Password Protected

Our year in Tulsa, Oklahoma was my senior year of high school. We'd moved there to be near the Southwestern Regional Medical Center for my brother's treatments, and Mama decided I could try taking classes online instead of joining a new school. She never figured out that Thomas and I would chat with each other over the internet during the hours I was supposed to be studying in the public library, and he was supposed to be resting. I wasn't highly motivated to complete my studies.

One night Thomas and I were watching an episode of Glee. It was in its first season that summer, and I was debating whether or not I liked it so I pressured him into watching it with me to get his opinion. Halfway through the second song, he lost interest. “Did you finish that essay yet?” he asked.

“What essay?”

“Your history essay. Isn't it due tomorrow?”

I shrugged and turned the volume up, but he became angry as suddenly as the summer showers we used to have in Florida. “Julia, why haven't you been doing your homework? Mom's worried that you're not going to graduate.”

“Look, you get to take time off while you're getting better so don't even try to lecture me about my schoolwork, kid.” My sharp words glanced off of him like the nerf darts he used to shoot at me when we played cops and robbers.

“I wish I could keep up. I'm going to be at least a year behind, Jules. At least.”

I'd rolled my eyes. “Exactly, so it's not very fair of me to continue without you, right?”

He punched me in the arm. “It's not very fair of you to use me as an excuse for your laziness.”

“It's not very fair that you're sick.” I hate to admit it now, but I full-on pouted, arms crossed, chin tucked in an effort to hide my tears from him. I'd sworn to myself that I was going to be tough for him, but as usual my kid brother had to teach me what it meant to be strong. It started when we were in elementary school and he broke his arm. I'd been the one crying, and he'd calmly sought our mom.

He'd never known how to react when I got upset, so he laughed it off. “Sick of musicals. How many more episodes are you going to make me watch?”

“All of them.” In the end, he'd finished the season with me and I'd finished high school. I'm not sure he really paid any attention to the actual show, since he usually had his laptop open on his knees. I wondered on occasion if social networking was not somewhat to blame for Thomas's failure to make new friends in Tulsa. He was in constant contact with everyone from home, so he never bothered to branch out. Then again, he didn't have much opportunity in between chemo sessions for football games and parties. Some days he was too exhausted even to type his own password in. I started answering emails and Facebook messages for him after the second month of treatments, carefully recording his dictations, even mimicking the smiley faces he liked to use.

I would scroll through the newsfeed and read statuses to him. “Do you know this woman? She said, 'Finally got that long-awaited raise!' with three exclamation points. 'Celebratory glass of wine with the hubby!' ” I turned the screen for Thomas to see from where he was propped in the recliner.

“Not sure who she is. Can you like the status anyway?”

The next was similarly ecstatic. It read, “Diploma? Check.” 37 people had already liked it, so we had to be original. I typed, “Congrats! Got a job yet?” I already knew he did because his status a few weeks before had announced it, but part of our Facebook policy was to never admit to knowing any information unless there was proof we'd read it in the form of a “like” or a comment. It was the same principle my brother had employed when he pretended not to have eavesdropped on my phone conversations unless he had something to add to the discussion. This invasion of my privacy used to be my greatest sorrow in middle school.

Thomas lost interest so I scrolled through the updates on my own, pausing to look at a picture of a hand. Or rather, I was looking at the diamond decorating the fourth finger. The photo was captioned “He proposed!” The first comment underneath was “And she said yes!” Others had posted things like “Omigawd, look at that rock!”, “So cute!”, “So when's the big date, gorgeous?” and “Y'all are precious!” There were seventy-five similar responses beneath these. I quit reading.

A red flag appeared at the top of the page to notify me that my brother's best friend from middle school, Alex, had added four new photos to his album Family. For old times' sake, I rifled through them and discovered that he was now an uncle. Apparently, he'd also broken his leg falling off of a ladder the past weekend while hanging Christmas lights. His wall was decorated with well wishes and encouragement, seasoned with jokes about his mishap. I added a generic, “Man, that sucks. Maybe Santa can bring you a better sense of balance.” It seemed like something Thomas would say.

My dad came in while I was responding to some messages from Thomas's high school friends. My brother had chosen not to broadcast his disease to them, so they thought the reason we'd moved was for my dad's job. Which I guess wasn't a lie as much as it was an exaggeration. Dad's a piano tuner, so he can find work almost anywhere. It took a long time for people to learn your name, though, and in the meantime the only parttime work he could find was as a bus driver for the local school district. That year was when he first started balding. Thomas liked to joke that Dad was just trying to make him feel better about the effects of his chemo treatment on his own hair.

“What are you kids up to? Oh, he's asleep.”

“Yup.”

He leaned over the back of the coach to see my computer screen. I automatically tilted it to obscure it from his view, not because I had anything to hide but because his curiousity about my activities irritated me. “My Face?”

“It's Facebook, Dad.”

He laughed. “I can't keep all those websites straight.”

“If you get an account like Thomas keeps telling you to, you might could build up your clientel a little bit. Network, you know?”

“Maybe I'm old-fashioned but I don't know about advertising your life on the internet like that. Seems tacky. A bit like proposing on the big screen at a baseball game, right?” He winked at me. It was something Mama had never let him live down.

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

~~~

Thomas made Mama tell me when he decided to stop receiving treatments. She tried to explain that he wasn't improving, and the treatments just made him feel worse. He'd talked about it with my parents, with the doctors, with everyone but me. He wanted to have as normal a life as possible.

What about as long of a life as possible? That was the question I kept repeating to myself as I furiously fled the house, as I sped down the highway in my dad's jeep, as I sat in the parking lot of a long-abandoned gas station and sobbed against the steering wheel, as I pulled back into the garage late that night. Only Mama was still awake, and she met me at the door to wrap her arms around me.

“Oh, Jules.”

“He can't give up.”

“He's not, sweetheart. He's teaching us what it means to be strong.”

Thomas and I only talked about it once. I was half-heartedly working through some homework when he called my name. I expected him to ask me to check his Facebook, because it had been at least a week since we'd responded to his friends, but instead he said, “Can you read to me?”

“Sure.” My eyes flitted to the book in his hands. It was a leather-bound Bible that I didn't even know we owned. “You want me to read that?”

He lifted an eyebrow at me like he always did when he was amused at my reactions. “I have to believe in something, don't I?” I didn't return his smile.

“Where should I start?”

“I think there's a Thomas in there somewhere. Start with him.” I ended up having to google it because I had no idea there was a story about doubting Thomas, and if I had known I wouldn't have been able to find it. We'd been to Mass on and off as kids but neither of us had paid attention, and we never had First Communion or Confirmation. My parents had outgrown their religious phase by then.

I finished reading and found my brother watching me. “Aren't you scared?” I regretted the words before I'd even finished asking them. I thought he would laugh the question away but he thought about it, gazing at the ceiling.

“Yeah. Sometimes. Mostly I try not to think about it. It doesn't seem possible, that this could end. You know?”

I knew.

~~

Even a week after his funeral, it didn't seem possible. That there could be an end to my brother. His room looked exactly like it did while he was still living in it, his bed still unmade. I sat on the floor and leaned against it, closing my eyes and focusing on the smell of his pillow. Sweat and his shampoo.

As the light outside faded and the room grew darker, I noticed a pulsing green light on his desk. We'd never bothered to turn his laptop off. I crawled through the dark to see what he had left unfinished, but there were no windows open. The emptiness was too much, so I opened an internet browser and found myself staring at the Facebook login page.

What could it hurt?

I typed his password in. He had three unanswered messages from friends back home ignorant of his death. Reading through the cheerful messages I felt oddly comforted. They asked mundane things, like “Have you seen that new movie yet?” or “How's school going, man?”

I began to sort through his newsfeed, to check up on the people we used to stalk together. There was a status update about the foreclosure of someone's home. I found a note written by a friend who'd married young addressed to her ex-husband, posted for public viewing as though it were a work of art in a museum. Yet another announced that they had just been diagnosed with cancer, and invoked prayer from their friends. The day Thomas was diagnosed with leukemia was the second worst day of my life. I didn't take the time to read everything on the woman's wall. It would be too familiar.

Somewhere around two a.m. I stumbled upon the introduction to a very long suicide note someone I barely knew had posted. They'd actually created an event for anyone who wanted to witness the planned overdosage. It was to take place next week. On the one hand, I was horrified by the mental state of this stranger. The rejections he'd faced, the fear of failure that plagued him after he lost his job for the second time, the prospect of years alone. On the other hand, I felt mildly irritated that he'd passed his burden on to me. It seemed selfish, to impose your problems like that. Don't people have enough to worry about?

I declined the invitation, but read through some of the responses others had plastered onto the event wall. “Chin up. Tomorrow will be better.” “Don't give up on life! It's a precious gift. Don't waste it.” Some had posted Bible verses, others had shared core tenets from other religions. “Desire is what causes pain. If you can rid yourself of desire, you won't feel that pain anymore. Then you will reach the supreme state of being: nothingness.”

If I were planning on killing myself, these posts wouldn't have changed my mind. I think I might have chosen to move the date a few days earlier to give people less time to type useless Hallmark movie lines on my wall. But there were other comments, too. Things like “It's about time” and “Got any extra meds for me?” Someone had even offered to video the death and upload it later for those who couldn't make it.

There is such a thing as going too far. I closed the entire window and shoved back from the desk, plunged into darkness again. Goosebumps spread up my arms like a coffee stain infecting fabric. This person might be dead in a few days and there was little I could do to stop him. He might kill himself, and I'd know about it beforehand. By typing a few characters into a text box, I could interact with someone miles away and influence a life or death decision. Would I be responsible?

What was wrong with them, encouraging someone to kill themselves? Who thought it was even a little bit okay to film the event? And what kind of moron thought the cheerful tone of their brief post could preserve someone's life? Nothing I had done, none of the effort my parents made, none of the doctors and the latest technology had been enough to save my brother's life. How foolish to think that a semi-colon and a right parenthesis could inspire hope.

Words, words, words. He would get them as a reward for his end. Words graffitied on his wall, plastered like paper maché. Thin and fragile, glued on by sticky chubby fingers. More words than Thomas's obituary in the newspaper was worth. Four hundred and fifty characters. That was all that summed up his life, his death. Not fair. I wanted to scream it.

And no one reads newspapers anyway, these days. That was why his friends kept writing to him, oblivious. It was Thomas who had taught me the possibility of the internet, of constructing truth. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. False beliefs are true in their consequences. He fabricated an alternate life in which he wasn't sick. He'd protected his friends from the truth. He'd taught me what it meant to be strong: to create your own reality.

As I calmed down, I woke Thomas's laptop up again and reopened the message from his friend, Alex. I'd been my brother's secretary of sorts all this time. Couldn’t I continue my job? No, I should. It was my duty. So I began typing a response. It was the only way I knew to repay my brother for the possibilities he'd taught me. I could prolong his existence by creating a new reality in which he'd lived the life that was taken from him, in which he grew up and finished high school and started dating. I could do what the Southwestern Regional Medical Center couldn't do, what all the dreamers who chased after the fountain of youth had never figured out. I could make my brother immortal.

A Foot Taller and a Year Older

The mall was almost empty that Thursday night when the two girls made their third shopping trip of the week. Kate pretended to sort through dresses while her younger sister Marissa complained about the selection. This dress looked like someone vomited Mardi Gras on your shoulders, while these cottage-cheese sleeves belonged in a horror movie wedding. Though Kate murmured her agreement, her mind was on the unanswered text message nesting inside her purse that she'd been too afraid to read. It was from Sean.

“Well, are you ready?” Marissa stood on her toes, craning to reach her sister's eye-level.

“You haven't found a dress yet.” Kate had been ready to leave for the last forty-five minutes, though. Her feet were aching and the dresses were starting to blur together in her memory.

“It's okay. It took you a while to find your prom dress last year, right?” Kate nodded, though she had grossly exaggerated her own experiences. You could call it the fourth store if you counted the first two that she had merely driven past. Marissa rubbed the hem of a silky sleeve in between her fingers and said, “They look so pretty on the models. Even on the hangars.”

“And we'll find one that looks even better on you. But we can go now if you want.”

“You aren't buying your dress tonight?” Kate had put a dress on hold earlier, sleek and purple with a haltar top. It had been one of Marissa's finds, but she'd been unable to find that style in her size so she'd insisted that Kate try it on.

“We'll get it later. Don't you want to buy our dresses at the same time?”

“Like we got our ears pierced at the same time?” It was one of their favorite jokes now. It had been Marissa's idea to surprise their mom that past summer, but she'd made Kate go first. Kate had cried, and so Marissa had cried too and refused to get her ears pierced after all. The embarrassed teenaged girls ducked out of the store, already laughing at their own melodrama before they'd even reached the parking lot. When their mother came home from work that evening, the tiny silver nobs in her oldest daughter's ears made her furious.

“Mama, relax. It's just earrings. It's not like I got a tattoo or something,” Kate had said.

“But without my permission? What kind of example does that set for your younger sister?” It was one of the worst, and only, arguments Kate had had with their mother. Marissa had pouted for days, and apoligized for causing the entire ordeal, but she never confessed to their mom that she'd been involved.

As Marissa drove them home, still insistent on taking advantage of her three-month-old license, Kate finally pulled out her phone to read the text message. She'd already guessed what it would be, though. Got an answer yet?

“Who's that from?” Marissa jerked her chin towards the phone.

“Mark wants to know if I'll be at rehearsal tomorrow.” She casually shielded the screen from her sister’s gaze.

“Why do you have to be there? I thought you were an extra or something.”

“I'm the neighbor. Remember? My name's Sarah.”

“I just can't believe you have rehearsals on Fridays. You theater kids are hardcore.”

“What, SGA doesn't meet on Fridays?”

“There'd be a revolution if we tried to cut into the weekend. I think Andrew would resign as student body president.”

“Cute Andrew? We wouldn’t want that.” Kate glanced at her sister from the corner of her eye to see if she’d caught the jab.

“Yeah, yeah. Text Mark back already.”

Her reply was succinct. Not yet.

~~~

When the final bell rang on Friday, Kate walked dutifully to the auditorium where rehearsal was normally held. Marissa would pick her up in an hour. She’d taken the truck to go shopping by herself while Kate was in rehearsal. Maybe she'd have more luck when she wasn't comparing herself to her sister. There were a few dresses she might have bought if she hadn’t made Kate try them on as well. Like the red dress. Marissa had been excited about it until she saw it on her taller sister, and changed her mind.

She was surprised to find the house lights on as she walked onto the stage. The single figure seated in the front row raised his head and pulled off his headphones as her footsteps echoed through the empty space. “What are you doing here?” Sean said.

“Waiting for Marissa to pick me up. What are you doing here?”

“I thought I'd go over some lines. I know them, you know, but the dress rehearsal is next week and…” She sat down on the front of the stage, letting her feet swing, waiting for him to finish. “I don't know, I guess I want to be sure.” She nodded, studying the lights above her head. Last year's seniors had organized many a fundraiser to be able to purchase them, but that was during Marissa's guitar phase and Kate had to drive her to her lessons instead of attending the theater club's meetings. It was another of Marissa's spontaneous decisions with a shelf life of no more than four months.

Sean set his script aside and leaned forward. “So...how long are you going to make me wait?” Kate wouldn’t look at him.

“I don't know.”

“I can't wait forever.”

“I know.”

“But you don't know.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?” Kate shrugged, sliding off the stage onto the floor. Hands jambed in the pockets of her sweatshirt, she passed him and headed down the side aisle to the back of the auditorium. Jogging to catch up with her, he said, “I mean, I really enjoyed going with you last year.”

“Me, too.” They’d made fun of the prom king and queen, made up ridiculous dances and pretended to sing along with the songs they didn’t know. When prom was over, they hung out with some of the other theater kids at Mark’s house playing Mario Kart until one in the morning. Kate's mom had been irritated that she'd stayed out even that late.

“And if you'd like to go with someone else, that's fine. I just need to know.” She shook her head. “So would you go with me if Marissa already had a date?” She didn't stop walking but her shoulders stiffened. “That's it, then. That's why you won't give me an answer.”

She pivoted to face him, and said, “My math teacher called me Marissa again.”

He groaned. “It's not going to work. You can't change the subject.”

“I'm a year older, a foot taller, and I have red hair.”

“He teaches both of you at different times. It was just a mistake.”

“Freshman year, no one knew my name.”

“I knew you.”

“Only because we were lab partners. Then Marissa gets here and people think they know who I am. All they really know about me is that we're related.”

“You guys eat lunch together every day. I think I'd figure it out, too.”

“I don't look a thing like her.”

 

“Actually, you have the same chin.”

Sean, her best friend, who'd encouraged her to join the drama club despite her stage fright, the only reason she’d passed biology freshman year, the kid who would get the teacher’s attention when they didn’t hear her whispered question, was arguing with her. Why didn't he get it? “If we're so similar, take her to prom, then. You won't be able to tell the difference.”

Knowing Sean's stubborn streak, she should have expected him to follow her to the truck later when Marissa pulled into the parking lot. Marching right up to the driver's side, he rapped on the window until Marissa rolled it down. “Wanna go to prom with me?” he said, the tips of his fingers tucked in the pockets of his skinny jeans because they were too small to fit his whole hand.

“Sure, why not?” His only answer was a sharp nod before he turned and walked back into the building. He didn't even look past Marissa to where Kate was buckling herself in and pretending not to listen. As they were pulling out of the parking lot, Marissa turned wide eyes on her sister. “What was that all about?”

“Don't know. Did you find a dress yet?”

“Not yet. Are you ready to go buy yours?”

“Not yet.”

~~~

When Marissa rapped on her door on Sunday, Kate was laying on her stomach, feet crossed in the air, her laptop swimming in a sea of paper before her. “What are you working on?”

“A history essay.”

“Oh, I thought you'd be memorizing lines or something. That play is soon, right?”

 “Next week. I'd be in trouble if my lines weren't memorized yet.” Marissa nodded and muttered a vague response. “You're still coming on opening night, right?”

“Sure. Listen, there's something I need to ask you. Sean's your best friend, right?”

Kate sat up, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. “I mean, yeah, but I'm totally cool with you guys--”

“No, it's not that. I mean, I have a problem.” After a moment's hesitation, Kate gathered all of her papers and dumped them on the floor, clearing a space for her sister. Once Marissa had settled onto the bed, feet tucked beneath her, she announced, “So this morning, Andrew called.”

“Cute Andrew?”

“Yeah, Cute Andrew. And he asked me to go to prom with him.”

“But you're already going with Sean.”

“Yes, but well...I sort've told Andrew I could go with him.”

“Marissa!”

“I know. I don't know what to do.”

“Tell him you're already going with someone else.”

“But I told him I'd go, and I really want to. I just didn't think he'd ever...that there was even...I mean, I don't know how many chances I'll get...Will you talk to Sean for me?”

Kate blinked hard, analyzing her sister's eyes for some proof, even a half hint, that she was joking. “No way. This is your problem. You made the mess. You can fix it.”

“Please? You're my older sister. You're supposed to help me get out of crap that I get myself into.”

“Yeah, well, as the responsible one, I'm holding you responsible for your own mistakes. Now, I've got work to do, okay? Go sort out your own life.”

Marissa's angry footsteps could be heard all the way down the hall until she slammed the door to her room. Flinging herself onto her back, Kate released a groan of frustration. Maybe she would boycott prom. She had enough to worry about, with schoolwork and college preparation and the show opening next week. It wasn't fair of the future to encroach on the present, wedging itself between them. She almost stood to chase after her and offer to help with damage control. But Marissa wouldn't always have her to rely on. She pulled out her phone to call Sean, then realized that wasn't any better. Biting her lip, she glared at the papers stacked on top of her laptop, a mountain of deadlines.

She started setting her workspace back up. In a few minutes, Marissa's anger would have evaporated and then she'd seek Kate out as she always did and they'd talk through things more reasonably. In the meantime, Kate had enough to worry about.

~~~

That Wednesday was the final opportunity to prepare before opening night. They would perform Thursday, Friday, and twice on Saturday, but this was dress rehearsal. The last chance to get it right before the real thing.

She was in costume waiting backstage for her first scene, wearing a floral print dress, an apron, and a pair of sensible black pumps. Empty frames balanced on her nose and her hair, twisted into a strict bun, was dusted with baby powder. 

Sitting on a chair that was needed for the second act, she mentally rehearsed her first line, absorbing her new identity. She would knock on the door, it would be opened, and she would be asked, “May I help you?” Then she would answer, “Good evening. I'm your neighbor, Sarah. I saw your flyer and...I found your cat.”

Sean found her in the half light among the waiting props and scenery, mouthing her lines to her hands where they were folded in her lap in an effort to hide their shaking. She could have been praying. He hesitated a moment before whispering, “Hey. Nervous?”

“Don't say that word.”

“Sorry.” The actors on stage were in the middle of the break-up scene and their voices rose with the tension. “Are you mad at me?”

When she lifted her head, the scent of baby powder reached him. “No, why would I be?”

He leaned against a dresser. “I told your sister I couldn't go with her after all. I explained everything. She understood.” So Marissa had escaped consequences again. Kate felt a wrinkle of anxiety smooth itself out of her forehead, even as a twinge of annoyance clinched in her jaw. “Look, I was being stupid. I’m sorry I overreacted. Let's just go and have fun, okay? Still friends?”

Her hesitation was almost long enough to worry him. “Marissa's going with Andrew now.”

It took him a moment to process the unexpected answer. “The kid who's been tutoring her in math? Hmm. Wait, so if Marissa has a date...?”

The stage manager appeared at her elbow and handed her an empty cardboard box, which she was to treat as though it contained the carcass of a dead cat. “You're on in five,” he whispered.

She stumbled to the edge of the shadows and waited for her cue before she walked into the blinding lights on the stage, rapped on the door growing upright out of the floor like a solitary tree. She had already caught a glimpse of the actor on the other side, but she had to pretend she hadn't seen anything.

The door opened. “Hello. May I help you?”

Kate took a breath to deliver her line. I'm your neighbor, Sarah. But she couldn't convince herself. She wasn't buying it.

“Hi, yes. I'm Sa--Kate. I'm Kate, Marissa's sist--older sister. I'm the tall one, the redhead. I wake her up every morning and fix her coffee and her breakfast and make sure she leaves for school on time. I don't...usually do stuff like this, talk in front of people, but she always does and I just wanted to be seen for me, for once. I work hard and people say I have a future ahead of me, but I have no idea what that future might be. All I know is I'm going to buy a prom dress.” The actor's eyebrows cinched together, uncertainty leaking into his eyes. Silence expanded throughout the room like an airbag that deployed unnecessarily, and instead of saving anyone's life, only managed to bruise their face. Someone had to fix this. The show must go on. A ghostly backstage whisper said, “What?”

“And here's your cat.” She shoved the empty box at the boy, and strode off.

Backstage was always much darker when she had come directly out of the spotlight. The momentary blindness was more frightening than being centerstage. Disoriented, she stumbled into the secrecy of the shadows and someone nearby whispered, “You'll get it next time, Skate.”

“Sean?”

“Yeah?”

“Prom?”

“Definitely.”

And on opening night, she delivered her lines perfectly. The only hiccough in her performance was that she forgot the box, and had to ask the neighbor to wait while she brought the cat.

Marissa was there, as promised, after the curtain closed and bows had been taken. She skipped up to her sister with a bouquet of flowers. Her broad smile faded as the two stood without words. “Well...I guess, should I compliment you or something? Tell you what a great performance it was? I don't know what you say in theater. You broke a leg?”

Kate bit her lip to hide her smile. “You say break a leg before a performance, to wish people good luck. It's a little late for that.”

“Oh. Well, then, what should I say?”

“You don't have to say anything. I'm just glad you came.”

“Mom said she's coming tomorrow. Hey, did Sean talk to you yet?” Kate nodded. “Look, I get that you were trying to be nice or whatever, and you wanted to make sure I had someone to go to prom with, but you don't have to baby me so much.”

“But you are a baby.”

Marissa rolled her eyes. “No...I'm at least a toddler.”

Kate thought that was debatable, but instead of arguing she said, “So more prom dress shopping tomorrow? I'm ready to buy mine now.”

“Awesome, yeah! So are you ready to go home?”

Kate looked around the quickly thinning crowd. The majority of those left were encircling the stars of the show, congratulating them on their success, quoting their favorite lines. The cast had discussed going for a late-night ice cream run after the performance to celebrate. They would probably be out late, and tomorrow was still a school day. Her mom wouldn’t like it, but she thought just this once she could afford to relax.

“No, not yet.”

Response to Shelby's "A Flicker in the Night"

Hey, Shelby. Yours is my last blog post for this class. Sad day.

So, this was a short story detailing the going-to-bed ritual of a young girl and her mother. And at the end, that ritual is broken.

So there were a lot of things that were really working about this story. To start with, the description in the third paragraph on pg. 1 was great and engaged a lot of the senses. I also loved the comparison on pg. 1 of her eyelids "sliding slowly over my eyes like raindrops down a window". Also, the details about the squeaky floorboard and the perfume made the story feel really authentic, so good job with that!

As far as suggestions go, there were a few minor word omissions such as "night" on the end of the opening sentence and " it" on the end of the first sentence on pg. 2 (I marked both of these for you). Also, there was an extra comma between dim and TV on page 1 in the third paragraph. I wonder why the mother's dialogue is in italics. I'm not sure that is necessary. I already get the sense that she is whispering just from the context and the italics distract me a little. Finally, the ending is a little bit confusing to me...I don't understand the significance to the little girl not waking up when her mother came in. Is she just growing up and growing out of the rituals of her youth? Or is there something darker that I'm not getting?

Thanks for writing!!!

CK

Response to Robert's "Jenson's Day"

Dear Robert,

This is a story following a man named Jenson through his day.

Some things that really worked are the comparison of the girl to a cat, and the characterization of Jenson through his interactions with her. Also the details about the boss on pg. 2 were great. They told the readers so much through such little detail. Also, it amuses me how the characters don't seem to get each other that much. Jenson makes the joke that his boss doesn't get, his boss seems to think the people on the TV are real, Jenson's job description doesn't match his actual job, the woman with the crazy cat hair is commenting on Snookie's hair when maybe she should be commenting on her outfit, Jenson refers to the woman who is maybe his girlfriend as "the cat". The characters seem to miss the obvious and to have difficulty relating. The humor in this is highly amusing.

As far as suggestions go, I guess I'm not sure what the actual story is. Does anything change? Is the point that nothing changes and the days pass meaninglessly? If that's the point, maybe it would be good to have the character meditate on that a little bit. If the point is the inability of the characters to relate to each other, I would create greater conflict or somehow draw more attention to that. I think it would help to tie in the scenes with the boss and the scenes with the girl by having some similar issue of misunderstanding that allows the reader to feel that this piece is one whole unit.

Good job, Robert! You packed a lot into a short space.

Sincerely,

CK

Response to Patrick's "From Me for You"

Hey there, Patrick. Hope you're doing well!

So this was a story about a family dealing with the recent loss of someone during the holidays (particularly Thanksgiving), and how the main character Isaiah was dealing with the loss and how he related to his cousin. The story is mainly about how the holidays can't be the same and even going through the motions to try to recreate past family gatherings isn't good enough. Also, the main character struggles a little bit because he almost feels like he doesn't have a real right to mourn Albert, at least not like his cousin does.

As far as things that worked really well in this story, the description of the food was great. It was a very unusual Thanksgiving dinner, at least from what I'm used to, and I really appreciated that about this story. The detail about the Christmas presents already in place was also really effective, and the tweaked versions of what the tag said on pg. 4 were great. The description of the homemade wedding cake on pg. 2 was also really good. The image of the cousin in her wedding dress eating the Thanksgiving meal was very strong, and creepy actually. Which if that was what you were going for, it was great! In either case, I could picture it very clearly so good job painting that picture.

As far as suggestions go, there were a couple minor typos that I marked for you in my copy of the story. There were also a couple of places I got confused. Namely, "silent as tears trickled down her motionless" on pg. 3. Is there a word missing there? Maybe "her motionless face"? And on that page, the narrator calls Debbie is aunt but I thought she was his cousin. On pg. 4 I also got confused about the crying part in the middle of the page. Does he mean that he wants to cry, but not for Albert? He wants to cry for Debbie? And also, if Albert died that morning, would they really still go on with things? I can see continuing with celebrations if they'd had his funeral the day before or something, but that morning?? I have trouble believing that.

Finally, I guess I'm not totally sure what the change is at the end. The change seems to be in Debbie, going from crying alone to eating in her wedding dress alone. What is the change in the narrator? I guess I would like to see more action on his part. Does he go change all the Christmas present tags to just say Debbie? Does he yell at his family for going about the day normally instead of mourning Albert?

Thanks for writing!

CK

Resposne to Molly's "Blood"

Dear Molly,

This is a story about a girl in a psychiatric hospital. It deals with the idea that sometimes craziness is projected onto people because others don't know how to deal with their behavior, so they just treat them as insane. As the story progresses, we learn a little more about Scarlett's past, such as her father's violent death, and the reason why she's in the psychiatric ward after all.

Some of my favorite things about your story are the details about the people! Like the mom's ankle weights and how her skin is dry from so many showers. I also love the narrator's voice, and the repetition of the "think: whatever" or "try: whatever". That works for me.

So, some suggestions: I would like to know more about the main character. We get a lot of her ideas of other people, and we hear stories of things that she has witnessed, and later on we find out that she paints. I just wish we knew more about her as a person instead of just her reactions to outer events earlier on. I want to see her in action a little bit more. Also, I'm not sure that I completely understand the mother's character. Is it supposed to be ironic that her mother obviously has problems and yet checks her daughter into a psychiatric hospital because she doesn't know how to handle her and doesn't want to? Why does the mother do what she does? Why did the Dad stay with her? Did he have any issues that like as well? He almost seems too perfect right now.

Kay, that's all I've got.

Thanks for writing!

Sincerely,

CK

Response to Alyson's "Swiss Cheese"

Hey, Alyson. (I always want to spell your name with two l's...)

So this story was about an intern at a hospital having to trying to save the life of a patient who doesn't want to live. Brett finds out that this man was a murderer, and really has no regrets. He just wants to end his own life instead of facing capital punishment. In the end, she gives the man the information he needs to end his life for real this time. In a way, she is assisting a suicide.

There were some things that worked really well in this story. You had some great descriptions of things that made me cringe inside. For example, the comparison of caffeine to a snake on pg. 2 was great. The dialogue snippets on pg. 3 describing the medical condition of the man really got to me. And the whole flashback to the mom's death was really effective, too, I thought. I also liked the bit about the "chute", and how that came back. That was a good image.

As far as suggestions go, the bananas may have been a bit too much for me. Maybe since the "chute" image was repeated and the swiss cheese image, the bananas were over the top. Also, if you're going to keep them, then please make it clearer in the very first paragraph what's going on because I got so confused on the first page. Also, I'm a little bit confused about Brett's motivations at the end of the story. Is she helping the man commit suicide because in a way she's responsible for his death and so she's exacting revenge sort've kind've? Or has she forgiven her mother's attacker, and so has sympathy on this deranged creature with no remorse for his wrongdoings? I guess I don't understand why she decides to point out that he could easily end his own life then.

Kay, that's all. Thanks for writing!

Response to Emily's "The Marriage of Ruth and Isaac"

Side note: I feel like there's a lot of you in this. I'm not sure, but I'm gathering the sense that you like gardening (or the idea of gardening) since it has appeared in both of your stories. Anyway, I like how much heart goes into your writing.

So, let's start. This story is about a mother coming to terms with her daughter's wedding, which is a little premature in her eyes. She views herself as a rational person and thinks her daughter's immense faith in God to provide is maybe a little bit naive. In the end, though, she realizes that she could potentially ruin her daughter's big day with her own worries, and so tries to put her daughter's happiness above her own doubts.

Awesome things: like I said earlier, there's a lot of heart to your story. The details like the bit about Ruth as a flower girl was adorable, and the conflict in the narrator about the wedding makes your character real and someone we can relate to. Especially on pg. 2, you did a really good job of revealing the inner conflict and having the narrator sort of try to justify herself. But it's obvious that she feels guilty for being so hesitant about this wedding. I also liked the incorporation of the hymn on pg. 4. It created the scene a little bit and incorporated some of the religious tension between the mother and daughter, who appear to be of the same religion but the daughter has stronger faith.

As far as suggestions go, I wish there was a bit more at the end of the main character being there in some way for her daughter. I sense the desire in her heart to give her daughter the perfect wedding day, free of mom's negativity, that she deserves. I just wish we saw that a little more. And I wish we saw the mom get out her checkbook and actually pay for the flowers. I want to see the mom do just one thing without commenting on price or something.  Maybe on pg. 3 all she could see was dollar signs, but when he told her the price she grinned and wrote him a check, careful not to let her daughter see any frown lines on her face. As much as the narrator tells me that she cares about her daughter, I want to see it in action in the present in a very solid way. I think that would make me feel much better about the ending.

Thanks for writing!

Response to Paul's "Support Group"

Hi, Paul. Your story made me uncomfortable...

It was a story about a man who is addicted to masturbation, and so attends a support group of people who have been sexually abused. I get the irony. Very nice. I was wondering what kind of support group he was in the whole time, and when I found out...it made sense, especially knowing who wrote it. This is definitely your brand of humor.

So some awesome things about your story. First of all, the entire thing is one big monologue. It's a character piece, like a Robert Browning poem. Sort've. Anyway, I like the experimental form. I also like the humor in the story, like the examples of stupid Jules has done. I also like how you characterized him through the judgments he passes on the other people in the group. He assumes everyone is psycho. On pg. 4 he says "I'm just like everyone else here" after acting kind of cray. He talks about there being a "lot of cuckoos" at meetings like this, and says "I hope you will allow me to laugh at you, too, when you talk about the dumb stuff you do" (pg. 5). I also really like how you conveyed the conversational tone of the narrator. He pauses, interrupts his own thoughts, doesn't finish sentences. It makes it feel very authentic.

So, suggestions. There's one thing that confused me (and maybe it's just because I'm kind of sheltered, I don't know) but on pg. 6 I have no idea what transcripts are, and what kind of shows were being referenced. Also, I'm not sure about the ending. Jules becomes more confident, and gives a little speech about how this will be mutually beneficial, but then he's like "just kidding, I have to go." The humor is great, but I guess I don't understand how I am supposed to feel about the character at the end of the story. There is a lot of humor in this story, but I feel like I'm missing the real point. The humor in the ending sort of distracts me from any substantial change that may have taken place in Jules.