1. lacking a plan, purpose, or enthusiasm.

It wasn't that she hated her job, per se.

It was that her job awakened this deep sense of impending and unending dread and gloom about the path she was on for the rest of her life, just trudging along until the months and years and decades passed and then she was dead and what did she have to show for it?

A thirty five year career of sitting behind a desk barely registering life as it passed her by. And she wasn't even a quarter of the way there.

“Hey, Kate,” a familiar voice startled her out of her...hmm, what was the exact opposite of a reverie? Waking nightmare? Daily existential crisis?

“Jeez, jumpy much?” Richard joked, thankfully oblivious to Kate's black hole of thoughts.

“Ha, sure,” Kate replied uneasily, her thoughts scattering with the presence of Richard, her boss, before her. Get it together girl, do not let him see the intensity of how much you do not want to be here. She internally shook off her ennui for the sake of the conversation before her. “What's up?”

“I was passing by,” Richard chuckled to himself, and Kate smiled thinly, because of course he was passing by, this is how office floor plans worked, “and decided to check in on how you're feeling about our OKRs for the year.”

OKRs. Objectives and Key Results. A slap in the face to Kate, who objected to the key result that her life had turned out as.

“Optimistic,” Kate allowed, keeping that thin smile in place, no teeth, no light behind her eyes. But Richard didn't notice, because he never did. Thank goodness.

“That's great to hear!” Richard bellowed, moving to clap her on the shoulder before catching himself, because initiating physical contact at the workplace only got dicey with full follow-through. He redirected his incoming palm to an awkward slap on her desk, a hearty Keep it up, chum! of a motion.

She nodded, hoping and praying that this requisite interaction could please just hurry up and end soon so she could get back to her wallowing.

Somehow, for once in her life, her prayers were answered, because Richard continued his jaunt through the office and left her in peace. Kate sighed.

“Optimistic, you? Really?” Michaela sneered from the desk across the aisle. Of course she'd been eavesdropping. Though to be fair, was it eavesdropping if the office encouraged an open floor plan and constant mini-moments of human interaction?

Since Kate did not like Michaela, she decided that yes, it was definitely eavesdropping.

Kate attempted to ignore the barb, which encouraged Michaela to roll her desk chair across the aisle and right up into Kate's very limited personal space. “You haven't been optimistic a day in your life,” Michaela goaded.

“That's where you're wrong,” Kate said. “I'm particularly optimistic that you'll leave me alone.”

Michaela huffed. “Whatever. I was gonna see if you were free for happy hour tonight, but consider that invitation pre-revoked.” With that, Michaela swiveled her chair back over to her desk and aggressively ignored Kate's presence.

Kate had never joined Michaela and the Cool Crew for afterwork happy hour, none of the scant times Michaela alluded to an invitation just out of reach.

Yes, Kate considered that group the Cool Crew, like she was a high school loner gazing longingly up at the popular lunch table from her spot on the grass by the least smelling trash can.

Kate wondered not for the first time why these undeniably cool people 1) worked at this company, and 2) welcomed Michaela into their good graces.

Kate never wondered why she wasn't welcomed. She wouldn't welcome herself either.

But in Kate's defense, these people were literally the definition of cool. Like, folks who actually peaked after high school, and continued to peak as their lives paraded on and on like a sparkling celebration of being alive and thriving and basically crushing it. Mountain climbers who never had to trudge down the other side, but also never got winded. In fact, each upward step was more invigorating than the last.

That was not Kate. Kate was winded on the very uninclined path she found herself on. Maybe once upon a time, a past Kate would have cared more. Or maybe once upon another timeline, an alternate Kate would have done something about it.

But this Kate, well, she didn't hate her job, per se. She just didn't have the energy to imagine any other way.

1. send (someone) away from a country or place as an official punishment.
2. forbid, abolish, or get rid of (something unwanted).

DeeDee was sad. DeeDee was always sad—well, either sad, or nothing. But today DeeDee was a very deep, echoing, hopeless kind of sad (as opposed to a deep, echoing, hopeless kind of nothing).

Why?

Well, it wasn't hard to be the saddest of sads, the gloomiest of glooms, the glummest of glums, the forlornest of forlorns, the emptiest of empties, the ennui-est of ennuis—

Okay, DeeDee was putting it off. But I'll just come right out with it.

Their friends didn't want them around anymore. And neither did I.

“You're no fun! You make everything worse!” said Joy.

“You're not even up for a good debate!” said Anger.

“I'm worried there's something truly wrong with you!” said Fear.

“Plus you never take care of yourself. You smell awful!” said Disgust.

“I'm sorry about this. It's just... you're even bumming me out,” finished Sadness, and that was that.

DeeDee sighed. They'd seen this day coming, they'd anticipated it, and yet, here it was, still knocking the metaphorical wind from their metaphorical sails.

“I don't know what to tell you all,” DeeDee said simply. “This is just me.”

“Yeah, and you stink!” Disgust re-emphasized.

The words stung quite a bit, but also didn't sting very much at all. DeeDee was aware of the need to feel ashamed, embarrassed—and DeeDee was, to be sure. But also, doing anything about it was just. Too. Much.

“Depression, it's time,” Joy said diplomatically. “We tried to welcome you, but you've overstayed.”

Anger chimed in with vigor: “Big time!”

Joy continued, “We'll be better off without you. You'll probably be better off without us.”

“Or worse!” Fear exclaimed. Joy shot them a look.

“Where do I go?” asked DeeDee.

“Out!” That was Anger, of course.

“There's the Suppress Crevasse,” Sadness spoke up. “I've considered going there when I'm unwanted.”

“You're never unwanted, Sadness!” Joy declared, aghast.

“Speak for yourself,” Anger nudged Disgust. The pair snickered.

“We don't even know what's down there...” Fear worried, eyes like saucers.

“You'll do fine!” exclaimed Joy. “Maybe it's just what you need!”

“Maybe,” DeeDee said simply. “Maybe.”

And with that, DeeDee left Headquarters.

I wish I could say it was that simple. I really, really do. But that wouldn't be fair to DeeDee. Or to myself.

At first, DeeDee's presence did seem to release its hold. But it was never truly forgotten. It was an undercurrent, a concern that penetrated even Joy's unflappable mien: The idea that DeeDee might defy the group’s decision and show their face back in Headquarters at any time.

“Depression's not here. But that stench is not gone!” Disgust pinched the bridge of their nose and squinted with revulsion.

“Depression's gonna be back when we least expect it. I just know it. Is no one else terrified?” That was Fear.

“Depression knows they have to stay away!” Anger.

“And Depression will!” Joy.

Everyone turned to Sadness, ready for them to chime in. Sadness just looked down.

“Depression will,” Joy insisted.

But the thing about DeeDee is that they were never able to reach the Suppress Crevasse. Every signpost directed them on a different path, looping them around and around, this way and that, farther and closer and farther again. DeeDee forged on, saw the sights, and yet didn't take in much of their surroundings at all.

DeeDee wandered and roamed, wandered and roamed. Eventually, somehow—probably when they stopped using the signposts—they finally made it to their destination.

Well, a destination.

Back at Headquarters.

Just as I always expected Depression would.

1. to go over in the mind repeatedly and often casually or slowly.
2. to chew repeatedly for an extended period.

At night she dreamed of composing her magnum opus.

When she opened her eyes, she prepared herself for another day of disappointment.

She just needed to write. That’s all there was to it, really. Pen to paper. Heck, fingerpainting out words in the sand would do the trick. As long as they formed coherent sentences, and those sentences paraded into a story—that’s what she needed.

And yet.

It was easier said than done. Literally.

With the paper shortages, with the mandate to limit the use of writing utensils, heck, even the ban on sand—all these new rules and regulations made it oh so difficult to write anything down, least of which the stories that swirled in her head. What started as a waltz had morphed into a tornado, and she had no way of taming the beast.

Except speaking. Oral tradition, the oldest form of storytelling. That’s what people did these days, right? With the lack of physical materials, everything was spoken, transient. Sure, oral storytelling wasn’t transient, blah blah blah, tales have been passed through time ad nauseum. But she didn’t want to risk it. And even more than that, it didn’t scratch the same itch.

It was about getting to read back over her words. It was about finding a slip of the tongue that just perfectly matched her mood and saving it for posterity. In a story bigger than life, grander than grand—that is what she yearned to make. To write.

She knew that the world she lived in was pretty much a fantastical story in and of itself. The nasty kind of fantastical. The kind of story in the books she’d read as a child. Genre: Dystopian. Quality of Life: Bad. Possibility that she was the Chosen One: Slipping through her fingers day by day without a pencil in hand.

That’s why she wanted to write about beauty. About creativity and freedom and self-expression. Lovely things and happy things and a world where the “Dys” was replaced with a “U”. Those were the stories in her head. She wanted to imagine it, and she wanted to write it down and hug it close and read and reread and re-reread until her eyes glazed over and she fell asleep.

She dreamed about it, for what it was worth. But if she could just write these stories down to share them, she told herself, she could change the world.

Right now she didn’t even feel up for changing out of her pajamas.

But duty called—mandatory factory medical check-in to clear her for another quarter of pushing a button so the AI robots could do the pie-in-the-sky thinking.

Did she really have to go in? Answer: If she wanted to eat, then yes.

Sometimes she wondered if eating was even worth it anymore, if she couldn’t write down the worlds in her head. But she had to remind herself it was worth it—would all be worth it—if she could just hold onto the thoughts and ideas canvasing her brain, careening through her mind, so that one day—someday—she’d stumble across a paper and prick her finger to write with her own blood if she bloody well had to.

It had to be worth it. The wait had to be worth it. It just had to be.

1. the act of acquiring books and not reading them; of letting them pile up around you

They said she should open a book store, but she didn't want to.

They said “You love to be surrounded by books so much, a bookstore is the perfect place to do that!”

But she didn't want to.

If she owned a bookstore, that would mean selling her books. Letting them go.

She was surrounded by books because she desired to have them. And they, her.

“It's quite a funny thing,” her mother remarked one sunny afternoon, visiting her daughter's apartment with lunch in hand for the two of them, only to find her daughter cross-legged on the hardwood floor, piles of books surrounding her, yet not even a one in her hand.

“Oh, hello Mother,” her daughter said, slowly opening her eyes and lifting her chin.

“You're not even reading them,” her mother blurted, dumbfounded. What a strange, strange girl she had.

“I'm not,” her daughter confirmed. “They're reading me.”

1. covered or flooded with water, especially seawater or rain.
2. containing large numbers or amounts of someone or something.
3. level with the surface of water, especially the sea, so that it just washes over.

“This is how much I love you!”

It was like the book they'd read to me as a child. A baby bunny and her mama bunny. Love so big it dared to be contained in the pages of the book. Or was it a human child and human mother? Maybe the love was in fact so gargantuan that it defied species in my mind, and it mixed and mingled and swirled with all the other books I read in childhood.

“This is how much I love you!”

We point at the stars, and we can't coordinate our eager index fingers poking out at the sky, so every indicator is in a different direction, and every star further from the last. Love so vast that it crosses time and space. Space, because, obviously. Time, because if you really think about it, space is so wide and so deep and so far and so near that traveling it cannot be contained or thought of in distance. Distance equals time when it comes to space. And when you think about distance, about time, about space, about all of it multiplying into one big jumble and then exploding out into a Big Bang —

“This is how much I love you!”

It's as if the sound echoes through the ages, because it does, because it isn't something just let go of, just forgotten. Impossible. I reject even the notion of that. Reject on principle, on values, “on G-d” as the kiddos say. I can't believe someone would even expect that of me, to forgo my love for you. To up and quit. Nuh uh. Not gonna happen.

“This is how much I love you!”

We can't be immune to this feeling. YOU can't be immune to this feeling. That would imply that space could melt back into itself, that time could end in a second, that distance covered no ground. That principles and values and G-d, for G-d's sake, had no matter of consequence to you.

That the book about the bunnies or the humans or whoever or whatever meant NOTHING.

You wouldn't do that to a sweet fictional bunny-human, would you?

1. a casual romantic or sexual relationship.
2. brief or casual involvement with something.

“Aha! I say,” The alabaster man in the top hat chortled. “Yes, this was a grand idea, to give folks five day instead of seven day work-weeks.”

“Indubitably, my good man,” The other, chalkier fellow responded, equally top-hatted. “Now that the fine citizens of these United States have two days a week to go out into the world with their families, they will spend so much more of their money!”

“Naturally,” The frock-coated pale woman across from them replied, at ease knowing she was in power but not at the top and so not ever, never, would be blamed. “The prices of goods and services will need to increase. That's just how an economy works—”

“And naturally,” The first man interrupted. “These people will need to work even harder those other five days, in order to stay in our good graces and keep their jobs.”

“After all,” The second man agreed good-naturedly. “How else will the upstanding citizens of these United States be able to afford all the merriment that we allow them to now partake in the other two days?”

“So true,” The woman spoke up, eagerly, but pleasantly, feminine and refined. “So true.”

“I'd say this was a grand outreach indeed, an outstanding effort, at our charitable activity for this here fiscal year.”

“Here, here!” The other two replied. The three venerated figures chortled in unison.

“Now that we have that over with,” The first man said, recomposing himself into a picture of sanctimony, “Let us continue our board meeting. Do remind me of the next topic.”

“Continued reduction of health coverage!” The woman exclaimed before the other man could. He grumbled his unease at her speaking out of turn.

“Rightly so,” The first man said to the woman. “Rightly so. Let us begin.”

They turned back to the PowerPoint presentation as the first man tapped his phone screen to advance the slides.

1. a formal agreement between individuals or parties.

“So you know how we made that pact at 15 that when we lived in the same city again we’d go on our road trip?”

Rhea just stared at the woman standing across from her on the front doorstep, trekking dirt onto the otherwise clean welcome mat. The woman wore boots that could have been a homeless man’s second-to-worst pair of shoes and sunglasses that were more expensive than any pair Rhea owned.

“Well, I’m back!”

Rhea looked past the stranger on her doorstep. It was a pretty regular Sunday in May — hot but not unbearable, green but not forest green. More like the-drought-hit but-it rained-at-least-twice-this-month green.

Her husband had been complaining about the ban on excessive sprinklers for a couple weeks now, and she could understand his point, even if it just so happened to doing so would lead to fines and public shunning from the rest of the neighbors, who had all already switched to “desert fauna”. Well fuck them. Rhea could have a bush or two if she wanted. Plants allowed the world to breathe, after all.

“What?” Rhea allowed herself to say.

“I’m back!” The woman repeated, a smile pasted on her face.

“I’m sorry, we really don’t want anything that you are selling.” Rhea made to close the door, but the woman stepped directly on top of the door frame, hands on hips.

“You forgot your BFF — Baby-faced friend?” The woman pouted in a joking manner, protruding her elbows out even further from her hips.

“Samantha?” Rhea wondered aloud, and then she saw it. The wide, gray-blue eyes, now with laugh lines in the creases. The round cheeks. The perky mouth, now covered in a dark maroon lipstick. Back in 5th grade, Samantha would get out of any trouble just by making this same pout; on a 10 year old, it was sweet and endearing, exuding naivete. On this woman, it was a little concerning.

“Yes Rhea, god! Please tell me you didn’t forget me!”

“It’s been 12 years, Samantha.”

“I know, time flies, right?”

“I don’t think we talked in person since a month after you moved. Like, the last time I heard you on the phone, your voice sounded like one of the girls on the Disney Channel.”

“You still watch that?”

“I don’t even see you on my Facebook feed.”

“I’m not an avid poster. So, can I come in?” Samantha motioned to take off her boots, and Rhea felt a hint of recognition of how her mom always reprimanded Samantha when she forgot. When they’d hang out practically everyday at one another’s houses. 12 years ago.

Rhea stepped aside, nearly immobilized by the improbability of it all. As she moved to close the door behind Samantha, she noticed the neighbor couple across the street surveying their desert landscape, all rocks and sand and plants that never get thirsty. One of them, was it Dan or Dominic, she could never remember the two apart, gave a mad side-eye to her bushes. She closed the door briskly in their faces.

When she turned around again, Samantha had become at home on the couch, feet cross-legged under her, head up against a giant pillow. She was staring out at the miniature racetrack on the other side of the room.

“You’ve been busy,” she smirked.

“That’s my step-daughter’s. She’s six. And very into racecars, ever since she went on the bumper car ride at the fair.”

“What’s her name?” Samantha asked.

“Becca.”

“Cute,” Samantha noted. “So is there a husband in the picture?”

“Of course,” Rhea replied. Neither of them looked at each other. “Can you explain why you just so happened to drop by.”

“Right, right!” Samantha exclaimed a little too excitedly. “I totally get that you didn’t hear me the first time. This is a bit crazy, after all.”

Understatement of the year, Rhea thought, but she kept her mouth shut and just nodded.

Samantha had jumped off the couch, practically leaping, and crossed the room to Rhea, now putting both her hands on Rhea’s shoulders, so that Rhea had nowhere else to look but at her estranged friend. Her strange, estranged friend.

“We made a pact at 15. I want to make good on it.”

1. moving in a spiral course. causing to have a spiral shape or follow a spiral course.
2. showing a continuous and dramatic increase. decreasing or deteriorating continuously.

Hands tapping, fingers flying over keys. Brow furrowed, shoulders hunched. Writing is art, art is pain, pain is life. Yes, yes, YES!

He’s done it. He. Has. Done. It. Completed. Kaput.

His masterpiece. His magnum opus. The best thing he will ever create, the thing he’s been working toward his whole life, his whole existence.

And yet.

Something about it is wrong. Not good enough. Unfinished. Unfinishable. At least in his current state.

He grabs hold of the sides of the keyboard and yanks, pulling it out violently, detaching it from its cord. Peer in right now, and all you would see is a haggard shadow of a man, keyboard over his head, before he SLAMS it hard into the side of the desk. Keycaps fly everywhere. Spittle flies everywhere, courtesy of his primal yell.

Breathing hard, he struts across the room to the locked set of drawers, kicking the remains of his previous attempt to the side.

Pulls out the brass key on the leather cord around his neck. Opens the top drawer.

Pulls out a fresh keyboard.

Every attempt calls for a new tool.

“rumination” – BAANDIT!

1. a modulation or inflection of the voice.
2. a sequence of notes or chords comprising the close of a musical phrase.

It was Thursday night, which meant Family Dinner, which meant Gabby would have to come clean. Her twin sister, Arielle, already knew, and had promised under threat of blackmail not to tell. It was Gabby's news to share.

“So, Arielle, any fun plans for the weekend?” their mother, Patricia, asked breezily as she passed the dish of sautéed spinach across the table to the eldest twin. Since they'd turned sixteen a year ago, their parents had rewarded Arielle — and begrudgingly, Gabby — with a greater sense of freedom and autonomy. Though as their mom, Betty, liked to jokingly threaten, “privileges can be revoked at any time.” So far, that time hadn't come, and the twins intended to keep it that way. Well, had intended, anyway.

“I've got a pickup soccer game on Sunday morning,” Arielle replied, grabbing the spinach dish with both hands before setting it in front of her and scooping two helpings onto her own plate.

“The season just ended?” Betty asked. Her plate already overflowed with spinach, rice, and jackfruit sweet potato curry.

“Yeah, well, that district-wide ref scandal really screwed us all over—”

“Language,” Patricia cautioned.

“—really messed us all up. So myself and a few of the captains from the other schools decided we'd see who needed a bit of closure, bring us all together and mix up the teams a little. Let some steam out, you know?”

“That's wonderful, honey,” Patricia smiled, approvingly. She took a dainty bite of jackfruit.

“Now I know I'm looking at a future USC captain,” Betty beamed.

Arielle dipped her head but couldn't hide the smile fighting to break out. “Mo-om!”

Gabby gulped. She dragged her fork across her plate, stirring curry sauce into the spinach.

“What about you, Abigail?” Patricia turned, finally acknowledging Gabby. The second-born. The younger.

The forgotten. The failure.

Gabby took a deep breath.

“I actually have some news to share—”

“You know, Arie sweetie, we probably should reach out to your Coach there, get you top of mind. Prime them to pay attention to you freshman year, you know?” Betty jumped in, interrupting Gabby with a rogue thought on the previous topic.

“That's a wonderful idea, darling,” Patricia noted. “I'll talk to Janice on the Alumni Board, see if I can get a meeting set up. Now, Abigail, what were you going to say?”

Gabby balked, struck mute under pressure. Her mother actually directed the conversation back to her?

Gabby felt a light tapping on her foot under the table. Arielle, across the way, smiled gently at her. They'd started doing this ages ago, a light tap tap as a reminder that they were here for each other. No matter what.

Gabby took another deep breath.

“I'm going to Berklee.”

Both parents' eyes widened in surprise. “I didn't realize you applied to Berkeley,” Betty wondered.

Patricia narrowed her eyes. “Didn't we agree that that you would attend SDSU and stay close to home?”

Betty chided her wife, waving her silverware about. “Honey, it's Berkeley! That's a great school!”

“I'm not saying it isn't. I'm just reminding her that we made a plan as a family,” Patricia paused meaningfully, daring anyone to interrupt. “But you're right. Berkeley is a great opportunity.”

“So,” Gabby hesitated. “You're not mad?”

Patricia looked appalled. “Mad? Why would we be mad, Abigail? It's the University of California. I'm quite impressed you actually got in.”

Now Arielle gulped.

“I meant Berklee College,” Gabby corrected slowly. “Of...Music.”

Betty's spoonful of saucy sweet potato, mere centimeters from her mouth, clattered to the table in a flash.

Patricia frowned at her daughter.

“I distinctly remember your tantrum in sixth grade that led to a very difficult conversation with Bertrand's about the broken rental clarinet. You haven't played any instruments since.”

“I sing.”

“You sing?”

Arielle chimed in. “She's good, too.”

Gabby glared at her sister, and Arielle shrunk in her seat. This was Gabby's news, Gabby's fight. She didn't want or need Arielle to be her White Knight defending her in every battle.

“I'm good.” Gabby emphasized. “I got into the vocal performance program at Berklee. That's how good I am.”

Patricia scoffed. “You're not even in Choir. Your lack of extracurriculars is why we made the plan for you to stay local in the first place.”

“I auditioned.”

“You auditioned—” Patricia cut herself off. She let out a stilted laugh, both shocked and awed at Gabby's brazenness. Gabby, too, felt a bit in shock and awe. She felt bold. Brave.

Betty, still wiping up the curry splatters around her place setting, spoke up, “Why did you keep this from us?”

“Obviously because I figured this was how you'd react.”

“Now that's not fair.”

“There is no fair in this house. There's just Golden Arie and her shadow born fifteen minutes later.”

Betty gasped.

Gabby avoided her sister's eyes, but it didn't matter. She felt the heat of Arielle's hurt blaze into her core.

She hadn't meant to lash out like that, to drag her sister into this mess. Her sister hadn't done anything besides be her perfect self. Except, she had done more — she'd been a trusted confidant, keeping Gabby's secrets, covering for her during open mic nights, encouraging her to follow her dreams. Arielle had even helped set up the practice room at school for Gabby's audition over Zoom.

Patricia slammed her palms on the table, demanding attention. “Go to your room.”

“You're not going to stop me from going to Berklee.”

“Go to your room,” Patricia repeated icily. “Anything you had thought you'd be doing this weekend is now canceled.”

Gabby scooted out from the table and stood.

“I don't expect you to ever support me. I just needed you to know.”

She left the room. Privileges be damned.

1. a violent disturbance of the atmosphere with strong winds and usually rain, thunder, lightning, or snow.
2. a tumultuous reaction; an uproar or controversy.

Content warning: suicide, language

I learned the hard way that I am my biggest enemy, the biggest monster under my bed, the biggest boogie man in my closet. No one else. Just me.

It hurts – really, I mean like gut-wrenching, body-wracking sob kind of hurts – to figure out that I’m the last person that I can trust. That after this quarter of a century on Earth, I’ve been the obstacle in my way. That I hate myself…because I deserve it.

You’d think that would be freeing, but no, it’s more like an inner black hole, sucking in any amount of hope or light I had for myself before coming to this horrible realization.

And then, to top it all fucking off, the one to finally pull me up, pull me out of this hole I dug myself into with each and every breath of my life – that person was fucking you.

No, I didn’t save myself for myself. I saved myself for you. And that’s the real knife to the gut. I think I hate you more than I even hate myself, if you can fucking believe it.

So now I stand here, calling out to you through the howling wind, through the razor sharp raindrops slicing the air, my vision blurry, my head foggy, my heart aching, my pulse racing.

Don’t. Don’t jump. Please, Camilla. Please. Step away from that ledge.

Camilla—

Camilla.