Wednesday, May 24, 2017

I Have No Memory of Writing This

I draw elephants when I'm scared of mice
It's quite ironic, isn't it?
The most inconsequential triviality 
Can send me spiraling into stressing
And worrying. And ruminating. And brooding. 
So I draw elephants.

But the elephant is always smaller
Than the hole in my chest
His massiveness does nothing but sit
In my stomach and churn
Like a lump or two of sugar in tar
Coagulating like sick at the bottom.

And even when the mice find their way in
My brain pushes them with a broom
But straw bristles do nothing as poison does
I have no poison
So they just scurry behind other thoughts
And squeak when I forget

Have No Fear!

I'm still here!

Hey everybody, just wanted to let you know that I haven't gone anywhere. I'm just having a little trouble posting right now heavyset I just sent my laptop in for repairs, so I have been limited to just my cellular device. I might be posting here and there with it for the next couple of weeks, but it's a very cumbersome process, what with autocorrect and what have you.
I've been putting off sending laptop in because of finals, but it was only a couple months old and they will cover repairs under my warranty, so I figured I should just hunker down and do it now that I don't need it. The one bad pixel led to another which led to another and now there's a six inch long black line running down the vertical meridian of my screen, and it's only growing. So I'm laptopless for the meantime. I beg for forgiveness, just know I'm not going anywhere, and my blog is still very much alive!

 Thanks so much, and sorry for any typos! I can't be bothered to spell check a mobile post.

-An Amish

Friday, May 19, 2017

A New Page, Missing The Old Page

It's been 33 hours since I said goodbye to my creative writing class.

This semester has brought so many good things. I can't even begin to tell you how far I've come. Writing was always bittersweet for me - I'm a creature of immediate gratification. Anyone who has attempted to write anything of importance knows that it's a tedious and meticulous process of trial, error, and retrial. I was the kind of writer that could brainstorm characters and plots for days on end, but when it came to the actual writing, well... to be frank, it just took too long. It's not necessarily that I'd get bored with my stories. No, it was a bit more selfish than that. The fact that my book wasn't completed and published within a week really put a damper in my motivation to work. I feel like there might be some people out there who relate.

But this semester has brought the writing process out into a whole new light. I see it now as a therapeutic escape from the real world. I realize now that I've been writing about the wrong things. I don't want to write cheesy love stories anymore. I want to write about much bigger things... the rise and fall of hubris, the fine line between good and evil, why someone might blindly obey against their own morality - all of these things are why I write. I've decided that exploring my own curiosities in my writing is a great way to KEEP writing. I figure myself out in the process and learn things I wouldn't have known previously. In a way, it's a little scary, because sometimes I find myself writing things I didn't expect, but I suppose that's just part of the process now.

I've found that writing shorter stories (despite my larger-than-life ideas) has been a happy medium as of late. I think the gratification that comes from having a finished piece of work that actually WORK is a lot better than having thirty unfinished first-ten-pages. I think as time goes on, I'll be able to hold out longer and longer, and I might work my way up to novel length. I also think that posting my stories in installments is another good way to combat my lack of selfish motivation - being able to share what I've written with others and receive feedback for every chapter is definitely a confidence booster. Not only that, it makes every chapter feel like it's own finished work.

I'm sincerely going to miss my creative writing class. The discussions and experiments were such an amazing step for me as a writer, that I couldn't imagine going on without it. Alas, I must, but if I could do it all over again, I would. 

Wade Bradford, your class was a safe space. I have never felt more comfortable in my own creative skin. Even when I was criticized, it was never hurtful, or embarrassing. Being surrounded by fellow authors-in-training helped to combat my anxieties, and having a professor that actually CARED was... refreshing. Thank you once again for everything.

And thank you to my lovely witches in House Glowdark. You were the best house I could have ever been last-minute-ly thrust into. Your input was what made my work this year absolutely sky-rocket in quality, and I appreciate every single last one of your critiques and compliments. Kayden, Marissa, Alondra, Shaundee, and Holly, you'll forever be my writers-best-friends, so I hope you don't mind if I send you some drafts from time to time. ;)

And last but not least, thank you to everyone I had the pleasure of meeting this semester. Thank you all for creating an amazing creativity-friendly environment. It was an honor working with all of you, and I hope I'll be seeing most of  you around. Also, feel free to hit me up and send me anything you want a second opinion on. I'm always down to help a fellow writer out. <3

Forever a Glowdarkian,

-A Friend

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

A Spenserian Sonnet

a b a b b c b c c d c d e e

The leather bound books sit upon the shelf, 
Collecting dreams that drifted from my sleep, 
And turning pages inked all by themselves, 
Have overlooked the blots of last night's weep. 
The haunted midnight chime does sweetly reap 
The aging parchment of the library. 
As quill and ink do pair and aptly keep,
Mortality is likely to bury. 
Even such timeless tales of folk faerie
Are not immune to rot, as things of dreams 
Will drown at dawn in aging's airy sea, 
For death must understand what may not seem.

Though binding blood might break the fractured spine,
At least these dreams they must collect are mine. 

Sunday, May 14, 2017


I wrote this December 15th, 2015. Enjoy!

Pessimism (n).
Perpetual Energy and Self-Sustaining Inability to Maintain or Improvise Simple Matters

People Engage in Surreptitious Situations that Inadvertently Minimize the Improbability of Sanctioning Morality.
Post-Effigetic Systems "Surprisingly" Inspire Minimal Imagination in the Surviving Masses, yet
Painful Endurance Strives to Sedate these Innocents, Making Inaccurate Surmises of their Mentality.
Practically Every "Savior" Suspects the Impossibility of Mediating, Implying Sadness were the Monster. oh,
Pity those Extremely Stupid Souls who Invoke such Mindless Injustices on the Smarter Mankind, for
Provoking Enragement of the Smarter Selves will Indefinitely Mar their Innovative Survival Mechanics. the 
Perfect Environment finds Solace in Selection, an Inoperative Mechanism in Society, Modernly.
Pests should Expire, Simmered Slowly in Materials Impure and be Shown no Mercy.
Pessimism Is Simply Sense: Including Melancholy, yes, but Involving Statistical Measurements.
Past Encounters Shall Surface Impendingly, Masquerading as Improbable Scenarios to Many, but
Pessimists Expect; thought Scorned by the Several Ignorant, Miraculous, Idealistic Swine of Misunderstanding.

Pessimism (n).
definition refined:
Predicting Eventual Settlements of Situations Idiotically Misconstrued by Impractical, Simplistic Morons!

A Petrarchan Sonnet

a b b a a b b a
c d e c d e

Truly do I feel the seaward breezes.
In faith, in part, I might forget to breathe.
And under urchins I might choose to seethe, 
For lapsing waves have plagued me with freezes.
Wintry lips have met Poseidon's teases
With angry Tempest's gnash of salty teeth;
Who dragged the praying God from underneath
To do with him whatever she pleases.
And languidly I wait for tides of blue
And pink of sunset sickness in the sea 
To melt away the words I long since spoke.
In foaming reveries I dream of you,
As memories churn foggy with debris,
You are the final swallow of the choke.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Insecurity and Hindsight

In another life,                                 I would like to think that I was the perfect version of myself.
I would like to think that my hair fell in long tresses like roses on a trellis.
I would also like to think that it smelled like roses on a trellis.
In another life, I would have hoped not of such selfish things as perfection.

In some other dimension, I can see myself sitting on the edge of a freeway overpass.
I count the lights that fly between my feet much like roaring bugs in summer.
I keep a tally of how many remind me of cliche movies.
In some other dimension, on the edge of a freeway overpass, I wouldn't think about falling.

If I wasn't myself, I know I could be everything that I've ever wanted to be.
I'd be a successful writer. I'd know to bake oatmeal cookies from scratch.
I wouldn't waste time worrying over the inevitable and the indescribable.
If I wasn't myself, I know I'd be more of myself than I have ever been in my life.

      In another life.

Sunday, May 7, 2017

Into the Belly of the Beast!

A short scene by Sarah Gay

Oura: A quirky, witty girl of twelve. Dry and cynical.
Mino: A rough-and-tumble boy. Smart. Oura’s twin brother

(Setting) Inside of a whale.

Mino enters, followed by Oura who carries a book. Mino holds a magnifying glass, a pad of paper, and a pencil in his mouth.

Oura: It smells like fish in here.
Mino: Whale’s aren’t fish, Oura. They’re mammals.
Oura: Still smells like fish.
Mino: Oh, would you stop your whining and let me do my field work? Did I complain last week when we took a trip to Venus?
Oura: Yes, actually. (Mimicking him) It’s way too hot, Sissy! Why couldn’t we have visited Jupiter?
Mino: Oh, shut it! You know Jupiter would have been more interesting anyway. That big red storm looked pretty cool.
Oura: Jupiter is a gas giant, Mino. How would we even explore it in the first place if there’s no surface to explore? We’d just get sucked to the core and be spaghettified!
Mino: (Jokingly) And who doesn’t like spaghetti?
Oura: You’d say anything just to prove yourself right, wouldn’t you?
Mino: (Smiling) Only if it proves you wrong.
Mino begins studying a hairy structure.
Oura: Your stupidity gives me acid reflux.
Mino: Hey, come check this out!
Oura follows and observes.
Oura: That’s the whale’s teeth, right?
Mino: Absolutely not! This is baleen hair!
Oura: Okay, what is it used for?
Mino: It’s what the whale uses to eat. It sucks up a bunch of ocean junk, then filters out plankton to consume. Look! You can even see some leftovers if you look close enough…
Oura: (Looking, then thinking) … So they’re teeth.
Mino: (Exasperated) Honestly, Oura, how did you pass the fifth grade?
Oura: You’re the one that thought we could escape the gravity of Earth by using an old truck engine and diesel fuel.
Mino: But you still tried it, didn’t you?
Oura scoffs and busies herself elsewhere. Mino begins sketching and taking notes.
Oura: (Impatient) Oh, would you hurry up? Mom is going to have both of our hides if we’re late for dinner again! She’ll skin us like seals!
Mino: Whoa, whoa, sensitive topic. (Shifting) And whose fault was it last time?
Oura: Hey, outer space is kind of a big deal.
Mino: (Gesturing to the cavernous space around them) We’re inside of a living, breathing, blue whale. You know, the largest mammal on the planet? More massive than any other dinosaur that ever walked the stinkin’ Earth? Kind of a big deal. (Pause) Just… go sit over there and busy yourself with your reading.
Oura: Yeah. (Observing in obvious disgust) It’s really… fleshy.  But whatever you insist, Darwin.
Oura sits on the whale floor and begins reading.
Oura: (After some time) I don’t get what’s so cool about the ocean anyway. Everything smells like bad sushi and the salt water makes my hair crackle. It’s honestly like… the worst place ever.
Mino: How could you even say that? The ocean is great! Millions of years ago, whatever we evolved from crawled out of the very same waters to form humanity! We came from the oceans, Oura. Don’t you think that’s cool?
Oura: If you think about it, Mino, the oceans are just a byproduct of cosmic activity. You, me, and the ocean our great great great great biological ancestors crawled out of- we were all formed from the remnants of pre-earth supernovae. Isn’t that just a bit more… I don’t know... epic?
Mino: Yeah, it’s pretty cool, but I still think the ocean is cooler.
Oura: Why though? It’s just water and smelly, slimy fish. It’s pretty stupid, really.
Mino: Why do you always do this?
Oura: Do what?
Mino: You’re always invalidating me. At least I support what you do.
Oura: (Defensively) Well what you do isn’t important to human progress, Mino! Why should I support something that doesn’t even matter?
Mino: (Hurt) How could you even say that? The ocean is the most unexplored frontier of the Earth. I want to help discover it.
Oura: I’m not going to even bother explaining why I have you beat there, too.
Mino: Why does it matter? Shouldn’t you just be happy for me or something? Even if you don’t mean it, shouldn’t you at least pretend to care?
Oura: You know I’m not that kind of person. I wouldn’t lie to you.
Mino: Sometimes I wish you would.
Mino returns to his drawing. Oura grows restless and begins tentatively exploring the whale’s intricacies.
Mino: Would you stop fidgeting? It’s distracting.
Oura: Fine. If it gets us out of here quicker.
Oura plops down on an indistinct mass of whale. A loud, rumbling “awoo” resonates through the capacious, mammalian expanse. The whale floor rocks precariously. Oura, frightened, tosses her book off stage in shock.
Mino: Are you okay?
Oura: Yeah, I think so.
Mino: Jeez, Oura! What did you do?
Oura: What you told me to do!
Mino: I didn’t tell you to sit on the whale’s trachea! It probably thought it was choking.
Oura: (referring to the smell) That makes two of us, then.
Mino: Would you just zip it about the smell? I know it’s not the most pleasant scent, but those sulfur volcanoes on Io must have been 300 times worse at least. This shouldn’t even phase you. I mean, if you can stand smelling a farting moon for hours on end, the inside of a whale shouldn’t even-
Oura: (interrupting him) Oh my god.
Mino: What?
Oura: (frantic) Oh my god, no, no, no! This can’t be happening.
Mino: Sissy, calm down. What’s wrong?
Oura: My book! It’s gone! It’s the one dad got me before he left overseas. The one about the conservation of angular momentum in relation to the formation of the solar system! Oh no, no, no!
Mino: It must have fallen into the digestive tract...
Oura: I don’t know what I’m going to do. (Hopeless) That book is everything to me.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Oura cries softly.
Mino: (suddenly) I’ll find it. Give me two minutes.
Oura: What? Are you nuts? What if you get lost in the bowels of the whale?
Mino: I think I know my whale anatomy.
Oura: Oh god, at least let me come with you!
Mino: No way. The whale might be huge, but it’s intestines are a bit too narrow for two people to fit comfortably. And besides, if you think it stinks now… (a shudder) Trust me. You’re better off just staying here.
Oura: Wait, Mino!
Mino has already begun his confident descent into the belly of the beast. Oura sits alone. She hugs her knees.
Oura: I hope he doesn’t take too long. The last time he left me alone like this, he went to explore the bottom of the Mariana Trench. He left me sitting on the precipice for hours, and let me tell you, there’s nothing appealing about watching your brother descend into the unknown darkness of the deep sea. (A pause) I worry about him… but I guess it’s no different than the void of space. (A beat) What’s taking him so long?
Oura begins to pace.
Oura: I really hope he knows what he’s doing. I’d be in deep trouble if I came home without him… again. Mom would be devastated if anything happened to him. And what if Dad came home one day and found out I lost my own brother? He’d never bring me books ever again. I don’t know what I’d do… I’m such an idiot.
Yet another “awoo” bellows from deep within.
Oura: (Suddenly paranoid) What if he’s gone too far? What if he gets sucked into the stomach acid and gets digested? Why isn’t he back yet? He said two minutes. It has to at least have been five already. Ten, even. What if he got seasick? (A realization) How do I get out if he doesn’t come back? I have zero knowledge of whale biology. The teeth - hair, whatever - is way too thick for me to squeeze through. I obviously can’t take the back door… where is the blowhole!? Oh my god… I need a pharmacist.
Oura sits again and begins violently crying. During her episode, a rather sticky Mino returns triumphant, book in hand.
Mino: I’ve got it!
Oura doesn’t hear him through her fit. Mino sits next to Oura and puts his arm around her shoulder.
Mino: Hey, don’t worry! I’ve got your book back. You can stop crying now.
Oura: (Looking up) Oh, thank god!
She hugs him
Mino: Jeez, if this is all it takes to get your affection…
Oura: I’m so sorry, Mino. I’m so so so sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a bad sister. I’m sorry about complaining. I’m sorry about everything. Please don’t hate me. I was so worried…
Mino: Hey, hey, champ. I’m okay. It was just a meter or so inside- at the top of the digestive tract. It was nothing, really. I’m just glad you got your book back. I didn’t mean to scare you by leaving you out here by yourself.
Oura: It’s okay. (A sniffle) I don’t mean this the wrong way, but can we go home now?
Mino: Of course.
Another hug.
Oura: (Pulling away) Holy mackerel, you smell disgusting!
Mino: Yeah, (smiling) I know.


Sunday, April 30, 2017

There is something satisfying in the crack of a finger.

If words could explain it, I'd write them.
But there are no words.
It merely is.

There is a certain satisfaction that comes with brandishing yourself.

If nothing else, it's salaciously humorous.
To watch them bite back their tongues.
But they asked for it.

There is nothing more painful than bending back a finger.

Some might say a migraine, a third-degree burn, perhaps as far as a bullet wound.
But a little shock can make the world of a difference in practice.
With fingers, there is just enough pain at the threshold.

There is nothing in the world more humiliating than brandishing yourself.

To have all of their eyes ravenously studying your innermost self.
Scrutinizing your parts like an open clock on a table.
But you have a point to prove.

So you give away little pieces of yourself each time, hoping it won't hurt next time.

But they take more than you brandish; they bend back your fingers.
All you can do is hope you're proving your point.
The pain is your statement.

Is it worth it?

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Like I Do?

Do you know death?
Has he breathed his foggy breath in your ears?
Did you recognize the smell of the attic?
Did his dusty demeanor make you sneeze?
I know I did.
He sits behind me in the family portrait.
It gathers dust on the mantlepiece. I beg.
And there's nothing I can do to ignore...
There was a knock.
It was against my ribs. The low moan
Like the bloat was weeping again.
He coddled my new flesh as it bubbled like soap.
Midnight the clock trilled.
The cleansing was fleeting; quiet but not lonely.
It was a total repression, regression; born into Death.
He was everything- in totality, a mother, but
He was a stranger.
He does not smell like rot. He is not bone.
He does not wear a shroud. He was not alone.
You went with him that day. He was not for me.
He was not in my head.
He is the face of my mother. He is the hands of my father.
He speaks in tongues only I can decipher.
He is a beginning, breathing slower than Death.
He entered my Life.
He is not to be mistaken for Greed - his eyes are flat brass.
And his strange disposition will turn one blue.
But when he took you away, that was the Death. The Black.
He stole your Light.

He made me dead.

I'm Too Lazy To Think Of A Good Movie Pun...

...So Here's My Word Count Wednesday!

What I'm Working On
I'm definitely still working on my Spectra series, have no fear! It has not been abandoned yet. I just don't want to put out my next installment for a little bit because it's a bit risky right now. I might end up having to go back and change something later, so to spare you the confusion, I'm putting the installments on pause for a few days until I have a solid idea of where I want the story to go right now.

Word Count: 3500

How I Feel About The Process
Oh my god, it's slow going. I'm in the process of switching jobs, so most of my time has been dedicated to balancing them both while I wait for my two weeks to be up. I haven't been able to write much at all, but I get a few hundred words in here and there.

What I'm Reading Right Now
I was reading The Rule Of Thought by James Dashner, but I was an idiot and left my book someplace while I was out and now I can't find it. Oh well, good thing the local library has a couple copies! So I switched books, and I'm now reading A Wrinkle In Time by Madeline L'Engle.


Sunday, April 16, 2017


"[...]But all they want to do 
is tie the poem to a chair with rope 
and torture a confession out of it. 

They begin beating it with a hose 
to find out what it really means."
- Billy Collins, "Introduction to Poetry" 

'It's not in your typical fashion', say you.
Well, good sir, kindly explain!
I'd very much like you to
Pick apart my very brain!

You see, I am alone with my thoughts
More than you are with me
So, you have said more than you ought
To have- a bit tongue in cheek

And if you ask me - which I am -
Me. I am me, not you,
'What is your typical fashion?'
I would reply: 'What do I do?'

To which, accordingly, say you:
'A poet, of course, by any other name,
A lyricist, and a novelist, too,
If you liken each the same'

In turn, I would scoff
And ruffle my hair,
'My dear friend, did I not ask you,
what I don't and dare?'

To which, being your witty self,
You would respond with a smile,
'You apply yourself to bookshelves,
Is that not your style?'

'My fine fellow, indeed I do,
But you're missing the mark,
You did ask me, untrue,
A statement of remark?'

''Tis not your typical fashion' 
Say you! Not who or why
Twas a claim, my disposition,
Did fancy your mind's eye!

A poet is not 'do', 
Despite your quick retort,
A poet is 'who'
Or 'how' of sorts!

'Oh, I should have never spoke'
Say you, cheeks puffed so red!
'A poet will choke
Every word till they're dead!'

And I, with great breath
Might liken a smile,
'Now, which to the death?
The poet or the style?'

Ears alight with frenzy 
You counter my drawl,
'Tis you who has slain me!
The poet brings death to us all!'

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Spectra - Installment 5

Chapter 2
I know the drive to the cabin better than I know the back of my hand. Having visited every summer since the third grade, and recently taking weekend vacations every couple of months, the trip has become second nature. It’s a bit of a drive to the forest, but it only takes a couple of hours at most if you take the backroads. Needless to say, the drive was pretty much effortless, physically and socially. It was muscle memory of the brain and body.
“Hey, Luca,” Alice said, leaning over the middle console of the front seat, “Don’t you think we should get some gas, soon? We’re only at about a half a tank, and the closest station to the cabin is six miles out.”
I smiled. Alice always knew best.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll stop at the next one.”
A half tank of gas and twenty bucks later, we were driving deep within the woods of Wenatchee National Forest. We were blasting My Chemical Romance and singing along nearly as loud. It always happened this way with us. Sobe might have felt hesitant before - afraid of being the third wheel - but the fact of the matter was we were a tricycle. If one of the wheels were gone, then what was the point?
My suspicions were confirmed when Sobe leaned in between Alice and I, smiling wider than a cat.
“Man, I’m so glad you two dorks dragged me along. It’s been a while since I let loose like this.”
She shook her hair in front of her face as Frank started wailing on the guitar over the car's stereo. I couldn’t help but watch her orange fringe whip across the pinks of her cheeks. It was a pleasing sound, coupled with the music. It was like they belonged together.
It was then that I understood why people preferred different types of music. Watching her dance made me realize that you don’t choose music. Music is made for you. It jives with your wavelengths, you know? And Sobe’s wavelength was set to early 2000’s emo rock. The shit was ancient, but it never stopped being good.
I was lost in the sound of Sobe’s frequencies when Alice tensed. She turned down the radio and looked at me, her brown eyes practically sending me into shock.
“Something’s wrong,” she said carefully, scanning the horizon.
I refocused my full attention to the road, attentively scanning the trees. She was right. Something was wrong. The trees - that normally emitted thrumming, earthly vibes as they blurred by - were freckled with white noise. Something was coming toward us from the woods... and fast.
I skidded to a stop just in time to watch a pack of wild, white wolves pass directly in front of our windshield, howling as they crossed. Their frequencies blurred across my vision, their snow-white fur shrieking in my ears. Alice and I hid our eyes in our elbows, waiting for the pack to pass. I could see nothing, and all I could hear beside the occasional thump of a tail against the bumper was the quick, liquid beating of my own heart. The two sounded about the same anyway.
Some time had passed before Sobe spoke up, her voice trembling.
“Okay. Okay wow. Alright guys, you can look now. They’re gone.”
When I chanced a glance in her direction to make sure she was okay, her face was pale and her violet eyes were fed with tears. It hurt to look at, physically and emotionally, but I pulled her into a hug anyway, burying her face into chest.
“It’s okay, Sobes. We’re just lucky Alice caught that in time. I didn’t even notice until she said something.”
I removed Sobe from my chest and pulled in Alice in her place. She was shaking, but I knew she was okay. Alice had nerves of steel.
I asked anyway, “Are you okay baby?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed, pulling herself back into her seat, “I’ve got nerves of steel."
I smiled at that, and rested my head against my seat, closing my eyes. I focused on my breathing, listening to the sound of absence. When my heart had finished it’s little episode, I did another perimeter check. Satisfied that no more demon dogs lurked in the wooden beyond, I began to close the remaining distance between us and the cabin. Despite us being a bit shaken, the rest of the ride was smooth. Alice turned the radio back up, just maybe not quite so loud this time, and it began to melt away. Things like that happen all the time in the backcountry, right? Us city-dwellers just weren't used to it.
The only caveat to our good time, however, was Sobe. I could understand, seeing as we just had a run in with death, but something was off. I’ve seen Sobe high off her ass, doing doughnuts in the school parking lot. She’d jump off the Space Needle if she knew somebody would catch her. This shouldn’t have been a problem.
Alice fell asleep about twenty minutes after the fact - probably a side-effect of the anxiety spike. I turned down the radio to let her sleep in peace. Sobe, however, didn’t protest. Something was definitely up. I took a peak in the back and saw her on her phone, texting away. She looked so… intense.
“Hey, Sobes,” I began softly, not wanting to wake the angel in my passenger seat, “Everything alright?”
She looked up from her phone and nodded her head.
“Yeah, I’m okay Luca. Just texting my mom to let her know I’m okay.”
I nodded back.
“Alright. Just let me know if you need anything, okay? I gotta make sure I take good care of my girls.”
“Hey, bud, get with the picture. It’s 2065. Women in 2065 don’t need no man to take care of them.”
She snapped her fingers in a cliche “z-formation”, a smirk lighting itself up across her face. There’s my best friend.
“Okay, okay. Shit, got a classic Susan B. Anthony over here,” I joked, smiling at her in the rear-view mirror. She laughed.
I was just starting to feel more at ease when her phone buzzed. She promptly fell quiet again, typing out a lengthy message. The state of practical Nirvana I had reached was shattered, as her fingers flew wildly across the screen. She usually used voice-to-text anyway. Why was she being so reserved? Was she trying to spare my feelings? It wasn’t even my fault. I mean, I guess I should have been wearing my chroma-glasses, but who honestly wears those outside of class anyway? The world sounded beautiful when you weren't trying to take an exam. Still, I wanted to know what was up with her. Just to be sure.
“Jesus Christ, are you writing a novel or something?” I chanced at humor, adding a small chuckle at the end to make it sound less harsh than I meant. It still sounded accusative, and I knew I screwed up the instant I said it. However, what came out of her mouth next took me by surprise.
“How did you and Alice know the wolves were coming?”
If I faltered, I tried not to let it show.

“What do you mean? We heard them. I mean, I guess I don’t expect you to understand. It is kind of a- y’know, an us thing. But if you want me to expla-”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
She was silent for the rest of the drive. I didn’t want to push her. She was already someplace over the edge. Where, exactly, I didn’t know. I just hoped she’d come around before the weekend was up. It’s one thing being a tricycle with two wheels, but a tricycle with a flat tire is just as useless.