The Professor Man

His dirty blonde hair is long and he has part of it in a ponytail behind his head. There's a big, bushy beard on his face. He's wearing a blue Hawaii shit.

He really isn't much to look at. The hair isn't very well groomed. He's probably in his sixties. He walks with a stride that has seen many years.

It's his eyes that are captivating. Behind the slightly brutish appearance, he's got beautiful, intelligent, deep, sensitive eyes. He's quiet and walks with a slight slump.

Maybe he's a teacher. He looks like he could teach. The wisdom wrinkles on his face are clear to see and I wonder how much he's seen. How much happiness. How much love. How much pain. How much despair. He could be a university professor. He'd teach philosophy of course. He'd be the one that everyone loved. You know, the kind one. The smart one. The sensitive one.

He's all alone and I can just hear his voice as he orders a potato skin stack over the chatter of the carnival stalls around me. It's soft and smooth and suddenly I can picture him with a guitar, singing songs about suck lock and driving a pick-up truck.

The lady behind the stand hands him the deep-friend potato stack and he walks away with a crooked smile on his face. I can hear him chuckling a bit.

So, to the man with the old eyes, I hope you enjoyed your potatoes.

Moving On

Hello Lovelies!

I have returned. 

(Do y'all like the new theme? Still not sure if I'm happy with it. Be prepared; it may change. Ten points if you can name where the background image is from)

I am officially done high school. Forever and ever. Amen. That was exhausting.

And I got early acceptance to one of my back up Universities.

And yesterday I got an interview to one of my first choice Universities AND I got accepted to a 5 month school I'm doing from March to July this year. 

And I only have 33 more days before I officially move out. Like out of my house. To do.... adultly things. 

Wow, that sounded much more inappropriate than I meant it too.

A month. That's really soon.

I'm excited and slightly terrified. But mostly excited. 

Eep. 

I'm just looking back at posts like Looking for a House in Neverland and realizing how far I've come. I'm an adult now. Like a legit, proper, legal, age of majority in Canada adult. 

Wow.

Can't You See That It's Just Raining?

Your rubber boots are a little tighter than you remember. They chafe your ankles as you tug them on over your jeans. You haven't worn them in at least a year. Maybe more.

The thunder booms outside and the percussion of the rain hits your window. The drops stream down the glass and your heart beats in excitement.

The open text books lie on the table, a half filled notebook beside them. You had an exam next monday. You didn't care. It was the first rainfall and you needed to get out.

Giggling as you throw open the door, you run outside, deliriously happy.

"What are you doing?" Your friend calls incredulously from inside the doorway. "It's pouring buckets! At least grab an umbrella."

No, not this time.

The rain falls like the notes of a melody on paper and you lift your face towards the grey sky and laugh. It's wonderful, the warm drops hitting you face, brushing through your hair.

"Come out and join me!" You call back to the house with a grin.

"What? Are you crazy?"

"Yes," you shout cheerfully, throwing you arms wide as if you embrace an old friend, "in the best way!"

"If I catch pneumonia and die, I'm coming to haunt you." And with that, reluctant footsteps can be heard squishing into the wet ground. Your friend squeals as she runs towards you. She shoves you and soon, you're both laughing. You feel six years old again.

And suddenly, as if something has possessed you, as if something has taken hold of your heart, as if the rain's melody has cast a spell over you, you begin to dance, your face upturned and your arms wide.

You twirl with the drops, skip with the water, dance with the storm. And your heart feels free. And you realize how much you'd missed this. It's been so long since you danced in the rain.

(A/N: Funny story, this little blurb was actually inspired by the tweet by Marianas Trench which read "Rained like crazy in our home town last night. We needed that. Been so long since I've danced in the rain.")

Sweater Weather's Over

   

   You're like that old sweater at the back of my closet. You know, the type that's all fuzzy and warm when I first buy it. Trying it on in the store is like a dream. Buying it is exciting and I look forward to wearing it in the fall. Holding a mug of tea, watching the leaves turn brown.

     I wear it lots. It goes with everything. My jeans, my leggings, every pair of shoes I own. It sees the rain, the sun, the windy, everything. And I wonder how a sweater could ever be so perfect.

     But then one day, it comes out of the wash and as I put it on, it scratches my arm. Not a lot, but enough that I'm aware of it. Two washes later and I can't wear it without wearing a shirt underneath. And I realize just how blistering hot it is. The weather gets colder and I begin to wonder just what I saw in that sweater.

     Soon you're not even in my set of drawers. No, you've been banished to the closet and occasionally, whilst digging for something, I'll see you and put you on. Just for a little while. And I remember why it was I put you in the back of my closet in the first place. You've got a hole in your sleeve. I'm pretty sure that blotch is actually a stain. And you're so itchy and scratchy that you poke through every shirt I wear you with.

     Now you just sit there. I know I should probably get rid of you. You've been in the back for ages and you're doing nothing but collecting dust. But sometimes, I miss the comfort and the warmth and I long for the days when you didn't scratch my arms, or make me overheat, or rip so easily.

     And one day, I decide that I am tired of you taking up room in my closet. So sick of it that I decide you have to go. The sun is shining, the flowers are beginning to sprout and all you do is remind me of the cold winter. So I take a pair of scissors and go out to the backyard and cut you up until you are nothing but little strings.

     Birds and squirrels collect the pieces. Some get carried away in the wind and every once in a while when I take a walk, I can see bits of your string in the nests in the trees. And it makes me smile. Just a little. The sort of smile that just has a little hint of sadness. But just a bit. After all, I think to myself, it was time for the sweater to go.

Remember Me

    Arthur Williams walked with a limp. It was one filled with pain and the weight of war. Yet, for all of the sorrow in his life, he was not sad. His cane hit the hospital floor and he smiled as he passed the visitor’s desk. One of the secretaries smiled back.

     “Did you see that?” She asked the nurse who was filing something. Arthur Williams had been a regular visitor of the hospital ever since his wife had been admitted with Alzheimer’s a year ago. The staff couldn’t believe his unwavering loyalty, his undying persistence; his powerful love. He visited every day. They’d been married over forty years, he would tell them; it’s not the end. They would smile, but deep down they knew, the end was coming.

    The nurse nodded sadly and they both watched as Arthur Williams knocked on door 213.

     Inside, he walked over to the white bed with a large smile on his face. It faded gradually when he noticed the monitors beside her. He hated seeing them. They always meant that his wife wasn’t happy. Looking down at the cloth draped across her forehead, he saw the beads of sweat rolling down her face. A fever.

     “Is that what I think it is?” He asked sadly. A fever was a sign. There’d be more hallucinations today. More fear. She wouldn’t remember. Slowly, he reached for the cloth.

     “Don’t touch it!” She cried shakily, lifting her hand to stop his. He moved his hand and rested it on her cheek, stroking it softly. She was burning. He shut his eyes sadly, trying to reel back his tears. The hallucinations were getting closer together. Soon, she wouldn’t remember at all.

     “So warm,” he muttered. Any second now, she wouldn’t remember him. She’d look at him with those beautiful, blue eyes and they’d be empty. He prayed that it wouldn’t be today. He prayed that he’d have just one day with her. Holding her close, he prayed with all his might.

     For about five minutes, they sat embraced on her bed. It seemed like everything would be all right. Then she started to shudder. He pulled away and she looked at him with wide eyes. Empty eyes. Shoving him away, she began to sob. Then scream. The nurses came rushing in.

     “I don’t know where I am,” she cried. The nurses tried to reassure her. She was in the hospital; she was safe. Their cries fell on deaf ears. Only Arthur’s voice made it’s way through the chorus. It told her she would be all right, she would make it through; she was loved.

     An hour later and he was sitting on her bed again. She had calmed down. She was all right. And most importantly, she remembered.

     “You never believe me,” Arthur Williams said with a smile as he embraced his wife.

     She looked up at him, her eyes filled with happiness. That was her husband. Love. She was okay. Peace.

(A/N: This was a school assignment that I did this past semester. The assignment was to create a story and the only lines of dialogue we could use were the ones in my story and they had to be in that order. My Grandfather died of Alzheimer's, so this is kind of a hard story for me, but I did want to post it.)

Here Comes the Sun

     He saw her every day at 7:14 AM. Spring, summer, fall, winter, it didn’t matter. She’d cross the New York sidewalk and walk into the coffee shop, into his life. With her headphones still on, she’d order a coffee. Two sugars and a cream. He had it memorized. Then she’d thank him with a shy smile and walk out.

     She had fixated herself in his mind and he wasn’t exactly sure why. Maybe it was the sound of the music he could vaguely hear coming from her headphones. Maybe it was the fact that she always ordered the same thing every day, without fail. Maybe it was her smile, the way she’d look up at him. Some days she was tired and she’d come in yawning, barely awake. Sometimes, she seemed to beam when she walked in, walking back out with a bounce in her step.

     He wasn’t expecting to see her on this September night. She never came at night. The shop was empty and the street outside was quiet. He’d just begun to clean up and prepare himself for the coming hours. The long hours of the night were the worst. When the shop was the loneliest, the quiet music of the stereo seemed to bounce off the light blue walls and he would wonder if he was destined to stay in New York forever.

     The bell rang as the door opened and he looked up, startled. She walked in, her head down. He couldn’t see her face. Walking slowly over to one of the little tables at the very back, she slumped down in one of the chairs and placed her head in her hands. He looked at her. She just sat there. She hadn’t ordered anything. Should he go over and ask her if she wanted anything? He stood awkwardly behind the cash, looking between the broom and the girl. Should he continue to sweep? Maybe if he waited, she’d come over.

     He waited and waited. She didn’t move. Only a few moments did he realize something. She hadn’t brought her headphones with her. She was without music. Without headphones. Headphoneless. He didn’t know why, but she seemed lost without them, like a part of her had gone missing and she wasn’t sure where to look for it.

    He heard the shaky breath. Then a soft whimper. A sob.

    She was crying.

    He’d never seen her cry before. Heck, he’d never seen her sad before. She always seemed to light up the shop when she walked in, even though it was early, even when it was sleeting, hailing or raining out. Now, she looked like an extinguished flame, like a light bulb, burning out by the second. She looked so frail and he felt so helpless. Should he go over? Or would that seem intrusive? She hadn’t looked at him.

     An idea dawned on him. He’d heard many artists coming through her headphones when she’d come in, everything from Beyoncé to Artic Monkeys to Yiruma to The Rolling Stones, but there was one song he knew she liked. She was always smiling when she listened to it.

    Walking over to the stereo, he plugged his phone in and scrolled through the music. Eventually, he landed on the one he wanted. Selecting it, the first few bars began to play.

     “Here comes the sun,” George Harrison’s voice crooned. “Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s all right.”

     She looked up suddenly, looking for the source of the music, and her eyes, full of tears and sadness, landed on his. A small, trembling smile made its way to her face. It reminded him of a melody building.

     A spell began to weave its way around the shop as the song played, connecting the two young people in its melody. And for just a few moments, the little coffee shop in central New York seemed like an oasis. She sat at the table; her eyes shut as she let the music penetrate her soul, letting it remind her that everything would be all right. He just kept sweeping the floor, peeking up at her every once in a while to see if she was still smiling.

     The song began to wound down to a close and in a moment the only noises that could be heard were the brush of his broom against the tile floor and the distant sound of the traffic a few streets over.

     She didn’t move.

     He didn’t say anything.

     Then her cellphone rang and they both jumped at the shrill tones that pierced the air. Picking it up, she answered it. Someone was talking frantically on the other end and she assured whoever they were she would be there soon. Standing up, she grabbed her coat and walked out the door with a grateful smile directed at him.

     She wasn’t there the next morning. He’d run over things to say to her in his mind last night until his brain hurt. Most of them involved jokes that he’d probably mess up anyways. He’d never been very good at telling jokes. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t showed up that morning. But then, she wasn’t there the morning after that either. A week went by, then a month. There was no sign of her, not that he was the type of person who would look for signs anyways. He wouldn’t know where to even start. By the time Christmas rolled around, she was buried somewhere in the back of his mind.

    Boxing day was always the busiest day of the year. People would stop by the coffee shop in a frantic rush, looking for fuel to keep shopping. His café became a pit stop for the day and every table was filled with people: mothers with their children, fathers on their cellphones, groups of teen girls taking advantage of the sales. He was tired, so dead tired. He just wanted to go home to his apartment and sleep for a week.

     And then she walked in.

     He hadn’t seen her since that night. She looked good. Her hair had gotten longer, he noticed. But the thing that stood out most was the lack of her headphones. She was laughing with someone, a girl friend, her cheeks red and rosy. Whatever had happened over the past three months had done her good. Confidence was obvious on her face.  Peace. Security without her headphones. He watched as she went to grab a table: the one at the very back. Her friend went to stand in the seemly endless line for coffee.

    They came, drank their coffee, and then began to make their way through the crowd towards the door. She looked around, trying to find a way through the line of people that was between her and the door. Spinning around, she eventually turned to face him. Their eyes met and she gave him a smile. He was able to muster a small one in return, exhaustion overruling his ability to shape his mouth into anything but a fatigued line.

     The day continued and he could have sworn that every person in New York had come to the shop. By the time the shop closed at midnight, he was seeing triples of everything, resulting in him running into a few more objects than usual. The radio was playing Christmas carols tonight; he’d been hearing them for the past month. Leaning the broom against the counter, he went to turn it off. He had better music than this on his phone. Carol of the Bells wound down and the DJ’s smooth voice came on again.

     “Well folks, this finishes up our Christmas carols for the season and we’ll kick off the all request hour. Hello there, you’re on line one. What can I play for you?”

      He switched to a caller.

      “Hi, I was wondering if you could play Here Comes the Sun?” A girl’s voice asked.

     He immediately recognized the voice, although it was weird hearing it doing anything other than ordering a coffee with two sugars and a cream.

     “Sure can,” the DJ answered, “you sending it out to anyone?”

     “Yeah,” he could hear the smile in her voice, “the guy who works at the coffee shop on 13^th Street. Happy Christmas and thanks for all the coffee.”

     The familiar tinkling of the piano started up on the radio and he grinned widely, wider than he’d grinned in a long time. Grabbing the broom again, he decided: he could listen to the radio a little while longer. He started to whistle along as the broom hit the floor.

     “Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s all right.”

The Box People

Her manicured fingertips toyed with the box people he had loved. They had created them together last summer one sticky day, she the tall one, and he the little one. Then a gun. They said it was over quickly. For him. Her tears hit the cardboard heads; sobs hit his bare walls.

“You’re a pretty cool sister.”

She smiled.

“Thanks. You know, you’re pretty cool too.”

People said once he became a teenager, he would grow distance. She’d never be able to find out.

She knew she had to move on. Guitars, posters and figurines had all made their way into the garage sale pile. Not these boxes. She couldn’t just let them go to a stranger.

Leaving the house, she went to his music school, past the brick wall to where his hidden spot was. He was the only one who knew that there were remnants of a paved walkway beyond the elderberry bushes.

Carefully, she placed the little people down on a pavement stone, their little arms touching, as if holding hands.

“We’ll always have each other, right?”

She grabbed his hand.

“Of course, bud.”

She stood up and left, her hand empty.

Collide

“David, why can’t you just tell me? You’ve never kept anything from me before!”  

      Esther followed me as I tried to walk away towards my car. I knew she was mad by the edge in her voice, the way her footsteps fell heavy on the pavement behind me. You notice these things about a person after being their best friend for fifteen years.

“Just drop it Esther, okay? It’s not a big deal.” I shrugged, going to reach for my keys in my pocket. My clammy hands shook.

“No,” she pointed angrily at me. “No, it is a big deal or you wouldn’t be keeping it from me. Just tell me what’s going on!”

     I groaned and turned to face her. “Can’t you just give it a rest already? I swear, you’re always like this. Nag, nag, nag. God, you’re so annoying.” I watched words shoot out of my mouth and puncture her. I wished I could take them back. She quickly masked the hurt though. I hated that mask.

“Oh excuse me,” she spat, “I guess I’m just not used to my best friend keeping secrets from me. What on earth could be so important that you couldn’t tell me?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” I turned back to my car.

She was silent a moment. “Don’t you dare say that David,” she spoke in a low tone. “If there’s one person on the entire planet who would understand, it’s me and you know it. So you’d better come with another excuse or tell me truth because I’m sick of this.”

I laughed but there was no humor in it. It was hollow, void of any joy. I spun round to face her. “You’re sick of this? I’m sick of this! God, I want to tell you so badly.”

“Then why don’t you?” She cried.

“I can’t!”

“Why, why can’t you?”

“Because!” We were both yelling, our voices filling the night air and the mostly empty parking lot.

“Because what? I’m not going to get mad! I promise, whatever you’ve done, I won’t get mad or hurt.” She brought her voice down, trying to calm the situation. I didn’t follow her lead.

“No, you’re going to get scared, and then you’re going to run away! And I can’t lose you!”

“You can’t scare me. Nothing you could do would ever scare me!”

     “Oh really?” I took two steps forwards, closing the gap between us. “How about this?” In one swift motion, I placed my hands on her cheeks and pressed my lips to hers. She was warm and I was shaking, although I couldn’t tell if it was from rage, fear or the pure joy of doing what I had wanted to do for so long. Hesitantly, I pulled back and looked at her, terrified of what I would see there, ready for her to run.

Her eyes were open in shock, and they looked into mine with an expression I couldn’t read.

Then, she kissed me back.