This is heinously late but at least it's here. Also it swears a little...because I guess I'm a sinner these days. A Sinner named Tory and this is my story about angsty punks and fireworks and girls with curly hair and frowns.

Molly Davis didn’t fear much. The dark had never bothered her, and she squashed spiders without a second thought. Heights she found thrilling and she found small spaces to be stuffy rather than panic attack worthy. Molly Davis didn’t consider herself particularly brave. Just sensible.

So, of course when there was a soft tap on her window and she awoke to a figure looming in her window, she didn’t scream or even jump. She only sighed, flicked on her lamp and felt for her glasses while mumbling threw lips still clumsy with sleep, “Walter, you really need to stop being over-dramatic with all these midnight visits. I do have a front door you know.”

“Don’t try and tell me how to live my life.” Came a muffled retort. “I come here to avoid crap like that.”

Molly got laboriously to her feet and crossed to her window and knelt on the window seat, giving the boy on the other side of the screen her best “Judging You” look, perfected over the years of being in the nearly constant company of one Walter Scott Hayes.

Walter Scott Hayes, the boy across the screen, pressed his forehead into the fine black mesh, returning her sanctimonious expression with one of his carefully crafted and artfully refined facades.  A mix of boredom, with just the right amount of anger and contempt to create the perfect “I don’t give a shit” guise. “Cut the lecture face, Davis, and just let me in.”

Molly rolled her eyes so hard it actually hurt, but got to her feet and popped the screen out of the window, allowing the wan boy to slip past her.

“I don’t even know why I even bother putting this back.” She grumbled, placing the screen back into place with a well practiced air. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this late visit?” she said speaking up slightly but still keeping her voice low to avoid the attraction of anyone except the boy currently lounging on an overstuffed and unambiguously purple arm chair. He released a pent up and theatrical sigh, upsetting a pile of carefully stalked books on the arm, causing Molly’s ever present slight frown to deepen.

“My dad is an asshole.” Walter’s tone was light and dripping with derision and he seemed to particularly relish the feel of the curse word in his mouth, as a slow smile crept onto his face at the childish pleasure of realizing that at that moment, there was no one to chide him for it.

“Wow, no need to sound so happy about it.” Said Molly, sitting down on her bed

“He’s on my case about my job.”

Molly was actually surprised. Of all the things that Mr. Hayes could nag his son about, and there were many things he could find fault with, why his job?

“He doesn’t like that you're working? I thought he bugged you about getting a job for months.”

“He did.” Said Walter, propping his feet up on the end of Molly’s bed. “But he doesn’t like where I found it.”

“The record store?” Questioned Molly, dark brows knitting together in concern.

“They don’t feel it’s a good atmosphere for me, it’s “not conducive with a healthy self image or learning experiences for my impressionable age.’”

Molly snorted, “You don’t need any help with a healthy self image, you’re damn near a peacock.”

Walter smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Beneath the veneer of cool indifference Walter slathered on, Molly could see a twinge of something else. Something real. And it worried her. Walter seldom allowed ‘real’ things to bubble too close to the surface.

“Well to be fair to your parents.” Said Molly, looking at him with concern. “Didn't your boss try and give you pot once? That place smells like a joint.”

“Herb?” Said Walter, sitting up and for the first time that evening cracking a real smile. “Nah, he just said I wouldn’t look so grumpy all the time if I gave his hookah a try. He’s a very interesting fellow. Unfortunate hygiene problem, but he means well.”

“It is a bit of a hole in the wall.” Said Molly, raising an eyebrow.

“So? I like it.”

“I know you do, and it’s a job, but it is a bit concerning for your parents I’m sure.”

Walter “Harumphed” in an uncharacteristically undignified way, the way he always did when she agreed with his parents about something.

“But,” Said Molly, leaning over and prodding him in the shoulder, “That can’t be all, they’ve disapproved of your job from day one. So what’s really wrong?”

Walter avoided her gaze by looking around her room, as if he’d never seen it before. His dark eyes took in the overflowing bookshelves and framed prints of impressionist paintings and a haphazard spread of pencils and half finished sketches on her desk. “Why do you try and be such a hipster all the time?” He inquired in distaste. He pointed to her bedside table where an old fashioned ______ telephone sat next to her alarm clock. “Does that phone even work?”

Molly hit his arm. “Don’t change the subject with your stupid and unfounded judgments towards the hipster way of life that is now mainstream. Answer the question. What’s really wrong?”

Walter shrugged noncommittally. He was very fond of the gesture and its versatility as well as its slippery tendency that allowed him to wriggle out of any scenario that he found unpleasant.

But Molly was accustomed to this and wasn’t letting him slither away this time. She pinned him down with a merciless and ruthless glare and growled, “I did not let you into my room at two in the morning so you could criticize my room and snark about your job. What’s wrong? Tell me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Now!”

“Cripes,” muttered Walter, eyes widening, “There’s no need to be so assertive.”

He got up though, and then hesitated, and his face tightened. Walter shifted slightly, looking around and something close to dread settled into Molly’s stomach. Walter never shifted. He never fidgeted. He was always so careful in his movements and so precise. He didn’t like to waste them. The cool moonlight coming in from the still open window and the warm lamp light from her bedside table threw his face into stark contrasts. The right side was all monochromatics, bright whites and inky blacks where the moon defined his high cheekbones and cast his deep set eyes into shadows, while the lamp light blurred his sharply angled face and illuminated the warmth in his skin and the Something in his eyes.

Bright, cold indifference.

Warm, blurry pain.

What he was and what he hid behind.

Walter Scott Hayes was hurting and it felt like Molly Davis was the one in pain. It had taken her so long to discover what the Something was.

“It’s just,” Walter’s voice died and it surprised Molly how real it was, his voice when no one was there to make him sneer, when there was no reason to drawl out his sentences and make his aversion evident when it was Just Walter.  Just a boy who felt constantly lost and constantly afraid.

“It’s just....”

He hated that word. Just, it was just so damn passive aggressive.

“They don’t want me to be me. They shut me out.” He shook his head violently, like he was trying to get water out of his ears. “No no no, not out. They shut me in.They shut me in myself. They try to hide it. Hide me, the real me. I don’t even really know the real me! I don’t! Because I never get the chance because I’m not like my brother’s. Because I’m not like ANYONE in this town. Because I’m different and my parents don’t like it. They don’t like me. They don’t like me! They hide it. Or try to, but I can see it. Every time I feel I get closer to figuring out what it means to be me, they rush in and put a stop to it. If it were just.. if it were just my clothes. If they just didn’t like my  clothes that would be fine. They don’t have to. They don’t have to like my clothes or my hair or my music or my job. I can deal with that. That I can handle. It’s when it’s me that they can’t handle, that’s what gets me. Do you know how much it hurts to hide? How much I keep in because if I let it out I’ll see it in their eyes, I make them uncomfortable Molly. I make them cringe. My own parents...they don’t...they don’t-”

“Get you? Said Molly softly.

“Don’t you dare say that!” Snapped Walter, “That’s so damn pretentious. Get me? I don’t even get me! I don’t need them to get me! I need them to love me! Even if they don’t “Get me”. I need them to let me try, try and figure out who I am without them constantly shutting me down. I don’t know who I am Molly. I don’t know.” He ducked his head and said quietly, “If I just knew. If I could just know for certain that they love me, then I think I could probably handle that they didn’t like me. If I knew..”

Molly had sat very quietly and very still for his tirade. She was listening so intently she’d hardly blinked. Finally she said, “Is wal-mart still open?”

Walter blinked in surprise. “Uh.. what?”

“I asked if Wal-Mart was still open. How do you feel about a quick trip?”

“What are we getting?”

Molly got up, grabbing a too big cardigan to throw over her baggy tee shirt and printed pajama shorts. She tied her mess of brown curls up into a knot on the top of her head and said simply, “Fireworks.”

It was the first of July and fireworks lined the metal shelves of Wal-Mart. Molly meandered down the aisle, heedless of her chuck’s trailing laces and the lateness of the hour. Walter followed behind her, looking dubious and pale under the florescent lighting.

“Why don't you just set a twenty dollar bill on fire.” He said shrewdly while Molly made her selection. “It would have just about the same effect.”

“Shush, come on, let’s go.”

“I thought YOU were suppose to be the sensible one.”

“Don’t pin me down with your stupid labels.” She teased, picking up a box of sparklers. “Come along, I think we’ve got enough.”

A long drive ensued, with the windows rolled down and the crickets on full blast while stars reeled overhead they arrived at a desolate patch of sandy ground that resembled

“A baseball diamond?” Said Walter incredulously, “Who the HELL would come all the way out here for baseball?”

“Not the point.” Said Molly, tracking across the sand with her improbably large package of overpriced fireworks.
“I’m missing the point because there isn’t one.” He said irritably. “It’s four in the morning! What are we doing out here?”

“having fun.” She said with a shrug,  “does there need to be a point?”

The first firework went off with a high pitched scream, spouting off green and blue sparks ten feet into the air. Molly laughed, delighted, and Walter shook his head, a faint smirk tugging on his lips. “This is stupid,” He called, leaning against the truck, hands shoved in his pockets, while Molly set the fuse of another, running back to him with a manic grin while the fuse got shorter and shorter, until golden jets arced above them, followed by crackling sparks and a delayed boom.

“I still see no point!” He bellowed, but he was smiling now, and there wasn't a barest trace of derision in it.

With every firework released, Walter seemed to stand up a little taller, like he was getting lighter. He laughed when Molly squealed in fright as a firecracker went off back before she made it back to him, and he stared up in awe at the flashing colors. Molly spun in a circle, a sparkler in each hand, laughing at the brilliant white embers flying around her. When she finally slowed to a stop, hands still crackling with the pyrotechnics and cheeks aching from smiling, she was surprised to see Walter leaning against the truck, and crying.

“Walter? What’s wrong?”

“He’s such an asshole.” He choked out. “And It’s not just them.”

“what? What do you mean.”

“It’s not just them who hates the real me.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cab. If his eyes had been open, he would have been able to see the shooting star arching over the pair. “He’s an asshole.” He said softly, tears coursing down his cheeks. “And I’m just like him.”

Molly opened her mouth, but words failed her. She sucked in a quick breath and jerked her hands away, dropping the sparklers that had scorched her fingers, and listened to Walter’s tears.

Fireworks

Posted by Katie Lyn Mills Sagers henceforth to be labeled simply as Millie

My eyes feel like they are full of kitty litter, they itch and burn, weighted down by a mountain of indecision. I can hardly keep them open. There is a small part of me that doesn't want to bother, but who would be left to be indecisive for me? I shake my head and keep driving, trying to focus on the dull yellow lines in front of me as they climb up the hill. My mind must have switched into auto pilot, because I don't remember seeing the road until the sudden eruption of color sets the sky on fire. Oh, right, it’s the Fourth of July.

My eyes don’t want to focus on the blur of color in front of me, but at least the constant popping keeps me awake. Gunfire sets my nerves on hyper drive, I’ll never sleep tonight. The crackle of hot pink sparkles lights the way as I pull into my apartment and get out of the car. There are a bunch of people I've never seen before camped out on my lawn, complete with barbecue. Possibly these people are my neighbors. I pick up the huge stack of papers from the drivers side and slam the door, but the noise is inaudible to the celebratory strangers. I go inside and drop the stack of ink and tree fiber that potentially contain a life on the floor.  It is a considerable sized pile, but it doesn't make a noise weighty enough for the words it carries. “Last living relative” hits the ground with nothing but a soft plop, hardly even noticeable in the din of exploding color and drunk possible neighbors.

I mean to go to bed. I kick off my shoes. I start brushing my teeth. I don't’ mean to end up standing at the window, toothbrush hanging uselessly from my mouth staring up at the bright sky watching the colors tumble and dance, fighting to be the brightest or the most impressive. You loved fireworks, for all I know you still do. A bright neon smiley face lights the sky, not having to compete with any other fireworks and suddenly I feel sick. I close the blinds. I brush my teeth. I sign the paper.

What is life without light and color?

I drop the paper back on the floor and go to bed, throwing a blanket over my window I pop in my ear buds and lay down and close my eyes. I’m fairly certain I should be crying, but I’m not. I turn up my classical music, it is not loud enough to drown out the sound of gunfire cheerfully going off outside my window. I decide keeping my eyes closed is a terrible idea. I don’t want to see the images my eyelids play on continual repeat. I don’t want to see the stark white of hospitals. I don’t want to see the shattering of windshields. I don’t want to see the barbie doll face of some chipper news caster saying it was a random shooting or the officers telling me they have no leads. Random. Meaningless.

I kick off the covers and go back to the door snatching up the paper I take it into the office and curl up in the chair. There are no windows in the office. I sit at the deck and let the chair spin slowly in circles for a while listening to my private concert of violins and cellos. Then I flip on the shredder and feed it the paper. Because the darkness is beautiful too, and you are the one who taught me that.

I'm not sure why but I feel the need to add explanation to my story. Probably because it is so short and so sad, two things I typically cannot write. I generally write over the top and add so much description to emotions that I end up smothering anything that feels real. I also usually write happy romantic type crap. So I decided to challenge myself to put emotion in with as little description as i could. And this is the result of said challenge, I have no idea why it turned out so sad, I had a very happy Fourth of July myself. In fact I always enjoy that holiday. Also lest certain sisters of mine question it, it was intentionally ambiguous.

Ink in our veins

So as a group we have been doing little quirky games to keep our creative edge among ourselves for a while. We've played the letter game...actually that should be we play the letter game except that I haven't responded to anyone in a while. We write pass along stories together, passing the note book by passing notebooks back and forth. This is just one more such activity, we'll be posting short stories here as we write them....at least that is the plan.