The Dinosaur Dream

My parents have been giving me grief all evening about my “last night as a teenager.” It has been in some ways quite different from, and in others quite similar, to most of the Wednesday nights of my teenage years: dinner, playing with my cats, watching Mr. Bean, and doing dishes. Its casual nature stands in stark contrast, however, to my first night as a teenager. During my last night as a twelve-year-old, I had a remarkable dream. There was a desperate hunt for fried chicken, an epic battle involving dinosaurs and half of a giraffe, and a few well-placed musical numbers.
I desperately wanted to share this dream with my family members, but the whole day had been rather full. They had blindfolded me and taken me to the Beehive Tea Room, where I had my first cup of jasmine tea, then helped me make fondant surf boards for the penguins on my birthday cake (I was thirteen, ok), and finally, helped me make mac and cheese from scratch. On this auspicious occasion, my parents opened a bottle of champagne; I guess they had one lying around from Christmas celebrations and felt my entrance into my teen years warranted the flair. However, as my siblings and I ranged in age from 11 to 14, my parents had no help finishing the large bottle. It was an ambitious choice on their part, considering the wine they had already consumed while dinner was being made.

We ate dinner, and the conversation never lent itself to the interpretation of my dream, so I waited patiently to mention it while my parents consumed many a flute of bubbly. Finally, the time for cake arrived, and the final glasses of champagne were poured. There was a lull in conversation, and I took the opportunity to introduce the subject of my dream. It was in vain; I was interrupted four or five times, first by parents, then by cats, then by siblings, until finally I raised my voice.

“HEY! Can I PLEASE tell you guys this dream without being interrupted?”

The table was silent, and my dad, visibly tipsy, nodded. “Sorry, sweetie. Go ahead and tell your dream.”

I began, but got no further than the first word when dad threw his champagne over his shoulder, dropping the flute into his lap and saying “lalalalala,” fingers in his ears. The table erupted into giggles. I stamped my tiny teen feet.

“Daddy! What are you doing?”

He picked up the miraculously unbroken glass and explained that he had meant to tease me by sticking his fingers in his ears and pretending to ignore the telling of the dream I had worked so hard and been so patient for, but he had forgotten the step that involved setting his champagne back on the table. From the other end of the room, my mother shook her head slowly.

“You know dear, if you weren’t going to drink that,” she mused, her own glass dangling from two fingers, empty, “I would have had it.”

By that point, my dream had rather lost its punch, but perhaps tomorrow, I shall attempt to tell it again.

The Canyon

My grandmother says the Canyon used to be less of a chasm and more of a crack in the sidewalk, but that’s hard to believe. Canyons don’t form in a generation. Mom never contradicts her though, just sits there with her eyes on the hem of her shirt, looking sad. I’m not supposed to go near the Canyon, but everyone does it. I’ve even caught Grandma there a few times, but neither of us can accuse the other one without incriminating ourselves, so we don’t. We just walk to the edge and feel the strange sucking sensation, like the wind at the bottom is pulling all of the energy out of your body. I can’t imagine a crack in the sidewalk doing that.

            According to Grandma’s mushed-up brain, when she was a little girl, our town was a city, with a government and everything. She tells me about how there was a Mayor who was in charge, and a Cabinet who helped him keep things organized and running smoothly. There were parks, and a town swimming pool, and libraries, and people to look after all of those things. No curfew, either, and school five days a week. There must have been a lot more people back then. Grandma never says. I don’t think she liked the Mayor much because talking about him pinches her eyebrows together.

            Elizabeth says her great uncle Dan was part of the Cabinet, and he got sucked into the Canyon entirely, that whatever the Canyon sucked out of him was all he was made of, so it took his whole being away. The same thing happened to the Mayor. Most of the Cabinet survived, but none of them were able to speak after their encounters. Dan was important, I think. He had a lot of responsibilities. Elizabeth’s mom says not to worry about that because it won’t happen anymore, yet that doesn’t stop me from lying awake some nights and wondering if Dan maybe just stood too close to the edge and fell. I don’t stand too close to the edge, just enough to feel the rush while Elizabeth stands guard. She never ever stands by the Canyon, because she’s frightened of the force inside that gap. She thinks it’s full of evil. I disagree; I can sense something wonderful about it, if only I could get a hold of the wind, instead of the wind getting hold of me.

            I’m going to the Canyon tonight to think about growing up. It is a little ritual I perform. Without a trip to the Canyon, tomorrow won’t feel like a birthday. The thing is, tomorrow is also the 50^th anniversary of the Canyon’s appearance in the sidewalk, so it might be crowded. That’s a big anniversary. It’s a big birthday too: ten. That’s why I didn’t invite Elizabeth this year. Grandma says that in her day, the Canyon was guarded by policemen on anniversaries to keep people from visiting. They were supposed to protect the people, she says, but most of the time they used their jobs to protect themselves. The Canyon took most of them, too. The Canyon only takes certain kinds of people. What those kinds of people are is a mystery to me though, because no one will tell me. Apparently I’m too young. Maybe I’ll be old enough to know tomorrow. Sharing a birthday with it sometimes tricks me into thinking I have some sort of privilege, like I get to know things about it that other people don’t, just because of when I was born.

            When I go to the Canyon, a few hours after Mom has shut off the lights, and Grandma is snoring on her cot, I find I’m entirely alone. It’s just me, and this giant hole that pulls on your insides. It’s a little scary, and a little exhilarating. I’m fascinated by it. It makes me feel strong, energized. On the rim of the Canyon, I’m in control; I can do anything I want.

            Stepping closer to the edge than I’ve ever been before, I stare down into it, trying to see the river that carved it. There is no river.

            “What are you?” I whisper. It’s tugging a little more than it used to. I jump back because I swear the Canyon laughed at me. Just a chuckle, but it was there. “You can’t hear me, you’re a canyon.”

            There’s another chuckle. “Of course I can hear you.” It sounds smooth with a tangy after-taste, like a cough drop.

            I sit down. My legs feel like they’re being erased, hot and rubbery and distant. I’m not afraid. At least that is what I’m saying, even if that is not quite what I’m feeling. I’m feeling like there’s nothing I can do unless the Canyon thinks it’s okay for me to do it. I’m feeling like if the Canyon tells me anything, I have to do it. I don’t like it. I’m starting to understand that face Mom makes when Grandma tells stories about the old days, that defeat and resignation. I’m feeling—

            “Powerless.”

            And it’s right. I want to move away from the edge, to run home and hug my mom and never go near that Canyon again, but I can’t. It won’t let me. So I sit there, my knees shaking on the dirt in front of me, my fingers gripping at tree roots as the ground slowly runs away from my body. My nose is full of mud and there are goose bumps on my arms. I’m being sucked into the Canyon, and there is nothing I can do about it. I guess power destroys you in the end, if you’re not careful with it.

Getting Off of "The Gravitron"

This past Saturday, my family went to the Got To Be NC Festival, a giant carnival/mini State Fair for North Carolina to celebrate itself. It was grand! I got to eat fresh produce, and bbq, and my favorite, cotton candy. I got to ride silly rides with my family, and pet goats. There was a deer in the petting zoo, which was temporarily problematic, but there were enough cows/goats to make up for it. It was basically a very fun afternoon, and a perfect homecoming. Of course, it being a carnival, and there being cotton candy, I was humorously reminded of this poem, which I wrote about 6 months ago, which has a very different take on carnivals and family....

Getting Off of The Gravitron

My mama bought me

a ticket to the carnival

even though

she didn’t really want me to stay.

I dragged her with me,

a tiny weight on my balloon wrist,

pulling me down to earth

no matter

how high the Ferris wheel climbed.

I never once looked at the ground

or the brightly colored candy booth

all gold and red and blue.

I stared at the clouds—

swirling, sweet wisps of silk

purple and pink and yellow,

imagining just how delicious it would be

to wrap my jaws around one.

Mama smiled in all the pictures,

happy to be holding my hand,

but my eyes are never on the camera,

never on her face, stuck

directly towards the sky instead.

Still, she bought me a cotton candy

as big and fluffy as they come,

the cone finally grasped

in my sweaty, confident palms.

Oh Mama!

Why didn’t you tell me

as soon as I got that candy

between my fragile little teeth,

it would harden into one small sugar rock,

and then melt on my tongue,

like it had never been there at all?

Have You Met My Sister? She Looks Just Like You

Late in my senior year of high school, my sister Abbie posted a photo album to Facebook labeled “Family.” The cover photo was a family portrait taken that fall, which seemed to indicate that the album would only contain those proofs, all of which I had pre-approved for public viewing. Nervous anyway, I clicked through the images to make sure there was nothing humiliating lurking in their midst. To my relief, while there were other events included in the album, none were offensive. The last few were from a road trip my sister and I took to California with my best friend, Sahara. “I love that I am in an album of yours labeled ‘Family’!” Sahara commented on a shot of the three of us. We could pass for sisters in our identical poses, pasty skin, and dark hair, but I know better and can spot our myriad tiny differences. The last picture is just Abbie and me, hugging on the beach, our cheeks pressed together, a bonfire in the background, our hair windswept and curled with salt water. With the camera so close, all the differences in our faces are clear to me—my green eyes against her brown ones, the roundness of her nose and cheeks in comparison to my pointiness, her thick eyebrows and long hair dwarfing the absence of my eyebrows and my fluffy Shirley Temple curls. Our smiles are not even the same shape, yet, right there, in the comments, a friend of Abbie’s has posted “I can never tell you two apart…!”

I curbed my impulse to reply, and instead looked forward eagerly to the end of the summer when I would be in New York, a place Abbie had never even visited, and she would still be home, and, finally, no one would be mixing us up. I would be Laura and she would be Abbie, and there would be no name tags or clarifications or confusions, just miles and miles of individuality.

It wasn’t until a brisk Sunday morning in October that I began to suspect that it was perhaps not my sister that was the problem in these misidentification scenarios. Standing in the entry way of my small New York City church, a well-meaning, friendly woman greeted me: “Good morning, Abigail!” I smiled and returned the sentiment, giving her my usual one-or-two mix-up grace period. So used to this type of encounter, it slipped my mind that she had no reason to call me Abigail. I got called by Abbie’s name all the time, even by my own parents; it’s a hazard of sharing genetic material with someone only nineteen months younger than you. What’s more, sixteen years of this particular event had taught me that correcting the mistake is never a graceful situation.

“Morning, Abigail, good to see you again!” Another parishioner commented as he walked by us. Then it hit me: I was in New York City, a place my sister had never been. These people didn’t even know I had a sister, let alone a sister named Abigail whose bone structure bore an uncanny resemblance to mine.

“Um, my name is Laura, actually.”

“Oh! Of course! I’m so sorry dear! It’s just, you look just like— Tom, doesn’t she look just like Abbie?”

He nodded. “Just like her, you could be sisters.”

The statistical probability of me bearing a resemblance to multiple women in my age demographic with the name Abigail is probably very high, but the probability of me crossing paths with two of them in such a short span of time seemed a little impossible. Was I experiencing a cosmic improbability? Or was there something else? Gradually, it dawned on me that this was not the first time something like this had happened, nor would it be the last. I don’t just look like Abbie; I look like everybody.

Shopping with Sahara, more often than not sales girls would assume we were sisters. “It’s so sweet the way you two get along!” they would croon, or “I wish my sister were so much fun to hang out with! Ya’ll are sweet.” Dinner parties with my parents’ friends posed an interesting phenomenon. My father’s friends would see me and proclaim “You look just like your father!” while my mother’s declared I more closely matched her, but then when the three of us stood together, I was suddenly a perfect blend of both, their physical average. It wasn’t just family members and close friends, however. My ballet teacher’s husband used to tease me, calling me Margaret because I looked “just like that kid from Denis the Menace,” and one of my supervisors at work calls me Emily for reasons I still do not fully understand. I had always assumed that when my parents addressed me as “Ab-Laura” it was a moment of confusion, a mistake, the same way it was when they addressed Abbie as “Laur-Abbie,” but now another idea was forming. Perhaps I was a chameleon, showing the face of my surroundings instead of my own.

The start of my second semester of college began to reaffirm this theory. Approaching my first class confidently in a cute new sweater, I was faced with a mirror image. Riley matched me completely, from the sweaters on our bodies to the black boots on our feet. We had met early in the previous semester through a series of bizarre coincidences and mutual friendships, and had quickly become inseparable. Since then, we had developed a tendency to accidentally buy the same tops, have simultaneous ear infections, and perform a plethora of mild practical jokes.

Standing in that hallway, she got this evil glint in her eye when she saw my sweater, a grin spreading on her face. Whipping her bangs out of her eyes so that her hair now matched mine, she beckoned me into the classroom. We sat side by side, our hands holding identical pens listlessly over identical notebooks, right leg crossed over left, heads cocked slightly to one side. When our professor arrived he tried not to look at us, but we were drawing attention. The first thing we were asked to do was introduce ourselves, naming our majors and an interesting fact about ourselves. Riley glanced at me, her eyes sparkling again. I nodded as briefly as I could, feeling a laugh bubbling up already.

“My name is Laura, I’m an English major.”

“I’m Riley, a BFA Acting major.”

“We didn’t plan this.”

“But this isn’t the only thing about us that matches.” We volleyed matching facts rapidly; we had plenty to choose from. Eyebrows began to rise around us warily, and mouths began to sag open anxiously.

“We both grew up in Utah, about 45 minutes apart.”

“But we’re not Mormon.”

“Then we both moved away, but we miss Café Rio.”

“Our moms grew up in North Carolina, about 45 minutes apart.”

“Her brother used to be in the same fencing league as my childhood best friend.” I concluded the list, and we resumed our initial posture, waiting patiently for the next girl to introduce herself.

By this point, the class had dissolved into uncomfortable giggles, but our instructor was still staring, as though trying to determine whether or not we were playing some elaborate joke. Riley and I were solid, not a single giggle escaping. After all, we hadn’t told a single lie; unlikely as it sounded, our speech was built entirely upon reality.

“So, did you know each other before you got here? There are an awful lot of similarities!” The professor gestured between us with his pen, clearly confused.

            “Oh, no,” we answered together. “We’re just freaky life twins.”

            It took that poor man about a week and a half longer than it should have to figure out which one of us was Riley and which one was Laura. Meeting Riley in the first place was another cosmic improbability, but cosmic improbabilities are a specialty of mine. I had managed to meet on my second night of college a person who shared not only my history, but also my sense of humor, my low tolerance for social interaction, an insatiable reading habit, and my guilty love of child-exploiting reality TV like Dance Moms. We even owned the same two American Girl dolls; the similarities are endless if you know how to look for them. The more time Riley and I spent together, the more we began to realize that we were probably the same person from different dimensions, and our worlds were colliding which in all likelihood meant something absolutely terrible was going to happen. Or perhaps we were just separated at birth.      

That was when I realized that perhaps it wasn’t my face that was confusing people, but something about my behavior. There had been camp counselors who didn’t believe Abbie and I could be related, and strangers who were convinced we were twins. Sahara and I have the same color hair and we’re both skinny and pale, and our interests collide in many of the same ways my interests collide with Riley’s (Sahara is in fact the girl who fenced with Riley’s brother). The more sameness there is, the more sameness people see. From birth we are trained to find things that match, and then weed out the things that don’t. By age five we’re all tiny little sorting machines which can tell red from blue and circles from squares, and we group them according to their similarities not their differences. The blue squares would never be sorted into the same pile as the red circles—there’s nothing there that matches. When I’m with my sister, people aren’t looking at our eyebrows; when I am shopping with Sahara they aren’t looking at our height difference or the radical variances in ear shape. Riley and I didn’t become friends because she rides horses and I do ballet. We are drawn to similarity like magnets, and when we find it we stick to it. It is not so much that I am a chameleon; it is more that all of my colors are on display at once and people see the ones they recognize.

            Last weekend Riley and I went to the Strand Bookstore, then bought giant chocolate chip cookies from one of those dessert trucks that drive around Union Square. As we were standing on the subway platform to go home, chocolate smeared all over our teeth, a couple of skeezy looking guys looked us up and down appreciatively.

            “You sisters?” One of them lurched a little nearer to us.

            “No! What the hell?!” Riley turned to me with the question written all over her face. “Why does everyone always think that?”

            The train pulled up and I laughed. “It’s because I’m everybody’s sister.” She raised an eyebrow, secure in her individuality. “I’ll explain on the way home.”

Passing for Hipster

When last I spoke of my trials with the publication of my work in the Marymount Manhattan Review, I had just succeeded in having the correct versions published by wearing down the head of the Creative Writing Department/editor of the magazine/my future professor for the last 4 semesters of my undergrad experience. I was feeling pretty grand.

A week prior to the arrival of the magazine, I got another email from Professor Williams. He never gives them subject lines, so they always make me nervous because they could spontaneously yell at me, like an electronic howler. This one, however, was just informing me that there would be a publication party and reading of the magazine the following Sunday evening. He concluded by asking me to read my poems, and I agreed, figuring he had to meet me eventually and it might as well be this semester, before he had any control of my grades. Maybe I could prove to him that I am not a diva or difficult to work with! Maybe I was wrong...

I had intended to change after church that Sunday, but some unexpected rain, an absurdly long choir practice, and an impromptu decision to see the school's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream to attain extra credit made that entirely impossible. A friendly old woman shared her umbrella with me at the bus stop, but by the time I got to school, I was basically soaked to the skin. By the end of the play, I was dry from the ankles up, but entirely bedraggled. I was embarrassed. Then I walked into the room where the reading was happening.

I fit right in. The dear friends I brought with me stuck out like sore thumbs, as did my current Creative Writing professor; they were wearing colors entirely too bright, and smiles entirely too wide. The room was swarming with hipsters. Long, dark skirts, baggy sweaters, ripped up boots, greasy hair, and giant crosses adorned all of the women, without exception, and the guys were universally in flannel and torn jeans. In suede boots, a long purple skirt, a sweater sagging from the rain, and my own little gold cross, I looked like a poor attempt at subscribing to their dress code. I slunk into a chair in the back and ate cupcakes with my friends and professor, trying not to laugh at the drama unfolding around me.

Everyone began the reading of their pieces like this: "Hi, my name is [insert name here], and I just want to thank Jerry Williams for all that he has done for me. I would not be the person or the writer that I am today if it were not for his enormous influence in my life. He has made me a better human, and I am indebted to him forever!" Then they read in slow, monotonous voices, full of dramatic pauses and distressed facial expressions. I was of course, second to last, so the tone was well established by the time my name was called.

"Hi, my name is Laura, and this is my poem, Interdit." Then I read it, pausing only where I had written pauses in, and changing my tone with the tone of the words. I read it, you know, like a normal human. When I finished, I started walking back to my seat, but Professor Williams stopped me.

"Aren't you going to read your other piece?"

Frankly, I was homesick, tired, and uncomfortable. I was the only person in the room who hadn't mentioned drugs or dropped the f-bomb, and I was beginning to suspect I only made it into the magazine because I referenced Salinger. I was passing for Hipster, but it wasn't going to last if I read an emotional poem about my family and our house. So I just said, "No, I am not," and went back to my seat. I have never seen Jerry Williams look so confused or unsure of himself. Who was I to refuse him? Who was I to deny him having an enormous influence in all areas of my life? Who was I at all?

I keep running into him in the hallways, and he always does a double take, that same confusion on his face. I have a feeling that I am going to be an entirely new experience for him as a student, and I hope my GPA can handle that.

The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Grease

And in this case, she also gets her poems correctly published. I may have annoyed a future professor to the point of madness and hatred, but I have established that I am bold and do not take crap from anyone, even if they are the ones who are supposed to be teaching me. Unlike his student editors, this professor was willing to fight to keep my work in a condition which I want it viewed by others. He explained why he was suggesting changes, item by item, but still gave me veto power, with the ultimate understanding that they had accepted my work as-is, so any changes this round were my call. If they had accepted my work under the condition of revision, this situation would be entirely different, but I am not one to be bullied, and I have a severe case of artistic integrity. So, sometimes, complaining about something is really all you need to do to launch a solution.

Big News

Remember that time I told ya'll I was submitting work to my school's literary magazine?

Of course you do!

Well, even if you don't, I did, and they liked my work well enough to publish two of my poems! You've already seen them, here and here, but I will let you know how to obtain a magazine when it's actually published, and I find out such information myself.

Yay!

Positive: Chapter One

It was almost four in the afternoon when Reed left campus on the last day of orientation for his freshman year of college. The sun was just barely beginning to sink, and the sky was peppered with lazy white clouds, drifting between the sparse high-rises of the quaint Midwestern college town he had wound up in. Adjusting his backpack and double knotting the laces on his old, worn-through blue sneakers, Reed ambled down the sidewalk, drinking in the sights and sounds of his new home. He was staying in an apartment with his cousin, Jason, who was a year older than him instead of living in the dorms, which meant walking across town twice every day, but Reed did not mind. He actually rather enjoyed his time outside, given an excuse to mosey around. The trees and gardens were still colorful and lush, the grass still bright emerald green. Everything about this town was positively provincial, neat, and picturesque.

            A few people were out for late afternoon strolls, or sitting on their porches with tall glasses of lemonade, watching the summer slowly fade into September. Reed brushed his wavy brown hair out of his soft blue eyes and let his hands drop into his pockets as he walked; he rarely did anything with any great amount of deliberateness. His eyes grazed over the street, cars slowly idling past, the occasional bird flitting to a new tree. He was content to wander, his feet dragging against the pavement, his breath calm and meticulously even. That was how he arranged most things in his life: with a great deal of unnecessary meticulousness. He liked the word meticulous, as well. This often made him a wearisome companion, which had resulted in a particularly quiet social life, but he did not mind that either. People were difficult, and felt the need to assign him tasks, which he would of course accomplish most meticulously. The more meticulous he was, the less he had to accomplish, and the longer he could avoid the questions his parents dangled over his head- questions like “What are you going to do about a career?” and “Do you have any plans for the future?”

            The truth was he did not have an answer for either of those things, and was in no hurry to acquire one. After all, college was the place to explore yourself, discover your potential, unlock hidden talents. Reed expected that once classes began he would begin to do those things, and his future would plan itself for him, no extraneous effort required. There was no need to get all fussed and bothered about it now while the sun was still out and the birds were still singing. There would be plenty of time for worrying and important questions later, when the deadlines were a little more pressing. In the meantime, he planned on enjoying the scenery, and perhaps making a few friends, if they were willing. There were plenty of people around, and plenty of people milling around at his school, he just had to actually talk to them instead of giving them cursory glances and deciding they would never understand why the flight patterns of migratory birds were so fascinating before giving up and walking away.

            As Reed wandered towards his apartment, he noticed that the same girl had been in front of him for almost four blocks. In a town this size, that would not be uncommon, but the way she carried herself stood out from the unhurried, slouchy gait the rest of the area had adopted. She was petite, no more than five feet tall, yet she was far from delicate. Her back was straight, and she held her chin up, confidence clearly on display. She walked with the power and slinking ease of a jungle cat, and Reed could almost see a tail lashing from side to side behind her. Her hair was long, dark reddish brown, and tied loosely at the base of her neck, mirroring the motion of the imaginary tail. As her feet hit the pavement, Reed strained to hear them make contact, but she was as silent as the grave, her steps precise, never hitting a single crack or crevice in the sidewalk. For all he could tell, she was a jungle cat, misplaced, transformed, and unusually aware of gaps in the sidewalk’s continuity.

            His curiosity fleeting, Reed soon shifted his attention to a mother duck crossing the road. She was followed by a brood of six little ducklings, beginning to lose their golden fluff in favor of darker adult feathers. The mother easily climbed over the curb and began a hustling waddle into the trees of someone’s backyard, and most of her young flapped and wiggled after her. The smallest, however, struggled to make it over the curb, fear getting the best of him at the last minute. Finally, he shut his eyes and jumped the small ledge with a burst of courage and hurried after his aquatic family, his pointy yellow tail wiggling frantically back and forth, causing Reed to chuckle. The duck feet made soft slapping sounds as they disappeared, as though the ducks had brought their own pond with them to place it in another part of town.

            In the yard across the street from where the ducks were now happily quacking at a leaky bird feeder, an elderly man was watering his garden. The bushes were perfectly pruned, and the flowers were bright, cheerful colors. The man was wearing a tweed coat that was far too warm for the season, but he smiled at Reed, waving, as though he were the happiest man on the planet. Reed thought that perhaps he was the happiest man on the planet. Perhaps there was nothing more to happiness than the peace of old age and the fragrance of a garden. Or, conversely, perhaps he was just out of his mind, suffering from dementia and unable to differentiate between what was happy and what was wearing a tweed jacket in late August. These were the sorts of things Reed liked to ponder on his walks home.

            On the next block, Reed could squint down the middle of the street and see the glittering complex on the edge of the town that housed the local dentists, a law firm, and a toothpaste factory. The windows were opaque and reflective, sending the sun back into Reed’s eyes. The effect was dazzling, as unwelcome as sunlight to the eyes usually is. Above the main entrance in giant blue and red letters was the name of the toothpaste company, “CleanBrite CO”, glittering like a set of freshly brushed pearly whites, only redder, and bluer. Reminded of teeth in general, Reed ran his tongue over his own chompers to see if there was anything stuck in them. He came up empty, and was satisfied with his successful eating of breakfast and lunch, never more proud of his enzymes than at that moment, his teeth slick and polished.

            A hand flew out from between the buildings to his right and yanked him into a narrow alleyway. Before he could make a single sound, someone’s hand was over his mouth and the arm it was attached to was slung across his neck, pinning him to his attacker. He struggled to move his arms, but those were pinned against his body by the assailants other arm. He wiggled feebly one more time, but it was useless. Stuck, and vaguely panicked, he simply relaxed, no other plans occurring to him after raw panic and adrenaline failed to work. His heart beat rapidly against his ribs, thumping his entire frame.

            “Why are you following me?” growled a low female voice in his right ear. He tried to shrug but was unsuccessful, the girl still keeping him motionless. “Who sent you, huh?” she demanded, jerking back a little on his head. Reed now acknowledged mentally that he was not going to get an opportunity to answer these questions, and he might as well stop struggling. “I’m going to let you go in a few moments; you’re clearly useless to whomever you are working for. So here is what is going to happen, ok? I’m going to let go of you first. Then I am going to leave, and you are going to stay for an entire thirty seconds. Clear?” she concluded. Reed found he now had the ability to nod his head, and he did so promptly to avoid further angering this girl, who was obviously not above wrenching his head from his body.

            As suddenly as he was grabbed, he was released and she was gone. The last thing he saw as she whipped around the corner was the tail of a long reddish brown braid. He sighed inwardly, and cursed himself for not paying attention to how long he had given the appearance of following her. He should have turned off or slowed down or told her he wasn’t following her. Reed could be so dumb sometimes. Remembering her instructions, he began counting. At ten or eleven he realized he had absolutely no reason to be standing in a strange alley following the instructions of a strange girl who had just attacked him in a strange town. That would be even dumber than following her in the first place. He ran out of the alley and peered down the street, but whoever she was, she was long gone.

            Shrugging it off as the day’s requisite bizarre experience he continued his walk towards home. It was only a few blocks away now, and the streets were beginning to look more familiar. Friendly neighbors waved from their porches and children skipped rope in their yards. Reed was particularly amused by the children skipping rope. Antiquated children were always a great amusement to him. Finally, Reed was standing in front of the apartment building, his brand new home, free of rules and regulations from adults, equipped with an Xbox and pringles, and best of all, the company of his older and decidedly cooler cousin, Jason. Reed giggled to himself, imagining Jason’s reaction to the story he was about to hear, and then entered the building, reminding himself that giggling was a little creepy, and not at all the way to impress his cousin or  make any new friends, either.

            Opening the front door and tossing his backpack into the nearest corner then slamming the front door, Reed announced his arrival with a loud “Jaaaaason! I’m hooooome!”

            “Hey, come into the living room, there’s someone I want you to meet,” his cousin called, his voice decidedly more polite and refined. Reed did not notice.

            “Ok, but I have the greatest story for you,” he replied, walking towards the living room. “I was walking home from the school, and I got attacked out of NOWHERE, by” -Reed stopped abruptly. “By her. I was attacked by her, actually. In a dark alley,” he finished, pointing to the girl sitting on the couch next to his cousin, her long braid slung over one shoulder, her cheeks a little flushed with embarrassment. Her eyes retained a fierceness, however, that told Reed she did not quite trust him, despite whatever circumstances had just landed them together in this home.

            “Listen, I am really sorry about that,” she said, not sounding especially sorry to Reed at all. “I’m a little on edge; new town and all.” Reed did not think a new town would be too much of a worry for an elf who could fight grown men like himself and win, but he just shrugged again. He was in no mood to find himself immobilized again, and even if he had felt like risking it, he did not know what to say to her. It was probably rude to tell someone she should not worry about living in a tiny college town because she behaved more like Bruce Willis than an easy target.

            “It’s cool. I understand,” he said. He paused a moment, shuffling his feet and trying not to stare, or fart, or anything that could possibly make the situation more awkward than it already was. “So…uh…who are you, exactly?” It was more blunt than he had anticipated, but Jason’s slightly distressed expression told him he would probably find out now anyway, perhaps not in the manner Jason had initially desired.

            “This is Leila,” Jason chimed in. “She’s our new roommate. She’s studying English at the U, and she needed a place to stay. Her mom is a friend of my mom’s, so I offered to let her stay. I hope that’s ok,” he offered.

            Reed raised his eyebrows. Jason had invited a girl to live in their apartment. A real live, honest to God girl, who would probably want to clean things and turn the music down, and hog the Xbox to watch corny girl movies. Girl movies about romance and-Reed’s thought train came to a screeching halt, nearly falling right off the tracks. Could this Leila girl be Jason’s girlfriend? That was the only real reason he could think of for a girl to be taking up residence in their apartment. Wouldn’t Jason have talked about her sooner, though? Reed had been there almost two weeks and there had been absolutely no mention of any girl, friendly or not, and this one was not particularly friendly. Something was a little off. Surely Jason had a reason for keeping his girlfriend secret, but Reed could not for the life of him figure out what that would be.

            “That’s fine,” Reed said, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice. He thought he did pretty well, but Jason’s smirk told him otherwise.

            “I’ve got some things to do, so it was nice meeting you Reed,” Leila said, sounding indifferent to the whole situation. Then she padded down the hall to her bedroom on those freaky cat feet of hers. Reed arched an eyebrow at her retreating back. He could almost swear it returned the gesture, which only added to the creepiness he felt rippling off of her, like she was some sort of enchanted doll sent here to haunt him. He wondered what he had done to piss of a supernatural being so much as to deserve this. Was there a cat god who sent evil women to the houses of people who disobeyed them? Probably not, but it was a nice image, so Reed held onto it a moment, smiling instead of grimacing.

            Shaking his head to clear it of Leila altogether, Reed plopped down on the couch to play some Xbox, finally. After an hour or so, Leila’s bedroom door creaked open and Jason walked out. Reed wondered when Jason had gone in there in the first place and how he had failed to notice, but was soon distracted by the fact that Leila seemed to be doing some sort of martial arts in her sock feet in the center of the room beyond. Under the guise of using the bathroom, Reed shuffled slowly past her door, taking in as many details as he could in one glance.

            She was in fact going through a pattern of stretches, kicks, hits, and poses, most of which looked like they would be really painful to whoever was on the receiving end. Reed rubbed his neck, confirming this with the bruises of his afternoon. But if the martial arts weren’t strange enough, the contents of the room itself were. Her bookshelves, and there were many, were lined with large books with scientific, academic-sounding titles, like “Life Cycles: The Animal Kingdom, Protista, and the Non-living” and “Math Theorems: Then and Now”. When had she had the time to move all this stuff in and set it up so thoroughly, he wondered? He had only been gone about 5 hours. Unless she already had her boxes in the apartment, there was no way she had unpacked everything in a single day. It was ridiculous to think anyone could be that neat and that fast at the same time.

Spread out on her desk were dozens of pieces of paper covered in tiny zeros and ones. Reed’s brow furrowed. What kind of English major needed so much binary code lying around? In combination with the strange books, this was starting to look like a serious math habit, not just a few classes to satisfy a gen ed. Regardless of her intended path of study, this girl was weird, and Reed was not sure how he felt about his cousin dating her. How did they meet anyway? Did Jason honestly think he would believe that cock and bull story about their moms being friends? Reed’s own mother would have known her too, logically, as his mom and Jason’s mom were rarely apart. Reed was lazy, maybe, dumb, sometimes, but he was not stupid, or gullible. He’d get to the bottom of this. If he was going to share living space with such a strange individual, he was going to know the real reason why.

            Later that night, the three unlikely roommates sat around the table awkwardly, poking at their macaroni and cheese and trying to avoid eye contact. Leila seemed the least perturbed by this utter lack of social grace; in fact she seemed completely unaware of it. Reed was clearly the most distressed. Jason just sat there, like he had set up some sort of game and was waiting for it to play itself. The pieces were not moving, though, and it was making him nervous, fidgety. Timidly, at first, Reed attempted to broach the realm of casual conversation as a means to begin his interrogation.

            “So Leila,” he began. “What’s your major again? Math?”

            “No, I’m an English major with an anthropology minor. Total liberal arts nerd, I know,” she said with a smile that seemed not altogether genuine, one eyebrow arched awkwardly, like she did not know quite what to do with her face when speaking to people.

            “Hmmmm,” Reed voiced his suspicion. “So how’d you two meet? I assume you met before you decided to move in together.” He let a beat pass. “I mean, you know, before you started living together. Under one roof. In the same apartment…” Jason and Leila were both staring at him curiously now. They exchanged a glance, lightning fast. He quickly ran his tongue over his teeth, but there was nothing there, so it must have been his words.

            “Leila and I were introduced years ago by our mothers. You feeling ok there, dude?” asked Jason, giving Reed a warning look. Rather than quieting him, however, this fanned Reed’s spark of suspicion into a roaring fire, toasty warm to the point of vague discomfort.

            “I’m fine, just curious. There’s nothing wrong with being curious,” Reed grumbled, feeling and sounding much more like a petulant child than he had intended. “How old are you Leila? You seem a little young for college.”

            At this last comment, Leila actually snorted into her bowl of cheesy pasta, her face finally taking on a natural expression, be it one of distaste. “I’m 19, actually. Late bloomer, you know.” Reed was probably imagining it, but he could have sworn he saw the corners of Jason’s mouth twitch, like he wanted to smile, but it was only a flicker, gone in an instant. Leila did not share the sentiment, whatever it was. Her face was fierce, but otherwise unexpressive.

            “I guess it’s easy to bloom late in a tiny town like this one, what with all the slow moving people, and the long leisurely walks. This town is almost romantic, wouldn’t you say Jason? It’s kind of a romantic town where you would want to spend time with, um, perhaps a girl or boy that you love? Depending on your gender and the gender you prefer to…um…spend…time with in that romantic sort of way?” Reed blushed at his questions, wishing he had never opened his mouth, as whatever information he could have gotten was probably long gone by now.

            Jason sighed through his nose and stared at Reed, his gentle blue eyes solidifying into a warning glare. “Reed. Just stop talking, please,” he told his cousin, blinking a few times, letting the message sink in. Whatever had been amusing about his antics had stopped being funny, but that meant Reed had gotten closer to the truth, he was sure. People were always sensitive about the truth.

            “Sorry,” Reed mumbled, shuffling over to the sink to wash the dishes. Leila stood abruptly, grabbing Jason’s plate as well as her own, and plopped them onto the counter by Reed’s elbow, then whisked herself noiselessly out of the room on those irritating cat feet. When Reed had finished cleaning up from dinner, he began the lengthy shuffle back to his own bedroom, which was just beyond Leila’s. The door to her room was ajar, and he could see Jason sitting cross-legged on her bed, while she perched on her desk chair. They were talking in low whispers. It was not quite the scene of intimacy Reed had anticipated, but there was a connection beyond that of acquaintances or casual friendships. They were in league about something, and Reed was desperately curious to find out what.

Whoops

I am a terrible blog updater. This is because I have been spending all of my creative time editing my novel. I'm cool that way. Or something. More importantly, dear, few, strong followers, however, (too many commas... :( ) I have a question. Would you like a sample chapter of this delicious novel? Would you? All edited and pretty? Say the words and it's yours... <3

I am a Winner

No, really! I won NaNoWriMo today, about ten minutes ago. Maybe twenty. I was too giddy to look too closely at the time. At any rate, I wrote a novel, in 27 days, and now begins the time of editing. I have some beta-readers, but let me know if ya'll want to read it NOW, or if you want to see the finished project. (Choose now ;) I'm impatient).

Let the Noveling Commence!

NaNoWriMo started yesterday. 5205 words down, 44795 to go. Wish me luck!

Themes and Learning

So, earlier this week, I went to a poetry reading which is just about as exciting as it gets. Especially because of Jerry Williams. Go get his books from your local library, and try not to pee your pants. But also, I realized that my poetry is incredibly narrative, and not as thematic as it could be. What I've done with this next piece is taken different instances with similar feelings (both in my experience and in the experiences of other people, from my viewpoint) and synthesized it into one piece. Let me know what y'all think!

Interdit

When I was born
I imagine you were reading Salinger;
I imagine it was simultaneous:
your teenage angst, my infant struggle.
Your dreams were made of ideas
intellectual prowess academic progression.
I am your interruption.
I am the idea that chases your fingers
around and around in your hair;
I am the voice that spills your coffee,
forming perfect rings on an essay
left over from before my entrance.
I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an ipod?
By plugging our ears in,
we wired our brains together,
but you weren't allowed to hold my hand.
You could do it now,
If you could reach across
all of these rivers,
if I could stop
burning all of these bridges.

Every time I kissed you
I tried to narrate it in my head:
How did we lead up to this?
What brought your face so close to mine?
Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?
This is why you stopped kissing
(me).

This puts all the coffee
back into your cup, and
runs a comb through your hair,
slicked back with river water;
This places brick on top of brick,
not a bridge but a wall:
a solid, tangible obstacle.
I don't bother reaching towards it.
Your fingers will never
graze the rough red surface,
nor wish it were my face.
But I can put my back against it,
and sneer at all those phonies,
fingers interlocking tightly,
and pretend that
I don't believe in love.

For Real, I Want Answers!!

The email went out this morning: they are officially accepting submissions for the literary magazine. I have a few weeks to pick three poems and get them ready for submission.

Pretty please, will y'all comment with your three favorites from this blog, or others of mine you've read if that applies to you? I want accurate feedback; this means a lot to me!

Thank you!

Cardigans

I cannot escape it:
The Daily Whine, with Boyfriend Steak
accompanied by a side dish of offensive behavior,
finished by a dessert of inappropriate laughter.
It does not matter-to you-
if I am in the cafeteria
slowly slurping scalding soup,
or nestled in the library
privately practicing punctuation;
You will trail after me, following me
like a parade of Ugly Ducklings
who believe I am their swan.
I want to glide peacefully across my lake
letting my iniquities settle to the bottom
to become the slime another generation will get between its toes.
You want me to ruffle my feathers again.
You want me to stir the lake with my own toes.
You want to believe that inwardly
I am just like you.
You wear your hearts in your mouths,
tangled in your teeth,
then blush as though you thought they were secrets.
You paint your outsides dark
Not because you are sad, but because you wish you could be.
I do not.
I wear cardigans like lightbulbs.
No one is afraid of the light, the surface of the placid lake;
That's not where you look for secrets.

NANOWRIMO

Don't know what it is? Google it, I'm lazy and having internet woes like you wouldn't believe. But anyway, I'm going to try to participate this year! And if I finish in November or not, I'll have 5 weeks of winter break in a city where I have no friends to finish and edit. Then I very well may publish it serially on this blog. Now how about that?!

Between 8th and 9th Avenues, Right Across from the Hospital

I couldn't sleep last night (probably the chocolate frosting, but I digress), and this little poem floated into my brain, and came out of my fingers.

When I think about that house
I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:
The utmost protection and structure,
so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family
will eat breakfast in that kitchen,
spilling milk across the table
and reminding each other of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely
gather in the basement,
chairs across that squishy place in the carpet,
to watch old movies, over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child
crouching over the toilet upstairs
cursing whoever it was who thought
intricate black and white tiling would look nice on that floor.

I imagine a girl will open those west windows
and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.
She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,
But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire
are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?
What if the yellow walls are painted white?
What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,
and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget how it looked like then,
and all I can see is what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,
I close my hand into a fist
and hear the horrible crunching sound
of old beetle flesh becoming dust?

Input?

So, my college puts out a literary magazine once a year, and submissions are due in mid November. That may seem like a long way off, but there are midterms between now and then, and I am very much already thinking about what to submit. Of course, new stuff will be posted, and there are some things I haven't posted that are under consideration as well, but if anyone has any input, I would love to hear it! Just leave a comment or shoot me an email. I promise I'll post something more interesting soon, but this week has been busy and full of school and all that entails.

Two Nights

Have you ever accidentally gone on a date? I don't recommend it, particularly not when you are new to a city, and therefore must rely on your accidental date's knowledge to prevent getting lost, even though they are making you increasingly uncomfortable. True story. We went to a show on Broadway, and I paid for my ticket which caused him to insist on buying me cake and a cab ride home. What an awkwardly silent cab ride it was. Eventually, I started composing poetry because the cab driver's French phone call was getting too fast for me to understand.

i.
Sometimes-
in the corner of my eyes-
I think you are
Someone else.
Those particular glasses,
The way your voice
pitches when impassioned-
a subtle perfume
of clumsiness and pretension.

ii.
Last night-
it was almost this morning-
I was huddled in a blanket
and he was giggling madly.
Beside me.
I wanted him
(both to stop and to hold)
but I could not reach out.
I would not speak.
Even in sleep
I am afraid.

iii.
Now-
that I am sitting across from you-
I see you have
that same 5 o'clock shadow
speckled by acne,
broken by a sneer.
Your hands are the same shape,
nails trimmed identically.
I am not speaking;
on the inside
I am determined not to give you
a reason to comfort me.
I do not want to feel your hands.

iv.
Later-
crawling from a bumbling taxi-
I understand.
You have two eyes
that can't see everything;
a voice
that knows its birdsong;
an air
that colors your actions;
a cleft chin
that spouts oil and hair;
and ten fingers
that grow strong from listing facts.
You are human.
He is human.
I am lonely.
It is all the same.

Learning

So, remember that time I was a dork, but it turned out to be ok? Well, I went back to that coffee shop for the 3rd and final time tonight, and I was not a dork. I actually was awesome. Really awesome, as the open-mike coordinator lady said. I am kind of glowing with pride. See, said open-mike lady read some poetry from this woman, Sarah Kay, last time I was there, and I thought, "She's amazing! Imma google her!" Then I didn't. So, about three days later, I was watching TED talks (ummm...the cool kids were doing it? ...eh...fine. I have no excuse. I am a nerd. Ok!!! I'm a nerd! I said it! Happy now?!?!?!?!), and I just so happened to click upon this thing of beauty. I didn't think of three things I knew, largely because I am lazy and defiant, but also because I was fascinated by her. Her talk made me think, and that led inevitably to poetry, and so tonight, (er, technically last night...) I performed it, and people actually responded positively, during and after. Proud moment.

Learning

They keep telling me, "You learn something new everyday,"

Although they never specify what,

Which probably means they're not talking about

the things you try to learn,

the things that take concentration,

and instead they're talking about the much hazier

Learning of Experience.

But if that's true, I don't think we learn

one thing a day.

I think we are constantly learning small pieces of a bigger puzzle,

bit by bit,

like gathering sea glass to make a mosaic:

we might not be able to see the final outcome in our minds,

but somehow we know where each piece fits into the others,

working our way towards something complete.

For instance, I've been learning,

that sometimes the facts are harder to say than the fictions,

facts like:

I don't need pointe shoes to be happy;

I never really loved you; and

I'm moving 2,153 miles away so the my father can dress up like a panda bear and teach children about Jesus;

instead of the fictions:

I didn't make it, but of course I want to try again;

It was fun while it lasted; and

It doesn't matter, I was leaving anyway.

I'm learning that we can have our rites of passage,

mark off the days on our calenders with big, red Xs,

but real maturity is not so cut and dried.

I'm learning that life is a little messy, always,

and not just when we're little (and messy).

I'm learning a lot.

All of these lessons point to something bigger

and still partially obscured,

but that, too, is becoming clear,

the iceberg of my naivete is slowly melting.

So far, I've figured out

I am just like my dad,

(minus the black & white fur and the desire to interact with children on a spiritual level).

We know that it doesn't matter how long you believed in something,

if it's not true anymore, it's not worth the heartache it takes to keep believing.

We know that it's never to late to make a drastic change for the better.

We know that in any relationship,

being happy is more important than being "right."

We love grocery stores,

so full of possibilities and options for exploration,

but always familiar enough to feel safe.

I don't know if these are the things I'm supposed to be learning,

if these are the pieces of glass I should be picking up and putting down,

but I know, without a flicker of a doubt,

my mosaic is beautiful.

Spices

I wrote this story as a joke with a friend, but part of that joke involves it being posted on the internet. Enjoy!

The smudged glass doors swung open, cueing a mournful “ding-dong”, dragged reluctantly from the overworked, exhausted intercom. He sighed, setting down his damp rag on the counter, feeling rather overworked and exhausted himself, and arranged his features into a falsely cheerful grin to greet the customer. When he saw her, however, a genuine smile broke out beneath the veneer, creating tiny crinkles in the corners of his mouth and eyes, imperceptible individually, but collectively brightening his appearance.

She had long, smooth dark hair, a mouth made for giggling, and large, round blue eyes which glittered when she laughed. She came here often, but did not keep a schedule. Like her smiles, her visits were a welcome surprise, a golden break in the monotony of fast food. He’d seen her debit card enough times to know her name, but he never let himself use it; to name her would be to make her real, to unravel the fantasies he created about who she was.

“How can I help you today?” he said brightly, stepping behind his register, his hands hovering above the keyboard, ready to type in her usual order.

“The usual, please,” she replied, offering up a small, somewhat sheepish smile.

He gave her the familiar total while she dug in her bag for her familiar wallet, just as they had the first time she’d walked through those doors, as they had every time since.

There was nothing inherently remarkable about her the first day. She was just another customer. It wasn’t until after she’d placed her order that he’d really looked at her, giving an identity to someone who was once just another faceless consumer. She had ordered eight tacos and water. It did not seem to be a joke, nor was there anyone with her who could have dared her. In amazement, he watched surreptitiously from behind the counter as she delicately ate each taco, dabbing daintily at her mouth with the paper napkin. Nothing so dignified had ever spent so much time in The Taco Hut and it fascinated him.

Sometimes she brought other people with her-a group of giggling girls, a somber friend, even the occasional disappointed male- but most of the time she came alone, quietly eating her tacos in a shallow booth by the largest window. She took her time, savored each mouthful, and shut out the rest of the restaurant while she chewed. It was peaceful, like a meditation or a prayer.

There had to be a reason she spent so much time in that taco dump-heap. It was not known for either its cleanliness or the superior quality of its food, it wasn’t on any main thoroughfares, and it wasn’t a chain. Usually he imagined she was a famous actress, hiding from her press, seeking refuge in plain sight. Occasionally he would suppose she came from an abusive family, that these calmer moments were her only source of respite. His imagination ran wild with her image, but each story found a way to block his reality from touching hers. He imagined himself into corners where if he dared to step beyond, to ask her name, to develop a friendship even, something foul would occur. The press would find her, her father would beat her for trying to escape with another man, or she would be frightened and never come back.

Someday, he told himself while he waited for her next arrival, someday I’ll get out of my head. I’ll ask her what her name is so I can stop pretending I don’t already know. Someday I’ll know why she keeps coming back.

As he handed back her card, he resolved, not for the first time, that upon her next visit he would introduce himself. She smiled as though she could read his mind and sighed a little before grabbing her water cup and ducking over to the fountain to fill it.

Soon she was ensconced in her booth, and he had returned to his thorough wipe-down of the counter tops. He took his turn in sighing before sliding back into the kitchen to clean up a cheese spill. As he swept the sticky orange strings into a garbage can he heard the door’s lugubrious song once again. Glancing out into the dining room, he saw her paused, her hand on the door handle, holding it open a few inches. She caught his eye.

“Goodbye.”

He smiled and lifted his hand in farewell as she disappeared.

She didn’t come back. Not that week, nor the next. It was not unheard of for her to disappear like this, but nonetheless he was disappointed. Every sound of the doorbell spiked his heart rate, but the face of every stranger pulled him down until he could feel his pulse pumping dimly in his feet. A month went by, and then another and it became clear that she was never coming back. It was as if someone had taken a giant eraser and scrubbed her out of her booth, then replaced her with a bevy of screaming toddlers and scruffy bums scarfing tacos and dripping sauce onto the sticky tabletop. She had escaped, and so he moved on.

“You’re wasting your time, kid,” his wizened manager grunted from the corner of his crusty mouth. He spit into the sink before continuing, “no one is gonna buy some damn gourmet taco. Go ahead, go to night school, blow your money on a fruitless dream, but don’t bring your whining back here when you fall on your ass.”

When he didn’t respond, eyes glued to the floor, his manager grunted once more before shuffling back into his tiny office, slamming the door. He continued sprinkling spices into the giant pan of sizzling meat. The right blend could make or break a taco, a fact his manager was keen to ignore. He ignored the gruff criticism of his superior and the ignorance of the old sod, because one day, he would own his own restaurant, and his perfect tacos would be his ticket to freedom, his chance to escape.

The day he turned in his uniform, the manager didn’t say a word, just shook his head as he grudgingly handed over the final paycheck.

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

“She’s here,” squeaked a waiter, a kid about as old as he had been when he started his job at The Taco Hut. “Madame Cutler,” the boy sighed, in awe of the famed food critic who was apparently now seated in the restaurant. “Do you think she’ll like us, boss?”

He peered through the window in the kitchen door at the back of Madame Cutler’s head. She could hardly be more than a mademoiselle; her sleek, dark hair was twisted into a glossy chignon and delicate pearls dangled from her ears. She sat perfectly straight in the soft velvet chair, shoulders exactly parallel to the floor, but she did not seem tense. Her posture and her attire conveyed an air of relaxed dignity, a woman who knew her power and her limits equally.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he clapped his waiter on the back and said, “If our service is spectacular, I’m sure she will,” and with that he pushed the quaking boy back out onto the floor.

He watched as the waiter took her order with a nervous smile. As soon as the kitchen door shut behind him, the boy let out a sigh of relief. Then he was off again, a perfect taco in the center of his tray. Fifteen minutes later, when the waiter approached his boss his relief had vanished.

“She wants to see you, sir,” the boy whispered, wringing his hands. “This is it, isn’t it?”

“You did well, kid. Wish me luck!”

His heart was hammering as he walked slowly towards her table. He hadn’t remembered this much distance in his restaurant. Suddenly his suit felt too shabby, his ginger beard too scruffy, the furnishings too lurid, the place settings too cheap, and the ambiance too fake. When at last he reached Madame Cutler, he couldn’t look her in the face, his eyes fixed on the swirling pattern of the tablecloth.

“I’m impressed,” she said, her voice a strangely familiar lilt. “I admit I was not expecting to enjoy this, but I have a fondness for tacos, and I had hoped so strongly that yours would be satisfactory.” He nodded, still not looking up. “Frankly, they’re wonderful. The spices are just right. The right blend can make or break a taco, you know.”

Her last sentence made his head snap up. Then he froze. “I…I’m glad you enjoyed them, Madame Cutler,” he choked, barely above a whisper, unable to believe his eyes.

“It was my pleasure. It always was,” she replied, her large, round blue eyes glittering as she laughed.