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Viewing blog entries in category: general fiction

  • den_7
    still putting short stories on here till I can make a thread. here's something i'm working on, my friend gave me the prompt of something about a drunk person. it's about 1500 words

    I turned twenty-one a week ago. I had never been more excited for a birthday in my life. I was finally able to buy my own alcohol, go into whatever bar I wanted, and be my own person. It’s all I had ever dreamed about since I had my first sip at 14. I was used to stealing wine from my parents, or doing keg stands at parties but for the first time I had an unlimited supply that I would never have to hide. I could finally tell people I was hung over instead of lying and saying I was sick or had a “prior engagement.” It was complete control over my life.

    I woke up vomiting into the trash can beside my bed, glanced at the clock, and saw that it was 4:27. I slept through most of the day, but that’s how this past week had been going. It was fine. Since I was hung over again, the quickest way to get better was to drink again, so I took a swig from the half empty whiskey bottle on my night stand.

    Later that evening I called my friend, Chrissy, and asked if she wanted to go to an art exhibit having opening night in an hour.

    “Sure, I’ll come, but I’m still feeling sick from your birthday party, dude. I’m never drinking that much again.”

    “Don’t worry I can sneak a flask into the exhibit, there’s no way in hell we’re going sober.”

    “You’ve been going pretty hard the last couple days. What’d you do last night.”

    “I went to a club Zach told me about. You should’ve been there.”

    “Bro, you’re slurring. Are you still drunk?”

    “No. I’m getting drunk.”

    “Whatever, I’ll see you in an hour.”

    I hung up the phone and walked over to the bathroom. My reflection stared back at me looking hollow and sickly. I didn’t worry though, nothing I couldn’t cover up with a little foundation.

    We met up at the exhibit around 10 pm. She looked nice, shorts riding up her ass, crop top. I wouldn’t expect anything less.

    “Hey, I’ve been looking for you everywhere” I complained to her.

    “You look cute, ready to go in?”

    “Yeah, but real quick. Look at this,” I pulled up the side of my dress, which was bright red and flowed down half my thigh, to reveal two flasks strapped to leg, “Good idea, right?”

    “Fucking genius. Let’s go in.”

    The exhibit was one of those modern art breaking traditional rules kind of things so most of it was outside. There were long sidewalks lined with bushes in the shape of people and art pieces in the middle of grass squares. We passed a bush that had a purposeful resemblance to George W. Bush.

    “Chrissy, what time is it?”

    “Almost eleven, why?”

    “I think you mean 9/11” I chuckled then pointed to the Bush bush.

    “I hate you.”

    “Me too, stand in front of me so I can drink from my flask.”

    “Okay, whatever.”

    I chugged most of it and felt a deep burn in my esophagus. I grew to love it, especially this past week. That’s the fucking burn of adulthood in my throat.

    We spent the rest of the night laughing and discussing art. In truth, a lot of it was phony artist shit trying too hard to be symbolic, but we had a good time analyzing it. We both were art majors, but also were too self-conscious to let ourselves become like the artists at this exhibit.

    “Megan, look at this one.”

    “I actually kinda like it,” I replied while walking over and trying not to trip.

    “Yeah, the use of color is cool. Like I can feel something from it, unlike most of the other hollow, meaningless paintings.”

    “Yeah, right. Totally, like look at this part,” I started to gesture towards one of the warped shapes when my hand slipped and the last of my flask spilled onto the canvas.”

    “What the fuck, dude.” Chrissy whispered, not wanting to call attention to my embarrassing blunder.

    “Fuck. I don’t know, here um, “I moved my finger across the canvas and spread some of the liquor in a swirly pattern.

    “What the fuck are you doing now?” She asked louder this time.

    “Shut up. See, now it looks like it was done on purpose,” I started to giggle. The amount of alcohol I had in the last hour paired with what I had before I left made it difficult for me to take anything seriously for longer than 10 seconds.

    “Oh my go- “

    “Calm down, no one will notice except the artist. Now let’s go before they show up to gawk at their now ruined painting.

    We ran out of the exhibit not being able to contain the laughter from our ridiculous situation. After arguing for a few minutes in the car, I finally got my way and we drove to a club that I’d always wanted to go to.

    The club was packed of course. There were rainbow florescent lights and I had never been happier. Being drunk, I hadn’t realized it was more of a gay bar than a usual club, but being sober I probably wouldn’t have realized how much I wanted to be there.

    There were drag queens on heels, towering over me, and they walked by like goddesses, whose beauty was unexplainable. Everything felt right, I was in awe of what I was seeing until Chrissy interrupted my daze.

    “What do you want to drink?” her voice was loud and grating.


    “What are you dumb? The bartender asked like a million times. What do you want to drink?” she said the last sentence in spaced out obnoxious phrases. She thought she was funny. I turned to the bartender and smiled, now being snapped out of my daze.

    “What’s the gayest drink you have?” an easy thing for me to say being black out drunk, but if I were sober I’d probably over think myself to death, worrying if asking that is homophobic.

    “I got just the one for you, sweetie.” The bartender replied. A couple minutes later I was brought a fruit cocktail that they somehow figured out to fade into all the rainbow colors. There were a bunch of pretty berries sticking out of it and I couldn’t have been more pleased.

    Most of the night was a blur. I could barely remember it, but the clearest memory I had was Chrissy screaming at me then leaving. I wasn’t sure what it was about, but I didn’t care much. I didn’t care at all actually, because when I woke up I was still a little drunk and still drunk on happiness from whatever happened at that club.

    I had some coffee then decided it’d be more mature to call Chrissy. The phone rang for a while, but she picked up at the last second, a little too obviously trying to make me wait.

    “What the fuck do you want, Megan? Why are you calling me?”

    “To catch up. So last night was pretty wild, huh?”

    “Oh yeah, so wild” the sarcasm in her voice was obvious and a little over done, “let’s see. You left me to go fuck some girl in the back. Then when I wanted to go you threw a drink in my face “accidentally” and screamed that I was straight for the whole club to hear. You made me look like such an asshole in that fucking gay bar, Megan.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Why are laughing? Where the fuck is my apology?”

    “No, it’s just I’m so sorry you had to feel so out of place. It must be upsetting being a white straight girl, I didn’t mean to make you feel so ostracized. If only the people in there knew what it was like.”

    “I don’t need this. Fuck you. And how are you not having a reaction to me saying you fucked a girl?”

    “Is that really such a big deal?”

    “You got so drunk that you forgot your sexuality, dude. Don’t you think that’s a little bit of a problem?”

    “No, I don’t see a problem,” I started to get quiet, I didn’t want to start talking about my sexual orientation when a massive hang over was coming on.

    “Are you stupid? You need to stop drinking. Really, it’s too much.”

    “Fuck off, I’m 21. It’s normal to drink when you’re this age.”

    “I don’t know man.” There was a pause and it made me feel even more like shit than when she would yell at me, “I think you have a drinking problem.”

    “You know what? Fuck you, let’s not talk again till I’m 30. Then we’ll see if I have a ‘drinking problem.’ Until then let me enjoy my goddamn 20s. So delete my number till then. Bye, asshole.” I ended the call then blocked her. I didn’t need someone making up problems for me. I was young and just wanted to be happy, I didn’t know it was the beginning of a life of alcoholism.
  • den_7
    The sun just began to rise as the pest control laborer awoke. He went in the bathroom, brushed his teeth and stared into his hollow, circular eyes. They were small beady little eyes that couldn’t help but give off scorn towards everything in their line of sight. He rinsed out his mouth then traipsed to his kitchen. All he could find were left overs. They weren’t even his but he didn’t care anymore. He ate quickly then put on his uniform. It was an ugly green jumpsuit, of a horribly uncomfortable fabric that was easy to wipe clean. On the back there was a logo from the company he worked for along with the words “You name it, we kill it.” He always hated that slogan. It made him feel like a hitman with a confession plastered on his forehead. On the front of the jump suit was a pocket and the name Ned. He grabbed his wallet and phone heading out the door but felt a sunken feeling in his stomach. He ran over to the toilet knowing what would happen and threw up. He could hardly keep anything down. Shrugging it off, he locked up his house and left.

    As he was driving in his “bug mobile,” he paid less attention to the road and more to the other people whizzing past him. He watched each individual flying by in their cars, driving to their different destinations and living their different lives. The exterminator pulled up to an old house and sighed.

    Ned opened the back of the van and began pulling his equipment out. It was just a fly infestation, an easy thing to take care of, so he didn’t have to lug many things to the house. After knocking on the door, a friendly middle aged lady opened it and greeted him. He forced a smile, with a twinge of pain.

    “So you can see there are a few flying around the house. It started a couple weeks ago and I’ve done nothing but spend my time killing them since. Do you think you can spray something to keep them out or use a pesticide?”

    “Well first, I’m going to try to find the source of the flies. From there I’ll know how to treat it.” Ned was very anxious. He made sure to not lie to the nice lady. He spoke carefully to say he’d know how to treat it, not that he could treat it. He was even more worried once he realized that it had been blowflies that infested her house. Blowflies always lead to something dead.

    It didn’t take him long to find the crawl space in her basement where the flies were swarming. He was crawling through, careful to not kill any. Ned was a small guy, so it wasn’t very hard for him to maneuver himself through tight spaces. He actually felt more at ease in them. The world didn’t feel so big. He didn’t feel so threatened.

    Once Ned finally felt okay, he looked down and nearly threw up. He didn’t know what he expected to find but this was the worst possible outcome. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it and watched his tear fall onto the carcass. Ned felt pain consume every inch of his body to the point that he couldn’t move. He couldn’t turn away. He couldn’t close his eyes. He was paralyzed with sorrow. The distraught exterminator had lost track of time once he was finally able to move his lips.

    “I’m sorry, brother.” His voice resonated in a trembling whisper, but in the almost empty crawl space it nearly echoed. “A life has been taken, and I will not disturb it in its rest. I have too much respect for you.” Another tear fell. he sat there in silence, absorbing the enormity of the lifeless body before him. He not once thought how it got there, or how it died. He just felt its pain.

    Ned didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard the faint sound of the nice lady calling for him. He turned around and scurried out of the space to speak with her.

    “Did you find anything?”

    “Yes, it seems that the blowflies are here because they were attracted by something in your crawl space.”

    “Attracted to something? What was it? Can you remove it?”

    “It was a substantially larger insect, Ma’am.”

    “Oh, you can remove, it can’t you?” the woman was both concerned and confused. He had been in there so long; she didn’t understand why he still hasn’t taken it out.

    “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

    “Why? You work for a pest control company, go take it out like I paid you to.”

    “I just can’t bring myself to do it, I’m sorry.” He grabbed his supplies and started to walk out. The lady was now very irritated. As she rushed to open the door for him, her antenna hit him in the eye. She didn’t apologize and told him to leave.

    “You should be fired. You can’t even do your job” she yelled as he hurried to his car. He ignored her, knowing she was right. But still, the exterminator drove on, knowing that the one thing he’d never kill was his morals.
  • den_7
    still can't make a thread so here's another chapter I've been working on.

    “I’m gonna eat this cigarette.”

    “Seriously dude, don’t you’re gonna get really sick.”

    “I’ve never had a cigarette before. So leave me alone so I can have a smoke goddammit.”

    “Having a smoke means smoking the fucking thing not eating it.”

    “I’m not gonna smoke it. What? Do you want me to get cancer? Fuck no.”

    “You just smoked a shit ton of weed, why won’t you just be a normal person and smoke that?”

    “Bro, have you not scene all those anti-smoking commercials?

    “That refers to smoking weed too, not just cigarettes.”

    “Cigarette companies are the ones who make those, you know.”

    “What why would they make something telling people not to buy their product?”

    “You don’t get the law at all, dude. There was a whole law suit. The same people that own craft, like the mac and cheese, own a big cig company too.”

    “What does that have to do with anything? Why are we talking about this? Spit that out of your mouth and let’s go.”

    “Who shat in your cereal?”

    “Fuck off.”

    Elena and I didn’t talk while we walked to our cars. Before I got in mine, she yelled to me “I really hope you know you’re a mess, dude. I care about you and all, but Jesus Christ, man.”

    I couldn’t stop thinking about it on the ride home. I’m not a mess. Yeah, I say dumb shit, but that doesn’t mean anything. I might not be as obsessed with my future like everyone else, but it’s fine. I’m still in high school, it’s okay that my life is a bit of a question mark right now.

    While I was listening to music, trying to forget what had happened, my car started making a jarring noise. I immediately pulled over to the side of the road, and smoke started coming out of the hood. I called my parents and they had it towed to a repair shop. I didn’t really pay attention to what the mechanic said, when we went there, but I know that my car won’t be able to drive for a while. I tried to block it out, when they were going through the details. I figure it’s enough to hear the basics and to try not to stress over it too much.

    The next morning, I wanted a coffee and remembered that I don’t have a car to drive me to Starbucks. I had to fill my bike tires and ride two miles in the unbearable summer heat if I really wanted one. I concluded that the heat couldn’t be too bad and that it’d be nice to have a coffee with my breakfast, so I got on my bike and left.

    I was a mile into it and felt fine. I felt better than fine, I was unstoppable. The hot air was pushing against my skin, but I ignored it and just peddled harder. I was going faster than I ever had before and loved it. I thought about how not even the terrible weather could stop me. For once in my life, I wanted something, and I went and got it, regardless of the obstacles in my way.

    As I slowed down to find the bike rack I suddenly felt a soreness in my legs. I thought it normal, and walked my bike over to a rack. As I was inserting the code to lock my bike chain I felt a surge of tiredness sweep over me. I tucked the opening of the chain behind the rack, where no one could see it and left, hoping my bike wouldn’t be stolen. I went in, set my bag down and my body began to become aware of the change in temperature. Once I felt the cool air, sweat came pouring out of me. I grabbed five dollars out my wallet then walked up to the counter. My eyes couldn’t focus and the floor no longer felt still. It was like I could feel the earth moving under me, like I somehow became detached from it and I could now notice what I was too near to have ever before. I thought I was getting a head rush, which is normal for whenever I stand up, but I became concerned when the blackness of my peripheral vision didn’t go away after a couple seconds. Instead it just continued closing in. That’s when I realized I was close to fainting. Closer than I ever have been before, even closer than when I saw a dead body in that cadaver lab. I asked the lady for a water then paid her. I could barely see her face, although it was all I could make out. Everything else was black. I was scared about what was happening but was accepting of it. I’m a mess, this is just the kind of thing that that happens to people like me.

    “You’ll probably wanna call 9-1-1.” I slurred out.

    “Are you okay?”

    “Does it look like it?” I started to fall back, but was still proud of myself for making sassy comebacks in the middle of a heatstroke.

    “Someone call the police,” I could hear her yell.

    “No, it’s fine, don’t.” I remembered how they stick ivs in you and there was no way in hell I’d let that happen to me again. I was able to find a stool within a few feet of me and sat down. I opened the bottle of water with a struggle, then started chugging. Within a few minutes my vision came back. It finally occurred to me that I shouldn’t have gone out in 100-degree heat without eating or drinking anything in the last 15 hours.

    I waited five minutes, then got back up again to order my coffee. I got an espresso, because it doesn’t have any sugar in it. I felt myself getting dizzy again so I didn’t order anything to eat and sat back down. My drink was made quickly and I started to feel better. They only had pastries and the kinds of food people that still believe in the food pyramid would find healthy. I felt a strong need to be home so I got on my bike and left. I tried to ride slowly and bike under all of the shaded areas, so I wouldn’t over heat. Once I got home, I still felt dizzy, but I could see fine. I ate some chicken then finally sat down and enjoyed my coffee.

    I finally relaxed. After a shower, I felt much better and after the coffee, I felt energized. I looked back at what happened as a distant dream that wasn’t quite scary enough to be a nightmare. I thought about how everything worked out and I did what I intended, had a coffee. The end justified the means. Tomorrow I’d just go earlier before it gets too hot. See, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not a mess. I may have some trouble along the way, but I always finish what I start, and that’s really all that matters.
  • den_7
    The sun reflected off of a silver bike as it whizzed past the stopped cars at an intersection. The heat was unbearable today, Chelsea could feel the hot air pushing against her skin as she rode on the side walk, against traffic. The heat was no longer uncomfortable and sweat provoking but now actually hurt. It reminded her of grabbing the metal of her curling iron earlier that morning, except the burning sensation covered her entire body. With summer heat comes the blaring sound of cicadas. When she went under a tree she’d hear them over the honking cars. Their noise vibrating through her, consuming her. Once she rode out from under a tree, a feeling of relief would wash over, that deafening, continuous sound could make a person go mad. But then as soon as she was out from one tree she’d be nearing another. The fading cicadas would then be replaced with the new roaring ones, seemingly even louder than the last tree.

    After about ten minutes of the torturous cycle of biking there, she unhooked her basket towering with books, thankful that it hadn’t toppled over on the way. She lugged it to the counter on the side of the book store. The man behind the counter didn’t acknowledge her once she walked up, so Chelsea stood there for a few uncomfortable seconds waiting for him to say something.

    “Hi, hello, you’re looking about an hour wait,” he said sounding rushed while motioning towards three other large bags of books,” you’re welcome to drop them off and leave, just as long as you fill out this card.” He handed her a bright blue piece of paper and a pen.

    “Oh okay, thanks.” She looked at the card. The girl wrote down the time, date, and her name. When she was finished, she reexamined the card, to make sure there were no mistakes, and noticed each word looked like it was written in a different font. Her first name in cursive, her last in large, spaced letters, the date in tall, squished ones, and the time slanted. She didn’t think much of it, gave it to the man and decided to walk around the book store while she waited.

    Chelsea walked into the nearest book section. She saw the label on the shelf that said poetry, then grabbed a random book. She read a few poems and thought to herself about how she enjoyed the cadence, but thought the consonance was overdone. The fair skinned girl scratched at her shoulder, which had a tattoo that said “I am, I am, I am,” a quote from Sylvia Plath. She put the book back on the shelf then remembered to check her phone. She refreshed her email a couple of times, disappointed that there was still no news about the poem she was trying to get published. Feeling empty, Chelsea walked into another aisle.

    She was in the religion and spirituality section. The girl sat down and crossed her legs, a position she was comfortable in from eating so many dinners like that, next to a very short table. She began reading a book on Hinduism and smiled at the thought of Shiva, the greatest god she knew. It was very quiet and no one was around, so she took the opportunity to meditate. Chelsea thought of nothing and felt nothing. After what seemed like a while, she got up, returned the book to its shelf and walked towards the next bookcase.

    Chelsea was in the romance section, she picked up a book and took a few steps back, intending to rest back on the wall as she read, but instead walked into the man behind her.

    “I’m so sorry, didn’t see you there,” she said as a smile grew on her face while noticing the attractiveness of the man she backed into.

    “oh, no worries,” he said with a chuckle in his tone, which made her giggle. They were still uncomfortably close. Once the laughter stopped they stood there, saying nothing, for what felt like an eternity. Chelsea became aware of her accelerating heart rate and the rush of adrenaline streaming through her, while looking into the sparkle in his eye. She started to lean in, expecting the most sensuous kiss of her life. Instead of the start of a great love affair, he leaned back and turned his head.

    “sorry” he mumbled still avoiding eye contact. She, being now completely embarrassed and more filled with self-hatred than emptiness, stumbled to the farthest aisle she could find.

    The defeated girl found herself in the biography section and felt very uneasy. She rarely visited this area, so she walked into another. A grin came across her face as she saw the words “Essays and Writing on Writing” labeled on the display in front of her. She pulled out a book about finishing good stories along with one of David Foster Wallace’s. She sat there, alternating between both, figuring it’d help her get inspiration to write the ending of her novel.

    After a while she felt a wave of boredom come over her. Chelsea stood back up and sauntered down to the next aisle. She inspected the sign and it said “True Crime and Mystery.” The girl grasped a book about Charles Manson and pulled it out slowly. She scoffed about what a big deal was made of him. He, himself, only killed one person. Calling him a serial killer is pretty ridiculous, all he did was give some light drugs to kids and had them try to help him with his music career. The people that died because of him were a substantially low body count, it was all media hype. She shook her head and put the book back on the shelf. Hearing footsteps behind her, Chelsea turned around and saw the man she tried to kiss earlier.

    “Hey, I just wanted to sa—“ he couldn’t finish his sentence because her hands were suddenly around his neck. She was so small, so it wasn’t difficult to shake her off then fling her away from him. “I was just trying to apologize to you. Crazy bitch.”

    Chelsea found herself mortified, on the floor with her body aching from such a hard fall. He threw her all the way to a whole other section. She stood back up and saw that she was next to the “Psychology and Self Help” bookcase. The tired girl sighed and let herself fall back to the floor with a quiet thud. She yanked a book out from the shelf called “Living with Chronic Emptiness.” After reading a couple pages she closed her eyes and thought about going back to the hospital after this. How she had a nice day out, got to exchange some books and talk to people for a little while.

    The girl started to doze off when her phone buzzed. It said that it had been an hour since she dropped off the books, so slowly standing up, she traipsed back over to the counter.

    “Hi, your books are done. You have 37.58 dollars in store credit now,” the clerk said while handing her back the bike basket.

    “Thank you,” Chelsea realized she didn’t choose any books to buy. Instead she went to the front of the store and saw a fancily decorated box and bought that. She knew she already had too many boxes like this at home, and could never find anything to put in them, but bought it anyway. She liked how it looked, and decided it didn’t matter if it was empty, the idea of it was good enough. Chelsea hopped on her bike and peddled into the sweltering heat, feeling it push against her face. The aimless girl listened to the thunderous sound of cicadas coming and going as she rode on.
  • den_7
    I still don't know how to create a thread. it says I need 20 posts so I guess i'll just put whatever story i'm working on here.

    “I’m a trump supporter.”

    “kill yourself Jacob,”

    “better than Hillary.”

    “Kill yourself Carter.”

    “I’d take anyone over Hillary, even if it has to be Trump.”

    “Why because of the emails, that’s the dumbest shit I have ever heard.”

    “shut up you fucking commie,”

    “better than being a racist, Jacob. You know what, fuck you, I can’t listen to this shit.”

    “Sophia calm down, it’s not like we’re even old enough to vote.”

    “I don’t care, you call me a fucking commie, but the term you’re actually looking for is ‘a person with morals,’ I’m out of here.” I threw my half full bag of doritos at Jacob then got in my car and left. I didn’t care that I was fucking up my friendships over politics, I couldn’t stand listening to Jacobs voice any longer. Last year he practically bullied me for supporting Bernie. Now that he wants Trump to run this country, I can’t take it. It’s not right. I hate talking about politics because it gets me so worked up, it makes me throw away friends that I used to care deeply for.

    Glory days came on the radio. I couldn’t tell if it was the world teasing me or my inability to stop thinking about Trump, but it was as if “Make America Great Again” was following me everywhere. Glory days, yearning for the past when we were even more racist and homophobic than we are now. From his signs by the side of the road, to the hill billy with the big American flag hanging out of his truck, I couldn’t get it out of my head. I decided to drive over to my friend Benny’s house, he felt the same way as me about almost everything.

    Once I got there, I knocked on his door and thankfully he, instead of one of his parents, answered.

    “You got any weed?”

    “Of course but keep your fucking voice down, my mom’s right over there in the kitchen.”

    “Let’s go to the park.”

    “Alright let me grab my coat.”

    When we arrived at the park I felt warm in my big army jacket, and my wool lined leggings. Benny had a big coat that I couldn’t tell was just really thick, or packed with a shit ton of weed. We sat in silence for a while, letting the high set in.

    “Why are you crying?”

    “What?” I didn’t realize but there were tears running down my face, “oh, I don’t know. That’s weird, I haven’t been able to cry in like a year.”

    “Seriously? I cry every week, man.”

    “How? What about?”

    “Depression shit.” He didn’t have to explain it any further, we had a mutual understanding of what that meant to both of us.

    “I don’t cry because of depression, I just let it fester inside me and gnaw away at my insides,” I couldn’t help but laugh. After my chuckle died out I paused and felt the severity of the situation come back to me, “it’s like I’m hollow.”

    “Have you always felt so empty?”

    “I can’t tell, I can’t remember any other feeling than this.” My crying stopped, back to normal.

    “You stopped crying.” He turned and looked at me with his big full eyes, it was like I could see all the emotion in them that poured out so often. I couldn’t help but be jealous.

    “I know.” I closed my eyes and sighed.

    “Oh yeah, why’d you start crying in the first place?”

    “Something happened with Jacob today, it feels like the beginning of the end,” I chuckled then added “kind of like trump being elected.”

    “Shit if he’s elected, I’m gonna blow my brains out.”

    “Jacob came out today as a supporter.”

    “Fuck him.”

    “Carter supported Jacobs supporting.”

    “fuck them both.”

    “I think I’m gonna get squeezed out of the group.”

    “Because you don’t support trump?”

    “No, because I can’t stay in a group that does.”

    “Guess you’re out of the gang.” I knew he was joking but there was still a ring of truth to what he said.

    “There’s still another year of high school after this. I can’t do it.”

    “Don’t say that, it’s the hardest school in the state and you’ve managed to get nothing but A’s.”

    “It’s breaking me. The A’s mean nothing, I’m still failing.”

    “I don’t get that.”

    “You don’t have to. Just listen.”

    “Even when you’re out of the gang,” he paused and we filled the silence with soft laughter, as if us being too loud would disturb something between us, “I’ll still listen.”

    “Thank you.”

    “You’re crying again.”

    “This time for a different reason.”

    “Good. Now listen to me. No matter what happens, even if the rest of the group becomes Trump supporters,” he paused again, this time we let the silence go by without laughter, “I’ll always support you.”
    Erik-the-Enchanter! likes this.