Harmonious Hearts 2019--Stories from the Young Author Challenge

by Ryan Almroth

  “SO… YOU never said… why didn’t you just spend tonight at home?” Katrina asked as she carefully picked the shriveled olives off her slice.

  They had escaped from the crowd as soon as possible; even after being stuck in each other’s company for so long, all they wanted to do while they were out was eat the leftover pizza in the kitchen, alone, while everyone else continued to party into the early hours of January the first.

  Jas swallowed a mouthful of hard bread and stringy cheese before she answered, just loud enough so that Katrina could hear her over the continued thump of the music in the other room. “My parents have this work thing every year. I usually get stuck with a babysitter, but then I got too old, and then Ben decided we should do a group thing… make our own New Year’s tradition… and, honestly? I just didn’t want to be on my own.”

  “And so you spent the night in the dark with me.” Katrina grinned.

  “I know, right? No, but, seriously… I’m glad I did.”

  “Me too,” said Katrina. “You know what? Even though I came here determined to not kiss anyone at midnight—”

  “Oops—”

  They shared a quiet giggle before she continued. “It’s probably the best one I’ve had.”

  “Really?”

  Katrina nodded. “And maybe… I was thinking… we could make it a tradition. Just for us. As well as… other things.”

  Jas’s heart lurched again as she nodded. She thought that it must have been Katrina waking it up, or making it want to fly out of her chest. She’d never felt this way before, about anyone. And she’d never started out a new year so… happy. To think that when this night started, everything was so different. To think that there could be traditions she might actually enjoy—that she might love even.

  “You know what? I think it’s going to be a really great year,” Katrina said before taking Jas’s hand in hers. Both of their palms and fingers were slightly damp with pizza grease, but that only made the moment more romantic, if you asked them later, when they celebrated their one-year anniversary on this day, down the line.

  Yes, this was even after Katrina invested so much in the local community—both time and money—Jas supporting her every step of the way, even when their families disapproved of most of it. Apparently, they should have been more careful, less rash, or spent more time with their families, even when it was always on their terms—whenever they weren’t distant, or otherwise busy. But Jas and Katrina always had time for each other, because they cared for each other, and that was that.

  Yes, this would be the moment both of them chose, without hesitation, because of their closeness and instant, everlasting connection. That’s why, every anniversary, they always took the time to eat cold pizza—as long as Katrina’s didn’t have olives, of course.

  In fact, if you asked either of them when they knew they were going to last, they would have said it was that moment in Ben’s kitchen, neither of them wanting to let go and wipe any of the grease off—they just wanted to keep holding hands for as long as they could.

  That, and the fact they spent so long locked in a cramped, dark space without killing each other—but mostly the romantic stuff—like how, even then, disheveled and slightly greasy, they knew they had something special, and that no matter what, as long as they had each other, they would never be alone again.

  Of course, they couldn’t say any of this yet. It was far too early. But Jas felt it, just as Katrina did, rushing through her, as their hearts kept trying to reach each other.

  All Jas could really manage was “Yeah, me too,” because it was then that she realized the ache in her chest was gone.

  But they both understood each other’s meanings, so it was more than enough.

  CHLOE SMITH is a disabled and autistic writer and poet from the United Kingdom. She is a Foyle Young Poet of the Year 2015, and her poetry has been published in The Honest Ulsterman, TERSE Journal, The Cabinet of Heed, Ghost City Review, and more. Her flash fiction has been published in Ellipsis Zine, TRAIN, Three Drops from a Cauldron, and The Ginger Collect. Her first ever short story, “Plenty of Fish,” was published by Harmony Ink Press in the Harmonious Hearts 2016 anthology, and her short story “143” was also published by Harmony Ink Press in the Harmonious Hearts 2018 anthology.

  She’s wanted to be a writer ever since she knew books existed, especially when she found out that writing those books could be an actual job. She’s still working on getting that status of “published author and poet” with her own books and poetry collections on the shelves, but thinks that as long as there are people out there who will read her work (and occasionally even like it), then she’s most of the way there.

  Chloe lives in England with her family, who she loves very much. If she’s not writing, then she’s probably thinking up a new story idea, rewatching episodes of Doctor Who, or drinking tea (as long as it’s decaf).

  Twitter: @ch1oewrites

  Website: chloesmithwrites.wordpress.com

  Of Pseudonyms and Earbuds

  By M. Caldeira

  He is unhappy, apathetic, and skating by in school by using music to block out reality. Mostly to satisfy his mother, he agrees to therapy and surprisingly makes a connection with his therapist. Things are getting better, but there’s something major he hasn’t revealed….

  THE BACKPACK dropped with a thump as the boy let his hair fall in front of his eyes. He felt the urge to cry.

  It wasn’t a foreign feeling to him. The urge hit him pretty much every day, and it was the cause of many a night spent awake, staring at the ceiling. The dark spots didn’t provide much of a view, for he didn’t turn on the light, but still they were an escape. They were something to focus on. Something other than his feelings. The shadows cast upon him were enough to darken his face, and he found they suited his mood pretty well. So down went his backpack, thrown askew without a care, and up went the music. Louder, a cacophony of chaos, the singer’s screams mirroring his own need to yell.

  No one else heard, of course. He’d learned long ago that playing his music so loud it rattled the walls—at least when not on the tiny earbuds he carried wherever he went—only seemed to aggravate his parents. Not to mention the neighbors. Someone had actually called the police on him once. He didn’t blame them. He’d have done the same. Loud music at 3:00 a.m.? It only led to knocks at the door—dutifully locked—and yells to turn it down.

  He didn’t sleep anymore, so it wasn’t like time meant much to him. It was only routine, when the light edged into his room, when he could actually see stuff through his open window, he got up. He supposed he did sleep, if sleep could be classified as a period of inactivity. It was as close as he came. Lying in bed, staring up, holding back the sobs. It was something he had grown accustomed to, as he let out shocked little gasps, as he felt the cool mattress below him, the cold neither helping nor detracting from the need to rest. The hair, the hair he had fought to get longer, under some stupid pretense of fashion and popularity, pushed against the pillow.

  He didn’t have a word for what he felt. Feeling wasn’t even the right word. He had never tried to explain it, because he didn’t see the point in that, but if he had, he might have uttered a few words. Not sentences, as he didn’t feel like he had the energy for that anymore, but words. It was a dark void that consumed every joyful thing in his life. It was a smog that confused the senses, and made light and warmth go away. It was a cold that seeped from deep within his chest, numbing everything. Sometimes the boy thought he was losing it. Only to then wonder when he had ever really had it. When had he been happy? He was sure that at some point, maybe in a distant past, he had felt the rush of a smile, of laughter, of seeing something pretty and being able to enjoy it.

  Now, however, he simply was. There was no other word for it. He was, he existed, in a deep, agonizing numbed state, but he was there. He survived, he sustained himself. Though food held no flavor, and certainly no texture, he ate. Hell, he ate quite a lot, hoping to somehow fill the voi
d he felt. It didn’t work; it only got him sick.

  Sometimes the boy was sure he deserved to feel as bad as he did. Sometimes he thought there were things within and things outside that justified such a pain. It was painful in the same way that standing outside in the cold was—it was miserable—but he really didn’t feel much of it.

  He cried to himself sometimes, when it got to be too much, when he couldn’t face any more moments of dullness. But then even that wasn’t a constant, sometimes he just felt unable to cry, no matter how much he tried to think of sad things. And he felt dumb and he felt guilty and he felt that something was wrong with him, though he couldn’t explain it. Crying helped, somewhat. It came out of him like a flow, pushing from deep within, silent sobs and hiccups, as he did his best not to be heard. It wouldn’t do to call attention. It was not worth it to worry his folks.

  And so he was left with turning up his music. The music helped. Sure, he couldn’t exactly put in his disks—disks he had spent his lousy savings on, from a job he’d once held—but he could download it, and put it in the tiny player he always held in his breast pocket.

  The earbuds were white, and the mp3 player had once been a similar color, but it had been weathered down by time, so now it sat a dull gray. A dull gray that in everything matched his outlook on life. He didn’t exactly have a type of song, though he tended to feel pop was too poppy. From acoustic covers, to musicians screaming like mad men, from heavy guitar riffs to somber piano pieces, his personal playlist was something he had cultivated. He had poked and picked, not so much so that it helped maintain his state, his dull outlook on life, but so he could identify with it. There were even moments where he thought to feel a pang of something. Something positive, something that wasn’t guilt at being. It was not the same cold and heavy burden he usually had. No, it was something he thought he couldn’t identify, or at least he thought it too far-fetched.

  It was enjoyment.

  “THIS IS a mistake” were the first words he uttered, as he glanced around. His voice sounded weak, rough, as if hearing it was an oddity. In fact, he did his best not to talk, to just blend in. Sitting in the back of class, or arriving home and plugging in his earbuds, as unaware of the world as the world was unaware of him. Words weren’t really something he used; he hadn’t in a long time, but still they were a tool. A tool to express his derision, a tool to reveal how much disbelief he felt within him. He didn’t think all the drama worth it. He’d have rather stayed still, quiet, not bothered. The darkness gagged him. It entered him and shut him off, but it was also familiar. It was as part of his routine, as getting up was. And even that was sometimes hard.

  The boy glanced around, at the brightly colored chairs and lime green walls. It was like someone was trying to throw a little bit of joviality into the place, but still it didn’t work. He could see the colors, but they were tinted with the dullness he felt and had felt for a long time. His words hadn’t come with the intent to hurt, but still he felt that perhaps they might come off as ungrateful. Hope was the last thing to die—that was a saying he had often heard, but it could be worked at, eroded and chafed until it was no more than a pale flame. A pale flame that, in its light and warmth, did little to dispel his feelings.

  “Please just try?” It was his mother who spoke, and if the boy could grasp on to any feelings, he’d probably feel guilt. His mother hadn’t had an easy time with this. In fact he might say she’d had a harder time than he had. Unlike him, she managed to show her emotions, not hiding them behind a closed door, as she wondered just what was wrong with her son. The boy had never been able to come up with a good answer, just telling her nothing was wrong and that he felt fine. Those were lies, and he had a feeling she didn’t truly believe them, but they were enough for her to leave him alone for another week or two. Up until the cycle repeated and exasperation formed.

  He remembered what it had taken for him to try therapy. Some hotshot new therapist in all the magazines, apparently cost an arm and a leg too. He had known his mother cried, and the fact she still cared for him was obvious. It wasn’t until she was holding her hands to her hair and telling him she just didn’t know what else to do that he had agreed.

  His mother didn’t deserve him… that was his conclusion. He was in no way an easy child to raise. He thought she’d prefer he yell, scream, disobey curfews, to this apathy, this constant in his life.

  He’d been choked up when he agreed. A rare glimpse of emotion had passed through him, and he had said yes. He hated how he made others feel. He felt perhaps it would be better if he wasn’t loved so people didn’t expect things from him.

  The boy sighed. He failed to see the point of therapy, as he doubted it would have an effect. But if it would make his mother feel better…. He looked at the breast pocket of his shirt, as if hoping to find his earbuds there. He pushed a finger toward the pocket, feeling them. Then he remembered what his mother had pled. The urge to gulp grew larger. Maybe just, maybe it was worth it, for his mother.

  The boy dropped his hand, the lack of music making his feelings inescapable. He crossed his arms over his chest, and doing his best impression of a petulant teenager, rolled his eyes, scowled, and let out an exaggerated “Fine.” It rang hollow. He might not be able to express it, and he might be actively going against the image, but he truly was thankful for the fact his mother hadn’t given up on him. She did love him, and that was plenty clear.

  “Thank you, dear.” His mother smiled. There were few things in the world that he held close to his heart, what with his conformist and pessimist nature, but her smile was one of them. He didn’t really care much for objects, as he did not care much for his relationships. They tended to fall apart due to a lack of effort on his part. However, that smile, while not enough to cheer him up, to make all his troubles go away, did alleviate somewhat the burden in his heart, the heaviness in his chest, and the sinking feeling in his stomach.

  It felt nice to have his mother smile at him. He could feel the hand at his shoulder and the reassuring touch as he moved his hand so it touched his mother’s.

  IF HE had thought that the waiting room had been oversaturated in bright colors and sappy decorations, then he hadn’t yet seen anything. When he was finally called in, and his name made its way across the therapist’s lips, he couldn’t help himself. The scowl that grew on his face was very real.

  What had started as an exercise to avoid looking at the therapist only led him to disbelief as he examined the room around him. There were tones of pink, like a sunset, and greens, like grass, and though his mind made the associations, he had to admit it created a very dissonant effect. The room didn’t mesh well. It was colors thrown at random. Not quite splashes, but with the same general lack of focus. As if the therapist had had kids throw paint around in a bizarre exercise. He wouldn’t put it past her.

  His mother left the room, and he didn’t look back. It was an exercise of trust, a show of confidence, for both him and the therapist, that she had left. The message was clear, and even the boy could grasp it. You do what you need to do.

  The therapist glanced at his chart, or whatever it was, and the boy couldn’t help but sigh once more. Here it came, the inevitable call of his name. He didn’t know why, but he detested it. It felt wrong, off somehow.

  “First of all, I want to assure you that things will get better,” she said, which of course, forced the boy to look at her. She had a kind smile, one that immediately reminded him of his grandmother, who always greeted him with open arms and a pantry full of food. It was warm and genuine, and it made tearing his gaze away difficult. Her eyes shone with a warmth, though the boy couldn’t exactly say what color they were. Aquamarine? Teal? Whatever the name for that particular mixture of green and a very light blue, the boy felt it was peculiar that he could identify the color, even if he didn’t have a name for it. Her hair was tied in a bun, not quite gray yet not exactly the vibrant brown it must have been once. If his curiosity had been active, he’d have wondered why she
didn’t dye it. As it was, he just took it at face value.

  “Right!” He hadn’t meant for the words to come quite as harshly as they did, for the slight tone of hysteria to come out in that single word, so it made him sound somewhat sarcastic. What he had intended to be a short affirmation, a confirmation that he was listening, had turned into a moment of weakness. When he had compared the saying, that often repeated saying, with how he felt then and how he had felt for so long, it was hard not to think it a lie. Something adults said only for a quick reassurance.

  She didn’t budge. Not even when his posture drooped, and his eyes shone hatred and anger. He hadn’t thought himself capable of feeling such strong emotions, and then they were negative ones, but he felt like she did not understand. How could she? What he felt? Every single day of his life?

  He might have clenched his fist or bitten his lip. He felt like crying, and while usually he appreciated the emotional outpouring, as a relief, an escape, he didn’t want it to happen in public. It’d make him seem weak, as if he couldn’t handle his emotions. The boy couldn’t help but hold it in, which caused a weight at the back of his throat, one he couldn’t help but feel even as she made her own comments.

  “I realize you may have heard that before, and perhaps you don’t quite trust it, but what you need to understand is, I’m here to help.” She paused, a hand at her keyboard. The computer she had in her office was more modern than anything the boy had ever had, but then if the prices he had heard quoted were right, she could very well afford it. Swallowing the heavy feeling in the back of his throat didn’t seem to be helping, and so he only stared. He wasn’t about to open his mouth as that could lead to everything unraveling and him crying. He was reminded of something his father had said once. Men don’t cry! He wasn’t sure how firm a rule that really was because he thought he’d heard his father cry about him once before.