A Safe Space

The girl sucked in a breath and dried her tears, glancing over to her mother.

"It's OK, Shirley," her mother said with a slow, gentle tone. "You can tell us what happened."

Shirley nodded briefly at her mother and then looked over at the principal sitting behind his looming desk, stacked with folders and colored post-its and plastic bins full of pens and paperclips and rubber bands.  She'd always been so afraid of this man and of this office, a person and a place you were only sent when you were bad.  

"Yes, Shirley, this is a safe space," the principal said in a reassuring tone that more confused the young girl than set her at ease.  Wasn't this the same man who had not so long ago yelled at her best friend Margot for running in the hallway or who suspended her friend Kevin for talking back to a teacher, even though the teacher was mean to him first?  Was this the man who created the safe space in the school?

Shirley looked at the floor.  "I don't want to get anyone in trouble," she murmured in a barely audible voice.

Her mother reached over and took her hand.  "It's not about getting someone in trouble," she said.  "It's about making you feel safe here at school."

There it was again -- safe.  Here, at George P. Barnes Elementary School.  The same place where they had to routinely participate in drills that taught students how to survive an active shooter or that forced the teachers to focus on standardized tests instead of simply focusing on learning what the students were interested in and making an average week in the classroom about that.  Safe, ha, what a farce.

Shirley looked up and locked eyes with the principal.  "Chloe Jackson put a note in my backpack that said, Your dad died probably because you smell bad," she reported, feeling more and more numb with every confessionary syllable.

The principal's eyes grew wider for a moment before he leaned forward and asked, "When did this happen?"

"Two days ago," Shirley said.

"How do you know it was Ms. Jackson?" the principal asked, his neatly folded hands starting to twitch.

"She signed her name," Shirley said. "And I also know what her handwriting looks like because we have been in the same class almost every year." She paused before adding, "She usually sits right behind me in class, because of alphabetical order."

"Right," the principal said, awkwardly clearing his throat.  "You have the note?" he asked.

Shirley's mother pulled it out of her pocketbook and handed it across the desk.  "I found it in her backpack when I was looking for her lunch bag," she offered as a preemptive means of explanation.

"Right," the principal repeated, this time the syllables dragging out as he examined the torn half-sheet of paper that did, indeed, contain the exact message described.  He seemed to read it a few times before setting it on his desk.  "You didn't tell your mother about the note when it happened?" he asked the girl.

Shirley shifted uncomfortably.  "I didn't see it until she found it," she confessed.

The principal nodded.  "Well, I'll need to investigate this a little more before I can make decisions about what actions to take," he said.  "I'm just so troubled that this happened, Ms. Jablonka."  He paused and looked over at her mother.  "And I'm so sorry for your loss as well.  This isn't the sort of thing anyone should have to be dealing with during a grief period like you're experiencing.  I will keep you informed as my investigation continues."

Shirley felt a bit stunned as she sensed this was the end of their meeting.  "Don't you want to know why she wrote this note to me?" she asked, her tiny voice growing stronger with every word.  "Don't you care?"

The principal looked at the girl with some confusion.  "Of course I care," he said defensively.

Shirley turned to her mother.  "Chloe's father is on the school board," she said.  "He has a lot of money and so Chloe never gets in trouble, even though she bullies a lot of kids."  She turned to the principal. "Did you know that Chloe was a terrible bully, not just to me but to a lot of kids?"

The principal seemed lost for words.

"She's mean.  She writes mean notes to a lot of kids," Shirley went on. "She's written other mean notes to me, too, but I usually just throw them away.  The only reason we're here today is because my mom found the note and she said we had to come have this meeting.  But Chloe, she is mean a lot.  And I don't think she's going to get in trouble for this, even though saying my dad is dead because of me and not because of cancer is pretty mean and terrible.  She won't get in trouble because her dad will make sure she doesn't get in trouble."

Her mother turned to face the girl whose face was puckering once more as tears started falling again.  "Shirley, I'm sure Principal Morris will take this seriously," she said, smoothing the girl's hair.

"I don't even smell bad," Shirley said, her tiny fists now resting in her lap.  "I didn't make my father die because I smell bad."

"Of course not, sweetie," her mother said.

"I can assure you I will look into this," the principal said, his voice sounding more and more hollow.

"She's just a mean bully," Shirley said.  "That's all you'll find out when you look into this. But what will be different?  She'll still write mean notes.  Even if you decide to punish her this time, she'll still keep doing it because she's not nice.  She'll probably be smart enough not to write another note to me but she'll find other ways to be mean because she knows her dad can yell louder than a little girl like me.  He has power and I don't."

"I will speak with Ms. Jackson and her father, if need be," the principal said, trying to regain control of the conversation.

"When you do, will you tell them both that this school is supposed to be a safe space where all the kids and the teachers and everyone actually is safe?  Will you tell her and her father that the reason this school will never be safe has to do with people like them?" Shirley asked defiantly.

"Ms. Jablonka, I will investigate the matter," the principal repeated, his once calm face now looking tense.

Shirley stood up quickly, causing her chair to push back on the tile floor and make an awful screeching sound.  "Thank you," she said, spinning on her heels and walking out of the office. "Thank you for your time," she heard her mother say as she heard the principal say, "I will be in touch as my investigation continues" as he closed the office door after her exit.

Shirley's cheeks were flushed and her entire body trembled as her mother reached down and held her fingers wide for her to grasp.

"Want to go get some ice cream?" her mother offered as their hands interlocked.

Shirley felt her mother's love course through her as their palms pressed together.  "Yeah, OK," she said.

In the car, the girl looked out the window from her spot in the backseat as her mother drove.  Everything about the view was predictable and it calmed her down.  Later, when the girl and her mother would sit across from each other at Parish's Ice Cream, each with two large waffle cones full to the brim with multiple flavors of their choosing, she would find herself savoring this moment as one of the safest she'd ever feel, just a girl and her mother and a couple of ice cream cones existing in their own trust-bubble that could never be popped, no matter how mean the outside world could seem to be.  

First line by Nicole Hatcher

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

The Upgrade

 One day, I showed up at the ballpark to watch my favorite team, and the staff at the gate said my seats were being upgraded to sit in the dugout with the players.  At first, I thought they were kidding because I'm typically the opposite of the luckiest guy you'll ever meet, but, what the hell, if they were beckoning me to follow, who was I to turn it down?  So I'm walking along with the guy -- he told me his name was Bruno, like Bruno Mars, the singer?  You heard of him?  Anyway, this guy Bruno is walking me down to this tunnel I never even noticed before, even though I come to maybe forty games a season and have ever since this ballpark opened back in '94.  I'm just walking along with Bruno down in this tunnel and I'm trying to, ya know, make small talk and whatnot but he seemed kind of distracted, so I didn't want to pester him.  That is, until we got right to the path that was gonna take me up to the dugout and then Bruno turns to me and, you'll never guess what he said.  He said, "Mister, I picked you out of the line because you look almost exactly like my Uncle Donny.  No one loved this team more than my uncle Donny and it was actually him who was supposed to get this opportunity, but he had a heart attack and died last night."  Bruno, my new buddy Bruno, he got a tear in his eye while he's telling me about his poor Uncle Donny and I patted his arm to comfort him, ya know, but all I could think was goddamnit, I've never been so happy to be a bald-headed bearded-man before this very moment.  Uncle Donny, god rest ya!  So, Bruno, he tells me that he got permission to have his Uncle Donny watch this game from the dugout with the team to celebrate his retirement or some situation like that and as it so happened, I also just retired, so me and Uncle Donny have that in common, too.  Luckily, my ticker's a-tickin', and I been vegan for the last twelve years to make my wife Sheila happy so I don't think I'll drop dead like Donny did anytime soon, but, well, now I feel like I should knock on wood or something...  Like I said, I'm not typically the luckiest guy you'll ever meet, so I don't want to put it out there in the Universe that I couldn't possibly fall over dead from a heart attack like Bruno's uncle Donny, but, well, let's just say it's more likely my cat would push me out of a window than I'd have a heart attack.  You should see my cholesterol! So anyway, Bruno's all teary-eyed about his Uncle Donny while he's escorting me into the dugout and, I gotta tell ya, I almost did have a heart attack, right then and there, because you ain't never seen a view as pretty as this one.  The smell of the grass!  The bats all lined up and the batting helmets all arranged and everyone just going about the business of getting ready for the game.  Bruno took me over to meet one of the coaches and explains who I am and all the coach said was, "Sorry about Donny," while he kind of eyed me like I was going to rob the place or something.  Anyway, Bruno shows me where I can sit and shows me the secret bathroom and I'm just watching the TV guys get set up and the players start to meander in.  They didn't really pay any attention to Bruno or me but that was OK.  One or two came over to say hi and offer us some gum and, I mean, I don't chew gum normally but I did when a pro ball player handed some to me.  I guess if he'd said it was cool to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge, I'd've gladly done that, too, it was just that neat.  Anyway, as the game started up, I pulled my radio out and turned on the broadcast -- with headphones because sometimes the radio guys rag on the players and I was just trying to be respectful -- and I gotta tell ya, it was just the most terrific time I ever did have at the ballpark.  Bruno, he sat there with me all nine innings and when the game was over, he and I had become so buddy-buddy, I thought he was gonna start calling me Uncle Donny.  Ha! Well, I'm kidding about that, but we did get to know each other and he accepted my friend request on Facebook so I guess you could say me and Bruno are pals now.  It truly was just the best day I ever did have, and all because I kinda looked like a guy who dropped dead from a heart attack, poor bastard.  I saw a photo of Uncle Donny sometime down the line and, truth be told, I don't think anyone would mistake us for the other but, hey, who am I to second guess Bruno's decision?  After that day, grass never did quite smell the same to me, either.  Just never did smell the same.

First line by Laura E.

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

I Know Differently

 As the sun rises over the horizon, I pull my collar up to keep my neck warm from the chill.  I'm not the sort who prefers the cold but I am the sort who prefers routine and ritual and this daily trek to see you is part of that.  Sometimes, though, the rain does keep me away.  Cold, though, cold I can confront, mind-over-matter, and even make a game of seeing the smoke of my breath cut through the air as I exhale.  This morning's frost makes my breath crystalize but what brings hope into my soul is that cut of sunbeam, slicing through the frigid morning.

Sunrise makes me think of you.

But you already know that.

You know everything there is to know.

Every day -- well, most every day -- I make my way here, to this spot, to tell you everything, though, just in case you're less able to know me as well as you did once before.  I come to this bench with the tiny silver placard with your name engraved on it and that heartbreaking reminder of the date you were born and the date that you died.  Our son, he doesn't like to say you died, even after these two years since it happened. He likes to say that you left us but I know that's not what you did at all.  He and I got into a bit of an argument over it not that long ago, when I said it was insulting to say you'd left us, like you'd said you were going to the corner store for cigarettes and milk and just never came home.  I said it wasn't good for your grandchildren to hear him talk like that and he'd slammed his fist on the table and said he'd talk about you leaving however he saw fit.  We had an awful time sorting that out.  I mean, you probably remember -- we talked about it after and, to me, you were right there beside me during the whole... event.  I like to think you took him aside, too, because he calmed down quicker than normal and even came with me on my walk to see you the next day.  Remember?  We just sat on the bench in the cold, our hands shoved in our pockets, staring at the spot of ground at our feet.  It was nice, though.  Calm.  It felt so serene.  And after awhile, his elbow jutted over and tapped my arm.

"I'll make you a grilled cheese when we get back to the house," he said.

Made me laugh because he'd never made me so much as a bowl of cereal before, but you taught him your grilled cheese trick and I think that he meant it as a peace offering.

Most days, though, I come here alone.

Today, I'm alone.

It takes me about seven minutes to walk to this spot in the park, your favorite spot, or so your granddaughter decided.  We let her decide, within reason, of course.  She picked this spot and us "elders" gave it the green-light, and we worked with the city to install this bench with the placard on it.  It's here in that clearing where you and our granddaughter liked to play Spirit-Fairies, at least that's what she told us.  With me, she always makes me act out a farm animal or a circus animal while she acts out the role of farmer or lion tamer or whatever suits her game the best on any given day.  Anyway, sounds like what she played with you was more specific.  She said that you'd chase around this clump of trees and jump over the flower beds and say things like, "Abracadabra, green grass!"  Just silly things like that.  Well, we had to approve her idea to put your memorial bench here after all of that. We just hoped you liked it OK.

I think you do, though, because whenever I come here, I swear I smell your perfume, just faintly.  Some days, I could swear I heard your laughter, especially once those flowers bloom.  I much prefer my visits to you on those warmer days.

But, well, I come even in the cold because it's only a seven minute walk and it's good for me to have this routine.  I was always a man of routine, as you know, but I do fear that tendency has...advanced since you died.  You were always the one who brought my spontaneity out.  Before you, I didn't think I was anything but rules and order and this-after-that.  But you were so the opposite of that, I think we balanced each other out.  Now that you're in spirit -- that's what I try to tell our son to say, just like you taught it to me before you died -- now that you're in spirit, I feel you with me but I also feel your personality dropping away.  You warned me this could happen and so I am doing my best to roll with it but it's strange to have this ritual of talking with you every day and still knowing that it's less you as time goes on.  It's still you, but...  How did you teach it to me?  You're less ego, more soul.  I only think I understand what that means except that maybe I kind of feel it these days.  

Every day -- well, most days -- at sunrise, I come here to this place to catch you up, just like I promised I would, but I also do it because it's nice to see you in every season -- I can't explain how I know it's you when I see you except to say that I know that it's you.  It's why I still come, even in the cold.  It's why I'll always come, until I cross into spirit, too.  

Until then, I will keep telling your children and grandchildren as many stories about you as I can think of, even if they've heard them a hundred times over.  I will bring you into every conversation I have and I will resist any individual who says you're not here anymore.  I know differently.  Even on the coldest days, I know differently.  

I see you in every sunrise, after all -- just like you promised I would.  

First line by Susie Bowers

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

A Familiar Love

 All at once a familiar face appeared and she knew what home felt like.

"Hey," he said, sitting on the edge of the raised concrete flowerbed outside her shop.

"Hey," she said, sliding her hand behind his neck as she drew him towards her for a kiss.

He got to his feet then and slid his hand into hers as they headed down the sidewalk towards Clark's where they were meeting their friends for trivia.  Must be a Thursday.  She liked how comfortable he'd become being this way with her in public, fingers interlacing in this overt display that they were safely out of the dreaded "friend zone" where they'd lived for so long.

"How was your day?" he asked her as the simple question made her heart skip a beat.

"The usual," she said, trying not to keep the moment's simplicity tucked away as a memory before the moment was even fully lived out. "Yours?" she asked, remembering her manners.

"Good," he said, almost as if the answer surprised him.  "Better now that you're with me," he added.

She giggled as she noticed a slow blush creeping up his cheek.  "Same, babe, same," she said and he opened the door to Clark's for her and they scoured the tables to see if anyone else had already arrived.

"We must be first," she said.

"Usual table is open at least," he said, escorting her over.

They'd been playing Thursday night trivia at Clark's for almost four years at this point.  It's how they met -- her college roommate was dating one of his work buddies and somehow that magical coincidence brought this routine into their lives.  That couple was now married with a one-year-old that they routinely left in his mother's capable care so they could continue on this quest to win The Cup, a prize that Clark's trivia hosts hand out quarterly.  Teams had to participate in a certain number of contests per quarter even to qualify, so it was deemed important by their cohort of players that everyone be there as often as possible so that it upped their odds of claiming The Cup.  They'd won the honor seven times, something no other trivia team in the history of Clark's had ever done.

"We're committed," they'd offered as a trophy acceptance speech the last time around.

As they sat at their regular table and waited for their married friends to join as well as the three other single people who were sullenly still in the acceptance faze that two of their other teammates had paired up, she leaned back in her chair and smiled at him.

"Remember when we met that first time?" she asked him.

He grinned.  "Mostly I remember you getting more of the sports questions right in that night's game than me."

She swatted him with the back of her hand.  "That's so sexist," she sighed in mock horror.

"What do you remember about that night?" he asked her.

She leaned over to look him square in the eye.  "I remember thinking that it wasn't the first time we'd ever met.  I remember thinking oh good, you're here.  I remember feeling immediately like you already knew everything about me.  I remember being so happy I showed up, even though I'd had a shit day and was even a little pissed that my roommate was dragging me to this stupid trivia night.  I remember how comfortable it felt to have you hug me goodnight."  She paused. "I remember how weird it felt that it might be a whole week until I saw you again."

He leaned in now, too.  "So why'd it take us three and a half years?" he asked.

"Because that's how long it took," she said, her smile soft as she reached over to hold onto his hand once more as the familiar sounds of their friends' voices carried to them from the bar's front door.

 First line by Meredith Brown

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

Catharsis

It was nearing dawn and I was in that half awake, half asleep zone when a sudden rattling of my bedroom door brought me to an abrupt consciousness.  I sat up, still not entirely sure the whole thing wasn't a dream until my eyes focused in on the door knob, now visibly turning.  A chill ran through me as I instinctively pulled a pillow across my body.

The door opened then and revealed a shadowed figure standing still in the hallway as the door swung in and lightly tapped against my bedroom wall.

"Hi," a male voice said softly, almost kindly, as a whimper escaped from my lips.

"You're afraid," the voice went on, almost surprised by the assessment.

"Who are you?" I managed to ask.  "Why are you here?"

The man stepped cautiously over the threshold, almost if he didn't want to track dirt on my bedroom floor.  "I won't tell you who I am," he said, his voice still calm.  "It doesn't matter who I am."  

I pulled my covers more tightly around me as I continued to press my pillow against my chest.  I watched the man almost materialize in front of me, no longer a shadow but a three-dimensional human wearing black tennis shoes, black sweatpants, and a black hoodie.  He had a black wool hat on and a dark red beard that covered most of his face.  

His eyes were a dark hazel and they searched mine intently.

"How are you?" he asked, standing now mere feet away from my bed.  His arms hung at his side, hands empty, though the front pocket of his hoodie could have had something bulky in it.  All I could do was stare at that pocket, hopelessly wondering if it was a knife or a gun.

"Are you here to harm me?" I asked.

"Do you want me to?" the man replied, almost a hint of mocking in his voice.

"Of course not," I snapped back, trying to calculate an escape route past this solid wall of a human inching ever closer to me.

The man smirks, leaning down now to look me dead in the eyes.  "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Why would I want you to harm me?" I asked, feeling more reactive with every breath.

The man shrugged.  "People want all kinds of strange things," he said, moving himself back into an upright position.  He folded his arms across his chest, almost in a thoughtful way.  "Sometimes people like being harmed."

"Who likes that?" I blurted out while the man chuckles back at me.

"Some people love being the victim," he said.  "I've had people pay me, you know, to do exactly this."

"Break into their homes and assault them?" I asked.  "Who would ever want you to do that?"

"Victims want that," the man said, as if I were quite stupid even to ask.  "Plus, I haven't assaulted you.  At least not yet," he added, his eyes narrowing.

"Well, I'm not a victim!" I yelped, somehow gaining mobility as I leapt from my bed and took off down my apartment's hallway, still clutching the pillow against my chest.

The man was quickly up behind me, though, and clamped a cold hand on my tank topped shoulder.  "You can't run away," he said, his voice still serene.

His touch was paralyzing even though I could have easily broken out of his grip.  I froze instead, the hairs on the back of my neck standing as his breath hit just behind my ear.  He didn't say anything, he just breathed, as I started to cry.  

"What do you want?" I asked again, regretting having left the safety of my bed.  Standing here in my kitchen, I felt exposed.  I wished I wasn't so anal retentive about putting away all of my utensils and gadgets.  A wine opener, a knife, something sharp of any variety would have been welcome in this moment, except that everything was tucked away in a drawer while my knees shook and my fingers dug in to my pillow-shield.

"I want what you want," the man said, his breath hot on the back of my neck.

"What do you think I want?" I asked, my tears falling visibly onto the floor now.

"Catharsis," he said, placing his other hand on my other shoulder, making me feel locked into place.

"I don't understand," I pleaded.

"I could rape you," he said, his lips now hovering off my skin.  "But I won't." His hands lifted off my shoulders and I nearly crumpled to the floor.  "I could hit you, but I won't."  He slowly moved around to stand in front of me, now barricading my kitchen doorway.  "I could end your life," he said, pulling a carving knife out of his hoodie pocket and holding it expertly so I could see. "But I won't."

My body was at a full tremble as I gathered all of my strength to steady myself.  "I don't understand," I said once more.

The man backed slowly away from me, back through the kitchen door into my living room.  I could see my front door standing wide open.  I could smell the building cleaning crew's bleach-heavy products out in the hall.  

"Next time, remember to lock your door," the man said, walking backwards all the way to the exit before smirking as he slashed the knife through the air with a sense of expertise.  I dropped the pillow to the floor, watching him turn on his heels and walk calmly out my apartment door.  Without thinking, I ran after him, my heart pounding up into my throat.  My hands gripped the doorframe, almost as if my body could fill it with the same immovable authority as his once did.  I watched him walk down the hallway, the knife slid back in his pocket, a casual whistle puckering his lips as he pushed his way out the double glass doors that were my only safeguard from the outside world.

I watched him go and I stood there, my hands pressing so hard against the frame of the door that I could feel my arms start to cramp with pain.  I watched him go as my brain spun the whistled melody he'd left me with on his way out into the early morning sun.  I stood there, a barricade, and did nothing else but watch him go.

First line by Amy Thompson

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

Invisible, It Seems

They say women
over the age of forty

are invisible, socially

speaking, and I find this

to be true.  I stand

in front of automated

faucets that refuse

to see me while I wait,

water flowing

for everyone else

but me.  At home,

I have these robots

that work for me.

They turn on my lights,

vacuum my floors, 

and remind me where 

I need to be.  I installed

them and trained them

and made them my own

so they obey my commands.

I am useful to them

because I have made them

useful to me.

There's no kindness

in standing, hands out,

desperate, with no water

in response to my pleas.

Defiantly, I stand here.

Invisible, it seems.

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar

The Caretaker

 When he looked at her, all he saw were particles of light.  Sometimes she was green and sometimes she glowed purple and sometimes she was a rainbow in human form.  Those are her chakras, his supervisor had once explained before drifting away.  

He understood.

He understood her.

He wasn't sure she fully knew he was there, part of her life in this mysterious way that only the telepathy of souls can explain.  Sometimes, though, she'd radiate her emotions in his direction and he'd breathe them in as if they were the very thing that would sustain his life.  

Not that he had a life, not in the same way she did.  She was chosen, after all, for a purpose that was different than his own.  Not better or worse, necessarily, but different.  He'd learned this distinction by listening to human thoughts and seeing how their colors changed the deeper they'd sink into their struggle to understand their earthly existence.

What if there was nothing to understand, though, he wondered.  What if there was nothing but light?

She glowed pink with blush when he thought such things while near her.

Once, he'd hovered just outside her dreams, curious about what her human brain processed while she slept, and he was stunned to see it was a swirl of colors, like spilled oil on the pavement.  The colors, they took the shapes of earthbound things like horses and birds and mountains and caves, but never human.  When she rested, she returned to nature in this way, and he wondered if she ever woke up with the smell of fresh rain filling her senses.  

Mostly, he waited for her to be done with this human form so she could return to him and tell him what it was like, really like, to walk and talk and be the one who contributed to the evolution of her unbound soul.  

Without the restrictions that come with his role as her caretaker and her role as a human, they could melt together and be their highest frequencies, unparalleled equals as as beings are meant to be.  Not like they are now in their hierarchy where she is the adventurer and he is the one who carries her home.  

All he knows of her, anyway, is love.

She walks in human form to teach that love, to be that love, to express that love, no matter what.

He's watched her take this on so many times, so often in combat with others whose colors are encased with shiny, metallic armor that barricade them to sides. Whatever pain or suffering or hardship she faces as this avatar, he sees it shine through the colors she continually emits no matter what -- and he feels it through the emotions she conveys.  It startles him when he knows she's hurting because he has never felt such things himself.  He's only seen the colors and learned to decipher what they mean.  

Sometimes when he sees her vibrations are especially low, he'll whisper telepathically, shh, darling, it will be ok, and he'll wait to see her dull spectrum brighten once more.  

Does she know it's me? he asked his supervisor, who answered with a stillness that taught him it didn't matter either way.

It was his job to watch over her, nothing more.  Watch and wait and sometimes whisper -- while she, that radical burst of light, conveyed the secrets of love to any human form who drew near.

2023

Virtual Tip Jar: Venmo @sarahwolfstar