Will

Will

by Don Macavoy

I was biting the inside of my cheek as I walked quickly down the street. I stared at every crack I passed, making sure I never stepped on one. It’s a habit I started when I was a kid and never seemed to grow out of. I passed a few people but the January cold evening kept most people inside.
I bit harder on my cheek until it hurt, pursing my lips together hard. I was holding back a rage that I didn’t want to let out on the street. I clenched the Discman in my pocket, tugging on the headphones around my ears. The music wasn’t even on. I can’t imagine how I looked to anyone that saw me pass by with the scowl on my face and making erratic movements.
Once I finally arrived at my house, I opened the gate slowly and calmly closed it, fixing the latch closed with care. It was the calm-before-the-storm kind of calm. The kind you recognize in your parents when you know that once they finish quietly folding the laundry they’re going to come right at you with a raised hand. I walked up to the big blue door and slid inside. No one else was home.
I stood for a few minutes just inside the door, staring into the dark. I squeezed the Discman in my pocket, feeling the rage starting to come back. I pulled it out and raised it over my head then threw with enough force to hurt my arm as it whiplashed back. I heard it as it smashed against something across the room, followed by a loud thud and a crash of random objects falling.
As quickly as the sound had come, the silence returned. I stood for another moment before reaching over to switch on the lights. When I did, I saw the pile of papers spilling out of the box I had knocked over. The Discman was in two pieces, poking out from under the mess. The Foo Fighters CD that was inside sat just a few feet from where I was standing. It must have rolled out.
I walked over to the mess and started picking things up. As I moved some of the papers, I uncovered a medal. It was bronze and engraved with a soldier’s image hanging from a blue and yellow ribbon. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. It was heavier than it looked. As I stared at it, the familiarity finally hit me and I realized: this was my grandfather’s medal.
I hadn’t seen it for years, since he showed it to me. He was telling me a story about the year he spent overseas in the war. He was a munitions guard stationed in England. His bunker was ambushed one night while he was out on patrol. He returned to find two of his fellow soldiers shot. He called for a medic and dressed their wounds until help arrived.
He took the job after he was drafted because he figured it would be a safe position. He had a wife and two children at home to worry about and didn’t want to be in the middle of any action. He explained to me how scared he was but how he did what he knew how to do to save the soldiers’ lives. Both soldiers survived and my grandfather was sent home shortly after and presented with the medal for honor and service.
I smiled at the memory and put the medal back into the box. I picked up a few other things and noticed that all the papers that had spilled out were letters. I opened one. It was a letter from my grandfather to my grandmother while he was away in England. There must have been over a hundred letters-- correspondence back and forth almost daily while he was away.
Every letter was amazingly intimate. They talked about the times they had before he went away and things they planned to do when he got back. It was like they were sitting and having a conversation. There was almost an entire paragraph in each letter detailing how much they missed and loved each other. It would have been cheesy if it weren’t so amazingly romantic.
I sat on the floor for hours under the lamp reading each and every letter. I was jealous of their love. I hadn’t been having very good luck with relationships and I talked to my grandfather about that just the week before. I asked him to tell me what it was like to love someone completely and be able to devote your life to them. How fitting that I had found these letters so soon after I was looking for answers.
I piled all the letters back into the box and found the lid. I slid it on top and, as I did, saw the envelope taped to the top with my name on it. I opened it up and slid out a paper with a short message on it. It said “I hope you can find love the way I did and can find the honor that I know is inside you.” At the bottom I recognized my grandfather’s signature. Tears started rolling down my face.
I cried while I was smiling. It wasn’t sobbing, just tears streaming from my eyes. Like rain while the sun is still out. The letter was dated three days previous. The day before, my sister had come to the door crying just before she uttered the words “Pop died.” She walked away after that, I’m pretty sure.
I can’t remember much of what happened between that moment and when I read the letter. I went out and walked for a long time. I sat in the park until the sun came up and then walked some more. I hadn’t slept for two days when I came home from the funeral and smashed my Discman. I was filled up with anger, mostly at myself and the world and God, if there was one. It all went away after I read that letter.
That was what my grandfather left to me. Everyday I wish he were still around to talk to. He had the answers to anything I ever wanted to know and I think that’s why he left me his letters. So even if I can’t talk to him, he can still talk to me. Now all I need to do is make myself be the person he would want me to be. On his honor, I will do everything I can to do that.

Will. Draft One.

by Christopher Atkinson


You hug me from across the center panel and I inhale your scent of peaches. You’ve told me you don’t wear body spray, that you’re not in high school anymore, but I recognize the smell right away; I’ve bought it for a few ex-girlfriends. Either way, I don’t care. You don’t kiss me and it’s okay because I know you don’t want to rush things. You tell me goodnight, I do the same, and you get out of the car and I make sure you get in your door before I pull away.
I don’t even remember anything that happened tonight; I just remember you getting to your front door, turning to face me, and smiling.
It’s with this image in mind that I decide to go out for a drive.
There’s a wonderful freedom in driving aimlessly. With nowhere to go, I could end up anywhere, which is exactly where I want to be. Wherever I end up is where I’m supposed to be. Every other time it’s been back home and I’m sure that’s where I’m headed tonight but it’s the sense of adventure that keeps my foot on the pedal.
Other images from the night start flooding back. The semi-romantic but mostly-comedic movie we went to see. The popcorn we got and didn’t eat. The soda we shared and the ticket money I had to slip into your purse when you weren’t looking. The way you cuddled up to my arm halfway through the movie and spent the next forty-five minutes in that position.
To be honest, it’s the best night I’ve had in a long time. And driving only enhances that fact, like the way it’s sweltering in my car yet I refuse to roll down the window for fear of losing your sweet scent. It’s cheesy and I’m not just trying to be romantic, it’s true. Everything perfect I’ve ever imagined would get tossed out the window if it were opened. Even so, it all just gets stuffed in the open ashtray. I don’t smoke so it might as well serve a purpose.
I hook up the iPod to play over the car radio and continue driving.
I don’t think it’s a heart attack. I’m too young and in basically good shape. But there’s something ambiguous stamping its big boot of pressure all over the floor of my chest. For a moment I can’t breathe, so I crack the window. I guess this happens every once in a while but the fresh air always helps.
An old Sunny Day Real Estate song comes on the radio. It’s kind of grungy but kind of poppy and I could never entirely understand the lyrics but the guy is singing his heart out so I know it means something. I think some clouds are rolling in because it’s growing darker and there aren’t many lampposts.
I keep my foot on the gas.
There’s a beep from my pocket and I hardly check texts while I’m driving but I hope it’s you so I open my phone.
It’s her. I’ve told you about her and the past I had with her and how me and her grew real close as friends afterwards. She wants to know if I’m doing anything important. I am, but I’m excited to tell her how the night went so I tell her I’ll be over in a few.
The song switches to some unsigned band you and me found on the internet. I forget their name but it’s fun and happy. I turn it up.
I get to her house and none of the lights are on but I’m used to it. It usually means she’s a little upset over something and maybe that’s why she texted me. Maybe hearing my good news will cheer her up.
I head inside. I hear some soft music coming from upstairs so I follow it. I notice her mom’s bedroom door is open and the room’s empty; she must be working overnight.
I head to her room. She’s half asleep on the bed with a half-empty bottle of wine on her night stand. She must be having a pleasant half-dream because she’s mostly smiling. I tap her shoulder until she’s awake.
Her eyes open wide when she sees me and she sits up, hugs me. I notice the music emanating from her computer is some sad acoustic song and I ask her if everything’s alright. She talks about her friend that she’s been “talking to” and how she’s finding out he’s kind of a douche when it comes to girls. All sex, no visible emotion, no sympathy, empathy, or any kind of -pathy. Girls are just walking vaginas for the harvesting. It’s like he has no willpower: He gets a girl lying in a bed and he’s got to put his private parts and hers together.
I tell her I think that’s awful and she thanks me, why can’t there be more guys like me, or at least why can’t she meet them. I know she had her chance with a guy like me before, in that me and her used to be together almost, but I don’t say anything because I know it wouldn’t help. She offers me some of her wine and of course I accept, she only buys the kind I like. In fact, if it weren’t for her, I’d probably never have found out I liked wine in the first place.
As she hands me a glass filled with the red liquid she asks how my night’s been. I want to tell her how great and amazing it was but I know by this point it wouldn’t cheer her up. It would just do the opposite so I tell her I’d just been sitting home all night with nothing to do. She says we can be bored together.
It’s funny the way how being “bored together” never really fits that phrase. If ever we’re bored, we don’t really feel together. We each step around the recesses of our own minds without really connecting for any length of time. If we feel together, we’re not bored. Me and her have a way of making each other laugh. Making the time go by. Making the wine disappear.
It’s that kind of happy drunkenness where you’re not really sure if your face is numb or if you’re just not paying enough attention to feel it. We had enough wine for most of the night to be a blur except for that general feeling of happiness and belongingness. Maybe that’s why I caved when she tried to kiss me. Maybe it was everything that happened before or the fact that I never truly got over her but was content with just being friends for fear I’d lose her completely. Maybe I just wanted a kiss so badly that night I didn’t care who it was.
Whatever it was, the music got turned up and the clothes got torn off. We hadn’t done this in three years but it was just as good if not better. We both got off several times and by the time we were done we were giggling giddly like it was our first times.
We both dozed off with smiles on our faces.

By the time I woke up, I had seven texts from you and three or four missed phone calls. You just saying you had a great time last night and you saying how I’m a great guy. Texting me a little smiley face :).
I replied telling you I had a great time, too, and how I hope we can do it again real soon. I almost forget where I am except when my belt jingles while I put my pants on, she wakes up. She smiles at me and tells me how last night was great and so am I and we should do it again sometime. I remember that I just fucked this girl because for three years I couldn’t have her or I was horny or drunk or whatever and I realize I’m just an asshole, too. I’m just a guy and it kills me to know it.
That’s why I wrote you this letter but I don’t think I’ll send it. I can’t bear to see your face when you read it or hear your voice when you tell me to fuck myself. It’s not the words I’m afraid of, it’s the tone. It’s the pain, contempt, and fright all mixed in that I can’t will myself to listen to even though I know you deserve to hear it. I can’t will myself to let you know you deserve better, that you deserve someone with the willpower to keep it in his goddamn pants.
I think I might love you… But I even feel too shitty to tell you that.

Sincerely,………

Will

Hey everyone. My name is Casey Holmes and I'm the newest writer around these parts. I like to call my writing style deliberate. I hope to contribute my own brand of whatever it is that my brand delivers. Here's my first shot and it's a little unpolished, but it's a start. It gave me a chance to get some things out:

Will
by
C.W. Holmes

At the core of the matter was a divergence of paths and an ever diminishing amount of will that was driving her away. By the time she came to me, she had resigned herself to the facts and faced enough reality to come to her conclusion. She asked me to pretend for her sake and I immediately made the decision to be miserable with her rather than miserable without her. She told me that she didn't want to lose me (they always say that) and I told her that she probably would. We did. I tried for a little while out of equal parts habit and desperation. I couldn't remember a time in my life when I didn't know her. I didn't think I had a choice. I was disappointed by the way things were ending, again. I knew that I had to make a hard decision, but I didn't know if I could do it. Do I lose her now, or do I lose her later? For her sake, I was living a lie. I didn't know how long I could keep it up.

We had plans the weekend after my birthday and for better or worse I was going to keep them. As happy as I was to see her, I was unhappy that it wasn't under my conditions. I was jaded because it might never be again. It wasn't the way I wanted it to be. She stormed into my room ready to fly. We didn't have time to hesitate. I told her that I wanted to put on a white silk tie, but couldn't figure out how to do it gracefully. She said that I didn't need it. I told her that I wanted to look nice too. She hurried me out the door, into the car, and we were off. I asked her if something was wrong and she told me a story. I knew that I was in trouble.

The reason I was there that night was because somebody disappointed her. Somebody let her down. I immediately forgot the fact that this was the woman who broke my heart just a few days earlier and became her court jester. I felt a familiar wave of self-pathos wash over me and said, “Here we go again.” I stupidly forgot that I was in pain and found the will to make her night complete.

When we showed up I was happy that it wasn't too cold. I wanted to hold her hand, but only held myself back. We found a corner to stand in, close to the stage, and I made fun of people just to see her laugh. She told me she couldn't take me anywhere. I told her that she shouldn't go anywhere without me. When the main event came on stage, I stood behind her and put my hands around her waist. I tried to dance with her, but I don't even think she wanted me to dance with her. It was just too easy to hold her close. I wanted to dance with her but it quickly became a position of defense. I braced myself for every blow so that she didn't have to. I made sure that this night, she would get to dance in peace. Even if she had to dance with me. A fat sweaty man wearing nothing but an overabundance of body hair, and a thong, pressed up against me and made obnoxious gestures to the girl dancing to the left of us. It took all of my will to not turn and make him pay for forcing himself on everyone in the audience.. My fist already hurt from grinding my knuckles into the carpet of the stage.

She was happy as we walked back to my car. As usual I played the hero and came to her rescue. She thanked me, sincerely. I tried to hold onto her as we walked, but didn't feel right so I returned my arm to the side of my body and tried to keep warm. My shoes were sticky and my toes were bleeding. We didn't talk much on the ride home. Every now and then we would speak about our lives and where they weren't going. She didn't know what to make of life and I didn't have anything to tell her. We agreed that there was more to life and I couldn't help but feel that she was passing up something more to life in me. I resolved to myself that she would rather be miserable, than be with me. Maybe she was too scared. Maybe I wasn't worth it. Maybe she knew that someday she'd have to leave me anyway. I was running out of things to say. When we got to my house I put on my jacket and I hugged her as long as I could. I think she was expecting me to kiss and maybe she wanted me to kiss her, but all the same she didn't, so I didn't. She would never kiss me first.

She walked to her car and I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I watched as she walked away. I went into my room and slowly got ready for bed. I thought about dancing with her. I thought about the way she acted like the past few months just didn't happen. I thought about how much effort I put into the night just because she was sad. I felt like such a fool. I couldn't believe that I held her hand. I couldn't believe that I walked out the door and made it my mission to put a smile on her face. I loved that smile. I loved her even though she broke my heart. I loved her even though she was a mess just like me. I loved her even though I never expected she would love me at all, let alone the way I felt that I deserved.

I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep that night. Even though I was tired, I tossed and I turned for about three hours. I could smell her on my clothing and between my sheets. I realized quickly that the end of the relationship didn't mean the end of thinking of her every night. She gave me something pleasant to think about on lonely nights anxious with loneliness. Now she was the loneliness at night. I wrestled with the idea of losing somebody I loved. I thought of her face and her smile. I always loved that smile. I felt embarrassed and stupid. I felt lonely and ugly. I tried so hard to just get away.

We had plans the upcoming weekend and I wondered if I would have the will to keep it up. She needed me in her life. I wasn't nearly as strong as she needed me to be, or as weak as I often felt about myself. It was easy to tell her that she wouldn't lose me, and the truth is that I never wanted to lose her. I wanted to tell her that she would always be able to rely on me, but talk is cheap. I didn't know if I had the strength to hold her hand when she needed it or give her a shoulder to cry on. She would never cry on my shoulder anyway. I could probably handle it. I wasn't really sure. In the end it was all a matter of will. How strong could I be for somebody who would never love me the way I deserve? I still can't will myself to sleep at night.

STOPWATCH: A Dialogue (Draft One)

By Christopher Atkinson



“There’s an old episode of the Twilight Zone where a guy gets a literal stopwatch. He hit’s the button, time stops,” said Sam. “That’s like the ultimate power. He can do whatever he wants and there’s not a person in the world to stop him.”
“Oh, like, he does things when time’s stopped?” asked Mark. “When you said ‘literal’ I thought you meant, like, he just stops and, uh, he just stops and, you know, watches. Things.”
We were all high at the time, by the way.
“No, dude, that would be lame,” said Sam.
“Totally,” chimed Mark.
“Why would you do that? I mean, you’d have all the power in the world. You could do whatever you want. Go wherever. Be whatever. All in an instant, at least essentially. It’d be a waste to just look around,” said Sam.
“But think about it, man,” said Mark. “The ability to just, uh, just explore. Any moment. Take the time to check out a situation before you, uh, before you make a decision.”
I felt my eyeball twitch, my eyelid droop, so I just listened.
“That’s only when you can see physical variables though, dude. What if it’s just like an argument with your girl? You know, and if you fuck up, she leaves for good, but if you do good, she stays? Your stopwatch wouldn’t be able to do anything.”
“But at least you could stop and think, man,” said Mark. “Like, think of all the things you could possibly say, like uh, and instead of just saying stupid shit off the top of your head, you could clear your thoughts and play the sensitive card.”
“It’s not gonna stop you from making mistakes, though, because you’ll keep making mistakes until you learn lessons. So you can sit there and think things through but you’ll keep fucking up until you learn, the stopwatch can’t stop that. That’s just how that goes,” said Sam.
“Granted,” said Mark. “So then nix that shit. What if you saw the world’s most beautiful girl or the most serene landscape or something. You know that shit ain’t gonna be there forever. She’ll get older or we’ll build on that shirt. Go to the Grand Canyon or something, you could grow old looking at that shit. And, uh, well yeah.”
“That’s great, one minute you’re here and 20 years old, the next we find an 80-year-old’s bones with your DNA at the bottom of the Canyon."
“That’s the life, man.”
“No it’s not,” said Sam, “and I’ll tell you why. I picture the most beautiful girl and it’s not just the way she looks or the fact that she’s youthful, okay? It’s the grace with which she walks. It’s the way she smiles politely, respectfully at everyone. Fuck, it’s the smell of her hair, which would surely fade if time froze for too long.”
“True, true.”
“And as for this landscape, let’s think about that for a second. A forest, okay, we can see the trees. Picture them. Picture them not swaying in the wind. Picture all the little animals frozen in action, not building little habitats or laying eggs or raising young or, fuck, killing each other for sustenance and survival. You’re not freezing a moment, dude, you’re freezing life.”
“You’re flagged from this bong, man, you’re messed up,” said Mark. He took a hit from said bong and passed it to me; I declined. “So what happened in this Twilight Zone?”
“Oh, it was great. He freezes time and robs a bank but he breaks the watch and can’t unfreeze time.”
“Shit,” said Mark, “That must suck.”

Choose a word!

We usually choose a random word out of a book to get us started on our next story, but you should help us choose the next word! After you read the stories we have written, if you have a word in mind, just leave it in the comments under this post! You can help inspire creativity with your word and.. well that's really all you'll get. But maybe you'll get to read a story with the word you chose and see how we work with it! Thanks for the help!

Stopwatch

First, I will point out the obvious- that the "every two weeks" idea didn't really work out. I'm going to abandon the timeframe issue and use this more as a place to post short stories at whatever interval they come. I will continue the "selected word" theme though. I like that as inspiration.

That said, the word was "stopwatch" this time around and I think I took a weird turn with it, but this is what I came up with.

Stopwatch
by
Don Macavoy

My hand was stuck inside my jeans pocket trying to pull out my keys as I trotted up the stairs to my apartment. The jeans were way too tight anyway but Renee picked them out because she thinks they look good on me. This is the power girls have over me; I wear uncomfortable jeans with no pocket space (girls just don’t understand that guys need pocket space) just because she likes them.
I trip on the last step with my right hand still in my pocket. I was never very good at doing two things at once. Grabbing the wall with my free hand, I balanced myself and popped the keys out of their holding cell. I turned the corner and stopped in front of the white door with a “3” nailed next to a faded outline of a “5.” I wiggled the key in and slid the door open.
I dropped my tennis bag on the chair just inside the door as I instinctively head for the fridge. I open it up and grab a bottled water, perusing the meager contents for some leftovers or anything edible to snack on. As I cracked open the bottle I scanned the small one bedroom apartment for my girlfriend. The place seemed unusually empty.
I went into the bedroom, expecting to see her sleeping on top of the covers, the way she likes to nap in the middle of the day. She wasn’t there. Something else was wrong though. It’s a strange feeling when you know something is wrong but you can’t quite put your finger on it. I stood staring for what seemed like a while before it finally hit me that the lamp Renee got the week before at a yard sale (and insisted on putting on the night table even though there wasn’t room, leaving the alarm clock on the extreme edge, ready to fall) was gone.
I bit my lip and wrinkled my brow, tilting my head to the side like a confused dog. I wondered why she would have moved the lamp. I was only joking when I told her it was ugly. Okay, it was a horrible eyesore, but I really didn’t mind it being there.
It was then that I finally moved my head from the confused tilt and noticed that the closet was open. I looked inside and noticed that all of Renee’s clothes were gone. I started realizing that all kinds of things of hers were missing. I walked into the bathroom. No toothbrush or robe. I walked back to the living room and my eyes fell upon the void in the DVDs where her small collection once rested.
She’s gone. She was asleep when I left for work in the morning and eight hours later everything she owns has disappeared along with her. Everything seemed to be going fine. We went to a movie the night before and fell asleep after laughing about our first date a few years ago. It was a perfect night. So why did she go?
I went from confused to sad then to mad. How could she just leave while I’m at work and not even talk to me about it? After I dwelled on that thought for a while, I just got numb. I had a few beers that hit me pretty quickly because I hadn’t eaten since lunch and there was no food in the house. I sat on the couch watching a string of sitcom reruns until I passed out.
I woke up on the couch with a headache. There was a woman on television cleaning her ceiling with a mop. An infomercial. I turned it off and got up off the couch. The clock on the microwave told me it was just past two. I still had a few hours before I had to be up for work so I could get some real sleep in my bed. So I got some water that would hopefully help my headache and headed to the bedroom.
The bed was made because Renee made it every morning. I never understood making a bed that you would just be getting into later anyway. But I took in the sight for a moment since this was likely the last time I’d see it this way for quite a while.
I pulled back the covers on my side out of habit, laughing at myself that I still felt like I needed to stay to one side of the bed. I decided to stretch out to her side just because I could. I pulled down the cover and heard something hit the bed. I felt around and picked up something cold and metallic with a chain attached. I went to turn on the light and realized it wasn’t there anymore, so I got up and flipped the switch for the overhead fan light.
When I saw what I was holding I sat down at the end of the bed, stunned. It was a silver pocket watch that I had given Renee for our first anniversary. She always carried it with her but now she had taken everything that belonged to her except this one thing that I always thought meant so much.

I bought the pocket watch a month and a half before our anniversary when I saw it at a jewelry shop in the city. It was partly a joke but partly because of something she had told me. She was very close with her grandfather when she was young. She spent most of her childhood with him, taking walks and learning the constellations. He even taught her to tell time with the pocket watch he always carried with him.
When he died, Renee was very upset and wanted to keep the watch so he could always be with her in some way. Her father insisted that the watch be buried with him because that’s what he would have wanted. Renee knew that her grandfather would have wanted the watch to stay with her, but it was no use arguing.
I went looking for a gift for her since I had gotten my first paycheck as Assistant Manager at the supermarket. I had recently dropped out of college to make more money for rent. Ironic right? Renee and I wanted to move in together and I needed the extra cash right then, not a few years down the road when I would graduate. I was in the market for a necklace or a ring when I stumbled upon the watch. I remembered the story she told me and thought she might like it, even though it wouldn’t be the same. She was also always late for everything so I figured I could joke with her about her needing something to keep her on time. I always like going for meaning over a big price tag anyway.
A little over a month later, I presented her with the watch at dinner. She loved it. She cried a little and hugged me for a long time. After that she kept it in her pocket all the time, clipped to her belt loop just like her grandfather always did. She laughed at my joke about her always being late and actually started to show up on time from then on, smiling wide and holding up the watch.
Since I started dating Renee, she had been late to almost every date we had. I had adjusted my schedule to account for her lateness, so if we were supposed to meet at seven, I would be there by seven-thirty just in time to see her arrive. It was hard to get used to the change when she started showing up on time.
Whenever I would show up she would say “You’re 4 and half minutes late, mister!” Each time she would tell me the exact amount of time I was late. I started calling her “Stopwatch.” She thought it was great so she started timing things just to screw with me. It was funny most of the time except the one time she timed us during sex. I digress.

I sat on the edge of the bed, turning the watch around in my hand for hours. I thought about all the times she pulled it out happily when someone asked what time it was and how many times she gave me hell for being late. She did it in a hilariously cute way though. I started wondering again how she could have gone without saying anything at all.
Suddenly, I noticed it wasn’t so hard to see things across the room anymore. The sun was coming up. I knew that meant that I would have to go to work very shortly. I popped open the watch to see what time it was. I thought my eyes were still adjusting to the light, but even after I rubbed them the hands still weren’t moving. I couldn’t believe Renee let the batteries die. She was always on top of that and had extras in her purse in case it happened while we were out.
I knew I wouldn’t be getting any sleep and decided I would go out to get some breakfast since I was up early enough. First I wanted to fix the watch though. I went to the kitchen and got the little screwdriver from the drawer. I pried the silver textured back off of the watch and dropped the screwdriver back in the drawer. I went to pull out the battery and saw a small piece of paper in the battery slot.
I pulled the paper out and unfolded it. It was Renee’s handwriting. It said:

I’m sorry I had to go, but I did it for you. The past three years have been amazing and I love you, which is why I can’t be the reason you don’t succeed. For a long time I let myself believe it was okay that you dropped out of school for me, so we could have more money and live together. But since then I’ve seen you stay the same and not strive for better. You were content in just being together. While that is romantic in a somewhat outdated sense, you have so much potential that I can’t be the reason you never use it. I will always love you. Keep this watch with you always like I did and remember, time is the worst thing you can waste and best thing you can never get back.

-R

I guess I really never was good at doing two things at once. Before I went to work that day, instead of breakfast, I went to the community college and signed up for three courses that started the next month.
It’s been a little over a year since that day and I just graduated with my Associate’s degree. I’m going to continue on to get my B.A. but this is a good start. Over time I came to realize that Renee leaving me was the best thing she could have done for me. I still miss her but I can never thank her enough for being that selfless.
According to my watch, I’m going to be right on time for my new job.

Normal, draft one.

(Tell Me Which Character You Think Is) Normal
by Christopher Atkinson


The train shudders as it takes a turn. As he rests in his seat, he watches the other passengers vibrate in unison. In their simultaneous motion no one is discernable from the rest. If someone’s watching him, he thinks, he must also look like part of the whole, a cell in this organism of humanity.
He shuts the book in his hand and drops it on the empty seat beside him. This author’s usually good, but this story’s trite and boring. He’ll leave it on the train - perhaps the next person who happens upon it will find it entertaining. For him, he’d much rather watch these people. Them in their suits and ties and him no different.
Most of them look so plain, so regular that he can’t help but wonder what they’re like at home, tucked away from the rest of the world. This guy in the corner, he can’t even fall asleep without clutching the briefcase in his lap. Maybe he’s a serial killer, or worse, a pimp, leaving his victims alive to suffer under his strong arm and be in his debt.
A bald man with a red face and glasses can’t stop checking his watch. Maybe he cheats on his wife with his secretary, his bulbous belly bouncing beneath his mistress’ tits.
Then there’s the librarian-looking lady, with her bun in her hair, her glasses on the end of her nose, legs crossed. She might sell her cats to some Chinese food place. Maybe she owns the place, cooks it herself. Everybody’s got their secrets. None of these people are special in that regard.
The man, this Observer of Humanity, let’s call him Ted. He can’t tell his suit, tie, or briefcase from anyone else’s on the train. Who knew which was which or who was who?
The train halts. Ted hears his stop called over the PA. Maybe the conductor is a rapist.
The walk to his apartment from the train station is never eventful. No one on the street watches their steps as they walk. They chat on their phones or listen to their music. They stare into space. They’re there but not now. They’re there in the future. They’re there in the past. And Ted, he’s there with them. He’s the one that makes their lives worthwhile. He’s the only one watching it happen.
After a mile or so, he retreats, as always, into his home. This is when it turns into a sitcom. He enters the apartment, drops his briefcase, removes his jacket and loudly lets his wife know he’s returned. She never answers. She’s always watching TV in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Or she’s always on the computer, reading the news and chatting to her girlfriends, headphones on, oldies blaring.
Today, he finds her sleeping on the couch. She snores lightly, her chest rising and falling. He watches the rhythm of her breasts. He wishes he could jump on her, ravage her. She’s so beautiful. She’s his wife, he ought to be able to. He knows she’d scream, she’d kick. They’d both get injured. Bleeding and bruised, they’d sleep.
Instead, he works his way to the kitchen and finds some leftovers.

Another night watching the news. Other people’s misery is on for the next three hours, commercial-free. Ted never misses it. Stacked beside the television, atop the VCR, are VHS tapes, all labeled “NEWS REEL,” followed by dates: 7/7/85, 9/20/88, 6/6/93, 9/11/01. All in chronological order. All with ratings on them, one to five stars. Most have three or more.
Ted watches the attractive lady recite the news. Her left eyes twinkles and Ted wonders if maybe she’s a nympho. Ted stops listening, but when they go to the footage, returns his full attention to the screen. The video shows an apartment building being ravaged by fire. The flames escape through windows halfway up the building, reach desperately for the roof.
Ted’s eyes light up. The building seems familiar, as do the buildings around it. Ted knows this neighborhood. The fire engines, the scared bewildered people, the natural quality of the violence. This is all so delightful.
And there, in the top corner of the video, it says, “LIVE.” Ted’s keys are already in his pocket. His wife still snores in the living room. And it’s early yet.
When he leaves, he makes sure the door is locked behind him.

Around the corner from the fire, a block and a half down. He sees the flames, or at least the light emanating from them. He hears the crackling, either from the fire or the building it’s destroying. He smells the smoke, inhales it. His lungs embrace the smoke of a cigarette called destruction. Decimation.
He rounds the corner and there’s the scene from the TV: The fire, the tenants watching their lives literally go up in flames. The firefighters working so hard to curb the damage. The spectators, the news teams. Everyone finds a purpose to serve, even if it’s just calling a friend to let them know what the flames are like.
But that’s not the show Ted came to see. Surrounding all this hubbub, engulfing it, or right smack dab in the middle of it, depending on how you look at it, is a much more subtle show that still tells the how story.
Ted came to watch the faces.
There’s a family. The father’s face remains emotionless, stoic. For a moment, his cheek twitches, nearly giving way to whatever fear or anxiety crosses his mind this second. He doesn’t blink, so his eyes reflect the flames that burn turn the pants he wears in the family to ash, that fry the bacon he brings home. Maybe it’s the smoke or maybe it isn’t but something is watering his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t blink because it would send the water down his cheek in tear form, letting his kids, who already had that horror-movie-protagonist, what-the-hell-is-happening-and-what-do-we-do look on their faces, know that there’s something to worry about. You don’t even get that in the best movies or TV shows. Actors spend their entire careers trying to achieve that moment. But no matter how much talent they’ve got, how amazing they are, there are just some things they’ll never be able to replicate.
Like watching everything you’ve spent years working for, a life you’ve spent a decade or more to build, go up in flames and be gone in minutes.
No evidence it ever happened.
Ted wanted to pop popcorn over the fire; this was sheer entertainment.
A firefighter, his eyes narrow. There are other fighters, in their big yellow coats and pants, with the matching helmet. It all must keep them nice and toasty by the fire. The Fighter, he looks determined with that clenched jaw of “There’s got to be something else we can do,” while the others just try to contain the flames, fatigued; one even yawns.
Ted can tell that Fighter has the superhero instinct in him, that if -- wait.
Wait.
This is exactly what Ted had crossed his fingers - an
elderly woman, curly gray hair, wrinkles like a shirt crumpled up in the back of a drawer for a month. Ted wonders if you could iron a face.
Then he wonders if that would cause her as much pain as she already appears to be in. Her expression is as twisted and skewed as her arthritic hands. Her eyes wide - she’s not holding back those tears. There might even be enough of them to douse the flames. Her mouth is wide like when the dentist puts that plastic piece in it to hold your cheeks apart. Ted isn’t sure which is more profuse - her tears or her slobber.
And the wailing! Oh, the wailing. It’s mangled, screeching, terrible and glorious. If you tear her limb from limb, light her torso on fire while slicing her skin with rusty nails from the top of her neck to the top of her thigh, you won’t hear such tortured screaming.
That can only mean all that Ted could ever hope for.
“My granddaughter!” she cries. “My granddaughter and my car are up there!” She points to a general top-story floor. “Somebody help!”
Ted swears he hears someone tell her there are no pets allowed. Then he turns his gaze to the superhero Firefighter. The Fighter eyes all the fighters around him.
This is it, thinks Ted. The moment of truth.
It’s now or never.

Ted enters his apartment, closes and locks the door behind him. The lights are out and it’s mostly silent except a soft voice coming from down the hall. When he follows it he finds his wife has made it down to the bedroom; she’d fallen asleep to the news.
There in bed she lay naked and sexy. He thinks of how he should have just taken her on the couch, how he should now, and without thinking he’s naked. Without thinking, he’s under the covers.
She might be asleep, but she’s wet, so without thinking he’s not sure whether or not he’s raping his wife. After a few pumps, she’s awake and saying, “I saw the news.” And she says, “Did you go?”
Ted just pumps.
“There was a fire,” she says, and Ted thinks she’s getting wetter.
“A little girl died,” she says, “and a firefighter.”
Ted needs to hold back his cum. “A father couldn’t cry in front of his kids,” he tells her, “and the grandmother of the dead girl lost it.”
“But they saved a cat,” she says, and they cum together.
Ted asks, “Did you tape it for me?”

Normal (First Draft)

Normal

by Don Macavoy

The trees whirred by as a I sped down the two lane highway just outside of town. There were other cars on the road but I didn’t really see them. My eyes were set straight ahead in a trance. I’m not sure how I made it this far without hitting someone or running a stoplight. That would be awful irony.
I slowed down instinctively as I neared the driveway. I pulled in, with more speed than I should have, creating a smokescreen of dust that trailed my car all the way to where I parked before it shrouded me in a momentary darkness. How appropriate.
I got out of the car, coughing to get the gravel out of my throat, then proceeded across the lawn expressionless. I sauntered along the fresh spring grass, around the big stones and sprinklers I had learned to navigate over the past few months. I stopped near your flowers and stared down at them, remembering the first time I came here.

It was January. Your whole family was there. A bunch of your friends too. It was snowing really hard and it had already piled up a good deal but everyone was standing around out there, huddling in little groups to build up some heat. Their black petticoats were a stark contrast to the ocean of white surrounding them. They were the shadow to a bright day.
I’ve never been that comfortable talking to your family, so I stood off to the side like usual. The snow kept hitting my face, begging me to open my mouth and taste it but I wasn’t in the mood to eat snow that day. Every once in a while someone I knew would come over and talk to me for a few minutes, slowly stepping away after their questions evoked little more than a patronizing nod from me.
I just stood there taking in the cold. My body had lost the ability to shiver a while ago. The snow I stood in was melting into my shoes as the falling flakes turned to water on my head and streamed down my face. I listened to the words that people were saying as I watched the swirling mess of white in the foreground of a grey sky. Just clichés and comments about the weather. That’s why I felt better alone with my thoughts. They may not be happy or interesting but at least they’re original.
I looked across the snowy field, through the crowd to where you were. I wondered if you would get a chance to read the note I gave you earlier that day. I would go ask you but I didn’t think I would get an answer. Not one I would understand anyway. So I just stayed at the farthest edge of the crowd thinking about all the things I explained in that note and wondering if you could ever understand.

I had written to you about all you mean to me. You were my first love. My first real relationship. Everybody in high school thinks they were in love at least once; I did. But then two years later when I found you, the real thing, I realized I had never even been close.
I explained how I took you for granted. I became complacent with what I had. I didn’t appreciate you and I took advantage of your trust in me. I had time to reflect on all of that during the two weeks we weren’t talking. I missed you so much. Even though I was on vacation and should have been having fun, all I was thinking about was you. About my apology.
A few days into it, I called you and blurted out how sorry I was. You admitted that you had missed me too and I admired you for being strong, not calling me first. We talked for an hour or two, deciding to meet once I got back from Florida. The rest of the trip was much better. I was able to have fun, but I was still formulating my speech to you in the back of my mind.
The moment the plane touched down at Philadelphia International I sent you a message asking when we would meet. It was the only time I had been so anxiously awaiting my return from vacation. We made our plans and the next few hours passed slowly. The ride home from the airport was seemingly endless.
We agreed to meet at the park by our old high school. I got there about an hour early. I paced around the swings, kicking at the mulch, then walked around the pond at least four times. I had a terrible heavy feeling in my gut for which walking did nothing. I just wanted you to be there so we could get this over with and go on to be happy together. Then I saw your headlights.
So many things were going through my head when you walked up to me that I couldn’t pick one to spit out first. I just hugged you. It was the best hug I’ve ever had. When you put your arms around me and squeezed me back I felt like everything would be okay. That feeling that I had lost you for good was finally gone and you were here with me.
At that moment I knew that I could be a different person. A better person. I knew that I never wanted to feel that alone ever again. I would do everything I could do to show how much I loved you and how much this meant to me. And I told you. I don’t think you completely believed me, but you could see the passion in my eyes and hear it in my voice. Then you decided you would take me back.
For the next few days I was elated and everyone could tell. I spent the time thinking of things we could do. Places we could go. We talked on the phone every night like when we first met. Everything was going amazingly well. Then, just one week after our reunion and my solemn vow to never take you for granted again, everything seemed to be back to the usual drill.
We had run out of exciting things to talk about on the phone so there were some awkward silences before we hung up. We had seen each other every day since I had gotten home so it wasn’t really a “special occasion” as it felt like the first few times. You asked me to come over later that night and I said that I would. I had to work in the morning, a few hours after midnight, so I would have to sleep for a while and get up early to come see you. When my alarm went off at one A.M. I was not ready to wake up. I hit the snooze and went back to sleep until right before work. I was sure you’d understand. I’d just see you the next night.
After work the next day I had band practice. We were in the cold garage, rocking out as always, when I broke a bass string. Bass strings are much thicker than guitar strings, therefore much harder to break. It was strange. We had to stop playing so I could fix it, but I didn’t have any spare A strings. Since you played bass as well, I figured I would call you up and ask you for one.
When I picked up my cell phone I noticed a missed call from your best friend. You always called me from her phone when you didn’t have service so you must have been at her house wondering why I didn’t come over last night. I called the number back and she picked up the phone, not you.

I shuddered suddenly. I looked up from the flowers I had been staring at and realized it had gotten dark. I must have been standing here for a few hours. I wiped my eyes and gazed at the bright moon that illuminated the spot where I stood. I closed my eyes and lowered my head slowly. When I opened my eyes I stared down at my glimmering tears on a granite rock. They spilled into the letters of your name and the etched date, exactly four months ago.
This has been every day for me. I drive straight here, I stare, I play our memories in my head like a movie, I find another reason to hate myself and then I wonder when it will end. When will this end? That’s what I ask the psychiatrist, whom I was urged to see a few months ago, every Tuesday and Friday night when I sit in his vinyl chair that’s a far cry from the comfortable couch we picture when we think of a seeing a shrink.
He never has a solid answer for me. The only other thing I ever ask him is why I still feel like this. Why I still do this every day. His response is always the same, patronizing psychologist cop-out answer: “Feeling this way after the sudden death of someone you love is normal.” It’s normal.
I’m still wondering if you’ll read my note. I left it right next to you the last time I saw you, lying in the front of the room as everyone passed by and looked at you, dropping gifts and letters on the satin you lay upon. It was still there when they closed the lid over your head and I watched from the snow bank behind the crowd of black coats as you were lowered into the ground. Lowered beneath where I’m standing right now. Where I’ve stood each day for the past four months. Talking and expecting a reply somehow. Because now that I’ve lost you again, I need you back.
So I talk to the ground and stare at tulips until the sun hides away. Then I leave, knowing that I’ll come back the next day. It’s normal. I’m normal.