In Every Reality (A Short Story)

She moans against me, and I bite down the need to pull her closer. The sound is so familiar to me that ignoring it feels like ignoring my need to breathe, but I do. I have to.

I’ve traded my soul for this, and I can’t forget that. I traded my soul for twelve hours, and I’ll have to do everything perfectly if I plan to run away with more.

“What is it?” she whispers, pulling away from me. Her eyes glow under the fluorescent streetlight and I have to remind myself that this isn’t high school—isn’t prom night when I walked her home and we snuck through her bedroom window so her parents wouldn’t hear us. This isn’t even Ocala anymore—not really. This isn’t the town where we made our mark on the sidewalk and on each other. This is the reality where the ridicule became too much, and I ran. This is the reality where I drove off into the night and left her behind. This is the reality where I died.

“We should go,” I say. “Your place?”

She shrugs. “Fine, but it’s nothing like you remember.”

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Kidnap the Sun (A Short Story)

This story was written in response to homophobic comments made by a certain writer. The story features characters with names featured in the famous work by said writer, but the characters are unrelated (unless you’d like to headcanon them that way, in which case, my control dies here). Enjoy.

 

 

He’d always had one of those smiles—so bright it was as if he’d kidnapped the sun. Carla used to joke that it was all those tic tacs, tiny cut outs of a burning star that fed his ever-present joy. I just nodded along because the year was 1969, and boys like me, boys who liked other boys, were just as new as those sun-bright breath mints Johnny seemed to live off of.

That didn’t stop me from getting close, attempting to bask in just enough heat so as not to get burned. I lent Johnny my books because he loved to read and my notebook because he was too busy reading to take notes. I walked home from school with him, our sneakers scuffing up gravel and our backpacks thumping our shoulder blades in a syncopated rhythm. He’d whistle and I’d hum along, our heartbeats the metronome to keep the tempo consistent.

And then his mother would be waiting at the door, a sharp glint in her eye like a violent meteor with its course set to tear a hole between us. She always kept her hair tidily in a bun, her lipstick soft and pink, the color women were supposed to wear to please their husbands, boys like Johnny who would never like boys like me.

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“The House Across The Street” A Short Story

I was twelve when I first met Eli, his denim-clad legs draped over his new porch steps as his parents fought over where to put the garden gnomes. His mother had her hair woven into her signature braid, the forceful blonde whip striking the air as she wrestled the ceramic, pug-faced monster away from her husband. Eli’s hazel eyes were focused down the street in his signature stare, cutting through sunlight and air to see something no one else could see.

I used the full force of my tween body weight to drag Wags out of our suburban home. The aging lab dug his paws into the ground, struggling to drag us away from the dangerous newcomers across the street.

Eli’s head jerked toward us. He blinked a few times to bat out the July sun, but when his eyes settled on me, he maneuvered his wrist into a small wave. Just for kicks, I waved back.

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