Spark a Story

by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Suddenly, your arm is bare. Benjamin whirls into a column and solidifies, bees blurring into bone structure, skin stretching over the shaking mass, until a blond, bright-eyed boy in a black T-shirt sits with his arms wrapped loosely around his knees.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” Benjamin says.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The labyrinth calms me down, y’know. Helps me reconstruct. You may want to keep that in mind.”

  “What?”

  “It’ll happen to you too, someday.”

  “What?”

  “True emotion.” Benjamin shakes his head and smiles. “Shit’s insane.” He stands up haphazardly, and giggles as he walks past you. “Gets me every time.”

  You sway in the center of the labyrinth, watching him walk away. A fly lands on your shoulder. You jump and brush it off.

  In high school you wrote love letters to Sarah Anderson every second Tuesday of the month. They said things like You are like the sun to me and I long for you like a compass needle to the North Pole and toward the end Loving you has been like slaving over a meal for someone else to eat, which, although not your finest work, gave the most satisfaction when you slipped it in her locker. Your head squeezes for a second. True emotion. Unlikely.

  If you were to write Jenny a letter, you think maybe it would say:

  Hello Jenny it’s Joseph every time I see you I get hunger pangs I’ve heard of heartache but not craving someone like this I wonder if you’re sweet did you know that Greg compares you often to caramel in a way I find quite unappealing why do you love him do you shave or wax your legs or are you naturally hairless like one of those goblin cats would you like to read my poetry there aren’t too many love poems and none of them are about you anyways you’re at the bottom of my trigger list quite a few guns will have to go off before I get to you.

  Benjamin may have startled you a little. You weave your brain tissue back together, remember punctuation. It puts tidy little snaps between your words, straightens them out like a hammer and anvil.

  You need to find Greg. The walk back to Jenny’s is a daze and all of a sudden you’re hesitating at the door to her room, realizing you’ve never been to her place before. You test the knob. It’s unlocked. Some part of you must know what you’re going to walk into, because you don’t even consider knocking. Some part of you must want to see Jenny and Greg molding together under her cheap yellow sheets.

  The half second between when you first glimpse their figures and when they hear the door creak lasts for years. Jenny’s head is thrown back, chapped lips parted, eyes closed. Her hair sprawls across the pillow, her hand in the process of loosening its hold on the mattress, turning palm up, almost inviting you in as Greg plants a gentle kiss on the underside of her jaw. You have time to wonder idly if his stubble tickles. His naked back has a long, thin scar running down the middle, a dull dry pink in contrast to his sweaty skin. Jenny’s other hand spreads across his shoulder blades, moving ever so gently toward the line, like an eager car veering toward the center of an empty road.

  That’s what’s most private about the moment, you think. The certainty of Jenny’s hand moving to trace the scar. You’ve never seen it—you once heard Greg mention something about scoliosis, but assumed it was in reference to his studies. It seems impossible that Greg was once crooked.

  As Greg’s head begins to rise, sensing someone else in the room, something strange happens to Jenny’s form. Her lips soften, spread into petals almost, and then flap away, rosy wings attached to tiny black bodies. Her skin splits into butterflies, the sheets collapsing over their thrumming thoraxes. Greg jumps back, taking the cover with him, and the remaining insects flee the room, rushing down the hall in a cloud of sunset reds, pinks, and oranges. Greg collapses onto the bed.

  “Are . . . you okay?”

  Greg doesn’t even question why you’re there. He stretches out a shaking hand. A butterfly is trapped between his fingers, one wing crumpled. Almost without thinking, he makes a fist. When he opens it again, a mangled purplish thing remains.

  “Which part?”

  “What?”

  Which part which part which part. “Of Jenny. Where was your hand?”

  “I dunno, her legs? Her thighs? I—Joseph, what was that?”

  But you’re halfway out the door already. Girls line the hall, looking after where the train of bugs must have left. Some shake their heads knowingly, others remain frozen in disbelief.

  “Wait! What was that?” Greg calls after you. “Joseph!”

  You keep going. You walk down the hall until you find a broom closet. You sit down inside.

  Of course, it makes sense that Greg would be the one to give it to Jenny. Whatever the fuck it is. It makes sense that beautiful Greg, who can smoke without coughing, just broken enough to need saving but remain attractive, intelligent soon-to-be-surgeon Greg would give it. And it makes sense that he would keep a piece of the thighs for himself. That touching them all those times in front of you wouldn’t be enough, that he’d have to hold just a little bit.

  You see the thighs, Jenny’s empty blue gaze, a future where you get to grip them whenever you want, where she would know your scars, where Greg would find you two in all the crudest positions possible, and he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it, because your tiny little brain and obsolete major would have finally gotten the girl. Even now, imagining the thighs, they look somehow chewed up. He took a piece.

  You feel your face heating. You wanted to give it to her, whatever it was. The want pulls in your guts like a thousand high school tug-of-war teams that picked you last. You’ve never gotten the Jenny. Never been able to give it to her.

  Your throat tightens, and as you raise your hand to rub away the tears sneaking out of your eyes, you glimpse one of your fingernails completing its metamorphosis into a shining jewel beetle.

  SIMON LIU

  All Westbound Trains

  All westbound trains on track 1 have been delayed.

  A SIGH COULD BE heard coming from just below the loudspeaker. There was effort behind it as it stretched out, taking care to ensure that the sole other occupant would note the exasperation behind it.

  Montgomery wondered how just one sigh could irritate him to such a degree. Perhaps it was the unnatural length of it that turned the vibrations—just vibrations—to a fly that buzzed in his ear and speckled his vision. But Montgomery could not be annoyed by a sigh. The sigh was from a person, one that he could target his silent frustrations toward. He resisted, but unable to control the impulse, Montgomery stole another glance at the man with whom he shared the night clouds.

  The man stood on the opposing platform with his back facing west, away from the direction his train would come from. The man’s foot tapped a slow, inconsistent tempo—tap—the sound reverberating off the beams—tap—holding up the station overhangs. Against the wall of ambient noise, they—tap—anchored Montgomery to reality, keeping his thoughts from drifting too far. The taps were time slowing down, signaling for him to hurry on. Montgomery looked away, letting his eyes glaze over until they became glassy.

  All around him were the signs of nightfall as the wilderness came to life. Fireflies lit the countryside, which, excluding the railroad town, was almost empty of any development. Above them, stars were almost visible, but still indiscernible through the cloud cover. The breeze wafted the buzz of critters through the air and into the station. Montgomery imagined that the countryside would eventually give way—in perhaps fifty years—to a metropolis, that a population boom would create an urban center. He envisioned streets filled not with the buzz of crickets but the buzz of people—tap—. But for now, all that was there was an untouched rural landscape.

  Montgomery gripped his ticket in his hand. The flimsy paper was bent and crumpled from his constant fumbling and folding. This two- by five-inch slip was Montgomery’s getaway from the countryside he had squandered all his life in. He was discontent with this lifestyle, being so disconnected from the world o
ut there. He was discontent with how his life seemingly repeated itself over again each day; it seemed as if he was just a constantly looping song on an old stereo. There was no living out here. People just went through the motions. He could not live like this any longer. Even so, it had happened all so suddenly; no time at all had been afforded to Montgomery to think about his future. He was still unsure about it all; he had been unsure about it for a long time now.

  But he had received an escape to a greater story: a ticket out. And he was taking a leap. He wanted to become someone, something that could not be done here, for nothing could ever be done here. This was not a place where people were able to do things. This was a place where people rigged time to never move forward but instead trap their souls in a cycle of daily living. This was a place where discontinued automatons, having been replaced with newer models, came to die. Montgomery had to go out there and so he had gotten a ticket. No goodbyes were needed; Montgomery had no friends or family left that would come after him if he left. He had been here for too long, as no one he knew still remained. Those who had wanted more in their lives had long since left, walked to the same train station he now stood in and gone either east or west. It didn’t matter. It just had to be somewhere else. The train station was the last anyone leaving saw of their town—of their past life. There would be no return visits with their reflections of sentiment, if only because Montgomery had no sentiment of his hometown. And reassured that this was the only right course, he let himself return to his surroundings—tap—.

  There, as if acknowledging Montgomery’s attention, the air began to buzz with electricity just as a rush of warm wind was being carried around the tracks, signaling the arrival of an incoming eastbound passenger train. While Montgomery recognized it as not his train, it was comforting nonetheless. Its presence filled up the empty space while light shining from the windows brushed away the gloom. Warmth flooded into the station, not only through the feel of the air, but into the painted colors—grays becoming oranges and dulls becoming brights. And having completed its transformation of the station, the train eased to a stop. A low whistle bellowed out.

  Montgomery felt soothed, as if the warmth evaporated what worries he had had about starting anew in a different world entirely. He wished he could remain this way forever, bathed in the glow of a new future, but still free of the worries that came with such a major change. Now being covered by the protective shadow of the locomotive, Montgomery took the time to notice things. The pistons underneath the train thrust up and down with a rhythm, producing the unmistakable sound of a steam engine, its hiss. But even with an engine, the aura rising from the bells and whistles of the train looked as if it could power the train alone. He was truly alone in the train station as the man had become hidden behind the train and Montgomery questioned whether the man was there anymore. He was the only one on this platform, in this train station; he was the only one who was even awake this time of night. He was the only one left who had the dream to escape this town.

  And thinking to himself, Montgomery found that he was envious of the passengers in the train. He was envious that they, in their shared mirth together, knew where they were going. The passengers on the train knew their destinations; they knew of how it would end. And they had all known this before him. Montgomery did not have the solace of certainty; he had no plan for the next chapter to his own life, much less any endings. He had only the hope of making it work. Fate would not give him aid; it had never done so in the past. He would have to fight for a new life.

  Montgomery, certain that his mind had finally been made up, allowed himself to lean back on the beam. He breathed out and let his mind dance away with the lights from the train windows, which traced out silhouettes of the passengers. Before long, the train blew another whistle and the pistons started speeding up, going faster, faster, faster, until with a flourish, the train cleared the station. The lights were gone now, as were the restful sounds of the train. Then, looking at the opposite platform, Montgomery noticed the other man had also been whisked away by the train’s departure.

  And while his only companion was gone, the warmth still remained. The pleasant thoughts that had reassured him before had remained, their roles still not finished. But it would not be much longer. It could only be some while until with gusto, his train would sweep into the station just as the last had. It too would pump its pistons up and down, a gentle hiss coming out once it had pulled to a stop. The doors would glide open and Montgomery would board, and then the train would take Montgomery onward. He would finally do this.

  It would just be a little longer. His train was just delayed. All westbound trains were.

  AELA MORRIS

  A Portrait of the Artist as a Teenage Girl

  EVERYTHING ABOUT THE NEW HOUSE felt wrong. Lying in the darkness, I feel it seeping into me. The heater sounds like a monster rising from the deep . . . Crash! Realizing how close I had been to sleep, I clamber out of bed and tug open the window to discover the source of this impromptu percussion show. My bedroom window provides the perfect view of the house across the street. It’s a brick row house, same as all the others, but with something foreboding about it. There isn’t any specific reason for this, it’s just a feeling I have. Cobwebs where there shouldn’t be, strange shadows, you know. I glance around for a beat before I find the source: somebody running from the house. They had knocked over some flowerpots and triggered the streetlamps, bathing the street in a yellow light, like the set of a film noir. And then they’re gone, just a smudge in a dark green sweatshirt on the horizon line.

  Things that happen in that hazy space between night and day often seem less real—a half dream. So, the next morning, walking past the house, I was surprised to see a man picking up the pot shards. He looked to be around my father’s age, but his hair had gone almost completely gray already, so maybe he was older. I didn’t recognize him from the stupid “Welcome New Neighbors” party my mom had dragged me to. I also don’t realize that I’m staring at him until, with a laugh, he says, “Someone really doesn’t like geraniums.”

  “I didn’t think that anyone lived here,” I say hurriedly, feeling some need to explain my presence on the sidewalk.

  “Just the way I like it. I like peace and quiet.” He extends a hand. “I’m Charlie.”

  I shake it. “Sophie.”

  “Sophie,” he says as if he is tasting the name. “The Greeks’ word for ‘wise.’ No pressure.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. I grin in spite of myself, say goodbye, and start to walk away.

  “Sophie!” Charlie calls after me. “I know a fellow artist when I see one.” He’s pointing at the black Moleskine sketchbook in my hands. I turn around, wanting to ask him what he means, but he’s vanished inside the house.

  I spend my entire first day at my new school with Charlie’s words rolling around in my head. I bought the sketchbook in a gift shop somewhere in Michigan. It was the last family vacation we went on before my parents split up. My father found more happiness in books and petri dishes than in my mom and me. That’s how we found ourselves here, living in an old house that my mom can “fix up” and fill with all the antique furniture she pleases. In a place where downtown only takes up two streets and there isn’t a skyscraper to be seen. He would have hated it here. I hope I don’t.

  At lunch, I forgo the cafeteria and head to my tried-and-true strategy, the art room. If there’s anyone in there, they usually keep to themselves. And if there’s no one in there, it means that there’s no one to see you eating alone. This particular art room has a boy with messy brown hair and a plain gray T-shirt.

  “What are you doing?” he demands as I take a seat at the other end of the room. “You need to get out, now.” He doesn’t even give me time to answer the question.

  “Why?”

  “Because only I eat in here. Goodbye.” He crosses the room and opens the door for me with mock politeness.

  It’s then that I look over to where his backpack is sitting and notice
a very familiar green sweatshirt. “You! You were the one who broke all the pots at the house across the street from mine last night!”

  “So what’s your point? Looking to get me arrested for breaking and entering? Because I wasn’t.”

  “No, I’m just interested to know what you’re doing.”

  “Well, don’t be, it’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe I will call the cops then.”

  “Get. Out. Now.”

  And with that he gives me a shove and slams the door behind me.

  “Asshole!” I shout at no one.

  That afternoon, I somehow find myself standing on Charlie’s front porch. He answers the door with a slightly amused expression on his face.

  “What did you mean by ‘fellow artist’?” I say before I lose my nerve.

  Charlie smiles and gestures for me to follow him inside. We enter what is supposed to be the living room, but instead of a couch and coffee table, it’s filled to bursting with canvases, paint, and children’s books.

  “You’re an illustrator?” Charlie nods, smiling. Before I know what I’m doing, I pull out my own sketchbook.

  Despite what he said about liking peace and quiet, Charlie doesn’t seem to mind me hanging around. After school, I sit in the living room and watch him paint. Sometimes he has me cleaning brushes or organizing supplies. Other times we sit, baking in the sun, at his kitchen counter, and just talk. About art and politics, and my own drawings. I also complain about gray T-shirt kid, whose real name is Jack. We’ve had several run-ins since the lunch incident. Most of them involve arguments over art supplies and who gets to store their project where. It exasperates me. Charlie doesn’t seem to have much sympathy, which is infuriating.

  “The greatest artists are often misunderstood” is all he says every time I bring it up.