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Ever realized that the writing on the page is nowhere near as good as the idea in your head? You’re not alone…

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I’d got the call at about six-thirty the previous evening; Sunday – during “Songs of Praise”. Not that I was watching it.

“How quickly can you get down to London tonight?”

“Tonight? I can’t get there tonight; the last train has gone.”

“Ok, tomorrow, then?”

“Err… maybe just after lunchtime?”

“Ok, the job’s yours. Get there as soon as you can.”

And that was it. My first job out of Uni. Mum ran around like a maniac that evening: washing, drying, ironing, packing. A blizzard of activity, looking after her chick. Early next morning, Dad took me to the train station and put me and my case onto the London train, and then I hustled him off, afraid he’d get stuck on the train too. After I’d waved him out of sight, I jolted down the carriage to find a quiet seat.

They got on at Crewe; a youth with two children. The three wandered down the carriage, looking for seats, and stopped when they came level with me. I’d never seen anyone up close dressed like that before. He was all in black, ringlets dangling in greasy strands, bum fluff on his chin – his signet ring bit into the soft white flesh of his hand. He was dressed beyond his age. He slithered a glance at me, and then muttered something to his two charges who sidled in after him. He sat opposite me. We nodded, then disengaged our eyes. He took out a battered little book and began to read, muttering silently to himself.

I can’t say when I actually realised what was happening. At, first, I thought it just chance. Then I became convinced there was an unruly dog under the table. There was a pressure on my legs, which followed my limbs about, when I tried to keep out of the way. Then I noticed his eyes. Staring, unblinking, over the rims of his thick glasses. At me.

You know those icy fingers that are talked about? Well they played up and down my spine right then. I realised the “dog” was actually his legs pressing onto mine; chasing me around, under the table. And I knew he wanted to see my reaction; see me cringe and disintegrate, right there for his delectation.

But I decided differently. I leant back in the seat and uncrossed my legs and crossed then again; quickly and very firmly, catching my stiletto on his shin.

He winced.

I watched.

We stared eye to eye. I uncrossed my legs again, and crossed them again. Deliberately. He winced once more and looked uncertainly at his companions. They were oblivious to his pain.

I repeated my actions, connecting again; beads of sweat appeared under the black rim of his hat. He muttered disjointedly, and got up – shepherding his party further down the carriage.

I smiled; I knew I’d be able to look after myself then.

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“My home,” she said, indicating the contents of the plywood shack with a delicate sweep of her hand.

“It’s nice,” I lied, knowing she knew it wasn’t but not wanting to give offense.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to an ancient sofa with springs poking through the dirty brown fabric. I sat avoiding the sharp metal springs and the worst of the dirt. I acted as if I were sitting in a mansion, my smile as ever disarming.

“How long?”I asked. She flashed a smile and corrected an errant strand of dark brown hair.

“Not long enough,” She answered, ” I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”

“Many times,” I agreed. We sat for a moment in silence. Then she looked up.

“What do I get?” She was all business this one, there must not have been much time left.

“What do you need?”

“My daughter… she only has me to look after her.”

“She will be cared for.” I smiled, “I will see to it personally.”

“You won’t… my daughter I mean, no catches?”

“No, you need not worry. I realize my reputation is poor but that is the doing of others. I assure you I am an honest… man.”

She seemed comforted, I continued.

“As for you, there is no denying it won’t be pleasant but you will have the knowledge that your daughter is safe and her future her own. That is more than most. No strings. No tricks.”

“When… when will it happen to me.” She asked, bravely.

“Sometime within the next three days.”

“I would have thought you more precise, timed to the exact minute.”

“Oh it is,” I said, “but… better for you if you don’t know.”

“I see,” she said and smiled.

She then stood and held out her small thin hand. I took it gently and turned to leave. I moved slowly to give her a chance to change her mind. She didn’t. We had a deal. So many others had seemed strong until this final point then faltered. This one was strong. I stepped out into the fresh night air and started off towards my next visit without looking back.

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I hit end on my phone and think of what I should to do next. On the one hand, I should feel devastated and begin pour my eyes out. I should collapse on my bed and not move for the rest of the night. That would be nice, but it doesn’t sound right for me. I should calmly walk back to the room and announce that he won’t be able to come, despite his best efforts, and I probably won’t go anymore. I can already hear what they would all say.

“Sweetie, you already paid for the ticket. You should go, it’ll be fun.”

“Come on, you have to go.”

I don’t know how much fun it’ll actually be though without him. I attended the same formal last year. It was okay at first. The three of us arrived, them with their boyfriends and me alone (I already knew I would be alone, so there was no disappointment). We had our pictures taken, and danced to pop music while the guys looked on. The food was terrible, but we enjoyed complaining about it together. It was all fun, until the slow dances began.

I grab my towel, and head for the shower. Tears still threaten to pour out, but I stop them. I don’t want to seem like the type of person who seeks attention. I ponder whether I should let it out in the shower while no one is looking.

If only he was able to come, I thought. If only his bosses weren’t such jerks! I thought. A fire starts in my chest when I think of them. There was a 50% chance that he’ll be able to come and still keep his job. His tone though, already told me that it was impossible.

The water starts. My hair begins to drown me. My hands move the same way they do every night, but my soul is hundreds of miles away. I don’t know where it is. One minute, I’m in the past, then the future, then outside of my body watching a soap opera. I know no one is around to hear me, so this would be as good a time as ever. I stop myself though.

This is stupid, I thought. I’m just creating more drama than this needs to be. I hate drama. I went out of my way in high school to avoid all the useless drama. All the ‘he hates me’ and ‘she’s so annoying’; I don’t need it. I don’t need it outside and not inside my mind either. I know he wants to come as badly as I do, and making him feel guilty or anyone else feel bad won’t make things better. Even if I really begged him, and he quit his job to rush to my side, I would be one of those selfish preps who have disposable boys. It would be so selfish! He works so hard to help pay the bills in his house and raise whatever he can to go to college, while I’m here watching stupid videos on my stupid computer in between homework assignments. How can I even ask him to spend so much just to come to me for one weekend when that money can go somewhere useful? I’m pathetic. If I worked half as hard as him, then I might be worthy of being selfish.

I make up my mind; I can’t cry. It’s ridiculous high school drama that has no business in the Real World. It’s only a dance and it’s only one weekend. I don’t need the tears. I’m better than that. The emotions soon pass on as I continue to wash my hair and then my body. I think about happier moments in life, and my soul returns to my body by the time I finish by washing my face.

I turn the nozzle. None of the water on my face came from me. I grab the towel off of the rack and cover my face to dry. I try to lift it away, but it sticks. A movie starts and in an instant I hear soft music. I’m transported to a dance, watching so many happy couples dance in the dim light. There’s my roommate, my neighbors, and all my other friends. Our song is playing. I return to the present. One drop from each eye is reflected on the towel. Drama is not for me, so I won’t have it. I step out of the room, all wrapped up. My body is cold, and my heart is frozen.

Kristine Guadagno is a college sophomore from Boston. This is her first piece for Backhand Stories

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He takes his pencil and sketches a few rough lines on the paper. The swift motion of his hand makes black streaks across the white. He brushes the hair from his eyes and bites his lower lip. From over his shoulder, I watch this master at work. My brother is an artist. With a pencil and paper, he can portray the most beautiful of God’s creation. Sometimes I will come home from school to find him painting a landscape of beautiful mountains underneath a purple sky. On other nights, I will find a canvas with his composition of a powerful hurricane passing over the innocent mother earth.

Today, the etchings on his paper begin to come together in the shape of a face. The gentle curve of a cheek becomes obvious. He carefully draws small ears and a nose. Then the figure is given an outline of long hair that flows over thin-framed shoulders. With a meticulous hand, he creates a thin midsection that expands at the hips. Two long legs end with tiny feet. Each toe is drawn to perfection. The portrait is faultless. I watch her with steady eyes; just as the angels must have watched over God’s shoulder as he began his work on man and woman.

“Who is she?” I ask as I hold the corner of the paper between two of my fingers. My brother doesn’t answer; he simply smiles and puts his pencil against the paper once more. Her mouth is drawn closed with two petite lips. As his work continues, I feel as though I am watching her birth occur in slow motion.

Her eyes take the longest. He spends a full hour completing them. Whenever I look into them, it is as though I can see every second of her life leading up to the moment in which my brother captured her. He must have seen her somewhere, I think to myself.

His wife may have left him, but he remained the gifted artist he was before.

She doesn’t know what she gave up.

Jake Wickenhofer is a seventeen-year-old writer living in Bridgeport, West Virginia.. His work has been accepted by magazines such as The Oracular Tree, Alienskin Magazine, Static Movement, AntipodeanSF, Flash Scribe, and of course Backhand Stories. His major influences are Greg Wickenhofer, Chuck Palahniuk, and Julie Maxey.

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