front office doors were she was right now. Here she stopped remembering how small she felt when she walked through these doors. Just the same sensation she had felt when she first walked through the doors of Harvard… so little among so many…

“Now, Jean, do us proud you hear… you’ll be the first college graduate out of the family… Dr. Jean… oh you’ll be so fine.” Her mother’s fading words came to mind. Jean choked down the tears, and swung the doors open.

“Jeanie! How are you?” Came the joyful voice pulling her back to earth again. She looked up and saw her old friend.

“Laura?! Laura Hastings?! What in the world are you doing here?” She said smiling and running towards her school friend.

“Well, I spent so much time here as a child, that it seemed natural. Not really, I’m the school counselor.” Her friend said leading her down the narrow hall. Taking a seat in the small room, her friend turned to her. “So, what brings you all the way down here from Harvard?” she questioned. Jean just looked at her down trodden. Laura looked away for a moment. “Oh, I see. Trent… he, is what you’re here about isn’t he?” She said putting her glasses on.

“Yes, I’m here about Trent. Laura what’s going on, no one will tell me how bad he is.” Jean said leaning in.

“Well, some tests have been run, and Jean… your brother has autism. A very mild case you understand, Trent really is an exceptional boy, but he will need help in getting along for as long as he lives.” She said sorrowfully. Jean leaned back in her chair for a moment.

“So… what does this mean?” she asked cautiously.

“There are always… options… in dealing with cases like these.”

“Hold on Laura…you’re not suggesting that I send him away… no I’m not letting Trent go… I’m keeping him.” Jean said shaking violently noticing the red crayon still in her hand.

“Well, it is your choice… here… at least take these pamphlets with you… they can help you with your decision.” Laura said handing her the papers. Jean stared at the cold documents for a moment. Getting up she walked down the hall towards the main office.

“Excuse me; can I bother you to borrow the phone?” Jean asked the receptionist. The lady just nodded her head and pointed in the phones direction. “Hello… Sam? Can you come pick Trent and I up… something’s… happened…” As she hung up the phone, she sat in the office until Sam came.

“Jean… what happened?” Sam said rushing at Jean, worry written all over his face.

“Oh, Sam…” She said burying herself in his chest. Sam just wrapped his arms around her, and let her cry.

The office lady called Trent down from his class.  “J-Jeanie! W-we’re leaving?” Trent said as he ran towards Jean. She just picked up Trent and smiled at him.

“Yeah Trent… we’re going home…” She said looking at Sam. The three walked out to the truck, and had a quiet ride back home. The silence really was stagnant and uncomfortable. Jean just stared out the window, trying to keep the tears from falling. The truck pulled into the yard somewhat bumpily.

“Come on Trent, let’s go look at the ducks.” Sam said stopping the truck, and opening the door. He looked at Jean sideways, nodding, and led Trent away to leave her alone.  Jean stepped out of the truck unsteadily, and made her way onto the veranda. Sitting in a chair she looked down at the pamphlets in her hand. They looked so cold and impersonal. They didn’t know her brother. How talented he was. How he could draw, and light up the room with his laugh. Jean started to cry. He didn’t look like there was anything wrong…

“Sugar… what’s wrong?” Jean heard her grandma murmur. She curled up in her grandma’s full arms.

“The school… they say Trent isn’t ever going to be completely alright… he looks alright… how can this be… I’m not questioning God or anything… it’s just…” Jean cried. Her grandma stiffened.

“What am I hearing you say Jean… you know why your mother picked you to raise Trent… because she knew how you loved him, God chose Trent because he loves him, and he is giving you a precious gift. You’ll get to watch him grow and become a wonderful young person. Now you stop those tears and remember that God is with you and with Trent. No matter what any of these people say, they’ll never know him the way you or I do.” Jean looked at her grandma and saw her eyes soften. “Oh, sweetie, I know your heart. And you’re going to do a fine job raising Trent… we all is here for you.” Her grandma said hugging her one more time.

“Jeanie… Jeanie! Have you seen the ducks?” Trent laughed running up to Jean with Sam.

“I sure have sweetie.” She said smiling, looking at Sam with a kind smile.

“Jeanie… can we go play inside…” Trent pled with Jean.

“Sure honey lets go play.” Jean smiled at her precious little gift. Jean led Trent inside and pulled out some paper and the red crayon.

“Will we always be like this Jeanie?” Trent asked as he picked up the crayon.

“Yes, honey.” Jean said smiling.

“Promise?” He asked.

“I promise.” Jean smiled guiding his hand as they colored. 

Not Worth the What Ifs

Can’t sleep without your breathing

When you disappear, so does my light.

I can’t think each time you’re leaving.

You left me; I’m a bird missing its flight.

You left me, that is all I know.

You left me, but I’ll keep my fight.

“I won’t let us go!”

I screamed out in pain.

Couldn’t you hear my plea? This can’t be so!

If I let go, the what ifs; they’d drive me insane

The fervor is too strong to deny, too strong to ignore

I could give in but I’d be losing all I could gain.

Repost

Sweet Goodbyes

Your broken smile,

And lonely eyes,

Tell tales of plans they’ll soon devise.

Wherever you go,

Take me with you.

Your silent tears and pretty lies,

Sing everlasting lullabies,

Of whispered prayers and sweet goodbyes.

Wherever you go,

Take me with you.

But as the razor kissed your flesh,

Those lovely eyes were laid to rest.

A final breath escaped your chest,

But you didn’t take me with you.

Shattered

Her eyes lingered on the ring that I had given her seven years ago. She was so shocked when I got down on one knee at the park and proposed to her. I remember her face from then so clearly. I remember her shocked stillness, how her eyes brimmed over with tears, and how she lept into my arms while crying “Yes!” over and over again.

She looked up from the ring and back at the TV. She didn’t know I saw her longing glance, but I did. We were both thinking the same thing. Only seven years ago did we say “I do” to each other, but that love was lost now. It had been dropped somewhere along the way.

Maybe we lost it when we moved across the country. Maybe we lost it when she had the miscarriage, or after when we completely stopped trying. It could have been lost when she started drinking again, or because of her sister’s death. Who knows.

“Mary.” I called out to her, and she sleepily cut her eyes over to me, sweeping her hair behind her ear.

“Hm?”

What was I going to say to her? Why did I even call out my wife’s name?

“Um…what are you watching?”

She rolled her eyes to the screen, then back at me and lazily waved the remote at the TV. “I dunno, some nature show.”

I nodded my head and slowly sat down next to her. She didn’t move and kept her eyes on the screen.

“Honey…” I began to say, before Mary cut me off.

“You never call me that.”

My words choked in my mouth and I searched for what to say. “No, but I used to call you that.” I hadn’t called Mary a pet name in so long that she completely forgot that I ever did.

She pondered my words before calmly nodding and taking a sip of wine.

We sat there in awkward stillness, watching elephants graze on the screen. How could this have become our life? We used to have the passion of a burning sun, but it’s flickered down to nothing. How did we let this happen?

“Mark.” She said my name and I snapped to attention, only to see her hold her glass in front of my face. “Can you get me some more wine?”

I nodded obediently and gently took the glass from her hand, then walked to the kitchen. There was a bottle of cheap looking wine already open on the counter and I frowned at it.

The glass was heavy in my hand, the weight of despair sloshing around in the bowl. I didn’t jump when it fell from my hand and shattered on the ground, but I saw Mary jerk in her seat out of the corner of my eye.

“You broke my glass.” She muttered.

My eyes glanced down at the broken glass on the floor before turning around to look at my wife.

“And you broke my heart.” The words tumbled out of my mouth through shaking breaths, and her eyebrows raised in questioning surprise.

“What do you–”

“Mary…please, just listen to me.” I said, pleadingly.

I moved across the room and sat beside her, taking both her hands in mine.

“What happened to us?”

“Mark, what on Earth are you talking about?” Her words slurred slightly as she leaned in closer to me.

“I’m talking about us, our relationship. Do you remember how we were when we first got married?” She looked at our clasped hands and nodded. “Do you remember how happy we were? How much love and passion we had?” Another nod from her, but she didn’t meet my eyes. “I want that back! I want us to have that spark again. I hate coming home, seeing you, and feeling nothing. You feel it too, don’t you?”

She shifted in her seat. “Yes.” Her voice wavered and her head dipped lower.

“Then you know what I’m feeling! We used to be completely in sync that we could practically hear each other’s thoughts, but now I look at you and…and it’s like I’m looking at a stranger.” The tears that had welled up in my eyes had finally fallen and I quickly wiped them away with my sleeve.

My wife remained quiet, and I tried to look into her eyes but her hair had created a curtain around her face. The stillness hurt and the silence burned. “Say something, Mary. Please.”

Her face rose and her eyes met mine. I searched for a distinguishable expression, but her face was devoid of any emotion. Then, completely monotone, she uttered, “I’m sleeping with your boss.”

Client #243 of the Day

I was on my way to see Client #243 of the day. This day was not any different from any other day really. It held the consistent mediocrity of any other. And like any other day I followed my routine. I arrived at my client’s house. It was plain and simple in the most dreadful way possible. I hoped it looked at least a little better on the inside. I walked through the back door. Not my usual entrance, but my client was in the back of the house, more specifically in the garage. I walked towards him silently; his back was towards me. I looked around and realized that it was not very different from the outside. The walls were a light shade of grey and held the same dullness I had witnessed outside.

I then moved my gaze towards the man standing before me. His hair was a crew cut. He had a slightly muscular build but he carried it awkwardly. He was putting away some old stuff in cardboard boxes. I disregarded them. I wasted no more time on unimportant observations and got straight to work. As ritual, I laid my hand on his head gently. Immediately, there were sharp flashes before my eyes, almost as fast as lightning. They were memories and I looked into the past that would explain this miserable man.

His story started all the way back in college. He had first seen her in the dining area. He had thought she was beautiful. Day after day he tried to gather enough courage to talk to her and sometimes it seemed as though he never would. But he did and they had hit it off. They had managed a healthy relationship for some time too. They had even moved in together. But all that had happened seven years ago. As the years progressed I saw how his love had grown for her over the years. I could easily tell that he loved her more than anything but I could also see how over the past couple of years he had become desperate.

At first she wanted a bit of “alone time” and then later she was distant. Then she was completely detached, as if overnight, she had stopped loving him. No matter what he tried, no matter how hard, he could not rekindle the relationship they had once had. He could not make her stay. He couldn’t make her love him. Now, he was being forced to move out. I looked down at the cardboard boxes he was packing.

The memories stopped abruptly and I was once again in the garage. I examined him. He had not noticed me. I made sure he didn’t. I thought of all the different angles I could take with this client and I decided to be his buddy. I removed my hand from his head and laid it on his shoulder. I decided I would let him see me. As my hand touched his shoulder a milky substance glazed over his eyes. He could see me but he would never remember me. I guess you could say he couldn’t process me. He would never be able to recall my visit. I leaned towards him and whispered kindly into his ear, “Hello Mark, my name is Passion.” He acknowledged me with a dazed nod. I spoke kind, meaningless words to him for a few moments more and then I decided to dive right in.

“How you loved her,” I whispered. He shuddered trying to restrain his tears, “How you would give anything for her… wouldn’t you?” He shuddered once more, this time more intensely.

“Shhh, it’s alright. Sob. It’s alright.” On my order, he shook fiercely as his sobs racked is body. I only allowed him a little less than a minute to cry. “You would give your life for her; you would do anything to keep her…” I allowed a small silence. I love dramatic pauses.                                  “…

And how she doesn’t love you… Well, she doesn’t hate you…But she feels nothing for you, indifferent… passionless.” I hissed the last word in disdain. How could someone be so heartless as to be passionless? Passion was the drive to everything: work, love, family, talent. To think that there could be humans devoid of passion disgusted me.

I gripped his shoulder more tightly and I leaned even closer, “You couldn’t live without her. You can’t live without her.” He sobbed even more and I felt sorry for him. I felt a sort of kinship with him. He was so passionate. So full of life and I felt so sorry that he had to be stuck with someone who was, in my opinion, empty of any human feeling. Passion was at the root of everything.

I let him shudder for only a second before I gently pulled him upright once again. “Come,” I said gently. I led him to the kitchen where he could see her sitting in the living room up ahead. She was just sitting, watching TV. Her back was to us. At the sight of her he let out a small, sad, tearful sigh. With my hand still on his shoulder I once again leaned closer and spoke the words in a fierce, blunt tone, “But she… can live without you.”

I left that thought to simmer within him. His tears stopped and he seemed to come to a brilliant conclusion. His mind became clear and there was a sudden peace in his heart. The sort of peace you feel when you finally find the solution to a problem, a problem you have been tortured by for so long. Seeing this, I knew I had gotten my point across. He had caught my idea like a contagious disease. He was quicker than the others and I couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for him. Some of the others took hours for them to catch on to my meaning.

I watched him as he slowly moved to the counter where he took the nearest knife. As he moved away from me my hand fell away from his shoulder, but the milky gaze remained. He walked into the living room the same way I had just minutes ago; silently and unseen. I didn’t stop to watch. My work here was done and I still had other clients waiting. As I walked out to my next destination I felt no guilt for this particular case. Besides, to live passionless is to not live at all.

The Shot. (By Christian Mercado) (First Passion Entry)

This piece is based on a true story. (YES, it really did happen.) And, yes my story is about basketball. I want to say sorry in advance because a lot of my stories will be about sports. Also, I tried posting this last night, and I couldn’t figure out how to post it onto the theme page. So I just decided to post it on regular with a note that this is my first passion entry. Also, I’m not sure why the spacing of all of my pieces mess up when I post them.

Basketball isn’t a game a team can simply win with skill. A team must have knowledge, love for the game, and most of all, the team must consist of players with huge hearts. Usually, people look for these qualities in professional and collegiate teams. But, one doesn’t have to look that far for evidence. Teams that understand how to win can even be found in Fuquay Varina’s Community Center.

My team, the 76ers were the supposed number one seed in the league. With great players and decent back-ups at almost every position, our team literally was set to be undefeated. But, this was just our fourth game together. We had won our first few games almost by default, but our chemistry wasn’t even close to where we needed it to be for the challenges that we would face. This flaw showed during one particular game. We had been facing the number two seed, the Celtics. This team was a group of kids who had been playing together for their whole lives. Not particularly as stacked as us, but with a mixture of chemistry and great defense, the team created a huge problem for us.

Our team’s problems started at tip-off. Our usual offensive attack plan was to pass until a clear lane appeared, then drive through the lane in an attempt to draw fouls in order to get easy points off the free throw line. This plan, designed for teams that lacked interior defense, didn’t work. The Celtics center was extremely skilled at protecting the rim; he knew exactly where to move to evade defensive foul calls. This great interior wall the team had, threw my team off. We had no secondary option, we did love to shoot three pointers, but even only the best of our shooters, rarely made them.

Somehow, my team stayed in the game. We didn’t have the lead, and we weren’t particularly so far behind that coming back was impossible. But, with major let downs that occurred through the game (Like their point guard hitting a half court buzzer beater before half-time) really drove our team down. We had been in a game like this before, but the lead wasn’t nearly as big, and that game our three pointers were actually going in.  I didn’t want to give up, I’d never been the type of guy who quit when things were going the way I wanted them to. So, a solution had to be found. Someone had to step up.

As I heard the ref’s call for my team’s final timeout, I peered up at the clock. With two minutes and thirty-eight seconds remaining, the Celtics were up by thirteen. I ran to my team, and as my coach went through his regular speech describing how we needed to do this and do that, I thought to myself. How much of a disgrace would it be to loose to this team? We were the 76ers, the number one seed, how could this happen? Due to the reason that heart played a huge role in how I play the game, I knew coming back wasn’t impossible. But because this team was supposed to be so great, cockiness wiggled itself into my personality on the court, and in order to win this game I had to shake it off. All I needed to do was to play the game how I knew how to play it. This meant playing with passion, and with a will to win no matter what.

When our timeout was over, I walked onto the court and watched my teammates. Each with different skill sets, and personalities, but they all shared something, the determination to win this game.

The next minute and thirty eight seconds went by in a flash. I started the run by driving directly to the hoop and receiving a much deserved basket (My first of the game). After this, my team knew that we needed to send the Celtics to the line due to their incapability to shoot free throws. After my first drive, I realized that driving would be an easy way to get back into the game, so I selfishly, drove time, and time again. Each time the ball went in, a quick foul was made. After one of the Celtic’s had missed both of their free throws, this process was restarted. A quick pass-in and drive was all we needed. Four of my five attempts went in, this cutting the lead to just five points.

With only fifty-eight seconds left on the clock, it was truly time to shoot in desperation. For some reason, my team decided to stop our technique of fouling and let the other team run out the clock twenty seconds. Surprisingly, I made it across the court in time to foul the other team by the time the clock was at twenty-five seconds. After my quick foul, the Celtics player missed both free throws. But, as I said this team was good, and finally caught on to our plan. While they double teamed me, my teammate decided to throw the ball into our center, which was already half way down the court. As I sprinted down the court screaming for the ball, he hoisted up a three pointer. For my team, it seemed as the ball rolled around the rim one hundred times, but after its rolls, it softly went in. With this luck shot, the Celtics lead was cut to only two points. After one last quick foul, the Celtics best player was sent to the line. As I screamed to my coach asking if we had any timeouts remaining, the Celtics point guard missed his first free throw. At this moment, I took a mental break. I looked at each and every one of my teammates, proud and happy. We had turned this blowout game into something exciting, something great. But, reality soon hit as he missed his last free throw. The ball luckily fell out of bounds; therefore the clock was stopped at five seconds. Being triple teamed; I wove my way through my defenders in an attempt to catch a pass.

When the ball landed in my hands, I felt like I had been shot. With five seconds on the clock, the game was up to me. There was no longer any chance of getting a quick pass and having one of my teammates hoist up a shot. At this moment, the game was truly mine. As I sprinted down the court as fast as my legs would let me, my teammates screamed in desperation for me to shoot. But, due to the fact that I was being triple teamed, running across the court was a difficult task. After what seemed like an Olympic race, I saw that I had passed half-court. I can remember dribbling at least two or three steps and then coming to a complete stop. I quickly peered up to the clock which read two seconds. Of course, like every other youth basketball player I loved to shoot threes. But at this time I was at least five feet behind the three point line. I didn’t have any time to run a few more steps and get a two pointer or an easier three pointer. I had to shoot this ball.

The shot felt somewhat like lifting a car off trapped body, and watching it go through the air was indescribable. The ball was very close to approaching the rim when the buzzer sounded. Almost fainting, I watched my shot swish through the net. I had won the game with a buzzer beater. The crowed erupted in amazement, and at first, I couldn’t believe the shot went in. Watching something like this happen, especially to you, is unbelievable. I felt like I was going to faint, and I probably would have if t wasn’t for my teammates running to me on the court. As they ran to me, reality hit me, I began screaming and cheering.

While my teammates were either hugging or congratulating me, I looked through their eyes. All of them were as amazed and happy as I was. It was at this moment, I realized basketball players shouldn’t play the game by themselves just to make themselves look good, or to try and do crazy moves. Basketball players should play the game with their team, and with a passion and desire to win, no matter what the score. If you truly love the game  you shouldn’t ever give up.

-Christian Mercado

The Little Things

The little things
that cause obsession;

You can’t explain them,
and you can’t expect people
to understand.

All you know is
how you feel,
maybe not why you feel,
but that doesn’t really matter.

All that matters is
you’re intrigued,
and it’s so wonderfully captivating,
they don’t really seem like ‘little things’.

Loser

Humming that only an affectionate person could produce, pitches of airy highs and gentle lows, echoed in Zac’s ear. Oppressive lassitude left him in visual darkness, except for a lashed-blurred slit of bright white when Zac forced his eyes to open. Cold, slender fingers stroked his forehead that was elevated by something covered in gossamer. It seemed the gentle hand responded to his awakening, dutifully lulling him back to sleep. Zac felt like he could rest there forever. The hums turned to barely incoherent whispers of some sort of berceuse, sung by a female voice. But he had long drifted into oblivion to notice.

*   *   *

            Zac looked at the girl across the room from him, bitterly staring at her, agitated that she was still asleep. But thinking about it, perhaps it was better that she wasn’t awake yet. She’ll probably freak out, worsening Zac’s foul mood.

He had awoken about an hour ago, displeased with the fact he was alone in a cement room, no sign of the source from his first semiconscious wake, except for the possibility that it was Matilda, who he lately noticed huddled in the corner. Her underdeveloped chest rose, which provided Zac with enough reassurance that she was fine. However, the idea of Matilda laying a finger on him made him want to vomit; being touched by that disgusting loser would be the most degrading thing to ever happen to him. His head felt heavy and irritated as if her hand were diseased, laced with the germs of an outcast. Zac just wanted to get out and wash himself; he just wanted to stop sharing the musky air with Matilda, poisoning it with every breath. There was a door that Zac had vigorously attempted to open. A tiny light-bulb hung on the center wooden beam that ran across the ceiling. The diminutive, ancient light source was being smothered by decades-accumulated dust. Rust stains and water-damage scarred the floor. Heavily-taped cardboard boxes, that required something sharp or lots of effort to open, were stacked in the room; Zac had managed to open a few but found nothing but photo negatives of him and Matilda. Their ghostly images with the dim illumination disturbed Zac, who had taken these?

Matilda stirred, head lifting off the stone wall and sleepily fixing her unkempt, dirt-colored hair so she could see. The tangled brown curtain unveiled the same sight Zac had been looking at for the past hour except with Zac in the picture. Her dull brown eyes darted back and forth, a quelled whimper emanated from her. She brought her arms close to herself, cowering behind two bonelike limbs.

“Hey, calm down. I didn’t drag you into this,” Zac scolded, thinking that Matilda was panicking because she saw him. “This isn’t a prank I’m pulling on you.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t do anything this tortuous to myself,” Zac muttered. Matilda’s hands slowly rested in her lap and her thin shoulders surrendered to their normal position of a kyphosis-like slouch. She had the same amount of reason to touch him as he would to touch her; Zac chuckled at his brain for that insane antic it pulled on him. Matilda stared at him; her eyes seemed to trace his situated and laughing form like he was something foreign to her. She had no right to look at him that way, she was the freak. His body lurked forward, directly and aggressively pointed at her, “Don’t—”

A gargled voice shook the room, its origin resonating from everywhere, “Zac and Matilda! Oh, vile Zac and fragile Matilda!” the voice screeched. Zac stood up, he had reached is limit.

“What do you want, huh?” Zac demanded, wishing that the owner’s voice were there so he could strangle it into silence.

“Tiny Mat not worth wiping your shoes on,” it sang, its scratchiness mimicked that of a gramophone. “Sing it for her, Zac. Sing it for Matilda!”

Zac laughed, “So, this is what it’s all about, then. Some sort of reconciliation between vile Zac and fragile Matilda.” She rose, clumsily pulling herself up with the help of a box. Zac glared at her, directing his anger toward her as if she were the voice. “Well, you can go—”

“Sing it for her, Zac! Sing it for Matilda!”

“Fine! Tiny Mat not worth wiping your shoes on!” Zac yelled. Matilda shriveled back into the corner as if the words pushed her. Zac knew where this thing was going. He had to control the animosity he felt toward Matilda if he wanted to get out. But something about her just irritated him, just made him hate her. Seeing her wince as those words came out of his mouth made him feel good about himself. The high he receives from insulting her was satisfying, a remedy that slightly nullified the hate. Perhaps, he could indulge in this private roast before he abided to the voice’s main intentions of asking for the forgiveness of Matilda.

“Do you see how your words make her feel?”

“Yes,” Zac answered, watching Matilda come out of the corner once again as if she recovered. She was hugging herself, her head was lowered, and she was slightly hunched forward. Matilda’s body trembled and bobbed with every shaky breath she took. Faint hiccupped weeps emitted from her, this was the first time he’d seen her ever really react to an insult. She always displayed an apathetic demeanor, thought she was above them to even acknowledge her peers’ taunts. However, someone noticed that Matilda did cringe when Zac said something. So, he led the attacks upon her. But crying was a major sign of any actual damage—it was more satisfying!

“What is she to you?”

“A loser,” he answered in a choked whisper, result of trying to suppress the jovial tone and smile. “Our—”

“What is she to you?”

“—My pet freak, that I don’t have the stomach to put down because I don’t want to touch that repugnant thing,” Zac finished. “My loser to torment for my enjoyment.” Matilda’s crumpled to the ground to her knees, forehead resting against the rough concrete that was stained with tears. Her body jerked in violent heaves as if she were being consumed with sorrow.

Was this the reason for locking me up with Matilda, so I can bully her without any public restraint? Or else the voice’s plan is just backfiring? Zac thought, walking away from Matilda.

“Loser… Your loser?”

“Yes,” Zac mumbled, puzzled with the lowness of the tone. He turned toward Matilda, who was standing up. She was still hugging herself and looked up. Her dark-circled eyes were wide open, redness from weeping was absent, and a thin-lipped smile stretched across her face. She wasn’t crying, she had been laughing all this time and any tears produced where from laughing.

“Your loser?” Matilda repeated in a giggle, echoing that of the low tone of the last statement. Her sharp cheeks were blushed red and she fixed her hair again. Her right hand rose to her forehead, index finger and thumb forming a right angle that opened mostly skyward.

“It took me a while… to figure it out,” Matilda confessed.

“I’m sorry,” Zac blurted, hoping those two words would be enough to protect him.

Her face went pale and her gleeful countenance contorted to worry, “Oh no, no-no-no. You don’t have to apologize,” she assured; hands clasped together and situated themselves upon her heart.

“What?” Zac confusedly whispered.

Her pigeon-toed feet raced across the room toward Zac. He instinctively treaded backwards, back hitting the wall. She was so close to him, the only thing that kept them apart was her intertwined hands. Matilda was much shorter than Zac; her frizzy head went up to Zac’s chin. He shouldn’t be afraid of her; Matilda was like a malnourished rat. He was a strong, teenage boy. However, her large eyes held him in place. He barely felt the needle slide into his neck.

She broke away from him and pulled out a small controller. Her thumb pressed one of its black buttons.

“Sing it for her Zac! Sing it for Matilda!” the room said.

“God, that one was my favorite,” Matilda happily sighed. “Do you know how many times I had to retake those recordings? I couldn’t help but laugh. Then there’s that weird voice distortion thing I used. Don’t I sound scary, Zac?” she rattled off. She pranced to the opened boxes, rummaging through the negatives. A reminiscent smile of a photographer appeared on her narrow face. “I could never get a picture of the two of us. I guess that’s the disadvantage of being a solo photographer,” she sadly whispered. Zac let out a protesting whimper and Matilda glanced at him. He had slid down the wall and was on the ground. The injection was doing its job. Zac could have been taken as a corpse if it wasn’t for the visible rise and fall of his chest and his eyes that trailed after Matilda.

She gracefully retreated to Zac’s side. She stroked his forehead. Zac weakly jerked his head away from her but Matilda turned it towards her again; it matched the feeling from before. Her hand rested there for a while and then he felt her move her fingers to form an L. “Loser,” Matilda whispered.

“Why… are you doing this?” Zac managed to mutter.

“I wanted you to say anything to me, an unrestricted exchange between us,” Matilda replied. “Did you mean every word you said?” Matilda asked. “Answer truthfully, it will determine what happens next,” she cooed.

Zac squirmed a bit, he wasn’t certain for what answer she was looking for. He hated her and if she was going to kill him for that than he wanted her to know that. “Yes.”

Her arms wrapped around his skull, she was going to choke the life out of him now. “Yay,” she giggled into his ear as she gently hugged him. “Don’t you ever notice the smile I have on my face when you to talk to me?” Zac’s chin was pushed together by Matilda’s bony arm so he only let out a hum that could be interpreted in any way.

“I never felt anything, except for your words. Then I felt pain, a bittersweet pain that I love. But you know that words hurt more than any form of physical pain. And this,” bringing the hand-formed L in front of his eyes. “You’ve always held it up opening up, making it into a V. It took me a while to figure out,” she said.

Zac attempted to wiggle out of her grasp. “You’re… insane.”

Matilda’s face flushed red and she giggled. “Enough, Zac, you’ve said enough harsh things to fulfill a girl’s need.”

Matilda brought her forearm to Zac’s attention. Healed, jagged scars spelt the word LOSER but the S was clawed away and a V floated above the scribble. “Lo—Lover,” Zac read.

She enthusiastically nodded, pleased by hearing the word from Zac. Matilda rose, gently propping Zac up against the wall. She scurried to a box that was in the corner she was first in and she eagerly carried it to Zac. The box was closed in a way that had the tabs overlapping each other, locking them in place and wouldn’t call for tape. Matilda pulled them apart and revealed a jumble of tools and other common miscellanies.

“I’m not very good with words like you are Zac. So, I’ll show my love through physical pain,” she whispered almost apologetically as she reached for a spoon. “You should be able to feel everything,” Matilda reassured. She pulled out a Zippo lighter and rotated the flint wheel, the small spark ignited the gas fume and the fire was held under the spoon, heating it until the bottom was coated in black soot. Matilda brought the spoon to his left eye that was spread open with Matilda’s hand. Zac couldn’t even move anymore and he inertly watched the hot utensil near, feeling the imminent heat radiate from it. “You can feel all my love for you, my loser.”