Slow Realizations

Here is another story I wrote and got published in the Fall 2013 edition of FishHook. 

“What’s wrong, Molly?”

            “Nothing,” she snapped, yanking the covers over her shoulder as she turned away from me.

            Well, that was certainly convincing. So it would be the good old ‘nothing’ routine, otherwise known as specifically something, but to hell if she would ever reveal what it was. There would have been a time, maybe a few years back when I wouldn’t have let it go. But then again, the time where I could scoop her into my arms and she would not only let me but pour her heart out to me was gone. Maybe this was something marriage did to people. Maybe not. It seemed like something that was good to know, but I’d lost the will to ask. It was all so muddied up and confusing now, as if we had both begun to slowly speak a different language as the years crept by, until finally neither of us could understand a word the other was saying.

            I rolled over the other way and faced the wall. It was late and the call of sleep was too good to ignore. And anyway, my brother would be arriving early tomorrow. They had never really gotten along. Maybe that was why she’d been nothing but a shrew the past few nights, nervous and snappish, yelling at me whenever I opened my mouth and even spanking Devon for spilling over a cup of grape juice in the TV room. That at least had been bothering me, if nothing else. Molly had never so much as swatted Devon before, not even when he’d gone through the “terrible twos” and somehow picked up the word “douche” in his vocabulary. Now that he’d reached three and half it had been nothing but smooth sailing. Poor kid didn’t mean to knock over the glass. But tell that to Molly. In hindsight saying that had been a bad idea.

            I remember when she used to look at me, her blue eyes, so like my own, soft and warm. They were nothing but ice now. Except where Devon was concerned. Those looks reserved for me went to him when he came along. I suppose I could be jealous, but I couldn’t stomach it. He was my kid, an innocent child, he didn’t know.  Pulling the cover over my legs a little more I settled in a bit more and pushed the thoughts away. It was going to be an early start tomorrow.

            “So how is everything? I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

            Robbie glanced at me and smiled wide, “Almost four years.” He said.

            “I can’t wait for you to meet Devon. He’s such a great kid. So smart.” I said, glancing at the familiar features of my little brother before switching lanes and turning off onto my street.

            “Me neither,” he said.

            As we pulled in Molly was waiting on the stoop, Devon in her arms. She walked down the steps in her bare feet while I began pulling the luggage out of the back. Her laugh carried over to me and I glanced up. It was such a beautiful sound. How long had it been since she’d done that? She stood next to Robbie, her smile wide, her eyes bright. I watched as they walked on into the house ahead of me. Frowning I went to shut the trunk, but I must have done it harder than I meant to. The slam echoed down the street.

            From the chair I stared into the TV without really seeing anything. It was great to see Robbie, but I’d forgotten how he took up a room, drawing everyone’s glance and conversation. Though I was older, I’d never been able to get a word  in edgewise. I looked away from a commercial advertising acne medication and over at Molly. She sat close to Robbie, her body leaning toward him, the smile she’d put on when he arrived still there, wider even. I looked away again and caught sight of Devon sneaking off toward the kitchen. Before he could get more than a few steps away I was up and after him, but Robbie beat me to it, scooping him up and into his arms. For a moment I just stood there staring, uncertain what to do. I glanced at my wife. She wasn’t looking at me, but at Robbie, something like admiration there. I turned to Robbie, his brown eyes dancing, and then looked into the eyes of my son. As I looked between Robbie and Devon my mouth went dry. A snippet from freshman biology had surfaced in my brain, a useless something about genes, and suddenly, everything became clear. 

Copyright © 2013 Alissa Tsaparikos

Free Will

This story was published in the Fall 2013 edition of FishHook

 “Do you believe fate’s a fixed thing?”

I started as Emily turned to me, catching my eye. I’d been looking at her hair and the way the long waves fell along her shoulders while she swept down the straight and narrow aisles of the sports section in Wal-Mart. Soon she would be half a world away at a private university, and I would no longer watch and marvel at how the blond tresses caught the light and shimmered. It made my breath catch painfully.

I looked away, pretending to study the faded blue polish on my nails. “What do you mean?”

“Like, do you feel as if we are always running towards our futures, inevitably?” She picked up a metal bat with black tape artfully crisscrossed for grip, and balanced it in her hands. “Is every step we make up to us, or are we always taking the steps we had to take, carrying us toward the end that we were always destined for?”

I frowned and watched her swing the bat slowly, testing it further. That was Emily in everything though, testing, pushing, questioning the world. Next fall her parents were paying for her to study art and philosophy with a minor in humanities and it always showed. Even now, sometime after midnight in the only twenty-four hour Wal-Mart in town, buying a present for her brother’s birthday at the last possible moment, she must philosophize. I watched the way she crouched down and pretended to get ready to slug a home run, her beautiful neck extending slightly as she looked down the length of the bat. Down the row an older man in a stocker vest eyed us with a frown. It drew heat to my face but Emily giggled and stuck her tongue out at me. The fearlessness of it, this moment, this conversation, was something I admired in her, even coveted and wished for myself. And yet, I wondered if she could see the trepidation I felt when she started in. In the fall I would be enrolled as a freshman at the community college two miles from my house studying business and communications, my father’s choice.

I clasped my hands together, then stopped and surreptitiously wiped them on my jeans. Shaking my head I drew a breath to finally answer her question. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t it not matter either way? You’d still get the same ending.”

“It isn’t a question of whether it matters, it’s a question of free will.” She sounded out her statement, her tone calm and introspective. Slowly she swung the bat a few more times. “Are we helpless to deviate from the tract, or do our decisions count?”

 I didn’t answer this time and left her to her own musings. Emily loved to talk about free will. It was easy for her to do. I was relatively sure her parents had been coaching her from the womb to come out screaming about freedom and the perils of losing one’s individuality. I shook my head again. I sometimes wondered if I’d know what to do with the choice if I had it.

Picking up a tennis ball from a basket of them, I tossed it from hand to hand, my thoughts back on the future, as they always seemed to be lately. When Emily and I filled out applications, she’d made me apply for every one she did. When I got the acceptance letters to every one that Emily had, including one she hadn’t, I hid them between my mattress and said nothing. I scuffed my shoe hard against the floor’s shiny beige tiles, all but kicking it as I thought of them. No matter how many nice schools I got accepted to, and no matter how much I wanted to go, my father would never allow it. His money, his choice, he liked to say. I had yet to tell her we weren’t headed in the same direction and I felt sick every time I thought about it.

“So, I think this is it.” She licked her lips. A flush ran through me and I jumped when she spoke again. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

I nodded. “His old bat is dented to hell, he’s needed a new one, even if he refuses to hear reason.”

As we headed to check out Emily walked just ahead of me and I watched her graceful gait and thought about what she had said, about destiny and choice.

It was Saturday tomorrow, the first day of summer vacation, and I’d be back at Emily’s house for her brother’s birthday party. But tonight she dropped me off at home.

I walked up the drive, squinting at the darkened windows as I went. If I was lucky no one would be waiting up. I unlocked the door and edged inside, closing it carefully, trying to stop the hinges from squeaking. Behind me the lamp turned on. For a moment I froze and closed my eyes, bracing myself, and then slowly turned about to face my father. He sat in the old brown armchair near the wall arms crossed, the yellow glow of the lamp only barely reaching him. Even half in the shadow I could see his eyes boring into mine. My father was a large man, imposing. I took after my mother, or at least how I remember her before the cancer; slight and plain, with black hair, defenseless.

            “Where have you been, Anna?”

            Heat burnt its way across my skin. I hated him. “Me and Emily went to Wal-Mart – to get a present for her brother, Sam.”

            “It’s almost one in the morning.”

            I shuffled my feet and glanced at him, found his direct glare still leveled on me, and instead focused on the crucifix that hung on the wall a few feet from his head. How many times had I avoided his eyes? I didn’t have to think about it, the occasions were countless, this house with my father’s will and my fear. I thought again free will. Of Emily.

“Go to bed. Pray to God for forgiveness.”

“I don’t think God cares if I went to Wal-Mart after midnight.” The words slipped out. It took a moment for what I said to register but once it did my father’s eyes bulged in shock and anger, his large brown mustache adding to the picture, making him look like a walrus being strangled.  It was so absurd I could have laughed.

Before I could do anything my father was up and out of the chair, standing at his full height. He struck hard and fast and I wheeled backward with the force of the blow, my cheek burning. He stood still, almost surprised by his own actions. His breathing was harsh, as if he had just run up a hill.

Hand to my cheek, I straightened. “I’m tired.”

He didn’t reply and I turned away, retreating down the small dark hallway that led to my room at the back of the house. I didn’t turn the light on or take my clothes off, only stumbled forward in the semi-light of the street light that slipped through my half open blinds. I felt for the edge of my bed and then fell onto it. I hadn’t lied. I was tired. Tired of doing as I was told. Tired of staying on the straight and narrow path that, according to my father, leads to salvation.

I kept my eyes closed, ignored the heat and sting of my cheek, and drifted.  Hair like warm sunlight, long and soft to the touch, drifted through my thoughts. It fell across my face, trails of perfect gold. And lips, small and soft, but with the slightest hint of chap, moving over mine. And everything inside me felt warm and ached simultaneously.

I forced my eyes open, shuddering. My pulse thudded too fast and I listened to the beats war with the ticking clock in the silence of my room. My stomach twisted in on itself. A bitter path burnt its way up my throat as I swallowed convulsively. I became afraid to close my eyes, afraid of what I might see, and ashamed of what I might want to see. God might not punish me for going to Wal-Mart late at night, but he might for who I went with.

I curled into myself and tried not to think. Sleep did not come easy or stay long. I would glance at the hour hand ever so often and watch as it moved further around the face, but there was no rest. There could never be any rest.

I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to the instant ringing of my phone. My body and mind felt heavy, but I pulled myself up and answered the cordless phone by my bed, stifling a yawn.

“Oh, good, it’s you! I always hate talking to your dad.” Emily’s voice was filled with energy. “You really need to get a cell phone.”

I suddenly felt much more awake. “Yeah, but you know how my dad is.”

Her voice lowered. “Yeah.”

I glanced at the clock and saw that it was just a little after noon. Cradling the phone between my head and shoulder, I peeled off the wrinkled clothes. Pausing over my open drawers for a moment, I finally settled on a blue blouse and shorts, pulling them on. Emily had helped pick out the shirt as the only one I owned that properly flattered my figure. As I smoothed my hands over my breasts, I felt a flutter in my chest. I wondered if she would remember saying it.  

Emily had started humming absentmindedly on the other end, her tone low and throaty. A rush of warmth traveled down and through me at the sound, and I shifted my legs against the ache it left between my thighs.

I looked up at my wall suddenly, at the crucifix that hung there next to a small mirror. A familiar bitterness of guilt and fear filled my mouth with the taste of copper. I looked away from Jesus in his pain and into the mirror instead, taking in my flushed cheeks. One was darker, a not quite bruise and I lifted a hand to it, touched it softly, how I imagined Emily might touch me. She had never hurt me, never made me feel this pain. Slowly a conviction fell into place as I listened, and though it made me squirm, it did not lessen. “So when do you want me to pick you up?” she asked, breaking back into the conversation.

“I’m ready,” I said.

***

The party was going well. Everyone was relaxed, except me. Jock guys and a few of their girlfriends stood about in groups or danced to the music that pulsed a booming beat from a stereo off to the side of the yard.  It reminded me of school, of the pressure of fitting in.

Sam’s friends comprised of the high school baseball team and a few miscellaneous people. Though they were all a few years younger than me I still glanced about nervously, wishing Emily would hurry up and come back. The two of us had been running around on errands for her parents all day, picking up things for the party, helping prepare the food, and setting up. Emily was on yet another trip to the corner store to pick up more paper plates. I’d been tired and declined her offer to go, but I’d regretted that decision the moment she’d left.

I caught sight of Sam, laughing and pantomiming some kind of story to his friends and marveled at how different he looked. When it was just his family, he was always so laid back. At those times I could see how he could be Emily’s brother. Now, however, he was a different person entirely, and it reminded me why I could never be absolutely comfortable around him.  

Around his friends and at school, Sam became one of them. No longer was he the open minded son of the only liberal family in town. He was the star baseball player that strutted down the hall, who led a group of followers like a shepherd. The funny thing was, it seemed to me that the sheep were actually herding him.

Sam playfully punched one of his buddies on the shoulder, and I felt a spike of nerves spiral as I thought about the decision I was on the edge of making. There had been a conversation I couldn’t ever quite get out of my head.

During spring break, Emily insisted the three of us watch some movie that I can’t remember the name of, but in it, a brother walks in on his sister sleeping with her boyfriend. What I do remember is the look on Sam’s face, how he’d turned to Emily and said, “You better hope that never happens with us. I don’t care who you’re with but I’ll kick their ass.” Emily, of course, argued with him over this for the next hour; eventually the serious tone turned to one of joking, but I’d never stopped feeling sick about it. And as I looked at all these people, they morphed until all of them had my father’s face.

“Guess who.” A pair of hands descended over my eyes, the small warm palms resting on my face.

A different kind of thrill went through me and I smiled. “Are you the Goblin King?”

“Yes, and I’ve come to steal you away.”

“Good to know.” I laughed. I pushed her hands away and turned around. She stood confidently, her smile wide and brilliant. In her hands was a felt bag that looked heavy.

She raised it. “I have a surprise,” she said, and then turned on her heel. “Come on.” She didn’t look back and I hurriedly got up and jogged after her. She led us away from the house, away from the party.

Music still pulsed, the beat thrumming and vibrating, but it dulled as we walked. Emily’s house was located a bit out of town, surrounded by fields on one side and a small stand of trees on the other. She wove through the sparse trunks and finally emerged in one of the more secluded fields. She sank to the ground and I followed suit as she revealed a six pack of wine coolers, the surprise I assumed.

“Won’t your parents notice?”

“Nah, they won’t miss it,” she said. “And anyway, they’re in the house watching some old movie and probably going to sleep, so don’t worry.” She held one out to me. Before today I might have argued, but feeling again the shiver up my spine, I reached out and took it. Tonight anything was possible, why not this. I took my first sip, felt the tangy burn on the back of my tongue and looked into the night.

 The stars were beautiful, arrayed and winking above in the endless black like so much glitter and dust thrown across the sky. After running about all day, it was nice to just lie in the cool darkness.

We hadn’t been there long but between us the six-pack was already finished. I wasn’t drunk, but I still felt pleasantly warm. I also felt brave.

“Are you ever afraid of being different?” I asked.

Next to me Emily shifted closer, but I kept my eyes on the stars. “No, never,” she said. “I like it.”

“But aren’t you afraid of what people will think? Isn’t it better to do what everyone wants?”

Emily sat up. I looked over to her. Her hair floated over her shoulder as she looked down, a pale glow in the moonlight.  “No, it isn’t better.”

“Different isn’t always better,” My voice was barely above a whisper. “Different can hurt.”

“It’s worth it.”

Barely breathing, I pushed myself up on my elbows, bringing my face a few breaths from hers. I paused for a moment and then kissed the edge of her lips and then pulled away, dizzy and frightened.

Her eyes were huge and dark and I waited for her to get up and run from me. But she stayed where she was and I watched as she came nearer and nearer, until our noses were nearly touching. I felt her lips, soft and moist, against mine for a second time. This time, I lifted a hand and ran it through her hair. She smelled of apples and tasted like watermelon. She was unbearably sweet. It made me ache. I wished it could go on for a lifetime. Maybe it did.

We wound about each other, my fingers tangled in her hair, her legs rubbing against mine. When I shifted my weight onto her she made no protest. I searched her face, asking and praying with my eyes that this was okay. The blood rushed through my ears, a steady and deafening pulse as I brought my lips to hers again and then began to work my hand under her shirt, lifting it up as I went. That’s when the flashlights fell on us.

We hadn’t heard them coming, Sam and his friends come to play midnight baseball only to find us in the middle of the field that was to be their make-shift diamond. There was laughing, a shout, words and curses, everyone frozen in the light. And then I was ripped away from Emily, thrown back against the ground hard. A blinding light was shoved in my face and I blinked desperately.

“What the fuck were you doing to my sister?”

Sam’s words were slightly slurred and he swayed slightly as he stood over me. It seemed that Emily wasn’t the only one who’d lifted from her parents that night.

“Dude, I didn’t know your sister was a lesbo,” said one of the guys off to the side.

There was some laughter, but it was hard, dangerous. As my eyes adjusted I could just make out some of their faces in the dark, half in, half out of shadow. But they didn’t look like themselves. They looked like their parents, sitting rigidly in the pews at church, their eyes dead ice.

Emily had gotten to her feet and run forward, but Sam shoved her back. There was more laughter but, Sam wheeled about. “Shut the fuck up.”

He turned to the person who had spoken a moment ago. “Hold her,” he said, pointing to Emily. There was more shouting and cursing and I scrambled to my feet, trying to see what was happening, but Sam blocked my path.  He was a big guy, naturally athletic. He’d only just turned seventeen, but he was often confused for Emily’s twin, rather than her younger brother. He stood tall in front of me, a swinging metal bat with a black tape grip in one hand.

A strangled howl came from the darkness behind Sam and suddenly Emily burst into the light, and was at my side before anyone could react. Her hand filled mine and I squeezed it tight. Sam suddenly seemed unsure.

“What the fuck did you think you were going to do?” she asked. “Beat it out of us? Mom and Dad would be really proud.”

Ever so slowly he’d been swinging the bat in a bigger and bigger arc, but at her words he stopped it at the highest arc, balanced in the air. “Get out of here, I warned you.”

“The fuck I will. I’d like to see you make me.”

There were more jeers, but I knew what Sam was really saying, knew there were two battles being fought here.

He stayed silent, the bat wavered. “Fine.”

I kept my eyes on the bat as I stepped in front of Emily. It was as natural as breathing. I couldn’t be sure if the arc downward would be completed, and probably somewhere in the world someone was arguing about destiny versus free will, but I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

by Alissa Tsaparikos

Copyright © 2013 Alissa Tsaparikos

Finding Truth

The Following is more a piece of character development than anything. It was developed for an assignment where I was to write the beginning of a play. I became intensely interested in the characters I began, so I thought I'd put it up here anyway.

Act 1

A dorm room. The bed unmade and a desk overflowing with papers and books on its surface.

ANNA (early twenties) is sitting on the bed. Her hair is unkempt and she looks as if she has been ill.

VERITY (early twenties) is standing at the desk, facing away, holding a book and looking at its back. Her hair is magenta and she wears matching lipstick. Her clothing is flashy and tight fitting.

Anna coughs

Verity remains looking away.

VERITY: So are you feeling better?

ANNA (suppressing a cough): Yes a little better.

VERITY: Good enough to be out yesterday.

She tosses the book on the desk.

ANNA: I – I’m sorry.

Pause.

VERITY (still looking away): What for?

Anna rubs her hands on her jeans, nervously.

ANNA: After all you did for me. Helping me get home, being there when I felt so badly. I should have known you wouldn’t forget about our plans. I should have checked and asked. I’m so –

VERITY: It’s fine. Okay? Stop apologizing.

Anna stands.

Verity turns to her, arms folded.

VERITY: I really hope the medicine I brought by yesterday helps. I’m sorry you weren’t here. And yes, I know you’re sorry too, but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I hope you had fun. I hope it was worth it.

Verity exits room.

Anna waits a moment and then rushes to the desk shifting aside papers and books until she find a small cell phone. She dials, hesitates, puts the phone to her ear.

ANNA: Hey. Sorry to bother you –

Pause.

ANNA: Yes. She was just here.

Pause. Anna begins to pace.

ANNA: No, I don’t think she knows. How could she know? And anyway what does it matter, she doesn’t have a say in this.

She pauses in front of her dresser, catches site of the medicine there. Stops. Picks it up. Bites her bottom lip.

Pause

ANNA (subdued and sad): Yeah...I know. No, I’ll be here...Yeah, just text me when you’re here.

Pause

ANNA (deeply sincere): Thank you for this, for all of this...Kay...see you soon.

Puts phone on the dresser and resumes pacing jumping dramatically when the door suddenly opens.

VERITY: Upon further consideration I might have come off a little harsh there. I mean, I’m sure you can understand that I was a little miffed, but I can let it go.

Verity strides forward and pulls Anna into an embrace and then begins to kiss her. Anna slightly rigid relaxes abruptly. When Verity pulls away both are out of breath.

VERITY: Well get better soon. And tomorrow we’ll watch the next episode?

Anna nods.

VERITY (Smile over-bright): Cheers love, I’ll see you later.

Verity exits.

One Hell of a Trip (Final Revision)

The girl stops and breathes deeply. Even from yards away the sight of the old beaten Dodge is like coming home. The familiarity sends an ache to her quick. She is aware of an empty space she hadn’t known was there, a missing patch somewhere below the left side of her heart. She starts slowly forward, step by slow step, until suddenly she is right beside the door, breathing heavily as if she had been running to it all this time. Maybe she has. But she can’t tell what’s real or fake, made up or dream, because now the familiar is falling over her in waves, rushing her senses, drowning her under the onslaught, her hand cradling the familiar grip of the door handle, glancing at that dent in the side, the scar cementing the back door shut where the deer hit on the way back from that long trip, in the middle of that long talk, and suddenly she is settling into the seat and there is the hole like a missing eye where the air shutter should have been, pushed out and broken, “Goddamnit keep your feet off the dash,” still echoing, always echoing, echoing in time with the radio, the volume knob broken off, who cares because the music was always better loud, and the dome light gives off its solemn glow, the illumination of midnight confessions and secrets told in the almost dark, don’t worry it never leaves the car, and the girl fingers the purple beads hanging from the mirror, oh how they swung when the car turned fast, the two of them, girls on one hell of an adventure the moment the engine turned over, just keep the windows down and the beads swinging and everything would set itself right, just never stop. But it did stop, with a spinning crunch of metal, a flash of light the taste of blood. Now the girl pulls the beads back, watches them sway once more, then pulls away. Shuts the door. Makes it stop. A thousand more memories are pressed against the glass but she walks away, the secret whispers of the past left behind with the friend that never got to leave.    

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Nightmares

This short story was published in FishHook, the University of Southern Indiana's literary and art magazine last fall (2012).

I once had a lover who woke frozen and terrified in the night. The absolute stillness pulled me from troubled toss and turn dreams, waking to the sleep drunk conclusion that she had died next to me. I groped forward almost blindly, heavy hands sliding over her neck and face, searching for the rise and fall of breath or the steady beat of pumping blood under her skin.

She jerked to life at my touch, her whole body trembling. I expected her to flinch back in disgust and demand to know why I had decided to grope her as she slept, a lead in to the yelling that would go on till the grey dawn became painted through with the orange and red stains of sunrise.  Or, in another turn, the argument would end with a last remark and a taunt silence when she stumbled angrily from the bed, dragging the comforter and pillow with her to settle in the bathtub to sleep. I expected those reactions, and a few more with the same taste and feel. Instead she clutched out, grabbing onto me as if someone, or something, was trying to drag her from the bed, or life itself.

She pulled herself against me hard, jarring me into lucidity; I wondered if she was trying to crawl inside my skin.  She entwined her arms and legs with mine and burrowed her mouth into the soft place where my shoulder and neck met. The sheen of cold sweat on her rubbed against me where our skin touched and each inhale of breath brought its musky smell with it.  When I pressed my lips to her temple slowly, with hesitation, the taste of salt lingered. Each exhale of her breath pressed fast and hot, trapped in the space between the pillow and my skin. The proximity and heat, the smell of her, brought forward images and memories of sex. I might have liked this at some other time, the urgency of her need making me want her. But she shook, cowering into me, and I marveled at what strange darkness could so overcome her, enough to forget my petty crimes, my snide remarks, my socks left wet in the bathroom, enough to need me like this. As I tightly held her in my arms, pressing our bodies together, I could feel the gentling of her pulse through her shirt where our chests cemented together, the rise and fall of our breath syncing up. In all the time we had been together we had never allowed ourselves this kind of closeness. Not even when making love.

We fell back asleep that way, melded together as if our lives depended on it. When I woke alone, those hidden moments in the dark were the half remembered bits of a dream, the empty bed like the hollowness in my chest, an echo in a silent room. I left the cold, mussed sheets and found her in the kitchen. When I asked what it was that had scared her so badly she turned to me, her face covered in invisible words. I read no questions sketched around her eyes and how dare you ask? written neatly along her thin lips and down her hard chin. I wished she would have screamed it all. When she turned away I pressed a hand to my chest. Somewhere below my skin, my heart beat on, pushing my blood along predestined paths, but I couldn’t feel it. For that one moment, as she clung to me in terror, I had felt both our hearts race as one. For once I had been needed, for once trusted.  In those blue hours just before sunrise we were not just alive, but we lived. It would not happen again. Though my pulse was a roaring ocean in my ears, the pain deep beneath my fingers said that my heart had stopped once again. Always going through the motions of life but never actually living.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

One Hell Of A Trip

This is another short short that I am rather attached to. I do kind of hope that with some editing I could get this one up to snuff and submit it somewhere.

The girl stops and breathes deeply. Even from yards away the sight of the old beaten down Dodge Neon is like coming home after years of being away. She feels the familiarity sending an ache deep down to her core, suddenly aware how the unfamiliar surroundings just couldn’t fill the space she hadn’t even known was there, or maybe didn’t want to know. She starts slowly forward again, step by slow step, until suddenly she is right beside the door, breathing heavily as if she had been running to it all along. Maybe she has been, she doesn’t really know anymore, can’t tell what’s real or fake, made up or dream, because now the familiar is falling over her in waves, rushing her senses, drowning her under the onslaught, her hand cradling the familiar grip of the door handle, glancing at that dent in the side, the scar cementing the back door shut where the deer hit on the way back from that long trip, in the middle of that long talk, and suddenly she is settling into the seat and there is the hole like a missing eye where the air shutter should have been, pushed out and broken, “Goddamnit keep your feet off the dash,” still echoing, always echoing, echoing in time with the radio, the volume knob broken off, who cares because the music was always better loud, and the dome light gives off its solemn glow, the illumination of midnight confessions and secrets told in the almost dark, don’t worry it never leaves the car, and the girl fingers the purple beads hanging from the mirror, a sign of spirit that couldn’t be lost, oh how they swung when the car turned fast, the two of them, two girls on one hell of an adventure the moment the engine turned over, just keep the windows down and the beads swinging and everything would set itself right, just never stop. But now the girl pulls them back, watches them sway once more, then pulls away. Shuts the door. Makes it stop. A thousand more memories are pressed against the glass but the girl turns her back and walks away, the secret whispers of the past left behind with the friend that never got to leave.   

By Alissa Tsaparikos 

Kill Joy

This is a wicked little bit of character development I was working on that I'm going to refer to as another short story.

Anna did not merely walk up, but bounded. Her smile could blot out the sun. Hey joy radiated. It repulsed me. When all I wanted to do was sulk she was happy. There could be no end to my guilt, but I truly could not let it be, could not let her be happy.  

When she laughed it bubbled up from somewhere deep, her words pouring out fast like water. I couldn’t understand a word of what she said. It made me unbearably angry.

“What?” I asked, not trying to hide the contempt.

I saw her visibly try to calm herself as she noticed my mood. Whatever it was she wanted to communicate was too much to hold in. She tried again, but it was still an incomprehensible jumble. Her intent was clear. All she wanted was to share her joy. I wanted to push her away, push her down. Happiness that strong couldn’t be allowed. It was ungainly. Why couldn’t she just speak like a normal person? It always had to be an event every time she opened her mouth.

“What! What are you trying to say?”

She jerked back as if slapped. Her smile fell, the brightness gone. I watched her fade, subdue, and become quiet and small. It was amazing to see her shrink inside herself like an animal dying, the light in her eyes fading little by little. She stared blankly at me then. Slowly and surely she looked away.

“Nothing. It was nothing,” she breathed, her voice barely registering as a whisper.

I shouldn’t have felt satisfied, but it flowed through me, cool and healing. My mood was already improving. I watched her doodle a meaningless swirl onto her notebook, the lead of the pencil reflecting the light dully as she shaded in layer after layer of graphite, the scribble turning into a small black hole on her page.

For a moment the good feeling fled, curling in my stomach, spoiling. But it began to dissipate as quickly as it had come. It wasn’t even as bad as cramps, not even nearly. Anna would forgive me this, she always did. We’d been friends since high school, and though she didn’t follow me around like a lost puppy anymore, seven years later and I knew that she’d come right back in the end.

“I like your dress.”

I turned to Anna. She’d stopped coloring her paper gray and was looking at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. I looked down at myself, as if just noticing what I was wearing today, not at all like I’d taken special care that it matched my eyes perfectly.

By Alissa Tsaparikos 

Boys and Books

This is more of an inner monologue of a personal moment in my life that I came out on paper rather well. I'm going to formally title it a short short however. Enjoy  ^.^

Today while working at the library on my 12am late shift I was asked out. It was weird, out of the blue and touching. I'm not one of those who gets that kind of attention, and if I do it usually comes in the creep variety with leers and a really bad line. In those moment I usually fake that I have a boyfriend or I'm studying that night, etc. This time was different though. I guess in a shallow way, him being cute could have been a factor, and yet, how he looked had nothing to do with why I'm still thinking about this hours later.

No, it wasn't what he looked like, but how he walked up to the desk hesitantly, a little smile on his lips like he wasn't sure what he was getting himself into. I was sure he had a question, something library related. So when he asked me if I might like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime, 'if I wasn't seeing someone that is?', well I kind of felt like I'd just taken a frying pan to the head. 

Here comes the part where I gush out, 'Of course!' and we run away into the sunset and live happy ever after right? Well, not exactly.

I promptly flushed, probably resulting in my face turning a rather unattractive mottled pink and told him regretfully that I was sorry but I was seeing someone.

And I mean regretfully. Yes, I am seeing someone, that wasn't a lie. And yes it's weird and complicated like most things in my life, but that wasn't the reason. Well...not all of it.

I felt a regret almost painful as he turned bright pink and said okay, have a nice night, a sincere regret coloring his tone. I felt it so harshly, that regret, simply because right there, that guy, was a good one. He didn't get flustered, he wasn't a creep, his eyes didn't roam, and he didn't get surly or pissed the second it was clear I wasn't a marketable object. He simply said have a nice night and I somehow felt sure that I was watching the retreat of a genuinely great person that I wish I could get to know, get to be friends with.

There are a million things in my life that support that the answer I gave was the only one I could. I just finished my last class at this particular university. I will be studying in a different country for the next six months, and ever when I return I'll be living five hours away from where I am now. All these things and more make even what I have now more complicated than I ever wanted it to be. Realistically, there was no way it could ever be sane or fair to add even one more friend to that crazy mix.

And yet. And yet.

I think about his retreating back, and wonder what my life would be like if it could split in two different realities, one where I follow the path I have chosen, one where I go the other way. Could my life be like one of the books I read, where it is that easy to reach out a hand, make a friend, and in turn change your life?

I won't ever know I guess, but somewhere between late shifts, book stacks, and final exams, I'm still thinking about this one guy who asked me out, and how I really  wish I could learn what lights up his life and that one thing that will always make him cry no matter how old he gets.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Choices

This short story is one that feels decidedly unfinished to me. I am also rather attached to this beginning and hope to see it go somewhere. However since it is not exactly finished it can't hurt to see what people think of it. Feel free to comment  ^.^

Annie stared out the window. Hands in her lap, she worried at the frayed edge of her shorts.

“You can’t do this,” her mother said, pacing on the other side of the room.

Annie pursed her lips and still looked stubbornly out onto their small yard, grey and dismal looking in the fog.

“Stop ignoring me, I am not going to let you ruin your life!” her mother stopped in front of her. “Look at me God damn-it!” her voice rose high. Annie rolled her eyes.

“Stop being hysterical mother,” Annie said, her tone measured. She turned and finally looked at her mother, “this is not your choice.”

Her mother began pacing again, wringing her hands. “What would your father think?” she asked her suddenly.

Annie’s hands stopped their nervous movements and suddenly clenched into fists. “I sincerely doubt that the drunk bastard would have cared.”

Her mother stopped her pacing and made the sign of the cross. “Don’t disrespect the dead.”

She stared at her mother unblinkingly until the woman was forced to break the glance. Annie laid a hand on her flat stomach, “Don’t you disrespect the living you fucking hypocrite.”

Her mother shook her head violently but retreated to the next room. For a moment the house was silent. Then the high tones of her mother crying began to filter into the room. Annie jumped to her feet and paused only long enough to grab her sweatshirt off the back of the couch before banging out the door. She didn’t know where she was going. It was Sunday and most everything in Johnson was closed. The town itself wasn’t much more than a cluster of sad little houses and a drug store anyway. Annie stalked down the road at a fast clip, rubbing her eyes as she went. The fury was burning out of her fast, replaced by an emptiness that quaked when she thought about it too hard.

She wasn’t at all surprised by her mother’s reaction. Catholic or no, her mother would take any road that kept her out of the neighbor’s gossip, even if that meant hauling her daughter fifty miles to the first abortion clinic she could find and begging them to scrape her grandchild out. Still, just the thought made Annie want to scream. She rubbed her stomach again and looked out over the fields, corn on one side, soybeans on the other. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. That was always how Annie felt, trapped with no way out. Sure, for the kids who got top marks in school or knew how to pass a football or swing a bat, there were scholarships that gave them tickets out. But for Annie nothing like that had ever been an option. For as long as she could remember she had turned graded tests face down to hide the C or lower that always shown out like a bright red banner for all to see. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like to learn, it just never made sense once the test sat in front of her with all those little bubbles waiting to be filled.

After awhile she just stopped trying. What was the point of studying if the same bad grade always showed up at the end? So she did poorly on tests and let the homework keep her floating through. Annie knew that everyone was surprised that at seventeen she was still in school. Long ago she had been written off as just another Johnson nobody going nowhere, destined to stay put and have babies like her mother, and her mother before her. And wasn’t she just living up to their expectations nicely? She hated it all, which made her question why she was fighting her mother so badly. But, as her best mate Joe liked to say, why not? That was how it had always been with her and her mother.  Annie scuffed the dirt in front of her with her shoe and thought about going back and apologizing. She didn’t notice the sounds of the approaching car until it was nearly on her. At the last moment she looked up to see the front end of a Buick the size of a boat barreling at her at a speed that didn’t seem to be slowing. The surprise froze her muscles and Annie’s arms curled against her chest and her mouth gaped like a corpse giving in to rictus. 

Closer and closer it came until it screeched to a halt less than a foot from her knee caps. Still rooted to the spot, her heart beat thrumming in her ears, Annie watched the car back up some and then slide up next to her. The window was open and she didn’t know what she had expected but it wasn’t this. A girl sat behind the wheel. Her make-up was applied heavily, all dark shadowed eyes and lipstick bright artificial red. A cigarette stained half way up the hilt with pink smears hung from her lips. Despite this, she couldn’t have been much older than Annie, her cheeks rounded and young, the shirt she wore hanging off small narrow shoulders.

“Say, where’s a good place to hide around here?”

With difficulty Annie unstuck her tongue long enough to echo, “Hide?”

“That’s what I said.” She said impatiently, sucking hard on her cigarette.

“Um, there isn’t.” But as the girl let out a thick puff of smoke that just kept coming she realized she had lied. “There’s the old Andler’s place. Mr. Andler died and his kids haven’t come down from Chicago to settle things yet. The house and land should be empty.”

“Sweet.” The girl said and reversed abruptly with a great jerk, only to jerk back to almost the same place and then look Annie up and down. “You’ve been real helpful. You can come along if you like.”

Annie wasn’t sure where she was coming along to, and was half sure the girl was crazy. Yet, somehow she found her legs moving, taking her around the front of the car and to the passenger door which she slowly opened before slowly sliding into the soft leather seat. The car smelled of old person, bleach, and smoke. With another jerk the girl shifted the car into first and they shot forward and back onto the road.

“I’m sure glad I ran into you,” the girl said, not turning her eyes from the road, of which Annie was extremely thankful. “See I robbed a bank and I need a place to lay low until Jimmy catches up.”

Annie stared, her stomach lurching as the girl shifted into second. She hadn’t been sure for a few minutes, but Annie was now positive she was going to be sick.

By Alissa Tsaparikos 

An Astroidal Collision

This short short is the product of a writing prompt that came out as more of a character development monologue

            If a flying piece of debris happened to be heading toward this room right now, that could be pretty cool, well, hot, but you know what I mean. It could melt me down to a puddle, bone, muscle, sinew and fat one big eradicated blob.

The way you stare at me, I wish you had never come back. There is nothing but judgment in your eyes, a distance that speaks volumes in the silence. At least this is what I’m reading in the way you refuse to look at me. I only ever wanted to be good enough. But when every other person is pulling you in a different direction, limbs will eventually give up to physics and tear right out of their sockets. How do you think this would equate to someone’s brain?

So if I could have an asteroid fall from the sky and burn me right off this earth, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Someone else could make these decisions that I so obviously fail at. No wonder this thing we have here is dying. I might have saved us from utter destruction, but the incline to heaven stopped long ago, and we have been coasting level ever since, now the only place to go is down.

When you were gone it was so much easier to not think about us. To ignore the signs I didn’t want to see and still carry on with a decent amount of confidence. But who am I kidding.

I tried to be funny about this, but the joke fell flat from my lips. The silence was sickening. I want to be funny now. Tell a story of some witty humor that will gain the approval I most wish for, and hopefully the passing nod from you. But this is not monopoly. Do not pass go, and don’t even think about collecting two hundred dollars.

I should face the facts that even the things that I mean to be funny will never turn out right. So why would this time be any different? Melancholy. The word is too big for this piece, an obstruction of mass proportions messing up the rhythm in my rant. But it describes me well enough, and no matter how I try to escape it, it will hit me hard and explode, like this asteroid heading toward me right now.

I had only a few minutes to contemplate life, and I chose to bitch. Typical. Maybe if I could muster up some excitement, this situation wouldn’t seem so bad or mayb – 

By Alissa Tsaparikos