March 5, 2001

Usually when someone starts a story about something that happened to them, they can detail every event leading up to it. I can't. I have no idea how my morning started. I don't remember what I had for breakfast (probably nothing), I don't remember if I got to school on time (probably not). My memory of that day doesn't exist until 9:21 am. It was a Monday, the first bell had already rang and I was walking with Sarah. Slowly. We wanted to be late. We were heading to lockout.

Lockout was their version of a one period in-school suspension. Located in the very last room of the 100 building, lockout was a way to confine both the bad kids and the tardy kids in one tiny room, deprived of posters and colors to make it feel like punishment, but still on campus so the school could collect the attendance funds. It didn't take me long to figure out that often, staring at a blank wall was better than going to a hated class. Nor did it take long to realize that going to lockout the day after ditching was an easy way to get away with not having a signed note from a parent excusing your absence. I performed the ditch-then-lockout trick frequently.

The Friday before had been Donald's birthday. His parents hated him and we all knew it, so Michelle and I ditched second block and walked across the street to Albertsons. The narcs didn't notice, that time or any of the hundred or so other times I strolled off campus those first two years. We returned about an hour later with the best our combined $13 could come up with. A few balloons and a lopsided teddy bear. He loved it, and I knew going to lockout the next Monday would be worth it.

I don't remember why Sarah was going to lockout. I don't remember what we were talking about. I do remember a sound I'd never heard before, a sound I couldn't place at first, drowning out our conversation. A fraction of a second later we saw the cause. Hundreds of pairs of sneakers hitting polished concrete, the sound reverberating and echoing down the halls. They flew out of the breezeway and spread like a spill. We stood our ground; neither of us were knocked over. They parted to go around us and regrouped immediately after, a sea of panicked teenagers rushing, screaming, wailing. The flow slowed. We spotted Christine, the first face that wasn't a blur. She was crying hysterically, but she was prone to crying fits. We asked what was happening. She didn't know; everyone was running, she was terrified. Someone said something about fireworks. She continued past us, jogging. Sarah and I looked at each other, then looked down the hallway. Nothing was coming, we heard no sounds. We were both subdued people, and being together kept us calmer. The entrance to the small quad from the large quad, the breezeway between the drama room and the library, was the closest we got to it. We turned and walked back the way we had come.

We reached the student parking lot. Still a couple hundred people, panicked, swarming. Kids jumped into other kids' vans, piled into strangers' cars. Cliques and races were no longer an issue. They moved as a single unit with a single object in mind. Get out. I saw three guys and a girl chase a truck that was already speeding away. The driver noticed, stopped. The runners jumped into the bed. A few more caught on and did as well. One was still only halfway up when the driver hit the gas. She fell, got up, ran again. All inexperienced drivers, all terrified. There were no accidents, no pedestrians run over. I commented on the amazing luck of the situation to Sarah. She nodded. Had nothing to say.

My parents had set up a code for my sister to use with any pay phone in the event of an emergency, and kept it active for me. This was an emergency. I went to the pay phone by the gym and used the code. I called my mom. “I don't know what's happening, everyone just ran past us screaming.” The whole large quad is empty. We're not going in the small quad. Sarah and I watched the lot empty. The band room door opened, a head peeked out. “Get in here! The whole school is on lockdown.” I repeated that to my mom, ignored her screamed demand that I get home now. Another exchanged glance with Sarah, another calm, slow-paced walk to the door.

We had joined the band director, Sipos, and about fifteen other students. I don't remember the faces. I just remember Sarah, and Sipos. I remember waiting. Fifteen minutes in, maybe twenty and I stepped out of the room. We hadn't heard anything, we still didn't really know what was going on. I went back in. Relocked the door. I had nowhere else to be right then anyway.

We didn't know what was happening. Surburbia is known for its overreactions to typically urban incidents; every time a burglary or a police chase happened nearby the school went on lockdown. We had also seen a few pranks as well; bomb threats, the occasional abandoned package. Sarah and I knew something had happened, something crazy enough to horrify hundreds of teens and send them not just out of the area but off the campus, but we still didn't know what. Not for sure anyway. We weren't idiots. Sipos had gotten a call about five minutes before from the office, saying the school was on lockdown. They didn't say why, or if they did he didn't tell us. The kids who had been in the band room were students that were about to begin class, or those who were ditching theirs to get in more practice time. The room was at the opposite end of the school from where people had run from, and only Sarah and I were newcomers. The little information we had was the only information.

We were sitting in a circle, mostly silent. Something banged against the door. An unintelligible yell. Sipos cracked the door open and all we could see was a rifle. The owner yelled again. This time we could make it out. “SDPD, SWAT! How many students present?” We told him. The door shut. Opened again a moment later. We were to follow him, single file. We were going to the shopping center parking lot across the street. I think he took names, I don't remember. I just remember the huge gun, the intensity of his voice. There were three more just like him outside. The school was being evacuated and we were in the last building. We followed out the door, single file as we were told. We tried to ask questions. They pretended not to hear.

We got as far as Second and Magnolia before I heard my mother's voice. After my call she had called the school, then the cops, then the neighbor. The neighbor was her taxi driver. My mom was screaming my name from the passenger seat. I looked over, dumbfounded. Started to walk towards the car. Mr. SWAT grabbed my shoulder and told me I needed to remain with the other students, that we were all meeting at the shopping center. I didn't get a chance to say a word, my mother did. “LIKE HELL SHE IS, THAT IS MY DAUGHTER AND SHE IS COMING WITH ME.”

I didn't go with her. She told me to walk home. I don't remember why. By the time I walked in the door the news was on, a helicopter view of the Albertsons' parking lot, a thousand swarming people in a mob. The image switched to ground coverage and I saw people I saw every day at school with tears streaming down their faces. Kristin, Pam, Erin. One girl was crying so hard she was hiccuping. You couldn't understand a word she was saying, but the camera kept rolling. The image changed again, this time an aerial view of the football field. Clear enough for me to recognize the senior from up the street, the one who had been picking on me since we moved in eight years before. He was being loaded into a LifeFlight chopper. I didn't know how I felt about it. I didn't know how I felt about any of it. The ticker scrolled across the bottom. Shooting at Santana High School in Santee, California. One confirmed dead, eight injured.

The count rose as the day progressed. 13 wounded, two killed. They began showing names as the families were notified. I recognized all of them. Scott Marshall from my elementary school. Heather Cruz from my history class. Trevor Edwards was that quiet guy that hung out with some of my friends. Matt Heier's little brother sat next to me in English. Melisa McNulty was one of the first people I started talking to freshman year. Triston Salladay was in band with me. Ray Serrato shared a limo with us at the winter formal. Karla Leyva was in the drumline. Barry Gibson lived up the street. James Jackson was one of those nerdy guys that hung around the band room because he associated with the geeks. Travis Gallegos-Tate was on the football team. Tim Estes was a student teacher, Peter Ruiz was the narc everyone hated. The two killed were Randy Gordon, 17, and Bryan Zuckor, 14. Bryan was in the PE class that ran at the same time as mine. I didn't know Randy, but I knew his younger sister.

It was two weeks before my sixteenth birthday and I learned that there is a coldness in some people, a calculating cruelty that enables them to step into a bathroom, shoot someone in the head and then continue firing out the door. He reloaded four times. He kept shooting until there was no one left to shoot.
The school was closed the following day. They had to mop up the blood.


It opened again on Wednesday. Teachers sat in desk chairs while professional counselors on teen tragedy took over. They tried to get us to do group activities. Sit in a circle and hold hands. Some of us did, some of us didn't. Some of us walked out. No one stopped us, as long as we didn't leave campus.

The school was surrounded by cameras, by reporters, by big news vans. We were plagued by well-wishers and crazy people alike. Two crying men stood at the entrance to the student parking lot, handing out pocket-sized new testaments and trying to give each of us a hug. I declined the hug. I still have the new testament.

It was at this time that I realized there really are people who would stop to watch a train wreck, and I think I met every single one of them. A man from El Cajon drove past multiple times a day in a converted U-Haul with gory blown-up abortion pictures plastered on the sides. The Westboro Baptist Church came and staged a “God Hates Fags” protest across the street at the Mobile station. Bloodthirsty reporters chased students walking to school, hoping to evoke an emotional moment that would get them in the first five minutes of the broadcast. Governor Grey Davis' wife came down from Sacramento and talked about how she used to go to our school. People from other states drove in just to mull out front and talk to us. The whole two blocks in front of the school, from the entrance to Albertsons to Second Street were impossible to get through. People drove around picking up friends so they wouldn't have to walk through it. Others added half an hour to their route just so they could get in a lesser-known back entrance. A friend of mine broke a reporter's nose after he chased him and some girls onto campus. Every evening we held a candle-lit memorial in front of the marquee and every evening our tears were filmed. I avoided the cameras like the plague and threatened more than one news reporter. I still found two images of me from the rear on the internet. My hair was orange and flowed all the way down my back. I had traded out my usual black t-shirt for my mom's baby blue sweater. Only I know its me.

This went on for two weeks before it finally began to dwindle. A group of Chargers in full gear showed up. A few of them scrawled their names in one of my notebooks. I don't remember which one. POD claimed their song “Youth of the Nation” had been written about our school, and dedicated it to us. Despite the fact that the album had been released the year before, their popularity soared. Someone paid for t-shirts for every student. White, with the words “One School, One Heart” across the chest. The back said “In Memory of Randy and Bryan.” A couple weeks later a church organization sent us 1,000 donated teddy bears. Both girls and boys carried them around. Mine is tan and spent the next two years beside my pillows. The state declared us an emergency site and donated funds to support a full Elite security staff until the end of the school year. Standardized testing was cancelled. Education was put on hold while we wandered around like zombies, donated teddy bears clutched to our chests. Tough guys, seniors, hugged and cried openly a month later. We cried for our friends, we cried for each other, we cried for ourselves.

Everyone who was injured returned to Santana, except student teacher Tim Estes. I heard he changed his mind about becoming a high school teacher, but maybe that was just a rumor. For a short time the injured kids were not just popular but almost holy. The few younger ones that hadn't been well-known were suddenly known by everyone, and were subject to awed stares from the shy, and hugs or pats on the back from the bold. We underclassmen were suddenly interested in the upper classmen who had been involved. Everyone knew the story of how Barry had reacted; hearing the shots, he grabbed two friends who were frozen and pulled them to safety. Turning back and realizing some were still there, he actually ran back for them. He was shot in the leg during this second trip. Similarly, Peter Ruiz became a celebrity. Before the shooting he was an ex-cop on an authority trip. After the shooting (and he returned to work surprisingly quickly for someone who had taken five bullets) no one could get enough of him. He still never smiled, and he still strolled around with his bulldog expression and the fuck-you air of a bouncer, but every student and staff member imagined they were looking past that into the deep soul of a hero.

The younger siblings of both Bryan Zuckor and Randy Gordon attended Santana afterward.

I was never a cheerful teenager, never one who was particularly open about my feelings. In the weeks and months after the shooting I used this skill to my advantage. I wasn't one of those girls who cried constantly and had to have her friends accompany her to the restroom. I internalized everything and delt with it on my own as I always had. I built up my shell and chose to make myself less conspicuous. I wore my hair down in my face more and wore the same black sweater every day. I was a smartass to some, silent to others. Everything else the rest of the year was brooding, dark, somber.

The group healing activities were a joke; outsiders trying to talk to discuss it with me were coldly shot down. The most therapeutic thing I did that semester was bring a deck of cards to school and play speed with Cassie. Constantly. We didn't talk, and when we did it was about something else. Boys, music groups, band, whatever. It was never about the shooting; it was always about the shooting. I wasn't mourning Randy and Bryan so much as I was mourning our collective loss of innocence. I felt betrayed. High school wasn't just our social organization but our protective glass case which held us in limbo between the adult things we weren't ready for and the childhood things we were too old for. The safety glass shattered at 9:21 AM on March 5^th of that year. The illusion that bad things didn't happen to people I knew was shattered. The illusion that bad things couldn't happen to me was shattered.

I hate loud popping noises, not because I heard the gunshots myself but because I heard so many other people's descriptions. I don't trust therapists, counselors, grief counselors or any other specialist with a similar title. I absolutely despise news reporters, and I think there's a special place in hell for bottom-feeders like the guy driving the abortion mobile and my friends at the Westboro Baptist Church who make a mockery of serious tragedies. I respect cops and response teams, and I believe wholeheartedly in a community's ability to heal together.

I also believe I was lucky.

The shooting happened out of the bathroom on the back side of the 200 building. My next class, the class I would have been going to if I hadn't been heading for lockout was directly across the hall.

I don't remember crying at school until two years later. Mr. Gushwa, my Government teacher, was the funniest and coolest teacher I had in high school. He had to be in his sixties and was pushing retirement age but seemed as active, cheerful and lively as a man in his twenties. One day he told us his story. Students had come into his classroom yelling about someone having a gun. He stepped outside. The halls were mostly clear, everything was silent. He saw a student, a thin boy crawling across the sidewalk. Dragging himself to safety. Gushwa reacted quickly, grabbing whatever he could from his room and trying to stop the bleeding with pressure. He screamed for someone to call an ambulance. He held the boy, put pressure on the wound and tried to talk to him until the ambulance came. He didn't know the student but he was the last person he ever saw. Randy Gordon died in Mr. Gushwa's arms, and he put his hands over his face and sobbed uncontrollably as he described it to us.

One image from the news feeds effects me more than the rest: a still shot of a teenage girl hugging her mother in the Albertsons parking lot. Her left arm is draped over her mother's shoulder and you can see how she painted each of her fingernails a different color. You can also see the frozen expression on her face, you can see the wail she's halfway through and you know she isn't going to be done crying for a while. I see that picture and I wonder if she was ever happy or carefree enough to paint all of her nails a different color again.

The Rescue

This was a writing assignment where the instructor had the students choose a past assignment and rewrite it using a different character's perspective. This story is loosely based on a dream I had that I turned in as a journal entry.

I just got off work and had to stop off at my mom’s to pick up my mail; I didn’t intend on being there for very long. When I got there, the house was empty; the cats weren’t running around or sleeping quietly on the furniture. I walked into the dining room to check the back window; the dogs weren’t waiting anxiously at the back door to see me. Mom wouldn’t have taken the animals somewhere, would she? I sent my sister, Jessica, a text, grabbed my mail, and headed for the front door. I was sure there was a reason for the animals being gone; figured maybe she would know. As I headed to the door, I could see a figure blocking the oval door window. The design in the window distorted the figure, but I could make out the color of the figure’s jacket; it was purple. Mom’s favorite color is purple. I opened the door expecting to see my mother w the animals; but it wasn’t her smiling face I saw. I tried not to scream as I looked at this stranger’s face. It was a man’s; at least I thought it was a man…His face was painted up like a clown’s; I’m terrified of clowns…He had green hair, and his face was painted white with red lipstick made into a giant demented smile. I slowly backed away from the door, eyes wide and mouth gaping in horror, still staring at this smiling face.

“Don’t be rude, my dear. Aren’t you gonna let a fella in?” he said coyly in a soft but gruff voice that was followed by a high pitched evil laugh. I regained my courage and made an attempt at slamming the door in this man’s face; he stopped it from closing with his foot. I turned and ran for the back door as he made his way into the house, pulling my cell phone out of the front pocket of my jeans along the way. I heard the man yelling at others behind him; “Don’t just stand there, you idiots! Get her!!” I successfully dialed my sister’s number and heard it ring once just as I reached the back door. I unlocked it and turned the knob, but was taken by surprise by one of the creepy man’s henchmen. My phone dropped to the floor just as Jessica’s voicemail kicked in; I was able to let out a single scream before a purple bandana was forced over my mouth and nose.

***

I didn’t know how long I was out. I just remember screaming and a sweet smell filling my nostrils. Did chloroform smell sweet? I didn’t know. I couldn’t worry about that right now. My eyes slowly adjusted and I looked around. It was midday; I hadn’t been out for very long. I recognized this room; I was still at my mom’s, in Jessica’s old room…Why was I still here? The room was completely empty; I was sitting in a chair in the middle of the room with a gag in my mouth and my arms behind my back, tied incredibly tight with thick rope. It was digging into my wrists and I could feel the blood slowly running down to the tips of my fingers. There was a small 19” tv in front of me; it was wrapped in bungee cords, secured to the floor; it was playing “The Dark Knight”. What the hell was going on?? I felt so helpless. I kept thinking about that frantic phone call I made to my sister. I kept thinking she never got it. I was going to die here. My mom was gone, the animals were probably dead. My eyes filled with warm tears as I continued in my thoughts.

I cleared my head when I heard the engine of a motorcycle revv as it passed down the street. It was a nice day out, I was sure Jessica would be out joy-riding today. Maybe she was out and about when I called. I hoped she would check her voicemail box right away; I knew how much she hated seeing the little icon on her phone. I heard more motorcycles passing down the main road coming from downtown. I could make out the difference of each bike from the sound of the engine; Harley’s, Yamaha’s, but none were my sister’s. I slowly rested my head on my chest and began to cry again. This really was it. I was exhausted and half-asleep when I heard the Joker talking. There were speakers behind me, hanging in the upper corners of the room. He must have had his henchmen install them while I was knocked out.

“Oh, how sweet! The older sister coming to the rescue! I think I’m going to cry!” he said with a laugh. So one of those bikes really was my sister! Tears of joy escaped my eyes and saliva from my lips soaked into the gag. I’ve never been this excited to see my sister.

“Be careful of the water, darling! Those “worms” aren’t friendly!” Again, his high pitched laugh pierced my ears. He was taunting my sister as she made her way through his little fun house. I was certain that he had a few more of his henchmen hiding, waiting to ambush her. Maybe even some horrific traps. I couldn’t think about that, so I turned my eyes to the tv. The movie had ended once already, but was playing again. Somehow, The Joker rigged it to play over and over, as a form of punishment. Did he hate this movie that much?

The Joker was quiet for quite some time; I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know whether or not Jessica had been ambushed and taken by the henchmen or still making her way through the obstacles laid out in front of her. I became more and more anxious as I waited. I was drifting into sleep when I heard The Joker’s voice screaming out of the speakers; “You fools! How did she get passed all of you?! I pay you to do my dirty work!! I didn’t help you escape from prison for nothing!!” I heard steps running up the stairs behind me, and I started screaming through the gag. I tried looking behind me, but was unsuccessful. I began shaking the chair and hopping in it to get it to turn, or fall over or something, just so I could see behind me. I was so frantic in my efforts that I never heard the footsteps approach closer.

“Hey, hey, hey it’s cool! I got you, Hannah, calm down!”

She removed my gag first, “I’m so frickin glad to see you! I don’t know how long I’ve been here! What the hell did he want?!”

“Dude, I don’t even know, let’s just get outta here…”

I nodded my head in agreement as she untied the knots; I was so relieved that she was here and we were getting out of this mess.

***

            The strange man went on to terrorize a dozen other families just like he did to mine over the course of 3 weeks. I heard about it on the news, but no one seemed to know what he was looking for exactly. All I cared about was someone catching that crazy bastard before he started to kill innocent people.

The Wallet

“I didn’t steal it,” he mumbled as he walked down Sixth Avenue. He heard nothing as he walked; not the foreign cursing echoing from a crumbling building, not the angry honking as other pedestrians confidently walked out into the busy street; not even the smack-flip sound his separating right sole made onto the cement with each step. He reached his building. A pair of feral cats were fighting over chicken bones recently retrieved out of the open garbage cans, hissing and spitting, while a slumped and bearded homeless man moved in on their prize. They also went unnoticed. 

                He made his way up the stairs to his sixth floor apartment, past crude graffiti over crumbling wallpaper of an indiscernible pattern, avoiding the loose eighth stair after the fourth landing. Once there was a working elevator in the building, but like everything else in this area of town it was long gone. The world had moved on, and many places like this had been conveniently forgotten. 

                He made his way to the tray table he called his desk and sat in the armchair with the shredded upholstery. A stack of old paperbacks leaned precariously next to the table. Salinger, Bradbury and Hemingway watched as he folded himself into the seat. He looked at the door one last time, making sure he was alone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. Leather, by the look of it, and plumper than a roasted chicken. He ran his hand across his stubble and sighed. 

                He stared at the wallet on the table. Inviting it to offer its thoughts, its opinion of him. It said nothing. He heated up a can of beans. The wallet waited, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming. 

                It was six hours before he opened it. He read every bit of information on the drivers’ license as he ran his thumb across the rows of hundreds he had expected to find. He tried not to, but finally he gave in and flipped through the picture book. No kids, that was good. He wouldn’t want to take from kids, even rich kids. He pulled out the many credit cards one by one and looked at them on the table.  He returned the cards to the slots and removed the cash. He sighed again. From down the hall came the sound of a child sobbing, and this finally brought him out of his daze. He nodded to himself, found a scrap of paper and wrote down what he had to say. 

                “I found this on the L-line. I didn’t steal it. Sorry about the cash, it was needed.”

He folded the paper and carefully put it into the slot where the cash had been. He’d take it to the post office and send it to the address on the license. That was going to cost him five bucks he didn’t have, but it couldn’t be helped. 

                He stepped back out into the hall, closing his door behind him. He took a few steps and stopped at an apartment down the hall from his. The child had stopped sobbing for now, but he knew it was still hurting as it had been for a long time. He slipped the cash under the door, knocked twice and said out loud, “Take him to the doctor.” 

                By the time the door opened he was already down the stairs.

The Story of The Ex...part 1

Why did he do it? Why didn't he follow her sister's advice?

"Whatever you do, DO NOT smother her. She will run...."

Simple. He knew it, but why didn't he listen? She would've gotten on a plane a few weeks later and joined him in Texas. But no. He called her, texted her relentlessly. Even when she blatently ignored him. He was an idiot. He did everything he was warned against, and it left him utterly alone. He missed her everyday; couldn't keep her face out of his mind. How she tilted her head up to laugh, the way the apples of her cheeks glowed red when he gave her her birthday cupcake. He was in love with her. Loved everything about her. But that was over.

It was going on his third month in the Army. He was still a private because he couldn't seem to keep himself out of trouble. It was never his fault. Some of the guys just couldn't keep their mouths shut and he had to tell them off; yet, he was the only one getting reprimanded for it. This wasn't the life he imagined when he signed up for the Army. He hated every minute of it; sometimes regretting his decision. He lived in the barracks with the rest of the guys, with no privacy whatsoever. He knew there were some guys there that weren't "right". Homosexuals. They terrified him. His living situation bothered him more than those troublemakers. His junk wasn't safe from their wandering eyes. Lord help him if he dropped the soap.... There had to be way to get out of that place; a place of his own. Off post. Yeah, off post; far, far away from the evil homos.

Every girl he looked at, he viewed as a potential wife. That was his great plan: Find a good looking girl, coax her into marriage, buy a house off post, receive more money. That was the kicker. A buddy told him he would receive more money if he got married. That just made him want to go through with it even more. Greatest idea ever. And it worked. This girl was his type; voluptuous and beautiful. He didn't give two shits about her personality, it was all for the extra money anyway. And just like that, they were 'happily' married.

But even after his wedding, he couldn't stop thinking about his ex. Only a month into the marriage, memories of her would creep into his mind. He remembered the night they sat on her bed in her room and watched a movie. He couldn't remember what movie it was; they weren't paying much attention to it. She was sitting behind him, with her soft, bare legs and arms wrapped around his waist. He was rubbing the soles of her feet; she had the prettiest feet that he could not stop touching. She was kissing the back of his neck softly, sending goose bumps down along his arms. He could still feel her warm breathing on the back of his neck as she moved her mouth to a different spot to plant another soft peck. She freed her foot from his grasp and began to slowly massage his inner thighs, working her way up to his groin. His eyes rolled back in ecstasy; his most desired fantasy was being fulfilled....

The more he thought of this memory, his favorite memory of her, the more excited he became. His wife never exicted him this much; she would never do the things his ex did to him. He knew he still loved that girl. He desperately wanted to talk to her, and decided to take a chance; he texted her. The wait it took for her to respond seemed to drag on forever. Did she get the text? Was she in bed with another guy? She texted back within a minute; of course she missed him too. Just reading her words left him so emotional; tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he typed out another text. The way she made him feel at this moment in time felt like the happiest day in his life. It was just that awesome of a feeling.

He had just gotten dropped off at work by his wife when his phone vibrated in his pocket. The woman just took off, what could she possibly want right now? But it wasn't his wife. It was his ex. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, but as he read the text, his face dropped in horror. It was a forwarded text. Forwarded from a number he recognized all too well. Somehow, possibly in the middle of the night, his wife had raided his phone. She found his ex's number and texted her; started threatening her. His ex never said a word to him; just forwarded the messages from his wife. That was it, he lost his ex forever. He could only imagine how she felt; he was feeling the exact same way. Crushed; like his whole world came tumbling down upon his chest, breaking his sternum and puncturing his lungs so he couldn't catch his breath. He fought back tears and anger as he joined his unit in front of the barracks. That bitch of a woman he made his wife was going to get a piece of his mind later.

Months passed, and his ex never attempted to get a hold of him. He knew she was definitely done with him, but her face was unforgettable. He couldn't shake those images. Not that he wanted to either. He wanted to talk to her so badly, it almost hurt him. He needed her to text him; his wife erased his ex's number from his phone. He wanted to kill her, but only if he knew he would get away with it. During the last few months, his beloved wife had become some sort of psycho bitch. Out of thin air. It was unexplainable. One thing after another, she was flipping out about something. It was July; last week was his birthday. Birthdays are usually a special day, spent with those you love. Except he was now stationed in Seattle, Washington with only his wife for company. Great; well, better make the most of it. But she had other plans. She flipped out on him about his decision to watch a certain program on television. They fought for what seemed like hours, until finally she stormed off. He was relieved and sat down on the couch to continue watching his show. Not long after, she came out with a pill bottle and a glass of water. What the hell was she doing with that? Does she have a headache now? No, that wasn't an over-the-counter aspirin. He couldn't make out exactly WHAT it was, but it was definitely from the pharmacy of the local grocery store....She continued screaming at him while uncapping the bottle. He slowly stood from the couch and began to approach her; trying to presuade her to stop. She quickly tipped the pill bottle, and dropped countless pills into her mouth. He ran over to her just as she dropped, face first, to the floor, bottle and glass still in her hands. He flipped her onto her back and lifted her head and the pill bottle. His eyes adjusted as he read the word, 'Vicodin', across the bottom of the bottle. Could this cause an overdose? He couldn't risk it, and dialed 911. It turned out to be a joke, but thankfully, it was prescription otherwise they would've sent the cops. Honestly, if she had really wanted to die, she should've tried a different pill. All she did was pass out.

After that eventful day, he couldn't wait on his ex to text or call him. He had to make the move. He messaged her through a social networking site, and hoped she would log in. She hadn't logged into her account for almost a year. It was a long shot.....

There's a First Time for Everything...

It was a cool spring night. Not too cold, but not hot enough to ride without a jacket and helmet. She had just gotten her motorcycle endorsement a couple months ago and wanted to ride my bike. More experience on a more powerful bike. I had been promising to take her out for awhile now, and just kept putting it off. I had an argument with one of the girls I ride with and decided it was a good night to let Carly ride. My sister didn’t have a bike, this other girl did. She was always borrowing my bike when I took my boyfriend’s bike out because she didn’t like her own. Well, darlin, sorry. Next time, don’t buy a little 250.

I invited my good friend and rider, James, out to help monitor my sister while she rode around the high school parking lot. James had been riding for about 10 years now, so he had an extensive knowledge on the matter. I trusted his judgment. We sat on the back of Carly’s car and enjoyed good conversation while she made circles around the lot. Every once in awhile she would ride over to us and ask how she was doing. It was weird seeing my sister on my bike, but in a good way. I made her wear all of her gear, despite her protests. She was still learning to ride; the gear was a necessity. Carly had my old solid black helmet strapped securely over her head, and wore her thick nylon black and white Icon jacket and matching black Icon gloves. The gloves had a hard, thick plastic protector covering the knuckles. They were a bit bulky, but she bought them herself. When she rode a little out from the light poles, it was really hard to see her because of all the black. Thank God the plastics on my bike were mostly white.

She was heading in our direction and veered off to make a figure-8 around two poles. She was a bit shakey making the left hand turns, and had to put her foot down to steady herself. After rounding the poles, she made a left and headed for the south end of the parking lot. She made another left around a median and rode the curb toward the east lot. I closed my eyes for a brief minute and allowed a yawn, when James leaped off the back of the car and ran in the direction of my sister. I missed everything that just happened, but I hopped off the car and hauled ass after him. I looked passed James' back to find Carly. She was pacing in the grass, frantically trying to pull the helmet off her head. The bike lay several feet from her, lying on its side. My sister finally got her helmet off and sat down on the curb. She was breathing heavily and crying. James got to my sister first and checked to make sure she was ok. When she nodded at him, he made his way to my bike to pick it up and walk it back onto the concrete. I reached my sister a few seconds after he did, and I stopped to ask what happened. She had gotten too close to the curb. Before she could veer off to the left, she tensed up and the front tire hopped the curb.  She hit a bump in the ground and was sent flying over the handlebars a good 10 feet. My friend joined me in talking to my sister. She was adamant on going home. She didn’t want to ride anymore. My friend and I couldn’t allow that. She had gotten her endorsement for a reason. Not to just give up now. My friend helped her up. She had to get back on the bike to overcome her fear of laying a bike down. This may have been the first time, but it definitely wasn’t going to be last. She calmed down a bit more before finally agreeing to jump back on the bike.

She shoved the helmet on, took a deep breath, and hit the ignition button.

Prompt: use the first line of Amy Hempel's short story Weekend, "The game was called on account of..."

                                                  The Game

The game was called on account of burning insecurities, and round cherry faces that were giddy moments earlier crumpled into disdain. The field, nearly 300 feet of smooth green meadow grass waves now went unseen as bright young eyes, dashed with tears stared at shoes in contempt. The lazy clouds above drifted in the same soft breeze that kissed reddened cheeks. Little Eddie Dean knew that his team was no match for his big brother Henry's, and while the calling of the game was a harsh blow, in his secret heart of hearts he knew it was right. One time he had seen Skipper Brannigan and Frank Mott light a cat's tail on fire just to see it run, and he knew that what happened to a stray cat wouldn't necessarily happen to a little boy, but other bad things could. Last year Jeffie Smitherson broke his nose rounding third. The grown-ups said it was an accident, a slip, but Eddie knew better. Eddie and his friend Jonas heard Henry and Skipper talking about Jeffie's fall through the bedroom door, their ears scuffed by the roughness of the chipped paint but not being able to tear themselves away. The little boys could hear how much they laughed. They weren't afraid of blood, those boys, especially if it wasn't their own.

Coach rounded up the little boys, mostly dry-eyed by now and those who weren't stared off to the sides pretending to be angry. The other boys on the team acted as if they didn't notice; this wasn't the time for teasing and anyway they understood. The high school boys jumped and laughed; honor and sincerity weren't in their vocabulary and in their eyes a forfeit was even better than a win. The big boys enjoyed scaring the little boys, loved the power, but this was way cooler – this time the coach was scared for the little boys. Henry and Frank high-fived while Skipper did a cartwheel and ran into Brent Jones. Scaring an adult was hot shit. They were hot shit.

The coach gave Eddie a soft, knowing smile and patted his shoulder. Eddie nodded his head.

Two groups of boys went home, the winners and the losers.

Blog the first.

Hello anyone that is reading this now or may read this in the future. I'm either Robin or Rikki. I won't tell you which, but you might figure it out at some point. If you do, keep quiet about it. We are setting up this blog to have a place to post our writing, be it fiction, non-fiction, poetry, etc. Basically whatever we want to put here and hope someone reads. We are both students intent on honing our craft(s), so please feel free to supply constrictive criticism, just understand that any douchebaggery will be ignored.


Thanks, and we'll start posting soon.

-R.