Freshly Dusted

Clarice was the lightning to Fiona's thunder. Fiona was the tornado to Clarice's hurricane. The two were as opposite as they were alike, and those who knew the two of them had declared adamantly that the phrase "opposites attract" had been passed down through the annals of human development expressly to describe Clarice and Fiona. 

Parents claimed that the two had been fast friends since they were babies, ever since Clarice had slapped Fiona across the face for stealing her toy in a play group. Surprisingly, that had been the start of a relationship that lasted even through the Dark Ages of middle school, in part because due to residential requirements, the girls did not attend the same middle school. 

However, as their freshman years of highschool closed in, both girls began to secretly worry in their hearts that the relationship would not last. Their elders in the years above had poisoned their minds, declaring that hearts would be broken in high school, but each girl silently resolved not to ever let that happen. 

Their resolutions worked well, and at first, nothing seemed to change when they began high school. Sure, the classes were a little harder, and the groups a bit more cliquey, but overall, Clarice and Fiona were not affected. That is, not until the arrival of Brandon Schmidt. 

From the minute that Fiona first laid eyes on Brandon, she knew that he was a downright a--h--. He threw down those that did not align with his beliefs, he mocked the unfortunate, and he had a reputation for being a woman's man. Such were immediate warning signs for Fiona, and when she turned to share these with Clarice, she was shocked by the expression of adoration covering her best friend's face. 

"Isn't he handsome?" Clarice breathed, and Fiona stared blankly at the other girl. Another quick glance at Brandon revealed that yes, he was handsome, and charming in his own way. He was tall, muscular, and he had a perfect smile, but he used his height to tower over others, his muscles to knock nerds out of his way, and his perfect smile to stretch into a cruel imitation of pleasure. 

"Well...in a way," Fiona began, ready to clarify all the downsides of Brandon, but the look on her friend's face was so lost in dreams that Fiona gave up the idea, knowing that Clarice would not have listened to her anyway. Sighing, she vowed to herself that she would protect her friend from the prince before them, and stop things if anything actually came from Clarice's childish crush. 

Now, Clarice had always been the leader, whisking them into all kinds of new exercises and games, many of them dangerous, but Fiona often hung back, preferring to listen rather than say the wrong thing. Fiona liked to think through everything she did. 

In algebra, Clarice passed Fiona a note that said: 

I'm going to tell him!

Fiona needed no further clarification as to who Clarice meant, and she tried to talk her friend out of it, turning to whisper across the seat to her. 

"Are you kidding? He's despicable! He is cruel and mean, and you should never go out with him! He'll just hurt you!" she said. 

The expression of blank shock and betrayal darted across Clarice's face, before her face hardened, and she abruptly whispered back, "You like him too, don't you! You're just jealous! Why won't you support me in this?"

The teacher whipped back around, gaze finding Fiona's as she snapped, "Fiona, is there something you would like to share with the class?"

Fiona mutely shook her head in the negative, and when the teacher turned back to the board, she leaned over to whisper to Clarice again. "I don't trust him, and I am definitely not jealous!" 

Only, she was a little too loud, and the teacher was already having a bad day, so Fiona was sent to detention. 

Later that day, when she left the detention hall, Fiona could not find Clarice anywhere--the girl had already gone home without her. 

The next day, Clarice refused to sit next to Fiona in any of their shared classes, and Fiona only heard about Clarice's dramatic announcement to Brandon through the rumors that rippled through the halls. 

Apparently, her best friend had marched right up to the most popular jock in school and announced that she liked him. Brandon had taken it well, and the two had exchanged phone numbers. A week later, they were dating, and it was the news of South Hanten High School. 

Every day, Clarice sat next to her boyfriend, who was the kindest person in the world to her. Fiona was shocked at how easily she had been proven wrong, and she began to doubt her own conclusions of Brandon. 

A couple weeks passed, and Fiona could not take it anymore. She wanted to talk to her friend again, and even if she had to be second to this impostor, she vowed that it would be worth it. 

As she lay in bed contemplating this, the phone began to ring, and she heard a tear-choked voice on the other end of the phone. 

"Can I come over?" Clarice blubbered out, and after a slight affirmation, Fiona heard a click on the other side. 

A few minutes later, Clarice was at Fiona's door, and Fiona found herself holding Clarice in her lap, patting her head and nodding along in sympathy as her best friend tried to relay on what had just happened. For a moment, Fiona contemplated saying "I told you so," but that's not what friends do.

Meet the characters:

The Teen with too much courage and not enough sense,

She's the main character; the story is told from her point of view.

She's the one the reader roots for to succeed, and the one

That they groan at what her temper leads her to.

The Daughter with not enough courage and too much sense,

Who is never willing to speak what is in her heart.

She's the one that they silently love,

The one anyone would admire from the start.

The Sister who hides behind her screen,

Raised without a guiding hand,

She doesn't want to see the truth,

And never wants to take a stand. 

There's the Father, tall and strong,

Yet too afraid of repeating his own father's example,

To leave an abusive relationship.

Too late, but he never quite had a proper sample.

There's the Mother, kind-hearted but quite insane,

Driven by fear she cannot tame,

Her only crime was caring too much,

But she is despised just the same. 

And now the characters have been met,

The prologue is finally done.

The reader bites a nail or two,

And the story has begun.

It’s 46 degrees

On Halloween night,

And the arching, empty stands

Loom down on costumed children.

A flapper,

A princess,

Another stereotyped Harley Quinn.

So many things I could be.

But instead I came

As a dead-beat writer

With a red-lined copy

Of a broken manuscript.

And the costume fits too well for my tastes

Unlike the others

Which hung too short

Or stretched too close to the ground.

And as I scramble with the bowling pins,

Setting them up to knock them back down,

A slivered moon lights up the sky,

Floodlights probing the dark.

It’s seven o’ clock,

And the gates have just closed.

The last batch of kids are coming through,

And somehow it is already dark.

It’s time to pack up now,

And pull down the navy gold banners.

The night still shouts with laughter and fun,

But it’s growing older now.

Many are heading home,

Spoiling their dinners

And going to bed,

Content already with their haul.

Yet for some,

There’s still time left tonight.

To take a treat 

Or catch a fright.

Just another broken hearted hero

Looking for a damsel in distress.

You're crazier than Nero

Falling for that dress.

Those bright blue eyes

And light blonde hair,

Are spinning lies

For you everywhere.

And you, oblivious,

See only what she wants,

Not that she is villainous,

And has her especial haunts.

"A penny for your thoughts."

The young man on the bench did not peer upward in an attempt to make out the other's face. He knew who was there. "Do others exist outside our senses? Do we truly feel beyond our consciousnesses? How would I know if I was just stimuli in a jar?"

"Deep thoughts for one so young," the voice returned.

Sighing, the young man continued to contemplate the shining, wet cobblestone of the Texan streets. "What is even the meaning of it all?"

"You don't want me to answer that. I've never been any good at philosophy," the other said.

The man scoffed, shaking his head. "You were only top in your class."

"Perhaps I just told you that to convince you to give me mind."

"You could kick my butt in a philosophical debate if you wanted to."

"Do I want to?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Ultimately, even if we are just stimuli, does it make a difference in our daily lives? Are we going to imagine ourselves into a better place? You call me a philosopher, but I call myself a realist."

The young man studied the scuff marks on his boot tip before finally meeting the other's eyes. He hoped his expression did not show how miserable he felt inside.

"Get up off that bench," she said, voice kinder this time. "These thoughts will never leave you," she continued, watching as the man jumped. She smiled privately to herself, knowing she must have read his mind. "But they will relax for the moment. Come, join me for supper, and we can drown them with wine."

Reaching a hand down to the one on the bench, the other lifted him up, and walked with him away. Neither touched each other, but the young man almost seemed to lean gratefully on the woman.