The Third Person

            “I chose the prompt about what I'm going to do when the world ends,” Matt said loudly, grinning around at his classmates. It was second period English and a majority of the students were beginning to show signs of consciousness. “It goes like this: When the world ends I'm not going to waste my time being all sad. I'm going to rejoice. It will mean no more school. Not that I won't miss English class, because I will.

            “As soon as the emergency broadcast system is activated on TV I'm going to take my brother's truck – it's really big – and I'm going to drive to the nearest gas station. My friend Jean is gonna meet me there with these big oil drums that he's got hidden away in his garage and we'll run over anyone who tries to stop us. Then we're going to swing by my girlfriend's house and she'll have all the food ready so we can just take off and ditch this place.”

            “Yes, very nice,” Mr. Talbeth broke in. “I think we get the picture.”

            “It get's better,” Matt shrugged. “We put chains with spikes on them on the wheels and go around running over zombies.”

            “I'm sure it's quite a stimulating story. Next.”

            Abby took a deep breath and waited for the cat calls and clapping to finish. She hated public speaking, wanted nothing to do with it. Ever. But she also prided herself at being able to perform tolerably well. Besides, this was her sophomore English class. What could they do?

            Straightening the skirt of her black dress, she moved to the front of the room where a podium awaited her. Clearing her throat, she situated the papers she held and waited. Slowly, her classmates fell silent. The teacher looked up over her glasses, waiting.

            “The prompt I did,” she said in a shaky voice. “Was to describe myself in third person, as though I was a character in a book.”

            With a deep breath, she strengthened her stance, wincing as the soles of her combat boots squeaked on the laminate tiles.

            “I am observant,” she began. Matt had reached his seat and purposefully knocked Jean's notebook onto the floor. Which resulted in a friendly and muted competition of notebook wars to take place. “I see the little things that no one else does.”

            “It's supposed to be in third person,” Lily exclaimed, shooting her hand into the air but not bothering to wait for the teacher's approval. Her eyes narrowed maliciously at Abby and she gave a small smirk.

            “Just keep reading,” the teacher sighed.

            “She's of medium height,” Abby continued, switching all of the first person words as she read. It took more concentration. Maybe that would make it easier to ignore her classmates' attention. “Her hair is normally brunette with natural highlights of gold and red. She has hazel eyes and usually wears contacts.”

            A glance up at the room showed that Jean was now rolling his eyes, slumping back into his seat and attempting to ignore his best friend.

            “She's rated as perfectly healthy on the BMI index and—.”

            “Awkward wording,” Lily broke in.

            “She's well proportioned.”

            Lily snorted and rolled her eyes.

            “She has enough meat on her bones to look like a woman,” Abby snapped, words full of venomous implications as she glared at her nemesis. “Unlike the stick thin girls walking the halls of school today.”

            “That is enough, Lily,” the teacher said. “Continue Abby.”

            “Um, I—she dislikes sports of any kind and hates gym class, preferring instead to read or write. She doesn't believe in ignoring homework, and this, combined with her adequate mind keep her grades in the A-range.”

            Lily yawned widely, looking at the clock above Abby's head. What she saw there seemed to give her hope, for she straightened up and started shuffling her things into order.

            “And, apparently, she's out of time,” Abby finished.

            “Thank you, Abby,” the teacher said, but he was cut off halfway through by the ringing of the bell. “We'll start tomorrow off with Jean.”

            Fighting against the sudden rush of students for the door, Abby grabbed at her things, trying to wrap her arms around the bundle of books and folders. She hated being late, and if she didn't hurry to her locker, she would be.

            “Hey,” a voice said, and she looked up in surprise, right into the friendly face of Jean. “Um, I'm sorry about Lily. Sometimes... I think she's just having a bad week. Y'know, hasn't gotten that acceptance letter she wanted or something.”

            “She's a sophomore,” Abby said blankly. “What's she applying to?”

            Jean shrugged, a slight laugh rising to his lips.

            “Thanks, though,” she sighed. There was a shout in the hallway before she could continue, and they both glanced up. “What is your prompt, then?”

            “Oh,” he said, leading the way to the door. “Um, the most influential person in my life. I'm doing my brother.”

            “You have an older brother?”

            “Uh, younger,” and then he had vanished into the crowded hallway.

            Abby blinked after him, a slight frown creasing her forehead, before glancing at her watch. With a gasp that ended in a choke, she took off for her locker, messenger bag slamming against her hip.

Great Grandchild

            Eleanor sat quietly in the winged armchair. The plush back did nothing to ease the ache in her neck, the one that was slowly but surely surely climbing into her head. She was sick of the smell, the dim room, the feeling of helplessness. And yet she wouldn't trade it for the world. She had always been close to her mother, always been the first one home for the holidays. Now she was the only child home for the drawn out, gruesome end.

            The gasping creature in the bed next to her, the one that had taken her mother's place almost over night, stirred. Its head turned towards her, eyes seeking, and Eleanor forced herself to stand and step into view.

            “Ellie,” it whispered.

            “Yes Mother,” Eleanor said, forcing on a cheery smile.

            “Oh don't give me that look,” she sighed. “I know I'm a mess. Now, I need you to do something for me.”

            “Anything,” Eleanor agreed quickly, nodding her head.

            The creature gave her an annoyed look that was achingly familiar. Then it wet its cracking lips, sandpaper crackle, and continued.

            “Go to my desk,” it hissed. “In that secret compartment that you discovered on your tenth birthday. There's a box.”

            Eleanor glanced over at the desk standing under the window and shifted uneasily on her feet. It was new, a downsize from the hulking antique her mother had dragged to every house and apartment she'd ever lived in. From the brief tour of the housing her mother was in, Eleanor had merely assumed that the desk had been sold along with anything else of value to pay for the mounting medical bills. For a moment anger overtook her at the memory of how things had been handled, of how she had been kept in the dark about so much, of how the rest of her family had done nothing. Then she sighed.

            “It's not here any more, Mother,” she whispered. “They took the desk.”

            “The box,” the creature rasped as though it hadn't heard her. “Is green. I don't want you to open it, Eleanor. It's not for you.”

            The explanation was interrupted by a wet, hacking cough. Eleanor, mostly out of reaction, reached out for the call button that had been installed beside her mother's bed. Then she gingerly helped her sit up in the hopes that this would make breathing easier.

            “It's for my first great grandchild,” her mother whispered carefully into her ear. “Not your first child, but your first grandchild. I want it passed down, you understand. I want there to be some memory of me in this world.”

             The nurse burst in at that, face carefully devoid of any emotion.

            “I can take her now Mrs. Piper,” she said in a quiet but firm voice. “Perhaps you'd like some fresh air.”

            Eleanor recognized the command for what it really was and reluctantly stepped out of the small room. Tears were forming unbidden in her eyes and for a moment all she could feel was hopeless despair. Then her mind turned to what the nurse had called her, and she began to think of her new husband.

            Mr. Richard Piper was everything she had ever dreamed of and more. When, halfway through their honeymoon, she had received a call that her mother was on her deathbed, he had offered to fly out with her and accepted easily her preference that she make this journey alone. He was kind, reasonable, calm, and best of all, he was in her life.

            She almost ran to the phone in the living room, the only one in the house, and her fingers shook as she dialed in his number. He picked up on the third ring, sounding tired and business-like. Of course, he'd returned to his work after their honeymoon was cut short.

            “Hello, Richard Piper speaking. How may I help you?”

            “Richard,” she breathed in relief, and then started to sob.

            “Ellie!” he exclaimed at once worried and elated. “What's going on? Are you alright? I can get on a plane in a little under an hour.”

            “N-no,” she managed. “I'm f-fine.”

            “Ellie,” he sighed. “You're not fine. You're crying.”

            “I-it's just horrible!” she burst out. “The way they're keeping her. A-nd they've sold off e-everything just to pay the bills. No thought as to what she'd want. Her d-desk! They sold her desk.”

            Richard waited a moment to be certain that she wasn't about to catch her breath and continue with her tirade. His mind was already made up that he would be on the next available flight. He should never have let his wife face such hardships alone, and if she hadn't pleaded with him...

            “Ellie,” he said in a firm voice. “Tell me what happened.”

            Haltingly, Eleanor explained about the desk, about how it had been passed down from her grandmother to her mother, how it had been hauled to every single house they lived in no matter how awkward it was, how her mother had loved the thing and now, apparently, it had been sold just to pay for the hospital bills that everyone was too cheap to pay themselves.

            “And it's just gone!” she finished, pressing a sodden tissue to her lips in an attempt to quell the sobs rolling through her. They were not even a month wedded. What could Richard possibly think of her now, falling apart at the slightest provocation.

            “Do you know who the maker was?” he asked gently. “Can we find a similar one?”

            “N-no! You don't understand,” she wailed. “She hid something in it, in a secret compartment. It was supposed to be a present for our first grandchild. But the thing is sold and no one will find it now.”

            “Is it that thing she had sitting in front of the big bay windows that one time I visited?” he pressed. “I'm sorry, Ellie, I just—.”

            “I think so,” Eleanor nodded. “I'm sorry. I have to go. I love you.”

            “Love you too,” Richard murmured. For a long time after she hung up the phone he just sat at his desk, staring at the telephone. He truly loved Eleanor and even knowing that marriages were beginning to fall apart more and more often, he hadn't been able to resist getting down on one knee. She had agreed, of course, and they'd said their vows three months later.

            “Cindy,” he called out to his secretary. “I need you to book me a flight to California. Leaves tomorrow. And could you clear up my schedule for the rest of today? I have some things to do.”

~*~

             “Anyway... George wants to fly over to see you guys soon, so I guess we can have a less awkward talk about this. Love you guys!”

             Eleanor sighed, finger hovering over the replay of the message her daughter had left that afternoon while she'd been out grocery shopping. Painful memories crowded close in her mind, but they were easily pushed away. A new life was going to be joining their family soon. Her very first grandchild.

            A gentle smile curled her lips as she remembered, after the funeral, after her mother had finally passed and Richard had come to take her home, how he had tenderly led her into their new house.

            “I wanted to have a place you could come home to after that,” he'd explained ruefully. “I'm sorry if it's not what you want.”

            The house was... well, it was a mansion. Quaint and old and in need of repair, but absolutely perfect. Eleanor had been unable to do more than cling a little harder to him and nod into his shoulder. She'd thought that there was nothing more he could do to prove how perfect he was. She'd thought that nothing could top his behavior in the past weeks.

            And then he'd led her into the living room. There, sitting in the bay window, was a familiar desk.

            Still smiling at this precious memory, Eleanor stood and made her way over to the closet. Inside, on the top shelf, hidden in a shoebox, was a green velvet box. As yet unopened. Tucked into the matching satin ribbon that held it closed was a note, the creamy envelope and faded ink showing its age.

He Reluctantly Agreed

        “I still don’t get it,” Ethan said, frowning over at where Jean sat in his passenger seat. The younger boy was scowling ferociously out the window and had remained relatively unresponsive for the entire drive. “You know you could’ve just said no, right?”

        “Watch out!” Jean snapped as they screeched around a corner. They were in Ethan’s truck, which had barely made the clearance to enter the parking garage. It’s width was proving to be the problem now, though.

        “It’s fine. I’ve driven this thing for years,” Ethan shrugged it off. “We’re talking about you. Not my driving skills.”

        “Why didn’t I just take my own damn car?” Jean snarled, finally turning away from the scenery of parked cars and affording Ethan with his glare.

        “I don’t know, Jean. Why didn’t you?” Ethan asked. Then, “Fucking asshole! Couldn’t he see that I was going to take that spot? He’s even going the wrong way, goddamn it.”

        “Face it. We’re not going to find a parking space.”

        “No. We will. Even if we have to drive around in here for an hour, we’ll find a space.”

        “Yeah, maybe we’ll find a space, but it won’t be big enough! Why the hell do you drive this beast? And why are we doing this again?”

        Ethan ground his teeth and refused to answer. This truck had been sitting forlornly in the front yard of his uncle’s house for as long as he could remember. When he’d mentioned that he was going to need a car for college his uncle had gotten so excited that he’d bought a whole new engine and they’d spent the whole summer fixing it up. There was enough sentimental value attached to his current vehicle that he would deal with any and all inconveniences necessary.

       “Sorry,” Jean mumbled. “It’s just, I have to get home in time to make dinner for my little brother tonight.”

       “So you have a little brother?” Ethan asked, deciding not to hold a grudge.

       “Yeah. He’s nine, but smart enough to be much older.”

       They both fell silent as they carefully inched by another car going in the opposite direction. It was a tight squeeze and the other driver’s eyes were wide as their behemoth rumbled past.

       Then they were free, climbing all the way to the top level. And before them, at the very end, there stood an empty parking space with enough room to the side that they could fit.

       “Another car,” Jean said, hitting Ethan’s shoulder to alert him as to their competition.

       “Oh no you don’t,” Ethan growled, revving his engine and lurching towards the other car threateningly. He didn’t slow down, and they slid a little as they swung around into their parking space to the sound of the other car’s horn.

       “That was close,” Jean commented, relaxing his death grip on the door and unbuckling his seat belt. His hand was already on the handle when Ethan launched across him and hit the lock down. Not that this would deter Jean from just pulling the lock up himself and leaving, but still.

        “Um,” he frowned, looking at the lock and then cautiously over at Ethan, who had settled back into his seat as though ready for a long talk.

        “Look, I think I know why you did it,” Ethan began.

        “Did what?” Jean scowled, hedging.

        “Agreed to come to this event instead of Matt.”

Jean did not answer. He just crossed his arms and increased the throwing speed of the daggers he was shooting from his eyes.

        “See,” Ethan continued, undeterred. “You're afraid that if you don't support Matt in his relationship with Lily, if you don't bend over backwards to make sure that he's happy, then you'll lose him.”

        “Not true.”

        “And he's really the only friend that matters to you, isn't he?”

        “Can we just go?” Jean snarled.

        “But the thing with Matt is, he's kind of oblivious. He has no idea how much he's asking of you. It's okay to say no to him every now and then.”

        “Ethan, we are not having this conversation.”

        “Jean, if you don't want to be here, you can still call Matt and tell him that something's come up, that you can't make it.”

        “And what do I tell Lily.”

        “You don't tell her anything. It's not your place.”

        “No, but she'll know I was the one who baled. And then she'll hate me even more.”

        “Since when does it matter whether or not Lily likes you?” Ethan frowned. “I thought you didn't like her, and thus didn't care.”

        “Yeah, but she's got Matt in her pocket. If she doesn't like me then he'll stop talking to me.”

        “You really need to get this sorted,” Ethan said. “I mean, seriously. If you try to keep both Lily and Matt happy, you're going to die, one way or another. If they don't kill you, then you'll kill yourself just to escape from the misery.”

        Jean shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the torn knee of his pants. His skin underneath was scraped slightly and he ran his thumb over the scabs there, as though trying to smooth then away into nothing.

       “Maybe it's time you get a different friend,” Ethan said softly.

       “Why are we even having this conversation? What is it to you? Do you not like me? Is that it? Are you trying to convince me to stop being Matt's friend just so you don't have to see me around the house anymore?” Jean hissed, the words rushing out angrily.

       “You're always welcome at our house, even if you're not friends with Matt. It's just, you seem like a pretty cool guy and it would suck if you wasted your life trying to make people happy. That never ends well. And I get the feeling that no one else is going to tell you that it's okay to just say enough.”

       Jean stared at him, eyes narrowing. He had no idea what Matt may or may not have said about his family situation, but he hated how close to the mark Ethan was hitting. If Jean's parents believed in saying enough when they'd had it, then they probably wouldn't be married any more.

       “I'm fine with standing in with Matt for this fundraiser thing,” he mumbled after a moment. He was definitely his parents' son, he thought bitterly.

        Ethan stared at him a moment longer, brow furrowed, as though he wanted to say more. He at least didn't look pleased with Jean's decision.

       “Alright,” he finally said. “I'll walk you inside. In case you see what you've signed up for and decide you do want to run for the hills after all.”

       Jean just nodded. He wasn't sure what would come out if he opened his mouth. On the one hand, he felt as though he was letting Ethan down in some way, and he hated letting people down. But on the other, he'd already promised Matt that he'd do the fundraiser. Which was worse?

       “Maybe next time,” he mumbled as they made their way in the front doors of the mall.

       “Hm?” Ethan asked, glancing down at him.

       “Maybe next time I'll just say no,” he clarified. “It's just, I already promised.”

       And then he moved away quickly before Ethan could say anything. Lily caught up to him within seconds, as though she had some kind of psychic powers and knew when her prey was near.

       “Where were you?” she hissed, grabbing his arm in a vice-like grip. “You're late!”

Beloved Tradition

            Alicia Winters sighed as she stepped into the shortest checkout line. It was at least a mile long, probably stretched all through the store, ending somewhere near the dairy produce. She fought the scowl threatening to transform her face into a fearsome mask, and smiled as the elderly lady in front of her glanced back.

            “You’re getting so little,” the woman commented, eying the few random goods Alicia was clutching to her chest. “Did you do all your Christmas shopping early?”

            Normally such an innocent question would have been answered courteously, but today was not the best of days. In fact, it was, for all intents and purposes, already night and Alicia would really rather be home. Asleep. Forget homework. That was her justification for the lies that came out of her mouth, but really there was no reason to be so cruel.

            “Oh, we don’t celebrate Christmas the same way as other people,” she said sweetly, smiling. Anyone who knew her would have noted the sharp edges of her grin and backed away. Although it wasn’t like anyone actually knew her.

            The little old lady in front of her looked mildly affronted at the very idea of someone not enjoying a good, wholesome, traditional Christmas, complete with consumerism and a little dash of fable. It just encouraged Alicia.

            “See, we get together with all of our extended family.” Was that a brief look of relief on the woman’s face? Not for long. “We trade off whose house we stay at, and this year it’s ours. I’m so grateful that all of my little cousins finally get to see the great town I live in. They’ve really been enjoying the weather, because some of them live where it’s sunny all the time. We can hardly get them inside for dinner. But tonight’ll be different. Tonight is when the real celebration begins.”

            There was a look of consternation at her last sentence. Christmas eve wasn’t for a few days.

            “See, today is the solstice,” Alicia continued, glad that she’d noticed the little words on her calendar that morning. “Traditionally we go outside as soon as darkness falls, but Dad forgot to buy some of the materials we need.”

            Now it was time to get creative. The objects in Alicia’s arms did not lend themselves to obvious witchcraft or Satan worship, so she would have to tailor her story slightly. She had a pack of white shirts, a blown glass vase, a set of turkey carving knives, and a bag of colored marshmallows.

            “I don’t think it’ll matter too much, though. We’re only going out back to the barbeque pit. And Mom got the lamb a week back so we could start feeding it properly.”

            The woman’s eyes were bugging out of her head by this point, and she seemed extremely uncomfortable. However, Alicia knew that she also wasn’t positive about the conclusion she’d drawn. She would remain an attentive audience for a while longer.

            “I just really wish I hadn’t had to run to the store. We really need the knives to begin and the sooner we start the better.”

            The old lady turned away from Alicia, deciding to ignore her. Or attempt to. Her concentration was fixed firmly on the contents of her cart now. Well, it didn’t matter. Alicia didn’t have a cart, so she could stand right behind the woman and keep on with her story.

            “See, when I get back, Mom’s going to take the knives, and she’s going to kill the lamb. We’ll catch the blood and use it to draw symbols onto our shirts. The symbols will bring us a happy, lucky new year, but after that they’ll only bring bad luck, so once the lamb is dead and skinned, we’ll start up a fire, burn the old shirts, and roast the lamb. Then it’s time to chant and dance around, offering up meat to the demons who watch over us. Usually someone gets possessed and starts having a fit, but only three have ever died that I know of. Once this is through we have to keep vigilance until dawn, so we’ll sit around the fire and tell Christmas stories and roast marshmallows. Then, when it is dawn—.”

            The woman seemed to finally get enough. With a huff of annoyance she yanked her cart to the side and scuttled off towards the back of a different line. Alicia moved forward and a minute later found herself facing a bored looking cashier.

            She was grinning the entire way home, her smile still in place as she slipped inside her house and scampered up the stairs to wrap her gifts. The gullibility of some people was astonishing. Surely the woman could see that she was just buying a few presents.    

Lack of Words

            Jacques felt his insides nearing the consistency of butter with all of the churning they were doing. The hallway leading to his father’s study suddenly seemed inordinately long and ominous. The once friendly, turquoise walls with their smiling goldfish that he had helped paint suddenly felt dark. The fish were mocking him.

            Slowly, holding the platter of cookies his mother had handed him carefully level, he made it past his door. It was painted sea foam green with silvery bubbles. On the right, he passed by the open bathroom door, the interior glowing rosily and invitingly. Then he was edging past his older brother’s door, the point of no return. The crabs there, with their sharpied in mustaches and eyebrows, looked particularly frightening.

            The door to his father’s study lay at the very end of the hallway. It remained obstinately plain, a dark varnished hardwood thing that seemed to ridicule the rest of the walls for their cheerful decorations. It was also ajar.

            Jacques paused once he was close enough to hear his father talking on the phone. He was busy. He was always busy, something that Jacques’ mom, Kelsey, seemed to conveniently forget every time he was in the house. The fact that her husband spent most of his time either locked up in his room with business, or out traveling irked her to no end. And when he wasn’t around, she spent almost no time in the house. She claimed that the decorations he’d helped paint just reminded her of him, but Jacques had the sneaking suspicion that she just wanted to spend all of the money her husband made.

            Today she had been in an exceedingly cheerful mood, however. Cheerful enough to interrupt Jacques’ homework and demand that he help her make cookies. He hadn't refused, and once they were out of the oven he figured he'd done enough. But then she’d handed him a platter and told him to run off and give it to his father with a pat on the head.

            Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he pushed his way into the dreaded study. Directly in front of him was a large window. He remembered sitting on the windowsill and day dreaming when he was younger. Beside it were large bookshelves. The room expanded to the right, and it was against the far wall that is father sat, desk a barrier between him and anyone who would approach.

            He was on the phone, leaning back in his great leather chair, legs propped up on one corner of his expansive desk. The rest of its surface was littered with papers and open folders and the monitor and keyboard of his computer.

            He glanced up as Jacques slipped in, frowning slightly. His concentration was only broken for a moment, though. Then he returned to the phone conversation.

            “Uh-huh,” he nodded. It sounded as though he was being lectured or something. Impatiently, he gestured for Jacques to approach.

            He did, platter held before him like an offering that might save him from being told off. His arms trembled slightly under the weight.

            “Um,” Jacques mumbled, ready to explain his mission, but his father held up a hand, cutting him off. The voice on the other side of the phone buzzed on. The clock hanging on the wall ticked loudly. Jacques swallowed.

            “Urrrr,” he tried again, lifting the plate a little higher, so his father would notice it.

            With great and obvious annoyance, a cookie was snatched up and slammed down on a closed folder. It crumbled slightly, shedding small chunks in fright. It needn’t have worried, though, because Jacques’ father promptly ignored it.

            Jacques waited another moment, hoping to see some sign of appreciation or at least a promise that the food would be eaten so that he could report it back to his mother, but none came. Dejectedly, and under the baleful glare of his father, he shuffled back out into the hallway, latching the door behind him.

            Just as he was preparing to head back to the kitchen, the door beside him was wrenched open and Jean stood there. His hair was sticking up slightly and he looked as though he’d just woken from a nap on one of his textbooks. He drew up short at the sight of his younger brother and all of the cookies.

            With a grin, he snatched one up, shoving it completely into his mouth. A look of bliss crossed his face, his eyes closing and his mouth turning up slightly in a smile that caused the few crumbs stuck there to tumble onto the floor.

            “Mm-mmm,” he exclaimed, ruffling Jacques’ hair. Before the younger boy could react, his brother’s hand had settled firmly between his shoulder blades and he was being guided back into Jean’s room, his cookie plate growing lighter by the minute.