The Cat Mechanic from Under the Bridge

My mind often wanders and the other day while sitting in the family room my two tiny kids rumpus in something caught my eye (no not the stack of Goosebumps 2000 books I'm working through).

Behold, the Cat Mechanic from Under the Bridge!  I don't know what it is about me that I anthropomorphize things, that is to say I ascribe human characteristics often to inanimate objects and whatnot.  I also sometimes develop backstories in my brain for said things.  Once my eyes caught this cat, likely a salaried artists' quickly forgotten sketch to finish another paid gig, I felt compelled to know more about him (or her?).  What was his story?  Why was he running a service garage under a bridge?  Did he in fact work there, or was he just a stowaway, perhaps a mechanic's beloved pet?   Tires and wrench?  Check.  Unlabeled bottles of assorted color liquids?  Check I guess?  His smile says to me that he is content with his lot in life.  I believe that he went to a trade school, knowing money was in it, unlike his older brother Samuel who went the more Liberal Arts way, spending time leisurely on promenades reading books in the shade, while our Cat Mechanic was getting oily and dirty learning how to do a proper lube job.  If you need an oil change or tire rotation tell him RtW sent you!

I'm All Alone In My Worry

She doesn't know I'm waiting for her on this chilly October afternoon.  She gets out of school at 3:15PM, and I, cold and confused, await her.  Last week, seemingly out of the blue, I'd told her I had developed immense feelings for her.  I spit it all out, in one long, mumbling but genuine gush of affection.  It didn't go too well.

I'd been friends with Sally Cartwright since 3rd grade; thus, me spilling my heart to her so many years down the road proved to be a delicate and difficult situation.  I watched a dead leave get pushed across the pavement of Hensley Ave. by the frigid wind.  I looked up at a classroom window, saw a boy, he was staring at me.  I meekly waved; he blinked, and then disappeared.

The sounds of school buses grinding to a stop, the smell of fuel, the murmur of excitement were all around.  I looked down at my feet, my red Converse shoes I'd had since two summers ago, the very same ones I wore on my first vacation, a trip to Colorado last spring with my father.  He and my mother divorced when I was 9, I lived with her and my younger brother Anthony in an older two-story house right outside of downtown.  Anthony had a pet frog named Frogzilla, wore glasses, and liked to have me take him to the magic store on 4th & Boba St.

The bell sounded and students started pouring out of Eisenhower Jr. High.  I saw Sally turning a corner with two of her friends, they stopped briefly, said their goodbyes, and then Sally continued by herself.

Brandon: "Sally!  Hey!"

I caught her attention, but her smile seemed somehow forced, as if it wasn't necessarily a pleasant surprise.

Sally: "Hey, Brandon.  What's up?" 

Brandon: "I thought I could walk you home, and, you know, talk."

She didn't respond.

Brandon: "Is that okay?" 

Sally: "Sure."

I could tell this wasn't going to be as smooth as I planned.  We started walking down the leaf-covered sidewalks of our hometown, past the noise and commotion of the school, into the quieter neighborhoods.  I saw old man Mr. Matthews raking leaves on his front lawn.  Before his wife died, they'd always pass out the best Halloween candy in town, big candy bars and handfuls of suckers, taffy, and other sweets.

Brandon: "So, how was class?" 

Sally: "It was alright, I guess.  I've got this history assignment due for Mr. Bomholt tomorrow.  I need to study for my French test, too." 

Brandon: "Foreign languages are cool."

What?  Why did I have to say something so stupid?

Brandon: "And, so is other stuff, like I guess cars, or hockey, and movies are pretty cool.  Well, some of them, at least.  Remember the first movie we saw together?" 

Sally: "How could I forget?  Toy Story 2 with our moms, and Anthony, of course, who ate too many Goobers and nearly got sick." 

Brandon: "Man, Buzz Lightyear can really soar, huh?"

Oh, my, god.  Did I take a stupid pill this morning?

Brandon: "I'm planning on taking Anthony to the arcade Saturday afternoon.  Play some games; maybe grab a hot dog or two, and a few root beers.  Want to come?" 

Sally: "I don't know.  I'll be pretty busy this weekend." 

Brandon: "You used to love going to the arcade.  You're the only girl that's ever beat me at Tekken 3, although, I don't admit it publicly.  I'd even pay for a round of laser tag!" 

Sally: "How generous."

We arrived at Sally's house.  I could see her mother inside, diligently washing dishes.  Sally's mom liked me, or I liked to think so, I made her laugh.

Sally: "I'll call you.  If I decide to go, or, whatever." 

Brandon: "Sounds good." 

Sally: "Thanks for walking me home, Brandon." 

Brandon: "Hey, my pleasure.  Any time, really."

I waved goodbye, watched her enter her house, and then started off across Prairie Dr. towards the city.  I was going to go home, sit by myself in my room, all alone in my worry; but opted instead, to head downtown for an hour or two.  I went into Opal's Diner; it was nice and warm inside, a nice change from the chilly autumn air.  I took off my jacket and scarf, hung them up, and then took a booth in the corner with a window so I'd have a view.  I ordered pancakes with blueberries, bacon, hash browns, and coffee.  As I ate, chewing extremely slowly to get the most out of each and every bite, I stared out at the bustling streets and watched vehicles and faces go by.  The warmth of the restaurant, and of the food, filled me with not just heat, but life.  What was love, really?  I pondered this, and came to the conclusion that I really don't even know myself.  But, I do know there's a few people in my life I care deeply about, and that's important to me.  I sat and reflected on childhood, a particular memory of Sally, little Anthony, and I, rolling down a hill together.  I took a bite of a pancake and a big blueberry, grinned, and almost laughed a little to myself when the thought occurred to me how content I was sitting there in my booth watching the world go on busily.  How utterly hopeless and silly it all was!

Survival of the Filthiest

In a pumpkin patch I was born -- I ate peanut shells and chain-link fences -- Roadkill with a gasoline chaser -- The local dump was my savior -- Dill pickle daydream -- Poison ivy became my only friend -- We'd go down the slide together and get our pants wet -- Hanging upside down from the monkeybars I saw my first love -- A garbage can with a rotting shoe and fish head sticking out

Didn't eat fast food until I was ten -- After devouring the meal I ate the wrapper and cup -- Never had a milkshake, but enjoyed sprinklers on summer days -- Always wanted steak, usually settled for dog -- Had dreams of becoming a mechanic -- Ended up having to blow one to get change for the bus -- Couldn't afford a TV -- Watched broken glass and rocks in deserted alleys -- Once found a dollar -- Bought a pack of gum and hope

Bra Removal Guidebook

Bra Removal Guidebook

Part I: Winter Is For Lovers

I reached around Cindy’s back, struggling with the task of unsnapping her bra. “Having troubles?” she asked playfully. I looked up at her and our eyes met. “You could say that” I returned. “And I was under the impression you were somewhat a pro” she quipped. “Nope. If there was a ‘bra removal guidebook’ I’d be the first in line”. I moved back as she leaned forward, readjusting herself as she skillfully removed the bra in mere seconds. She let out a small giggle as she fell back into the couch, pulling me forward on top of her.

It was a few days before Christmas, Cindy and I were together in her family’s house in the deserted living room. Her parents and little brother were out at a relative’s for the night. The setting was perfect. In-between lapses of kisses I’d look around the room, taking in the awe of the holiday atmosphere. There was the fireplace, stockings hung, and of course, the Christmas tree. The thing that caught my attention the most was the blinking lights. In a myriad of colors, ranging from green, to blue, and red and so on, blinking on and off silently, reflecting on the window and in her eyes.

We were getting ready to have sex for the first time. As the snow fell softly outside I closed my eyes and was so thankful, now I’m not a religious person, but in that instant I said thank you to someone, or something, and bit my lip to stop from making my grin too noticeable. It was amazing. Our clothes and the blanket fell haphazardly to the floor. Even though it was a chilly Nebraska winter night, we were both warm as can be. Once we got past the issue with the bra things progressed naturally. We didn’t discuss it. We both sweat, our bodies rocking in harmony in the act of love, my head resting against hers, the scent of her hair against my nose as I buried my lips against her soft neck. I pressed in closer, the weight of her breasts firmly against my chest, her legs wrapped around me comfortingly.

The only minor scare was when I heard the floor creek in her kitchen it was her dog Max. He tilted his head and looked at me confusingly, then he went into the hallway and found himself a cozy spot to fall asleep in. I remember the last thing I saw that night. I started falling asleep, staring quietly at the blinking Christmas lights, inextricably amazed by them. I heard Cindy get up, and watched from the corner of my eye as she ran into the kitchen, wearing nothing but her socks and panties, and prepared a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa.

Part II: Mon Coeur Est Cassé (My Heart Is Broken)

It was a really nice Saturday in spring. The weather was great and I was free, so after a small lunch I headed to the park with my sketchpad to do some drawing. I sat on a bench that provided a fantastic view. Then it struck me, how could I have forgotten, Cindy and I had sat at this very bench the past fall. She loved this park. That opened the floodgates, and a lot of memories started forming. I thought back to a party we were at together the year prior, and how we escaped the loud people and the louder music to the back porch to talk. I asked her what her favorite season was. “I choose winter” she said, “I remember when I was a kid, I used to love to feel the cold of winter running up the legs of my pants”. I thought she was brilliant.

I blocked out the memories and started focusing on a drawing. I had just begun the foundation of the piece when I heard her. Cindy. That laugh was unmistakable. She was with another guy. They were holding hands. Like a bolt of lightning it hit me, tears began to fill my eyes. She used to hold my hand just like that. I never once really looked at the guy. No, I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was so damn gorgeous. I thought back to the first time we made love. It was a beautiful winter night. How will I face Christmas this year without her? I got to the point where all I could taste was the salt from tears, my face wet and warm.

A few feet away from me a mother in her 30’s was walking with the cutest looking little boy. “Mommy” he started, “every day is so amazing!” She smiled warmly and petted his head. Without a fair warning he let go of his mother’s hand and walked over to me, surprising both her and I. “What’s wrong mister?” he asked. “Wrong? No, nothing. I uh… was just laughing. So, so hard… that my eyes started watering” was all I could get out. “It’s going to be okay,” he told me, so reassuringly. “What’s your name, little man?” I asked. “Brian” he replied. “I’m Paul. It’s nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his tiny little hand. “Bye Paul! Don’t let any trees fall on you!” he said enthusiastically, and then ran back to his mom.

I felt so much better. That little kid, so full of life, was truly inspiring and uplifting. The tears were gone; I could breathe naturally again, too. I stood up, prepared to take a walk and reflect, try in put things into perspective. “Hey!” I heard from a familiar voice coming towards me. It was Cindy, she had seen me from afar and must have asked her companion for a few minutes alone. “Hi” I said, looking into her eyes. “I’ve missed you,” she said, looking down at my feet and then back up at me. “It’s been tough,” I added. “My family keeps asking me questions about you. My grandma wants to know if you’ll be at Christmas dinner next year, my little brother wants to know if you’ll come over and play board games with him, and my mom wants to know how I could have let someone like you go” she said. I didn’t know what to say. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen” was the first thing that came to surface. “Can we talk sometime?” she asked. “You’ve got my number” I replied. “Coffee on Sunday?” she asked. “I’d love to” I replied. We hugged in a passionate embrace; it felt like my knees were turning into liquid, it felt great. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the little boy Brian from afar, smiling at me.

The End 

Thug Knob Life

Parkamo Ave. Hamilton, OH

(I wrote this story while working in an office several months ago.  I’d get bored, ignore my duties, and secretly pull up a micro sized Notepad window in the bottom corner of my screen.  I just wanted to clarify that I wrote this story out of an exercise of boredom.  It wasn’t originally meant to be seen by anybody; but, with the evolving content on the site, I thought, why not?  So, it’s certainly not one of my better pieces of prose, but it is something uniquely different.  The story is an ode to the neighborhood I grew up in, called by most “The Knob.”  It’s got a bad reputation, but I still think back upon it fondly.  All of the incidents and observations are based upon real life, and happened or were experienced by friends or myself in my neighborhood.  Without further adieu… enjoy!)

The Steps

I walked out my front door, locked it behind me, and down the concrete steps that lead from my porch to front gate.  It was late August, but it felt more like autumn than summer.  I looked in both directions before opening the gate and stepping out onto the sidewalk.  When I was growing up in this neighborhood, I often ran down these streets barefoot; I was reminded then, of that feeling of warm concrete and blades of grass underneath my toes.  It wasn't exactly ideal suburbia, in all honestly a more lower-middle class version of it.  There were rows of houses, none of them too special, with little front lawns, but generally more spacious backyards.  It had its own charm, though – even if outsiders considered it a rough section.  I looked left and right, before deciding to start walking left.  I'd got up that particular summer afternoon with the desire to get out, but little other actual plans.  I crossed Grand Blvd. and entered the parking lot of Circle K.  When I was growing up it was called Stop 'N Go, later for a long stint Dairy Mart, and now Circle K, even if little had changed inside through its name changes.  I entered the building and my eyes got adjusted to the lighting, much dimmer than that outside.  The person at the counter, a middle-aged man, barely bothered to acknowledge my existence so I began my trek around the store.  I went through the chips, candy, and canned food aisles.  I made my way over to the far side of the store, and was temporarily distracted by the hotdogs rolling around.  I've been getting fountain sodas from here since I was a kid.  Back in the early 90's they had what was called a Bad Bull, which was the largest size cup.  All my friends and I would always grab a Bad Bull, but, one day this kid Daryl only had enough change to get the size down from it, titled a Classy Cow.  It was a purple cup, depicting a feminine cow on the side, wearing lipstick, pearls, and a dress.  You can imagine how ridiculed he was for this.  I got a 7-Up, went to the counter, had a quick and emotionless exchange with the fellow working there, and then went outside where I stood in front of the building sipping my soft drink.

REBECCA: 

"Hey!"

I heard a voice from my right.

MARK: 

"Oh, hello--wait, hey Rebecca!"

It was a girl I knew from junior high school.

REBECCA: 

"What are you doing Mark?"

MARK: 

"What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?  I'm killing a 7-Up."

REBECCA: 

"Some things never change.  What have you been doing with yourself, Mark?"

MARK: 

"I'm writing a novel."

REBECCA: 

"Oh, yeah?  What's it about?"

MARK: 

"It's kind of a suspense/mystery/comedy hybrid.  It's about a legless detective who meets a professor who gives him artificial legs, but not for free.  Throw in some rabid dogs, the FBI, and Russian mafia and you've got the first act."

REBECCA: 

"You make me feel lazy.  I've just been doing doubles at K-Mart and Taco Bell on Route 4.  Trying to pay the bills.  There's a party tonight, on the North End, want to come?"

MARK: 

"Sure, why the hell out.  With you?"

REBECCA: 

"No, I'm going with this guy Daryl."

MARK: 

"Daryl?  Daryl "Classy Cow" Hensley?  You've got to be kidding me."

REBECCA: 

"You know Daryl?  Wait, classy what?  Shit, that's my cell, I've got to run Mark.  The party's at Mongo's house.  Later!"

I watched Rebecca walk off wondering how a nice and smart girl like her is stuck working at two dead end jobs.  Then, I can't really criticize, as my security job is a joke itself.  I patrol a deserted paper factory at night, but it pays the bills.  I'm hoping I can sell my novel when it's finished, but who knows when that'll be.  I take a few more swigs from my drink and toss it in a trashcan.  What do I do next?  I start walking down the block towards East View swimming pool.  It's already closed for the season, but I figure someone would be nearby, and sure enough, I see Eric, Fuller, Ben, and a few other kids I don't recognize skateboarding and eating junk food in the parking lot.

East View Swimming Pool

BEN: 

"What's up, Marky Mark?"

MARK: 

"Hey, you cod fishing eating hooligan.  What's the scoop?"

BEN: 

"We're just killing time until tonight.  Going to a show in the nasty 'Nati."

MARK: 

"How are you guys getting to Cincinnati?"

ERIC: 

"My Mom."

MARK: 

"Gives great head.  Now, back to my question, if you don't mind?"

Eric chucked a half-eaten Twinkie at me, I dodged it and chuckled.  This kids shoes were practically falling apart, and everyone made fun of his trashy mom.  One night Eric was having a sleepover, and she was drunk and attempted to persuade some of his guests to join her in her room for a gangbang.  I shit you not.

MARK: 

"Well, there's supposedly a party tonight at Mongo's house on the North End.  If you guys get back and feel like doing shots and listening to people talk about themselves far too much, drop by.  I'll be the one breakdancing on the pool table.  Outtie.  And by the way, Fuller, your fucking fly is down, man--you sick, sick, monster."

Fuller never ever speaks, so I like to give him a hard time.  I walked off, thinking that thus far, the day has been interesting if nothing else.  I hadn't expected to party, and I don't think I'll get too wild, and maybe I'll see some cool people I haven't spoken to in ages.

On the way home, I saw a domestic dispute get physical.  A man was arguing with a woman, and he grabbed her arm and started shaking her.  People on the street, and on front porches, were also watching.  She slapped him across the face, and he responded with an unbelievably sloppy attempt at a spinkick.  His foot didn't even nail its intended spot, it was more his thigh that connected and pushed her over the porch railing into some bushes a few feet below.  The impact sent him spilling back onto his back, too.  He then rushed inside, and came out shirtless carrying a samurai sword.  At this point, the girl had hopped the fence, and was taking off towards a car that pulled up in the nick of time.  He screamed loudly as she fled the scene.  He then walked back to his front porch, the scene of the melee, bowed to the viewing public, and quietly entered his house

Knob Alley

Back in elementary school they used to sell bags of popcorn on Fridays for a quarter.  This one Friday right as school let out a fight broke out about 100-feet from the building, and these two kids were rolling around on the ground grappling and ended up in this little ditch where a sewer hole was.  All of us kids that had bought popcorn started pouring it on the fighting kids in the hole, showering them in kernels and laughing hysterically at it all.  I thought about that moment as I walked back to my house.

The Ballad of Breakfast Brains

RTW Short Stories presents: 

The Ballad of Breakfast Brains

I wrote this short story while bored in Psychology class the other day.  Following the story, I’ve written a bit more about it; influences, its purpose, etc.  I wanted to also point out, however, that it features some mature content.  There’s a lot of explicit language, and some graphic scenes, too.  So, if you’re not comfortable for that type of subject material, I suggest you hit up the archives and read one of my book reviews or something… without further adieu, enjoy!

The Ballad of Breakfast Brains 

The cowbell on the front door rang.  A tall man, wearing a leather jacket, black jeans, and in serious need of a shave walked in.  He walked directly to the front counter, climbed up on it, revealed a gun from its hiding spot on his waist and shouted, “I’m taking over!”  The workers dropped to their chests and covered their heads.  “Eat a dick!” a young teenage girl shouted, she was a regular named Sue.  Her boyfriend of two years, Jack, put his hands on her shoulders, trying to keep her kneeling down near their table.  It was a hot summer Arizona day, and this little diner was in chaos.  The armed man hopped off the counter, tossed his gun up catching it by the barrel, and slapped the right side of Sue’s jaw with the handle of the gun.  “Eat that shit, filthy bitch” he spat.  Jack tried to get to his feet, but the man flipped his fun back into firing position and pointed it at his face.  “What, college boy?  Do you have a set, you sorry coward?”  The man unflinchingly starred into Jack’s eyes.  “Can I get some eggs and hot sauce in this motherfucker or what?  What’s the matter everyone?  This is a party!”  A teenage girl, wearing her Catholic schoolgirl outfit sitting at the counter was the man’s next target.  He put his gun in-between her legs, under her skirt against the soft skin.  “How’s that for a stimulus?” he laughed.  “Hey asshole, why don’t you eat some shit with your eggs?”  It was Sue again.  “Hey cunt, how about you suck on my gun while I ram a finger up your ass?” he retorted.

A loud buzzing sound came from outside, vibrating the windows of the diner.  The waitress on duty, in her 50s, dropped the plate of eggs she was carrying out to their captor.  “Oh!  Grandma, no!  Get on your knees and eat those eggs with a side of carpet.”  Three figures walked through the front door; they were alien beings from another planet, with shiny silvery skin and no clothes on.  The leader of the pack spoke in his native language, sounding like insane noise to the diner patrons.  The armed man pointed his pistol at the aliens.  One of the beings skipped forth, waved his hand towards the criminal, and the criminal instantly left the ground, being tossed above the counter, hitting the wall and landing on top of the ice tea and lemonade dispensers, soda fountains, dishes, and other objects with a brutal crash.  One of the aliens did a headstand, walked on his hands over to the eggs on the floor, and began eating them while upside down.  The other two aliens, talking loudly in their bizarre language, began walking around the diner pointing at people’s heads.  Upon this act, the human who was pointed at would have their skull instantly explode.  The aliens danced around the diner, which was now covered in bits of skull, brain matter, and tons of blood.  The lead alien began breakdancing in the middle of the floor as the other two aliens splashed and kicked blood on him as he spun.

THE END

Anyway, allow me a few words to part with.  Almost every single one of my short stories is about teenage romance, or lack thereof.  This is one of the first actual fiction pieces I’ve penned in quite some years.  My friend Eddie, who is constantly working on stylized sci-fi stories served as a bit of an inspiration.  Looking over the story subjectively now, I can see where some subconscious tributes took place:

• “I’m taking over!” – Big Stevie Cool (leader of the bWo) in E.C.W. and his infamous “We’re taking over!” line.
• “How’s that for a stimulus?” – I was in Psychology class and we were discussing stimuli, so that’s why that line was birthed.
• Misc. – The armed guy is very mouthy, that’s to show that not only his he cocky, but missing some of his mental capacities.  When he gets thrown over the counter, I think subconsciously that was my homage to a scene in the brilliant film The Toxic Avenger Part 2.  Lastly, the use of language and violence isn’t really my cup of tea, perhaps reading a couple of Frank Miller’s Sin City graphic novels recently effected me adversely.

I Never Meant To Hurt You

RTW Short Stories presents: 

I Never Meant To Hurt You

PART 1

“Rachel!” was all she heard as she gathered up some dirty clothes from her bedroom floor.  Her father was yelling at her from downstairs, and all she could think of if how lovely it’d be to live as a bird.  Her room appeared as disjointed as a psychiatric ward during the height of Vietnam; stacks of old notes passed in class were cannons, her lipstick was a live grenade, and her bed a bomb shelter.

Rachel wasn’t sure about a lot of things, although it was becoming painfully aware to her that she was both strong and fragile.  Her independent nature and visceral perception were struggling with her fear of being hurt.  She curled up on her floor, like a ship sinking she studied the rug like it was a matter of life or death.  She felt her father was incapable of understanding her, not that she was particularly interested in hearing what he had to say regardless.  She felt like the rug would swallow her whole, a sandpit serenely disguised and devastatingly effective.

As she looked up for the first time in several minutes, she saw the red glow from her alarm clock staring back at her.  5:03PM.  She was late, and in her mind; a jigsaw puzzle of heartache and desperation, she realized she was only prolonging the inevitable.

PART 2

She met Kevin at a vomit-covered party on the wrong side of town.  She was dragged there unwillingly by her friend Melissa, and spent the majority of her time watching passersby like dancing corpses in a disco of death.  The conversation discarded as easily as the plastic cups, their humdrum rehashing of old stories and bravado heavy rhetoric played like music to their disjointed steps in a dance of delusional teenage treachery.

Kevin sat next to her on a couch; it smelt of stale cigarette smoke and sweat.  She had unfairly dismissed him before he had opened his mouth.  But, once he spoke, so softly and sure, he won her over.  They went outside where it was quieter on the back porch, and listened to the insects sing their sweet songs.  The sound reminded her of family bonfires as a little girl, where the warmth of the fire would illuminate her face like the sun’s rays dancing on canyons.

They started dating the following week, like two cars colliding on the freeway they recklessly went forward without fail.  Like a scientist Kevin would examine her, studying every hair and pore.  His favorite moments were the awkward ones, when they’d both try to steal a glance and catch each other in the act, only to then quickly turn away.  She felt so vulnerable, yet strangely safe.  For their one-month anniversary Kevin drew her a picture of a pterodactyl flying through a valley dotted with the skeletal remains of dinosaurs, streams and rivers, and a lone cactus caustically holding a handgun with tears falling from it’s rough green surface.

PART 3

Rachel slid silently out of her house at 5:10PM.  She was supposed to meet Kevin at the park at 5:00, but was caught selfishly lost in her own mind like a deserted dog searching for scraps of food.  She tried to gain a certain amount of composure, but walked like she was a leaf blowing aimlessly in the wind.   Her palms felt moist as she rounded the corner towards the park.  She saw Kevin from afar, swinging slowly at the playground where they’d sometimes talk till dark, sharing memories from youth and discovering each other like explorers on an expedition of monumental magnitude.

When she sat next to him he looked up without speaking a word, and tried to put his hand on top of hers.  Rachel moved back slightly, and instantly Kevin’s eyes appeared like those of a deer in headlights.  Instantaneously transformed to being on the defensive, Kevin felt lost like a young child separated from their parents in a grocery store.  She didn’t want her words to have a bite like that of a snake, and tried to focus on altogether random things to occupy herself, like frozen ponds and bloody knees.

“Kevin, I don’t want to see you anymore” Rachel said, softly yet direct, casting the first stone.  Kevin immediately started crying, tears falling from his eyes like crumbling buildings, leaving streaks behind on his soft cheeks.  “I love you, Rachel.  I… I know that you have a lot on your mind, and I… I…” he tried to catch himself from sobbing openly, “I want to be there for you” he finished.  “I know you think that’s what I need to hear, but Kevin, I want to face things on my own” she said, composing her words like Mozart orchestrating, “I’ve never been dependable on anyone before… not my family, or friends… and I feel so naïve and exposed sometimes” she looked at the grass beneath her feet then back up into his eyes.  Kevin looked a mess at this point, his face wet and red he slowly lowered himself from his swing onto the cool earth.  On his knees now, Kevin bowed his head, his hands clinched into fists digging into the soft mud.  When he looked back up specks of dirt highlighted his gentle hands like a graffiti covered church, or so the disturbing symbolism struck Rachel in her mind.

 “Kevin, you’re such a wonderful person… but I’m not in love” she said, “and it’s unfair to both of us to pretend otherwise.”  He looked up into her eyes as if he had never seen her before, as though he thought this teenage girl incapable of being so powerful.  She tried not to focus on his face, yet let distant thoughts spiral into her coconscious like nature films of fish leaving eggs and shooting stars.  She heard a train passing by in the background and it peculiarly reminded her of the first time she made love to Kevin in the basement of his parent’s house.  After they finished he laid quietly on her chest, staring at her for what seemed like innumerable hours.  “This hurts so… bad,” Kevin said, weakly grabbing at the legs of her jeans.  Rachel thought about sitting on her father’s lap watching their fireplace flickering during cold winter nights when she was a little girl, and said with finality “I never meant to hurt you”.