afrybarger

         She is almost back now.  Just a few more strokes.  I climbed onto the hard plastic, screams and yells muting.  Leaning down.  I can feel my heart racing.  Her hand hits the wall.  Smack!  Swinging my arms forward, my feet push hard.  I tuck my chin, ready.  One, two, three, breathe.

            It’s always cold.  It becomes my motivation.  I just want that warm towel.  Right, left.   Right, left.  My arms and feet are going as fast as they can.  Concentrating, I know better form means faster.  Faster.  I have to go faster. I roll my shoulders one at a time.  Each stroke throwing all my power into it to pull me forward.  Hands curving around my body, pushing.  One, two, three, breathe.

            My I can tell by the blue line that I am close.  Almost halfway there.  I take in a strong breath.  Three powerful strokes and I tuck my chin.  Tucking my body, I flip below the surface.  My feet come out just enough to splash. I push them hard against the wall underwater.  Shooting myself off, I stay under until the last second.  Breaking the surface of the water, I know not to take one just yet.  One, two, three, breathe.

            I have reached the halfway point.  this is it.  This is the last serious part.  I have to push myself.  Push until the end.  I block out the noise of teammates screaming.  I have to get there.  A song is stuck in my head.  But the fast paced guitars playing are helping me.  This happens every time.  It keeps me focused on beating the clock and the others.  Beat them.  I have to beat them.  Seconds mean everything.  I can see the T below me.  Almost done.  One, two, three, smack!

            First.  One, two, three, breathe.

Click. The gentle noise told her that the lock had slid over, allowing her to be able to twist the dark doorknob.  The weight of nine hours of work felt heavier than the twelve pound box of cat litter she had just carried up to the sixth floor for the elderly woman as she finally pushed open the door and walked into the dark apartment.  She had never understood why the sixty-year-old woman chose to live the two floors above her at her age.  Her right hand lifted and flipped the switch up out of habit, lighting the room.  It was laid out simply.  A couch on one side, a tv supported by a dark black entertainment center, and a red rug between the two on the hardwood floor.  Closing the door behind her, she locked it with the same sound.

Caroline dropped the keys into the black red bowl on the island counter, a habit to prevent the loss of the keys.  The days before that bowl had been a nightmare.  They never seemed to have been where she remembered placing them last.  Her eyes glanced to where the cordless phone was docked with its built in answering machine.  The little light blinked red at a slow pace, a nonchalant memo for Caroline to press the play button.

“Please don’t be Beth,” she said softly, crossing the fingers of her left hand while she pressed the center button with the opposite hand.

“One unheard message.  First unheard message.”  That had always seemed redundant to Caroline.  However, considering her cell phone and house phone were consistent with it, it must have made sense to someone.

“I guess I got home before you.  But you have got to look outside.  You will never believe what is going on!”  There was a slight pause from her best friend.  The two women had grown up together.  In fact, they had been voted most likely to be roommates in high school during their mock superlatives for their English class.  They had indeed moved into an apartment together when they were going through college.  However, when Elizabeth had been dating Tony for a year, the two had made a decision that Caroline could not go against.

“I hope you are running to the window right now.  It’s finally happened, just as was foretold.  Look out the window.  They have finally come.  You should turn on your tv.  It is all over the news.  Anyways, call me as soon as you get this.”  Her tone had been urgent with worry just on the edge.  But it was immediately followed by a completely different tone.

“End of message.  To repeat this message, press star.   To save, press…Message deleted,” it announced after being cut off as she pressed the delete button.

Caroline walked back into the living room, turning the tv on and then changing the channel to the news before moving to the window.  But she heard the news anchor say had completely shocked her.  But pulling aside the curtains, her gray eyes widened, shock expanding them, soaking up the images she saw as they did so.  The red and orange glows reflected in her eyes.  It must have started while I was walking up the stairs, well, trudging, she thought as she heard the voice behind her.

“The fire department has all trucks currently out and helping those affected already by this phenomenon.  Officials are working on a way to get all of the city’s inhabitants into the recently finished bunkers.  We will keep you updated as soon as that information goes through,” the masculine voice announced.  They sure were getting their viewers tonight.  Every person with a working tv would be glued to it as if the man on the other side of the glass would provide them with an impossible secret.  Or possibly that it would open up into a door to hurry them to safety. Both were highly unlikely.

“How is fire falling from the sky already?  It wasn’t supposed to start until next week.”  It figures.  The worst day at work would of course lead to the worst day in history.

Anna Frybarger

Prompt 4- You come home late at night, after a hard day.  The message light on the answering machine is blinking.  You press play and listen.  Choose one of the following messages as your starting point: f) It’s finally happened, just as was foretold.  Look out the window.  They have finally come.

I saw it coming the second they turned.  How could she not see it?  I understand she has that big lens that gets close to the action, but she should be paying attention.  Does she realize what they are doing?  “They are going to hit her,” I said to the person standing up next to me in the shaking metal bleachers.  I look around to see if anyone else realizes the same thing I already know is about to happen.  A few people here and there realize it, but most of the other fans are shouting as they watch the three players running, one trying to escape two while holding onto the brown, odd shaped ball.  As I looked back to the field, I saw her beginning to move.  Her hips turned first and immediately after, she began to try and run away from the sideline.  But there was no getting away from what was coming.
I watched as the players hit the ground, sliding out of bounds.  All three took her feet out from under her in a tangled knot like three different pieces of thread in an old sewing kit.  Her arms wrapped around the camera in what I could only assume to be instinct as her knees slammed into the ground.  A sea of green and gold rushed over, picking her up and onto her feet.  Two players steadied her as she frantically checked the camera.  Finally, she was walked to sit down before one of the coaches looked at her, speaking every now and then about what I could only guess was making sure there was no concussion.  Within a few minutes, she was up, walking as if she had not just been taken out by a rockslide of shoulder pads and jerseys.  In fact, she was right back to taking pictures of the game, still moving last second, but with the same quick movements as she normally did at all the other games.

Prompt 2

Anna Frybarger

The sun still had a few more hours when he had walked inside of the old building among the others downtown.  Inside was slightly dim, but not dark to the point that you could no longer see where his feet were.  It was a short distance from the door to the bar, crossing only a few people that needed to come to a bar on a Tuesday night.  Pulling himself into one of the tall wooden chairs at the bar, he ordered a simple beer, not really caring at that moment. He just needed one.

“Did you know they finally caught that man?” a deep voice about three stools down asked the bartender.  It had been the talk of the town lately.  It happened so close.  Some even said that they had known the people involved.

“Yeah.  In the middle of some abandoned woods,” the bartender answered after refilling the man’s glass.

“Near a lake,” the man added.

Turning his head, Sam cold not help but sigh heavily, letting the breath out as if it would release the trouble of the day.  He knew the truth.  He had found her.  “It was a lake about an hour from here.  Pretty much forgotten about.  Or at least that is what I thought from the tall grass,” Sam said, catching the attention of the bartender and the owner of the deep voice.  They were bewildered and intrigued.  The look on their face resembled those of people that slow down at an accident to stare and see all that they possibly can before driving on.  Curiosity was written on their faces in every line of their furrowed brow and the gaze their eyes now held, locked on him.

“The newspapers kept it very quiet.  They did not put a lot in the paper.  The news channels are the same way.  How do you know so much about it?” the bartender questioned.

“She was my wife,” he answered.  His tone was worn, an explanation for his presence in the bar on such a night.  The broad shoulders were hunched as he looked back down at his drink for a moment.  The amber color reminded him of her hair, the tresses that had first caught his attention fifteen years ago.  He needed to speak about it before it ate him up inside. Sam just needed to relay the event to someone in order to keep his sanity.

***

The air was distinguishably different when she stepped from the loaded car.  It was full of the necessities for their trip and even a few things that were not needed but definitely desired.  For instance, Sophie had been pretty sure that she would not need all ten blankets that she had packed into the trunk.  However, it made her feel better to know that in the event something crazy happened, she would be prepared.

A shriek escaped her lips as her hat was forced from her head by a sudden wind.  The blue hat was weathered and frayed, the material around the brim already a very light blue.  She chased after the hat, laughing softly at the situation.  She leaned over to pick it up, recapturing it before turning to look towards the small one story house they had rented.  “I got it!” she said excitedly, walking over to where Sam stood on the front porch.

He was surrounded by the suitcases he was unloading from the car and preparing to load into the house.  “I see that,” he said with a warm smile, the corners of his mouth turned upwards just enough as he watched her bound across the yard and up the steps towards him.  Setting down a suitcase, he gently took the hat from her hand and put the hat back on her head, forcing the wild locks down a bit as he confined them to the Red Sox cap.  It was hard to imagine on days like this that she didn’t have her troubles.  Her bright smile and glowing skin contradicted her bad days.

The happiness streak continued until about after dinner when the smallest thing triggered her memory.  The light blue color of the bathroom wallpaper took her back to the third failure.  To yet another doctor’s visit that she left with red eyes and streaked cheeks.  In the middle of a tissue ocean on the living room floor, a knock at the door made them both look at each other.  One set of brown eyes that held the now familiar look of worry and the green set line with red puffy skin.  But both were silent.  Even the sobs had ceased.

Knock knock. It was abrupt and not in the least bit expected.

Sam pushed himself up off the carpeted floor and walked towards the door.  Sure there were people that he told about the place they rented and where it was.  After all, he had to take off of work for both of them in order to stay at the little house for a week.  But everyone understood and agreed that Sophie needed to get away for a bit.  So any of their friends, relatives, and coworkers would be ruled out of the mystery of who was at the door.  Crossing the distance of the living room to the door, it was still visible unless you were sitting on the couch that faced away from it.

Sam stopped and gathered himself before opening the door.  After all, it was not polite to open the door looking like you were trying to figure out why that person was there.  He was puzzled, though, to find a lanky man standing on the other side of the threshold.  “Hello.  Can I help you?” he asked as he tried to figure out who this man was and why he was here.
“Hello,” the younger man answered.  He looked as if he were in his mid-twenties, his dark hair full without a single thin spot, and his height close to about five and a half feet.   “I was-” he began before looking as if someone had just dropped a puppy in front of him.  “Is something wrong?” he asked when he saw Sophie peering around Sam’s arm, trying to see what was going on.

“Pardon me, but who are you and is there something you need?” Sam asked, trying to be polite.  But the terseness of his tone sounded like it was trying to escape being crushed my two slabs of sheet rock as he tried to keep from snapping at this random man.

“I was just walking by and noticed a new car in front.  I figured I might as well stop and say hello,” the man answered as he twitched slightly.  “I’m Alex,” he said as he held his lightly trembling hand out.    Sam took it, shaking it as shortly as he could.

“It was nice to meet you.  But we are trying to work something out.  So if you don’t min we need to go,” he said, trying to cut this as short as he could.

“It was nice to meet you, too,” he said before beginning to turn down the steps.  There was a change in his demeanor.  Instead of twitching, his body was calm.  His steps were light, as if it were a game to see how short he could make each step and pace that would take him off the porch and onto the ground.

It had been a strange encounter that neither could explain.  The interruption had ceased Sophie’s crying though.  Her face was now contorted with curiosity, brow furrowed and lips slightly pursed, as if she were going to say something, but was trying to figure it out in her head first.  She had seen him twitch and then change into a jaunty and light person.

The couple had agreed just to say that he was a strange person.  No harm could come from a random strange person on a walk.  So they carried on with their day, partly thankful for the interruption that ceased the long crying fit.  The living room floor had to be cleaned up of the snowy tissues that covered a large part of the dark tan carpet.

After cooking and eating a dinner they both helped in making, Sam and Sophie were in the middle of cleaning up the dishes when a sound came from the front of the yard.  Both sets of hands paused.  “I’ll be right back,” Sam said softly as he set the recently dried pot down on the counter.  Leaving the bright colored kitchen, he moved through the dining room, then the living room, before finally getting to the front door.  He grabbed a tall candlestick holder nearby before slowly unlocking and turning the doorknob.  He opened the door quickly, throwing it open as if it would burn his hand if he touched it for too long.  There was nothing out there though.  He even stepped onto the porch and looked around.  Not a single thing was different from earlier when they had sat on the porch together while the dinner was in the oven.

A scream followed a loud crash inside the house behind his back.  He turned quickly and ran back inside, not even bothering with the door that remained wide open. Sam walked into the kitchen to see Sophie trembling on the floor, her body caught in a repeated cycle of jerky motions, like a scene on a scratched DVD.  Alex was kneeling next to her, leaning over her body as he spoke to himself.  “We are going to fix you right on up.  You will not be sad anymore,” he said, dragging the red covered stainless steel across his wife’s body.

“Sophie,” he uttered in shock.  Rushing forward, he grabbed the deranged man who was still running on about his new clinical discovery.  Thud. Clink.  The knife hit the floor near the counter where they had been cleaning not even ten minutes ago. But the knife was not his worry at the moment.  Sam was struggling with Alex, trying to get him bent into a manner like a pretzel so he could call the police.  He wanted nothing more than to get his revenge right then.  He could grab the knife and just take justice into his own hands.

In the struggle to get completely control, Alex, who still believed himself to be a doctor that could cure sadness forever, knocked Sam into the counter hard.  The loud sound of skull hitting thick wood cabinets stopped the conflict between the two men.  Sam was only unconscious for a few minutes.  When he did open his eyes again, it was like looking through white stained glass at first.  It didn’t take long for him to realize she was gone, though.  They both were.

***

“It took the police five minutes to arrive.  They found her body in three days.  It had  been …” he slowly stopped.  He took a deep breath, as if trying to put his mind back into autopilot in order to finish speaking.  “It had been left in the tall grass around the edges of a lake about three miles away from that house.”  He was still confused on how he got away so fast.  The only possible answer was that Alex had kept a car near enough to carry the body to.  But even when Alex had been found, there had been no car.  Just the crazy Alex Thomas who kept speaking about the weather.

“Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”  It had been the last thing the murder of Sophie Edwards had said to her husband.

-Anna Frybarger

The two neighbor metallic stools were made soft for them by the plastic covered cushion attached to the top.  The smell of hot soup wafted towards them as the waitress ladled some of the hot, red liquid into a bowl.  The smell slowly disappeared once the lid was placed back on the pot behind the counter.  An exasperated sigh escaped the woman’s mouth.  The thoughts running through her mind had her exasperated.  It was that kind of day.  Hell, it was that kind of week.  Now, it had to be shared.

“Water,” she said when the waitress made it over to them.  Her jeans were a light color, signaling how much they had been worn.  The white tennis shoes on her feet gave away that they probably were as old as the jeans.  A small notepad was pulled out of the little black apron around her waist.

“I will have a Diet Coke,” the younger woman said when the glance of the waitress moved to her.  Victoria knew that things had been different lately.  Her hand moved to the plastic straw when their two plastic cups arrived.  “What has been going on lately?” she asked.

Cynthia put off answering the question until they ordered.  Everything on the laminated, two-sided menu was simple: sandwiches, soup, and milkshakes.  There was no simple way to deal with the knowledge moving around her mind.  There was a simple sentence.  A sentence that had been difficult for her to accept.  Her fingers fiddled with the spoon as her soup arrived, ordered simply to bring the smell back. She moved the white, thin plastic around through the thick soup before looking up.

“It’s cancer.”

A shuffling of white paper bags in the back filled the silence between the two women.  One was still trying to accept the news of leaving while the other was beginning to tackle the mountain of trying to accept losing the person that did the most for her.

“Since when?”  The hot bowl in front of her seemed to no longer hold the interest it would have had.  The arrangement of saltine crackers next to the white bowl on a light blue plate, that matched the pattern of the old linoleum of the floor, went unnoticed.  The careful teachings of how to properly present the food to the customer do not have the intended effect.

“I should have waited to tell you until after we ate,” Cynthia said with a sigh.  It had been one month and five days.  That was the answer she should have given.  Certain details had to wait until later.

Anna Frybarger

5. Burroway, Try This, page 136 (write either a memory or a short-short story)

Work.  A four letter-word that Brea knew well.  Looking to the circular clock, she watched the second hand tick in a cyclical manner for a brief moment before looking back to the large printer she was currently leaning on.  The clock reminded her that she had only been there for an hour and a half.  “Another six and a half to go,” she breathed softly while waiting for the special paper to roll out.  Click. The familiar sound let her know that it was finally ready.  Taking the sheet from the drop tray, she walked out of the lab and up to the front where the cheap customer was waiting for their free sheet.

“It is beautiful,” the woman cooed when she was shown the picture.  “I am so glad we were able to get something.  I was really rather surprised at how well they came out considering her slightly less than cooperative mood today,” she said calmly.  It always seemed ridiculous how some parents acted.  The woman in front of her, now exhibit A, acted as if her child was always calm and just happen to have a problem earlier.  Ironically, the four-year-old boy was still running around the studio as if his mind had dropped completely from his skull.

These kind of cases were what we referred to as delusional parents, just one of the many types that walked in through the doors of the studio.  They believed that their child was an angel and would sit perfectly still as if he knew that his mother desperately wanted her free sheet at the cost of Brea’s sanity.  This perfect child, however, was never the case with these kinds of parents.  Rather, the child would run around the camera room, trying to break every prop within reach and damage the very expensive backdrops.  These children, were ones that had obviously never received a spank in their life.

But rather than say to the woman’s face what kind of hellacious child she was mother of, Brea simply smiled and watched as the woman took five minutes to round up her child out of the studio.  “At least no frames were broken this time,” she said as her manager walked up behind her.

“I agree.  I almost wanted to wrap them all in bubble wrap before he came in.  That poor Easter egg prop though is going to have to get thrown away,” the studio manager said, obviously unhappy by her posture and tone.

Brea did not need reminding on how the egg was broken.  It was for the same reason she did not need to be reminded as to why there was currently a bruise forming on the top part of her arm close to her shoulder.  Some children just should not be allowed into places such as the photography studio she worked at.  But not all children were like the one that had only recently left, dragging his mother in the opposite direction she wanted to go while screaming candy as loud as he possibly could, knowing that his mother hated a scene and would rather appease the child than discipline him.

The camera room needed to be cleaned up once she had the time.  Trudging to the room, she forced herself to remember that she loved her job.  Very much so.  Some sittings required her to point such a fact out to herself.  After three years of high school camera experience an photographing amazing touchdowns, fantastic slides into base, and awesome spikes, she took and sold pictures of animals, children, families, maternity, and even Santa.  “I love my job,” she said as she put the remaining, unbroken Easter eggs back into a basket to return them to the safe haven of the prop closet where they could hope to be brought out to a kid who would appreciate them next time.

With the room cleaned, the photographer walked back into the lab, the safety of the employees that was home to a large printer that sat directly in front of the door, two computers for uploading and editing pictures, frames and a counter for framing, photo paper, chemicals, and a set of old tan lockers for those working to keep their things in. She walked to her locker before going in search of the bottle of water stored behind the rectangular, metal door with a craft glued to it in order to signal that it was indeed her locker.

“Luckily the next shoot is a newborn that is only four weeks old,” came the voice of the studio manager.  Newborns meant easy, adorable pictures.  A baby that young mostly slept or just looked up at the parents whose expectations were not very high.  In general, they were also easy sales considering parents love to coo and awe over their tiny infant.  Six hours to go.

By the end of the night, telemarketing had been done to bring in more customers, the floors had been cleaned as well as the backdrops, and the bathroom no longer smelled of a horrid diaper that had been put in the trash can rather than the diaper pail a foot from it.  The air smelled of Lysol and Pinesol.  After clocking it, it was finally the end of a long day.  Only tomorrow it had to be done all over again.  Brea hoped her dreams would not involve work again.

Just to let you know, I really wish you could see how stupid you are acting.  How can you honestly tell me what I am thinking?  Last time I checked, my brain was not accessible by everyone around me.  So do not stand there and try to tell me what I thought and felt.  Just so you are clear on the subject, I will go into direct detail.  I do not want to cause any confusion.  So sit back and pay attention.

To begin with, you can see him all you want.  If you want to hang out and associate yourself with someone who cannot make up his mind on what he wants, then have a carnival with it.  Make a complete event out it.  You can order balloons, a cake, and have confetti for all I care.  If you want to bum a ride to get your nails done and then ignore your friends, that is your choice.  Just be ready to take what comes with it.  Be ready to accept that you are undependable and have no problem using people.  Go on.  At least own up to your actions since everyone else can see what you deny doing.

Do not tell me that I am angry about what you want me to be angry about.  This melodramatic argument you are trying to instigate and then prolong is ridiculous.  So let me break it down until all that is left is fine sand from the original brick.  I know what I am angry about and I know what I feel.  When you go by my name or have known me for at least one fourth of my life, then you can make comments on how I think and what I might possibly be thinking about.  Until then, zip and keep it to yourself.  Or at least have to intelligence to stop forcing it after the first time I tell you that you are wrong.

To continue, I also wish you to know that he was indeed a jerk.  Just because you did not want me to admit it to your face like everyone else was doing does not change the fact.  When he doesn’t answer your calls but takes your roommates, it is only one thing.  He is being a jerk.  Plain and simple.  Do not try to rip my head off like an escapee from a mental institution for criminals.  Then again, I will not have to worry about this anymore since you two are no longer dating.  But once that happened, you had no problem telling me we were all right.  All of us.  Every person that told you how much you did not deserve him.  At this point though, I change my mind.  You two do deserve each other because you both have a knack for screwing up different types of bonds between people, him relationships and you friendships.

The good news for me is that I will no longer have to deal with any of this again.  No more answering your calls at two in the morning like a good friend when you are having issues with your family.  There will be no more taking you with me to stay at my grandparents’ house for Spring Break and let my aunt buy you things.  There will be no more lending you money that will take between weeks to months to get back.  No more lending you books only to get them back looking like they went through both world wars.  There is a feeling of relief when I consider all the drama I will no longer have to deal with.  Through all of this, though, you should learn one lesson.  Gain one bit of advice.  Do not tell people what they are thinking or feeling.  It turns them against you instantly and makes them want to just knock you to the ground before walking away.

I could not get it to double space no matter what I tried.

“This will be perfect.” There was nothing in sight except for the dark mirror reflecting trees, clouds, and even some animals and a simple dock. The old wood creaked softly beneath his feet as he walked along discolored panels held above the calm water. The dark sky was just beginning to get driven from the sky by the sun.

“Perfect for what?” The voice was curious, wondering why this lake in particular held any importance. It was in the middle of nowhere. No cities nearby to cause noise and chaos, just trees that only made noise when the wind moved through the branches and leaves. There was no smell of gas or pollution, simply pine, floral, and a fresh scent. It was the smell that candle companies tried to dominate in order to make some house in the suburbs smell as if it were in this exact place.
Feet began to walk backwards cautiously. Wilbur was well aware that it would be smarter to just run around. But the sight of the hills beyond the lake is more than captivating. It traps the mind and holds the gaze like a black and white swirl from a cheap hypnotist. “For living,” came the response. “I can cut down the trees and make a cabin. I will use the land!” The voice moved out over the water. No one else was present, yet the sound still reverberated. The idea was rather ridiculous since the man had no tools. There was nothing but him, the clothes he wore, and a receipt that had been accidentally washed in his pocket. Yet he had the deranged idea that he would be able to live off the land right then and there.

A red hue was reflected in the water by the time he made it off the dock and began to walk around the lake at the edge of the water. The sun was rising slowly from the east and beginning to color the grass a fresh shade of green. He stopped before moving to take his shoes off of his feet, untying the laces first and then removing them and his socks. Rolling up the dirty denim pant legs, he then proceeded to wade into the water slowly.

“It is so cold. You could freeze to death in this water. And it looks like it is going to rain today.”

“I know. Just a few minutes and then I will get out. It is just so refreshing. I will have to get started on my house soon.”

“But the bottom isn’t smooth. All kinds of rocks are poking my feet harshly.”

“You complain too much,” he said before finally getting out. He left the shoes and socks where they were. Tiny bugs were already crawling into them, exploring the new wonder that had invaded their home. Once again, he was drawn back to the old dock. Walking to the very edge this time, he sat down and let his toes touch the water as he discovered the true colors of the land and lake before and around him. “Maybe I should have listened to them.”

“You should have listened? I should have listened! If I had, I would not be sitting here with you. You who thinks that he can live off the land in the middle of nowhere.”

Every night there is something different
behind those heavy closed curtains. You don’t see
what I see, in the world of my mind.
Hidden deep, even psychology tries to explain
with meanings and reasons, the things that both
can scare and excite me.

Every night I roll the dice to see
what I will get.  It is a game of chance
without bets.  A game that feels
like it could be real or simply delusional,
possibly even both simultaneously.
Yet anticipation builds in preparation
for what may soon come.

Every night I have the opportunity
to be something possibly not quite real.
There is the chance that I am touching
the stars as I jump from planet to planet
in a ship not yet invented.  Or even
meeting someone famous, sharing
ideas while stirring the sugar  into
lightly colored coffee in a ceramic mug,
the logo on the outside of the glossy material.

Every night is a time for anything.  A period
of no rules or guidelines.  Laws of
physics and scholarly ideas no longer
apply.  You are left with simply the feeling
of wanting to go back again and again.
The feeling of not wanting to return to
the defined way of life.

Only every once in a while, does it return again.

I could be running in terror from
a villain unknown, tossing and turning
as I try to escape.
Throwing open the blinds does not chase
it away.  It continues its plague for
hours on end, unrelenting, unyielding, and
frightful.  It becomes the creator of
screams and thrashes, a grip upon
my nightly escape from reality.

Try as hard as you might, there is no
escape.  What can be done?  Not much,
unfortunately.  After all, what can you do
when even waking up no longer rescues you
from the deranged and horrifying things in your dreams.

- Anna Frybarger

Those eyes, so dark, caught my attention
despite how my pride tried to pull me away.
My emotions which were against convention
caused in me a puzzle of dismay.

His vicious words were deeply felt
and hurt my pride without a doubt.
My dignity was injured, and a welt
had been left, making me want to shout.

She was stubborn but very intelligent
and I could not avoid falling in love
with her.  She is vivacious and imprudent
but these emotions I cannot shove.

I thought without all of the facts
and was found to be wrong about
the man I loved.  The way he acts
shows our love is simply stout.

-Anna Frybarger