Why is a raven like a writing desk?

.Text Claire Back.

In the early hours of morning, Claire reached over to her night table and pulled Edgar, the stuffed rabbit she'd had since she was nine, to her chest, hugging him tight. She felt like she was maybe nine again.
I could be nine, just once more, before... I think I would like that. She stared up at the dirty white ceiling and thought back. There had been strawberry lollies and long dresses that tripped her up, laughter in the sunshine. She remembered holding hands and playing games that made you scared and excited at the same time. Running. So much running.
When she had been nine, life had been a whirlwind of colour, of silly voices and plastic toys. So many smells, too. The smell of sugar, of coloured pencils, of new shoes, clean hair and that musty, comforting smell of soft carpet.
There is always something new, every day, when you're nine.
Claire stopped thinking because she started to feel sad, so she found her phone, tucked away under her pillow, and sent a text to her friend Maribelle.
Mari!! She texted quickly, remember when we stole Mr Farland's cat and dressed her up with a tiara and necklaces and everything and you didn't want her to go back, even when she started meowing and scratching us? How funny! We were so funny weren't we? And that time we ate so much of that forbidden pudding that I threw up and you told my parents it was because i'd watched a guy eating a sandwich with a baby lizard in it? Mum was so cracked up about me reacting to the lizard that she didn't care about the missing pudding. 'I've never seen anything so funny.' she laughed and laughed.
Claire stopped texting and lowered the phone. Her eyes lazily drifted over the items in her room; the little square table that held her year ten graduation photo, the little wooden chair with a plank missing at the back so bits of you sagged out uncomfortably (no one has to worry about fixing that now, she thought vaguely), the tall narrow bookcase and the rocking horse with it's fluffy rainbow tail. She felt light all of a sudden. And she felt something else.
Something darker and stronger that made her pick up her phone again and squeeze Edgar closer.
I feel like everything is going wrong and it's not just picking subjects for next year, it's everything that was good is now bad, I can't even explain it. It's like I was coasting smoothly in a car, like going down a straight highway, and then suddenly I don't know, but the car just started going faster and bumpy and to the sides, like those dodgem cars but it's not fun, and I feel like it's gong to crash and i can't stop it and i don't know how to tell anyone or what to do, i wish i knew what to do, Mari, i don't know how to make it better. It's never going to get better. I'm not even scared, i mean i was, but now it's like the best feeling, i wish you could feel it, it's floaty and dreamy and it's just peace, i think it's peace so much peace    I just want

~

Claire,
I was going to text you back. I kept thinking about it, going over in my head, 'text Claire back, text Claire back' and I was I just forgot, I mean, people forget things, ok? For fucks sake. 

~

Claire,
I'm really sorry for not texting you back. I thought about it all weekend, but I also thought that I hadn't seen you in a while and I'd see you at school anyway, so it didn't really matter if I waited. I read the first bit and then had to get ready for tennis, and you k

~

Claire,
I am so sorry that I didn't text you back. I should have.
They held an assembly at school, not that principal Mack cared, he just felt he should do something for you, so all the parents and some of the older ex-students came and he went on and on, and it was really overdone but ok. What I don't understand is why you did it. I don't get it. Like, did you even think about me? While you were 'floating' around, because, shit, i mean, shit, i mean, what is the fucking point of being your fucking friend 

~

Claire,
I miss you. I miss you now but I missed you when you were alive, too. You just didn't know. I should have told you, but I didn't think I wouldn't be able to anymore. You didn't turn up at school, and then your mum told me, and I was walking home past that old man's house and he was out mowing his lawn, and he got grass on my skirt so I yelled at him. Then I started to cry and ran off, but he just stared at me the whole time, you know how much of a perv he is. 
The thing is, I was angry at you, I was furious that you never talked to me because I feel that way sometimes, and maybe I could have helped.
I was angry because I thought you blamed me, like I was the reason, like if I had texted you then none of this would have happened. 
Claire, you were this amazing person with the brightest eyes and biggest smile, and now you're just a pretty name, how pretty your name is. I wish I could still say it. You used to make some lame joke and then laugh the loudest at it. I know we weren't best friends or anything, but you used to light up my life, whenever I saw you, you were so peaceful and gentle and adventurous and small, Claire, you were so small, why were you that small? Claire

~

How would you define 'good?'

"Goodness, Calamine! What kind of hour do you call this?" Earnest exclaimed.
Calamine turned and glanced at Earnest in a sleepy sort of way, but boomed: "Whatever are you talking about, Earnest?! Is this not the proper hour to do all sorts of things?"
Earnest thought about this while he dunked a round crumbling biscuit into his English Breakfsat tea. The little porcelain tea cup had once belonged to his mother and it had a very pretty pattern of pink flowers around the rim and made that delicate clink when placed upon the patterned saucer.
Earnest liked this clink, so he made sure to take little sips and invent numerous excuses to pick it up and put it down.
Calamine didn't like the clinking sound.
"Oh, for tiddle's sake, can you not just gulp your tea and burn your tongue like the rest of us, Earnest!" he would say throughout the day whenever he heard the offending noise. Earnest would just smile and tap his nose.
"I believe in all things green and luscious," Earnest said smartly, setting his cup down and picking up his pipe.
Calamine shuddered. "Green!" he said somewhat viciously. He set down the pile of books he'd been holding, adjusted his monocle so it sat firmly around the eye, and then gazed around at the gigantic bookcases that lined the walls of the library.
Had Calamine taken up the violin instead of joining his junior school's Book Club, none of this would ever have happened. They would never have had to go without eggs and bread because Calamine had purchased another bookcase on a whim; his arms wouldn't wake him in the night aching with the effort of holding and carrying books to and fro for most of the day; his favourite top hat would never have been squashed flat beyond repair by a stack of his favourite novels when he bumped the ladder against their shelf. He certainly wouldn't be wearing such a gorgeous and refined monocle, to say the least!
But Calamine's heart had been captivated by his very first novel, back in his frivolous youth, and had set the path for a dusty, heavy, tiresome future.
"Would you like to hear what I found when searching for pipes the other day, Calamine?" Earnest puffed.
"Not in the sl-"
"Jolly ho! Let me tell you what!"
Calamine sighed. "Is it not time we grew tired of such phrases and silly pastimes?"
Earnest looked up at Calamine with a scandalous expression one might use upon finding out their anticipated sandwich had been eaten by an unworthy nemesis. "Certainly not in this room!"
"Well I've had it!" Calamine whirled around like a ballerina practicing a complicated twirl movement, and looked his delightful Earnest in the eye. "I've simply had it up to here, all th-"
"Up to where?" asked Earnest innocently.
"Up to HERE!" Calamine shot his hand up as far as it would go in indication of how high his tolerance had gone.
"Oh, well, yes..." Earnest shook out his pipe gruffly,  "...that is quite high. But tell me THIS, Calamine dime, CAN it go HIGHER?!"
"Oh! Surely, I don- it ca-" Calamine flustered, his face turning a rather nice shade of crimson that made Earnest wish he could paint, "it couldn't possibly go higher than my hand, Earnest!"
"What... a shame," Earnest said in a pretend but entirely plausible dismal tone. He put his pipe on the little coffee table as Calamine stood glaring through his attractive monocle. He stood up and stretched.
Calamine took a step forward, "I say it's time we moved along, quite along. As far and as wide as it will take us!"
Earnest smiled, and not in the condescending way someone might smile at an overly raging person to tip them over the edge. No. Earnest smiled in adoration at his bright and practical Calamine, his companion who made lists and rows and copies, who could put almost anything in order and sort almost anything out. He had undoubtedly catalogued this very library in under two days. Earnest was so very lucky.
"Calamine, old chap. Shall we not grab a pot of coffee together and read a fancy novel? I'd very much enjoy hearing your voice while I drink."
Calamine stared. Earnest touched his top hat and bowed his head a little in an offhand gesture.
"I- I beg your pardon?"
"Oh let's! This and that can wait, Calamine! These and things and those and theys, why, they shall wait!"
Earnest clapped Calamine gently on the shoulder, and Calamine's eyes twinkled a little.
"Oh alright. I shall chose a grand tale, shall I? One of treasure and champions?"
"Tickery salubrians," said Earnest as they made their way out of the library, "whatever you like, old man."
~

Why can't I open my Advent calendar in the correct order?

Sometimes, life is like that tin of crayons on the teachers desk. There are so many colours, so many shades, and some are sparkly or striped or two colours at once and some are everything at the same time so your brain hurts just looking at them, and they're all crammed inside a small container, rubbing against each other and losing bits and changing shape, becoming smaller and taller and faded and warped, until they disappear.
Briony thought she understood life.
"I match my socks up every night before bed," she told Cara as they sat on the comfortable wooden bench and ate their sandwiches. "And I make sure to eat five fruit and three vegetables a day-"
"It's the other way round," Cara interrupted in a nonchalant way.
"What is?" Briony asked sharply, lowering her sandwich.
Cara swallowed and took a minute studying the contents between her bread. "What you said," she replied finally, "It's five vegetables a day not fruit, and three fruit instead of vegetables."
"No it isn't. And I made mum buy me one of those electric toothbrushes, because they're better, obviously, for cleaning your teeth, and I always watch the five-thirty news. Always. Every single night."
"Sliced chicken and mustard," Cara said, gazing at her sandwich with unfocused eyes, as if she was under a spell. "Why does she think I like that?"
Cara. Briony chewed her egg, mayo and lettuce sandwich slowly, watching Cara with a slight wrinkle of her nose. What good is Cara? What does she know about food? Her mum can't even make her a good lunch!
"So, anyway, I followed that girl home the other day," she said and waited.
Cara took another bite of her sandwich absentmindedly, chewed and then turned to Briony, "Huh?"
"Yep-"
"Wait, followed her home?"
Briony grinned, almost throwing out her chest in pride, "I did."
Cara's eyes grew wide as she stared at Briony, biting into her sandwich and seeming to forget that she didn't like it.
"And she invited me inside."
"Why?"
"I told her I had to pee."
"Oh. Did you?"
"No."
Cara chewed some more. Briony felt as if she were losing her captivated audience. She said: "Her house smells like powdered soup in every room and all her carpet is that white fluffy kind that always looks clean and she had this massive- what's so funny?"
"You said 'powdered soup'," Cara said, grinning.
Briony let out air from her nose like an angry tortoise, "Soup? I meant soap. Anyway, and th-"
"Oh, soap."
"And there was a painting of a cat in a top hat, a real top hat, that was just hanging like twice the size of me in the hallway, I mean, how did they get it in?"
Cara said: "I bet they had to widen their front door," and wiped her fingers on the white and blue school skirt.
Briony snorted like a tortoise with a cold and said: "I bet they did."
Cara snorted too, but didn't sound like a sick tortoise because she had a dainty nose, and crossed her legs the other way. She only snorted when Briony did to see if she would notice and stop doing it. She never did. "What happened after the toilet?"
"Who?" Briony said loudly.
"Did you say goodbye?"
"To the girl? Of course! I used her toilet Cara!"
"What sort of toilet rolls did she have?"
"Dolphin patterned," Briony reported with an air of importance. She was sure moving her head in an arrogant manner, Cara observed.
"Well."
"I know."
"Hey, lunch muffins, what's crackin?"
Briony looked up to see Jarrad grinning down at them.
"I had a muffin once," Cara clarified, "and it was more like a deformed cupcake, really, so you can stop calling us that."
"It didn't have frosting so it's a muffin," Jarrad kicked up his skateboard with ease and grabbed the end, "Whatcha talking about?"
"Actu-" Cara started, looking a little disgruntled.
"That new girl's house," Briony cut over Clara excitedly, eager to share her daring news. "It was marvelously dangerous of me."
Jarrad raised his eyebrows, "What was dangerous?"
"She went inside."
Briony nodded enthusiastically.
"You broke in?" Jarrad asked in disbelief, "That's wac-"
"No," she rolled her eyes, "I used the toilet."
Clara said knowingly: "Dolphin toilet paper," and Jarrad's disbelief turned into admiration.
"Wack!" he said.
Briony smiled. "Blue dolphin toilet paper."
"Yeah?" said Jarrad, looking rapt.
"Wow!" breathed Cara.
"Isn't it?" said Briony, and they all lapsed into a sort of stunned silence, smiling vaguely and staring off at nothing.
"Say," Jarrad said after a while, glancing at Briony, "You wouldn't wanna come down to the servo with me," he hesitated and then added, "With me?" as if he had a memory problem.
Briony tried to look gracious and uninterested. "Oh, yeah ok, why not?" But her heart was thumping wildly. Jarrad! Asking her to the servo! She stood up carefully and waved goodbye to Clara much like the Queen waves to the public.
Cara watched them go; Jarrad tall with dark hair and Briony short with fair hair. She didn't understand life. She didn't watch the news or eat five vegetables and when she wasn't in school she wore odd socks, mainly because she couldn't be bothered doing the washing. But at that moment she thought she understood about boys and what it took to get their attention.
Patterned toilet paper.
~

How did I wind up here?

MY EYEBROWS ARE GOING ON AN ADVENTURE

Moreover, my strawberry plant is sort of dying and this saddens me because I'm only up to chapter three on Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, and I'd really like Sierra to know the ending of one of the greatest books in print. Sierra is my strawberry plant, because I have thing with alliteration. Or do I? Certainly not in my everyday speech as that would be alarming and annoying and bothersome- not to mention time-consuming and a little bit wet- but maybe in the back of my mind there's this quiet voice prodding me, whispering: 'use the words, work the magic that is poetry and spelling and aligning words into sentences with structural purpose and sounds of soothing bliss.We won't judge.'

And I must say, I really feel that they will judge. I have this feeling, deep down in the pit of all things, a feeling of mild persecution. A perpetual uncomfortable intrusion.

GET OUT OF MY HEAD

^_^v

~

THINGS I HAVE DONE:

! Learnt how to tie a tie.

! Had a car accident because I was ferrying strawberry pie around the streets.

! Read three chapters of Harry Potter to my strawberry plant.

! Coincidentally, all the strawberries in this tale are from different sources, JUST IN CASE ANYONE WAS WONDERING ABOUT THEIR WHEREABOUTS, WHICH I'M SURE EVERYONE IS.

! Bought a zombie Christmas t-shirt and an Adventure Time advent calendar.

! Considered being hardcore as fuck and opening my calendar backwards, but my OCD won't let me.

! Broke two gnomes.

! Glued two gnomes together.

(These could be related)

! Went to the circus.

! Rode on a camel and realized that I much preferred the Ferris Wheel and I HATE the Ferris Wheel.

! Burnt my tongue twice.

! Stepped on a pin.

! Accepted the fact that no matter what I do, my computer screen will always change from blue, to yellow, to red, to normal, whenever it damn well pleases.

! Spent six hours and forty-nine minutes trying to pry off a device attached to Jill's chest in Resident Evil 5.

! Ate seven hundred thousand little marshmallows covered in chocolate and was transported to heaven for that time.


Yes, it has been a blast.

Also, if I happened to be stuck in some isolated place for a long period of time with nothing but another human being and a dog, which out of the two would I eat?

Also, a train.

But earnestly, in all the earnest that I can muster up at such a late hour...


HERE ARE MY TEN REASONS FOR EATING THE DOG. Amem.

1. In my professional opinion that has nothing to do with actual experience, I reckon the dog would taste better.

2. The dog may have more meat to offer, depending on the build of the two, thus would last longer.

3. I can have conversations with the human while we eat the dog, and I cannot have conversations with the dog while we eat the human unless we both know sign language, and even then, I'm not sure if the dog's paws would be up for the challenge of making all the signs, resulting in miscommunication and possibly a fight.

4. The lovely fur of the dog will keep me and my companion warm on those long cold nights.

5. I've heard rumours that eating another human being can make you sick.

6. I can also have conversations with the human about how to get out of our current isolating situation.

7. It would feel wrong to kill another human being, unless they were someone like Hitler.

8. I'm 85.2 per cent certain that I would be unable to actually eat a human. (I left room because the zombie apocalypse is coming and you just never know).

9. I really feel like Garlic Prawns.

10. Number 9 is legit because it's a well known scientifically proven fact that prawns and garlic together with yummy fluffy rice and the creamy goodness of sauce stimulate specific cells in the body that activate brain neurons therefore enabling certain human/dog debate information to be processed at a faster rate, and this is how lists of genius are born.



For Real.

Where do all the ghosts dwell?

So Merceline had hobbled around the house like a wounded soldier, even though her legs and feet were perfectly fine. "Yes, I was almost killed by my cat. Yes, I will have him put down. Yes, I do need help putting on my undergarments," she told her friends on the phone, her neighbors on both sides, the local butcher and little elderly ladies at various bus shelters. Pity was expected.
Merceline reveled in the shocked expressions of strangers. She sat at bus stop number six, wearing bright red sunglasses and her sturdy green hat, staring straight ahead at the playground and entertained the thought that she may be a thrill seeker.
I've never jumped out of an airplane before, she thought with a kind of grim determination, and I suppose now I must, for this is what thrill seekers do.
She would never admit it, but imagining herself jump out of a plane made her terribly frightened.
Renton had survived his slip in the hallway with only a burn on his big toe from the telephone cord. He surprised everybody when he mentioned it, and he wore thongs on purpose, even on rainy days, just to have something interesting to say.
"Well! To be frank- ("Oh, that's your name is it?" he said to one stranger when the man he was telling suddenly beamed and exclaimed excitedly: "What a coincidence! Were your parents staying at the Marmone Hotel that year, as well? 1952?" Renton told him his name was not Frank, in a sour tone as he didn't appreciate being interrupted, and explained impatiently that his parents had never been to Hotel Marmone as they were not fans of Frank Sinatra and he, himself, had only heard one song) it's not just medical implications here, is it? It's the fact that Merceline doesn't know the sex of our cat, isn't it?"
People nodded, looking awkward.
Yes, thought Renton as he sipped a carton of iced chocolate, it is rather shameful not to notice whether your pet should be wearing a blue knitted vest or a collar with a dangling heart shaped pendant. He made a mental note to check out this situation.
Merceline was hanging her hat up on the heavy wooden coat-rack when Renton walked in the front door. She watched him bite into a thick-crusted meat pie. She pondered: would there be glass in that pie? If he was daring and thrilling?
Out loud she said: "Where have all the books gone? The ones in the upstairs room?"
Has she been scrolling through ebay looking for bowls with skulls printed on them and dark coloured blankets displaying girls in bikinis? Renton wondered while searching for hidden custard in his teeth with his tongue. He replied: "What, the room with all the wigs?"
Merceline tried to look down her nose at him in some form of disgust, but he was taller than her so she spent a bit of time tilting her head backwards and forwards without realizing what she was doing.
"Merceline, love," he said tenderly, looking at this thin, bright, rather odd lady before him, "let's have a picnic out in the park by that old house."
Merceline peered at him, much like a stern old lady would. "All we have is ham," she said, displeased, "and maybe some dried apricots."
"Well then," he smiled, "let's have a ham picnic out near that old house by the park."
She suddenly smiled and it lit up her entire face. "Let me get some glass."

Can there be more than two?

There seemed to be a hailstorm starting outside just as Merceline situated her lime green hat in the correct position upon her head.

"Here," Renton's arm appeared under her nose. He held out an umbrella and Merceline gave an unappreciative sniff.

"Well it's no good going out now! I'll get knocked unconscious by a falling hailstone!" She turned and walked into the living room, where a fire was roaring and a sleepy-looking cat lay curled up on a fat and fluffy rug.

Renton thought it was very unlikely that Merceline would get hit by the hailstorm on the account of her wearing such a sturdy hat. Merceline sat herself on one of the plump armchairs and called out: "Do we have any of that old brandy left? Renton? The brandy!" all at once without waiting for his answer.

Renton detached himself from the umbrella (brown with a splatter of artistically drawn water splashes making it look permanently wet) and went upstairs to run a bath. What bliss a bath could be. What heaven! Renton, on the odd occasion he took one, would fall into a sort of rigid trance and would lie for such a long time underneath all the bubbles and rubber sailboats, existing in peace, until he would suddenly remember something important he should be doing and leap out of the cool, grimy water looking like a bleached prune. 

"I said Renton!" came a shout from down below. 

Merceline stared about the room as if she'd suddenly appeared and hadn't the foggiest idea how she got there. She looked at the portrait hanging above the fireplace. She didn't know who the figure was, and she didn't care, but she liked it. Yes, she thought approvingly, I like that painting. She turned her gaze to the small square table with a set of sparkling crystal glasses that sat near the window. There were small squat round glasses and tall elegant wine glasses, skinny glasses that could hold a single flower and tiny shot glasses with a bubble pattern all the way around, all arranged neatly on a silver tray. Well, yes, I believe I like those, too, she thought, although this thought made her tired.

She then looked at the cat. No, she thought sharply as she watched it sleep, I don't believe in the slightest that I like that.

Renton came wandering in at this point. He was wearing a maroon bathrobe.

"We have to get rid of that cat," said Merceline. She pointed a long finger at the fluffy orange ball and sent it a look of pure disgust. "That cat has to go."

"What? Get rid of Terpentin?" Renton asked incredulously, "but love, we've had her almost four years."

"Now! It's attitudes like that..." she started, but stopped when Terpentin suddenly stretched, opened her eyes, climbed gracefully to her feet and walked off in the direction of her food bowl.

"No," said Merceline,"I don't like it."

Renton said, "I made sausages earlier on."

Merceline declared she was a vegetarian and Renton frowned, trying to work out exactly when she had claimed this.

"Yesterday before last," she offered unhelpfully, "just as I witnessed the horrible massacre of all those poor horses."

"That was Wild Stride, the cartoon. And anyway, there's no meat in the sausages because I had them made especially." He didn't cross his fingers behind his back when he said this and he felt odd. He had a feeling of rebelliousness. Why, maybe he should open his bathrobe and walk around, just for the fun of it. His trembling hands had just touched the fuzzy bathrobe cord when Merceline said: "Sausage-less sausages?" and they jumped back to his sides like guilty school children.

"Oh dang it all!" he grumbled. He undid the cord in one swift motion and said loudly, "I'm putting them on! They like to cook for seven minutes only." 

Merceline stood up. "Good lord, Renton, your bathrobe is open."

"Enjoy the show, lassie!" and he turned around just as Merceline reached out to close his robe. Her hands grasped air, she stepped awkwardly, stumbled over Terpentin, who meowed softly, and fell onto her left arm. 

There was a crunching sound.

Renton would have looked over to check if she was alright, but he had turned down the hall at high speed in his haste to aid his rumbling, naked stomach and skidded on a puddle. He slid a few feet before crashing into the phone table.

"Renton!" called Merceline, "I think-"

Oh, dang it, Renton thought as he stared at the growing stain on the ceiling, left the bath running again.

What is that weird smell?

"Look at that," said Jeremiah, "Just, fucking look at that."
Sierra swung around a streetlight pole and replied in a faraway voice while looking up at the stars, "If I were to join the circu-"
Jeremiah kissed her then and she didn't finish.
"Okay then," he said, staring down the street, "Let's go this way."
"I think I left my phone in the kitchen."
Jeremiah glanced at her hands. "Oh, well, Frances has it by now. What do you think about the harbour?"
Sierra bowed her head as she walked and wondered: what did she think about when she heard the word 'harbour'?
"Boats," she answered firmly, "and chips. Seagulls. Little pebbles."
"Nah that's the beach," Jeremiah dismissed her words easily, and Sierra said: "You're right," in her faraway voice that he knew too well.
"I'm wrong, actually, but thanks for giving it to me."
Jeremiah spent most mornings gazing into his pale reflection while combing his brown hair, and then he would throw the comb into his little rubbish bin, eat a bowl of nutrigrain, swap the lamp and ornament clock around in the living room before slipping seventy cents into his jacket pocket and leaving through the bathroom window.
This was his routine most mornings.
Sierra hummed songs that she heard on the tv the night previous while washing up the dishes, making sure to scrub the suds out of the sink and that all the knives, forks and spoons were facing the same way in the stand-up drainer. She then chose shoes without laces, opened the curtains at every second window, drank a can of blueberry mix breakfast drink standing next to the fridge then counted to twenty-four and six seconds before leaving the house.
They met up outside Marmy's Apple and Bookshop; Jeremiah tried not to mention anything about fire and Sierra avoided bringing up dogs, telephone boxes and baking soda.
"I think I'd like the circus," Sierra said, picking up her own thread of conversation, "and I think I'd like it because I like bright colours."
Jeremiah nodded.
"I also like candy."
"I'd like flying and doing those trapeze acts."
"Yes," Sierra said pleasantly, "flying is one of those magical moments in life where everything is better all at once."
"Like a breath of fresh air," agreed Jeremiah.
"Like leaping into heaven."
"Flying into heaven."
"Oh, quite right."
But, this morning, Sierra hadn't cleaned any dishes, hadn't opened the curtains or checked the cutlery. She had skipped the blueberry drink and counted to forty-four and three seconds before reluctantly reaching out to grab the door handle.
Jeremiah had glanced knowingly up and down the street while leaning against the bookshop window. He had a funny feeling in his stomach.
Sierra had come walking up with a hot-dog. She said, "The sauce is too rich but I enjoy the way it melts into the bread."
Jeremiah gave a tense smile, as if his cheeks hurt.
"Let's go to the skate park," Sierra suggested after swallowing, and they went.
In the hours that followed, Jeremiah had watched Sierra, not closely because that would encourage questions. He glanced at her from time to time, wondering what was different. Was it the way she concentrated on things, really looked at objects, as if it was the last time she would see them? Was it her bouncy blonde ponytail, or the red ribbon around her wrist?
He glanced, he wondered, but he didn't dare ask.
Then the sun went down and she had started talking about the circus.
"I know what you're doing," he said complacently, "You're planning on running away."
"Hmm," Sierra clutched her bag strap a little tighter and said, "where would I go?"
"The circus."
She laughed. Jeremiah clenched his jaw. He glanced at her and noticed her eyes, her carefully brushed hair, the red lines on her white skin, and he softened.
"You don't have to drink that blueberry crap every morning."
"What," Sierra started, in a rather icy tone for such a conversation, "would you know about blueberries?"
He shrugged, "They're expensive all year round."
"They're n-"
"Just tell me what's going on!" he yelled suddenly. He stopped walking and so did she. Sierra blinked at him, waiting. He thought she was probably biding time to think of a lie and this made hole in his chest grow bigger. "Sierra, I'm warning you-"
"Are you?" she said, feeling sort of detached from whatever moment they were having. She turned to walk but he grabbed her bag strap.
"Hey!"
"Don't walk away-"
"Fuck you!"
Jeremiah was stronger than her, and the bag shot out of her grip as he tugged her backwards, spilling the contents all over the dirty sidewalk. Gum wrappers, pens, hair clips and headphones, a notebook and a packet of tablets rolled around their feet.
Sierra bent down as if someone had fired a gunshot behind her, madly grabbing the items while Jeremiah stared at the orange and white tablet box. A pack of twenty-four. The kind she could never use because of one ingredient.
"It's for someone!" she said hurriedly as he swiped it up and stepped backwards, unable to take his eyes off the packet. "Wait! No!"
"So you weren't going to join the circus," he said quietly.
"Jere-" she stopped, not wanting to go on. She was suddenly so tired, so afraid, she felt like a shell. The real Sierra, the girl with substance and positive solutions to all problems, had drifted away without her realizing and left her with a body she had to somehow operate as normal.
Jeremiah turned around and walked to the railing. She stood frozen, watching. He threw the packet over as hard as he could, turned back and took her hand.
"Come on," he said.
They walked on; Jeremiah staring ahead at nothing much but with a grip so strong it was almost painful, Sierra focusing on the concrete slabs that made up the path while tears ran silently down her cheeks as she tried to make out odd bits of graffiti, her bag and all the contents splayed out behind them, forgotten.