(no subject)

Awakening.

I awaken with barly a momory of the dream that embraced me to a sky bursting with the brightest shot of reality. For once in the last three days, the eternal gray has been lifted away to feed sun sparking against the tan orange and red of leaves, the green of the pine, and the eternal blue of the heavens. I was once allowed the chance to see the deepest blue of a sky cleaned by the rain, though there is no deep blue, only the uniform eternally light blue of a sky stricken with vitality and vivacity.

The energy that flows through me is from that light, from my repaired body... from the cold shivers of the morning and the sound of my lover playing her instruments through the trees to show me how she can shake them. It is a new day... and I know I must be ready to embrace it.

(no subject)

Awakening.

I awaken with barly a momory of the dream that embraced me to a sky bursting with the brightest shot of reality. For once in the last three days, the eternal gray has been lifted away to feed sun sparking against the tan orange and red of leaves, the green of the pine, and the eternal blue of the heavens. I was once allowed the chance to see the deepest blue of a sky cleaned by the rain, though there is no deep blue, only the uniform eternally light blue of a sky stricken with vitality and vivacity.

The energy that flows through me is from that light, from my repaired body... from the cold shivers of the morning and the sound of my lover playing her instruments through the trees to show me how she can shake them. It is a new day... and I know I must be ready to embrace it.

Story I Just Typed

Got inspired after walking outside and typed this up. I haven't finished a single short story in a long long while.

"I'm going to be single forever!"

"Oh just shut up about it already, you're sounding so pathetic. Why don't you just find someone and get it over with?"

"It doesn't look like I'm trying?" A sigh "I wish I got the women like you did."

"It's not that hard. Look, did you try Lydia?"

"She said she was dating someone."

"Odd, she didn't tell me that last night... Oh forget it. How about Annette?"

"Her? Isn't she really sleazy?"

"Look, don't you just want to get laid?"

"I said I wanted a relationship, not a venereal disease, damn it."

"Oh fine. Look, I made a list of items for you to pick up. Maybe they'll help: just get the stuff after lectures, follow the instructions and you should do fine, okay?"

"All right..."

"And don't worry, someone will come soon, okay?"

"I really hate that word..."

When Colin Baldwin, the twenty-seven year working as a teaching aide in Fordham University, left the lecture halls of the following night, he had followed careful attention to the piece of paper that would free him from the single life he had lived for so long. Turning to stores he never really liked to visit, he entered them and purchased a number of brand name devices to help him in his quest: cologne, special soaps, dyes, shirts, shoes, and outfits that he once considered too "gauche" for him to even think of wearing. You could say this man was fairly pathetic.
No, it was a guarantee that if you read into his life and knew about the women that used him in high school to get easy A's, the women that latched onto him because he seemed like a nice and overly easy fellow that they could tease until they found the confidence to leave him, and the women that to this day still will not date him no matter how many roses and gold bracelets he leaves them (one was fortunate enough to leech him for three gold bracelets, emerald earrings, and a pair of silk stockings made from some special species of silkworm that no one has ever heard of and I'm sure you wouldn't care about), he was still the ubiquitous single guy. His mantra was "I'm never going to find someone", whenever he was happy he thought, "Maybe I'll find that someone" and when he was sad, "I'm going to be single forever." This was why he had thrown modesty to the wind and through the help of one of his more social friends, tried to gain the "strength" and "appearance" that he needed to find that woman he needed. While he taught the philosophy the Kant, he kept the folded five pages of intricate details tucked in his pocket where it was closest to him, and when he purchased what he needed, he followed it to the straightest word. He was sure that it was his night, his one true night that would transform him to show women what kind of guy he really was and end the single guy life he lived for so long.

He then made the mistake of walking into Third Street and Avenue A.

Wearing a backpack that was stocked with all his necessities, he was ready to walk home until he then realized that he was getting followed. Pulling out a cellphone would only make myself unable to defend, and I left my handgun home. Now, most muggers wouldn't think of him as a target. Colin was a somewhat large man at six feet even, and while he did not bodybuild, he did enough manual labor to prove difficult against most people. Plus, he usually dressed in a simple tee shirt and jeans and a somewhat unkempt look, so he did not look like he had any real money on him. But it did not matter. The footprints were trying to be soft, but the uniform way they went, the sound that they emitted that told him they were 3 men around two hundred and fifty pounds and acting as a team...

Now normally, when walking through downtown, one could be barely distinguished through the crowds. A person in shirt and jeans, even a tall one, could be indistinguishable. The framepack he wore that carried three twenty pound textbooks and forty-two pounds of supplies, on the other hand, tends to make one distinguishable in the crowds, and he knew this.

Okay... I might as well give them the formalities. He soon rushed forward with his ninety pound pack.

There's an alley not too far from here, not normally occupied except by people too drunk to care... He rushed around the corner, finding through the violent lights of neon and the noise of people too happy to give a shit about him, and rushed into the darkness. He knew they would come.

M.I.S. agents of the highest knowledge are normally told to be equipped with specialized form-fit body armor composed of a highly durable unique kevlar polymer as well as a special belly package underneath it containing all protocol devices in case the agent were to encounter any problems while on the field as well as a two-shot silenced disposable firearm no larger than the palm of your hand but with enough firepower to stop a 500 pound bull.

-when he was told that he was looking pudgy by Lydia the attractive professor in the university, he decided not to carry any of it for that sake.

When the three men came in, dressed in the street clothes that Colin knew was far more trendy than his, he secretly envied them. They would have killed him then, if they knew where to find him. They knew he was here, though. While certain agents get retired after being known by common knowledge, agencies never toss their most effective ones but rather still keep them in line and give them less clandestine operations in case they get caught. Colin hated the thought of being an in-between, who was known by several cults, opposing agencies, and various dictators of small foreign countries, yet never known by the public except by a few very distinct historians who just bother him to write stories. On the bright side, he did get a kiss from someone for having Tom Clancy sign a copy of his novel for them, but nothing beyond that.

The fools he thought as they came close enough for him to snatch one by the leg through the aid of the dark, a fire escape, and a number of trash bags.

The principle of surprise is simple after that. You grab one as you rise, push that one into the other like a ram, pushing that one out at the same time. If they bear weapons, then use him as a shield. A human body can take quite a number of slugs unless they're armor piercing, but no one uses armor piercing rounds in a city unless they want to be caught quickly by authorities.

One arm still poised on the leg, the other grabbed the person by the shoulder and tossed him to the ground, dropping him with enough force at the right angle to know that he snapped the neck. The other, who was still prone, he ducked for just in time to avoid getting a switchblade to the face from the third. The sort of agents usually carried that sort of weapons, readily traceable ones that people know normal people can have. Rolling aside, Colin had enough time to grab the fellow's switchblade and throw it. The man was quick and could dodge a blade to the chest, which is why he aimed for the foot instead.

Rebounding carefully to the ground, one swift kick to his head into a wall, and he had him. One was out cold, one was dead, and one was helpless.

"Now..." he said as he was trying to catch his breath, a switchblade aimed towards the face of the goon. "-tell me why you were following me..."


He was in mixed moods. Not only was the interrogation swift, but he got the trendy three hundred dollar jacket that was on his list but could not afford. Even the cleanup crew was swift with the evidence planting. Still...

"Harry, get your damn work done now." Track the base of operation and terminate... great. He hated that code. Granted, he used a closed connection signal but he felt even more annoyed that the relay officer had to speak in code to him. He heard she was actually pretty cute but "Are you free on the weekend?" through codes actually meant "Send backup, aborting mission".

He borrowed one of the switchblades from one of those would-be agents. From what the goon told him before he knocked him was that there was a dirty nuke in mid-transit through here and he was getting too close to it. The goon was nice enough to give him an exact location though... Taking his framepack with him and dusting off some of the filth from the trash, he continued onward, trying not to seem too out of place even if he now reeked of old urine and trash.

The location was a housing complex in Hell's Kitchen. How they were able to transport it here without too much trouble was beyond his contemplation... Perhaps they were getting that good. Pushing compliments aside, he walked up to the door, used a modified picklock he borrowed from the cleanup crew (they offered him a handgun too, but he knew it would be too messy in an apartment building... too much risk for casualties) and walked in.

Empty, somewhat dingy looking looking apartment complex. It reminded him of the place he was forced to live in off of what meager salary he made, except with much less noise from the kids that lived next-door. A side door led to the boiler room, and through the pick, he jimmied through it and began to open the door... only to slam it behind him.

Two agents, both armed with a Mac11. These bastards don't really care if they're making noise, unless they're intentionally empty. Either way, they know something's up and are probably getting friends.

He dropped the frameback for a moment and rifled through the supplies until he found the bottle of special thirty dollar hair spray. 418 grams... there should still be enough left for me to use after this. He returned to wearing his framepack, opened the door a crack only to be replied with spattering noises and a continuous ricochet three-hundredth seconds apart.

"SHIT!"

He reached in his pocket, found the lighter, and quickly ran around the corner in a stammer of sounds that echoed through the empty hallway.

A few German words and a couple of steps later, he turned around, knowing he made enough noise to make them think he ditched them. One should look around the corner to check, and one did.

The makeshift flamethrower seems so overdone, but clothes are readily flammable. This one was unfortunate enough to wear a hat and began rolling on the floor, clawing at his hat. That should have shocked them enough, he knew that and turned around and blasted them in return, then dropped the lighter to grab the submachine gun and slam each of them with a special shot in the spine.

"Cleanup's really going to hate me for this one..." was muttered as the agent rushed down the stairs to a dingy red door left ajar with the words "Boiler room" written on them.

His spray can went into his pockets and his hand cradling the steaming gun, he hugged the corner. All of them were already dead.

He pushed the nozzle of the Mac11 out and immediately saw a hail of gunshots ricochet as he felt one of them ricochet against the barrel of the weapon.
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!

Scampering back up, he went to pick up that lighter. "Shit, I'm going to hate this, but..."

When he dropped the can, it was already getting fired at. It exploded prematurely to Colin's calculations, but did leave enough residue for him to storm through. The framepack he once wore, now on fire, was on his arm as he rushed through to catch any shrapnel and gunfire. The hail of fire fouled up the Mac11 and made it innacccurate, but he didn't care: it kept them down, and that was the main purpose. Keeping his running steady, he soon threw the flaming framepack at the shooting targets, not a sizable distance, but enough to catch them unsteady. Not even a ruined barrel could stop the weapon from making its mark at that distance.

The cellphone was secure here as always but they still liked using codes.
"Mom, I got the groceries but the coupons were expired."
"Harry, get home. Don't worry, you'll get your allowance anyway."
"Mom, are you fr-, uh forget that. Thanks Mom."

Thankfully, his framepack was flame retardent. Unfortunately, nothing in that bag was so it was all gone, everything except for one textbook he knew he had to keep for tomorrow's lecture. To add further irony, he soon realized that among the things in that bag, one of the things he tucked in there was the note! "Why did I have to use everything?" He said in almost tear-stricken eyes as he returned to his apartment, still reeking of the stick of an alley and now the smell of burnt hairspray.

As he washed himself down in the shower to clean up in his lonely apartment, he was crying in his shame. After this he would use the agency's credit to order new textbooks, but he forgot all the things he needed on that list. He sighed, went to bed, and then thought of how no woman would ever want to date someone like him.

Story I Just Typed

Got inspired after walking outside and typed this up. I haven't finished a single short story in a long long while.

"I'm going to be single forever!"

"Oh just shut up about it already, you're sounding so pathetic. Why don't you just find someone and get it over with?"

"It doesn't look like I'm trying?" A sigh "I wish I got the women like you did."

"It's not that hard. Look, did you try Lydia?"

"She said she was dating someone."

"Odd, she didn't tell me that last night... Oh forget it. How about Annette?"

"Her? Isn't she really sleazy?"

"Look, don't you just want to get laid?"

"I said I wanted a relationship, not a venereal disease, damn it."

"Oh fine. Look, I made a list of items for you to pick up. Maybe they'll help: just get the stuff after lectures, follow the instructions and you should do fine, okay?"

"All right..."

"And don't worry, someone will come soon, okay?"

"I really hate that word..."

When Colin Baldwin, the twenty-seven year working as a teaching aide in Fordham University, left the lecture halls of the following night, he had followed careful attention to the piece of paper that would free him from the single life he had lived for so long. Turning to stores he never really liked to visit, he entered them and purchased a number of brand name devices to help him in his quest: cologne, special soaps, dyes, shirts, shoes, and outfits that he once considered too "gauche" for him to even think of wearing. You could say this man was fairly pathetic.
No, it was a guarantee that if you read into his life and knew about the women that used him in high school to get easy A's, the women that latched onto him because he seemed like a nice and overly easy fellow that they could tease until they found the confidence to leave him, and the women that to this day still will not date him no matter how many roses and gold bracelets he leaves them (one was fortunate enough to leech him for three gold bracelets, emerald earrings, and a pair of silk stockings made from some special species of silkworm that no one has ever heard of and I'm sure you wouldn't care about), he was still the ubiquitous single guy. His mantra was "I'm never going to find someone", whenever he was happy he thought, "Maybe I'll find that someone" and when he was sad, "I'm going to be single forever." This was why he had thrown modesty to the wind and through the help of one of his more social friends, tried to gain the "strength" and "appearance" that he needed to find that woman he needed. While he taught the philosophy the Kant, he kept the folded five pages of intricate details tucked in his pocket where it was closest to him, and when he purchased what he needed, he followed it to the straightest word. He was sure that it was his night, his one true night that would transform him to show women what kind of guy he really was and end the single guy life he lived for so long.

He then made the mistake of walking into Third Street and Avenue A.

Wearing a backpack that was stocked with all his necessities, he was ready to walk home until he then realized that he was getting followed. Pulling out a cellphone would only make myself unable to defend, and I left my handgun home. Now, most muggers wouldn't think of him as a target. Colin was a somewhat large man at six feet even, and while he did not bodybuild, he did enough manual labor to prove difficult against most people. Plus, he usually dressed in a simple tee shirt and jeans and a somewhat unkempt look, so he did not look like he had any real money on him. But it did not matter. The footprints were trying to be soft, but the uniform way they went, the sound that they emitted that told him they were 3 men around two hundred and fifty pounds and acting as a team...

Now normally, when walking through downtown, one could be barely distinguished through the crowds. A person in shirt and jeans, even a tall one, could be indistinguishable. The framepack he wore that carried three twenty pound textbooks and forty-two pounds of supplies, on the other hand, tends to make one distinguishable in the crowds, and he knew this.

Okay... I might as well give them the formalities. He soon rushed forward with his ninety pound pack.

There's an alley not too far from here, not normally occupied except by people too drunk to care... He rushed around the corner, finding through the violent lights of neon and the noise of people too happy to give a shit about him, and rushed into the darkness. He knew they would come.

M.I.S. agents of the highest knowledge are normally told to be equipped with specialized form-fit body armor composed of a highly durable unique kevlar polymer as well as a special belly package underneath it containing all protocol devices in case the agent were to encounter any problems while on the field as well as a two-shot silenced disposable firearm no larger than the palm of your hand but with enough firepower to stop a 500 pound bull.

-when he was told that he was looking pudgy by Lydia the attractive professor in the university, he decided not to carry any of it for that sake.

When the three men came in, dressed in the street clothes that Colin knew was far more trendy than his, he secretly envied them. They would have killed him then, if they knew where to find him. They knew he was here, though. While certain agents get retired after being known by common knowledge, agencies never toss their most effective ones but rather still keep them in line and give them less clandestine operations in case they get caught. Colin hated the thought of being an in-between, who was known by several cults, opposing agencies, and various dictators of small foreign countries, yet never known by the public except by a few very distinct historians who just bother him to write stories. On the bright side, he did get a kiss from someone for having Tom Clancy sign a copy of his novel for them, but nothing beyond that.

The fools he thought as they came close enough for him to snatch one by the leg through the aid of the dark, a fire escape, and a number of trash bags.

The principle of surprise is simple after that. You grab one as you rise, push that one into the other like a ram, pushing that one out at the same time. If they bear weapons, then use him as a shield. A human body can take quite a number of slugs unless they're armor piercing, but no one uses armor piercing rounds in a city unless they want to be caught quickly by authorities.

One arm still poised on the leg, the other grabbed the person by the shoulder and tossed him to the ground, dropping him with enough force at the right angle to know that he snapped the neck. The other, who was still prone, he ducked for just in time to avoid getting a switchblade to the face from the third. The sort of agents usually carried that sort of weapons, readily traceable ones that people know normal people can have. Rolling aside, Colin had enough time to grab the fellow's switchblade and throw it. The man was quick and could dodge a blade to the chest, which is why he aimed for the foot instead.

Rebounding carefully to the ground, one swift kick to his head into a wall, and he had him. One was out cold, one was dead, and one was helpless.

"Now..." he said as he was trying to catch his breath, a switchblade aimed towards the face of the goon. "-tell me why you were following me..."


He was in mixed moods. Not only was the interrogation swift, but he got the trendy three hundred dollar jacket that was on his list but could not afford. Even the cleanup crew was swift with the evidence planting. Still...

"Harry, get your damn work done now." Track the base of operation and terminate... great. He hated that code. Granted, he used a closed connection signal but he felt even more annoyed that the relay officer had to speak in code to him. He heard she was actually pretty cute but "Are you free on the weekend?" through codes actually meant "Send backup, aborting mission".

He borrowed one of the switchblades from one of those would-be agents. From what the goon told him before he knocked him was that there was a dirty nuke in mid-transit through here and he was getting too close to it. The goon was nice enough to give him an exact location though... Taking his framepack with him and dusting off some of the filth from the trash, he continued onward, trying not to seem too out of place even if he now reeked of old urine and trash.

The location was a housing complex in Hell's Kitchen. How they were able to transport it here without too much trouble was beyond his contemplation... Perhaps they were getting that good. Pushing compliments aside, he walked up to the door, used a modified picklock he borrowed from the cleanup crew (they offered him a handgun too, but he knew it would be too messy in an apartment building... too much risk for casualties) and walked in.

Empty, somewhat dingy looking looking apartment complex. It reminded him of the place he was forced to live in off of what meager salary he made, except with much less noise from the kids that lived next-door. A side door led to the boiler room, and through the pick, he jimmied through it and began to open the door... only to slam it behind him.

Two agents, both armed with a Mac11. These bastards don't really care if they're making noise, unless they're intentionally empty. Either way, they know something's up and are probably getting friends.

He dropped the frameback for a moment and rifled through the supplies until he found the bottle of special thirty dollar hair spray. 418 grams... there should still be enough left for me to use after this. He returned to wearing his framepack, opened the door a crack only to be replied with spattering noises and a continuous ricochet three-hundredth seconds apart.

"SHIT!"

He reached in his pocket, found the lighter, and quickly ran around the corner in a stammer of sounds that echoed through the empty hallway.

A few German words and a couple of steps later, he turned around, knowing he made enough noise to make them think he ditched them. One should look around the corner to check, and one did.

The makeshift flamethrower seems so overdone, but clothes are readily flammable. This one was unfortunate enough to wear a hat and began rolling on the floor, clawing at his hat. That should have shocked them enough, he knew that and turned around and blasted them in return, then dropped the lighter to grab the submachine gun and slam each of them with a special shot in the spine.

"Cleanup's really going to hate me for this one..." was muttered as the agent rushed down the stairs to a dingy red door left ajar with the words "Boiler room" written on them.

His spray can went into his pockets and his hand cradling the steaming gun, he hugged the corner. All of them were already dead.

He pushed the nozzle of the Mac11 out and immediately saw a hail of gunshots ricochet as he felt one of them ricochet against the barrel of the weapon.
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!!!

Scampering back up, he went to pick up that lighter. "Shit, I'm going to hate this, but..."

When he dropped the can, it was already getting fired at. It exploded prematurely to Colin's calculations, but did leave enough residue for him to storm through. The framepack he once wore, now on fire, was on his arm as he rushed through to catch any shrapnel and gunfire. The hail of fire fouled up the Mac11 and made it innacccurate, but he didn't care: it kept them down, and that was the main purpose. Keeping his running steady, he soon threw the flaming framepack at the shooting targets, not a sizable distance, but enough to catch them unsteady. Not even a ruined barrel could stop the weapon from making its mark at that distance.

The cellphone was secure here as always but they still liked using codes.
"Mom, I got the groceries but the coupons were expired."
"Harry, get home. Don't worry, you'll get your allowance anyway."
"Mom, are you fr-, uh forget that. Thanks Mom."

Thankfully, his framepack was flame retardent. Unfortunately, nothing in that bag was so it was all gone, everything except for one textbook he knew he had to keep for tomorrow's lecture. To add further irony, he soon realized that among the things in that bag, one of the things he tucked in there was the note! "Why did I have to use everything?" He said in almost tear-stricken eyes as he returned to his apartment, still reeking of the stick of an alley and now the smell of burnt hairspray.

As he washed himself down in the shower to clean up in his lonely apartment, he was crying in his shame. After this he would use the agency's credit to order new textbooks, but he forgot all the things he needed on that list. He sighed, went to bed, and then thought of how no woman would ever want to date someone like him.

"Friends"

It's happened: I finally must have entered the purely inspired zone from all my desperation and it in turn must have evolved into something grander... I say this... because I just got another story idea.

September twenty-first, two AM was when I got the phone call. I still remember parts of a dream where I was looking at the world from above and then it began to shatter in waves as I realized it was the phone.

"Are you Larry Bernaby?"


"Yes...?"


"I'm sorry, but this is the Police... A person we believe to be Marsha-Anne Greenburg was found dead at the scene of a hit and run off the corner of twelfth and thirty first and we need you to help identify the body." I couldn't believe that event four days ago, and I still find myself shaking today.


"She was a great kisser."


"Hmm?"


"Marsha. The best kisser in the world." Ben said it with a lonesome smile in funeral clothes that only made him look more lonesome than I thought.


"Heh, yeah..." I never knew her that well to say, but I just nodded.


I stood at the podium at that funeral and looked at all the men and women in front of that podium and knew that as I looked at them all I could not recognize any of them, yet everyone of them told me that I knew her more than any of them. ...perhaps they were right, though I could never really say.


"Marsha... Marsha she was-"


Marsha was only a friend. I met her in junior high. She needed help dragging a prop for her stage work and dance number. I obliged to help and she smiled and hugged me and thanked me with all her might into one big hug. It was the cutest smile I ever saw and I never felt so loved. She then told me her name was Marsha, she hated her parents, and wondered if I was interested in doing stage work.


In high school she became the most popular girl in her grade. She always was next by me but she always assured the guys that I was a friend. I helped her in "Othello," "Macbeth," and "Tommy" as a stage hand. She was the prom queen at the senior prom that I never attended since I had to help the family during my father's heart attack.


We split for college. I remember the third month at night. It was raining, she was making a commotion with the desk clerk at my dorm. She immediately ran to me at first sight and held me. I remember smelling the bourbon on her and told the desk attendant it was okay.


She was raped that night by some frat guys and she was crying. I offered her my bed, she offered a kiss, and the night that came was one I thought I would never expect to happen as she undressed me.


"Marsha... you're dru-"

"Shhhh..." she whispered before she kissed me with those drunken lips and gave me a night filled with pleasure.


The morning she was gone. A note was on the dresser that said "I'm sorry" I got a phone call later from her. She said it was the alcohol talking and that she never meant for it to be this way. She still wanted me as a friend, and that if it was any other way then it would only go worse. I could only accept her. She was only a friend, after all. Not too long after she dropped out and transfered to my college, pursuing her theatre exploits. I was too busy to help with the stage, but I did catch her in at least one performance each time, where she always blew me a kiss after each one.


When we left college, she was already proposed to by a guy and quickly married. She called me every time at 3PM while on the office, telling me her life and asking me for her advice. She went through three husbands. The fourth was her last one before the accident.


After the funeral, we met to drink.


"I always felt sorry about her illness."


"Illness?"


"She never told you? Breast cancer ever since she was 18. I thought everyone knew, though she never wanted to get rid of it until just recently. Felt really inferior about it. Now that I think about it... she once told me to never tell you."


I cried.

"Friends"

It's happened: I finally must have entered the purely inspired zone from all my desperation and it in turn must have evolved into something grander... I say this... because I just got another story idea.

September twenty-first, two AM was when I got the phone call. I still remember parts of a dream where I was looking at the world from above and then it began to shatter in waves as I realized it was the phone.

"Are you Larry Bernaby?"


"Yes...?"


"I'm sorry, but this is the Police... A person we believe to be Marsha-Anne Greenburg was found dead at the scene of a hit and run off the corner of twelfth and thirty first and we need you to help identify the body." I couldn't believe that event four days ago, and I still find myself shaking today.


"She was a great kisser."


"Hmm?"


"Marsha. The best kisser in the world." Ben said it with a lonesome smile in funeral clothes that only made him look more lonesome than I thought.


"Heh, yeah..." I never knew her that well to say, but I just nodded.


I stood at the podium at that funeral and looked at all the men and women in front of that podium and knew that as I looked at them all I could not recognize any of them, yet everyone of them told me that I knew her more than any of them. ...perhaps they were right, though I could never really say.


"Marsha... Marsha she was-"


Marsha was only a friend. I met her in junior high. She needed help dragging a prop for her stage work and dance number. I obliged to help and she smiled and hugged me and thanked me with all her might into one big hug. It was the cutest smile I ever saw and I never felt so loved. She then told me her name was Marsha, she hated her parents, and wondered if I was interested in doing stage work.


In high school she became the most popular girl in her grade. She always was next by me but she always assured the guys that I was a friend. I helped her in "Othello," "Macbeth," and "Tommy" as a stage hand. She was the prom queen at the senior prom that I never attended since I had to help the family during my father's heart attack.


We split for college. I remember the third month at night. It was raining, she was making a commotion with the desk clerk at my dorm. She immediately ran to me at first sight and held me. I remember smelling the bourbon on her and told the desk attendant it was okay.


She was raped that night by some frat guys and she was crying. I offered her my bed, she offered a kiss, and the night that came was one I thought I would never expect to happen as she undressed me.


"Marsha... you're dru-"

"Shhhh..." she whispered before she kissed me with those drunken lips and gave me a night filled with pleasure.


The morning she was gone. A note was on the dresser that said "I'm sorry" I got a phone call later from her. She said it was the alcohol talking and that she never meant for it to be this way. She still wanted me as a friend, and that if it was any other way then it would only go worse. I could only accept her. She was only a friend, after all. Not too long after she dropped out and transfered to my college, pursuing her theatre exploits. I was too busy to help with the stage, but I did catch her in at least one performance each time, where she always blew me a kiss after each one.


When we left college, she was already proposed to by a guy and quickly married. She called me every time at 3PM while on the office, telling me her life and asking me for her advice. She went through three husbands. The fourth was her last one before the accident.


After the funeral, we met to drink.


"I always felt sorry about her illness."


"Illness?"


"She never told you? Breast cancer ever since she was 18. I thought everyone knew, though she never wanted to get rid of it until just recently. Felt really inferior about it. Now that I think about it... she once told me to never tell you."


I cried.