Notice - Short Story

Notice


I stare through the window at the storming rain outside. I hear them complaining about the gloominess, and dream of a time when I would do the same. Yet, I long to be out there, and something such as the weather does not seem to matter anymore. I dream of a time when to me it seemed to matter, and to them, I seemed to matter. The heating is turned on, yet the house feels cold.


I don’t remember when they started fighting, but ever since they did, I’ve been feeling like a whole lot….less. This state of insignificance feels inescapable. It is as if I don’t have a voice anymore…not...not that I ever really did. I’ve tried to talk to them, but it appears that they never really understand what I’m trying to say; they never really notice. I’m slowly starting to feel more and more invisible. They are so caught up in hating each other, that they just keep forgetting me. I miss the days when we’d go to the park. I miss the runs on the beach; she was always such a good athlete, and I could never be sure if she was struggling to keep up with me, or if I was struggling to keep up with her. He isn’t much of an athletic type, but we’d always played and played and played, and I know he enjoyed it just as much as I did. That spark of happiness on his face….it’s all gone now. That’s what I miss. I miss seeing the excitement they had, just to see me when they’d come home from work. They think they’d had a long day; I know mine felt longer. They’ve been busy but so have I. Busy doing, well, nothing more than I’m doing right now - staring out the window. I’m stuck here wishing. Wishing I could somehow express all this agony. Sometimes I wish I was able to cry, or storm out of here in frustration; oh well, I guess not everyone is that lucky.


Footsteps are coming down the stairs. I want to make my move: I’ll tell them how I feel and hope that maybe...just maybe they’ll somewhat understand. As they come closer I recognize arguing by the tone of their voices. I have no idea what it’s about this time, but I know I have to speak out regardless. I walk right over and try to ask if I can go outside. I want to suggest that maybe we could all go out for a walk when the rain stops, but I’m interrupted.


“Be quiet!” I’m shouted at with a semi-angry tone. I understand that now is not right the time. Then again, when is it ever the right time? I tried, but I saw no difference. I go to the lay on the couch in the other room, away from all the mess. The lights are on, but this house feels dark.


Being picked always seemed like it would be the most wonderful thing. Now, my perspective has started to change. I always thought I was one of the lucky ones that found his place in the world. I no longer feel lucky. They don’t see me as part of the family anymore; it is as if they just...own me now, or at least it seems that’s how they view it. So I sit here and keep wishing. Wishing and dreaming of a better life.


“Screeeeech.” - The terrible sound of a poorly closed, poorly maintained, un-oiled door seeps through my eardrum. They act as if they can’t hear it, but it always makes my ears stand straight. They’ve left, although it doesn't really make a difference. I get up to go lay on the couch in the living room. They don’t want me sitting on it anymore these days, but when they’re not around I like to do so anyway. It smells like them; it smells like memories. I head towards the living room when something strikes me from the corner of my eye: the front door has been left the slightest bit open. My head fills with excitement. I wait a minute or two, just make sure they’ve left. I hear the car driving off, and I know this is my chance. The chance I have been waiting for. It has even stopped raining. I push the door open with my legs, and bolt - a four-legged sprint towards the vast nearby field. I’ve been waiting for this fresh air; it smells like freedom and opportunities. It smells like other people and another chance to find my place. I keep running. Maybe now they’ll notice.

Play maker

Play Maker

WHAM!!! It felt like the my world just turned upside down. In fact it had. I was laying on my back after being laid out, and flipped upside down by the opposing teams defender. Somehow the hit, which knocked the wind out of my lungs, didn’t hurt anymore. Every other time I had been tackled as bad as that, it would have taken me a week for the pain, and bruises to go away. Now I feel like this common feeling of pain and hurt when playing American Football has just been lifted. My coach waves me to the sideline with a slightly worried look on his face.
“Willis, are you alright? That was a hard lick.” Asked my coach.
“Heck, yeah coach I feel better than ever. Send me back.” I responded.
“That’s what I like to hear! Remember make sure you are the one hitting, not being hit!”
“Yes, Coach!”
I run back onto the field. I’ve got a new kind of spring in my step. Something about that intense hit turned a switch in my brain. Just like that, from off mode to on mode. I went from taking hits, to feeling like I would be the one giving them. I get to the huddle.
“Landen you sure you alright?” Questioned our QuarterBack.
“I’m ready man. I got this feeling i’m going to be open for a pass alright just keep an eye on me.”
“Haha, okay bro whatever you say, don’t kill yourself alright that was a big hit.”
“Yeah, I know, I aint feelin’ any of it though man.”
“Got you. I’ll keep my eye out.”
After our coaches send some hand signals to tell our QuarterBack the play, we line up on the line of scrimmage. I line up out on the far right hand side since i’m a wideout. My buddy is just next to the inside of me. The defence started to line up as well. I scan the backfield for where the defenders are, looking for a line to follow around them. The much larger linebacker that destroyed me on the last play sent a stare that would have sent shivers down my spine if I wasn't feeling like I was on top of the world. I knew I had something with me that I didn't the play before. Maybe it was god finally gifting me with skill for football, or maybe I was just going crazy.
The Referee sets the ball down in the middle of the field in front of our center, the guy who hands the ball off to the Quarterback to start the play. The defensive-back that is guarding me has a nasty look on his face, just the same as the linebackers. Once again it doesn't affect me at all. I fixate my eyes on the ball, and open my ears listening for the call to hike from my Quarterback. My back leg starts to shake up and down a little, not because im scared or worried. Because I am ready to play, to catch the ball and beat the defense in front of me.
“Set….”
“BLUE FORTY TWO, BLUE FORTY TWO!”
Our QuarterBack saw a hole in the defence. He changed the play so that I send it right up the middle of the field, right past the linebacker. I’m ready, I am dialed in.
“Set. Hike!”
The center snaps the ball back to our Quarterback. The defense surges forward, and the offensive line settles back to form a pocket around our QB. I break the block of the defensive back in front of me with unreal ease. Sprinting to the middle of the field, I smoke past the linebacker, seamingly too slow for my almost on fire from speed feet. I look up toward the QB, signaling I am open for a pass.
Out of his hands the ball flies. The pass so perfect it could get him into the National Football League. The ball falls into my hands so softly it’s almost as if they were pillows. As I turn up field, I am greeted with the most welcome site of all for a receiver like me, an open field to the endzone. A smile streaks across my face as I run faster and faster, I just made the play of the game.
But as I run faster, and faster. The field grows longer, and longer. The end zone farther and farther out of reach. Narrower and narrower the field tightens. A deep pain gashes through my head. I fall backwards, laying facing the sky. Except the sky has bright LED lights that are moving rapidly. No. I am moving. The narrow and long field is now a narrow and long corridor. The doctor above me notions to his partner that I am awake.

The Pod

Having been deployed in Afghanistan for the past two years, I hadn't seen my father, and was excited yet anxious to go to my hometown and visit him. Leaving him responsible for his own medication, while i was away, I was nervous to come home and see what state he was in. I knocked on the door, but there was no reply. The film of dust on the door left a residue on my hand. I used the key from under the rusty neglected plant pot to open the door.

“Dad! Dad!” I yelled enthusiastically, but still no reply. I walked around the house. Everything seemed like it was in place, however, the air seemed hazy and thick. I started coughing as the dusty air entered my lungs. It looked as though no one had been living there for a while. Strange. Then I noticed that the basement door was bolted shut. I broke the bolts and took a deep breath and started walking down the creaky stairs. My coughing started again as i breathed in whatever mold and dust was floating around in the thick basement air.

I spotted a large pod. It was the only thing that didn't seem to have thick layer of dust on it. Strange. I walked over to open the pod, and I saw what looked like the inside of a spaceship. What was happening? Where was dad? What was this immaculate pod doing in his filthy basement? Trying to gather my thoughts together, feeling guilt for having left my father alone, I suddenly heard a strange woman's voice from inside the pod.

“Michael, what happened? Why do you look so young?” asked Beth who was very confused.

“Who are you??” I managed to ask.

“Michael, you aren't being funny come on! What are you doing?”

“`I'M NOT MICHAEL. I’M HIS SON! ‘Who are you and why are you in my father's basement? Get out now or I will call the cops.”

“Wait. Help me.Your father is nuts he has held me prisoner here. He thinks I am his wife and that pod he put together is spaceship on Mars. I have tried escaping so many times but he keeps putting me back in the pod and warning me that I wouldn't be able to breathe the air outside the pod.

That's when I realised how much my dad needed me at home. I apologized to Beth explained my dad’s schizophrenic condition, and sent her on her way. As she started going up the creaky stairs we could both see my fathers; tall figure at the top of the stairs. The three pairs of eyes met and we all started crying. Not knowing whether to be angry at my dad or sad for him, I froze. He ran over to Beth and gave her a big hug.

“Don't leave me sweetie. I can’t be on Mars alone”

“Don't worry darling, I would never leave you here alone.”

The two of them walked happily into the pod together.

Alone...

We were being chased. I could hear the bullets whizzing near my ears. We ran as fast as we could until they lost us. I was lucky that I didn't get shot. Sam, on the other hand, got shot in the knee. She was unable to walk and was losing blood. I carried her to an abandoned house a few meters away. She was only fourteen and easy to carry. I was terrified. It felt like it was happening all over again. I tried to calm myself down. As I started to treat Sam’s wound I heard footsteps.

As I reached over to grab my revolver, I heard a voice,
“ Don’t move a muscle!  This gun packs a .670 inch shotgun shell that'll  blow you to kingdom come.” It was a woman, one of the survivors it seemed. She looked at Sam and dropped her gun.
“She bleeding you have to close the wound fast, or she won’t make it. Let me help you; I’m a doctor,”  she cried. A few hours passed by and Sam was all patched up and was sleeping. I talked to the woman who helped me save Sam. She had a family here once, but after the Epidemic, they all were rounded up and killed. She was the only one who managed to survive.

“It’s pretty late you know. Try getting some sleep”  said the woman as she left the room.
It was morning now. The sun was glowing beautifully. It was time for us to leave. As Sam and I were leaving, the woman asked me how Sam got shot.

“ We were being chased by those  Special Ops guys. They think we’re infected. They shoot first and scan for infection later.” I lied. “We should get going now.” I grabbed Sam’s hand and walked away from the house hoping that she wouldn't stop me for further questioning. “ There was no way I was going to tell that lady that Sam had the cure for the Epidemic and was to be given to the Agency to extract the cure and those jerks were there to kill us,” I thought.

“Jack, I’ve been thinking of asking this from you for a really long time, I know you had a daughter but, what happened to her?”  I stopped. It felt as if my heart stopped beating. Tears dripped from my eyes. I wasn’t able to stop crying.

“I had a daughter named  Elise. When this Epidemic started, We thought of moving out of the city but the situation was way out of hand. They were terminating everyone who seemed contagious. My daughter was hurt and unable to walk. As we were fleeing, we were cornered by a soldier. He had the command to shoot anyone deemed contagious. I told him that we weren't infected. He open fired. Elise got shot and that soldier got hit by a car. Elise was unable to make it. It was the first time Sam saw me cry.

After a few days, Sam and I finally reached the agency, the place where they were about to extract the cure. I talked to the surgeons. They said that they’ll keep Sam safe from the Special Ops guys and said that if they perform the surgery Sam will die. I was shocked with anguish. I told them that I need to talk to the girl one last time. I sat next to her.
“ Sam, we don’t have to do this. We could go somewhere else. Away from all of this. Don’t do this to me.”  I said, crying. She grabbed my hand and said, “Jack, there are thousands of girls like me, that need help. I have to do this.”  She gave me a hug and I was forced to leave. After a few weeks, people were getting cured. Few months passed and everything went back to normal. But I was left all alone...

The Large Bone in the Sky

Nothing bad has ever happened to me in my life, I thought to myself, Could this be the first?

My brother entered the house and scurried down the stairs, and all I remember doing was following him. I stared out of the window, and I could see an unusually shaped plane in the distance.

“What is that?” I asked my brother. No response, as usual. The object moved fairly slowly in the sky.

I bet I could outrun it, I thought to myself. Could this be a large bone? An inordinately large bone that was thrown high up in the sky?

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I encountered a room I had never actually visited before. The room was tiny and the ceiling was pretty low. It contained a small TV, bed, and little fridge with some snacks in it. There was also a bathroom, but that was all that was inside the tiny space. As my brother dragged me into the room, I found my mom (who is the best person in the world; she always feeds me). My sister was there too, lying on the bed. My brother closed the heavy, metal door and then locked it. I could sense fear on everyone's faces. The alarm was still going off.

My mom turned the TV on. A grey-haired, tall reporter with blue eyes and a slightly crooked nose was sitting on a desk talking.

“Breaking News! Rockets launched at Herzliya, Tel Aviv, Ashdod, Be’er Sheva, and Jerusalem. Luckily, no injuries nor deaths were recorded,” the reporter stated.

As he continued speaking, I laid down, baffled, What is this rocket? Why did it hit my city? Could the rocket be the large bone that I saw in the sky? Can I go fetch it later? These thoughts ran through my mind as the siren kept looping.

I turned around to see my family all staring at the TV. They were all focusing on the reporter. The reporter continued talking, but I wasn’t listening. I was thirsty.

I went to my favorite source of water, the toilet. The smell was great and the taste was magnificent. The only problem was that my family would never let me drink from it. I always saw them walking to the toilet, closing the door and then a big splash of water was heard. It wasn’t fair that they got to drink the toilet water and splash it and I didn’t. I’ve always felt different: I walk on four and they somehow only walk on two; I sleep outside and they sleep inside, they eat different food every day, I eat the same. But at this point, I’ve gotten used to it. As I walked to the toilet I looked back to make sure they didn’t see me. They were all focused on the TV, so I slowly and quietly stepped up to the toilet and started drinking. Yum! The water was delicious. I only got a few sips until I was dragged back into the small bedroom. With my mouth full of water, I realized the sirens were still looping. I had already gotten used to them.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I heard a big boom. It was like nothing I had heard before. It was loud, louder than the sirens.

“An intruder!” I barked.

I had no idea what it was. I was petrified. Yes, I bark at intruders and act tough and all but I’ve never been face to face with a real intruder. I kept barking, hoping that he would go away, whimpering that it would leave. I was so scared. I realized in order for him to leave I had to mark my territory here.

But where did this story start?

My day had started abnormally as I awoke to an unpleasant noise outside; it drove me crazy.

“Not the house alarm again… Even worse, there might be an intruder,” I wondered, “No, it’s way too loud to be an intruder.”

I started barking at the alarm. I had no idea where that mysterious sound was coming from. I examined my surroundings, but nothing was different. The tennis balls were scattered around the yard. The table was in its place, and the trees were still.

I was puzzled. “What is going on?” I continued barking at the sky.

I looked through the window into the kitchen but didn’t see anyone in there. Seconds felt like minutes, the wailing alarm kept playing over and over again in a loop. Suddenly, my brother arrived. He came outside to the backyard. The look on his face worried me. His brow was furrowed and his hands nervously fidgeted. I had never seen him so scared. I asked him what was going on. He didn’t respond. He never responds except when I ask to go in the house or for food. I kept barking, hoping that the noise would stop when suddenly my brother grabbed me by my tight, itchy collar that I was forever trying to take off. He began to sprint, dragging me behind him. I was clueless.

***

I never pee in the house, but this time, I had to. For me. For my family. To keep the intruder away. And so I peed on the floor. As I peed, my sister complained,

“Ugh, oh my god, why does she always do this?” she said.

So I answered,

“You are the one who always makes mom angry. You always have to be mean to everyone around you.”

She didn’t respond, so I knew I won the argument. Right after the sirens finally stopped. We waited for a little bit until my mom opened the door. I was glad to be in the house, climbing up the stairs and laying down next to the sofa. My mom stayed back, cleaning after me. I love my family. Maybe we could go fetch the bone later. I thought as I rested my eyes and went back to sleep.





“German Shepherd Dog.” Why Dogs Must Be Followers, www.dogbreedinfo.com/germanshepherd.htm.

Fingers

“Who Are Your Friends?” Mysite, Mysite, 9 July 2016, www.allthingscounseling.net/single-post/2016/07/09/Who-Are-Your-Friends.

Two years have passed since I was formally introduced to the last of my five closest friends. Ethan was the first friend I knew. The earliest memory I have of him was when I was three. He was nearby when I thought some of my other friends had stolen a toy bus that I had. Aidan is a close friend of mine who always points out things that I think are interesting; he is also really close to Ethan. Aidan has ended up sharing a lot of the activities in which another one of my friends participates. This friend is Yusei. Yusei, Aidan, and Ethan help me write and draw which makes sense because all three are extremely creative.

Creativity is one thing that all of my closest friends have in common, as well as always being there for me when I need a hand. Especially when I just need help to grasp something. One of my newer but still very close friends, Claire, has helped me put my hair up a time or two, although she has only braided my hair once. Claire also shares an interest in volleyball, just like Yusei, and my furthest friend (at least in proximity) Sarah. If I am being honest though, all of my friends play volleyball because I do. These friends do almost everything together, which is nice because they also work very well with each other, no matter the differences between them. I can think of many times when my friends tied my shoes, fell asleep at the same time, and helped me make money.

Last time I made a lot of money with my friends was this past summer. I make money with them by working for my granddad’s construction company “Southern General Contracting” on the carpentry crew. Sometimes it can be dangerous for me and my friends. Once I was using a table saw to cut a 2 by 4  piece of wood, and out of nowhere, I felt a tug coming from Ethan, simultaneously I noticed that part of the saw blade had turned red. Ethan and Aidan each had a gash across them. I looked around for help but none was found until I saw five others. I did not recall all of their names, but two were Indian and one seemed British (Now, I know them as Nalini, Ansh, and Boaz.). I got their attention. After this, I ended up in a hospital that my less attentive compatriots happened to drive me to. On one hand, I gained three friends; on the other, two were saved. It was this close call that made me love my friends even more.

This sort of attachment leads to name calling. Most people call me weird because like I said previously, I don’t do anything without my friends since there is very little I can do without them. My friends even go to the bathroom with me. That may be crude, but as I have said they are very close to me, and I find them indispensable. I suspect it is my openness about topics such as this that make others uncomfortable.

By now I hope that I have driven the point home that my closest friends are my right-hand men. There once was a time in my life that I might have known more lefties. That time, however, would have been short-lived because my preschool teacher made me learn to write with my right hand, even though I was left-handed. Now though, I am glad that my preschool teacher introduced me to these friends because many devices in society are made for right-handed people. When I get ready to use one of these devices my friends always come in handy!

The Secrets Beneath The Grave

I was scattered, my hands rummaging ahead of my mind, searching for something, something.

“It’s been ten years,” I whispered to myself.

I look around cautiously to make sure no one else is present. Silence. Stillness. Then I drop to my knees and begin examining the graves.

“Can I help you?” a voice murmured from a distance.

“Get away from me!” I yelled out of sheer terror.

“I’m sorry. I-”

“Get away!” I growled.

“I’m not a visitor, I work here,” he responded.

My body screamed at itself to run away, to release the adrenaline that kept coming in regardless of my inability to use it. Rows of tombstones stretched from right to left, front to behind, like the land where the living meet the dead. Most, however, were overgrown and disordered.

“I’m looking for Abbad Elazar,” I declare, my eyes refusing to meet his.

“He is there,” he muttered, pointing to the grave containing no headstones or plaques.

I make my way towards there, casting my eyes on the freshly dug soil. “How could you bear burying him? Knowing what he did?” I asked, my head speaking to the dusty ground.

“I don’t think about they do,” the man explained. “I think of them as people. People who were full of hope.”

My knuckles turned white from clenching my fists, and I gritted my teeth to remain silent. Rage pulsed through my veins, and when the man even tapped his finger on my shoulder, I swung around and snapped.

“Someone who blows up a market is not full of hope!” I hissed. “The victims have parents, too. Parents who loved them, who raised them to be good people!” I said, pointing to the grave at my side.

“Your child. Was he a victim?” the worker whispered.

“She. Andrea. She was eleven. I sent her to the market to get some spices. Cinnamon, salt…” My eyes welled up, water pooling in my eyes, tears streaming down my cheek. “Ever since she died, I’ve been so angry. At my husband, my children. The world.” I blurted. “Do you have children?”

“No,” he responded.

“To lose them is the worst thing on earth. I thought that maybe if I came, if I saw the grave, it might make a difference,” I cried.

“Has it?” he asked hopefully, his head lifting upwards for the first time.

“No,” I sighed. “She’s still gone.”

I sat there, fatigue engraved on my worn face. All that remained was my shadow against the barren graveyard, so I stood up and dusted off my knees. I wiped off my last streaming tears, but the guilt remained sitting on my chest. In hopes to make amends with the worker, I proceeded to invite him for tea.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate,” he answered.

“My husband will be there, of course. And my family,” I rambled to the Arab man, sharing a smile for the first time.

“No, you wouldn’t want me,” he responded more seriously. “If you knew why I’m here. Why I do this,” he continued.

“Because you bury the people who deserve to be buried,” I recounted, confused and irritated.

“No,” said the man. “Because my son deserves to be buried.”

“You said you didn’t have any children,” I roared, slowly backing away.

“I don’t,” the man said. “Not since that day, ten years ago.”

I latched onto the thought, hoping what he had told me was really only in my head. That this reality was just a dream. Holding my breath, I wheezed uncontrollably, glancing at the grave. Oblivious, I had become oblivious. Everything was drowning and I couldn’t swim. I thought I knew how to swim. I used to believe I called the direction in which my life would go.

“No one would bury him. They wanted him to rot,” the man yelped. “But I raised him. Well. And even after what he did, I still love him. So now, I bury the bombers for their parents. For the ones who can’t allow themselves to acknowledge, to forgive…”

I just sat reliving the imagery of my daughter being taken away from me once again, her small hands leaving mine before her trip to the market. My breathing; erratic, deep, then shallow. I tried to fight. I tried to fight the feeling as my body writhed to be free or shut down altogether. Sweat trickled down my neck, and I sat in exhaust, lifeless.

“So, would you still like to invite me for tea?” he lamented, ashamed under his breath.

For the first time, my anger begins to drain from my eyes. Andrea was out of sight, and I was out of mind.

“Yes,” I assured him.





Bronstein, Paula. Afghanistan, October, 2009. Afghanistan, Oct. 2009.

Runaways

Syria. Aleppo. 1948. It was a very odd morning for Edmundo. The 19 year old Jewish Arab that lost his mother and sister in an air raid three years earlier. He had woken up with the sound of a bomb coming from Israel. He could hear the screams of the people in his Jewish village, although the loudest sound came from his father’s mouth.

“Edmundo wake up! Get your stuff. We have to go now. The bombs are getting closer!” He then stood up as fast as he could, got a backpack from the top of his desk, and met his father at the door.

“This is it” his father said. Without any time to think, Edmundo saw his father’s open the door to the outside world. The discordant screams, the flames, the death that had been brought to his surroundings were unavoidable, but that just made him want to run faster. “We have to be very careful, very quiet. There are soldiers all around.” Edmundo’s father said.

It was early in the morning. Probably around 4:00 am. He and his father arrived at the port. They had to get on a Jewish refugee ship, a ship that most jews who could afford, would get on to escape to Milan, Italy. It would definitely take a long time, but they had to flee.

“Alright, here’s how this is gonna work,” his father whispered from behind the bush they were hiding in “At 5:15 am this ship is going to leave port, there are many ways this can go wrong, but whenever I tell you to run, you do it as fast as you can, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Edmundo answered with respect and a certain amount of fear for his father...

The time had come. Edmundo put the backpack that had rested on the dirt, on his back, and with just a small word the 19 year old boy’s life would change completely.

“Run” his father said.

Edmundo ran. He ran like he never had. He thought of his mother and sister, hoping that his death wouldn’t be the same as theirs. He thought of his father’s depression, but mostly of their future. After 400 meters he had gotten to the door of the ship. They knew most of the jews that were fleeing by the ship, but many of the people in their village couldn’t afford paying for their escape. His father was very known in the Jewish community, and it was definitely to their advantage. Their family had money and used to help poorer families and orphans that had lost their parents in bombings and raids. They had even helped a few people to get on that ship with their families. After a few seconds of adrenaline, Edmundo realized his father hadn’t arrived with him. He turned around to look for him, but it was too dark to see. Suddenly he saw lights in the distance, four precisely. He realized they were flashlights when he saw the men. He couldn't believe it. His father had been kidnapped by Syrian soldiers.

After the news had arrived to the captain, the refugees had reached an almost unanimous decision. The ship would wait in port until Edmundo’s father was rescued. Everyone slept on deck. After the soldiers realized who the man they’d captured was and what he was worth, they sent a request for his ransom. It took Edmundo two weeks to gather all of the money. He borrowed some from friends, and even went back to the house to get some more from the buried safe in the basement. Finally, he had gathered 25 million Syrian pounds (equal to almost 50 thousand U$D).

“There’s your father! He’s here!” a young Jewish boy sitting by the deck screamed, waking up Emundo and the others.

“It really is him,” Edmundo thought to himself, running outside to rescue his father. He had the money in a bag, a gun in his pocket in case something went wrong, and had told the captain to turn on the engines, so that they’d leave as soon as they got his father back.

He could spot his father, being held by two men, one on each side, they were about 50 meters away from Edmundo. He noticed a car behind the men as he walked closer to them and figured the other two must’ve been in the car…

“Tawaquf! Tawaquf!” yelled one of the men holding his father.

Edmundo right away noticed the soldier had a dialect that was different, but could still understand that he was being asked to stop.

All of a sudden a knife was pulled out of the soldier’s back pocket.

“Stop! I have the money. Let’s make the exchange… Please, don’t do anything aggressive!” screamed the 19 year old, already in great stress. In the blink of an eye, Edmundo could see around thirty more soldiers coming out of bushes and from behind the car. It was an ambush. He grabbed his gun that was attached to the back part of his pants, and pointed it straight ahead.

“Drop the gun!” screamed the soldier on the right to his father, “You lost. This isn’t going anywhere! Drop the gun and get on your knees!”

Edmundo was in state of shock. He couldn’t move, but he knew he’d do anything to save his father.

“Take me!” he screamed with fear.

“No, no! Don’t do this! Leave me here, go back to the ship! Leave! Now!” His father screamed, knowing that he would get punished for communicating with his son.

“Shut up! No talking!” The soldier on the left pulled out a gun and hit him in the face with it twice.

Edmundo’s father realized the only way his son could leave that situation safely was if he, himself, was sacrificed. In a matter of seconds Edmundo’s father kicked the man on his right, grabbed the gun out of the other soldier’s hand and pointed it at his own head.

“No!” screamed Edmundo from a distance.

A shot was fired.

Wishes

As I slowly take out a pen from my pencil case, I find him watching me. He always does it. Everyday, he just sits in my room, in front of me, staring at me, as if I’m some sort of creature he’s never seen before. I hate it. But what the heck can I do? It seems like only yesterday we were playing outside my house in the mud, having the best time of our lives. And now? I still don’t understand how… and why…

My father always told me it’s funny how we got along. We are such different people. I mean, look at me, a “weirdo,” as everyone called me at school, and him, one of the funniest, joyful, and kind-hearted people there are. He’s always been the “cool kid.” He’s always been the better sibling. Surrounded by numerous people, he would walk in the hallway holding his head up high, not worrying about anything. Like, how is that even possible? But now, all he can do is watch me.

He’s had hundreds, no, thousands of friends! To be honest, I was always a bit jealous. It must be cool always having people to talk to. It must be cool never having to feel lonely. Well, at least that’s what I thought. That’s what I thought, until the only thing he was able to do was watch me.

Ever since I remember, he was the best big brother I could ever ask for. If anyone ever picked on me, he would always protect me and made sure I was “safe and happy.” But, you know, nothing can change society. Not even someone so perfect. Perfect? Well, at least he was to me.

My “Harry Potter” addiction was considered not cool and dumb at the age of 17, but he always thought otherwise. He thought it was beyond amazing that someone could name every single character without a doubt and know every movie like their five fingers. We would binge watch it all the time. He would always forget the difference between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and I would have to remind him which one is which. It was kind of ironic. Ironic, because he hated Harry Potter. He hated it more than anything in the world. Yet, every Thursday, at exactly 6:30 p.m., we would sit in our tiny living room, with, what seemed like hundred kilograms of popcorn, and watch Harry Potter. Oh, and he hated popcorn, too.

I remember the day we last spoke. I remember that day so well; it still seems like it was yesterday. I remember every little detail of it, and I will hate that day forever. It was his girlfriend’s birthday. Honestly, I never really liked her, but that’s not important right now. She had a massive “Sweet 17” birthday party at her dad’s pool house and everyone was invited. Yeah, everyone except for me. He thought it was some sort of mistake.

“Her phone must’ve glitched or something,” he said, holding the bright pink invitation in his hand, “C’mon, Liz, get ready. We are going to be late. We can’t be late to her 17th birthday, you know how much it means to her.”

“We?” I mumbled, “But, she clearly didn’t invite me! She doesn’t want me there, can’t you see?” He shook his head at me, indicating that I needed to get ready no matter what.

“I’m not going to her stupid party!” I yelled, “You always make me do things I don’t want to do!”

He yelled in return, telling me I’m ungrateful for all the effort he puts into making me feel more comfortable around people. That was it. I hated when he started that whole “you’re so ungrateful” talk. I stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind me, leaving him alone. I was not going anywhere. The last thing I said to him was “I never want to see you again!”

In fact, I never did see him again. My brother, Lucas, died in a car crash that night. And, I guess, I got what I wished for. It’s been a while, and the only thing I have left from him is a framed portrait of his beautiful face, which watches me live my lonely and boring life, every day, through day and night. 

Corporate, Lee. Lee-Corporate-Portrait-Wall.

The Quiet Place

The Quiet Place

             It was at the end of my sophomore year in the High School auditorium where 1,000 anxious students were supposed to sit still while being crammed together in a space equivalent to my living room. It was the day of the annual awards ceremony; a school tradition of the ennoblement of those with the best grades. That year like every year faculty separates one person from each grade for the “title,” and they would stand above everyone else in such a manner to say in essence, “I am exceptional. I have reached the highest peak. Admire me.” The lesser students would look up at those faces with envy and with a little shame, always wondering if one day they too would stand in that spotlight. The teachers rose in unison, all eyes on the chosen ones. The clapping began slowly and started into a quiet rolling thunder that reverberated throughout the auditorium. Then the flashing of cameras went off one by one like an endless series of illuminations that would give any normal person a headache on their best day. As the superstars stood there smiling broadly, soaking in all the praise, I stood in silence: forgotten and irrelevant. Was I the only one who felt this way?

             I couldn’t remember the next few minutes when everyone started to funnel off the stage. However, I found myself outside walking towards a place where only I reigned supreme. A domain that was quiet, dark, and serene, consisting of a bench and a lamp post. The lamp post was incandescent and never once went out. The light which shined from it was gentle and gave the dark place a tranquil atmosphere. Adjacent to the lamp post stood an old bench: fashioned from mahogany and made to look like something from art nouveau ever-changing, always growing. Each time I would sit on the bench I would feel like I would disappear and time around me would stand still. This was my safe haven from the outside world. An Escape. I could’ve stayed in that place for a long time and no one would turn their head my direction.

             At one point that day, however, the comfort of escapism wore off, and my mind started to wander. As if in a trance my uncertainty translated into questions: Who am I? What is my purpose? Where am I supposed to be? The tranquil atmosphere began to wane. I suddenly came back to consciousness to see a young woman beside me on the very same bench as I. She looked lost and helpless, only wearing a black dress and a red hat that would further illuminate the dark realm. Her lips twitched, and with it a question: “Sir, do you happen to know why I exist?” she asked.

             I froze, for I knew that no matter what answer I would give it would not be enough, but then I responded: “I dare not say, for I don’t know the answer to that myself.”

             “My mother would tell me that eventually each of us would find meaning,” she said in a graceful tone, “but, no matter what I do, people can’t see me”. After some moments she needlingly asked, “do you know how that feels?”

             “Actually, I do,” I said sympathetically. I continued, “Every day I come to this place to disappear because I’m forgotten in the real world,” and after a minute I then said, “I’ve always been invisible.”

             “Has it been hard for you?” she asked.

             I paused before I spoke and looked towards the lamp post which bathed me in warm light. I couldn’t remember the last time someone asked me how I felt. It was new and strange for me, but at the same time comforting. A tear trailed down my face in relief from my hardships, I then replied: “yes”.

             “Don’t you think it’s strange?” she asked while looking at the ground, and after a pause then said, “The world can be at times so pleasant, yet so cruel,” she continued. “When I felt that everyone I knew started to forget about me that was when I started to question the point of living.”

             “It’s hard feeling insignificant,” I respond dejectedly.

             The young woman rested her head on the back of the bench and closed her eyes. With a soft and meaningful voice, she said: “I guess everyone feels invisible sometimes don’t they?” She then slowly proceeded to get up and brush her clothes off.

             “Are you leaving?” I asked.

             She turned to me and delicately said, “No.” she then lifted her hand out to me and said, “Together we can be seen”.