S-O-R-R-Y.

Mary Ann Loo

Decorated – 491 words

            “What’s that on your arm?” she asked.

            “Oh, this?” He laid his left forearm, palm upwards, on the stainless steel table.

            “Yeah,” she said. “It kinda looks like an R.”

            He reached across the table with his right hand, and placed her right index finger on a slightly darker spot half an inch beneath where his upper arm ended. He traced her fingertip over the gradually apparent letters: S-O-R-R-Y. He released her, sat back, and smiled.

            “Did you get a tattoo removed or something?” she asked.

            “Nope,” he said, leaning far back in his squeaky stainless steel chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “I cut myself.”

            “What? Why?”

            He laughed. “Because of a girl.”

            She leaned back, her eyes searching his expression. She reached for her iced coffee and stirred it with the straw, took a sip, and replaced the clear plastic cup on the tabletop. It was a warm summer evening; they’d discussed some politics, exchanged funny stories, and there’d been a little bit of mutual teasing. He’d known her two months now, but previous relationships had been unchartered conversational territory. Until now.

            “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” she said.

            He laughed again. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.” He ran his fingers through his thick dark wavy hair, and sat upright, folding his forearms on the table. “Ask away. You know you want to.”

            “Nah, it’s fine.” She seemed flushed, and slightly looked away when his deep blue eyes met her grey ones.

            “Really, it’s cool,” he said. “Had a girlfriend junior year of high school. She was accepted into a London university, we did the long-distance thing and…”

            “How long were you dating?”

            “Almost four years. She wrote me a long letter, said she met someone. We broke up. The end.”

            “Why ‘sorry’?” she asked.

            He shrugged. “Just felt really guilty at the time. I don’t know.”

            “Did it hurt?”

            “Not really.”

            “How did you feel after?”

            “Better somewhat. But I had to cover it up for weeks.”

            “How long ago was this?”

            He leaned back, staring into space. “Um… Three years I think.”

            “Have you had other girlfriends since?”

            “I’ve dated. Nothing serious.”

            “Are you seeing anyone now?”

            He reached for his mug and downed his coffee. “Not really.”

            “Oh.”

            “Well, I’d like to chat some more, but I really gotta run,” he said, grabbing his backpack from the chair beside him.

            She said, “I’m sorry.”

            He grinned. “Nah, it’s all good. See you in class.”

           

            He stepped into his one-bedroom apartment, laid his backpack on the parquet floor, and headed straight into the bedroom. He yanked open a drawer, and sifted through its random contents to retrieve a dog-eared poetry book. Inside was a photo of a beautiful green-eyed girl, and a razor blade. His jeans around his knees, he sank to the floor and spread a thin red line over the pale brown ones that haphazardly decorated his inner left thigh.

What a Life is Made Of.

Mary Ann Loo
complete - 381 words

When he turned six, Mom and Dad bought him that fire truck he’d seen in the local toy store, the one he’d cried about when Mom first said NO two months earlier. It was a shiny bright red and had a ladder that could be extended to twice its length, a long hose, and two tiny fireman figurines with detachable helmets. For the first time, even though he didn’t know it yet, he felt his life was complete.

When he was ten, Mom and Dad bought him that new bicycle he’d always wanted. It was royal blue and silver, with a loud bell he’d ring so much that all the neighbors knew he was around the corner even before he’d appear. He zipped around the neighborhood on it, explored strange lands with his comrades on their elder siblings’ hand-me-downs, and pretended sometimes they were flying as they sped down the hill. He’d wanted those days to last forever.

When he was sixteen he fell in love, and likewise so did she. They spent an entire year holding hands, lying in the sun, kissing, laughing, planning their futures, watching the sunset… and he knew she was the One. But soon they went to college on opposite sides of their world, and she met someone new.

When he was twenty-two he landed his first job; when twenty-four his first promotion; twenty-seven he made partner… but still somehow he felt a lack. And then by chance they met again, and he loved her still, and she said YES, and they were married, and built a house with the white picket fence, and had a baby girl. He worked all day and all night, and time always seemed to run out.

When he was thirty-two, they left him with an empty house, and child-support obligations. When he was fifty his daughter invited him to her wedding, only to see her stepfather walk her down the aisle. When he was sixty-two he had a stroke, and was forced to retire into the care of a nursing home.

When he was seventy he laid alone on his deathbed, wondering where his youth had gone, wondering how he could have wasted so much time, wondering what it was that made a life complete.

And then he was gone.

Third Place.

Bronze - 492 words
Mary Ann Loo

Sandra sits on the windowsill, her bare feet dangling above the 90-foot drop to endless oblivion. It is 8pm, and despite movements in the lighted windows of the surrounding buildings, despite the orchestration of various blaring TV sounds, the world is seemingly silent in this one frame of time. A silence that echoes, screaming louder and louder in her ears, pounding through every trembling fiber of her body – the inevitability of that final moment when she’ll loosen her grip on the tiny ledge, and allow herself to fall, fall, fall out of this life, out of this pain forever.

“Good work, Sandra,” the teacher said, handing her the Math test with a red 97 scrawled on the top right corner. Sandra returned to her seat in the first row, her heart pounding wildly as the question arose within: why hadn’t Mr. Lee congratulated her for coming in first?

“Come on, Sandra, it’s just a test.” her boyfriend said as they walked to the bus stop outside the school. “It’s not like you did bad – you got 97! So what if you didn’t top the class this time? James and Geraldine only beat you by like 1 point!”

Sandra came home that afternoon, took a quick shower, sat at the table in her bedroom and opened her Chemistry textbook, overtly highlighted and underlined, the empty white spaces between chunks of text peppered with her tiny penciled handwriting. Chapter 10 was unsullied – the class wasn’t starting on it for another week – but not for long. Sandra had her highlighter pens laid out: pink for new terms, orange for main points, yellow for supporting points, green for formulae… She systematically worked though her color scheme, capping and uncapping, shading, underlining, and all the while the red 97 haunted her thoughts; three hours later, chapter 10 was colorful, but her memory retained none of it.

How was she going to explain to Mom? Sandra has topped her class in Math, English, History, and Chemistry every single year, every single test, every single assignment. Just like Mom. She was class president, president of the debate team, and she’d just been appointed valedictorian. Just like Mom. As far back as she can recall, she has rarely met anyone outside of school, she goes to bed at 3, wakes up at 6, even on weekends; she’s always working, working, working. Just like Mom. And Mom expects only the very best, and nothing, absolutely nothing less.

So Sandra finds herself on her windowsill, 90 feet away from repose, from an eternal escape. She looks back at the tiny bedroom, its white walls decorated with the periodic table and a famous scientists calendar, the chemistry textbook at the beginning of an untainted chapter 11, the letter in her tiny handwriting. A few moments from now, Mom will be home, she will walk into an empty bedroom, and see the open window, and the words: “I’m sorry for being in third place.”

"What's up with you?"

Scoop - 287 words

Mary Ann Loo

“So… they’re fighting again,” Claire says, plunking herself in the steel chair beside me.

“Who?”

“Grant and Grace.”

“Yeah, nothing new there.” I close my book. “How are you? How was your week?”

“Same old,” she replies, an unlit cigarette between her teeth, as she rummages through her purse for a lighter. “Guess what they’re fighting about this time.”

“Don’t know. The weather?”

“Hey, where’s your lighter?”

I open my pack of Marlboro menthols and hand it to her. “Just make sure you don’t take it with you. You owe me like 6 lighters now.”

“So,” Claire says, while lighting up, “apparently Beth is like the middleman in the relationship, and Grace thinks Grant is cheating with Beth.”

“That’s absurd. Beth and John have been dating like forever. They’re practically married. Grace is just really insecure or something.”

“Oh, I think Beth enjoys the misunderstanding. She complains about becoming the mediator, but really, she loves it.” Claire takes a drag on her cigarette.

“Yeah, I don’t really want to get involved. Whatever it is, it’s between Grant and Grace to figure things out. If they can’t do it by themselves, they shouldn’t even be together.”

“What’s up with you?”

“Not much. Just trying to finish this book by next week.”

“No, I mean like, did you have a bad day or something?”

I sigh, retrieve my lighter from atop Claire’s cigarette case, and replace it in my menthol pack. “You know what, I just remembered I have to be somewhere. We’ll catch up another time, yeah?”

“But I just got here.”

“Yeah, but you were an hour late so…” I say, standing as I stuff my book and cigarettes into my purse. “I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

Congrats.

Pawn - 46 words
Mary Ann Loo

He called; he wanted back those diamond ear-studs, the ones that had celebrated our first official year.

I sold them; purchased designer shoes and a purse, and two cheap crystal look-alikes.

He pocketed the velvet box; didn’t open it.

I said, “And by the way, congratulations.”

Latest Heartbreak - The 22-20's

Unattainable.

Liar - 328 words
Mary Ann Loo

She was gorgeous when we first met, and I wanted so much to be like her. Her tanned flawless skin, the shape of her slender arms, the arch in her lower back, her effortless glide across the uneven street in 4-inch Jimmy Choos. She had said, “Don’t ever feel pressured by me. I have to look like this because of my career.” She’s an actress, a natural diva, the woman who’d turn heads of every man she’d sashay by and pretend not to notice. I knew she reveled in the attention, and hanging off my friend Damian’s arm, she’d silently announce she was a sweet ripe piece of fruit dangling almost within reach, but oh so unattainable.

We were barely creeping past 21, Joanne and I – six, seven years younger than Shannon, the newest and best looking addition to our little clique. She soon became the elder sister we never had, the one with all the advice backed with life experience, the one with makeup skills and flawless fashionable flair, who’d look perfect even if some crumpled garbage bag were draped around her. “You girls are crazy,” she’d say, “but when you’re at work, please behave yourselves and be professional.” We had nodded, puppy-dog-eyed and hanging on to every syllable.

It’s now six years, 4 minor supporting roles, and 15 pounds later. Shannon disguises her frame with loose-fitting dark-colored outfits, and stumbles ever so slightly in her 30-dollar heels. She wears her black wavy locks in a ponytail, an unsuccessful attempt to erase a couple years from her face, and makeup no longer conceals the crescents and creases under her eyes. She rises in the evening, lunches at 9, dinner at 2, plays computer games, surfs Facebook, and goes to bed when the sun fully awakes. Sometimes, she updates her blog – Today, she types, my darling Damian bought me three blueberry tarts. And they’re mine, all MINE. Soooo fattening, but who cares? Life is good. I’m so happy!

Happy Phantom - Tori Amos

Descent

Revolt - 489 words

Mary Ann Loo

Charlene lay in bed, her cluttered bedroom illuminated only by the retiring sun’s red rays passing through her open window. In the semi-darkness, the mess seemed to fade, blurring into gray shapes that blended with the purple walls, now charcoal-colored in the waning light. Pierre should be getting off work anytime now, and he’d call to arrange when to pick her up. She contemplated stealing another 5 minutes of sleep, but her stomach growled angrily. With eyes closed, she felt under the pillow for her cell phone, and reluctantly squinted into the white glare. It was 6.38pm.

Sighing, she wrestled the covers off, and laboriously sat up. Should I eat something now or wait until dinner? The smell of fried rice beyond her closed door beckoned, so she sleepily stumbled over books, clothes and shoes into the living room, where Dad was watching the Chinese news.

“You’re awake,” Mom said, setting the table. “Come eat something.”

Charlene nodded as she passed through the kitchen of the tiny apartment and entered the bathroom. Standing before the sink, she reached for her purple toothbrush and glanced into the cracked mirror. I look like crap. She gently pushed at her eye bags, as if they could be flattened, and sighed at the small fine creases around the corners of her black eyes.

“I made your favorite – fried rice,” Mom said, as she emerged from the bathroom. “I know you’re going out with Pierre, but just eat a little bit.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Charlene said. Dad was already at the small square dining table, still glued to the TV, munching on rice. She settled herself at the opposite side, and spooned some rice onto her plate.

Her cell phone rang from her room, and she raced to answer it, half-closing the door behind her. Pierre’s voice made her smile, “Hey darling, happy birthday!”

“Thanks, dear,” she said.

“You just woke up?” he asked.

He’s disappointed. She cleared her throat. “Just a nap.”

“I’ll come get you in an hour. See you then.”

“Okay, bye.”

In the darkened silence of her room, Dad’s voice was rather clear: “…every single night playing with her computer. When the rest of the world is awake, she’s sleeping! What kind of life is that? 34 and still living here! Don’t know what to do with her anymore.”

She reached out and slapped the door shut, standing amidst the chaos of her possessions. Just you wait and see, Dad. I’m going to be in Pierre’s feature film, and when it gets to Cannes, I’ll be famous! And when we get married I’ll be starring in all of his work, and then you’ll know that I’m a DIVA – a diligent, intelligent, and versatile actress… Charlene smiled, enthralled by her usual daily daydream of fame and fortune, a blissful marriage, and everything she’d ever wanted to be.

The sun’s descent was complete, but the sky was a radiant glow of reddish purple.

The Show Must Go On - Queen

One More Time

Smiles - 103 words
Mary Ann Loo

She settles in the armchair beside the window,
gazing at the wintry street outside.
People bundled in heavy coats and muted scarves
scurry about with their lives,
passing each other,
without acknowledging,
without
connecting.
Are we all alone together? she wonders.
She takes a sip of hot chocolate from the mug in her hands,
her attempts to revel in the warmth emanating through her core
impeded by the chill deep within.
It's a brand new day,
a chance to begin again,
once again.
All is not lost,
she whispers to herself
one more time.
She smiles,
but her eyes are so so sad.


Smile - Nat King Cole

I Don't Mind. Honestly.

Suit - 145 words

Mary Ann Loo

You haven’t worked in three years,

and you’re broke.

You’ve lived with me for two years now,

and you don’t cook,

or clean,

or change the sheets.

You pass the time listening to records,

smoking,

drinking,

philosophizing,

doing nothing.

You make me laugh,

with your boyish charm,

your touch excites me,

and when we make love I know I love you.

I never complained,

never pushed you,

I simply stopped wanting more.

But these days you’re hardly home,

you say you’re at the café down the street,

reading,

and one day you met someone.

It’s just coffee,

dinner,

I don’t mind.

She sounds nice on the phone,

she’s seems nice in person,

and under different circumstances, she’s forgettable.

You brought her into our bed,

my bed,

and now she says she loves you.

I honestly really don’t mind,

as long as you never leave me.

If You're Gone - Matchbox 20

Wasted

Wrapped - 129 words
Mary Ann Loo

It’s funny how

one moment changes everything.

It’s funny how I

never thought of you this way

until you dragged me to the dance floor;

disregarding my very clumsy feet,

you held my hand and

held me close.

It’s funny how we had

365 chances to meet for coffee,

catch a movie,

build a friendship,

but were wasted on mere hi’s and bye’s.

Yet each one led to this night –

we talked

and laughed

and soon the sun rose

and then we had to say

goodbye.

It’s funny

how I never really saw you before,

now I

can’t get you out of my mind.

And I wish I had reveled in the way it felt

when you wrapped an arm around me

and I began to fall

for you.

Strangers in the Night - Frank Sinatra

A Sweet Kind of Saltiness

Lantern - 486 words
Mary Ann Loo

“I knew you’d be here,” he said, stepping through the doorway into the chamber atop the old lighthouse.

“I knew you’d find me here,” she said, staring out into the black sea. “Turn off the flashlight, Jarrod. If you’re staying."

He complied, squinting in the sudden darkness and fumbling as he settled himself beside her. His arm leaned against hers, but she didn’t pull away like she usually did when he sat too close. She was probably too distracted to notice, or she welcomed his presence. Either way, he was pleased. They sat in silence, listening to the waves crash upon the rocky shore, the wind whispering in their ears as it ruffled their hair.

She said, “Thanks for coming to the funeral.”

“Anytime,” he replied, and hastily added, “Well, I don’t actually mean ‘anytime’…”

“It’s alright, Jarrod.” She drew in her knees and hugged them. “It’s strange. I always thought I’d be happy when he’s gone, but now that he is, I really don’t know what I feel.” She absently twirled her short straight blond hair.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She sighed, and even though he couldn’t quite see her, he knew she was subtly wiping tears away.

She cleared her throat. “My dad and I never got along. He was always angry, always complaining, always criticizing. I never wanted to be like him, but sometimes I see him in me, and I hate it.”

“You know I think you’re great, Sarah,” Jarrod said.

He felt the coolness of the night air against his arm as she shifted slightly away from him. He swallowed his disappointment, and said, “I’m sorry. Go on.”

Sarah continued, “My dad grew up in this very lighthouse. Coming here kinda reminds me that he’s human, you know; he was once a kid, he fell in love, he had dreams.” She sniffed, and her voice cracked even as she tried to keep it together. “But he always made me feel like I don’t deserve to be happy, like I’m not good enough.” She smeared the backs of her hands across her cheeks, trying in vain to stop the tears. “That’s why I can’t be with you, Jarrod. You’re perfect, and I don’t deserve you.”

Her confession startled him. He’d been in love with her three years now, but every time he tried to make a move, she’d back away, or she’d tell him she wasn’t interested. A year ago she started keeping her distance, so when she called him two days ago asking him to come to her father’s funeral, the question “Why?” had plagued him ever since.

She was sobbing now, and shrinking further from him. Despite his instinct to back off, conditioned from her numerous rejections, he reached out and gathered her into his arms. And then somehow – he didn’t know how – his lips found hers, and all he tasted was a sweet kind of saltiness.

Sweet Surrender - Sarah McLachlan

Weapons

Meaning - 221 words
Mary Ann Loo

“Is your suitcase locked?” the TSA agent asks, taking it from me.

“No,” I answer.

She asks, “Does it contain any weapons?"

I know she’s referring to knives and guns and whips the like. But then when you really think about it, pretty much anything can be used as a weapon, even though they don’t necessarily possess the harmful characteristics stereotypically associated with what we label as “weapons”.

Dior Addict 2 can have the similar smarting-eye effects like pepper spray. A towel when completely drenched and twisted lengthwise immediately morphs into a whip, and according to Shanghai Noon is strong enough to bend bars. The tweezers in my toiletries bag can take someone’s eye out, or puncture their jugular artery, provided I know how to find it. A denim jacket, or any piece of clothing, can be used to smother someone. A leather waist belt can easily be pulled and tightened around someone’s neck. Steel-toed Dr. Martens can cause some real damage to a man’s baby-making instruments. Painkillers or sleeping pills in large quantities can ease one into eternal slumber, or at the very least you could develop an Advil addiction.

So yeah, I do have weapons in my suitcase. But I say, “No.” Don’t invite trouble; just catch your plane back to Nashville, and get some sleep that isn’t drug-induced.

Killer Queen - Queen

Oblivious

Trial - 320 words
Mary Ann Loo

The darkness descended upon the Interstate without any warning, even as I watched the sun set in my rearview mirror, and the sky turn a deeper shade of blue. One minute I could still distinguish the silhouettes of trees against the darkened sky, and the next it was pitch black. Only the lines on the road were visible, lit by the headlights of my roommate Steven’s Lexus. The AC in my VW Jetta wasn’t working, which didn’t bother me, but Dad’s really fussy, so Steven and I had swapped rides for the day.

Shortsighted with severe astigmatism, I have somewhat of an issue with night-blindness. And it didn’t help that I grew up in teeny tiny Singapore where even the most deserted streets are sort of lit. This extreme lack of lighting on the I-40, between Memphis and Nashville, was honestly freaking me out.
“Just follow the lines, and you’ll be fine,” Mateo said from the front passenger seat. Glancing in the rearview, all I saw was black with yellow specks, the headlights of some vehicle far behind me. I couldn’t tell if Dad was still asleep like he’d been before night officially began, and the last thing I needed at this point was more unnecessary feedback on my apparently not-so-great driving.

“Oh my God, it is so freakin’ dark,” I said.

Mateo said, “You’re doing fine.”

Dad didn’t comment; even if he’d been awake, he wasn’t accustomed to offering words of encouragement or affirmation anyway.

I managed by some grace from above to get us back to Nashville, and as I pulled up in the hotel parking lot, Annabelle said, “Thanks for driving, sis.”

Dad silently exited the car and collected his bag from the trunk. As he passed my window, which I had rolled down to say bye, he simply said, “Don’t forget to thank Steven for the car.” And he disappeared with my sister into the building.

Blindfold - Delirious?

A whole lot of maybes.

Detour - 415 words
Mary Ann Loo

Twelve days ago, I turned 27. I look maybe 21, and age is really just a number, but part of me can’t help wondering if I’d settle the important things like career-path and marriage prospects by the time I turn 30. Sure, a lot can happen in three years, but we’re all aware of time’s ability to sneak by so quickly that some random event a year ago can feel like it happened only yesterday. I remember when I was 6, I wanted to be a visual artist; then Mom changed my mind to “doctor”. At 11 I wrote many stories. At 13 I adored Jim Carrey and wanted to be funny like him. At 14 I dreamt of being a Hollywood actress. 15 – a singer. 16 – songwriter. 18 and applying for college – a psychiatrist. 19 and a Psychology major – a psychologist. Pretty soon graduation was two semesters away, and I began an acting career, which I freelanced for a year, and was pretty good at it, until behind-the-scenes work started appealing to me. At 23 I was a props person for one project, then went into retail fulltime at 24, during which Mom asked if I’d like to go back to school. I’d be stupid to not say yes.

So now I’m at the end of Semester Four, pursuing songwriting, sitting in my third Nashville apartment, mulling over the detours in my haphazard life. A little over six months ago, I ended a two-and-a-half-year-long relationship with a great guy I’d presumed was The One. A little over one-and-a-half months ago, I visited a Honduran orphanage, and returned feeling like everything here was pointless. A little over a week ago, I picked up smoking again. I have no idea what I’m doing, no clue where my life is headed, not even sure if I’d ever really love some guy enough to spend the rest of my life with him.

I believe everyone has their own path, the route they’re supposed to take, but we all get sidetracked from time to time. Then again, what if these events aren’t detours at all, but part of the road itself? Would I be here if I’d be more consistent with my choices and more focused on certain goals? Would I still be who I am today? Maybe my life would’ve been better, maybe worse. Maybe I’d be married to The One, maybe some jerk.

Whatever. Right now I need to get off this detour and do some homework.

Someday - Nichole Nordeman

Bad Luck

Bongos - 480 words
Mary Ann Loo

“Are we playing these?” our new singer asked as she rhythmically tapped on the animal skin of the bongos standing alone in the corner, blatantly ignoring the hand-written sign pasted above it: DO NOT TOUCH.

“Julie, did you not see the sign?” I asked, looking up from tuning my Fender.

She withdrew hastily. “Oh. I just thought it’d be cool to have some bongo sounds in the recording.”

“Yeah, Dan told us not to touch those. Supposedly it’s bad luck or something,” John the bassist said.

Julie’s eyes widened. “Bad luck?” She glanced at the lonely instrument, and turned to me. “Why?”

“It’s like cursed. Like Dan’s owned this place for maybe ten years now, and it’s always been there,” I replied. “Like it’s been moved a couple times before, but the next day it’s always back in that same spot.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and something like the previous dude tried to get rid of it – gave it to goodwill or something – and the next day it was back,” John said, slapping his strings to check his headphone sound levels.

“It’s said that everyone who’s played on it before, like something bad happened to them after that,” I added, standing up with the Fender slung over my shoulder. “Not like Dan personally knows anyone who died from playing it. But he’s really superstitious, so we kinda just went along with it.”

Julie swallowed, her voice quivered as she asked, “So none of you have ever touched it?”

John and I exchanged looks with each other, and with the drummer, Jack. Jack sighed and nodded, and continued fiddling with the drum set.

“What is it?” Julie asked, now moving to where I was, as far from the mysterious bongos as possible.
John said, “Jack kinda touched it once.”

“And?”

“It was probably just coincidence,” I said quickly. “I mean, we were playing a show, and both his sticks broke at the same time. Like, what are the odds, you know?”

“Yeah, and for some reason he couldn’t find his entire bag of sticks, it disappeared into thin air or something,” John added. “But we just assumed someone stole them.”

A tense silence ensued, as Julie looked from John to me to Jack to me again. She laughed nervously. “You’re just messing with me. Right?”

“You guys ready?” Dan’s voice resounded in my headphone; he was back from his smoke break.

****

“I keep getting her voice mail,” I said, flipping my cell shut.

John shrugged. “We can just track ourselves or something first.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t like her. Like, she’s not a copout.”

Just as I said those words, my cell buzzed urgently, Julie’s number displayed on its screen.

“Julie, where are you?”

“Hello.” An unfamiliar guy’s voice. “Are you Grant?”

“Yeah.”

He sighed. “I’m really sorry, but the girl who owned this cell… she was just run over by a bus.”

Only Superstition - Coldplay

You just can't be me.

Mary Ann Loo
Reflection - 32 words

Hello vacant eyes;
So familiar, yet you’re not
What you used to be.

Hello joyless face,
Once filled with eager wonder.
You just can’t be me.

What did you expect to see?


Silence - Jars of Clay

untitled 2

Mary Ann Loo

Tape - 441 words

“Is it rolling?”

“Yeah. Just… whenever you’re ready,” I say, stepping back from the camera perched on its tripod five feet above the parquet floor in Kristina’s room, at the foot of her twin-sized bed. Kristina slowly pushes herself up, leaning heavily against the pillows behind her. “I’ll be right outside, just yell when you’re done.” I immediately remember how it pains her to speak these recent weeks, and add, “Or um… text… or something…”

“It’s alright, Geoff,” she says, smiling. I nod, and step into the dark hallway, closing the door behind me. There’s a wooden folding chair just outside, but I somehow find the carpet more reassuring, and sit on it with my back against the door. I hear Kristina’s voice, muffled through the wood and the Lifehouse poster on the other side; I can’t make out her words, neither do I try. It’s what she calls her informal will, and she made me promise to only listen to it after she’s gone.

Gone. I can’t wrap my mind around it. My neighbor and best friend since we were ten – someone I’ve walked with to and from school almost everyday, someone I’ve seen grow out of baggy jeans and oversized tees to dresses and makeup, someone I’ve comforted every time her heart gets broken by jerks who never treasured what they had. As far back as I can remember, my life always has Kristina, and the thought of losing her simply won’t sink in. Our senior year in high school is almost over, but Harvard doesn’t yet know that one of its potential students may never make it there. Neither will it care.

I can’t imagine life without Kristina. Despite her popularity in school, she sits with my Science Club pals and me in the lunch cafeteria twice a week. She’d choose to walk home with me even when the jocks offered her rides. She’s beautiful with her long dark wavy locks that framed her rosy cheeks and green eyes, and she’s still beautiful now, even with her porcelain skin and her head under a blue scarf. I remember the first time I saw her like it was yesterday, in pigtails and overalls, hopping out of her dad’s car when they pulled up to the empty house next-door – joyful, eager, excited Kristina. And she always is. And I’ve always loved her in silence.

I want so much to tell her, but what will it matter now? Nothing will change, nothing will save her. I wish everyday that I’m sick instead of her, so I’ll have a reason to make a tape, to tell her the truth after I’m gone.

Cut - Plumb

Clueless

Fashion - 102 words
Mary Ann Loo

I’ve never been a follower of fashion trends, and despite being an artist of sorts and appreciating most art forms, fashion is the one thing I simply can’t quite grasp. Sure I enjoy the drama and eyeing the pretty stuff and people on Project Runway and Top Model, but to be completely honest, I haven’t got the slightest clue why people would starve themselves (at least in Singapore they do) in order to afford the latest Louis Vutton and Chanel, why Marc Jacobs is a household name, and why some women cannot live without high-heeled shoes.

I’ll just stick with my Chucks.

She's In Fashion - Suede

Forgotten

Cave - 482 words
Mary Ann Loo

I couldn’t believe I had found it, that after twenty years it was still here, exactly the same. The tall timeless trees, the brook passing silently amidst, a familiar stillness in the air that resurrects memories of long ago. I had parked my grey SUV in the recently paved parking lot, and while my brother and his wife headed off with the kids to the camp ground, the wind tugged at my heart, and my feet took me along a path I didn’t recognize at first. But the more they journeyed, the lighter they became; the stirrings of a familiar tune rose within me, and I found myself humming along. And there it was – the rocky base of the mountain, and the dark gaping entrance into yesterday.

It wasn’t a cave, but there was enough room for two nine-year-olds and the treasures they held dear. They’d brought an old quilt for the hard rocky ground, a small blue pillow, and over time the collection grew – her favorite book “Alice in Wonderland”, his dad’s old telescope, her mom’s broken music box, a plastic sword… This was where they were pirates and sailed the seven seas, superheroes in their secret lair; they were anything they’d wanted to be, and nobody could tell them otherwise. This world was theirs alone.

Everyone called him Eddie, and though he hated his name Edward, he didn’t mind when she said it. He had a habit of brushing away his straight brown hair that constantly fell into his dark eyes, even when he just had a haircut. He never failed to make her laugh, typically with silly antics like wetting his hair in the brook just to shake it like a dog to get it dry. She was his opposite, a thinker, not quite the adventurer, but she knew he’d always look out for her. They’d grown up on the same farm, and were the best of friends; their parents were best friends too, until something happened they never quite understood. Her family moved five hundred miles away to Nashville, Tennessee, leaving those memories behind.

I looked into the semidarkness, catching my breath upon seeing the faded squares of the quilt, the narrow end of a telescope, and the shape of a book. I reached into the space, surprised at how much smaller it seemed, and my fingers graced the polished wood of my mother’s old music box. Suddenly I was no longer a recently divorced publishing executive and mom of two, but the quiet nine-year-old dreamer from long ago. A fountain of forgotten tears left me falling to the ground, gasping into the sleeves of my Northface jacket.

“Geri.”

Squinting through my tears, I notice a man standing ten feet away from me. He was about six feet tall, and had straight brown hair. I should be terrified, but I wasn’t.

“Edward,” I half-whispered. “Is it really you?”

Yet - Switchfoot

Untitled

Neck - 364 words

Mary Ann Loo

Justin knew she was beautiful the moment she walked into the History classroom, even though no other heads turned. She took the seat directly in front of him, smiling shyly as their eyes met, but he quickly averted his gaze, pretending to still be interested in his buddies’ conversation about last night’s football game. She wore her straight dark hair in a high ponytail, and as she settled in her chair, he noticed the freckles on the back of her neck, which appeared to form a stylized “J”. He was intrigued, even though she clearly was the complete opposite of the modelesque, busty, and fashionable blondes or redheads he’d dated every other week.

Lisa. He didn’t know why but her name reverberated through his entire being the second it escaped her lips. The entire class period flew by as he busied himself with the pictures those freckles painted – their first hellos, their first date, the first time their hands touched, their first kiss… scenes of their life together – and he hadn’t even returned that sweet sweet smile. No, it couldn’t be. The quarterback on the school team had a reputation to uphold, and plain quiet forgettable Lisa was in every way a misfit.

So twice a week he sat behind her silently, eyeing those freckles, musing about the mysteries they seemed to contain. Everyone was oblivious to his secret fascination, and even though he wasn’t in a hurry to confess it, his fingers wanted so much to trace the patterns on the back of her neck, to feel the magic hidden there, to know every inch of her. She hardly spoke in class, unless called upon by Mr. Benton, and her contributions to the discussion were always articulated, confident, and demonstrated her quiet passion for the subject. As a straight-C student, he realized the perfect excuse to connect with her, without breaking the natural order of high school society.

Four more classes went by; for the first time since middle school, this cocky, self-absorbed ladies’ guy struggled with the words that changed his life forever: “Hey, Lisa. Um… I was, um… wondering if you’d… uh… help me study for… um… that test next week…”

Poison & Wine - The Civil Wars