Deep footprints sank where his feet met the sand. Every step seemed to send him further from reality. He resembled a dark twilight sky; his skin too damaged to look at. All he could smell was blood. The metallic smell made his throat burn with the urge to vomit. His legs were weak underneath him.

He was not sure where he was going. He was not sure where he could go. The sand stretched for miles beyond his vision, and the ocean was infinite. He might as well be walking in circles. He knew all about circles. An infinite cycle made him who he was. Who he was, was not pretty.

His limbs finally withdrew and sent him tumbling. Each shaky breath pulled life right out of him. Timid waves lapped at his side. His hands gripped the sand. It was all he could think of to keep him grounded to life. This was it. He fought so hard to keep his life but for what? He did not know.

"I knew I'd find you here."

He struggled to move his head. A woman stood before him, seeming to glow against the dim sky.

"Me?" He croaked.  

She giggled, not a bit phased by his state. "Yes, you. Who else?"

He blinked groggily. Life had already begun to leave him. "You know who I am?"

"I will," she said.

He wasn't sure what to say. The girl sat, so he pushed himself up. "W-who are you?"

She smiled, tilting her head. "You will know that too."

His head spun and ached. Death was upon him. He had no time for games, but in a sense, he supposed, he did.

"Mistrust didn't treat you well," she accounted softly. "Neither did Greed or Envy."

He looked at her, past his shaggy hair. He had no words. The memories seemed to pain him more than his present physical state. He murmured, "I'm so tired."

She nodded sympathetically. "Everyone takes you for granted, don't they?"

He almost laughed. Here, on his deathbed, the woman who understood him crossed his path. "I have limits."

"You're not gonna die, Love." Her grin was as easy as the sea breeze.

He was too baffled by her words to even question her knowledge of his name. "How do you know?"

Her eyes seemed to sparkle and sent a tingling sensation through his spine. "Because I'm Faith, and I won't let you go." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for contradiction. She knelt and intertwined their fingers. With the contact, his piercing pain was subdued to dull aches. In time, his discomfort was a thing of the past. "Your limits extend further than you could ever imagine. Don't give up on yourself, Love. You can not mend the world by yourself, but I'm here now."

I smile up

At the vibrant trees

And it seems like

They're smiling back at me

The wind flits about

And teases my hair

I'm so happy

I leave behind my cares

I close my eyes

So I can hear

Those autumn sounds

Because autumn is finally here

I feel something

Brush my head

I open my eyes

And amongst the orange and reds

A yellow leaf like the sun

Shines bright

And smiles up at me

With its vibrant light

And even though

Autumn has just begun today

I know I'll be sad

When the autumn leaves go away

And winter comes and autumn leaves

Two minutes to six and I can't ignore the heavy drops of rain tapping my car like a full set of fingers on a keyboard or God beating out a tune in a rhythm I'd have to be God to understand. These are taps I find more distracting then the velvet snores of my wife two minutes to midnight. This morning I am sleepless in Stafford. Last night I was sleepless, too, maybe because grading and lesson planning has me taking caffeine pills at 7 pm. Or maybe it's an anxiety leftover from Hurricane Harvey. We all seem to be shivering these days at every storm-sign. Fall's coming. Fall's here? Difficult to tell away from the screen of my phone and the expedited flings of a google search (Google: the best way to bing). Nor can I look to the skies or stars. Man peers down at the glowing milk of phones while the Milky Way hides behind fog and musk and must and smog. Houston doesn't do Fall right. We don't have the crooning red leaves swirling in ancient tempos or the yellow-orange bracken littering the floor like tossed invitations to some garbageborn small town venue. Houston is slimy year-round, the glitter dulled by knees of moss and Jurassic greens. Maybe the sunsets are a little more red when you're stuck in traffic, but how do you find the beauty when avoiding the Wheels and Winds and Waters? Now Houston rain isn't fingers—it's gray cement pouring against windshields. You can never really escape it, nor the feeling you're slowly falling out of love.

I was born into a world of absolutes.

The sky is blue. The grass is green. The boys lie. 

I drank them in like water, strengthening my just formed flesh. These were known, rather than felt. But still, they were true.

The mom loves. The dad works. The families function.

After years of knowing the bees sting, I was finally stung on the playground outside of classroom three. I experienced the searing pain in slow motion, like the moment before an impact, the knowing and the feeling finally meeting, hazy and bright. They were right, when they told me it hurt. But no one had told me that the bees die.

I learned to cling to facts, hanging on with my tiny fingers even if it felt like I was dangling from a cliff. They armed me with the steel wings of an abridged bowling lane; they kept me from falling into the gutter.

I knew that if I kissed a boy, I would get pregnant. I knew if I kissed a girl, I’d go to hell. I knew that if I wandered too far, my mother would scream in that high-pitched way Greek mothers do, as if the supermarket floor had turned to soup and was slopping over the edges of the Earth, eager to join the sky’s runoff, longing for that meeting place somewhere yet unseen.

In fourth grade, they taught us the meaning of “if, then” statements. If I am this, then I am that. I filled up pages and pages of dotted lines with facts and figures, each deserving of their own gold star.

If I am sad, then I am choosing not to be happy. If I am hungry, then I am pretty. If I am the right kind of girl, then I am wild, but tame, hair flowing behind my back, but in a manageable way, sea salt staining my perfect skin, rigid with morality but soft to the touch. If I am the wrong kind of girl, then I am almost everything else.

This I knew.

In high school my friend said to me, all of my greatest friends are Leos and they are all assholes.

If I am a Leo, then I am an asshole.

I am a Leo.

The teachers told me if I cared about my education, then I’d show up. When they spent the first thirty minutes of the class rolling up their sleeves and drinking in their hot waters, telling us to sit and be quiet and read, I stopped going.

If they cared about my education, then they’d show up, I thought.

I knew I talked too loudly, had too many opinions, looked at people too sternly. They said if I was smaller, then I’d be perfect, so I turned myself to liquid and sank beneath my floorboards. I oozed between the cobwebs and the broken screws. If I can take up the smallest space, then I am the smallest space.

If, then.

The first boy that showed me attention, who grabbed at my skin with sticky fingers, who folded his lips around the smallest corners of my body, told me, if I loved him, then I’d let him do with me what he wanted. When I promised I loved him but wasn’t sure, he punished me by joyfully jamming his uncut fingernails inside me for an hour. If this is what love felt like, then it hurt.

I wanted out from beneath the canopy of knowing. I wanted to feel, too. But the world pointed its fingers at me and told me I couldn’t afford to leave. I walked up to bank windows and shook hands with every locked door. They laughed from the inside, hoarding their money like candy, like piles of food, like clean water. Finally, they asked me to turn around and bend over as they piled stacks of paper on my back, caressing me with promises of blank checks. If I default, then I am yours, I said gleefully, with a flourish of my electronic signature.

The real world had its own set of absolutes, but it wasn’t sharing them with me. I dove into its secrets, hoping to figure them out. But feelings were scarier than fact and I wore my rules closer to my body, strapped to my limbs like weights in the water. I allowed myself continuous movement while going nowhere, often knocked over by the current of those around me.

I swallowed their words, their stares, their touch, their semen.

The men told me that if I was just a little prettier, I wouldn’t have to be smart, and if I was just a little smarter, I wouldn’t have to be pretty. If I am neither smart enough nor pretty enough, then I am neither of those things at all. I became less feminine, a little harder and a little angrier.

If they can’t break me, then I can’t break.

I stopped looking down, instead staring into their eyes. If I lost my nerve, I shifted to the spot just above their right eyebrow; backing down without letting them know it.

They called me a bitch, sassy, mean, cold. A control freak, as they went about their day, grasping for control with their long hands and small dicks.

I came out from under the floorboards and curdled by the radiator, hot and bubbling. Summer came and the radiator became too greedy, always asking to hold me too close, stifling me with its needs. I slid up the bed frame, circling the twisted sheets before allowing myself to take over the mattress; king sized and alone. A stranger on the train grabbed me close and shoved himself into the back of my body, whispering sharp words into the nape of my neck. I responded by consuming the mattress, crunching on springs and strings, spitting out flowery pillows, dressing myself in bed skirts.

I ate all of my books. They told me I knew less the more I learned, told me how insatiable I was after a lifelong acceptance of hunger. I expected promises like the Bible, absolutes and truths, and instead ingested theories and questions and a stunning lack of rules. I grew bigger as I shed layers of myself.

The mirror laughed at me until I stared at the spot above its right eyebrow. My closet burped with the knowledge of things past. My coats called to me with the promises of winter, with wrapping myself up tight and disappearing in the snow. But I ate them, too. I ate my way through the hallway, the living room, the building with its numbers “152” scrawled on the brick outside.

I became a girl who was just sad, or just happy, or just awake. I kissed a girl and imagined what hell was like; if it tasted just like this, sweaty and sweet. I dressed myself in the trappings of the wrong kind of woman; my hair became unmanageable, my skin became wild. I defaulted and wrote the bank a check for the detritus at the bottom of my purse; a memo line consisting of “lint and old gum.”

On my twenty-ninth birthday, the sun called my name. It said, be like me, bright and earnest, overpowering. Hurt others with your glare. I stared into it until the sky started to explode, until my eyes started to drip down my face. I told the sun, I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive.

It shadowed itself with the moon, allowing me just a moment, telling me I can also be soft and tired and quiet and dark and whispered back,

Yes you are. Absolutely.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Title: August 21, 2017

Genre: Poetry/Short Story

Age Range: 14-?

Word Count: 1273

Author Name: Christina Connerton

Why it's a good fit: It's a good ol' piece of writing I think you'll like.

The Hook: "I was born into a world of absolutes" because we all were.

Synopsis: A girl learning to be alive.

Target Audience: Women, young adults, teens, everyone?

Bio: Christina Connerton is an OC-raise/NY-bred/LA-living writer and producer who just wants to write words, drink wine, and hang out with kittens. As a dancer, she learned the act of storytelling through movement, at work she focuses on storytelling through film, and on the side she creates her own story with words.

Education: BFA (Dance) from NYU, MSW (Social Work) from CUNY Lehman

Experience: I've been writing my whole life. Writer behind www.chroniclesofabarmaid.tumblr.com, and www.alalanews.org. I just recently started writing poetry and have submitted to some contests. I am currently working on my first pilot.

Personality/writing style: Personality: Sarcastic and introverted with a touch of giddyness and a sprinkling of righteous rage. My style ranges from comedy to parody to poetry to drama depending on the mood.

Likes/Hobbies: Writing, rescuing kittens, making films, making plans and not following through, singing, sitting on my couch and turning into a pile of pudding.

Hometown: Irvine, CA

Age: 29

     Lighting up in front of a no smoking sign, while singing signs, signs, everywhere there’s signs, is about the ballsiest thing I do these days. The nurses allow it, simply because I refuse to be cooperative without my hourly smoke break. I had been sadly mistaken in the assumption that the truth would set me free, and found myself under twenty-four hour protective watch, after sharing fantasies of driving into oncoming traffic with my shrink. When she mentioned in-patient treatment, I laughed a little before telling her to fuck off. She in turn, politely stated it was not a suggestion. Alas, I find myself here - in a safe place, where I can work out my inner kinks under the guidance of a well trained, but slightly irritated psychiatric staff.

     I am attempting to settle into this new atmosphere, and to adjust to the surroundings, which include doctors, nurses, and several other patients - some with nervous tics that are driving me batty. I’ve yet to accept any visitors, feeling as though I am a dog wearing the cone of shame. My husband will most likely leave me anyway, and I’m certain to be fired from my job. The doctor say’s that’s purely the anxiety talking, and everyone just wants me to get well. But, I know she’s full of shit. At least I am spared from wearing a hospital gown, and am allowed to stroll around in my own clothing, which I have selected with great purpose. Today’s attire consists of black and white striped lounge pants, hot pink slipper socks, and a t’shirt that reads, I Do Not Have Enough Middle Fingers For This! Sadly my favorite shirt - # Go Fuck Yourselfie - has been confiscated.

     Today is sharing circle day. I’ve not participated in this activity as of yet, and frankly I am rather doubtful as to it’s benefits. I don’t particularly care for strangers, let alone do I want to share my inner demons with them. I figure giving it a good honest try won’t do any harm though, so I am patiently waiting in one of the chairs for the group therapist to arrive. The man next to me introduces himself, and tells me that he is a YouTube star. Apparently he has 429 subscribers, who watch him breath like a tiger twice a week. I fake a smile, then turn away, as he continues to describe his breathing technique. Just as the doctor walks into the room, I turn to the tiger man and explain to him, tomorrow is Mother's Day, and normally I would be able to drink as many mimosas as I like and no one would be able to say shit, but instead I'm stuck here with a bunch of crazies, and would he kindly shut up. It is then decided I might not be ready for group session just yet, so the doctor asks one of the nurses to escort me to the courtyard for some air.

     In the courtyard the nurse sits next to me on a wooden bench underneath a willow tree. I observe, from the tag on her shirt, her name is Gilda. I pity her for it. She wants to know why I am so angry, and I tell her my mouth tastes like a monkey’s ass, because they don’t allow their patients to keep mouthwash. I can see the annoyance in her eyes, but she is trying hard to stay positive with me. She hands me a notebook, much like the ones used in elementary school for spelling words, or daily writing practice. My assignment is to write down why I am here, and what goals I might have for my stay. Nurse Gilda supplies me with a ballpoint pen and takes her leave. I notice her taking a deep breath as she walks away, and I call after her to enjoy the rest of her morning.

     For a few moments, I just sit staring across the lawn beyond the yard, while resting the notebook and pen in my lap. I think about the assignment Nurse Gilda has given me, and decide to have a sincere go at it. Putting pen to paper I begin to write:

Dear Nurse Gilda,

     I am here, at this beautiful retreat center, because I had thoughts of taking my own life. Mind you, they were just thoughts, no action was taken, but nonetheless I am here. The doctor’s say I have major depression, an anxiety disorder - without agoraphobia, and suicidal ideation. Ideation is the key word in the phrase, I believe. You see, just because I thought of it, doesn’t mean I’ll go through with anything. They say death is only a problem for the living, and not for the dead. I think this is a true statement. Taking my life would mean hurting those precious souls closest to me. I could never do such a thing to my children and my husband. Perhaps, there will come a day when my absence would no longer sting, and my suffering could be relieved, but until then I vow to remain a living, breathing, pain in everyone's ass.

     You asked me to write some goals for my stay here. I can think of only two:

          1. Use the opportunity to lose a few pounds - the food service in this place is horrendous! It reminds me of the slop farmers feed to their pigs.

          2. Go home.

Thank you for the assignment, would you kindly bring me some mouthwash or a package of breath mints?

                                                                   Sincerely,

                                                                   The lady from room 200

     For a split second, I almost consider giving this letter to the nurse. A tear begins to form in the corner of my eye, and the familiar feeling of panic starts to arise in my body. I rip the page from the notebook, crumpling it into a ball, and toss it in the garbage can next to the bench. I see Nurse Gilda coming back, and I know she can tell I am crying. I quickly write in huge letters, across the now blank page in front of me: Piss Off! I tell her as she approaches, that I have completed my homework, and I hand her the book. With a sigh, she reads, then closes it. In her palm, is my cigarette and a lighter. She tells me I may commence my signing if I should like. I don’t feel like singing, and quietly light up, without saying a word.