2016 – Day 60

Sarah rode on her dad's shoulders as he moved through the crowd. The fourth of July fireworks had finished seconds before, and she could still picture the colors appearing and dissolving in the nighttime sky. Her favorite moments were when the fireworks stayed lit as they fell toward the Charles River, illuminating the boats packed in tightly beneath them.

The crowd pushed and jostled, and Sarah grabbed tighter to the top of her dad's Red Sox cap and dug her legs into his sides.

"Ow, pumpkin!" he said. "Ease up on that grip."

Sarah loosened her hold slightly, but she felt uneasy and unsteady above the sea of bodies flowing to the roped off exits from the Esplanade. She turned to the left and saw her mom walking just behind them carrying the blanket and backpack that had been full of snacks hours before, but now just held trash. The thought of the snacks while weaving above the crowds made her queasy and she called out to her dad below.

"I don't feel well," she said.

"We'll be out soon," he said, patting her on the shin with his right hand.

The crowd surrounding them grew loud and boisterous. Kids excitedly recounted the biggest explosions while their parents gripped their hands and pulled them along. Older teens casually swore and shoved each other out of the way as the flow of bodies packed them closer together. Although she was mostly above everyone, Sarah felt packed in and stuck. She suddenly needed to feel the firm ground beneath her feet.

"I want to get down," she said.

"It's too crowded," her dad said.

"No, I have to get down."

"Honey, there's no room for me to swing you to the ground. It's too packed."

"I have to!" The panic started in her chest and moved up to her throat where she felt unable to swallow her own saliva.

"Sarah, please behave," her mom called from behind. "We'll be out soon."

Sarah wanted to behave, but the anxiety felt ready to burst from her chest.

"Now, daddy! Get me down now!!"

Sarah felt her dad's arms on her legs then a quick lifting motion as she was brought over his head and down to the ground. The people directly around them turned to stare at the source of the screaming, but soon turned back to move in the direction everyone was pushing toward. Sarah grabbed her dad's hand and began to walk with the crowd. She liked the firmness of the ground beneath her feet. But the pushing was firm too, and she narrowly avoided being stepped on by one person, then another. 

The closer they got to the exit, the tighter the crowd became. A man in front of Sarah dropped a miniature cooler, and Sarah had to let go of her dad's hand to avoid tripping over it. At that moment, the crowd surged forward in a new attempt to break free of the ropes setting off the fireworks viewing area. Sarah was swept to the right, away from her parents.

2016 – Day 59

They sat on a park bench, new and gleaming in the sun from a protective glaze that coated the wooden seat and back. Bella pictured the old benches that creaked from years in the sun and rain, and grew to feel too soft for what one expected when sitting down on them. She and Edgar had sat on the benches when they were first dating and growing brave enough to make it public. They would sit close together, facing each other and talking in endless streams about nothing of importance and then kissing anytime the conversation took a quiet pause.

Now they sat at opposite ends, bodies facing forward, their heads turning only to talk. The breakup had already happened the week prior and Edgar had gone to stay with his brother Leonard. But he had not moved out his stuff and Bella took that as a good sign. He agreed to meet on a lunch break, now half over with hardly any conversation.

"I talked to my father yesterday," Bella said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"He asked if I'd returned the ring. Funny that's the first thing he wanted to be sure of."

Edgar nodded and chuckled.

"You didn't have to return it, you know," he said. "Our finances are so intertwined, it's probably half yours."

"I don't think I could sell it. Probably would stick it in a drawer. Bring it out anytime I needed a good cry."

"Don't say that," he said.

She saw him look at her then turn his head down to stare at his feet. She had read once in a magazine about body posture and how to know when someone is interested, simply by the way he stood or sat. Legs crossed toward you was a sure sign of interest. Bella watched Edgar shift in his seat. He crossed his right leg over his left, sending it pointing away from her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's hard for me to explain what changed. I know it's confusing. It is for me, too."

Bella nodded. She wanted to point out that nothing was the same for him as it was for her since he had made the unanimous decision to call off their engagement. Regardless of how confused he was, or said he was, he'd made the choice for both of them. But she wasn't interested in putting him on the defensive and starting a new fight. She wanted to hold onto her hope.

"What if we tried again?" she asked. "Maybe the week apart is what you needed. Your things are still at home..."

"I was actually going to email you today, before you called. I'm arranging for movers to come on Friday for my things. I can come pack up on Thursday while you're at work. So I don't disturb you."

It was her turn to look down at her feet. She saw that she was sitting with her legs crossed at the ankles, toes pointed toward Edgar. She uncrossed them and crossed them again to point in the other direction, but she felt no comfort or relief in trying to reject him back. Her shoulders slumped over and she felt the crying erupt deep within then travel slowly from her core to burn a path down her cheeks.

2016 – Day 58

Mila trudged through the trees behind the new house. Tired of crying about the 2,000-mile move cross-country and unwilling to listen to her parents argue about where to place the divan, she had wandered out the back door, through the backyard gate, and into the forest that stretched for miles beyond. Sunlight broke through the trees, causing her to squint and throw up her hands for shade. She pressed on, pushing aside small branches and wading through the deepening pine needle cover on the forest floor. Behind her, the house was no longer in view.

Soon she came upon a large fallen tree. It had no leaves but the trunk was still solid, so she hauled herself up and reached her arms out for balance as she looked around. To her left and right she saw nothing but more trees, but straight ahead, barely visible through the dense branches, there was something else. Something bright blue. Mila looked up at the sky, trying to judge how much longer the sun would light her way. Then she climbed down and began walking in the direction where she had seen the blue.

As she walked, she sometimes got glimpses of it through the trees, though she still could not tell what it was. Other times, she lost sight of it and had to trust that she was still going in the right direction. After what seemed like hours, though likely it was less, she pushed aside a large branch and found herself in a clearing. And there, at the center, was the bright blue color she had seen. It was a house, small and well-kept, with bright blue walls and white shutters on the windows. A garden stood just beyond the front door, and Mila could see cucumbers and carrots growing in neatly laid out rows.

Just then, the front door opened and a woman appeared. She wore overalls, a wide-brimmed sunhat, and gardening gloves and she carried a spade. As the woman approached the garden, she looked around and, noticing Mila, gave a slight cry of surprise. Then, just as quickly, a broad smile spread across her face and she ran back to the door.

"Put on the kettle, Clarabelle!" she shouted into the house. "We've got company!"

2016 – Day 57

Micah tried to follow the lawyer's words, but the many questions, repeated and restated, were giving her a headache. They had spent the past two hours reviewing her testimony, going over everything she had reported to the police about what happened the day the cashier was killed at McDonald's. Micah had wanted to help the moment she learned that Toby was accused of the killing and she had immediately contacted the police to say that the boy who was her neighbor and classmate for 10 years could not have done it. Now Trudy Hanover, Toby's lawyer, was grilling her, supposedly testing to see how she'd do in the courtroom, except Micah wondered if the lawyer didn't actually believe her.

"Ms. Landis, did you contact the police before or after you knew they had Mr. Eliot in custody?" asked Trudy.

"After," Micah said, shifting in her chair to sit straighter.

"And what inspired you to reach out to them? Did you know anything about the crime?"

"No, I was with Toby that afternoon."

"But Toby said he was alone that afternoon. If he had an alibi witness, why wouldn't he just say so?"

"We didn't want it to sound bad." Micah furrowed her brow and tried to look concerned.

"An alibi is a great thing, Ms. Landis. Why would it sound bad?"

"Because he was dating Kelly, except he was with me."

"Kelly, the young woman killed at McDonald's that afternoon?"

"Yes. He was protecting me. He didn't want me to sound like a bad person, cheating on a dead girl with her boyfriend, though I didn't know she was dead at the time. It's terrible that she died, but he shouldn't go to jail for it. He was going to break up with her anyway."

Trudy stared at Micah then slumped down in a chair across from her. She pulled her hand through her hair and sighed.

"Micah, you need to just stick to the facts," she said. "You can't keep embellishing."

"I'm not. It's all true!"

"I didn't say it wasn't. But it sounds less true the more you say about it."

"You believe me, don't you?"

"It doesn't matter if I do. Only that the jury does."

"Of course they will!" Micah lifted her hand to her mouth and chewed on her index nail. She had never been involved in a trial before, and it wasn't as glamorous as she'd imagined, but she still had her testimony to give tomorrow. It was all she'd ever wanted after watching years of crime shows and mysteries. The moment she heard about the murder in her own small town, and that someone she knew was one of the suspects, she could hardly contain herself. She called the police immediately, then went to see Toby to explain the alibi she had created for him.

2016 – Day 56

The cave loomed large ahead, its mouth wide and dark, offering a respite from the torrential rains.

"Thank god," Trevor said, then shouted over his shoulder. "There's a cave ahead!"

The line of six hikers behind him was not unified in their excitement, but they followed him up the hill and approached the cave. As they stepped inside, Jaime pulled a lighter from her backpack and raised it across the entryway to help them get their bearings.

"Does anyone see any wood? Or straw?" she asked. "Something we can light?"

"How about the team manual?" Rick said, and there was light laughter among the group. "I'm not entirely joking. I'm freezing wet."

He dug into his backpack and pulled out the 200-page document and tossed it onto the cave floor. It landed with a soft thud among a thin layer of leaves.

"Have at it," he said to Jaime.

Jaime looked around for confirmation then turned toward the manual.

"No, we are not burning the manual," Trevor said, stepping between Jaime and the papers. "I'm sure we can come up with a better team solution."

"Oh my god, Trevor!" Rebecca shouted from the dark. "The team building exercise is OVER. You got us fucking lost in the woods and now we're wet and cold and hungry and sitting in a fucking cave. Light the damn manual!"

"Hear, hear! You tell him!" came other voices from the darkness.

Trevor shook his head and looked down at his shoes. Jaime looked around at the dark then leaned down and held the lighter to the stack of papers. It hissed and popped, then finally flared up, bathing the cave in a small burst of light. Everyone instinctively moved closer to the fire. Rick leaned down and tossed the nearby leaves on top of the flames.

"This won't last long unless we find wood," he said.

The group reluctantly pulled away from the fire and wandered around the perimeter where they now had light. The mouth of the cave didn't feel as large as it did from the outside, and they quickly covered the area. Piles of leaves and twigs were tossed atop the blaze. It sizzled with each new addition. Soon everyone was surrounding the fire again, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, arms extended toward the flames.

2016 – Day 55

The lights flickered and went off, then came back on briefly, only to go out once more. Magda waited, listening for signs that the lights would turn back on, but there was nothing. She started to feel dizzy and realized that she'd been holding her breath. Inhaling and then exhaling deeply, she felt her way to the window and stared outside into the pitch black night. The moon was under cloud cover, so hardly any light fell onto the yard. She could almost make out the movement of the trees as they bowed deeply to the left then to the right under the intense winds. All she could hear was the rustling of the leaves.

As Magda continued staring into the darkness, her eyes began to adjust to the low light and she could make out the movements of the trees more clearly. She tried to see if there was a knocked down wire, but the yard was still too shadowy to tell.

Elsewhere in the house, two boys slept, dreaming and murmuring, unaware that the power was out and their mother was tense. Magda began to see more movements among the shadowy trees and, afraid of what may actually be outside, decided ignorance was best and drew the curtains tightly against the glass. She then made her way along the wall to the kitchen, tripping over toys and jamming her toes into dining chairs until she finally felt the cabinets on her right. Digging into the miscellaneous stuff drawer, she felt around for anything that could be a flashlight. After what felt like hours, but was likely five minutes, her hand closed around the thin base of a tiny keychain flashlight. She knew she had a bigger one somewhere, but she was thankful to have anything in hand that could push away the darkness.

Clicking on the flashlight, her second prayer of the night was answered when the light instantly turned on. A narrow beam shone across the room, illuminating the fridge and cabinets. Magda turned toward the hallway and walked to the boys' bedroom.

2016 – Day 54

Marcus thought a lot about Tricia Brennan. He thought about her as he rode his bike to Shaw's after school to stock shelves for two hours. The canned beets reminded him of the dark red sweater she wore in winter. It wasn't bulky like her other sweaters, but showed her shape. Wiping down the floor in the toiletries aisle, his eyes landed on a row of hairbrushes, reminding him of the way her hair fell across her back and swished from side to side as she walked. Guys often talked about staring at girls' asses while they walked behind them in the halls, and Marcus wasn't against that, he just found himself mesmerized by her honey brown locks, curled just at the ends, and sliding back and forth against the small of her back. He wanted to reach out and touch her hair, but he figured she'd slap his hand away if he didn't have a good reason for it.

He first saw Tricia each morning as she waited for the school bus. Although he rode his bike to school, he and Tricia lived nearby, so he got in the habit of riding by her stop each morning on his way in. Sometimes she noticed and gave a slight wave. Other times she was too busy talking with Corey Melkins to see Marcus ride by. And there was the time he rode beside the bus nearly the entire way to school. He had nearly been hit by cars twice as he tried to keep pace with the bus in the morning traffic. He imagined that she noticed and had watched him through the window—he could not see inside the bus to know where she sat but he had a feeling she knew and was watching. When he arrived, exhausted and sweaty, he stopped right in front of where the bus was letting students off and waited as everyone disembarked. Tricia was one of the last to get off the bus. While still trying to catch his breath, he smiled and nodded at her. She walked past without a glance.

They didn't share any classes together, but they were on the same lunch schedule. Marcus sat with his buddies at a table in back, furthest from where the teacher monitors sat, while Tricia and her friends stayed near the front. She often brought her lunch in a box with lots of little compartments and interesting foods, while he had a brown bag with a ham sandwich and chips or sometimes pretzels. He always walked to the trashcan across the cafeteria to throw out his empty bags. It gave him a chance to walk past her and over hear her conversations, just for a moment. He wanted to catch her talking about him, but so far he hadn't. She talked about Corey sometimes, but Marcus didn't think it sounded the least bit serious.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays he stayed after school to take some pictures for the yearbook. Lacrosse team, soccer team, football team, jazz band. Whatever sports or clubs were meeting those days, he'd find them practicing and take pictures. Tricia played on the girls' field hockey team, so he was sure to drop by and take pictures of them as often as he could. He would get actions shots while they were focused and playing, then smiling poses when they noticed him and started to preen. Tricia smiled a lot for the pictures.

2016 – Day 53

Gemma stood in line, fourth from the front. The pharmacy was busy that evening as commuters stopped on their way home. Gemma's youngest had an ear infection and antibiotics had been prescribed.

As she stood in line, Gemma made lists. Most stayed in her head but a few were jotted down in her smartphone or on scraps of paper. The grocery list went into her phone. It was ongoing and never-ending. She checked off each item as she bought it and then added it back days later when it once again needed to be restocked in the pantry or in the fridge. She tried not buying things that weren't on the list, but those were the things she was happiest to see in her kitchen when she had her quiet time after the kids had gone to bed.

The paperwork-to-be-done list had gotten out of hand recently when both children had camp applications due. That list was kept on an old envelope that Gemma stored in her purse. She felt satisfaction when she could cross something off. Much better than an electronic checkmark for making her feel accomplished.

Gemma's list of "places to travel someday" stayed in her thoughts. It was brief and unchanging: Paris, Casablanca, and Florence. The cities represented locations in her favorite romantic films. She did not have anyone to travel with, but she held out hope that this might change by the time her children were grown. They were now five and seven.

The list of movies she wanted to see she kept in her phone. She added new movies each time a preview appealed to her, and she then pared down the list each time she read negative reviews. This kept the list manageable, and at a length not too depressing, considering she had only seen five movies in the theatre since the children's birth, and three of those were from Disney. She often found herself crying at any movie, or TV show, that featured parent-child relationships. She had started to make a list of these types of moments that moved her, but the list grew exceptionally long as she found herself crying at everything from gum commercials to political ads. She identified a short list of things that were likely the cause of her feeling so emotional–maternal hormones, increasing age, lack of sleep, general exhaustion–but that list depressed her and she found herself crying again.

The list of household chores grew as quickly as the grocery list, but it was kept loosely in mind. Gemma saw no need to write down the obvious as she stared at dirty dishes or baskets of clothes to be put away.

The list of her children's friends and regular playmates was contained in a dogeared school phonebook. The list of her own friends was short and growing shorter as everyone moved into different stages of life. There were the friends with similar-aged kids. Friends with no kids. Friends with much younger kids. Friends with pets for kids. Friends with a lot of money. Friends who were struggling. Friends who always seemed happy. Friends who never did. They glimpsed one another's lives on Facebook and sent occasional emails, but there were very few people she ever phoned or saw in person.

The pharmacy line moved forward and soon it was Gemma's turn. As she requested her daughter's prescription, she noticed the pharmacist's bracelet, a silver chain holding a half-dozen silver and blue charms. It reminded her of the dangling silver earrings her mother liked to wear. Gemma made a mental note to add calling her mother to her growing to-do list for the night.

(Inspired by having just started reading Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried.)

2016 – Day 52

"We're closed!" Thea shouted at the woman outside and pointed to the sign posted on the door.

The woman, dressed in a floral-print dress and flip-flops, seemed surprised.

"When will you be open?" she said through the window.

Thea rolled her eyes and turned away, then walked toward the rear of the antique shop where her brother, Dan, stood.

"Stupid-ass tourists," she said. "I hate this place."

She watched her brother sort through their father's papers on the jewelry counter. Ledgers lay open next to piles of receipts and invoices. Everything was handwritten in their father's tiny scrawl.

"I don't understand his system," Dan said, putting another invoice atop the pile and then rubbing his fingers across his temple. "He doesn't follow any standard accounting principles."

"I knew this place was a money sink," Thea said. She leaned down to look at the rings beneath the glass.

"I didn't say that," Dan said. "He was doing pretty well. I just don't understand how it was all coming together. Like this invoice, for instance, it says Belknap Brothers paid $250 for a tea set, but when I look at the ledger..."

"I don't care about the details!" Thea said. "Just tell me what it's worth. Can we sell the place?"

"You really want to do that?" Dan said.

They both looked around the shop that their father had run since they were in grade school. Nestled in the midst of a thoroughfare that led from the town's larger shops to the public beach, it had become a known tourist stop. A local travel magazine had twice rated it a "hidden gem," piquing the interest of antique-loving visitors who would have normally stayed away from tourist traps. As shoppers entered the store, the less expensive items favorited by most tourists lay near the front in beautiful array–scarves, spoons, costume jewelry, and more. But if they continued toward the back, shoppers would begin to discover more unique items of value along the walls and short center shelves, ending with the jewelry case containing rare rings, broaches, earrings, and, occasionally, coins.

Thea stepped away from the jewelry counter and picked up a small brass sculpture of a dancer mid pirouette off of a small shelf.

"What else would we do with it?" she said. "I'm not planning to move back to run it."

"It feels like someone should," Dan said.

"Seriously? Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know. I'd have to think about it."

"You'd just quit your job and come run the store?" She laughed and put down the statue, then moved to the next shelf to explore its contents.

"It wouldn't be impossible. I could keep most of my clients, I think. I mostly communicate with them online now, anyway. Nobody needs to see their CPA daily. And I could drive into the city on occasion."

"I can't believe you're actually thinking about this," she said.

"Why?"

"Because we should sell it. Auction it all off, split the money, and be done with it."

Dan looked at Thea across the store as she poked through a clear case of antique sewing needles.

"You'd do that? Get rid of it, just like that?"

"In a heartbeat."

He stepped out from behind the counter and walked to a phonograph that had been in the shop for the past five years. Each time he visited his father, he considered buying it, but he always left without it. He thought it always felt more right in the store than it would on his shelf at home.

"So what if I did run it?" he said. "By myself. You wouldn't have to do anything."

She looked at him, lips pursed.

"What about the money?" she said.

"What money?"

"The money from the store. We inherited this place evenly. It's not very fair if you get everything, even if you are the one running it."

"Then what would be fair?" he asked.

"Buy me out. If you want to run it, take it. But I want my share now. I don't want to wait 10 more years when you decide you're done with it and it isn't worth much any more."

"That's a lot of money, Thea. I can't just pay you half of what this is worth. The money is in the building and the items. It's not like there's a pile of it sitting somewhere."

"I know that. "

"So what if you just share in the profits each year?"

"Uh-huh. Not interested. I want to sell. We both have to agree to keep it, and I don't."

Dan shook his head and walked back toward the ledgers. He didn't understand them, but he wanted to. There was something exciting about figuring it out. He ran his fingers across his father's notes and thought about what he was about to do.

2016 – Day 51

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: begins with this sentence: He found an umbrella in his bed

----

He found an umbrella in his bed. Not a compact, stash-away umbrella that could have fallen out of his backpack or suitcase and then lay hidden beneath the blanket for a few days. It was long and black with a crook handle, the type of old English umbrella one could use as a cane to accompany a suit and overcoat. Theodore surveyed the rest of his room, but did not see anything else amiss. The surface of the bureau contained only his tie clips and watch, and the bookcase presented an orderly layout (by genre, then author). Neither showed a hint of dust. or disturbance.

Theodore assessed his feelings and determined that he was more curious than frightened about the appearance of the black umbrella, though he felt it would be wise to remain cautious. He checked inside each drawer of the bureau then the drawers in the kitchen and the desk in the living room, but he could find nothing out of place. If someone had broken in, they had managed to take nothing, lose their umbrella, and lock all doors and windows on their way out. Quite illogical, Theodore thought. In fact, he could think of no possible explanation for it, and there didn't seem to be any appropriate response other than to put the umbrella in the umbrella stand and go on with his day.

The next morning it rained. On his way out the door, Theodore grabbed his briefcase and green folding umbrella. Stepping outside, he pressed the button to automatically open the umbrella, but as it began opening, a powerful gust of wind caught the umbrella canopy and pushed it open faster and further until it was inverted and its ribs were twisted and unhooked from where they were supposed to be. Theodore held tightly as the wind tried to wrench the umbrella from his hands. He stepped back inside the house, pulling the umbrella in with him, before slamming the door shut.

Back in the entryway, he dropped the broken umbrella back into the umbrella stand so that it could drip dry then took a moment to catch his breath. His eyes fell upon the long, black umbrella that he had discovered the night before. He was certain it was not his umbrella and that the owner would be revealed in a perfectly logical explanation, but, until that time, it would be appropriate for him to use the umbrella. If this one broke, too, he would simply replace it. He picked up the umbrella and went back outside.

"Here goes nothing," he said into the wind and pushed the umbrella open. As it clicked into place, another gust of wind enveloped him. He kept both hands on the handle and for a moment felt as if he would fly away like Mary Poppins. But the umbrella held firm and soon he was able to push through the wind and make his way to the train to get to work.

Later that evening, after Theodore had eaten his usual dinner of curry, potatoes, and carrots and cleaned up the dishes, he retired to his bedroom to read. He passed his hand along the books on his shelf until he found the one that appealed for that night and took it from the shelf. He sat upon the bed, slid off his slippers, and turned so that he could sit leaning against the backboard. As he swung his legs swung across the blanket, he felt a lump under the covers just below his knees. Dropping the book, he hopped off the bed and pulled back the blanket. There, at the center of the bed, lay a pair of black gloves.

2016 – Day 50

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: has a character who: lives in a library

Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: Don't make a sound!

----

Skinner Public Library closed at 8:00 p.m. on weeknights and 6:00 p.m. on weekends. The librarians took another 15–30 minutes to wrap up their work and the custodians came and went within an hour. Woody could tell when the last person had gone for the night by the sound of the locks. Then he could come out to read.

On Monday night, after he heard the main door bolt click, Woody walked soft-footed down the stairs from the research stacks on the second floor. He was anxious to get back to his book while the evening safety lights were on, providing just enough illumination for comfortable reading. By midnight, the library's lighting system was programmed to shift to a nighttime setting, which left only the exit signs lit. As long as he had his dinner in hand before the lights went out, he could eat in the darkness. But he couldn't read.

Woody's favorite section was historical fiction in the green reading room. He had already read many of the classics, like Hugo and Dumas, and was now working his way through 20th century authors. As he approached the shelf, he held his breath until he finally located Wolf Hall. He never knew when all copies of a book that he was reading might get checked out, forcing him to wait a week or two. He took the copy off the shelf and settled into the armchair to read.

After some time, he felt his stomach rumble and knew he had waited long enough to eat. He returned the book to the shelf and made his way to the back room where staff kept their things. He looked through the fridge first then the cabinets, taking small portions that wouldn't be noticed. Three Cheez-Its, an Oreo, a cheese slice, a bread slice, and four grapes would make a decent dinner for the night. Woody closed everything up and headed back to the main room.

"Don't make a sound! Hands up!"

A glaring light flashed into Woody's face, causing him to drop his dinner and throw his hands across his eyes.

"Hands up!"

Woody thrust his arms high into the air, keeping his eyes closed against the light. After what seemed like minutes, Woody felt the focus of the light lower to his chest and he opened his eyes. Facing him stood a police officer with a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The officer stared back at Woody, his eyes squinting into the light.

"Who are you?" the officer said. "What are you doing here?"

"Woody Mesner, sir," Woody said, then considered how to explain the rest. "I, uh, live here."

"Live here?" The officer didn't lower his gun, but he lowered the flashlight further so they could both see better. "What do you mean you live here?"

"I just read the books. I don't harm anything."

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"I don't think so, though sometimes I think some of the librarians have guessed."

"What makes you say that?"

"Some of the snacks seem to never get eaten except by me. And then when they're nearly finished, someone replaces them with new ones. And I've found books that were perfect for me set out on the main table. I think someone may have left them out for me."

The officer stared at Woody then lowered his gun.

"How long have you lived here," he asked.

"Nearly a year."

"Woody, you can't stay at the library. Don't you have any other place to go?"

"Not really," Woody said, shrugging his shoulders and venturing a smile. "It's nice here."

The officer shook his head and paced a few steps in either direction. He stopped and stood with arms akimbo,

"I'll let you go if you leave now," he said. "But I'll have to arrest you if you don't."

Woody let the information sink in. He looked over his shoulder at the historical fiction books, so many of which he had yet to read, and then he looked up the main stairs at the research stacks that hid a small door to a tiny room where he slept. He sighed at the realization of how hard his life was about to become.

"I can't," he said. "I can't go."

2016 – Day 49

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: takes place: in a meeting

Step 2: add this word: sensitive

Step 3: add this word: dawn

------

"We appreciate your honesty, Mrs. Dubrow..."

"Ms. Dubrow."

"Ms. Dubrow, and we will certainly take that into consideration when making our decision."

"Thank you." Debra stood and shook hands with Dr. and Mrs. Highton and Mr. Brillstein, the deciding body of the 42 Wharton Street Condo Board. Dr. Highton and Mr. Brillstein had both worn blue suits and Mrs. Highton a silk red blouse and tan trousers. Debra felt as if she were staring at a clothing ad in the New Yorker that was using models of a certain age. It was really only their faces that gave them away; at a distance, she would have thought they were in their early 30s, not their late 50s.

As Mrs. Highton escorted her out of the meeting room, Debra looked down at her floor-length skirt and v-neck sweater. She had thought she'd dressed so smartly that morning. Suddenly she was conscious of how sloppy she must look to the woman wearing six-inch heels on a Saturday.

---

"You're being too sensitive," Robert said that evening when he stopped by to check on Debra.

"No, you should have seen their faces change when I mentioned the bankruptcy."

"But did you explain how it happened?"

"I said it resulted from a divorce."

Robert shook his head and pulled a wine bottle out of the fridge. He raised an eyebrow and Debra nodded.

"Honey, why didn't you tell the full story?" he said.

"Because it doesn't sound good. Telling them he spent all our money makes it sound like I let it happen. I sound weak!"

She watched as he uncorked the bottle and filled two glasses.

"They don't want a victim," she said. "They want a successful person who will keep bringing in the money and will fit in with their other residents."

"If they're such snobs, why apply at all?"

"Because I'm finally doing well. And because I've loved walking past that building ever since I moved to the city four years. ago. It's what I want."

Robert handed Debra a glass and they toasted to her house hunt. Later, after Robert left, Debra crawled into bed and stared at the window across the room. Though it was getting dark, the streetlights cast enough light that she could make out the passersby just outside. A woman was being pulled along the sidewalk by two large dogs on leashes. Teenagers, laughing raucously, rolled past on skateboards. A couple argued as they rushed by, stopping only briefly just outside her window to hurl swears at each other.

Debra's thoughts bounced from everything she loved about her neighborhood to everything she hated about it and back again. The noises. The smells. The people. The community. Was she a sell-out for trying to get into the Wharton Street building? What did she owe to the neighborhood, anyway? Her brain ached as thoughts swirled in an endless loop.

She didn't remember falling asleep, but she realized what had happened after she was jolted awake by a ringing phone that pierced her dreams just after dawn. She rolled out of bed and squinted at the name of the early-morning caller. It was the 42 Wharton Street Condo Board.

2016 – Day 48

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: takes place: in a classroom

Step 2: add a scene that takes place: in a basement

---

Delia watched as the students filed out of the classroom, messenger bags and backpacks slung nonchalantly from their shoulders. She considered what it was about some 20-year-olds that made them comfortable in their own skin while she was still out of sorts in hers at 55. Stupidity, she thought.

When they had all nearly gone, she packed up her own bag and followed the students out the door into the hallway. Odors of sweat, perfume, and sunscreen emanated from each direction. She moved with the crowds down the stairs and out onto the street.

Beyerton College sat amid the bustle of the city's north side. For three stops along the train, you would see mostly students and a few professors or other college employees. Travel any further in either direction and the school crowds are replaced by regular city residents or workers traveling in from the suburbs.

Delia had an hour before her next class, so she made her way to the Beyerton Pub, a small sandwich shop on campus that served beer. Tucked in the basement of an old hotel, the pub welcomed professors and students over 21. Delia pushed open the door and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside. It was too early for the lunchtime rush, so she was seated right away. After placing an order for a sandwich and beer, Delia looked around at the other diners.

There were only about a dozen other people in the room. Delia recognized a few staff from the admissions office to her left and a couple of students sitting in the far corner. The sound system was playing something moody and guitar-filled, and Delia was grateful when her beer finally arrived.

She was halfway through it when the door opened and Jim, a student from her last class, entered the pub. She watched as he looked around, spotted her, and approached her table.

"Hey, Professor Wallis," he said. "I didn't know you came here, too."

"I do. Sometimes."

"You're having a beer? Man, that's awesome. Four more months till I can buy one. Officially." He smiled and laughed at himself. His long bangs swung in his eyes and he tucked them behind his ear.

The waitress appeared and placed Delia's sandwich before her.

"Will there be anything else?" she asked.

"No, I'm all set," Delia said.

"How about you?" she said to Jim. "Can I get you anything?"

"Oh, yeah. A Wallace Burger and a coke, please."

"Are you sitting here?" she asked.

"No, I..." Delia began.

"Yes, thanks!" Jim pulled out a chair and sat down across from Delia.

"Hope you don't mind, Professor Wallis," he said, smiling. "I wanted to ask you a few things."

2016 – Day 47

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: takes place: in an elevator

Step 2: includes the dialogue: What's inside?

--------

Myra met Angelo in the elevator. Her hands were full of grocery bags and he offered to press the button for her floor. He looked kind, with trim dark hair and a wide smile.

"Fourth floor, please," she said, though she lived on the fifth. She wasn't ready to let a stranger know where she lived, even if he did look kind. Plus, she didn't know his business in the building.

He pressed "4" for her and "5" for himself. They didn't speak again, and soon they arrived on the fourth floor. Myra exited and, after a moment's indecision, turned to the right.

"Take care," he said as the doors closed.

Myra waited three minutes then managed to get back on the elevator with all of her bags. She rode it up one more floor, then peeked out as the doors slid open. The hallway was quiet. She hurried to the left to open her door. Behind her she heard the click of an apartment lock being undone. With her key twisting in the lock she finally managed to get the door open and rushed inside. Three oranges came loose from a hole one of her bags and rolled into the hallway, but she let them go as she swiftly closed the door. There would be casualties in the war for safety.

One week later, Myra spotted Angelo as she was going through the packages on the entryway table. A small box with her name sat on top and she quickly covered up the label as he approached.

"What's inside?" he said, smiling.

"Socks," she said, though she wasn't sure.

"You heading upstairs? I can get the elevator for you."

"No, I'm actually on my way out," she said.

He looked at her with eyebrow raised. It was Saturday and she was wearing only leggings and a t-shirt because she had been busy cleaning her apartment. She had only come downstairs to check the mail for a short break. Outside lay three inches of snow and a sharp February wind whipped flurries across the road.

"Do you need to get your coat?" he asked.

"A friend is bringing one. I'm waiting here for her."

"Okay," he said, eyebrows now scrunched in confusion. "I'm Angelo, by the way."

"Hi, Angelo," she said.

He looked at her expectantly.

"What brings you to the building?" she asked.

"My aunt Ruthia lives on '5.'" he said. "And you are?"

Myra froze. Her name sat on her lips, ready to roll off and bring her a connection to another person. A man. She tried to say it, but her tongue wouldn't follow along and her throat grew dry.

"There's my friend. I have to go!" She rushed toward the door, her head aching and her chest tight. As she pushed on the right-hand door and felt the cold wind tear inside, she turned to look behind her.

"It was nice to meet you, Angelo," she said, then ran out into the cold.

2016 – Day 46

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: begins with this sentence: He knew he was about to die

Step 2: add this word: pharmacy

Step 3: add a character who: works in television

Step 4: add a character who: is very shy
---------

He knew he was about to die. Not an actual death, but a career death, which was much, much worse. William refreshed the laptop screen, waiting to see the news of his failure splashed across the page, but the old headline remained. Unable to wait any longer for the guillotine blade to fall, he threw on his jacket and headed outside.

A light snow had just begun to fall, laying a powdery coat on the sidewalk. William watched as footprints formed beneath his sneakers, creating a solitary trail from his steps. No one else from the neighborhood was out so early on a Sunday, and he grew anxious realizing that this lonely feeling would surely become more familiar as the world learned of his wrongdoing.

Ahead, he could see the neon "Open" sign blazing in the window of the local pharmacy, so he picked up his pace. A bell jingled as he stepped inside the cramped store and made his way down the first aisle. McGovern's Pharmacy was a lone holdout in the battle against national pharmacy chains setting up on every corner. Despite being bookended by a CVS and a Walgreens about a block away in either direction, John McGovern had somehow managed to keep his family's pharmacy open. William rarely came inside any more, but it seemed nothing ever changed between his sporadic visits.

As he walked down the aisle, Willian looked over the shelves at the entire store. John McGovern stood hunched over the counter writing something on a piece of paper. His long, gray hair fell atop the page, but John didn't move it out of his way. Willian continued to look around, but there was no one else there. He was less alone, but the anxiety remained. He grabbed a candy bar from the shelf and pulled a water bottle from the refrigerator along the wall, then walked to the counter.

"Haven't seen you lately," John said, ringing in the candy and water.

"Been working a lot," William said.

"$2.15. Need a bag?"

William shook his head and handed over his money. As John made change in the register, the bell on the door jingled. William turned around and saw Elton come inside. Looking disheveled, Elton made his way toward the counter, breaking into a smile when he saw William.

"Will!" he said, grabbing William into a full hug.

William smelled the alcohol on Elton's breath and shirt and felt Elton's unsteady gate as they hugged.

"What are you doing here?" Elton said, as he released William from the hug.

"Just taking a walk in the neighborhood. I live nearby."

"Oh, right! I forgot."

John handed William his change and William stepped back from the counter.

"Wait, don't go," Elton said. "I've got someone I want you to meet."

He stepped up to the counter and requested a package of cigarettes.

"I heard what happened," he said to William as John rang him in. "We all make mistakes, but man, what were you thinking?"

William looked up at John to see if he was staring back at him, but John was focused on making Elton's change.

"I don't know. I wasn't really."

"No shit! Stealing ideas from an intern? The episode was good, but I don't know if it was that good. You could have written something of your own."

"Yeah," Elton said.

William's anxiety made him queasy and he headed for the exit. Elton took his change and ran after William across the store.

"Everything's got a paper trail nowadays," Elton said, shaking his head. "You can't just take stuff like the old boys did. And especially not from an African American girl. I'm sorry, dude. This will completely suck for you."

They exited the pharmacy and Elton quickly steered William to the right where Elton's car was parked along the curb.

"Have you heard anything from your team?" William asked.

"Well, I suggested you for a new pilot, but they're waiting to see how this falls out. It's not good."

Approaching the car, William could see someone sitting in the passenger seat. Long black hair hung over a bare shoulder and bright red heels sat atop the the dashboard.

"I wanted to introduce you to someone," Elton said, approaching the passenger-side door. "She's a huge fan."

The girl in the car heard them approach and rolled down the window.

"Jeannie, meet William Atkinson, creator of The Running Game. William, this is Jeannie."

The girl smiled at William but didn't say anything. William looked at her through the window. If he were to write her, he'd describe her as fresh-faced and young. Barely 20, he thought.

"Nice to meet you," William said and extended his hand.

The girl turned red and extended her hand for loose shake.

"See, you still have fans," Elton said and laughed.

"I should go," William said.

"Okay, good luck, man. Hey, even Polanski found work again."

"Right. I'll see you."

William turned and began walking back toward his apartment. He could hear Elton's car door close behind him, then the sound of the tires peeling away from the curb. Looking down, he saw fresh snow had covered the sidewalk. Once again, the only footprints were his own.

2016 – Day 45

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: begins with this sentence: He found the key in his pocket

Step 2: include this sentence: When he arrived at his office...

-----

He found the key in his pocket while searching for a clean pair of pants. It had caught on the bottom of the front left pocket of his khakis—a silver key with six ridges and Kwikset written along the top. It was like any other key on his keychain, except Paul had no idea what it went to. He remembered going drinking at The Tempest Pub with some guys from work, then leaving in a cab. His next memory was of sitting in his apartment stairwell and realizing he was still a floor away from his door. By the time he crawled into bed, it was 3:15 in the morning. But where did he pick up a key?

When he arrived at his office, he went to see Jamal. With the door closed behind him, Paul showed his friend the key.

"Did I leave alone last night?" he asked.

"Yeah, you left just before me," Jamal said, turning the key over in his hand. "The guy at the valet stand flagged the cab down for you, then helped you give directions to the driver. You were busy singing Single Ladies."

"Was it around 3?"

"Nah, Ben and Raj got pissed off about the game, so we all bailed by 11:30. You don't remember?"

"No," Paul said, taking back the key.

He returned to his own office, but found himself distracted. He sent emails, went to meetings, and worked on his files, but his mind was on the three hours he couldn't remember. As he worked, he found himself putting his hand in his pocket and rolling the key around in his fingers, hoping it would trigger a memory, but nothing came.

At 5:30, as Paul began to close up his files, his cell phone rang. The number wasn't familiar, so he let it go to voicemail as he continued to shut down his computer. But no sooner had the phone stopped ringing and the voicemail alert gone off, than it began ringing again. Paul stared at the phone in his hand as the number of voicemails climbed. He sent the fifth and sixth calls directly to voicemail after the first ring, then logged in for his messages before the phone could ring for the seventh time.

"It's 5:00," said an unfamiliar woman's voice in the first message. "Please tell me you're on your way. And don't forget the key."

"It's 5:02," she said in the second message. "We agreed promptly at 5:00. Please hurry."

"It's 5:05," the third message began. "Are you trying to get me killed? Hurry!"

"I knew I shouldn't have trusted you with it! If anything happens to me, it will all be on you."

"They're here. I can hear them outside."

The sixth call lasted about 20 seconds, but there was nothing on the line but the slow drip of water.

2016 – Day 44

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: includes the words: bright  bagpipes  clandestine

Step 2: include this sentence: She was not a robot, like the others
------

Peggy flew down the stairs as soon as her homework was done. Halfway through the front door, she shouted back over her shoulder.

"Homework's done. Going to take a walk!"

She didn't wait for a response, but charged into the bright light of the afternoon and set out for the Music Barn. The Music Barn was a small store in a strip mall three blocks from Peggy's house. Mr. Donaghy didn't so much run the store as appear there every afternoon so that bored teenagers and middle-aged men could wander through the sheet music, then stare at the guitars, and picture themselves on stage. Stairway to Heaven was his best-selling single.

In the back, local musicians rented space to practice or offer lessons to support their fledgling careers. Peggy had used her birthday money and pet sitting money to sign up for practice space to play her bagpipes, which Mr. Donaghy agreed to keep in his storage room. She loved the clandestine nature of her practices and made sure to use every second that the room was hers. She had no instructor, so she spent afternoons at home finding tutorials on the computer, then writing down what to practice during her time at the Music Barn.

Peggy kept her practices secret not because she thought her parents wouldn't allow it, but because they would worry about her. She had little in common with her classmates, and she sensed the disappointment bubbling under the surface of her mother's smile whenever she asked about Peggy's day at school. Seventh grade was proving to be a challenge. The endless list of activities in which she could participate—sports, band, newspaper, yearbook, and more—were dangled before her as experiences that would define her future. Was she an athlete? A math nerd? An artist? It was less about social cliques than about skills, and by not joining anything, the message that Peggy appeared to be sending was that she had no skills to share. The bagpipes didn't fit anyone's understanding of a useful activity, and that was part of what drew her to them. I am not a robot, like the others, she thought.

"Hey, Mr. Donaghy," she said after the doorbell jingle announced her entry into the store.

Mr. Donaghy looked up from his book and took out his earplugs. He nodded toward the back.

"You can have room 3," he said. "Buster's teaching in 1, and you'll want a room between you. Electric guitar."

"Not good?"

"Client insists he only wants to learn Pink Floyd and Guns 'n Roses."

"What lesson is he on?"

"His first."

Suddenly, a wailing noise emanated from the back rooms. It wasn't so much a melody as a flowing cacophony of indistinguishable notes.

"Next week is free if you can name the song," Mr. Donaghy said.

Peggy listened for anything recognizable. Spending time at the Music Barn meant she could sing along to any rock songs ranging from Chuck Berry to Muse, but there was nothing she could discern in the screeching coming from Room 1.

"Money?" she said.

"Sweet Child 'O Mine!" Mr. Donaghy said, laughing. "Better luck next time."

He reinserted his earplugs and she made her way toward the back. Once inside Room 3, Peggy took the bagpipes out of their case and ran her hand along the wooden drones and then the bag. She loved that it felt unlike any other instrument and that its rich harmonics sounded like nothing else. She raised the blowpipe to her lips and began to play.


[For anyone who hasn't checked the About page and is wondering about the prompts I use, these come from the Writing Challenge app (produced by Literautas.com).]

2016 – Day 43

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: begins with this sentence: She didn't know how to explain that...

Step 2: add this word: art

Step 3: add a character who: looks out the window
------

She didn't know how to explain that she was ready to move out, so Molly gradually removed items from the apartment she shared with Nathan. One by one, day by day, she took books, dishes, toiletries, shoes, and clothes until she was certain he would notice and say something. She hated conflict and confrontation and wanted desperately to avoid it.

She already had a new apartment on 7th Street that she had sublet from a coworker. Jennifer was an artist and had been using the apartment as an art studio when she decided she could use the rent money instead. Molly agreed to let Jennifer continue to store her paintings in the apartment in exchange for free utilities. The canvases were all five-feet-tall and featured people painted to look like office supplies as a statement on modern professional life. Molly wasn't sure that she liked them, but she was getting used to waking up to a woman in a black suit painted as a stapler as she stretched down to touch her toes.

On Thursday, five weeks after she had begun to steadily move her things to the new apartment, Molly was nearly done. She decided to come back one last time to double-check that she hadn't forgotten anything and perhaps to say goodbye to Nathan. As she opened and closed each kitchen cabinet door to inspect the insides, Nathan walked in. He came into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and give Molly a peck on the cheek, then left for the living room. Molly took a deep breath and followed him.

As Nathan sat down on the couch and began to read something on his phone, Molly approached the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the river and looked outside. The water was choppy from the wind but the sky was a clear blue. Beyond the river was her new apartment, filled with her things and waiting for her.

"I'm going to get going," Molly said.

"Okay" Nathan said, still staring at his phone. "When are you back?"

"I, um..." The words caught in Molly's throat. She moved toward the doorway and leaned against the doorframe. "Not sure."

"Oh. Where are you going?" Nathan looked up from the phone and watched her in the doorway.

"It's complicated," she said.

2016 – Day 42

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: includes the words: watchmaker  city  throne

Step 2: include this sentence: It was the longest minute of his life

----------

Alfred, a watchmaker, moved briskly through the crowds in the city market. He carried a small bag of his best tools close to his chest. The king had sent a messenger requesting Alfred's presence that evening and he dared not be late.

As he hurried toward the castle, Alfred thought about the many years he had worked in obscurity on all types of timepieces, from pocket watches to grandfather clocks. Tonight was his chance to show the king the true measure of his skills and take his rightful place among the ranks of merchants deemed worthy of the highest nobles. No longer would he have to do work for small shopkeepers and teachers who could barely afford to pay him.

Alfred arrived at the castle hot and sweaty, despite the chill in the evening air. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve as the guard took him to an antechamber and told him to wait. As he paced back and forth upon the thick carpet that stretched in a path from one doorway to the other, he practiced what he would say to the king.

Soon, the large doors to the throne room were opened from inside and a booming voice announced his entrance.

"Alfred Donnymeade, watchmaker!"

Alfred inched his way into the throne room. He had planned to take large strides so as to command attention and respect, but the loud voice and the sight of a dozen faces turning to stare at him caused him to lose all nerve. He shuffled past courtiers in fine attire who had now stopped all conversation to watch him. When he finally reached the king, who sat in a massive golden throne upon a foot-tall dais, he was again sweaty and hot.

"Your majestic, I mean, Your majesty," Alfred said as he bowed low before the king. He felt beads of sweat drip down his forehead and onto the plush red carpet beneath his feet. He quickly swiped his forehead with his sleeve again as he stood up to face the king.

King Cedric leaned back in his throne as he stared down at Alfred. He held his chin in his hand and appeared deep in thought. Alfred wanted to ask why he was summoned, but he bit his tongue and waited for the king to speak first. It was the longest minute of his life.

"Clear the room!" the king shouted.

Alfred watched as the courtiers and guards left without a moment's hesitation. When the large doors were closed from the outside, the king leaned forward to whisper to Alfred.

"I hear you are a skilled watchmaker." the king said.

"Yes, sire."

"I have need of a special timepiece. But it is to be a secret endeavor. If you can create what I request, you will be compensated greatly. If you fail, I cannot guarantee your safety. What say you?"

Alfred stared up at the king. His ears hung on the words compensated greatly. This was truly his chance. Later he would say that he did not hear the rest of the agreement, including the warning about what would happen if he failed. But for now, he was planning the speech he would give to his neighbors as he abandoned his old life and began his new life of greater prominence.

2016 – Day 41

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: starts with this dialogue: I want you to come with me

Step 2: add a character who: wants to write a novel

Step 3: add this word: advice
-------

"I want you to come with me, Joy," Saffron said, reaching out to take her daughter's hand.

Joy pulled her hand away and leaned back against the booth wall. She wouldn't look at her mother, but instead stared at the mound of whipped cream that was dripping down the sides of her pancakes and pooling at the edge of the navy blue ceramic plate. Everything in the diner was in primary colors. It was her mother's favorite place to meet, but Joy always felt out of place—like she was back in preschool. It didn't help that her mother always ordered chocolate chip pancakes for her. She felt too old for it.

"Sweetie, you're 16. Even though your dad has custody, you still have a say in where you go." Saffron took a sip of her coffee, then looked outside and waved at the man leaning against her car. "Did I tell you River is going to write a novel while we're out there? Isn't that fantastic? You are lucky to have such an amazing stepdad."

"He's not my stepdad," Joy said. "You're not married."

"We are spiritually married, sweetie. I've told you, it's not about the government paperwork."

Joy picked up her fork and tamped down the rest of the whipped cream.

"I'm not moving to a commune, mom," she said. "My friends are here. And school."

"What are they teaching you at that school? How to take tests?" Saffron leaned across the table and took her daughter's shoulders in her hands. "I've been where you are honey, and I'm trying to save you years of lost time."

Joy pulled back from her mother's grasp and glared at her.

"I'm not taking advice from a woman who is going to live in some tent and sing songs all day! What do you do at a commune, anyway?"

"It's not a commune, it's a spiritual community," Saffron said. "And we'll be learning about ourselves, the world, the universe. Everything."

"Everything? Like trig and calculus? Because that's what I'll need when I apply to college."

Saffron sighed and looked at her daughter. Joy met her gaze and stared back.

"I want you to go to college, honey, I do, but this experience will be so good for you. Your dad has your head all wrapped up in this single, set track for success. And I've been there. He used to just pull me along with him, until I didn't know why I was doing any of it. And 20 years down the line, when you're in some corporate job that you despise and your spirit feels drained, you'll wonder why you're doing all of that, too."

"Maybe I'll like a corporate job. Or maybe I'll pick something else. But I will pick."

"Of course you will, sweetie. And this experience will actually make you more aware of the choices you have. You don't know how limited your field of vision is right now."

A shadow fell across the table and mother and daughter both looked up. River stood beside the table, smiling down on them.

"Time to get going, Saffron, love," he said. "You coming with us, Joy?"

"My mom's name is Barbara and, no, I'm not going with you," Joy said.

"I'll be right out, honey," Saffron said, smiling up at River.

River leaned down and kissed her, then wandered back out of the diner. Joy stared at her mother, her face contorted in disgust.

"Don't give me that look," Saffron said. "You're not a little kid anymore. This is how adults who love each other are supposed to act."

Joy rolled her eyes but didn't answer.

"Come on, we'll drive you home," Safron said, putting cash on the table and sliding out of the booth. "We have a thing to go to tonight, but I'll come back tomorrow and talk with your dad."

"I said I don't want to move," Joy said. "Besides, Dad would never agree to it."

"We'll see. Let's go."

Safron walked to the door. Joy slowly slid out of the booth and followed her mom into the glaring sunlight.

2016 – Day 40

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: begins with this sentence: When he finally decided...

Step 2: add this word: baggage

Step 3: add a scene that takes place: in an abandoned house -------

When he finally decided to move out of his parents' house, David was 32. He had told friends he moved back home after college for financial reasons, and then stayed longer because his dad got sick and he didn't think his mom could handle taking care of him by herself. After his dad recovered, the financial crisis hit and so David remained at home.

Then, the day after his 32nd birthday, David's parents bought an elliptical machine set it up in the dining room. As they maneuvered their way around it each night while setting and clearing the dinner dishes, they began dropping hints that having an exercise room in the house would be fantastic. David asked them if they were planning on building an addition onto the house. They said no.

It wasn't as if David found the setup at his parents' house ideal, either. Although he was on a decent career track in IT, dating had become a significant challenge. Girls understood if you had baggage from your relationship with your parents; they didn't understand if your issues involved being upset because your mother refused to buy the kind of yogurt you liked because they don't carry it at her usual grocery store. It was a no-win situation.

As he began to search for his own place, David created a long list of criteria. He was not interested in finding 20-something-year-old roommates on Craigslist.  Nor did he want a tiny studio like an idiot who's just starting out. He wanted a living room, a dining room, a modern kitchen, a home office, and a large bedroom. The windows had to let in a lot of natural light and the apartment below or above his should not have children. David's last girlfriend lived above a family with a four-year-old, and the constant running and banging gave him stress headaches any time he visited.

As he searched online for the right rental, David found only three properties he deemed worthy of a visit. However, all three resulted in extreme disappointment. Photos of the first two apartments had clearly been taken at odd angles. And at the third, he could definitely hear children squealing in the unit above. He made it known to Theresa, the realtor representing the final property, how upset he was with the false advertising.

Theresa smiled and said she understood.

"Most people don't have such discriminating taste," she said. "I could show them an amazing property, but they'd dismiss it because they'd be focused on the wrong things."

She looked around the room, as if to make certain they were alone.

"David, I have this incredible property that I've been asked to save for the right buyer," she said, her voice low. "I can show it to you, but you have to be able to look beyond the now and focus on the what if. Do you know what I mean?"

David nodded. He liked the way her short blond hair stayed firmly in place even as she tilted her head to the side.

"I can show it to you now, if you have time," she said.

David said he did and Theresa drove him in her Prius to a neighborhood he didn't know. They stopped outside a large, dilapidated house whose windows were clouded with filth and whose yard was overrun with foot-high weeds.

"Are you sure this is the place?" David asked.

"Yes, but I understand if you're not interested in checking it out."

From the passenger seat, David stared out at the building. Its door held a large crack down the center and the siding looked to be in the process of peeling off.

"You know, I shouldn't have brought you," Theresa said, starting up the car. "Most people don't have the vision for a place like this. The landlord told me to be exclusive. Please don't tell anyone you saw it, okay?"

"No, wait! Please show it to me." David suddenly felt anxious. He opened the car door and stepped outside, then leaned down to look through the car window. "Please?"

Theresa smiled and turned off the car.

2016 – Day 39

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Is that a sword?

Step 2: add a character who: wears an amulet

Step 3: add a scene that takes place: on a bridge

-------

"Is that a sword?" The bus driver stares at me, arm outstretched with her palm forward in the universal sign for stop.

"It's for a play," I say, taking the first step onto the bus.

"Uh-uh," she says. "You can't come on board with that."

"I have to get to rehearsal," I say, offering my meekest smile. "I can leave it up front with you."

"No, that is completely against the rules."

"Please?"

"No. Get rid of the sword or I'll have to ask you to disembark."

I stare at the sword, now heavy in my hand, and I regret not trying to hide it in a bag. I am fairly certain the only reason I was cast in the play was because I said I could provide a sword. I try to picture what would happen if I arrive without it.

"Thanks anyway," I say and step off. The doors shut and the bus merges into traffic as I begin the 10-block walk to the community theatre.

It's a sweltering day, so I am wearing jean shorts and a t-shirt. Without a bag, there is no place to hide the sword on my person. I try to avoid eye contact with the other pedestrians in case anyone gets freaked out by a guy carrying a sword and wearing a Highlander "There can be only one" shirt. I walk three blocks while lost in my own thoughts when I hear someone shouting behind me.

"Hey! Hellooooo! Shawn!"

The sound of my name breaks my reverie and I spin around to see who's behind me. There, making her way around a group of tourists who have stopped to take a picture by the Waymore Cafe, is Viola.

"You're blocking the sidewalk!" she shouts at the tourists and spits at their feet, then stomps toward me. She is also wearing shorts and a t-shirt, but around her neck hangs the enormous green amulet from her costume. She walks past me then gives me a look over her shoulder.

"Are you coming?" she says.

"Yeah," I say, jogging to catch up with her. I try to match her pace, but she is surprisingly fast despite being a foot shorter than me.

"This rehearsal is going to suck," she says, shaking her head. Her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled into a small ponytail and I watch several strands escape with each shake of her head. She quickly tucks the strands behind her ears without breaking stride.

"Why?" I ask.

"Evan has no idea what he's doing. I should've been directing, but they have that stupid rule about rotating directors with each show. It should be the most experienced person, right?"

"I guess so. Evan seems nice, though. I'm glad he cast me."

She stops to look at me. We're on the Besser River Bridge, which has a narrow pedestrian sidewalk, and she stands in the middle of it, hands on hips, staring at me while everyone walks around her, shooting us angry looks.

"He's using you for your sword." She looks at me, lip curled in disgust.

"I kind of figured. But he could have given me a smaller part than he did."

"You're an idiot," she says, then turns and spits over the edge of the bridge. A man navigating around her almost gets hit with spittle and gives her an incredulous look. She glares back at him and he continues walking while swearing loud enough for us to hear. Viola rolls her eyes and begins walking toward the theatre again.

I follow, though I don't try as hard to keep up. She sees me lagging and slows her pace. We walk in silence for the next five blocks, me lugging my sword and Viola wearing her amulet, which blinds me whenever the sun hits it just right when I am beside her. I hear her sigh audibly each time we're forced to walk around people who are slower than we are, but she doesn't say anything else.

Finally, we are within sight of the theatre. I can feel sweat dripping down my back and I pick up my pace to get into the air conditioning. Suddenly, Viola stops short in front of me and turns around. I stop, too, and look down at her. We are inches from each other.

"If I end up directing the play, I'll let you keep your part," she says.

"What?"

"I'm going to talk with Stan about directing. I think they've made a huge mistake with Evan. But I want you to know that you won't be losing your part when that happens."

"Um, okay," I say.

"Just wanted to make sure we were clear, you know, if there's a debate or a vote." She nods her head toward me, as if settling the issue, then turns toward the theatre. She climbs the three steps to the front door and goes inside. I am confused as I stare after her, but the sword is growing heavier in the heat, and I can hear the A/C unit humming. I follow Viola into the theatre.

2016 – Day 38

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: includes the words: death  case  ostrich

------

Mr. Halpern arrived on the late train and decided to walk the 12 blocks to his apartment on Main Street. No cabs would go to his neighborhood at night and he was deeply distrustful of the gypsy cabs. Just a year ago, he was robbed of $36 cash and then beaten up for having so little to make the theft worthwhile. The case he carried was light, and so with the help of the few streetlights working along the way, he found his way home by 1:00 am.

He quietly climbed the stairs of his building and slipped into his apartment on the third floor. He listened for sounds coming from Mrs. Johnson's apartment next door, but there was nothing to hear but the noise of his own refrigerator trying to stave off death. It hummed briefly, then stopped, rattled, and began humming again. Mr. Halpern wanted to give it a firm whack on the side, which usually fixed the problem for a week or two, but he didn't want anyone to be alerted to his presence at home.

He carried the case to the bedroom and set it down on the bed. Clicking open the top, he removed the few items of clothes and toiletries. He then ran his hands over the bottom of the case until he found the secret latch and opened a hidden compartment underneath. Inside lay six rare ostrich feathers mostly colored in blues and greens with specks of gold that glinted in the light emanating from the single lamp on the bureau. Mr. Halpern reached out to touch the feathers, but jerked his hand back immediately. The feathers were worth much more in pristine condition, and he was not undertaking this dangerous venture for anything less than the full amount.

Replacing and locking the secret compartment, Mr. Halpern wandered around his bedroom looking for something to put inside the case. What would be believable if people were to find the case stored in the basement? He opened and shut each drawer in the bureau, then went into the kitchen to check the cabinets. There was nothing of value. His clothes, his shoes, the bedding, the pots and pans, and the tableware—it was all old and worn, holding no value to anyone but him and his mother. He had brought many of her beloved possessions to her room in the retirement home, but she had no need for the bedding that had fit the queen-sized bed she'd shared with his father, nor for the tableware that she had received from her family on her wedding day. The tableware was low-end then, too, and only his mother's careful and frugal nature kept the cheap dishes and cups intact for 50 years.

As he leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the contents of the cabinets, Mr. Halpern pictured his mother as he remembered her from his childhood. He thought of her thick brown hair, always cut to her shoulders so that it barely grazed her nurse's uniform. If it were any longer, she would be forced to keep it in a bun, but she had said that her hair was the only feature that she loved about herself and insisted on keeping it down. When it started to go gray, she dyed it immediately, prompting his father to say he was looking forward to getting dirty looks on the subway when he held hands with a woman who looked half his age. That made his mother laugh.

Mr. Halpern returned to the bedroom and stared at his closet, filled mostly with his few pants and shirts, but also with a handful of his mother's clothes that didn't belong at the home. There were two dresses that she no longer liked, a rain jacket, and a garment bag he had forgotten about. He took down the bag and unzipped it. Inside, emanating a slightly musty smell, was his mother's fur coat, perhaps the only thing she owned of value. She had feared its theft at the home and, despite still loving wearing the fur, she sent it back with her son after a week. He ran his fingers over the soft surface and thought about the creatures that had once inhabited it. It made him think of the ostrich feathers, and suddenly he had a solution to his problem.

Mr. Halpern zipped up the bag and folded it into the open case. Then, pressing the bag down with his knee, he zipped the case closed around it. He carried the case toward the front door. As he prepared to step out of his apartment and make his way down to the basement, he heard a car door outside. Moving to the window, and being careful to stand to the side so as not to be seen, Mr. Halpern looked down at the cars below. A black sedan was parked by the fire hydrant beside his building and two men were walking from the car toward the front door. He recognized the lurching gait of the second man and realized he had moments to spare. He needed to hide the case.

2016 – Day 37

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Tell him I'm here...

----

"Tell him I'm here."

Marla nodded at the woman standing above her desk and picked up the phone.

"Mr. Reynolds, your wife is here," she said. Moments later, the advertising team shuffled out of the office and Mr. Reynolds brought his wife inside.

Marla released the breath she had been holding since Mrs. Reynolds appeared in front of her. She then stared at her computer screen, trying to remember what she had been doing before.

"You're doing a great job."

Marla jerked her head up. Once again, the soft office carpets had disguised the footsteps of someone approaching her desk—she made a mental note to deal with that.

Standing in front of her now, smiling with a raised eyebrow, was Josh, one of the advertising team who had just left the meeting. He set his laptop down on the front edge of her desk and leaned on one arm against the side.

"I said you're doing a great job," he said.

"Thanks." She stared up at him, focusing on space where his dark brown hair was beginning to recede.

"What do you think is going on in there?" he said, nodding his head toward Mr. Reynolds's closed office door.

"I don't know."

"Well, they're either having sex or arguing. I hear that's all they do."

"Hear from who?"

"It's just a known fact. You're new. You'll catch on to this stuff."

"That's okay," she said, trying not to picture her scary boss and his scarier wife sprawled on the chair where she took notes. "I don't need to know what they do alone."

"That's probably best," he said, picking up his laptop. "And, hey, at least you know that if they're arguing, they're not arguing about you."

Marla waited for Josh to say more, but he brushed invisible crumbs off of his shift and tie and began to walk away,

"Wait," she said. "Why would they be arguing about me?"

"They wouldn't be," he said, turning back toward her. "That's the point."

"I don't understand."

"Well, you know about his last secretary, right?"

Marla shook her head.

"Mrs. Reynolds suspected Janie and Mr. Reynolds were having an affair, so she made him fire her and then she hired you."

Marla's brain stalled. She looked up at Josh and saw him smile.

"Someone wanted to have an affair with Mr. Reynolds?" she asked.

"That's what they say," he said, then leaned in to whisper. "I hear that's who he sees when he goes out for lunch."

"But...I book most of his lunches."

Marla tried to remember how often she called to setup lunches with Mr. Barron, Mr. Reynolds's most frequent lunch partner. Mr. Barron's secretary was always so flexible about setting up a time.

"It's none of my business," she said finally, shaking her head to clear herself of the images. "But what do you mean she hired me?"

"Mrs. Reynolds dealt with the hiring agency," Josh said. "I have a friend in HR."

"But I met with Mr. Reynolds."

"After she vetted you. She had certain requirements."

Josh used his free hand to make quotation marks in the air, then adjusted his tie.

"I gotta get back to my office. Great talk!"

Marla watched him walk away. She felt her face growing warm from embarrassment. She didn't know what requirements Mrs. Reynolds might have, but she could certainly guess. Her eyes gravitated toward the now-sleeping screen of her computer where she could see her dark reflection. Her hand moved to her hair and then her nose. She heard the door open behind her and she quickly brushed off the tear that started rolling down her left cheek.

"I'll see you at 9," Mrs. Reynolds said to Mr. Reynolds, then walked past Marla's desk with a cursory glance.

She turned down the hallway to the right, and as the clicking of her heels gradually disappeared, Mr. Reynolds appeared in the doorway.

"Marla, set up a lunch appointment with Mr. Barron. See if he's free at 1:00."

Mr. Reynolds returned to his office. Marla stared after him, then turned back to her computer. She moved her mouse to wake it and watched her reflection disappear.

2016 – Day 36

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: begins with this sentence: The train was moving fast

Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: Are you sure you wanna do this?

Step 3: include this sentence: The bird was not in the cage

----------

The train was moving fast through the darkness, jostling the passengers asleep in their bunks. Lean, swaying pine trees, lit only by the distant moon, flew past the shaded windows.

Eric gingerly opened the sliding door from inside the sleeping compartment and peeked into the hallway.

"All clear," he whispered.

He stepped into the hallway then waited for Steve to follow before sliding the door shut. Together they tiptoed through the car, pausing each time the train shook to keep their balance. When they reached the door that would connect them to the next car, Eric turned to look over his shoulder at Steve.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" he whispered.

"Yes, dammit. Let's go!" Steve said.

"Shhhhhh." Eric put his finger to his lips then nodded. Turning back to the door, he took hold of the handle and pulled it open.

A cold wind slapped against their faces. The door to the next car was just six inches away, but Eric saw the dark ground rolling quickly beneath them and didn't resist the urge to step back.

"Ow!" Steve yelled. "That was my toe."

"Sorry," Eric whispered. "The train is moving really fast."

Steve rolled his eyes then stepped forward to the doorway. He reached for the handle on the neighboring car and pushed it open.

"Let's go," he said, then stepped into the next car.

Eric gulped in three large breaths, closed his eyes, and flung himself through the door. As soon as he felt the solid car floor beneath his feet again, he reopened his eyes and released his breath.

"Only two more cars to go," said Steve. "Come on."

They resumed their quiet walk through one car, then the other. In the second car, they heard voices coming from one of the compartments. A couple was arguing. Eric hesitated and began to turn back, but Steve pushed him forward into the third, and final, car.

Once inside, they closed the door behind them and took in their surroundings. They were standing in the luggage car, surrounded by suitcases, bags, and boxes.

"Start looking," Steve said.

They began shifting around suitcases and rummaging through boxes, trying not to fall over as the train continued to shake on its high-speed journey. After knocking over two large stacks of crates and standing frozen in fear that they would be discovered, Eric saw something hidden behind the pile of fallen crates.

"Over here!" He shifted a few crates to his left and reached down to pull out a large birdcage. It was two-feet tall and golden, with a loop at the top for hanging.

"This is it," Eric said. "I can't believe we found it!"

Steve walked toward him and inspected the cage. He held it by the loop and let it dangle from his hand as he spun it to the left, then the right.

"Do you notice anything?" Steve said.

"What?"

"Look inside."

Eric leaned in close. The bottom of the cage held pieces of straw and a small bowl of tan-colored pellets. A container of water hung from the side. Eric poked his finger into the straw from different angles, then looked up at Steve in a panic. The bird was not in the cage.

2016 – Day 35

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Don't answer the phone

Step 2: include the dialogue: We have to go now

--------

"Don't answer the phone," Uncle Ilya says as he stands beside the counter at his laundromat. He puts his hand on the dusty receiver for emphasis.

"What if it's a customer?" I ask.

"No customers call. If they do, they get message with hours and directions. Come."

He leads me toward the back of the enormous room. We walk past rows of industrial washing machines and dryers. It's Tuesday evening and only a handful are running. I smile as we pass an older woman folding shirts, but she sees my uncle and looks away.

We approach a door along the back wall, and Uncle Ilya hands me a key chain.

"If detergent machine runs out, get more here," he says, then turns to look at me. "Never give directly to customer. Refill machine first, then customer will buy."

I nod as I meet his intense stare. I've known Uncle Ilya since I was two, so he doesn't frighten me too much, but in moments like this I recognize why my friends nicknamed him Uncle Scary.

"Are you sure he's not a gangster?" Jake once asked.

"Of course not!" I said. "He's nice when you get to know him."

And he was nice, at least to me. He was my mother's brother and he often visited us when I was little, bringing presents no matter the occasion. But I also remember seeing him get mad at waiters in restaurants or store cashiers. He never yelled, but spoke loudly at first, then lowered his voice until it was barely audible. He'd speak in quiet, measured tones, sounding out his words syllable by syllable, until the offending party apologized and whatever was bothering him got fixed.

At the laundromat, we return to the front and go behind the counter. The entire section stands on a platform two feet above the floor, giving us a good vantage point above the entire room. Uncle Ilya points at a stool, the only piece of furniture tucked behind the counter.

"Sit here and watch. If anything happens, you text me."

I'm about to ask what anything means, when the door jingles and a man in a brown suit enters and approaches my uncle. He whispers something in Uncle Ilya's ear, then turns back to exit.

"We have to go now," Uncle Ilya says as he grabs his jacket from the counter.

"You're not leaving me alone yet, are you?" I am panicking. A five-minute tour can't be considered sufficient training before leaving someone in charge of an entire business.

"You will be fine," he says. "We will come back soon. Just text."

He moves swiftly out the door. Through the window, I see him climb in a car with the man in the brown suit, then they speed out of the parking lot.

Now alone behind the counter, I survey the room. In addition to the older woman folding shirts, I see a man with white hair moving clothes from a washer to a dryer, and two girls about my age laughing as they stuff clothes into a washer. The room is quiet now except for the thumping of a single dryer and the hum of rows of florescent lights. I reach down and pull a book and binder out of my backpack. It pays better than a work study, I think. I find the right page in the book and begin my reading assignment.

2016 – Day 34

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: takes place: on an island

---------

Mary Ann didn't like to talk about the island. We'd been dating for nearly six months before she mentioned it, and even then she didn't reveal too much. She said one of the reasons she first liked me was that I hadn't recognized her from the news. I told her she could thank my parents for raising their daughter on a commune away from TV and newspapers. She said that she'd spent years without TV or newspapers, too. We made love on my queen mattress.

When Mary Ann first moved in with me, she made me get rid of all of my rattan furniture. She said it reminded her too much of the huts and furniture on the island.

"It was all made of bamboo," she said. "The damn stuff worked for everything but boats."

As our lives grew more intertwined, we did everything together. Laundry, grocery shopping, jogging. At first she was afraid to hold my hand in public when we ran errands, but I slowly introduced her into the world she had missed.

"Times have changed," I said.

I took her to gay bars and introduced her to my friends. They weren't all lesbians, but many were. We had built a solid community together. I used to say that we were an island onto ourselves where we felt safe from judgment among a group of like-minded people.

Over time, Mary Ann grew more comfortable being affectionate in front of our friends, and even in public in general, but she asked me to stop using the island metaphor.

I sometimes grew jealous of the closeness between her and some of the other castaways. Gilligan called weekly and stayed with us whenever he was in town. Professor Hinkley, or "the professor" as she affectionately called him, sent long, thoughtful emails from his book tour. He had written a self-help tome about his struggle with guilt over not being able to free everyone from the island sooner. I Could Make a Coconut Phone, but I Couldn't Bring Them Home: My Years Lost on the Island spent 32 weeks on The New York Times Best Seller list. I secretly read it, hoping to learn more about the life Mary Ann wanted to forget. But the book was filled with descriptions of inventions he had made and of near disasters at the hands of Gilligan. There was little about Mary Ann.

In truth, it was Ginger I always wondered about. Why did she never hear from her? Was there a history between them? I finally broke down and asked her. We were stretched out on the couch, watching a documentary about climate change on a rainy Saturday morning. She looked at me and ran her hand through my hair, shifting my part the way she always liked it.

"There was nothing between me and Ginger," she said. "She was into the boys. That was no act. And we had nothing in common, to tell the truth. Once we left the island for good, we simply drifted apart."

"So you were alone all that time?" I asked, feeling both relief and sadness for her.

"Well, there was someone," she said.

"But you said you've always only liked girls."

"I did."

I pause as the information sinks in.

"Noooo. Mrs. Howell? She was married."

"Eunice was Thurston's beard," she said, her lips hinting at a smile. "She liked money, and he gave her quite the life until we landed on that island."

"But wasn't she old?" I asked.

"She liked to call it experienced," Mary Ann said. "But, once we got back from the island, she wanted to return to the rich life. And we weren't in love. So we ended it."

She looked through the window into the yard, where gusts of autumn wind blew the rain sideways and shook the trees.

"There were always storms," she said, her voice trailing off.

I wondered if she pictured herself in Eunice's arms, bracing against the island winds. Or was she remembering the fear she must have felt as she wondered if she'd survive what should have simply been a three-hour tour?

2016 – Day 33

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: takes place: in the guest room

Step 2: add a character who: is long since lost

------------

I make the bed with slow precision. Tucking the bedspread between the mattress and the wall, I smooth the surface with the palm of my hand, easing wrinkles from the surface inch by inch. I know Margaret will still find some way to fix it, but I am making an effort on my last day in her house. 

A hear someone enter the doorway behind me and turn to see Roger leaning against the frame, watching me with his head cocked to the side. He offers a smile.

"So you're leaving us, Katy," he says.

"Looks that way." I paste on a smile. I am leaving Margaret her life, too, unbound and messier than when I came, but she will straighten it out.

Roger steps inside the doorway and the room is flooded with his aftershave, but I am making an effort, so I step back.

"Your sister and I will miss you," he says.

"I don't think so," I say.

We hear steps on the stairs and Roger returns to the doorway. I begin emptying the last drawer into my open suitcase as Margaret appears beside Roger. Ignoring him, she enters the room and approaches the bed. I watch as she quietly tugs on the right corner, easing out a stubborn wrinkle.

"Almost packed?" she asks.

I wave the underwear I'm holding over my shoulder then toss it into the suitcase. I turn to see her flinch as the unfolded pile in my suitcase grows. Finally, I drop in the last pair of socks and zip it up.

"We should go," she says. "There could be traffic."

She moves toward the doorway and looks at Roger.

"What me to drive her?" he asks.

"No." She stands by the door and waits for him to leave, then follows him. As they walk down the stairs, I carry my suitcase from the back wall to the doorway, then set it down. I glance around the room that has been my way station for the past three months. It looks as it did when I first arrived. There is no trace of me here.

I pick up my things and begin to walk toward the stairs, but I can't seem to leave. In a last desperate move, I tear into the suitcase and search around until I find a pen. Then I go back into the room and shove aside the small dresser where I had kept my clothes. I uncap the pen and draw a short, deep line on the clean cream wall. I roll the pen back and forth over the same spot, over and over, until it cuts through the paint and leaves a dark blue scar. I rub my finger across the ink then return the dresser to its rightful spot. Slowly, I leave the room and carry my bag downstairs.