Enlightenment

The wind pulled on her skirt like a puppy. It was a gentle wind, pouring through the surrounding trees with a muted whistle, barely audible next to the rambunctious laughter of children and the mechanical grunt of the bulky rides.

She was a truly beautiful girl; I cannot say that her looks were the reason why I couldn't bear to look up at her eyes and let go of her hand. How could I ever tell her? How could I ever tell anyone? All I could do was hang on, hoping the warmth would fill me once again, praying for the adrenaline rush, the desire to have her close and touch her.

Perhaps it sounded sordid, but it couldn't have been any less acceptable than what flashed through my head for the rest of the night.

I had been safe in a haven of conformity, undisturbed by the pushing crowd and the ear-splitting scream of the Tornado riders. Standing next to the metal fence that separated the outside world from a spinning world of plastic lights, metal, shiny plastic and grease, I saw them coming toward us.

In the distance, the edge of the forest stood firmly, a dark green mass with lightly swaying treetops beneath a dull blue-gray sky. The afternoon had come quickly, and the clouds had descended even faster, bringing on the darkness earlier than it should have come and making the carnival lights stand out even more.

A sweet-sticky cotton candy smell slithered tentatively around my face as I saw them come closer and closer. "Look!" said Sue, tugging me out of my trance. "There comes your sister with that guy."

He held her hand firmly, but looked to his side and up at the twirling Tornado. Plastic lights, yellow and red, looked dim where they stuck to the metal arms of the rides, but they shone like suns in his eyes. At first I didn't notice, due to all the lights that bounced of his eyes, but there was something definitely peculiar about them. As he turned to look at me, his delicate ginger curls bouncing and his soft-looking lips parting, I noticed that one of his eyes was pure, light and honey-like, while the other was an intense, shady green.

I don't even understand why I stared at him like an idiot. Why? I truly felt like slapping myself, biting my hand, anything to get me out of the momentary stupor that held me in place like concrete.

I did manage to shake my head lightly and wrinkle my nose, pretending that I had wanted to sneeze but couldn't. My sister seemed extremely pleased with herself for having such a handsome date, and I felt dumb as ever as jealousy burned my throat. Introductions were made, and I almost stopped breathing when his lips curled up into the most innocent of smiles. My small lips pressed into a hard line and I quickly looked away. The beauty God was taken aback by my reaction, and he immediately lowered his head, stuffing his hands in his pocket. It wasn't your fault, I wanted to say. I wish I hadn't made such a bad impression on him. Although I felt guilty for treating him this way, I felt even worse for wanting him, for feeling such a flesh-consuming lust, such an overbearing desire to push him into the nearest wall and run my hands along his back, kissing his pearly, baby-soft skin.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not stop thinking about him; I was aware of his presence, his slender body strolling along with an effortlessly stylish (yet somewhat tense) walk a few feet away from mine. There had been no time in my life when I had hated myself this much. I gripped Sue's hand tighter and kissed her cheek a little too roughly, but she did not complain. Though I loved her, I could never let her know what was going on inside my head. It was so twisted, so strange and so complicated...Not even I understood it, I wasn't sure I could count on her understanding it, either.

The girls were anxious to ride the tornado, so we bought tickets and got in line. As we waited for the line to move, I turned to the Earthbound angel that was standing next to me. Both my sister and my girlfriend were to busy talking about some movie to notice my awkward approach.

"Hey," I began in a choked voice. "Listen, I'm sorry if I appeared...You know...Rude at first...I...It's just...It's hard to see your little sister growing up so fast, you know?"

He eyed me curiously and tried a slight smile that lit up his freckled face. "Yeah," he said, relaxing his body and sliding his hands out of his pockets. "I have a kid sister myself."

Somehow, I was glad for the connexion, eternally thankful for my forgiveness. But I still felt like the greatest jerk on Earth, the worst human being ever as I smiled my foolish smile.

We sat opposite to each other on the ride. It was a structure with 4 seats which reminded me of a flying saucer, but without the roof. I did feel much like an alien; I was alien to all of the strange feelings that had taken over me. I mean, why in the world did I feel that way looking at a guy? I never thought there would be a day when I would question my sexuality. At least not in this way...

The ride began with a slow spin that peaked rapidly. Sue and Jen were lost in their screaming, but I couldn't see beyond his face. All around us, light and music swirled endlessly. It all became confusing and blurry; the screams and the music were there but I heard no sound, and the lights still shone, but there was nothing brighter than his eyes.

Time melted away and nothing made sense. I was lost in a dark pool in my thoughts where the pitch black atmosphere was only slightly disturbed by the fast-moving carnival lights that were all over us like ghosts. I wanted to think, to come to some rational conclusion, but all I could do was taste the fear and anxiety in my mouth, so acid and sweet and exhilarating.

It seemed as if an eternity had gone by when the ride came to a sudden stop. I felt Sue tugging at me again, pulling me by the arm to another ride. I stumbled out of my feet and fell into the arms of the boy, colorful spots floating all around me. It was such a light-headed feeling; I felt careless yet I knew I had to react, but the colors were so sharp and yet so soft, and the noise had faded into such a lovely hum that, for a second, I could have sworn I had died and I was, perhaps, in heaven.

But I came back to reality just to be dragged around the games some more. As we rode more swift, spinny rides, our senses became distorted. The adrenaline and joy flowed in our veins and intoxicated us like alcohol. We even stumbled around like drunk dorks, laughing at empty spaces, at imaginary fluorescent specks of light that clouded our vision.

In one of those rides, I sat next to him. The girls had decided to bail on us and get some food, so we hopped into the small two-person cabin of the Ferris Wheel before we could realise what we had done. The spins were wild, but we were too tuned out to feel the butterflies. As we neared the top, he gripped my hand, his palms soft as doves. It was only a matter of seconds before he remembered where we were and who I was, so he withdrew it back. I felt extremely outraged; the touch of his hand had almost made me lean over and kiss him lightly on the cheek. That one thought pierced my soul in such a sharp way that I had to excuse myself as we met up with the girls again, and went home early.

It's hard to explain. I don't know why one random guy rocked me off my heels like that. Should I blame hormones? I am willing to bet it was a teenage impulse. Perhaps, more than just willing, I am hoping. What is it about these years that makes us so shameful about what we do? There is a mysterious force that has made me regret so many things I've done and so many things that I've felt. Worse than all, I have kept this to myself, turning it in my head over and over without getting any answers.

I went to the carnival a few days later, without any company. I rode in silence, deep in thought. Strangers looked at me with fright and amusement; my face was blank and my eyes were distant. I knew that my expression was that of someone who is burrowed under a tormenting feeling of doubt, under piles of insecurity and fright, lost in some hole in Planet X. But I walked and sat and waited...I listened and I looked around, waiting for the sound to break through the invisible barriers around my head and barge into my ears, waiting for the light to cut through my eyelids and reach into my brain, waking me up.

Detention

A sullied piece of paper hung loosely between his fingers. Fidgeting, he stepped forward into the cold room, bathed in a flat, fluorescent glow. His breath came short gasps. He felt as if he couldn't breathe properly; the air in the room was too stale. He tried to steady himself and count to ten, driving his mind away from the fact that he could have an asthma attack in any minute and there was no inhaler to save him. That was, after all, what had brought him here.

Row after row of boring beige desks made the class look like a retention cell in some kind of juvenile reformatory. Students sat in small groups throughout the class. Even though it was supposed to be detention, some of them were talking animatedly. He was not very familiar with this part of Europe, and this was not at all like his former school in Germany, but he had gathered teenagers here couldn't be much different than those back home. However, after a few days, he was shocked; he found it hard to believe that in his same continent he was treated this way, that a relatively short distance could mark such a prominent difference. Instead of stepping into what his mother said would be "a movie-like life", he thought he had stepped into a nightmare, the dreadful and frightening visions of a drugged hoodlum.

He muttered a few words of reassurance to himself in German and stepped forward to the desk, handing the slip to the nonchalant teacher on duty. Her hair was messy and rebellious, tied into a bun with a pink scrunchie.

The teacher sighed as she took the paper and tossed it into the bin. She looked behind the insecure boy in front of her, scrutinizing the class with distaste. 'These criminals', her face said, 'they should all know better'.

Raising a chipped bright pink nail, the woman pointed at a desk that seemed to be in the exact middle of the class and that had a few insults written on it. Mark had no choice but to slump there for the next hour.

The eyes of the people in the room burned into his back like scalding bits of coal, or perhaps even ice. He could not bear to steady his hands; all around him murmurs of distaste fled from quick-moving lips into ardent ears, shortly followed by impish giggles, sordid curses and rough laughter.

Before he had taken his seat, Mark had managed to take a quick glance at the gang sitting in the back of the class. Perhaps those were their usual seats, perhaps they had arranged this second encounter to make it clear to the German boy that they were there to make his existence miserable. They had been quite aware of the way he had been adverting their gaze as he entered the room, and in those few seconds of ocular contact, they managed to sneer at Mark with tremendous force; all of them held the same amount of distaste, anger and control over the hopeless victim.

Mark couldn't even understand how he had brought this on to himself; he had just been walking to his next class when he tripped on a scattered bag and fell to the floor amidst the laughs of many strange new faces. Then he noticed a strand of copperish hair hovering near his own head and he hastily moved his own head back.

"Oh," the other boy said grinning. "Don't worry, I'm just helping you with these books."

That's when Mark had to rummage desperately in his bag for his old blue inhaler, because what he had just seen took his breathe away (quite literally). The honey-colored eyes and copper curls hanging over pale skin, the enthralling smile and the soft touch of his hands as he handed the books over...Mark couldn't help letting his heart run at a thousand beats per hour.

The boy stood there extending a friendly hand for Mark to shake as he pulled up his brown messenger bag with the other. "James," he said, still smiling, "do tell if you need any help."

Mark tried to cover his blush by pretending there was something in his eye, and shook Jame's hand with his own free right hand. "I'm Mark," he said in a low voice. "I moved from Germany."

Instead of laughing or walking away uninterestedly, James smiled curiously and cocked his head to one side, trying to get a better peak at Mark's freckled face, which he was hiding in some sort of shame. He noticed James didn't mention Mark's blush, even though it was obvious in his eyes and his smile that he knew.

The bell rang, but James seemed reluctant to leave. Mark glanced nervously from side to side, and James began walking ahead of him, beaconing Mark to follow. "I'll take you to your next class."

Every breath was harder for Mark, and his grip on the inhaler became weak. His sweaty palms and shaky fingers weren't helping, either. Then it all happened so quickly.

Mark's grip on his books loosened. Both he and James put out a hand to catch them. Their hands touched and time seemed to stop there, yet it all seemed to go even faster. Both realized they were surrounded by a fast-moving crowd, pushing through to get to class, and they retreated their hands. Mark's grip on his books had secured, but he accidentally let go of the inhaler, which landed on the backside of one of the gang members. The insulted gang guy spun around violently and stared into Mark's shocked face. James was pulled away by the sea of people, glancing back at Mark who was now pinned to the closest wall, his books cascading down unto the floor and landing next to the pieces of his now broken inhaler. The gang members laughed viciously and a scarred fist flew up into the air and sliced forward swiftly, stopping centimetres away from Mark's face. He had no idea why they'd took off so quickly, but he took the heaviest book he had and flung it backwards with all his strength. However, before he could throw it forward at the dissipating (and laughing) gang, he realized he had hit something: the headmistress's face.

Mark had not had the courage to see James again. He had spotted the red mess of curls bouncing in the distance, but he ducked his way out of it, looking down in shame for the rest of the day. Wherever he went, laughter and rough whispers followed. People mocked him not only for what he wasn't, but for what he was and had not dared admit.

He now sat in this room where he was sent by the outraged lady to "reflect upon his actions". Was this the way he intended to start his new life? Was this the way he would want to be known in this new country? No, it wasn't.

It was hard to think of his old home and everything he had left behind; his culture, his house, his friends, his family, Johannes...Now he was alone, and thinking about all those things wasn't going to make them magically appear. It was time he stood up for himself.

A twisting pain emerged in his stomach, a complaint of hunger mixed with fear and the insecurity of not knowing what will happen next. He turned around and faced the gang with an unreadable expression. He was determined to right the wrongs, to redeem himself and live true to what he was.

The gray sky was beginning to clear, he could see it through the windows. Outside, beyond the plaza were the lockers, infested by a chatting throng of students getting ready to go home. A gray figure emerged from all the bright colors, his long coat trailing behind him, caught by the wind. James's curls bounced softly and glinted in the afternoon sun as he approached the classroom with his quick step. He turned right toward the parking lot, but just before striding off in his gracefully rapid walk, he looked at Mark and smiled.

Reassurance flowed through all of Mark's body and he knew this was going to work out. He didn't know what he would do next, he didn't know what he would say to the confused yet pretentious gang at the back, he didn't know what would make the school forget that he was an idiot. It didn't really matter as long as he had himself and a will to live.

On Furry Love

Big blue eyes, milky-wet whiskers and a plump, warm belly.

The kitten shaky-walked a few steps and tumbled down into place on the linoleum floor, its head swaying lightly from side to side. Its tiny and delicate gaze rose up as far as it could and a frail, almost inaudible cry escaped its minuscule mouth.

Kneeling down, Doug gently put out his large, rough, manly hand for the small kitten. The tiny creature's face angled toward the man's thick fingers and its pink, wet nose touched it a few times. Lacking stability, the cat stumbled forward and regained its balance, but it began to sway again, this time like a drunk man.

A deep, hearty laugh rumbled from the chest of the large, though not obese man. The kitten did not notice, for it was now ambling along the kitchen, almost falling into the milk saucer, just to be scooped up last-minute by the large crane-hand of the man.

The poor little cat, feeling defenseless and startled by the sudden move, began crying once again, but louder and at a faster pace.

"Shh!", urged Doug. "Emily will hear you! We can't let her hear you, can we? It would ruin the surprise!"

He delicately held the kitten to his firm chest, talking to it in hushed tones. Doug began humming, which seemed to calm the small thing down and made it stop crying.

Doug hummed as he covered the short distance from the kitchen to Emily's room, passing through what was, for him, a rather cramped hall. He couldn't help stopping in mid-hall and staring wistfully at his wedding photograph. They had been so happy together. Why had she left? He could not find the reason. Well, at least he had Emily, and she was all he needed. That playful brown-haired princess was Doug's life; he would protect her to the end of his days...And even beyond.

The big man peeked curiously into his daughter's room. She slept so soundly; it gave him a tender feeling and a resolute tranquility.

The kitten had already fallen asleep in his arms. Doug took it back to the kitchen and placed it in a basket filled with clean rags.

"I'll have a load with you two," he murmured contentedly, crossing his arms over his chest. Despite all he had gone through, it seemed as if Doug had enough love in his heart for the whole world.

Janice

What is it that made her look out the window on such a gray day? She felt suddenly inspired by the lack of sun, an inspiration that brought on depression and discouragement and the lack of something to live for on that particular day.

The house was quiet and the wooden floor cold; time did seem to go on beyond the rain-soaked windowpanes where her life stopped and stared out sullenly, hoping for a change of mind from the uppermen.

She didn't have anywhere to go but she walked because she couldn't do more. All the books had been read and the pages had been written in. Her room was not the same shade of blue.

After all this time perhaps her mother had been right about it all. Had she not relied so much on a disposable boy she would not be trapped like a rat. She had made him into a Buddha, a marble statue of a man and idolized both his blessings and his wrongs like a bat, blind and senseless. In the end, she could have been giving love to a stranger. It wasn't until he cut the cords of the cardboard cloud that were holding her up that she realized the scum he was.

Now she could spit on his pictures and silently sob, though the name and voice that went along with it still played in the back of her head like a broken record.

If only she had known this would happen, she would have never left her friends on the side like the stale complementary bread on restaurants (the one you never take), or the garnishing lettuce that was only there for looks (genetically modified for your aesthetic convenience) but was never eaten (were her friends there just to be later thrown away? what a cruel fate, my lettucy girls!).

The worst part, she thought as she swallowed a whole 10 pills, was not that she had lost all contact with the outside world, that she had become a 97-pound wilting little figurette, that she felt she could no longer trust anyone and that her heart had been broken to no end and left unable to love again...The worst thing was that she would never, ever be able to enjoy a rainy day again as she used to when she was a lively, love-filled, hopeful girl.

My name is Billy...

My name was never Eric. That was merely a mask, a name given to me at birth, presumably because my parents had no chance of knowing I was not an Eric, and I would never be an Eric.

As I grew up I toyed around with figments of my imagination, made-up personalities (or "imaginary friends", as some people would classify them) which helped me cope with the lack of friends, which was due to my introverted personality. I would often write stories and draw pictures of these personalities; I needed something to remind myself that they were there, and subconsciously I needed something to run to when all the fun and games of childhood turned into pre-teen fears and anxiety, and later teenage problems...You must know the drill.

All of these "games" I took to as a child ended abruptly one day when my brother's friends decided to raid my room for a cheap thrill and found all of my creations. I came home from the dentist to find a herd of coca-cola-fueled 13-year old boys laughing on the floor of my room and calling me a "schizo" (how did they even manage to know what that is?), a "loony", all sorts of names on account of my creations. I guess they could never understand the mind of an artist as myself.

The worst thing is I never got any support from my parents, not one sentence or comment which could reassure me and keep up my hopes, not one hug to make the pain welling up in my 8-year old body go away. I never really understood how these humans I was forced to live with functioned, and, up to day, I still haven't figured it out.

However, I refused to give up and conform with the normal child activities of the time; I was never going to be a part of the whole Power Ranger cult, or subdue to the over-obsessive purchase of violent and steroidic-looking action figures, I would never be a normal kid. This is why I dug under my bed until I found what was left of my made-up people and rummaged through what little art I had left. That is when I found Billy Buttonhead. I remember he had been one of my favourite creations, along with Chamomile Sue (who had the power to shoot boiling hot chamomile tea from her tongue).

Billy was not particularly good-looking (as an 8-year old, I wasn't exactly what you could call a revolutionary artist), but he was kind and caring, and he kept mostly to himself, like me. He was not a trend-setter, nor was he a follower of trends; Billy was his own person, someone who did not define others and was, in turn, not defined by anyone else. Years later, I came to realize that I had modeled Billy to what I was, or actually hoped to become, not what my parents had tried to make of me (as they had, numerous times, tried to "help" me become a sociable person by sending me to summer camps and register me for sports, clubs and after-school activities).

Nobody knew about Billy, of course. I kept him as my inside self, the artist, the brain in the head, the soul in the body. This was not to say I didn't have friends at all; I did keep a few friends close and was nice to people in general, but no one has found about my secret...Yet.

Billy is what makes me write, what makes me want to live life, because Eric isn't the one who takes in all the colours, smells and tastes that life sends my way, it's Billy who takes in everything and throws it into poems, stories and, sometimes, drawings.

I could not live without Billy, I could not be who I am, because I am not Eric. I was not born to be a soccer player, a camper, an Eric; I was born to be a writer, I was born to be a Buttonhead Billy.