Book Review: The Wrong Man by Kate White

I rated it 4 out of 5 stars.

Overview: New York Times bestselling author of Eyes on You and The Sixes delivers a compelling thriller of mistaken identity and psychological suspense about an accomplished career woman who thinks she's met the man of her dreams--but instead he turns out to be her worst nightmare.

Bold and adventurous in her work as one of Manhattan's hottest interior decorators, Kit Finn couldn't be tamer in her personal life. So, while on vacation in the Florida Keys, Kit resolves to do something risky for once. Flirting with Matt Healy--the rugged stranger she literally bumps into at her hotel--is one thing. Going back to his room after their date is another.

Instead, Matt offers to cook her dinner when they're both back in the city. But when Kit arrives at his luxury apartment ready for the date of a lifetime, who is the man who opens the door?

Kit's usually so good at reading people. How could she have been taken in by the deceptions of a con man? And why has he targeted her? Piece by piece, Kit realizes that this treachery goes a lot deeper, and gets a lot deadlier. Now the only way out is to expose the vicious puppet master who's turned her life upside-down.

Adrenaline-charged and filled with harrowing twists at every turn, The Wrong Man will leave readers guessing until the final page.

Review: Big thanks to Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency and friend, Karla Gomez for giving me an ARC for The Wrong Man, expected to hit the shelves on June16th, 2015! If you're into romantic suspense, thrillers, and mysteries, then this is one you'll want to tuck into your bag and read any chance you get. Nicely paced and polished, with clever twists and turns, this book will keep you engaged from start to finish.

With a likeable main character, Kit, who isn't the type to take things laying down, you'll be at the edge of your seat as you go along her real-life nightmare situation she finds herself in. Add in the minor characters and the cast is both intriguing and interesting. With a carefully devised plot, you won't be disappointed. This is the perfect escapist read for the summer. And come on, aren't you dying to know who the one night stand is? Because I sure was!

Book Review: Veronika Decides To Die by Paulo Coelho

I rate it 3.5 stars out of 5.

Overview:

In his latest international bestseller, the celebrated author of The Alchemist addresses the fundamental questions asked by millions: What am I doing here today? and Why do I go on living?
Twenty-four-year-old Veronika seems to have everything she could wish for: youth and beauty, plenty of attractive boyfriends, a fulfilling job, and a loving family. Yet something is lacking in her life. Inside her is a void so deep that nothing could possibly ever fill it. So, on the morning of November 11, 1997, Veronika decides to die. She takes a handful of sleeping pills expecting never to wake up.

Naturally Veronika is stunned when she does wake up at Villete, a local mental hospital, where the staff informs her that she has, in fact, partially succeeded in achieving her goal. While the overdose didn't kill Veronika immediately, the medication has damaged her heart so severely that she has only days to live.

The story follows Veronika through the intense week of self-discovery that ensues. To her surprise, Veronika finds herself drawn to the confinement of Villete and its patients, who, each in his or her individual way, reflect the heart of human experience. In the heightened state of life's final moments, Veronika discovers things she has never really allowed herself to feel before: hatred, fear, curiosity, love, and sexual awakening. She finds that every second of her existence is a choice between living and dying, and at the eleventh hour emerges more open to life than ever before.

In Veronika Decides to Die, Paulo Coelho takes the reader on a distinctly modern quest to find meaning in a culture overshadowed by angst, soulless routine, and pervasive conformity. Based on events in Coelho's own life, Veronika Decides to Die questions the meaning of madness and celebrates individuals who do not fit into patterns society considers to be normal. Poignant and illuminating, it is a dazzling portrait of a young woman at the crossroads of despair and liberation, and a poetic, exuberant appreciation of each day as a renewed opportunity.

Review: This year, I've been really bad at posting my book reviews soon after I've read them, so this one's been sitting in the draft pile for a while. To begin, I was never really interested in Coelho's books. My sister recommended I read The Alchemist, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to. One night I was flipping through movie trailers and I came upon the film adaption starring Sarah Michelle Gellar. I didn't watch the movie, but it did ignite my curiosity to read it. Never having read the back blurb or anything, I expected a psychological thriller.

It was not.

I figured that out pretty quickly in the first few chapters, but it still kept my interest. What drew me in was the characterization of Veronika and what drove the doctor to do what he did (sorry for the cryptic sentence, I don't want to spoil it!). Though this was a work of fiction it had a philosophical appeal to it, which I enjoyed. It also had an interesting commentary about society and the individual versus society. In short it's a book that makes you think a lot and contemplate about life and death. If you want something thought provoking then this is it. If you're looking for a plot packed story, this is not it. All in all, pretty quick read though sometime the pov switched which bogged me down at times, but over all worth the time.

Book Review: Landline by Rainbow Rowell

I rated it 4 out of 5 stars.

Overview: Georgie McCool knows her marriage is in trouble;it has been in trouble for a long time. She still loves her husband, Neal, and Neal still loves her, deeply — but that almost seems beside the point now.

Maybe that was always beside the point.

Two days before they’re supposed to visit Neal’s family in Omaha for Christmas, Georgie tells Neal that she can’t go. She’s a TV writer, and something’s come up on her show; she has to stay in Los Angeles. She knows that Neal will be upset with her — Neal is always a little upset with Georgie — but she doesn't expect him to pack up the kids and go home without her.

When her husband and the kids leave for the airport, Georgie wonders if she’s finally done it. If she’s ruined everything.

That night, Georgie discovers a way to communicate with Neal in the past. It’s not time travel, not exactly, but she feels like she’s been given an opportunity to fix her marriage before it starts . . .

Is that what she’s supposed to do?

Or would Georgie and Neal be better off if their marriage never happened?

 

Review: During the month of December, I started about ten books, but didn't connect enough to finish any of them. This was a major problem. I love to read, and when I have time to read I want to devour anything and everything I get my hands on. I used to be a 'finisher' as a child (reading books to the end even when I didn't like them), but when college came around I just didn't have time to pleasure read. Still I snuck them in during my breaks between classes, but because I was pressed for time, I started to quit the books I didn't enjoy. I call it my 1/3 rule. If I'm not going to like it by a third of a book, I move onto the next. If I'm still undecided I'll read up to halfway, but by then a decision needs to be made.

 

Luckily that didn't happen for this book! I've read Rowell's Fangirl and really enjoyed it. I tried to get into Eleanor & Park, but for some reason I couldn't get into it. I've heard a lot of great things about Landline so I thought it'd give it a try and I'm glad I did because after a month of not finishing books, I finally started off my January finishing one! Hopefully my quitting streak is over!

 

Rowell does a great job with her characters. They're vivid, flawed, and I feel like I know them. I also like how the flashbacks weren't noticebale, rather they were cohesive in the story. Though the timeline wasn't linear, the storytelling was. Also, don't mind the magic phone. Sounds silly, but Rowell makes it works and I found it a refreshing way to explore dynamics between two people.

 

If you want a feel good about two people falling in love, and then back in love, this one's a quick pleasure read!

Book Review: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

I rated it 4 out of 5 stars.

 

Overview: On a warm summer morning in North Carthage, Missouri, it is Nick and Amy Dunne’s fifth wedding anniversary. Presents are being wrapped and reservations are being made when Nick’s clever and beautiful wife disappears. Husband-of-the-Year Nick isn’t doing himself any favors with cringe-worthy daydreams about the slope and shape of his wife’s head, but passages from Amy's diary reveal the alpha-girl perfectionist could have put anyone dangerously on edge. Under mounting pressure from the police and the media—as well as Amy’s fiercely doting parents—the town golden boy parades an endless series of lies, deceits, and inappropriate behavior. Nick is oddly evasive, and he’s definitely bitter—but is he really a killer?

Review: Wow, I am so glad I was able to read this without coming across any spoilers. I think I would have been so heartbroken if someone told me the twist before I had the chance to finish it. So thank you, I will not do the same and spoil it for you.

Originally I didn't even want to read this. I picked it up at B&N and thought, jeez, maybe this is just a tad too dark for me. But then I went to the movies and saw the Gone Girl  movie trailer starring Ben Affleck.

The trailer made me want to read it and I'm so glad I did. The layers of complexity in the characters was great. The two POV's worked well for me. I like being in the head of the wife and husband. My only complaint was the ending. I just thought it fell kind of flat and I wanted some sort of justice to be exercised. Nonetheless, it's a book I would recommend if you're into crime and thriller novels.

Can't wait to watch the movie!

Stickin' to it and finishing.

I'm really bad at sticking to one thing and doing it well. I think I get bored easily or maybe I always get excited about something else that I forget about everything else entirely. For example:

Piano? 2 years. Flute? 3 years. Volleyball? 6 years. Soccer? 4 years. Vegan? 30 days. Vegetarian? Approximately 90 days? Pescatarian? 1 year. Competitive running? 1.5 years. Guitar? 5 years. Hot Yoga? 3 months. Boxing? 2 months.

What does this have to do with anything Michelle?

Well, because I have a difficult time staying passionate about one thing, it makes it really difficult for me to finish anything. And this is a real big problem because writing a novel takes commitment and time.

I wrote the first and second draft of M2 in like 5 months. But when it came to draft three I finished 2/3 of it in a month, and then just stopped writing for two months. I crashed and burned. I was just falling out of love with the story and feeling burnt out. And the more distance I put between myself and finishing draft three, the more anxious I was starting to become about getting back to it.

Source: caffeineglaore (tumblr)

I binge read to cope, but in the back of my mind all I kept thinking about is whether or not I'd finish.

Then my YA workshop class ended. I had been using the class as an excuse for not writing, but now that it finished I really had no excuses, did I? Work was finally starting to slow down, and now I had three-day weekends for the summer. If I was going to finish, this was the time to do it.

So I settled my hiney down and finished the last third of draft 3 in a week.

Let me repeat that: one friggin week.

All this time I was so anxious and worked up when really it would just take a week. Draft three isn't perfect and what not, but the point is I finished it. It really put into perspective for me that finishing something isn't so scary. That it's possible to finish things as long as you keep trudging forward. And that sometimes a break (like a crash and burn) is needed to get you right back where you left off.

It really just makes me want to laugh that I was so worked up about it. Anyone ever feel that way?

The Fifth Letter

It was a bit like oncoming spring—the rain dries up, but it’s still damp and chilly, reminding you that winter never quite goes away. And those that had been around me for that winter were quickly drying up. The friends that had ceased to be friends were now acquaintances and memories, droplets in a particular season in a given year that would most likely be forgotten.

And little did I know, you could be too.

                “Just a drink,” I said, pulling you by the arm. “I never see you anymore.”

                You hesitated, and I could see you debating with yourself through the creases in your forehead and the faraway look in your eyes.

                “But T—,” you protested.

                I frowned, realizing how much I disliked your girlfriend and not understanding why you continued to be with her.

                “Are you serious B—? You have to come celebrate with me.” I had just changed out of my performance dress and was ready to hit DeVerre’s, my favorite bar in Davis. “Just one drink, we need to catch up anyway,” I reasoned, though I also craved company. Real company. Not the false pretenses I was used to with everyone else, but the one where someone solid, someone genuine could laugh with me, listen to me digress about the world, and someone who I could confide in.

                You smirked. “All right. Let’s go.”

                I smiled triumphantly as we walked towards downtown. It was slightly cold, but I still felt warm and giddy from the night’s performance. We talked like we normally did, catching up like kids who had known each other for years instead of a few months, and it always surprised me how we managed to do that.

                We sat on one of the brown couches in the back where the bookcases were. We met a few other friends of mine who drank celebratory drinks with me, but soon left since it was still a school night. I didn’t feel like leaving though. I was still holding on to that temporary happiness that often comes from a good night and I wanted to hold on to it as long as possible. And when I looked over at you, I could see that you were holding on to it too.

                So we had another drink, just you and I. And soon, the barriers fell, crashing all around me. But as it fell, something within me was reaching out towards you. It was an affirmation of trust. I knew that I could,  and I wanted more than ever to confide in you, hoping you could see me full circle, not just what you had observed.

Like a tidal wave, it crashed into you.

                I told you everything.

                The dark things, the things that I tried to hide away, the things I could not face, the memories that had consumed me, and everything I was afraid of.

                You looked at me in a way I could never forget. There wasn’t sympathy in your eyes, or an expression of being overwhelmed by the onslaught of new information, rather you were awed and said, “That’s how I know you’ll be a writer. Because you’re broken.”

                You explained how that gave me the ability to truly feel and write so that others would be able to relate and you showed me that through confiding in me, telling me the things that you wouldn’t dare utter out loud.

                With the barriers no longer there, we talked for hours, and within another drink my mind became hazy.

                After, we took a walk outside, the night air made me shiver.  Overhead the stars watched us and in the distance we heard the echoes of the music from a nearby bar. We walked in a comfortable silence without direction; just being in the moment.

                But then all of a sudden, you stopped. You turned to me and said, “You’re everything I want and you’re everything I’ve been looking for.” Your eyes were honest and pure. “You’re perfect.”

                I stopped too, and inside my heart hammered, but my mind reasoned with it reminding me that I was broken. I was too lost. I could never allow myself to love or care for anyone again.

You searched my eyes, waiting. Waiting for what? I did not know, but somehow I felt like you could see right through me, for the imposter I was.

                “B—, I am far from perfect. I will never be.” I turned away from you, afraid that I would change my mind and say something I would regret, or something I wasn’t ready for.

                Then I remembered that we had too many drinks, and I wondered if what you had said was the truth, or out of passion. You remained silent, like the rest of the stars that watched us.

 ***

                Time passed before we met again, but when we did you smiled as you always did. We exchanged pleasantries and bits of our lives that the other had missed out on.

                “How are you and T—?” I couldn’t help, but ask.

                “Still together for now, but I really don’t know what’s going to happen once I graduate.”

                I nodded all the while gritting my teeth, wondering how you could still be with her when you realized that there was more out there. There was me. So I allowed myself to see it. You and I, but quickly took a step back, afraid. I was not ready.

 
***

                “We should always keep in touch. Write letters or something about our adventures and all the places that we go,” I suggested.

                “You know what? I really miss writing letters. No one does that anymore so yeah, I would be up for it.”

                When the time came, and the rain returned I wrote you the first letter and you replied with the second, the third, and then the fourth. But through the cold winter, I had forgotten to reply. So time went on, the seasons changed, and it was only when the leaves began to fall did I remember you and the time we sat looking at the leaves fall in the quad, mesmerized by their dance.

                So I wrote the fifth letter, but knew that I may never get a reply and realized then that you were perfect.

Perfect in the way that you were always yourself and perfect in the way that you continued to remain true to who you are. Because those were things I was never able to do. Those were the things that made me so imperfect, so afraid to love, so afraid to lose.

It was a bit like oncoming fall—the leaves fall, reminding you that winter is not far away. That the time for recollection nears, reminding me that you will never be forgotten.

The truth about writing...

So true. More than halfway done with my first draft of my manuscript.
Must.
Not.
Give.
Up.

That is all. Happy Thursday everyone!

Writing Exercise #2: I don't have much time left, and I still have a few things left to say...

           “I don’t have much time left, and I still have a few things left to say. My name isn’t Brian Ofla. I lied. My name is Guglameshna Foreska. And I’m not twenty-seven years old. I’m actually one hundred and sixty-eight years old, but it’s equivalent to twenty-seven from where I’m from. Or at least I think so. I’m also not from a small town in Ohio, but from here like you, but from the future. Five hundred and sixty years into the future to be exact. Only, I came back. For you.”

            Analise started laughing. So hard, her body shook.

            “I’m serious!” I said, hoping she would believe me.

            “Aright, Goog-lamesh-ness.”

            “It’s Guglameshna!”

            “Oh right, of course.”

            I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Please. They’re coming for me. But before they do. I. I. I just wanted you to know.”

            Gently, she placed her hand on my cheek, with a large smile on her face. “Okay. I’ll bite. What do you want me to know?”

            “I love you.”

            With that her smiled disappeared, surprised by my declaration. But before she could say anything, I suddenly felt light-headed. I looked at my hands and saw that they were dissipating into small miniscule particles. They had come for me.

            Analise was suddenly afraid, but belief was now in her eyes. I saw her lips move, but I couldn’t hear anything. I was being pulled back to the future at light-speed.

Writing Exercise: My mother never...

            My mother never told me she loved me. Not even when I was born and not even when I had recovered from breast cancer. After my flute recital when I was six, she told me that I played wonderfully. After being awarded student of the year when I was in the eighth grade, she said I was intelligent. The night I went to prom, albeit stag, she told me I was beautiful. A few years later when I graduated from college, she said that I was a worthy role model. On my wedding day, as she held a dampened handkerchief to her eyes, she told me she would miss me. But never did she once tell me she loved me.

            As a child, that was all I wanted. Each year as I blew off the candles on my birthday cake, I wished with all my might that she would say it. Every time I saw a shooting star, she was the person who came to mind. Growing up I realized that birthday wishes don’t come true and shooting stars do not have any power over us. Still. I wanted it more than anything.

            “I love you, mom.” I would say whenever I left her home.

            “Good-bye, dear.” She would always say in reply.

            At the age of ninety-three she passed away in her sleep. It was on the day of her funeral, as her casket was lowered into the earth, when I realized that all my birthday wishes had come true and all of my desires had been granted by those shooting stars. She never once had to tell me that she loved me, because I felt it everyday.

            What are words compared to the look in her eyes? The same look she gave me when I was born, to the last day of her life, and everything else in between.

Special thanks to the fan who sent me this!

The Unhappy Story

“Tell me a story.” My voice came out weak and feeble.

“What kind of story?”

“A love story.” I could his feel his eyes on me, but I didn’t dare look at him, knowing that if I did, I would instantly forgive him for everything, which wasn’t what he deserved.

He glanced up, feeling the rain on his face for the first time. “Well, I could tell you one, but it wouldn’t compare.”

“Compare to what?”

“Living in it.”

I looked into his eyes, so he could see the dagger he had just put into my heart with those words.

“A love story shouldn’t consist of lies, betrayals, and schemes. You played me for a fool.”

“Only for a fool in love, just like I am.”

He reached for my hand, but I recoiled from his touch.

“Then this story ends here, with an unhappy ending.”

“No, this is just the beginning. We are just beginning,” he said with a pleading look.

“I’m afraid we’re on the wrong page, in fact, I think we’re in separate books.” With that I walked away, aware that he was witnessing the moment where I walked out of his life forever.

Manisfestations

Sometimes I wonder if I imagined it all. Were you simply a figment of my imagination? Something I manifested before me to keep the lonely nights at bay?

I keep telling myself that it happened, but as the days keep passing I'm not so sure anymore. I try to recall your velvety voice, and your laugh that could always ignite my smiles, but each time I do the sound changes, becoming distorted with each play like a broken record.

I've begun to question my sanity. How could I not when the imagination is more tempting than reality? That in the end, my imagination becomes my reality. And if so, where have you gone?

*From the perspective of Times from my short story, Times Knew Roman

#4 The Dancing Miracle (100 Word Short Story)

Jamie was a beautiful girl who loved to dance. She hoped to dance on stage one day to show her love for dance with her friends and family. She joined a dance troupe to make her dream into a reality. A month before her performance, she got into a car accident. She survived, but the doctors thought she would not be able to walk or dance again. Still, she hoped for that one day on stage despite what they told her. Two years later, she got onto that stage and danced. No one could take their eyes off of her.

*This 100 word short story was inspired by Jackie Garayar.

#3 Blaire (100 Word Short Story)

Blaire stared out the window, dying to break free from the confines of his home.  He glanced at his owner and wondered how she could possibly sit at her desk for hours, staring at her computer screen. He sauntered over to her seeking comfort. She scratched his chin lightly, that he could not help but purr. After a while she seemed to get tired and stopped. Blaire went back to the window and began pawing at it, even though he knew it would not budge. He glanced back at her, filled with sadness that she could not understand.

100 word short stories!

I hope you guys have been enjoying my 100 word short stories! Although, I must give credit where credit is due! I got the idea from my Fiction Workshop teacher Miss J, who's pretty cool. I kinda hope that when I'm older, I'll turn out like her.

#2 Childish Love (100 Word Short Story)

When Allie was a little girl, she told her mother that one day she wanted to marry Alex. Her mother said it was not possible, since they were brother and sister. Growing up, Allie’s feelings never faded away, although she tried to repress them. Alex began to date, but Allie kept hoping that maybe one day he would see her differently. Time passed and she waited. The day of Alex’s wedding, Allie wore a bridesmaid dress. As he kissed his new wife, tears streamed down Allie’s face, realizing that her love for her brother was to be replaced by heartache.

#1 The Serial Dater (100 Word Short Story)

Jesse put the last of Amanda’s things in a box and set it outside of his apartment door for her to pick up. He thought of all of his ex girlfriends and couldn’t understand why he couldn’t commit to any of them.  Well, there was one girl, but he had messed it up. He was young and afraid of commitment then, but not now, he thought. He wanted to call her, just to hear her voice again, but his phone blinked with a voicemail. “Hey Jesse, it’s Elise’s mother. I wanted to let you know, that Elise has passed away…”

Butterfly

            I don’t want to be here. I feel like the depressing blue wallpaper found in unused sitting rooms; observing everything but unable to participate in anything. Larissa, the girl beside me, gives me an encouraging smile that reaches her memorable bright-blue eyes. I know she wanted me to talk along with everyone else, but I didn’t feel up to performing tonight. I was told that she was my best friend, although I couldn’t recollect why she was--and after a certain amount of time, she would probably wonder too. Soon enough she would stop trying to help or fix me once her guilt subsided.

Nonetheless, I force a smile back, pretending I am okay. A few other girls surround us at our table, but I don’t bother remembering their names since they ignore me anyway. I tune out of their conversation and stare at everyone else enjoying their dinner in the dorm cafeteria. They all seem so at ease with themselves. Conversations fill the room but I keep silent as jealousy creeps into my heart. I want to scream for it to be over, but I keep my mouth shut.

From behind me a male voice whispers, “Guess who?,” quickly covering my eyes.

Because he would be the only one to do such a thing, I answer with feign enthusiasm, “Jason.” He uncovers my eyes and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. I try my hardest not to cringe away from my boyfriend. All of the girls glare at me with envy but stare at him with wide eyes, batting their eyelashes.

“You betcha!” He grabs a chair from the table next to us and places it between Larissa and I to sit. “How are you feeling today?”

I stare at the untouched plate of spaghetti to hide my exasperation. I hate that question. I’m not sick and hate how everyone treats me like I am. I don’t have the flu or cold that simply goes away after a week. I didn’t know when this would end, and even if it did, I wouldn’t be the same person as before.

His emerald eyes meet mine and I can see the hope behind them, wishing that today would be the day where everything went back to normal.

He reaches for my hand tenderly, but it feels like letting a stranger touch me instead of the comfort I should feel from the boy who has loved me for the past three years. I know he wants the old me back and I wish I could give it to him, but it is out of my control. I pull my hand away from him, sensing his disappointment at my continual rejections of his affections.

My cell phone rings, giving me an escape route. “I need to take this,” I say to no one in particular. I turn to Jason to say good-bye, but he’s already up and walking away, probably frustrated.

“I’ll talk to him for you,” Larissa offers, getting up from the table before I can stop her.

My phone continues to cry for my attention and I see my mother’s face upon the screen.

“Hi Mom,” I answer, exiting the cafeteria into the autumn air. The sun has already set and a million stars twinkled signaling the approach of winter.

“Hi baby, are you coming home this weekend?” I can tell she’s worried and I imagine my dad right next to her trying to listen in.

“Yes, I need a break from this routine.” My voice shakes a little, but I pretend to cough to distract her from it.

She sighs. “I know it’s hard, but the doctor said the best thing you can do is keep living your life, and eventually you’ll get them back.”

“Or I will never get them back,” I reply finishing the doctor’s diagnosis. I pass by one of the windows from the dorm lounge and catch a glimpse of my reflection. The girl I don’t know stares back at me. Her grey eyes are tired and exhausted from crying last night, and her long blonde hair that used to shine has become dull from neglect and lack of care. “Everyone’s waiting for the day I get them back and I won’t.”

“Don’t say that,” she said with a sharp edge in her tone.

I try to bite my tongue, but I can’t help it. “And so are you and Dad,” I say bitterly grinding my teeth.

She doesn’t disagree so I end the call without saying good-bye.

The pressure from everyone’s expectations is slowly killing what is left of me. It’s been almost two months and ever since then, I have woken up every day completely lost, like a wanderer with a broken compass trying to find my way home.

My phone rings again, I shut it off, not wanting to hear any more assurances that things will somehow work out.

I look back at my reflection and wonder what she was like. Who was she? I wanted to hear it directly from her mouth, instead of stories about her from others. Pulling up my sleeve from my left arm, I carefully trace the quarter-sized purple butterfly tattoo upon my wrist with my index finger. It’s the only thing I like about her. I wish I knew when she had gotten it, what it stood for, and what compelled her to get it.

Trying not to dwell on it any longer, I head to the campus gardens, a place where I know no one would be, since it was dinner hour. The garden is the only place I could find peace, escaping the confusion I feel raging within.

The air is crisp and cold and overhead the bright stars shine in contrast to the dark sky. The rustle of fallen leaves in the silent breeze reaches my ears welcoming me to a safe haven. White flowers spring from the grass with intentions of reflecting the sky above my head. I start towards the white gazebo in the center seeking solitude, but coming closer I can make out an outline of someone already occupying it. Afraid that I am intruding, I turn to find somewhere else to go but a deep voice stops me.

“I promise I don’t bite,” he says jokingly. “Nor am I a monster or mythical creature.”

The absurd greeting makes me smile genuinely for the first time in what I can remember. Cautiously stepping forward into the darkness of the gazebo, I notice that the sliver of the crescent moon offers us no light, making it hard to distinguish any physical features of the other. Hands searching, my fingertips brush the smoothness of flat, sanded wood. I take a seat on the bench and from the sound of his measured breathing, am aware that he is only about a foot away.

“How do I know you’re human then?” I ask finding my voice, playing along. “I can barely see you.”

He makes a shuffling noise and I can hear the zipper of a bag being opened. After a few more minutes of what seems to be searching, a small flame sparks from a match and he lights a red pillar candle held in his other hand. The flickering flame dances between us, encompassing us in a soft glow.

The oddness of the situation prompts me to ask, “Do you normally carry candles?”

His messy brown hair falls a bit over his hazel eyes, and he smiles at me with perfectly straight teeth, “No, not usually.” He seems to be around my age, give or take a year. He cups the candle into his hands and sniffs. He offers it to me so I lean in and do the same, distinguishing traces of cinnamon and something floral.

“I made it. In a crafts class,” he explains, placing it on the bench between us. “My turn to ask a question. What is your name?”

He looks at me expectantly and I hesitate, not liking my name and wondering if I ever did before the incident. I try to conjure up a false name, but decide not to use it.

“Did you forget your name?” he says jokingly.

“Names are unnecessary, don’t you think?” I say. I run my index finger through the orange part of the flame, feeling the delight of the warm tingle.

“In this situation or in general?”

I concentrate on the flame as it flickers from the restlessness of the wind. “Both. It’s just an empty label for an identity.”

“Well, how do you identify yourself?” He challenges.

I stop and think for a minute, not sure how to answer. Pulling up my sleeve, I expose the purple butterfly. In the dancing flame it seems to flutter, changing its color from yellow, red, then back to purple.

His eyes roam over it with genuine interest. “What does it mean?”

His question is simple and expected, but hearing it said out loud pierces my heart. It was the question that I wanted but could not answer. The question I ask myself every night before I go to bed. The question I ask everyone who say they know me, only to find out that no one even knew I had it.

The guilt of forgetting everything washes over me. Priceless memories lost as I think of my family, Jason, and Larissa all waiting for me to return. I feel dead inside, returning as a ghost; haunting them of what used to be, of who I used to be. Everyone would have been better off if I died instead of me trying to play a role I no longer fit. I hate seeing the disappointment in their eyes. I hate hurting them.

My head begins to throb and my body becomes warm, although the cold night air is pressing on me from all directions. My eyes begin to water, and I can feel the hot tears wanting to spill over the rim. My throat constricts and my heart tightens, making it hard for me to breathe. Don’t cry right now. Don’t cry right now, I repeat in my head like a mantra but it has the opposite affect, intensifying my emotions.

Extremely embarrassed by my loss of composure, I try to gather my strength to leave to find a private place to let it out, but he reaches around the candle and softly lays his hand over mine, stopping me. I can feel its warmth and instead of pulling away, I accept the comfort because he’s not hoping that I remember him like everyone else did when I first opened my eyes.

His eyes are apologetic. So I take a deep breath to steady myself and explain, “I have amnesia. Retrograde amnesia to be more specific, which means I don’t remember anything before my accident two months ago.” I quickly wipe away a few tears that escape with my untouched hand.

I turn and look out into the dark void where the gardens are hidden. I didn’t want to see the look of sympathy I normally receive when I explain my situation, especially not from him.

“Do you mind if I ask how it happened?” His voice is honest, caring, unwavering.

For some odd reason, I want to tell him everything to get it off my chest. “I don’t know. During the summer break, my friend Larissa and I went back to our old high school to help decorate for a welcome back rally. Her little sister, who was the student body president, needed the extra help setting up. It was the day before the quarter began, so we thought we could just do it quickly and drive back to school during the night since our hometown is only two hours away. I was hanging posters up using a ladder. I don’t know how, but I must have lost my footing and fell.”

“No one steadied the ladder for you?”

“Larissa was supposed to, but she was grabbing something for me to hang up. She was the only one in the room at the time.” I try to imagine it in my mind, but I can’t make the image form. “She’s been feeling guilty ever since, trying to help me adjust back to school,” I add, trying to assure myself that her account was the truth.  

“So what did you forget? Just memories or how to function?”

“Memories are completely gone. I forgot how to drive, so I’ll have to relearn during the winter break. My language skills seem fine, I can still read and write, which is all my major requires of me.” My words come out easily and I wonder why I can be so comfortable with a complete stranger. Maybe because I know I may never see him again. This campus is too large for us to cross paths again.

He shakes his head, “I can’t imagine going through that.”

We’re both silent for a moment and I can faintly hear the sound of crickets chirping.

“I want to remember. Maybe then everyone would be happy,” I say more to myself then to him.

“They are happy. You’re still alive. That’s more than others can say.” He looks down at our interlaced hands and quickly takes his back. Jason crosses my mind and another wave of guilt comes over me.

I contemplate leaving to head back to my dorm, but his eyes that were warmly lit by the candle just moments before turn solemn and he closes his eyes. “There are some things I wish I could forget.”

His change of reaction compels me to stay. Assuming he’s referring to a bad memory I say, “I’m sorry,” but realizing it’s the first time that I’ve said it to someone else since the accident, I wish I could have taken it back instantly, knowing that they are empty words.

He struggles for a moment as if deciding what to say. “My brother died.” He swallows hard. “Today would have been his eighteenth birthday,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I normally keep to myself.” He opens his eyes and stares at me for a moment as if trying to decipher a puzzle before continuing on, “It was three years ago, the summer before I started college. I took him to a stupid party on the roof of some abandon building back home. I was stupid.” He looks into the distance and his voice becomes quiet.  “I was smashed, we both were. Had a few drinks too many. It was really crowded and the music was loud, I couldn’t hear what he was saying.”

He takes a moment to compose himself, “We started pushing and shoving each other. Just messing around. I didn’t know how close to the edge we were.” He stands up and slowly begins pacing in the small space. “I didn’t know how hard I was shoving. I pushed him. He stumbled. He couldn’t catch his balance. Next thing I know I’m running. Scared shitless, not comprehending what happened, but knowing it was unforgiveable.”

He sits back down in defeat and stutters, “I pushed my own brother off a three-story building.”

I can hardly move.

He puts his head into his hands. “I wish it never happened. I wish I could just forget it.” He lifts his head and I can see the regret, agony, and guilt etched into his face. “It was an accident.” He says, almost pleading.

My throat is dry and my words come out hoarse, “I don’t know what to say.” I want to reach out to him, but I’m afraid to. “I’m so sorry,” I say, hoping the words actually mean something this time around.

“I don’t know why I’m dumping this on you. Sorry, I should just leave.” He stands up.

“I know why.” My voice stops him. “You just want someone to listen.”

He sits back down and leans back against the gazebo. “Yeah, I guess so.” He takes a deep breath and asks, “What were you like before?”

I shake my head not wanting to answer.

Seeing my reluctance, he clears his throat. “I’m fine, really. I rather hear about you, then be left with my thoughts.” He does his best to erase his break in composure. Slightly humiliated, he runs his hand through his messy hair and sits up straighter.

I hesitate for a moment, but his eyes urge me on. “Well, it depends. Everyone had different opinions of me, but they were all vague. My parents said I was driven, always and only focused on school with high ambitions to be a lawyer. Larissa said that I didn’t care about school or anything, too carefree and reckless.” These descriptions contradicted, which I didn’t like; they weren’t the same person.

 “The closest people in your life can’t define you. They can’t tell you what your secrets are, your insecurities, or the things that run across your mind in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep,” he tells me which makes me wonder what his thoughts had been earlier tonight when he was sitting all alone. Did he come here thinking about his brother? What could have been? Wondering if he really knew his brother, now that he was gone?

 I think about her and the image of her room fills my mind. It was neat with everything in place and not even the slightest bit personalized. “Looking at her things, she seems so plain. No journals, notes, or clues but what’s on my wrist. She’s a blank canvas to me.”

“Why don’t you paint yourself a picture?”

I give him a confused look.

“Take your accident as a blessing. You get a second shot. You can create the identity you want. Pick your own name. Unlike the rest of us, you don’t have the past to hold you back.”

I give his advice some thought. Would it be better to start over? Be a brand new person instead of the person everyone wants me to be, who I used to be? Would it be better waking up and not having to dread every day of forced smiles? Would I stop crying myself to sleep? Is it possible that I could finally be at ease, like everyone else in the dorm cafeteria tonight?

I think of my parents and wonder if they would still love me if I became someone different than the little girl that they raised. Could Larissa and I really become friends again, even if I forgot all of the promises and secrets we shared, or would her guilt and my past not allow us to be? And what about Jason? I loved him before, but I don’t think I love him now.

And if I did try to be me, whoever that is, and my memories came back--who would I be then? Would I regret the changes I made or was this what she wanted to do all along? Would I just be hurting them all more than I am now; dismissing the past like it didn’t matter?

I trace the butterfly again, hoping it can answer my questions.

“Your family and friends will be happy if you are happy with yourself. Completely cliché but nonetheless the truth.” His voice is sincere, making me want to believe in him.

Had I been going about this the wrong way? I woke up and took in everything everyone told me. Not questioning it, just believing it, and trying to be what they said, so I wouldn’t disappoint the people who loved me now; despite the fact that I was a stranger in a familiar body. But who am I besides a stranger? A stranger that’s alive, at least.

Create my own identity, is that what I need to do? Personalize her, or I mean my, neat and empty room. Find friends to eat dinner with who don’t ignore me. Embrace kisses from someone I care about instead of cringing away. Decide for myself if I am driven or careless. And maybe pass by my reflection and see me instead of someone I don’t know… Is that how it should be? I think of his brother, someone I never knew and would never get to. This is my second chance.

A slight breeze runs through the gazebo and through my hair, blowing it over my face. The dead and dull yellow strands tickle me, reminding me of her. All of the stories I’ve been told; all of her pictures. Things that are no longer mine. I take a hair tie from my pocket and gather my hair, making a low ponytail beneath the nape of my neck. “Do you have scissors?”

He looks at me curiously. “You’re lucky I had my crafts class today, because normally I wouldn’t.” He shuffles his bag around and after finding them passes it to me.

I take a deep breath with scissors in hand and carefully reach behind me to cut off the ponytail. After three snips it comes off.

“This is who you want to be?” he asks, surprised by my boldness.

I run my fingers through my hair, noting the lightness to it now; finally free of her and realizing how fortunate I am. “I’m not sure yet. I guess it’s just the first brush stroke on my canvas.”

He nods and stares at the flame, lost in thought.

“I know I can’t remember my past, but you can forgive yourself for yours.” I offer, thinking of his brother.

He nods. “I miss him. I wish I could tell him how sorry I am. I wish he could have been alive for his birthday. I would trade my life for his in a heartbeat if I could.”

“I’m sure he knows that,” I say trying to console him.

 He gently reaches for my wrist displaying the butterfly into the candlelight once again. “So, can you tell me your name now?”

My grey eyes lock onto his, now prepared to answer.

Bittersweet Letters

http://www.namelessmagazine.com/bittersweet-letters/

See site for the story :]

Letters of Evan and Emma #1

Dear Evan,

I have finally made it to my hotel in London. The flight was long, but completely worth it. I cannot believe I’m finally here. Of course, I owe it all to you. I don’t know how I’ll be able to do this without you here with me.

Where am I even going to start? All I have is a first name and a letter. The chance of me finding him is slim. And what if I imagined it all in my head? It was so long ago and it seems like a faraway dream… For all I know, he could be married by now!  This is so crazy and ridiculous. I can’t believe you convinced me to fly out here.

Anyway, I should probably get to bed soon since it’s already late. Tomorrow will be a long day of searching for him.

I hope everything is well with you and the wedding plans. Maybe if everything turns out okay, I might have a plus one after all.

Always,

Emma