"They knocked down two tall towers. In their memory, draft a covenant with your conscience, that will will create a world in which such things need not occur. A world which will not require apologies to children, but also a world whose roads are not paved with the husks of their inalienable rights. They knocked down two tall towers. Graft now their echo onto your spine. Become girders and glass, stone and steel, so that when the world sees you, it sees them. And stand tall. Stand tall." - Spider-Man

Kate's Info.

A little bit ago the lovely and talented Katelyn Finnegan, my dear friend, asked me to write a bio about her for use in social networking sites and such. This is what I came up with...for some reason she didn't use it.

I cannot cofirm or deny its accuracy.

The Universe can better be described as a Multiverse. Our existence here on Erth is mirrored on an infinite number of planes. In modern times, our Earth had made contact with a parallel Earth called Artha. Artha's universe was exactly like our own with one notable difference. On Artha what could only be described as magic existed. What was only the stuff of fiction and fantasy in our world was the everyday-mundane on theirs. It wasn't long before the two co-existing worlds began to share culture, technology and ideals. Both worlds experienced decades of peace and properity. It would not last. An evil sorcerer from Artha saw an opportunity to rule over our Earth with his vast magical power. He formed a great Dark Army and battled the combined forces of Earth and Artha, he was victorious. In order to prevent any future rebellion, the new dark ruler cast a spell over all the Earth so that no human would ever remember Artha, its wonders and our friendship with their planet. Furthermore, the sorcerer sealed our world off from any and all parallel Earths, isolating us forever. So now, in secret, this terrible lord rules over all, shaping our lives by his own evil will.

But as always, there is hope.

A group of Arthans sacrificed four of their own daughters to be raised on Earth and one day use the secret plans they forged and placed inside them to dissolve the barrier between their worlds and defeat the evil sorceror. Katelyn Finnegan has finally come to accept the truth that she is an Arthan, one of the saviors of Earth. Like a forgotten memory from childhood, she is piecing together her parents' plan. Katelyn must use her newfound magical abilities to find her three Arthan sisters and the four boys from Earth chosen to protect them. Only together can these eight free the world from unimaginable evil. Katelyn Finnegan is the first...her journey to rally the other seven saviors of Earth begins here.

Come on, can you imagine how awesome that'd be on a resume?

Smile Like a Bank Teller

3% of this story is based on reality. I did have a crush on my bank teller, her name was Michelle. I did, in fact, have a flash-floward of the future featuring us getting married. I absolutely wore my "Honey Dew Me" t-shirt into a bank. Almost everything else is fabricated from my noggin. The title comes from a Ben Folds Five song called Selfless, Cold and Composed...check that out. Oh and no, Slam Bradley's is not a real bar...yet.

I had pictured Michelle Prince in a wedding dress within the first five minutes of seeing her. I had stopped in the bank, where I worked, on my day off to grab a jacket I had left there, my favorite jacket…my lucky jacket. It was Michelle’s first day as a teller, no longer the awkward trainee. Through unkind scheduling up until that point I had not met Michelle. She was only a name I’d hear, nothing more, and so became sort of ethereal to me. That morning I passed through those familiar, finger-smudged double glass doors with only the rescue of my lucky blue jacket on my mind. I did not know how my life would change.
It was Saturday morning and it was slow. Michelle was helping a customer and only one more stood behind him at the mouth of a felt-roped maze. For a moment I just stared carefully, my eyes trained on CNN which was showing on the TV above and behind Michelle’s left shoulder. Every few seconds I could replace Wolf Blitzer with her adorable visage. She was beautiful but I suspected she didn’t know it. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a messy bun, strands hung out wildly like a sea creature’s tentacles on an ancient map. Her skin bore no sign of make-up save for some cover up on a pimple above her left eye brow that I’d imagine she cursed at, experimented with, and ultimately decided to try and disguise that morning. She wore a white sweater that revealed all of her shoulders, her long thin neck and oddly sexy clavicle. She had small dark freckles dotted intermittently about her shoulders, chest and, I assumed, back. They reminded me of chocolate shavings on the whipped cream topping of an over-priced coffee and I wanted to taste each one.
The customer in front of me in line (unbeknownst to me I had gotten in line) did the Impatient Two Step before getting a call on her cell phone. After excavating it out of the most enormous “purse” I had ever seen, she answered with an exasperated “What now?” I only let myself become distracted by her for a second before shifting my attention back to Michelle.
It was at this point that I realized that there was an issue with the customer Michelle was helping. When I got close enough to hear what was going on, Michelle was explaining to the man that she could not cash his check because the address on his driver’s license did not match the address on his pay-stub. Obviously, the man was not pleased but still kept an air of annoyed congeniality. Even so, if he had projected even one modicum of unpleasantness in Michelle’s general direction I would have gladly snapped his neck with ninja-like efficiency and without a moment’s hesitation. He didn’t. He did, however, ask if there was anything she could do. I noticed the “happy” training they give us as she told him she’d talk to the manager (my good friend Ben) and then it happened. As she began to walk away, smiling politely like we bank tellers do, her eyes briefly met mine, for a nano-second perhaps. It was like a flashbulb, burning her image right into my skull. Within a few more seconds we were talking, then dating, then she was meeting my mom, then we had a suite in Cape May for the weekend, then we were sharing a private joke in the back of a limousine taking us to our wedding reception, then she returned, still smiling, to tell the man that if he had another form of I.D. with the new address she could cash his check. Having worked at this bank for two years, I already knew that simple answer.
“DAMN IT! You idiot!” I screamed inside my noggin. “That was a perfectly good opening line I wasted.”
Infuriated with myself, I wracked my brain for something good to say, still unaware that I was in line for no reason. Possibilities darted like humming birds around in my consciousness and I plucked whatever I could.
“Fresh meat huh? Argh, terrible. New girl eh? I was banking on meeting you someday…Lord, I should kill myself.”
It appeared my databank of lines was on the fritz and now that New Address Guy was finished, I was running out of time. Giant Purse Lady, who I’d noticed ended her phone conversation with a breathy ‘Asshole.’, filled the new vacancy in front of the increasingly beautiful Michelle. At that point, I had become cognizant, and thereby embarrassed, of my current attire. For some reason, I had gotten into the habit of appearing more casual than I actually am when in the presence of coworkers outside of work. I may have felt that if I had always appeared hung-over it would lend itself to the idea that I had a crazy, party-filled life outside my corporate existence. The only real reaction this garnered was that two or three times a month my fifty-eight year old coworker Doreen would ask: “Crazy weekend planned Martin?” To this I’d almost always answer with some variation of “You don’t wanna know Dor.” I’m sure her laugh was always genuine. But in line that morning I truly regretted my fictional swinging bachelor life as well as my bright yellow mesh shorts and faded pink Baerenjaeger t-shirt which featured two cartoon bees staring lovingly at each other under the words “Honey Dew Me” in Olde English-esqe font.
“No time to worry about that now.” I thought, “I’m next in line…wait…oh my God. WHY AM I IN LINE?!”
The realization made my stomach churn and my face flushed. The Giant Purse Lady was gathering her slips while saying her goodbyes and thank you’s.
“If I leave now it’d be too obvious, she already saw me. I’d look like a freak, she’ll think I’m weird, I blew it, I’ve 100% blown my chance before I even-“
“Hi. Can I help you?” Michelle cut through my internal harangue.
An Ice Age forms and falls in the time it takes me to articulate a response. Fortunately I had managed to dig a gem from the barren tundra that my vocal capabilities had become.
“I…uh…” was what I eloquently stammered.
Michelle maintained her professionalism and tried to further communicate with a mentally-deficient Cro-Magnon again.
“How can I help you today sir?”
My response this time wasn’t as good, or maybe it was better, I simply couldn’t speak at all. I just stood there, half-smiling with a look on my face that better suited a person who had no training in bomb-disposal…who suddenly found themselves needing to dispose of a very big bomb. I saw Michelle’s eyes dart to Ben, our manager. I had actually made the situation so uncomfortable that she could consider that I was a crazy person ready to rob the bank.
“Mart! Marty!” I heard those sounds but failed to place them as properly as I should have.
“Dude, Mart.” A stiff push to my shoulder finally shook me out of my fatuous paralysis. I saw Michelle’s face fill with relief and with that I felt of rush of some too.
“Ben, no physical contact at work, sexual harassment is something we take very seriously at Second National.” Too little, too late, my normally loquacious tongue returns. Ben laughs his hearty, fat-guy laugh (odd in that he only weighs roughly 115lbs) and explained:
“I’ll do whatever I want when you’re not on the clock broseph.”
Not to be outdone in front of my brand new love, who was still smiling, I countered with:
“Let’s hope all our customers are as lucky as I am.”
Ben then introduced me to Michelle and I apologized for my creepy weirdness and justified it with a story about a shot contest with my roommates the prior evening which led to a zombie-like hangover. It’s always easier to be funny when an old friend is around and thanks to Ben I was able to bring that side of myself out in front of Michelle. She laughed at all my jokes and they were real laughs, I can always tell. I was completely unaware that I had spent three hours talking to Michelle and Ben, the entire day went by without another customer coming in, not uncommon for a Saturday. I offered my help to Michelle with the normal end-of-shift routines and to my delight she agreed.
As Ben was locking up, Michelle laughed at me shivering in the chilly autumn air.
“I guess you didn’t plan on spending too much time outside today huh?” For a second I was too wrapped up in the joy of her talking to me that I didn’t understand the question, but it quickly dawned on me.
“Oh, right! I’m not really cold; I was actually going to do some yard work like this after I left here, in my sleeveless tee of course.”
She smiled with her lips closed and looked me in the eyes.
“Oh, of course.”
Ben turned around and put his dungeon master’s keys in the large front pocket of his jacket. Our bank was safely locked up and my lucky blue jacket, that I forgot again, was locked up safely with it. By this point I’d hoped that he’d picked up on my scent and knew that his good friend was very, very interested in his new employee. Also, since Ben had been in a long-term relationship with my cousin Beth, he was in my debt. I was responsible for getting B-squared together, he owed me.
“Well, Martin, Michelle…kiddies, what say we get some drinkies?” Ben had a certain way of talking that had it come out of anyone else I would have instantly hated them.
“Ooo! I’m game!” Michelle quickly answered with a speed that forced me to consider the possibility that she was unaware of Ben’s involvement with Beth and the awesome couple-name that I had given them. As well as the possibility that she was not interested in me, but Ben, that son of a bitch. Luckily, I had a trick up my sleeve.
“Ah…jeez, I dunno. I’m still kinda shaking off the after effects of last night…” I let the sentence linger. It had a two-fold purpose. One: to put off suspicion of my false hangover. Two: to draw Michelle into asking me out. Ben bit first.
“Oh, shut the hell up. Grab a shower and meet us out.”
I continued my machination by scrunching my face, looking at the ground, then at the large, red neon numbers giving the motorists on Eagle Road inaccurate time.
“Come on Martin, it’ll be fun.” She said my name and that was it. I showered, using twice as much body wash as I normally do. After ten minutes of debating whether my five-o’clock shadow looked ruggedly handsome or skeevy, I decided to shave since Michelle already saw it and now I could offer her Option #2. I leapt into my most strategically pre-ripped jeans and slipped on a canary yellow, long-sleeve button down. I rolled up the sleeves, once, then again, no more. I met Michelle and Ben at Kevin’s Tavern within the hour.
After that night in the tavern Michelle and I became fast friends. I found I could make her laugh with relative ease and she seemed to genuinely enjoy me as a person. This was proven when she began to call me to talk or hang out rather than me pushing it on her. It didn’t seem to be that long before we were hanging out alone, having dinners for two, or planning weekend activities. With every movie watched or meal shared that flash of our future I had the first time we met seemed to coalesce. I’d never gotten along with a girl so easily and was never as satisfied by a relationship as I was by the one I had with Michelle. As weeks and months progressed, my feelings multiplied and deepened. Before long my crush on Michelle was no secret among my friends, family, and coworkers. Every person I knew was sure of the love Michelle and I seemed destined to share. We were perfect for each other, a clichéd match made in heaven and soon I would confess it all to her and make the transition from friend to lover. When she told me about her new boyfriend Paul, I decided to put that on hold though. Imagine my surprise.
Unbeknownst to me, all of the spare time that Michelle didn’t spend with me, she spent with Paul. She had met Paul in much of the same way I met her, in line at the bank. I’d learn that Paul was a high school Spanish teacher at a school I had been preconditioned to hate since the age of five. I’d also learn that Paul and I weren’t all that different, a fact that I’d come to hate (along with myself) after spending time with him. Knowing that in any other circumstance I’d like the guy, accompanied with the fact Michelle loved all the personality traits that Paul and I directly shared, drove me batty. There was an initial period of time during which I felt betrayed. I allowed myself to believe that Michelle had used me to feed her ego or fill a void until Paul (or whoever she deemed better than me) came along. But eventually I managed to keep reminding myself that I had never presented myself as anything but a friend to Michelle and I couldn’t hold it against her or Paul because he had the balls to make a move and I didn’t. I decided to try my best to respect them and be happy for them but I couldn’t have been as happy as when she showed up at my apartment a slobbering, crying mess because Paul dumped her.
Yes, I know that’s terrible and I’m a horrible person for finding joy in a friend’s pain, but sue me, I was falling in love with the girl. Michelle shuffled into my place wearing an over-sized Eagles sweatshirt, plaid pajama pants, and sweat socks, no shoes.
“No shoes? You drove here with no shoes?” I smiled as carefully as I could while asking, hoping she could find the humor in it and we could begin the process of cheering her up.
“I’m in mourning jerk. Back off.” The corner of her mouth curled up into a slight smile and my heart ached a bit.
“Besides…I needed to get out of there as quick as I could.”
She didn’t cry for that long, only while she relived the gory details and revived the sorrow, rage, and exhaustion she had went through mere hours before. Long story, short: Paul’s ex came back into the picture and won the proverbial girlfriend face-off. After wearing herself down, Michelle curled up in my bed and after wrapping herself up in my covers she resembled a cross between Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and the Michelin Man. I got her some Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food (which she greedily wolfed down like a six-year-old) and we watched Old School while Michelle complained, at length, about Paul. Her amaranthine listing of Paul’s flaws gave me good cause to question her reasons for going out with him in the first place, but I remained silent as she recanted the prior two months of her life. Complaining about Paul led down a dark path however, as it naturally would. We’d only gotten to the part where Frank is working on the Red Dragon when she began to complain about herself.
“I’m just such a loser Marty; I do this all the time. I come out too strong, too quickly and I scare guys off. I’m a lunatic loser who’ll be cruising bars at 45 looking for someone half-way decent looking to get me off that night.” She makes a pouty-face and looks up at the ceiling.
“Well, I’m a three quarters-way decent looking guy and I’m willing to get you off right now.” It was a joke, but it wasn’t. She laughs though.
“Seriously Marty, what’s so wrong with me that I’m destined to become a cougar?” I look at her for a second, then look away shaking my head and rolling my eyes.
“Ok Michelle, first of all, I know this is part of the whole process of breaking up but shut up. Please? You’re talking like a fucking idiot. You’re twenty-two, not fifty-eight, so let’s not write off finding a mate just yet. Paul wasn’t the right one. You know that and I’m guessing you’ll get that pretty soon. If I hear you call yourself a loser again, I’ll kick your ass myself. You’re perfect.” I can feel myself getting a little out of control.
“Martin, I’m not perfect so don’t try and…” I stop her before she can finish.
“Ok, I don’t mean there’s nothing wrong with you. No one is perfect, blah, blah, blah. But you, you’re a perfect girlfriend, a perfect woman to be with. Yes, you have your flaws like your refusal to wear a seat belt and eating food while you’re on the phone but those don’t matter overall. You’re a triple threat. You’re gorgeous, you’re funny, and you’re intelligent; the three essential factors for a perfect woman. Congratulations, you’re one.” I’m a little out of breath and shaking slightly because I’d never spoken to Michelle that openly before. I turn my attention back to the movie but I don’t really watch it, I just sat on the end of the bed waiting on her move.
“You think I’m gorgeous?” Her question terrifies me, I answer it anyway.
“Yeah, who wouldn’t? You are.” I sound more annoyed than I am but I don’t elaborate. I had no idea what Michelle was thinking or how she would react. She said nothing but I could hear her moving on the bed behind me. Michelle came up on my right side and hugged me around my waste, her head rested in my lap. She didn’t talk, just sort of sighed and watched the TV. It was when I began stroking her hair that it struck me; we were loosely recreating When Harry Met Sally. Sally comes to Harry after she gets dumped, he consoles her, they kiss, and they bang and so on and so forth. This was it; this was my chance, my moment. Sure, she was hurting, she was vulnerable, but I was the right guy for her. I was sure of it. If I made my move now, it might be shocking enough to get Michelle out of her own way so she and I could begin a long and happy life together. I kept stroking her hair, occasionally brushing her cheek as softly as I could. Every so often she’d let out a small moan that only emboldened my resolve. The movie had gotten to the scene where Mitch catches Mark in the bathroom at Beanie’s son’s birthday party. Mark explains Guy Code and how Mitch can’t tell Nicole about his transgressions…even though Mitch wants Nicole. I didn’t want to be a jerk; I didn’t want to risk Michelle thinking of me like that. At least that’s what I told myself, I really just didn’t have the courage. I kept stroking her hair and used every iota of will-power in my being to not get an erection.
That was five years ago and since then my friendship with Michelle has remained just that, a friendship. What also remained the same were Michelle’s tribulations with the opposite sex. Of the seven (yes, seven) relationships she’s had in the past five years, each one was just a diluted or enriched version of the night Paul dumped her. Sometimes it took her weeks to be normal again, other times she was back in the game the following weekend. In either case, it always began with her coming to me and me telling her it would be alright. But don’t worry; these past five didn’t see me celibate. I managed to get myself into two serious relationships as well as a few random hook-ups every now-and-again. A pittance, I know, compared to seven but I’m not as pretty as Michelle. The first girl, Liz (short for Elizabeth) Maston, I met in line while grocery shopping. Thanks to a cashier with the motor skills of a mound of protoplasm, we bonded through complaining. Then it just so happened that we parked next to each other and since I was pissed at Michelle for blowing off our dinner plans for her then-boyfriend Andy, I had cajones enough to ask Liz. We dated for about ten months after that and became pretty serious within that time. Parents, holidays, trips, I did all the long-term boyfriend stuff with Liz almost right away. Our relationship shot out like a cannonball: loud, fast, and hard. It ended like a cannonball too, with a BOOM. For roughly sixteen days straight Liz and I fought, about what I really can’t recall, but it led to our mutual (albeit awful) break-up after those aforementioned ten months. I do specifically remember two things though. Liz gathering up the clothes and trinkets she left at my place. She had a big armful of crap and made her way through the living room as I stood, arms crossed, in the kitchen watching the linoleum floor. She bumped into the arm of my green couch and dropped everything. I went over and bent down to help her gather it all up. We looked at each other and I thought there might be something there worth saving, but I said nothing and she left. The final memory I have of Liz was two weeks after that night. We planned one of those stupid, unnecessary “catch up” dates that couples who don’t fully break off have. I made her dinner, we watched a Best of Reality TV clip show on VH1, got into a huge argument and just before she slammed the door (closing her out of my life from that night on) she said:
“Sorry I’m not as perfect as your fucking Michelle!”
True? Yes. Surprising? Yes. Irrelevant? Maybe. I hadn’t fully considered the fact that my relationship with Liz may have been doomed from the get-go because of how I felt about Michelle. It didn’t take that long to get over Liz but she left an indelible mark. I couldn’t shake the notion that any girl I may try and create a life with would be tainted by the fact that I never got over Michelle…because I never got with Michelle. I’d always wonder, I’d always compare, and I’d never stop thinking “Maybe.” Still, that fear didn’t stop me from dating Cassie Sandsmark. Cassie was a whirlwind that sucked me in, tossed me out and sucked me back in again and again. We’d met one night as I was leaving a bar (I couldn’t stand watching Michelle publicly/drunkenly make out with her then-boyfriend Ethan); Cassie was walking by, stopped me and asked for the time. She was very sexy (red tank top, plenty of cleavage with ripped low-riding hip huggers) but obviously flustered. I took out my cell phone to check and relayed the information, trying my best to seem cool. I didn’t, and still do not, know how to act cool. She was quickly putting up her hair while she thanked me and walked away. I started to head in the opposite direction when I heard her calling to me, she tapped my shoulder.
“Hey, sorry, do you mind if I use your cell phone?” It’s sad to admit that if the girl had been ugly I would have hesitated. I did not hesitate in answering, but still tried to appear cool.
“Hmm…um, just for a second?” Her face lit up.
“Oh, absolutely, I’ll be super quick!” I handed her my phone, realizing too late that the background on the screen was a picture of Aquaman. She had to notice and was kind enough to not make mention of it. She dialed and held it up to her ear, blocking the bar noise by putting the palm of her hand over her other ear. For a second, I stared at the crevice this made with her bicep. Cassie then took the phone away from her ear and looked back at the screen; my heart sank as I assumed she must be having a second look at the King of the Seas.
“Umm…it says call ended on here? It didn’t go through.” She looks at the phone, then at me.
“Oh…uh…let me see.” I briefly made contact with her hand as she passed the phone back.
“Ok, you didn’t dial an area code; you have to put that in first.” I couldn’t help sounding condescending, but she knew how dumb that seemed.
“Christ, I’m retarded. Sorry, thanks.” Again she dials and again I see her nicely sculpted arm. She began to talk to someone (I couldn’t tell if it was a guy or girl) rapidly. I put my hands in my pockets and just looked around, up the street, down the street, into the bar, up at the sky. Again, I have no idea how to be cool. It was one of the few times in my life that I wished I smoked, just to have something other to do than look like moron. Cassie talked for a while, getting more frustrated and angry with each passing sentence.
“Well, I was waiting there for forty-five minutes…No, because you said not to…How the hell was I supposed to know that…I TOLD you I didn’t have it, that’s why we…No…Yes I did tell you…Forget it, are you there now…Are you serious…I DON’T FUCKING BELIEVE YOU, you’re such…No, fuck you…Yeah, go fuck yourself. Argh! GOD! Sorry, thank you.” By the end of her conversation I was looking in every possible direction other than hers. So when she apologized and handed the phone back again, I pretended like didn’t hear a word.
“Ah, no, no problem.” Cassie glanced around, looking for someone or something.
“Well thanks again, goodnight.” She turned and then I decided to drop my veil of ignorance.
“Is everything alright? I don’t mean to pry but…” My eyebrows, independent of my control, contorted to try and relay a semblance of concern. Cassie turned and looked me in the eye, then back to the street.
“Yeah. Well, no, obviously. But I’m fine, thanks for your concern…”
“Martin, Martin Allen. You’re…” I extend my hand, she takes it.
“Martin, I’m Cassie Sandsmark, nice to meet you. I’m sorry; did I keep you from going in here?” She motions to the bar I just exited.
“Ha, no actually, I had just left before you came up to me.”
“Nice, good call. This bar sucks.” I glance back in through the window, under the neon “TE” of a Miller Lite sign I see Michelle and Ethan still going at it like they’re at a porn audition.
“Yes, it certainly does. Well…” Before I can continue, Cassie asked me the question that started it all for us.
“Wanna check out a really cool bar, not too far from here?” I didn’t waste time to check on Michelle again and agreed.
I fell in love with Cassie almost immediately. She was a force of nature too powerful to hold back. She was voraciously smart, by that I mean a glutton for information and learning. Cassie managed to never come off conceited either, she took classes and read teetering stacks of books for her own betterment, not so she could gloat. She had a strong sense of morality, pined for personal responsibility to return in society and had a Tony Starkesque, iron clad suit of armor surrounding her heart. This came from several relationships of hers in which she was wronged. In fact, before me, every single one of her relationships had ended with her being cheated on so getting close to Cassie Sandsmark was an arduous test of a man’s time, effort, and will. I felt like Bruce Lee in The Game of Death. Every new challenge I defeated just led me to a new level of the pagoda and a new set of life-threatening confrontations. Somehow, I persevered.
Michelle loved Cassie too, in the beginning at least. During those first few tenuous weeks Cassie and I started to get to know each other, we surrounded ourselves with friends to relieve some pressure. During that time, Michelle evaluated Cassie during our social rendezvous and to my relief the two got along swimmingly. That was until Cassie and I got to know each other enough to not need circles of friends to alleviate any awkwardness and because of this, the dynamic Michelle and I shared flipped. No longer was I the one stewing over drinks alone after getting an “Actually, now we’re gonna…” call. I started leaving her high and dry on Friday nights while I stayed in with Cassie or went out with Cassie or walked with Cassie or just talked to Cassie or made love to Cassie. Michelle was now the one leaving unanswered voicemails and complaining about never seeing me. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the reversal if only because it was at least some form of Michelle wanting me. This isn’t to say that I stopped seeing Michelle altogether but if I did it was most certainly in the company of Cassie. My relationship with her spanned three years and it was the only span of time since that day I forgot my lucky jacket for the second time that I thought I might finally be able to see Michelle as just my friend…ultimately I still could not.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the only problem in my relationship with Cassie. While our courtship did span three years, we suffered from Break-Up-Make-Up-itis. In three years we broke up four times. For us it was difficult keeping things exciting enough for us to validate being together. We were a volatile pair with a certain crackling, intense energy that surrounded us at all times. But the rub was that this ferocity caused us to either be deliriously in love or vehemently combative. We were either kissing each other’s throats or throttling them, we were black or white. I never went to Michelle like she came to me after a break up. We discussed it when it happened but I just wanted to try and ignore it and move on, stupid I know but that’s me. The last time I broke up with Cassie was five months ago and we hadn’t spoken at all, until this morning when she came into the bank and asked me if I wanted to get lunch. I told her the truth, that I was extremely busy, and that I wouldn’t be able to but to call me later in the week to set something up. I was glad Michelle wasn’t there to see it happen because I probably would have acted a lot differently towards Cassie. I like being with Cassie, I spend too much time trying to think of things to make my relationship with her work but that curse Liz put on me always returns with every break-up I go through. I want to be with Michelle, I want to have my definitive answer on whether or not she and I should be together. I have to be sure I haven’t wasted five years of my life day(and night)dreaming about the same girl. It’s because of this need to know that tonight I am going to see Michelle and Martin Allen is finally going to make his move.
I get to Michelle’s apartment at around quarter to eight, just as the flickering outdoor light above the entrance tries desperately to spark to life. I open the door to the puke-green foyer and punch Michelle’s code into a number pad that looks like it was stolen from one of my Pre Skool toys. The door unlocks with an unpleasant buzz and I walk through it towards the faux wood-lined elevators. With every door I pass through, my heartbeat gets faster and more erratic and I sweat a little bit more. I only have one door left before Michelle and my grand confession to her. A ding signals my arrival at Michelle’s floor. The hallway smells like cheap potpourri and Lysol. It seems like I take a breath with every measured step down this corridor and when I see Michelle’s taupe door I slow down even more. I stand on her pink doormat for two whole minutes staring at the big white letters that spell ‘Welcome’ before I finally force my hand to close into a fist and knock.
When Michelle answers, she swings the door open, smiles and turns around, just like she always does. She’s wearing a pair of small, light blue mesh shorts with “LAX” written across her ass and a sleeveless shirt she got at Live 8.
“Hey.” she walks into her small kitchen, decorated with a bunch of fake Italian memorabilia, the kind you’d find in the bargain section of a Marshall’s.
“Hey, what’s up?” I walk in, crossing my final physical threshold, and close the door behind me.
“Huh? Oh, nothing. I actually just got out of bed, post-nap, a couple of minutes ago. Good timing Mr. Allen. You want anything? Beer? Hold on, all I have is my girly hard cider.” She makes an exaggerated frown, waiting for my answer.
“Uh….hmmm, yeah, gimme one. I think I’m gonna get fucked up tonight.” I take off my coat and scarf and throw them on her Hershey bar brown couch and sit down. In her tiny dining area across from her tiny living room area I see a lush, full bouquet of roses standing proudly in a white vase decorated with pink tulips. I feel heat rush to my face, forced there by jealousy, anger and embarrassment.
“Who the fuck gave her fucking roses? I obviously didn’t take that new guy she met seriously enough. Goddamnit, this is so stupid. I’m stupid, she doesn’t want me, this is over. Abort. Abort. Abort…wait, what if they’re from her dad or brother or something?” I stare at the flowers so intensely that if I keep it up lasers of heat vision may actually burst from my eyes, incinerating Michelle’s Ikea dinette. The only thing I can do is check the card, which I can’t see from where I am. I stand up to investigate but Michelle emerges from the kitchen.
“Whoa, fucked up eh? I thought you weren’t getting nuts this weekend.” She opens two bottles of Magner’s and tosses the caps over her shoulder and straight into the trash can behind her. I should forget about the flowers, I need to focus. I sit down.
“Yeah, I dunno, I just got in the mood to let go. Do you still want to go out?” I take a long pull from my bottle, tasting only fizzy apple juice and nothing that will get me as drunk as I’d prefer to be.
“Yeah, I’ll go out. Maybe I’ll get f-ed up too for the hell of it.”
Michelle folds up her legs under her body. She’s leaning on the arm of the love seat perpendicular to the couch I’m on. She drinks from her bottle and puts in down on the table next to her before she swallows.
She asks me where I want to go but before I can answer she tells me why she doesn’t want to go to a place we frequent called Fillmore’s because of a bartender there who never called her friend Kara back after sleeping with her. She says she’s not tipping someone that she is absolutely sure is an asshole. Michelle’s knee is gorgeous. There is a shiny scar across the bottom of it that she received at age ten after an ill-conceived leap from a swing set in her backyard. It seems impossible that the skin of anyone’s knees could be as smooth and soft and—
“Mart?” Shit. I was staring.
“Yeah, Michelle, give me a sec ok? I’m thinking.” She seems to buy my excellent last minute save. Last minute saves are my specialty.
“Whoa, excuse me. It looked like you were having an aneurysm.” She turns to her bottle and drinks from it again, extending her slender neck, revealing some of the dark freckles that enticed me the first time I saw her.
“How about Slam Bradley’s? “ I ask, “We haven’t been there in awhile.” I like Slam’s because if I get some songs on their juke box I can usually hear them before the bouncer’s scream “LAST CALL!”
“Oh! Ok, yeah, absolutely. Jeez, when was the last time we were there?” Michelle stands up, taking her drink with her, and turns on her iPod inside a futuristic-looking stereo. That Teenage Feeling by Neko Case plays. Michelle continues walking while humming the tune, back into the kitchen.
“I think the last time we were there was when Roy Bivolo tried to break up that fight between Ted Grant and Jim Craddock.” She turns the corner back towards me, practically in slow motion.
“Oh my God, I remember that. He got a bottle to the face…idiot.”
“I know, oh, before you sit down.” I wave my bottle back and forth in the air, empty and needing a replacement.
“Jesus, you weren’t kidding. I have that rum you left here awhile ago too if you’re this serious.” Michelle clinks my bottle against hers.
“Coke or ginger ale?” I ask, knowing she’ll say: “Diet Coke?”
“Diet Coke?” Her eyebrows raise and her lips are pursed for a moment.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I can get it.” I get up off the couch and follow Michelle into her kitchen, far enough behind her so that I can inspect the flowers.
“Damn.” I mutter, “No card.”
“What?” Michelle turns around.
“Uh, my shoulder. It’s killing me. It’s been like a week now.” The more details you put into a lie make it that much more believable. Michelle, again, buys it. She opens the cabinet above her refrigerator. Next to a box of Life cereal is her bar, consisting of my expatriated bottle of rum, a half a bottle of Vladmir vodka and about one shot of 99 Apples resting in its dusty glass coffin. Before handing me the bottle, she opens the fridge with her other hand, grabbing a Diet Coke from the box. I can’t help but be a sleeze and look at the sliver of underwear showing as she bends. By the time she turns around, I’m in another cabinet getting a low-ball glass. Michelle hands me the rum and soda.
“Thanks.”
“So, did you talk to anyone or is it just you and me tonight?” She hops up on the countertop next to her sink.
“I talked to Ben but he gave me the usual ‘Beth Wants Me To Stay In’ speech so…” In reality, I had spent about an hour after work with Ben and Beth. I had explained my plans for this night and the three of us weighed the pros and cons of such a revelation. I pour a generous amount of rum into the glass.
“Whoa! Slow down rummy. I’m not carrying you back here tonight.”
“Even though I’ve carried you back…six times that I can remember off the top of my head, I’ll ignore that. Ice please.” I hold my glass out. Michelle opens the freezer without getting down and takes a handful of cubes from a bucket. She carefully drops them into the glass. I open the can of diet soda and slowly pour it into the alcohol, careful not to let it foam up too much. For a second all I can hear is the fizzing of my drink.
“Hey mister, I weigh like a hundred pounds less than you.”
I take a sip of the strong, spiced rum mildly laced with cola.
“Yes, but you’re hot enough to convince one or many men to hoist me back.” I don’t make eye contact with her until I’m done the sentence and smile at her. I wonder what comes through more clearly, the compliment or the joke.
“Well,” she lowers herself from the counter, her slender arms tense for a second as they hold up the weight of her body, “I can’t argue with that. I am pretty…pretty.”
Big Shot by Billy Joel is the next song on the random playlist and I can’t help but think of my friend Jim and how he lost his virginity to this song. Apparently a smile crept across my face.
“What?” Michelle is back on the love seat.
“What, what?” I walk back to my spot on the couch, still indented.
“You’re smiling. What are you smilin’ about smiley?” She stretches out on the small couch this time, her head on the arm covered by a mess of hair.
“Oh, Mr. Joel’s song that’s on…Jimmy lost his virginity to it. He made a make-out mix CD for him and his girlfriend in college. Well, he never burned a CD before so he ends up putting like six non-make-out-friendly songs on it by accident. He meant to put on She’s Got a Way…”
“Of course, but The Night is Still Young is the hottest Billy Joel song.” Michelle smiles after she interjects and for a fraction of a second I let myself think that was a come-on.
“Thank you improbable VH1 countdown…anyway. Jim meant to put on She’s Got a Way but put this on instead. Luckily they were so into doing the deed neither one cared.”
Michelle laughs. “What else was on there accidentally?”
“Uh…the only one I’m positive besides this is Under the Sea from the Little Mermaid. Yeah. I know.”
Michelle’s laugh is louder now and I want so badly to kiss her. I take a gulp of the cocktail in my hand.
“Oh my God, that’s too funny. What did you lose yours to? I know mine; I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
I never anticipated the conversation would turn remotely sexual and feel unprepared and nervous. I start to blush and take another drink.
“Hmmm…” I pretend to need to try and remember, furrowing my brow. I know full-well that I lost it to This Year’s Love by David Gray. Michelle, finally, doesn’t buy into my ruse.
“Oh come on, you have to remember it!” She sits up and leans forward.
“Ok, This Year’s Love. David Gray. Unlike Jimmy, I had an amazing make-out mix.” I try to look sly as I take another gulp.
“Ooo that is a good one. Hold on.” Michelle jumps up and walks to the stereo.
“Oh, please don’t put it on. Please?” I implore her, but she waves me off without turning around. Seconds later I hear the slow, tired piano opening of one of my favorite songs. Michelle twirls around and jumps onto the couch this time, opposite from me. My heart starts to race.
“So Ms. Prince, your turn.” I finish my drink and place the empty glass on a copy of Time from a month ago still sitting on her coffee table.
“Ok, well, I’m pissed because mine’s not as good but I lost it to Eugene Thompson, ugh, and he was obsessed with Phish but luckily that Waiting in the Velvet Sea song came on.” Michelle looks down at the floor for a minute, back in that moment.
“Actually it’s ‘Wading’ in the Velvet Sea like ‘wading in water’.” I try and pull her back to the present.
“Really!? Jeez, I’m an idiot. That makes a lot more sense. Do you remember him? We almost got back together like two years ago.” Michelle looks right into my eyes. I did remember Eugene. When I found out the significance he had in Michelle’s life was much more than that of an old friend I soon considered him the most likely candidate to take Michelle away from me forever. To my benefit, it did not. I know…I know; I’m a terrible person.
“Yeah, a rekindling years after your break-up. You guys were good together.” I’m truly amazed I just said that.
“You think so? Yeah…I guess we were but something got in the way. I’ll tell you what though; he was no fan of you.”
“What?” I am genuinely surprised by this because Eugene had always been very cool with me. I found him a bit boring but I couldn’t fault him for it because he seemed like a truly nice guy.
“Oh yeah, he hated how much time we spent together. He was always insisting that something was up and that you were trying to get with me all the time.” I’m truly shocked, especially because while he was right about me wanting his girl, there was no way I’d have enough guts to do something about it. Until tonight that is. “We almost broke up after you took me to your sister’s wedding. He went nuts and swore that I cheated on him because I didn’t tell him we stayed overnight in the hotel together.”
“We shared a room with my parents!”
“I know! I told him that but he refused to believe me! I almost dumped him for it.” She turns from me and finishes her drink. “Another?”
“Yeah, please.” Michelle grabs my glass and heads back to the kitchen. Sick of Myself by Matthew Sweet comes on it sort of energizes me. “So wait, why did he think something was up? Did I act that way?”
“No, no, he was just crazy jealous.” Michelle returns to the refrigerator and her thong returns to my field of vision.
“Well, did he act that way about any of your other guy buddies? You still hang out with Tim and you used to kinda date.” I hated Tim. Hated him.
“Umm…no not really. I mean, I had other guys I was friends with but I don’t spend nearly as much time with them. Let alone time one on one.” Michelle makes me another drink (just as strong as the one I made) and opens another Magner’s for herself. She hands me the booze while taking some of hers.
“Huh, I guess.” I take a sip, still obviously perplexed.
“Dude, don’t worry about it. He was just insecure. He probably thought you had something he didn’t.” Michelle walks past me back to the couch, I breathe in the scent of her shampoo then follow.
“Do I?” I know now that this question is going to lead me down the path I’ve wanted to tread for too long. I’m jumping out of a plane with no parachute. Michelle giggles and drinks some more.
“Uh, yeah, sure you do.” She pulls her knees, her gorgeous knees, up towards her chest as I sit back down. Her answer lets me press further, almost playfully.
“Well, like what? I mean, what do I have that he’d be jealous about? He’s an investor-guy and has abs. I have an extensive t-shirt collection.” This was true and meant in jest but something I am quite proud of.
“No, I mean, he probably thought you had something with me that he didn’t. He must have felt there was a closeness we shared that he could never compete with. But it’s different, he was an idiot.” Michelle hums along to Wonderwall, a cover by Ryan Adams; her head is laid back, her hair is spilled paint on a throw pillow. “Do you think we would have worked? As a couple I mean?”
“Michelle, I love you.” And there it is, there’s everything, I feel like laughing and throwing up.
“What did you just say?” Her head shoots up off the pillow, “What did you say?” I can’t possibly go back now. I’ve lit the fuse and this is one of those days that you just can’t get rid of a bomb.
“I love you. I’m pretty sure I first realized it that night we saw that orchestra in Rose Tree park.” I wasn’t pretty sure, I was positive. I whispered it during their performance of Stardust.
“What…Marty…that was five years ago…” The look on her face is all concern and that’s not good.
“I know. Listen, Michelle…I came here tonight to tell you that I love you. I had no expectations or preconceived notions about the outcome of that. I only need you to believe it. I see something in you that I don’t see in anyone else. It’s something…old-fashioned maybe, something that might be fading away from humanity. It’s a…a decency, a strength. I’ve seen a level of…of kindness and of…understanding that I have only seen in you. Your independence and constant drive to keep bettering yourself forces me to reexamine myself everyday…in a…a good way. Add to that how much fun you are, how absolutely cool you can be…wow…uh, alright, that sounded stupid. But umm, really, who do I have more fun with? Who do I want to spend all my time with? I’ve looked at everyday, every second we spend together as a chance to learn how to make you happier.” At some point I decided to stand up but I didn’t notice until just now. Michelle is staring at me, her concerned face mixed with disbelief.
“Marty…I…” I don’t let her finish.
“Michelle Prince, I am in love with you. You will not find a man more dedicated and devoted to your happiness in this life.” That was the only part I practiced and unfortunately I felt that was obvious. Please don’t let that have been cheesy. Please don’t let that have been cheesy. Please don’t let that have been cheesy. Please don’t let that have been cheesy…
“Marty…listen, I can’t…Marty…” Her eyes fill with sadness. No, it’s not sadness, it’s compassion. “I love you too Mart but… it’s not…you’re my best friend…just because…” Sweet Jesus, I’ve become a cliché. My stomach gets cold, I bite my lower lip. I hear the opening strings of the Thong Song and I walk, hurriedly, over to the stereo and remove Michelle’s iPod.
“Marty, please don’t get upset. Please don’t. I want us to stay friends, to keep the relationship we have. If something went wrong…I couldn’t live without it. But I think it’s best if we remain just friends…if we just keep things as they are…ok?” I see my reflection in the black plastic of the mp3 player. This, obviously, is not how I wanted this to play out. I see my eyes narrowing. I see every man to ever fail Michelle. I see every opportunity missed while I waited five years in that bank for her.
“No, I don’t accept that.” She gets up and moves over towards me, smoothing her t-shirt out nervously.
“What? Mart, come on…you can’t just…”
“Listen to me for a second ok? I don’t accept that Michelle. I refuse to let you…categorize me. You can’t put a label on me and put me on the ‘friend shelf’ because it’s easier. Friends don’t do that. Friends don’t block themselves from growing ‘just because’. I love you. I could be a great man for you. We could be very happy together. If you want to ignore that and not take a chance, risk it, that’s on you. But it doesn’t speak very much of our friendship. If we love each other, if you care about me as much as you do…then we could get through it as friends if we didn’t work out as lovers. I’ll always be your friend but I’ll want to be more.”
I don’t take my eyes off hers the entire time. My voice didn’t crack; I didn’t stutter…I actually believed what I said. Michelle steps closer to me then she stops a foot away and bends her left knee slightly.
“I…Martin, how can I…how can I argue with that?” My left arm shoots out like a cobra, wrapping Michelle around her waist. I pull her brusquely to me, her breasts pressed against my chest. My right hand grazes her cheek and I lock my fingers in her hair as I lean in and kiss Michelle Prince hard. Her lips, her entire body responds in exactly the manner in which I always dreamed it would. Her hands grab at the back of my head, pulling me in closer. We twist and she sits on the top back of the couch, her legs pull me in…
“YO! MART!” I’m jarred out of my own head by Michelle hollering at me. “Are you ok man?” I was not ok.
“Sorry, yeah, I’m fine. What did you say?”
“You were smiling for no reason. What’s so funny?” Michelle hates it when she’s not in on the joke.
“Oh, umm, the song that just came on, Big Shot, Billy Joel…Jimmy lost his virginity to it.” Michelle cocks her head in confusion.
“Really? That sucks, not exactly romantic.”
“Yeah I know.” I stare into the deep brown pool in my hands, smiling like a bank teller.

The Tri-Elementia and the House of the Flying Geese

This story snagged me first place in my heat during round one of the NYC Midnight Short Story contest. The deal was, we got a random genre and topic (fantasy and an ATM in my case) and we had exactly one week to write a 2500 word story about it. This is one of the few things I've written that I actually really, really like. Read it all the way through, trust me.







Their lair was undersized, almost too small to contain the three great warriors who took refuge there. But perhaps this diminutive domicile served as proof of their great humility. A dim light shone on the ceiling above them, illuminating the grave concern on their faces. No sound, save for steady breath, was made within the wood-lined walls. The air was heavy, thick with moisture and dread. Each sat alone on a cushioned seat around a low table covered with maps and battle plans. Tension began to grow, scraping against the men inside their meager space. Horag Maceroc of the Axe Clan spoke first.
“I cannot fathom how the gods would let us rot in this dire situation! By sun-high, the battle will have begun and, we the Patrions of the Tri-Land won’t be there to lead our people to victory. They may think we’ve abandoned them!”
Valian Luminos of the Firebrands, the most level-headed and calm of the three, was quick to respond.
“We know the circumstances which led us here, and we know the consequences Horag. We’d do well to spend less time blaming the gods and spend more time conceiving a plan to change our lot.”
Horag knew his old friend was right but his temper twisted within him.
“LUMINOS, IT WAS YOUR KIN THAT-“
“Enough Horag!” Dracon Cloudrunner slammed his fist down and quickly rose. “Valian is right, and none of the blame will be shouldered by him. Understand?”
Dracon was looked upon as the unnamed leader of the trio. The strength of his mind matched the strength of his sword. Horag turned his steely gaze downward.
“Yes Drac…my apologies to you both. I just can’t bear to think that of my people seeing me as a coward.”
“They will not Horag Maceroc. You have my word as a Wind Weaver, a Patrion and as a friend. Valian, among us you have the swiftest and keenest mind. You also possess an ability to quiet the storms of the heart. I need you to use that knowing mind and tranquil soul now and tell me something, anything we can do to get to the battlefield before it’s too late.”
Valian looked into Dracon’s eyes.
“Yes my brother, with no haste.”
Valian stood up and clasped his hands behind his back; his tall, slender body crouched slightly under the low ceiling. The small circuit he walked almost seemed choreographed but the sudden movements of his hands were chaotic, violent. With his eyes firmly shut, he cut at the air, snatching and discarding whisps of ideas. He stopped then spoke.
“Dracon, your mother the Queen, surely she could arrange for us to get on some sort of transport…”
Dracon sat and crossed his arms.
“No, I’m afraid not. She and my father the king are in faraway lands, spreading goodwill to their kin.”
Valian, unfazed, continued.
“Right, then it’s clear what we must do. We travel into town and find a mass transport to take us as close to Ricold Valley as we can get.”
“Travel into town? We’d have to be in full-armor!” Horag turned between Dracon and Valian. “The townspeople would ask questions, and they must never know of the ancient struggle that surrounds them! To that add that we need coinling to pay for transport and we have none!”
Dracon grabbed the armored shoulders of his compatriot.
“Easy Axe-Wielder, the townspeople will be susceptible to deception spells or your elaborate exaggerations. As for payment, I have coinling credit but we’d need to find a place for me to extract it. I suspect our Firebrand friend has already thought of that though. Am I correct Luminos?”
“You are right Wind Weaver. Now we must race to the House of Flying Geese and find the Autonomous-Trader Man.”

The three stalwart heroes packed a few rations, readied their armor and weapons, and climbed the stairwell out from their den, through the home that sat above it and went out into a day blazing with early morning light. Their pace quickened when their boots found the paved road. Valian Luminos was not bothered by this; his thin frame lent itself to his gait and moved swiftly without a loss of stamina. Horag Maceroc was a different case however; he was very large in all manner of regard. His elephantine structure made him formidable and feared in a fight but quite a hindrance during a quick jog. Draco Cloudrunner lived up to his name on bedrock as well as in the sky. He sprinted ahead of his two chums, able-bodied and confident. Though he feared they would be too late, he would not let their spirit die without a fighting chance.
“My brothers, please slow down. My axe is swift but my legs are not.” Horag choked after his words. Draco slowed and turned back to Valian and the heaving Horag.
“A quick rest Horag, but breathe fast and deep. I don’t need to tell you how little time we have left.”
“I do Drac. But I fear I’ll be little good to you in battle if I die before we get there.”
Valian peered cautiously ahead and behind them.
“Brothers, appear natural! A caravan approaches!”
The large transport passed them swiftly, only the children in the back turned to notice the men. Horag, with his breath returning, expressed concern.
“This is insanity; we cannot walk through the village like this without arousing concern. Surely we’ll be spotted and have to explain ourselves. If we are found out then our lot will be even worse than it is now.”
“No Horag.” Lumious countered, “Just because they are unable to understand doesn’t make us wrong. We chose this life and we will live it with honor.”
“Well said Valian. Come now, we have to press on.” Draco sprinted off again.

As the three began to get closer to the main concourse of the town, their garb appeared more bizarre. Their shining armor and weaponry was vastly different from the attire of the townspeople. Though the backwards glances and unsure looks increased, as of yet, no one approached. The sun grew higher as Horag slumped lower. Valian carried his friend’s satchel. Draco looked stern, intent on the Autonomous-Trader Man inside the House of Flying Geese and the coinling he’d receive to get he and his friends en route to a great victory.
“There!” Horag rasped. “Flying Geese, the house is ahead! Go my friend, go! Get me the blood of a red bull or a power ale!”
Draco saw it too; a small tanned home with a black roof, two proud geese painted flying on its front. He pulled ahead, his armor clanging loudly. He pushed open the double doors leading into the House’s main area. Inside were all manner of goods. Food, drink, colorful desserts for younglings, anything one may need they could find within these walls. Draco looked beyond tempting treats and past all of the concerned faces on the people inside. He needed to find the Autonomous-Trader Man.

“He’s been in there too long! Someone must be asking him too many questions!” Valian grabbed the large shoulders of Horag.
“Will you please relax Horag? Draco has only been in there mere moments and the Autonomous-Trader Man services many people.”
“My axe would get the coinling we need faster than Draco’s signature slip. In dire straights, you must take to survive.”
“Oh Horag…you know we’re above such nonsense. Just please focus on patience. Plus, such an act would surely call the attention of the Blue Shirts and that is a battle…we couldn’t…oh no.” Valian suddenly became speechless.
“What Valian? What is it?” Horag stood and followed his companion’s gaze. “Gods…no. Valian, tell me your gifted genius can tell us what to do.” Valian, for many moments, gave no response.
“I’m sorry my old friend, I have no plan. In the presence of evil as great as Todd Crestfall, my fear abolishes my sense.”

Meanwhile inside the House of Flying Geese, Draco stood in line. He was next and channeled his patience to keep from shoving everyone else aside. If they only knew the severity of his predicament, surely they would allow him to go first. Finally, the time had come. It was his chance to receive coinling! Under his breath, Draco whispered a prayer.
“Gods of Light, please let there be enough coinling left for me and my fellow Patrions so that we may reach Ricold Valley and fight with valor in your name.”
Draco Cloudrunner gave his signature slip to the small box that housed the Autonomous-Trader Man. The Man asked for his secret pass-sequence, Draco looked around and then willingly, quickly gave it.
“Error 1401. Contact Customer Service Repair.” For a second Draco stared, unsure of what the Autonomous-Trader Man was telling him. He removed his signature slip.
“This is no time for jokes or frivolous rules my friend. I need coinling and I need it now.” Draco reentered his signature slip and went through the Man’s process again, hopeful that this second time would go without incident.
“Error 1401. Contact Customer Service Repair.”
“What compels you to deride me like this Man!? You do not realize the starkness of the hour! There is very little time left, and you quibble with me over coinling as if I were some commoner!” Draco words sounded through the House, frightening and confusing the true commoners inside. A man dressed in the colors of the House, black, maroon, and yellow approached Draco cautiously.
“Young man…what seems to be the problem?” Draco sneered at him.
“Problem? What is the problem? That is the problem right there!” He drew and thrust his sword towards the Autonomous-Trader Man. The Geese’s service master approached him slowly and peered over at the Man.
“Ok, ok…that happens from time to time. Please, put that…sword away and try the other one at the other end of the aisle here. Ok?” Draco seemed calmed by the service master’s ways. He dropped his head, apologetically.
“I…I can only offer my humble concession. I am sorry. I had not realized there was another one in your home.”
“Its ok, lets just try that one out without making a scene alright?” The service master walked away, still keeping his eye trained on Draco. Draco walked down to the other Autonomous-Trader Man and waited behind another patron.

Outside Horag and Valian conspired on what to do about the approach of one of their greatest enemies. They huddled within the brush that surrounded the House.
“We hide like gutless noobs Valian! We are proud Patrions!”
“I don’t like it anymore than you do but we cannot engage Todd, a Letter Man here and now! There are more important matters this day!” Valian pulled branches back to better see there foe.
“Gods no! He has met Mara DiAngelus in the transport area!” Horag looked himself.
“It gets worse and worse with each passing moment. Draco will be worthless in battle with a broken heart.”
“Don’t underestimate our friend Horag. He is strong and he will lead us to victory.”
“Look at us. We hide as one of the most vile beings in our land approaches our friend whilst holding the hand of the woman our friend loves. We are scum, Valian. We don’t deserve a man like Draco Cloudrunner to lead us.” Valian looked into the eyes of Horag.
“We will not let our honor be tarnished by the likes of that Letter Man. Horag…lets go.”

Inside, Draco approached a different Autonomous-Trader Man, pleading with the gods to shine fortune on him. He went through the process yet again and before he could enter his secret pass-sequence, a man came up from behind him.
“Whoa buddy, Renaissance Fair in town?” Draco ignored him and entered his sequence.
“Buddy, I’m asking you…is there like a medieval festival or something going on? I saw a bunch of people like you at Ricold Park. I mean, with this get-up I figured-“
“Sir, I know not of which you speak. Please allow me to get my funds and…” Draco’s face dropped. He saw the face of his mortal nemesis staring at him, laughing in his face.
“Oh sweet Jesus, please Drake, please tell him the truth. Tell him you’re just a fucking nerd who dresses like that because he can’t get laid. Go on, tell him! You see sir; this faggot puts on all this Lord of the Rings bullshit and pretends. He pretends like he’s fucking six years old!”
Draco saw Mara approach, and he felt his heart disintegrate.
“Come on Todd, leave him alone.” Mara attempted to pull Todd away, he shrugged her off. The man who questioned Draco withdrew. Draco himself found himself welling up. Fear began to take hold of him. He was never able to defeat Todd Crestfall. He felt like running, he yearned to be back within his lair, safe and alone.
“I don’t have to leave anyone alone, least of all this little fuck. What are you gonna do dork? Hit me with a poison spell?”
“I think a swift kick to the jaw ought to do the trick.” With an unmatched speed, Valian Luminos crossed Todd’s face with his right foot.
“And a left hook wouldn’t hurt either.” Horag Maceroc clobbered Chrestfall into a rack of sweets.
“My brethren!” Draco beamed at the sight of his brothers.
“That’s it, you little bastards! I’m calling the cops!” the service master ran to a back room within the House.
“Come Draco, we must escape before the Blue Shirts arrive!” Draco ran past the body of his fallen enemy and his true love.
“Until later m’lady.”

The three ran from the House and towards the large transport they so desperately sought.
“There it is, my brothers! Our way to glory! Wait, Draco, we’re you able to get enough coinling!?” Horag prepared for the worst. Draco slowly raised his hand and showed the two enough funds for passage to and from Ricold Valley.
“To glory my friends.” Draco handed coinling to each.
“I fear, Draco, that even if we win today, a greater battle waits for us when we return. The Letter Men will seek reprisal.” Valian let the concern show on his face.“That will be another day my friend. That will be another day.”

Forever Bound

This was my submission for the final round of the NYC Midnight Short Story Contest. We were given a random topic at midnight and then had 24 hours to write a 2500 word piece about it. I like my idea but it just wasn't even room to flesh it out enough. That's a fancy way of saying I didn't win.

My job isn’t easy. Make no mistake though; I am very good at it. I do not sugar coat what I do. I don’t glorify it in an attempt to justify it; I just do it, get paid and do it again. I sell a service, piece of mind as it were. Do I take advantage of people who are in a delicate situation? Do I prey upon the scared and weak? Yes. Yes, I do. My name is Christopher Ware and I sell sheets.
Of course it’s a scam. It’s practically a cultural phenomenon. I don’t know when it started or who was the first person to throw a table cloth over their head and pretend to be ghost but whoever it was I wish I could kiss their hand. That person has kept me unnaturally tanned; living in a river-view apartment and driving a fully-loaded Caddy XLR Roadster…she’s candy-apple red. The pitch is simple: You’re going die. You have unfinished business. As an ethereal entity, you cannot interact with a corporeal world. In order to be seen, to be…experienced in our world you must be able to manipulate something that can fully express your continued presence. That’s where my sheets come into play.
The truth about them is that they are wonderful pieces of fabric. Each set is 100% Modal which, if you don’t know, is a fabric made from Beech trees. Modal, unlike cotton, will not pill. It’s resistant to shrinkage and color-fading and no matter how many times my sheets are washed they will not lose their exceptional softness. The lies that I tell about my sheets are equally as exceptional. They are so outrageous, in fact, that when faced with the inescapable axiom of death they become completely plausible. I assure the people that purchase my product that each set is guaranteed to physically cooperate with any and all ectoplasmic entities while maintaining the classically elegant look of a white-sheet ghost. Of course this guarantee is based only on my good word, something that has never been questioned in all my years of sales. After all, any unhappy clients would surely make their claim and it’s unlikely that I would be around very long to dispute them.
My work has taken me around the country but I largely roam the southern states. I find that their rich history with voodoo, the occult and their piss-poor school system helps me peddle my bullshit and my sheets quite easily. I’ve been most successful in Louisiana, which is where I’ve been for over a year now. These people are brought up from diapers believing not only that ghosts do exist but that they can play a significant role in life. It’s as if they consider death as nothing but a promotion to take care of all the jackasses you’ve left behind…like there’s nothing better to do in the great beyond than help Cletus pass his spelling test. There are times I have pause and realize how unfair it might be but I never let myself pity idiocy for too long.
As I’ve mentioned, my job isn’t easy. I can never stay in one city too long for obvious reasons. At a certain point, the size of my profile becomes inescapable. After a while I’m seen at any given hospital or old folks home too often and then families or staff begin to ask questions. So I never really get to have a home or a life but the idea is to build up enough capital so that I can buy one. That’s the American dream right? Work hard enough so you can stop working. Also, there’s the whole “illegal” thing. Yeah, technically I’m making fraudulent claims about my product but to a certain extent, so is all of organized religion. Think about it. You make donations upon donations because they guilt you into it making them. All you want to do is pray. So you go to church, sit down and begin your one on one with the Big Man. But at a certain point during that mass they shove a basket in front of your face “requesting” a small contribution. How can you say no? While the eyes of the congregation and your god gaze upon you, it is impossible. My service is no different. I offer some semblance of life after death and all I ask is twenty-five hundred dollars to cover the cost of the sheets, shipping expenses and travel costs. I also guarantee that all of my transactions are completely confidential and no one will ever know that the sheets they purchased were purchased to scare the crap out of people still kicking about on the mortal plane.
It goes without saying that I seek out terminally-ill patients. I go further than that though. There are a lot of people that are dying but I need to find the ones who are really pissed off about it. I need the ones with an asshole for a son or a spoiled bitch for a daughter. I search for the ones who stayed married for forty years and never had the courage to tell their husband or wife that they knew they were fucking around on them. I want the ones who don’t want forgiveness, who don’t seek absolution for a lifetime of venial sins. I want old codgers aching for vengeance.
For the past three weeks I’ve been visiting the Lone Palm Senior Living Facility in Metairie, outside of New Orleans. It’s no old folks’ home; I can assure you of that. This is a country club with nurses. The grounds are sprawling and practically choked with magnolia blossoms. The perfectly manicured greens are split by paths of salt-and-pepper river pebble walkways. Looking around, you’d never know that these people are all left here to die. Silver foxes chase grandmothers all around the white-washed decks and down towards the beach. Had I not already devoted myself to selling “ghost-sheets” to dying morons, I’d seriously consider stocking up on Levitra and control top hosiery and setting up shop. At first glance, this place seemed like a bust. But a few pay-offs got me a tip about their “Twilight” wing. That’s where I’d find the hopeless, bedridden few. That’s where I’d score.
I go through the same routine every time, it hasn’t failed so I don’t mess with it. Paying the right people gets you names; those names are of the people you’ll have to pay a lot more. I like to work with two nurses if I can. Having just one is dangerous, because eventually she’s going to want to brag. If you have three or more, it won’t be long before they think they can team up and run a scam themselves. Two is good, they can talk to each other and I can keep them in check. Most of them broads hate the people they take care of; it’s just a matter of looking for the ones with the most dramatic roll of eyes after leaving Old Man Colostomy Bag’s room. Their lives are boring, routine. Their jobs are too thankless and consuming. I dangle money and danger in front of their faces and let that do the talking for me.
Grace and Shannon have been a dream. Both are wonderful actresses. The utter disdain they feel for their patients is completely undetectable when they’re working. Their patients love them and have no clue how badly each girl wants to smother each one of them. Grace has been a work horse for me. She’s gotten me the exact times family members visit, when security does its rounds and she even made up a story about me so the rest of the staff not only doesn’t mind my presence, but welcomes it. Grace is married, happily if you can believe that, so I can only flirt so much, money has to make up the difference. I pay her more than I should but so far it’s worth it.
Shannon has gotten me in with the patients themselves. She’s sold them on me being everything from a deacon, to a bishop, to a linebacker for the Saints. She’s helped me gain trust that would normally take me weeks in a matter of days. They really love her. I’ll keep sleeping with her until she thinks I love her too. Hopefully by that point I’ll have made enough money and can move on.
As I walk into the chicken joint we meet at to do our little exchanges, I see Shannon and Grace giggling to each other, they barely notice my approach.
“Ladies, you’re looking particularly radiant today. I must say, floral scrubs really do bring out the most in both your complexions.”
They glance at each other before tossing a fake smile my way.
“So, this is for all the hard work last week, six sales in three days. Ladies, we’re officially on a roll.”
I cock an eyebrow as Shannon counts her cut in front of me.
“Chris, this is great and all but…”
Grace looks over at Shannon as she trails off. Shannon doesn’t make eye contact.
“My dear Grace, let me remind you that all we’re doing is selling these people comfort in the afterlife so we can live comfortably in the present-life. It’s no different from telling a little kid about Santa Claus, a simple white lie to ease someone into death.”
She flips the manila envelope in her hands a few times and feels the heft of it.
“You’re right Chris. I’m sorry.”
Shannon continues to go out of her way to not make eye contact with me; I should have called her last night.
“Ok, so if there’s nothing else, I’ll need the shift change lists, who’s on security tonight and an update on any new arrivals. Just email me as soon as you can.” I stand up to leave; I think I might get a milkshake.
“Actually Chris,” Shannon finally speaks, “there is something else.”
I sit back down and unbutton my suit jacket.
“Yes dear, what is it?”
“Do you know Mr. Briar in 302? William?
“Yes, I do. He’s not on the list, so he’s of no concern.”
Grace and Shannon look at each other again, without giggling.
“I know but he wants to talk to you. He says he keeps hearing stories about the Ghost Man and needs to speak with you urgently.”
“Alright, do we think he’s a sale or what?”
Grace checks the other tables to make sure no one is listening in, then answers.
“Maybe, but we think he might know something…guy’s weird.”
Paranoia can kill an operation as smooth as the one I have going very quick. I have to ease the girls’ minds immediately.
“Sweethearts, don’t concern yourselves. I’ll speak with him tonight, assess the situation and resolve it either way. Ok?” I stand up again and button my jacket. “Just get me what I asked for and everything will be fine.”
I walk out and a bell jingles above the door, I can hear the girls laughing again.

So far tonight, I’ve laid the groundwork for two more sales. When I see that security is fast asleep I head for room 302. The first thing I notice is the almost overpowering scent of roses, even in the dark I can see the room is filled with them. Slowly, I approach the bed to see if Mr. Briar is awake.
“Hello? Hello, who is there?”
His voice sounds like a hard candy wrapper.
“Mr. Briar, my name is Saul Adams. I heard you wanted to speak to me. May I turn on the light?”
Before my hand reaches the switch he answers.
“Please no, my eyes can’t bear it now.”
I can see him sit up in his bed.
“As you please, now, what can I help you with?”
“I’ve learned you know of...ghosts.”
This guy’s a lock. I’m not wasting time.
“Yes sir, I have experience with spirits. I sell fabric that can give them form with which to be seen.”
William almost leaps out of the bed.
“Oh thank God for you! I’ll take it, but I need it now!”
Part of me knows it’s a bad idea, but I have to ask him why.
“Absolutely sir, all I need is a check in the amount of twenty-five hundred dollars. May I ask why you’re in such a rush to have this fine product?”
“My wife, I need to see her.”
“I’m sorry sir?”
“My wife, she’s been coming to me in this room, I can hear her at night. She knows that I plan on marrying a woman I met here. She said I promised myself to her in eternity and I must honor that! I need to know if it’s real. I need to know if she’s haunting me.
That’s not all this nutjob needs. Hopefully his check clears. I remove one of the sheets from my case and place it on the chair by the door.
“Well sir, I can promise you that if she has been coming here she can put that on to show you she’s real. Then I hope you can work out whatever posthumous domestic dispute you might be experiencing.”
He turns on a reading light and fumbles for his checkbook. I watch his hand shake as he fills in the zeroes.
“Thank you Mr. Adams. You don’t know how much…”
His hand stops shaking and his yellowed eyes glance up over his glasses. Mr. Briar begins to cry.
“Mr. Briar, is there a problem?”
I’m no longer in the room with him; he falls back into the bed as a scream rips out from his body. I take a step back and then I see him point at me. No, not at me, behind me. I turn and see the sheet floating there. Fuck. I’m busted. Mr. Briar continues to scream. It was all a set up, those bitches set me up. Hopefully I can buy my way out of this.
“Alright pal, you got me. How much is it gonna take to keep quiet?”
The sheet doesn’t move or talk, it reminds me of Michael Myers in Halloween. This asshole thinks he can spook me.
“Dude, game over, give me the sheet.”
I grab the sheet at the face and tear it off. Much to my surprise, no one is underneath. Under my breath and whisper:
“Well that’s a neat trick.”
Mr. Briar has stopped screaming now. Someone knows what I do and now they’re trying to freak me out before turning me in. I know when to fold. I toss the sheet onto Briar’s bed and walk to the door.
“Later old-timer.”
I go to open the door but it’s locked. No surprises there. I pound on the door.
“Alright! You got me! Let me out of this fucking room!”
All at once, the scent of roses becomes so thick in the air it nauseates me. Then I hear Briar start screaming again. I know what’s behind me but I turn around anyway. Above his bed, the sheet flows around the form of a person. Briar is frenzied but can’t get up.
“Alright, enough! You’re gonna scare the guy to death just to prove a point to me?” The sheet turns towards me and says nothing. I’m starting to get a little freaked out. I kick at the door behind me without taking my eyes off that sheet. It descends off the bed towards me. Briar is hysterical. Then I catch something in the light of the bed lamp. A small dot begins to grow on the sheets face like an ink blot. It gets so big I can see it’s dark red. Blood. It begins to gurgle and bubble from underneath the sheet. It drips down the front onto the linoleum floor.
“What. The. Fuck?”
Running on panic and not bravery, I rush the sheet and tear it off again. There’s no disappearing act this time. Underneath I find a gray-haired skeleton in a decomposed wedding dress.
“Jesus Christ!”
I leap for the door but feel claws digging into my shoulders then I’m thrown into Briar’s bed. He’s still screaming. The skeleton flips me over to face it and I can hear a shrieking not from Briar.
“Bound! Forever bound!”
I may be scum but I’m not an idiot.
“You want him, you got him lady!”
I grab the sheet and throw it around Briar’s neck. For the first time I can really feel the strength of the Modal. I cut off his airway instantly, no more screaming. But I still feel the inhuman shriek in my mind. It doesn’t take him long to die. His eyes turn red and I hear his trachea snap, it’s done. I straighten myself and wait for my turn…but it doesn’t come. There’s no longer a skeletal bridezilla and no scent of roses. I think it’s time I switched jobs. Maybe I’ll be a divorce lawyer.

Raindrops Exploding on Her Windshield

A short about...get this...a breakup. Enjoy.




Doesn’t rain make everything seem so much more dramatic? It’s as if normal situations can be made more intriguing or heartfelt by this most natural of occurrences. Take for example the situation I’m in now; I’m sitting in a car with a girl. Actually she’s my girlfriend, well, I guess up until a few minutes ago she was my girlfriend. She’s been talking for awhile now…two minutes, two hours, I don’t know. I can see her lips moving, I can smell her hair, I can feel her hand on mine but I do not hear a word she’s saying. I have a feeling I got the idea she was trying to get across to me though. She said; “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t be with you.” After that I sort of got sucked into my own mind. There’s a chance my heart is breaking at the moment but I can’t really be sure now that I’ve retreated into these inconsequential thoughts. If this was happening on a warm, sunny Tuesday in the Spring would I feel differently?

But it’s not Tuesday; it’s Friday. It’s not the Spring, it’s Fall and last but not least, it is not sunny and warm. It’s dark, it’s cold and the rain is pouring. I look at her again. There still isn’t any sound coming from her moving mouth. All I can hear are the raindrops exploding on her windshield. The rapid percussion surrounding us is almost hypnotic. She looks really cute, more so than usual. Maybe it’s the darkness we’re both sitting in; maybe the shadows are just playing tricks on me. A car goes by and disproves my theory. Headlights momentarily illuminate her and I can see she’s better looking now than I can recall offhand. Huh…I’m sure that’ll make all this easier.

Perhaps I should start paying attention to what she’s saying. Maybe if I do there’s a slim chance I can argue my way back into a relationship. What was it she said again? “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t be with you.” She used the word ‘can’t’. She didn’t use ‘won’t’ or even ‘don’t’…she said “I can’t”. That choice of words may mean something. If she didn’t love me anymore I’m pretty sure that would have been in the opening lines. If it was something I did or was doing wrong one would assume she’d use the phrase “I don’t want to be with you.” Using the phrase “I won’t be with you.” suggests something similar to the latter. In that I was doing something wrong to upset her or disappoint her or…hmmm…maybe even disgust her. But her inflection, the tone of her voice, the way she is presenting all this does not indicate that. Using the word ‘can’t’ is implying that there is some outside force at work here. It’s not me, which I can take some solace in, but I’m worried it may be some cop out like her being too busy with work or not being in the right place for a relationship or some other lie equally full of bullshit. If it’s not me I still have a chance. She could be the one for me, maybe. I could be making a huge mistake if I let her go…I really think I should start paying attention.

Suddenly it stops raining; the silence on the street permeates the car. That is, until she speaks.
“What do you think?” she asks.

I look her in the eyes. The truth is that I have no idea what I think or what I think she wants to hear. I really don’t even want to say anything. I could spout off everything she does that pisses me off. I could rant about all the transgression she’s made against me. I could beg and plead for a second chance. These are all cards I have played with other women in the past with varying degrees of success. Some of these hands have worked out for awhile…some got denied right of the bat. I feel a bluff coming on…

I continue to bide my time. The longer I’m silent the more introspective, and thereby intelligent, I appear. Interestingly enough, I’ve found that the more introspective and intelligent a guy appears the more attractive he is to his pursuers. She continues to stare at me as I formulate what I’m about to say. No lies this time, no empty promises…just the truth and we’ll see how that plays out for a change of pace.

“I think you’re wrong and I think this is a shame.” I say finally.

She’s shocked and I’m shocked that she’s shocked. This is probably a good thing. It’s a fair bet that she didn’t expect me to say anything along those lines. It put her off-balance. This gives me an advantage, an advantage I will readily exploit. You see, she was probably prepared for one of those three plays I mentioned a moment ago. More likely than not, she had a comeback set up for each one of them. But this, me being completely arrogant while coming off hurt and disappointed…she could have prepared for that in the least.

Her eyes are fixed on me. She’s staring; her mouth is even hanging open a little. I’ve dumbfounded her. I’ve definitely got her and it’s time to seal the deal.

“Well is that’s it I guess I’ll be going. Goodbye Marissa.” I turn from her and reach for the handle.
“Wait,” she says “can I come in?”
“Absolutely.”

Its hours later and I’m still awake. She lies naked next to me wrapped in a translucent sheet. A part of me feels guilty and I have no idea why. I’ve done nothing wrong…technically. I said exactly what I want to say and it was 100% honest. So what’s this gnawing at my insides? What is the feeling of misdeed having been done? My arm beings to cramp and I try to pull it out from under her without waking her. I slowly understand what I’m doing, why I’ve done what I’ve done and why I did it so well.

I was horny.

That’s what this really boiled down to: sex. Who was I kidding? My heart wasn’t breaking; I was just upset because sexual gratification would now require effort. That is why I feel terrible. Do I even love Marissa? Did I ever? Has my adolescent sexual addiction become so powerful that I’d convince someone I loved them merely for easy access? Apparently, yes. She stirs in her sleep and sleepy eyes open slightly to see me staring at her. I know what she’s thinking; something along the lines of me being so sweet, so romantic as to watch her slumber. The truth is, I’m just trying to think of a way out of this, but I’m in my own goddamn house. “Hey.” She says, in an admittedly cute tone of voice. “Hello beautiful.” What the hell am I doing? Even after this realization, I still cannot let up with the lines. It so constant and following, it disgusting. “You’re amazing.” At what Marissa, being able to make what is true, a lie? Or am I amazing at being able to control your mind, your heart even, to such a degree that you would actually believe that I care you’re here. The compliment on my abilities as a lover almost escapes me. “You’re not so bad yourself.” See? Right there. Truth and lie at the same time. While she thinks it’s just my way of being cute and playful, I mean it. She’s not bad, but she’s not great, she’s just ok for the time being. “Jack?” “Yes, dear?” My backup files kick into gear for whatever lover’s query or trap-question she may have in this vulnerable setting, I’m ready. My answer may even get me laid again. It’ll probably be something about the future, or rather, our future. Maybe an invitation to the mountains this weekend or dinner with her parents which, incidentally, I enjoy more than dinner with her I’m afraid. “Will you wake me at six? I’ve got a meeting at seven and I can’t miss it.”

Magic time, I just can’t resist. “Maybe, but you in bed all day may just be too damn tempting.”

Her eyes open wide and her legs follow suit.

Bad Advice 9

Dearest Cagney,

I have noticed that recently my weekend activities have began to digress and mirror that of a 19 year old. For example, it is currently 1:00 am on a Wednesday, I am at a friend's house... drinking. Something tells me that this may be a mid-mid-life crisis. Though I am thoroughly enjoying myself, I am left to wonder, 'is this normal'? I doubt that it is, however I wanted your valuable insight. What is a girl to do? Should we continue this behavior or, should we allow ourselves to finally get some sleep before an open house? Also, are we definitively walking down the isle together? If so, we need to encourage this event as this would be one hell of a party.

Written and directed by,

-Paris' BFF

The mid-twenties are an interesting time, especially for our generation. While our parents were getting married, having babies, and buying houses, we seem to be doing keg stands, playing Guitar Hero, and perfecting our oral sex techniques (my newest move "The Plunger" is almost ready to debut). A lot of us feel a pull towards stopping this childish behavior and move fully into adulthood but at the same time are reluctant, if not completely unwilling, to give up the freedom and craziness of youth.
We're living longer which affords us more time to be "half-adults" by which I mean, a working, productive member or society during the week who turns into a drunken frat boy/sorority girl come Friday. How concerned can you really be if you abide by the main trappings of adulthood? Have a full time job? Pay bills? Pay taxes? Obey the law? Yes across the board? Then don't be too worried. For the time being.

Yes, there will come a point at which you will need to get your ass grown. Who wants to be 38 playing asshole in Moondog's mom's basement? I certainly don't want my greatest acheivement at 44 to be when I won the beer pong tourney at Schmidty's when I was 42. But that's then...we still have time. Is there anything wrong with wanting to settle down, get married, start a real adult life? No. It's great and I would say to all those boring losers to go for it, good luck. As for our behavior and whether it's normal or not, I'd certainly say the majority rules. I know far more single, working, weekend warriors than I do married "once-a-monthers".

So for now, hold onto your constantly fading youth. Keep playing drinking games that involve Nerf Dart guns and keep throwing up in toliets and keep sleeping on floors and...hmm...I need to grow up.

As for the second question you posed "Also, are we definitively walking down the isle together?", may I ask, which Isle? Sea Isle? The Isle of Wight? The Isle of Palms? I'm not sure where you mean and it really could be anywhere. Wait...awww...did you mean "aisle"? I'm not sure. While yes, I do know that the WGON traffic helicopter from the original Dawn of the Dead makes a cameo in the beginning of the remake and I know that when that dad in Scream says "Go down the street to the Mackenzies' house..." it's a direct quote from Halloween and yes the 1989 Batman was my favorite movie for most of my life...is that really reason to marry someone?
While I agree our nuptials would end up being the party of the decade, I can't agree with expediency in this matter. To rush into something as important as marriage is too risky. You should also know that I always wanted to marry a woman with strength, dignity, intelligence and love greater than my own and a willingness to blow me when I wake up and before I go to sleep everyday.

So relax, slow down, and let's take it slow. In the meantime, you can start by putting your money where my mouth is and coming over, lets say Thursday night. Prove it PBFF

Hope that helped.

Dear Cagney,

I'm in my early twenties and recently have come out of a long-term relationship. The truth is, I'm looking for a man to spend the rest of my life with. I'm young but I'm afraid I'm never going to get married. How do I find my future husband?
Help

-Wanna be a Bride

What a well timed question. But since I've already touched on youth, marriage, and rushing into what could be the most important decision of your life, allow me to focus the second part of your question. How to find your husband? There are many options, all viable. One sure fire way to score a husband is to get pregnant. Just sleep with a guy, tell him not to use a condom and BAM you've roped a guy into a marriage. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. First, you've got to attract your potential mate.

Guys love girls who are really confident. If you've ever been to a bar and have seen a girl with a shirt that exposes a great deal of cleavage, maybe even a little bra...that girl is brimming with confidence. If when she sits on her bar stool and her thong becomes visible when she leans forward...this is a girl of great confidence. If she wears sparkle lip gloss and demostrates her patented deep throat manuver on a Miller Lite bottle with the label ripped off, damn confident. If she insists that her and her best friend will hook up for shots...that's a tag team of confidence.

These are your tools Wanna, use them wisely.

While bars are the best places to meet the opposite sex, they're certainly not the only ones. The internet is a great place too. There are thousands of chat rooms bursting at the seams with eager, young gentlemen just waiting to meet Mrs. Right. Don't be afraid to be fun in there, role play even. Why not tell a guy you're 13? Just to spice things up? If you can get him interested in a 13 year old, think of how happy he'll be when it turns out he doesn't have to wait 5 years to be with you! I myself am really excited about a young girl I've been talking to: chrissyhansenNBC1.

While these are all great ideas, it should be noted that meeting and dating with the specific intention of finding your spouse is a little...well, stupid. You can't force it. If you date a guy for a few months and you really like him but you're not positive he's husband material do you just get rid of him and keep looking until you meet a guy who you're sure of right away? That's never, ever going to happen Wanna. Date, be open to any possibility, and be honest. Then you'll find someone lucky enough to marry you.

Hope that helped.