I have found you in the darkness, so I can find you in the light.
Passing secret
"You'd tell me if you needed help, right?"
He looked at me, just looked, and then scratched his head, a few inches above his ear. "Yeah, why?"
I shrugged. "We haven't been talking for a while and it was just lucky..." I looked out at the street. "Just a coincidence that we walked by each other." I pushed away from the brick wall and turned my back to the dead end of the alley, so I was looking out at the passing cars. "I just want you to know that I'm around. I'm around if you need me."
The corner of his mouth lifted into an almost-smirk and then his expression went blank again. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
"So what is it?"
He shook his head. "I can't tell you about this one."
"And you're okay."
"I will be." He nodded and adjusted the strap of his small black duffel bag. "Everything is fine. Don't worry."
How could I? I didn't even know what kind of work he did those days.
He looked at me, just looked, and then scratched his head, a few inches above his ear. "Yeah, why?"
I shrugged. "We haven't been talking for a while and it was just lucky..." I looked out at the street. "Just a coincidence that we walked by each other." I pushed away from the brick wall and turned my back to the dead end of the alley, so I was looking out at the passing cars. "I just want you to know that I'm around. I'm around if you need me."
The corner of his mouth lifted into an almost-smirk and then his expression went blank again. "Thanks. I appreciate it."
"So what is it?"
He shook his head. "I can't tell you about this one."
"And you're okay."
"I will be." He nodded and adjusted the strap of his small black duffel bag. "Everything is fine. Don't worry."
How could I? I didn't even know what kind of work he did those days.
Her hands
Her hands are a good place to start. The way she presses her fingers flat against a door to push it open. How easily her fingers bend into a salute, even though she had no military training.
I'm still puzzled by how she taps her fingers on a table without making a sound. And I remember seeing her hands clench into fists while the rest of her body remained passive and loose. At other times, she picked up objects as if they were weapons, testing their weight and balance. Ordinary items too, forks and pens, staplers and water bottles. Armed in any office environment.
It's unsettling to think about because in every other way, she's non-threatening. Few people have seen her rage and power. I am one of them, but you probably won't believe my story. I hardly believe it, seeing how docile she is on normal days. But I knew her in extraordinary times.
I'm still puzzled by how she taps her fingers on a table without making a sound. And I remember seeing her hands clench into fists while the rest of her body remained passive and loose. At other times, she picked up objects as if they were weapons, testing their weight and balance. Ordinary items too, forks and pens, staplers and water bottles. Armed in any office environment.
It's unsettling to think about because in every other way, she's non-threatening. Few people have seen her rage and power. I am one of them, but you probably won't believe my story. I hardly believe it, seeing how docile she is on normal days. But I knew her in extraordinary times.
Less order
I'm the kind of person who puts everything back in its place.
My shoes go in front of my dresser.
My coat is always on the same hanger.
One pen on my desk and the rest go in the mug.
I'm not obsessive about these things
It's automatic behavior, habit, built up
I want to be the kind of person that can leave things so
Take off my shoes and leave them there
by the desk, under the coffee table
The kind of person who can break habit
Who doesn't carve out her own ruts.
Break the rhythm;
see what happens.
My shoes go in front of my dresser.
My coat is always on the same hanger.
One pen on my desk and the rest go in the mug.
I'm not obsessive about these things
It's automatic behavior, habit, built up
I want to be the kind of person that can leave things so
Take off my shoes and leave them there
by the desk, under the coffee table
The kind of person who can break habit
Who doesn't carve out her own ruts.
Break the rhythm;
see what happens.
410
Grammatical mistakes, that's how I gauge your mood. No mistakes, you're fine. Mistakes, something is wrong.
409
The smell of photo chemicals triggered her, and she was back in the darkroom. So dark that she couldn't see her hands as she worked the film onto the reel. Twist, twist and she heard plastic rubbing on plastic. She felt the gear turning and the film wrapped around the ridges. She pushed the reel into the developing canister and twisted the lid shut. "Done."
And she was standing back outside on the sidewalk, blinking at the setting sun.
And she was standing back outside on the sidewalk, blinking at the setting sun.
408
I kind of feel I'm floating here
floating for the atmosphere
Won't you be my anchor, please?
Keep me here with your good deeds
I could really use a friend like you
I'd really like to have a friend like you...
floating for the atmosphere
Won't you be my anchor, please?
Keep me here with your good deeds
I could really use a friend like you
I'd really like to have a friend like you...
407
I am your ace in the hole, your secret weapon,
you safety net, your fail safe,
your last resort,
and you don't even know it.
you safety net, your fail safe,
your last resort,
and you don't even know it.
406
She felt the air chill as he walked by, and she remembered the haunting stories her grandmother used to tell.
401
I found that I can pull you away from the glowing screen long enough for a conversation.
Of course, we end up talking about what we watch on glowing screens.
Of course, we end up talking about what we watch on glowing screens.
400
People talk about spring renewal, but autumn's changing leaves were what gave her a fresh outlook.
I want to write you stories, histories, poetry
I want to write you stories, histories, poetry.
The moonlight slips through my bedroom curtains
alighting my thoughts, and in wisps
they escape my mind.
A glowing dust trail lingers in the air,
sets my fingers typing—
no, writing
the pen viced between my thumb and fingers,
a slave to my wrist, hand, brain
Electric shocks along my nerves,
and I'm holding the pen too tightly,
my fingers turning white
I cannot stop.
Everything in my mind floods down
and my breathing slows
Write, I must write and everything else falls back.
I hold my breath,
fight the sleep overcoming my eyelids
curl my toes, asking my body to stay with me
Let the writing happen.
I have so much to tell you
But I'm tired. I won't remember it.
How can I understand thoughts that haven't crossed my mind yet?
But the pen knows, so my fingers move
Writing, just writing, and I feel removed
I become an instrument, all my strings pulled taut
waiting to be plucked, drawn
the inspiration's vibration, springing through me
releasing, relaying, readjusting
My fingers know the rhythm
My mind captured the shapes
The writing becomes automatic,
perpetual, self-inflicted, involuntary
I let out my breath
The strings slack
My grip loosens
Losing focus, forgetting
What happened?
The moonlight slips through my bedroom curtains
alighting my thoughts, and in wisps
they escape my mind.
A glowing dust trail lingers in the air,
sets my fingers typing—
no, writing
the pen viced between my thumb and fingers,
a slave to my wrist, hand, brain
Electric shocks along my nerves,
and I'm holding the pen too tightly,
my fingers turning white
I cannot stop.
Everything in my mind floods down
and my breathing slows
Write, I must write and everything else falls back.
I hold my breath,
fight the sleep overcoming my eyelids
curl my toes, asking my body to stay with me
Let the writing happen.
I have so much to tell you
But I'm tired. I won't remember it.
How can I understand thoughts that haven't crossed my mind yet?
But the pen knows, so my fingers move
Writing, just writing, and I feel removed
I become an instrument, all my strings pulled taut
waiting to be plucked, drawn
the inspiration's vibration, springing through me
releasing, relaying, readjusting
My fingers know the rhythm
My mind captured the shapes
The writing becomes automatic,
perpetual, self-inflicted, involuntary
I let out my breath
The strings slack
My grip loosens
Losing focus, forgetting
What happened?
Alicia Quinn
I’m writing a
novel-length story and it's sort of about superheroes. There aren’t capes
and spandex. People with special abilities work with the local police
force to keep the city safe. Or they don’t—it’s their choice. I finished
a very rough draft a couple months ago and I’ve been working on
expanding it.
Here’s a character, Alicia Quinn, that I wrote a short scene about earlier this week. I don’t know if I’ll add it into the larger story, so for now it's here.
One.
I closed my eyes and let my mind open, but it felt like I let down the flood gates and now a small village was drowning. Sounds circled around me, bombarded me. Conversations. Birds chirping. Cars honking, tires skidding. Sirens. Children laughing.
Two.
I took a deep breath and the spinning stopped. Each sound took on a form: a spotted sphere for the laughter; jagged lightning bolts flashing forest green—those were the police sirens; flat rectangles with irregular stripes for the conversations; popping bubbles, orange and pink, for the car horns. I could organize the sounds after I made them tangible this way. Better yet, I could focus on one specific sound, if I wanted to.
Three.
Another deep breath, and I felt my body floating. I glided between the sound-shapes. I touched the laughing sphere and giggled when it tingled-tickled against my hand. But that wasn’t what caught my interest.
I hovered over to the lightning and shielded my eyes as sparks splintered off the green bolts. The sirens. They were all I could hear now and if I focused, I could pinpoint where they were coming from. The way Derek had taught me. I closed my hands over my eyes, blocking out the light that still shined through my eyelids.
Where. Where?
I felt my mind drifting and I gasped, reaching to stay with the sound.
Main Street. Espresso machine buzzing—a café nearby. The green bolts snapped into twin vertical lines. 11th Street.
Two.
I let the sound-shapes dissolve and return to their abstract, invisible forms.
One.
I opened my eyes and sat up. “Derek, I got it.” I sat on the edge of the couch. “Sirens down town.” I looked up and realized I was talking to an empty room.
My older brother Derek died a year ago, but I still talked to him sometimes. I sighed and stood up. I found the sound exactly like he taught me. The next step was always up to me.
Here’s a character, Alicia Quinn, that I wrote a short scene about earlier this week. I don’t know if I’ll add it into the larger story, so for now it's here.
One.
I closed my eyes and let my mind open, but it felt like I let down the flood gates and now a small village was drowning. Sounds circled around me, bombarded me. Conversations. Birds chirping. Cars honking, tires skidding. Sirens. Children laughing.
Two.
I took a deep breath and the spinning stopped. Each sound took on a form: a spotted sphere for the laughter; jagged lightning bolts flashing forest green—those were the police sirens; flat rectangles with irregular stripes for the conversations; popping bubbles, orange and pink, for the car horns. I could organize the sounds after I made them tangible this way. Better yet, I could focus on one specific sound, if I wanted to.
Three.
Another deep breath, and I felt my body floating. I glided between the sound-shapes. I touched the laughing sphere and giggled when it tingled-tickled against my hand. But that wasn’t what caught my interest.
I hovered over to the lightning and shielded my eyes as sparks splintered off the green bolts. The sirens. They were all I could hear now and if I focused, I could pinpoint where they were coming from. The way Derek had taught me. I closed my hands over my eyes, blocking out the light that still shined through my eyelids.
Where. Where?
I felt my mind drifting and I gasped, reaching to stay with the sound.
Main Street. Espresso machine buzzing—a café nearby. The green bolts snapped into twin vertical lines. 11th Street.
Two.
I let the sound-shapes dissolve and return to their abstract, invisible forms.
One.
I opened my eyes and sat up. “Derek, I got it.” I sat on the edge of the couch. “Sirens down town.” I looked up and realized I was talking to an empty room.
My older brother Derek died a year ago, but I still talked to him sometimes. I sighed and stood up. I found the sound exactly like he taught me. The next step was always up to me.
388
In my head, I see colors swirling. Deep golds and vibrant blues, shimmering greens and robust reds. Mixing, separating, fanning out to sparks from trumpets and drums. Clipped violins and reverberating guitars. Smells of cotton candy and soft pretzels. Crackling crushed ice that just melts on my tongue and dark chocolate whose flavor bursts and then deflates. Spinning echoes and twisting light. I'm not always happy, but I'm always me: thinking, talking, feeling, tapping, twirling, grinning.
But then I come here and everything inside me hums, falls out of tune, fades away to a flat gray. I smell chlorine and can't ignore the taste of sand in my mouth. Everything here is in slow motion, stuck, and I have to practice every form of tolerance. I become less than myself, not even a shell.
I don't want this fuzzy world. I want mine.
But then I come here and everything inside me hums, falls out of tune, fades away to a flat gray. I smell chlorine and can't ignore the taste of sand in my mouth. Everything here is in slow motion, stuck, and I have to practice every form of tolerance. I become less than myself, not even a shell.
I don't want this fuzzy world. I want mine.
381
"See it works. Here's proof," she said, holding the glimmering threads of her thoughts. "My mind works," she said to the empty room.
379
I've been dancing to traditional Greek folk music since I was eight years old. There's one dance we call the Bulgarian (probably because it's more Bulgarian than Greek in style). It's fast. It moves in a circle, not just to the right but to the left, too.
It's my favorite dance because there's more to it than speed and direction. When I do this dance with a small group, six or eight people, and we can keep a tight circle, I start to feel like I can float above the ground—not constantly, but in moments. Between tapping feet and switching directions, there's a moment when all of our feet are in the air, and the circle in spinning. I feel like I'm watching a carousel, except I'm moving and everything else is standing still.
Then something else happens. The longer we go, the higher we jump, the slower time passes. I hear the beats in the music, but I feel the gap. Somehow, the faster I move, the slower it feels and I can focus on everything I see. Nothing is a blur because I am the movement.
This lasts for three and a half minutes and then our feet stop, exactly on the last beat of the song. I should be catching my breath. (I'm not.) I should feel a bit dizzy from the spinning. (I don't.) The time inside my head and the time of the world sync up again. I leave the floating circle and walking off the stage feels too normal.
It's my favorite dance because there's more to it than speed and direction. When I do this dance with a small group, six or eight people, and we can keep a tight circle, I start to feel like I can float above the ground—not constantly, but in moments. Between tapping feet and switching directions, there's a moment when all of our feet are in the air, and the circle in spinning. I feel like I'm watching a carousel, except I'm moving and everything else is standing still.
Then something else happens. The longer we go, the higher we jump, the slower time passes. I hear the beats in the music, but I feel the gap. Somehow, the faster I move, the slower it feels and I can focus on everything I see. Nothing is a blur because I am the movement.
This lasts for three and a half minutes and then our feet stop, exactly on the last beat of the song. I should be catching my breath. (I'm not.) I should feel a bit dizzy from the spinning. (I don't.) The time inside my head and the time of the world sync up again. I leave the floating circle and walking off the stage feels too normal.
378
The way she goes through each day as if it were a chore.
The way she jokes around so you think she's happy.
The way she makes impeccable to do lists—and crosses off each item.
You don't see anything wrong.
You think she's happy here.
You think she's living her life.
She's biding her time.
The way she jokes around so you think she's happy.
The way she makes impeccable to do lists—and crosses off each item.
You don't see anything wrong.
You think she's happy here.
You think she's living her life.
She's biding her time.
Thinking Rhythm
Bounce. Bounce. Swish!
Bounce...bounce...
Bounce. Bounce. Swish!
Everyday Charlie practiced free throws for half an hour. Everyday, he improved his rhythm. After two weeks, he hardly had to move his feet. He shot the ball, it fell through the net, hit the pole, and bounced back to him.
Charlie, the perpetual motion machine.
He didn't keep count and he wasn't interested in statistics, but he knew his free throw was improving. His average was probably as good as the starters on the school team. Charlie wasn't on the team because he didn't play basketball. Shooting free throws wasn't practice for him.
It was meditation.
Every afternoon, he gave his brain a half hour to sort out his thoughts. Soon, he would need more time than that, but this was his routine. This was his rhythm.
Bounce. Bounce. Swish!
Bounce...bounce...
Bounce. Bounce. Swish!
Everyday Charlie practiced free throws for half an hour. Everyday, he improved his rhythm. After two weeks, he hardly had to move his feet. He shot the ball, it fell through the net, hit the pole, and bounced back to him.
Charlie, the perpetual motion machine.
He didn't keep count and he wasn't interested in statistics, but he knew his free throw was improving. His average was probably as good as the starters on the school team. Charlie wasn't on the team because he didn't play basketball. Shooting free throws wasn't practice for him.
It was meditation.
Every afternoon, he gave his brain a half hour to sort out his thoughts. Soon, he would need more time than that, but this was his routine. This was his rhythm.
Bounce. Bounce. Swish!
Start a Fight scene
I wrote this for a prompt on 1k a Day:
Please feel free to post feedback in the comments.
------
“Well?” Cindy turned and looked expectedly at Derek. She twitched her nose and avoided the smile that was forming on her lips. Dinner was an hour ago and she was still getting used to seeing Derek in the same room as her. She shouldn’t be acting like this, not after all this time.
“Uh, I just wanted a place we could talk.” Derek glanced out into the hallway and then closed the door. He turned to face Cindy. “The music’s loud in the main room.”
Cindy nodded. “Can’t beat high school reunions.” She paused and the quiet moment fueled her sarcasm. “People who haven’t been together in ten years. Avoid the awkwardness by blasting the music.”
Derek laughed, his white teeth flashing, and dimples appeared on a normally serious-looking face. “You could always make me laugh, Cindy. I miss that.”
Cindy’s eyes glanced over his soft brown curls, strong jaw line, and slim body. He hadn’t changed much in ten years. She wondered if she seemed different to him. Cindy looked around the room. She had seen small parlor rooms like this in other hotels. The color scheme echoed past decades with whispered greens and fading tans. A small wooden table and two chairs. A large cushioned chair in the corner. The soft glow of the antique lamp gave the room a hazy, warm feeling. “What did you want to talk about?”
Start a Fight - Begin a story with two people in a hotel room having an argument. Who are these people? Why are they together? What are they arguing about? What’s at stake?1,200 words
Please feel free to post feedback in the comments.
------
“Well?” Cindy turned and looked expectedly at Derek. She twitched her nose and avoided the smile that was forming on her lips. Dinner was an hour ago and she was still getting used to seeing Derek in the same room as her. She shouldn’t be acting like this, not after all this time.
“Uh, I just wanted a place we could talk.” Derek glanced out into the hallway and then closed the door. He turned to face Cindy. “The music’s loud in the main room.”
Cindy nodded. “Can’t beat high school reunions.” She paused and the quiet moment fueled her sarcasm. “People who haven’t been together in ten years. Avoid the awkwardness by blasting the music.”
Derek laughed, his white teeth flashing, and dimples appeared on a normally serious-looking face. “You could always make me laugh, Cindy. I miss that.”
Cindy’s eyes glanced over his soft brown curls, strong jaw line, and slim body. He hadn’t changed much in ten years. She wondered if she seemed different to him. Cindy looked around the room. She had seen small parlor rooms like this in other hotels. The color scheme echoed past decades with whispered greens and fading tans. A small wooden table and two chairs. A large cushioned chair in the corner. The soft glow of the antique lamp gave the room a hazy, warm feeling. “What did you want to talk about?”
365
What is this willingness you have to hold on to the past, to keep it broken and useless about you? That cassette tape no longer plays the music from your youth. At best, the boombox makes a whirring, screeching sound. Is that how you want to remember your favorite songs?
I think it would be better to let go of these artifacts. Recycle the plastic. Throw away the moving parts. Remember the songs in your mind--the nostalgia, the perfect tunes remain in you memory. They aren't in this plastic box anymore.
I think it would be better to let go of these artifacts. Recycle the plastic. Throw away the moving parts. Remember the songs in your mind--the nostalgia, the perfect tunes remain in you memory. They aren't in this plastic box anymore.
361
When it was too late at night and she scratched words across the page without thinking, without seeing.
356
I saw you and you were lonely
I saw you and you were sad.
I tried to reach out,
to talk to you,
but I didn't know what to say.
You'd never know it,
but I feel the same way.
I am the one who is lonely.
I am the one who is sad.
And I am the one who
doesn't know what to say.
I saw you and you were sad.
I tried to reach out,
to talk to you,
but I didn't know what to say.
You'd never know it,
but I feel the same way.
I am the one who is lonely.
I am the one who is sad.
And I am the one who
doesn't know what to say.
The first time we met
I was standing outside at recess (remember when kids used to have that?) and as usual I didn’t know what to do. I knew almost everyone in my class but I wasn’t really friends with any of them. I didn’t know who to play with, and then, I didn’t know what I wanted to play. Tag? Kickball? Monkey bars? I didn’t really care and I didn’t know what to do.
I looked across the blacktop to the field. A beautiful maple tree with elaborate branches marked the corner of the playground. A few boys were kicking a soccer ball around in the grass, and under the maple tree, sitting against a tree, was a girl. I walked towards her.
As I got closer, I saw that it was Charlotte. She was in the class above me. Her straight, smooth black hair went to the middle of her back. She sat against the tree trunk with her knees bent, her arms hugging her jeans. She was staring out past the field, but somehow I got the feeling she wasn’t watching the soccer boys.
I was a few feet away from her when I said, “Hi, Charlotte.”
She turned her head toward me. “Hi.”
I looked down at the ground. “Mind if I sit next to you?”
Charlotte shook her head and scooted over a little so we could both lean against the trunk. As I sat down, she sniffled, and that’s when I noticed her eyes were watery and her cheeks were pink, even though it wasn’t cold outside.
“Um, were you crying?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded again. “I’m sorry, what’s your name? I’m kinda new and it’s hard for me to--”
“I’m Cassandra, but most people call me Casey.” I turned and smiled at her. She looked at me but her expression didn’t change. After a moment I said, “Um, if you want to be alone I’ll--”
“No, it’s okay. It’s nice to sit with someone for once.”
“Okay. Do...” I stopped myself but then I decided to ask anyway. “Why were you crying?”
Charlotte wiped her eyes. “It’s not a big deal, really.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. “Sometimes when I’m upset it’s easier if I talk about it. Makes me feel better when someone else knows and I don’t feel so lonely.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and leaned back against the tree. “It’s ummm...you’ll probably think it’s stupid.”
“I promise I won’t.”
She turned her head towards me.
“Try me.”
“Okay...” Charlotte shifted and sat cross-legged, facing me. “Sometimes I have nightmares, scary ones, and some of them feel really real.”
I nodded. “I’ve had scary dreams too.”
“Yeah. Well, I was just thinking about one I had and I started crying, that’s all.”
“Oh. Do you want to tell me about the dream?”
“No.” Charlotte muttered something else too, but I couldn’t make it out. “What kinds of dreams do you have?”
“Um, I don’t know. I don’t remember my dreams most of the time.”
“Lucky.” Charlotte pulled a few grass blades out. “I remember every single dream I have.”
“And most of them are bad dreams?”
Charlotte nodded, not looking at me.
“Do you ever talk to your parents about them?”
“My mom. I used to tell her. Now that it’s a constant thing...” Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know what she’d do about it anyway.”
The bell rang and we stood up. We walked back toward the school side by side.
“Well, if you ever want to talk about your dreams, I’m here.” I gave Charlotte a small smile. “I won’t mind listening, I promise.”
Charlotte nodded. “Thanks.” Then after a pause: “What grade are you in?”
“Fourth.”
“You’re pretty smart for a fourth grader.”
“Thanks?” I laughed.
“No, not just smart. I mean considerate, too, I guess. More than I’d expect from kids our age.”
I shrugged. “I’ll take that as a good thing too.”
“It is.” Charlotte looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Really, Casey, that’s a good thing. That’ll be useful.”
“For what?”
Her voice changed when she replied, “You’ll see.” It was deeper, more serious. Something about the way her eyes focused on me in that moment, haunted blue eyes in perfect clarity, stuck with me.
I looked across the blacktop to the field. A beautiful maple tree with elaborate branches marked the corner of the playground. A few boys were kicking a soccer ball around in the grass, and under the maple tree, sitting against a tree, was a girl. I walked towards her.
As I got closer, I saw that it was Charlotte. She was in the class above me. Her straight, smooth black hair went to the middle of her back. She sat against the tree trunk with her knees bent, her arms hugging her jeans. She was staring out past the field, but somehow I got the feeling she wasn’t watching the soccer boys.
I was a few feet away from her when I said, “Hi, Charlotte.”
She turned her head toward me. “Hi.”
I looked down at the ground. “Mind if I sit next to you?”
Charlotte shook her head and scooted over a little so we could both lean against the trunk. As I sat down, she sniffled, and that’s when I noticed her eyes were watery and her cheeks were pink, even though it wasn’t cold outside.
“Um, were you crying?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded again. “I’m sorry, what’s your name? I’m kinda new and it’s hard for me to--”
“I’m Cassandra, but most people call me Casey.” I turned and smiled at her. She looked at me but her expression didn’t change. After a moment I said, “Um, if you want to be alone I’ll--”
“No, it’s okay. It’s nice to sit with someone for once.”
“Okay. Do...” I stopped myself but then I decided to ask anyway. “Why were you crying?”
Charlotte wiped her eyes. “It’s not a big deal, really.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. “Sometimes when I’m upset it’s easier if I talk about it. Makes me feel better when someone else knows and I don’t feel so lonely.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and leaned back against the tree. “It’s ummm...you’ll probably think it’s stupid.”
“I promise I won’t.”
She turned her head towards me.
“Try me.”
“Okay...” Charlotte shifted and sat cross-legged, facing me. “Sometimes I have nightmares, scary ones, and some of them feel really real.”
I nodded. “I’ve had scary dreams too.”
“Yeah. Well, I was just thinking about one I had and I started crying, that’s all.”
“Oh. Do you want to tell me about the dream?”
“No.” Charlotte muttered something else too, but I couldn’t make it out. “What kinds of dreams do you have?”
“Um, I don’t know. I don’t remember my dreams most of the time.”
“Lucky.” Charlotte pulled a few grass blades out. “I remember every single dream I have.”
“And most of them are bad dreams?”
Charlotte nodded, not looking at me.
“Do you ever talk to your parents about them?”
“My mom. I used to tell her. Now that it’s a constant thing...” Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know what she’d do about it anyway.”
The bell rang and we stood up. We walked back toward the school side by side.
“Well, if you ever want to talk about your dreams, I’m here.” I gave Charlotte a small smile. “I won’t mind listening, I promise.”
Charlotte nodded. “Thanks.” Then after a pause: “What grade are you in?”
“Fourth.”
“You’re pretty smart for a fourth grader.”
“Thanks?” I laughed.
“No, not just smart. I mean considerate, too, I guess. More than I’d expect from kids our age.”
I shrugged. “I’ll take that as a good thing too.”
“It is.” Charlotte looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Really, Casey, that’s a good thing. That’ll be useful.”
“For what?”
Her voice changed when she replied, “You’ll see.” It was deeper, more serious. Something about the way her eyes focused on me in that moment, haunted blue eyes in perfect clarity, stuck with me.
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