Title Game Exercise

Saccharine

The first thing that Rebecca did when she got to work every day was make herself a cup of coffee. Like most people who worked a regular, boring office job, she needed caffeine to keep herself awake for the entire day. Between the sleep deprivation from having to wake up before the sun came up, and her monotonous job, she was never fully awake. The rumbling of the coffee pot had almost put her to sleep, when it suddenly came to a stop, telling her that the coffee was ready. She took the cup and added an excessive amount of sweetener into it. That’s the way she liked to drink it.

“You might want to stop putting so much sweetener into that coffee of yours,” said a scratchy voice.

An old woman walked out from behind Rebecca’s view. Rebecca was startled at the sight of her. Her face was sagging and wrinkly. Her clothes—a long, gray-tinted dress that fell past her knees, along with a black cloth that covered most of her gray, disheveled hair—were full of stains. It looked as if she’d been living on the streets for years. The woman’s gait was slow and rigid as she made her way over to the coffee pot. Rebecca watched as the woman’s rotting, bony hands worked to make a cup of coffee. She didn’t add anything to it, though. It was straight black coffee. Rebecca didn’t know how the woman could stand the taste of it.

“Who are you?” Rebecca asked as she took a sip of her own cup of coffee. “Why are you telling me this?”

The old woman’s face tightened. “Never trust saccharine people. All that sugar could kill you one day, Rebecca.”

Love

Growing up, I was told that the only “true love” I would ever have is the undying love for my country. We were practically married to this country. It was the only thing that we were destined to live with for our entire life, so we really had no choice but to love it. I definitely did. I learned to love every aspect of it. And I finally understood that those who chose to criticize it were unpatriotic. They didn’t belong here. In fact, they were lucky to be here in the first place, but they refused to realize that.

“Jacob,” people would say, “you’re a nationalist.”

Well, if being a nationalist meant that I had pride for my country, then I guess I was one. Since when was nationalism ever a bad thing? This country was the best one there was. Everyone else just wanted to be us. What other country had freedom like we did? We practically created freedom.

There were people out protesting in the streets like they didn’t already have the same rights as any other citizen. Well, if I was in charge, I would say let them die. They deserved it. If they loved our country, they wouldn’t be protesting. It might’ve been their right, but what was there to protest? This place was almost perfect. They were trying to ruin it. They tried to destroy our cities. They started my wife on fire. Our marriage was going to be destroyed by them.

Folklore

“I love you,” your large brown eyes, wet with tears, stared up at me as I cradled you in my arms. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“I swear on my heart. Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I won’t.”

You wiped the tears from your eyes and pulled yourself away from me. Your blonde hair was split into two messy braids. Your dull green dress that your mother gave you was tattered and covered in dirt from playing in the forest. She would not be happy with you about it. The forest was the one place where you could find peace, away from your family and the house that haunted you. There, in the canopy of oak trees, we were hidden away from civilization. It was the only place where we could be ourselves.

“Look,” I picked a white and yellow flower that grew next to me and handed it to you, “it’s a daisy, just like you.”

“Thank you,” you gave a reassuring smile.

“They’re everywhere. They know you’re here.”

“They know we’re both here.” You picked one from the ground and set in in my hair.

The flowers seemed to be reflected in the few rays of sunlight that peaked through the canopy of trees. Next to us was a small creek that sprayed us with water as it rushed past. The smell of the fresh creek water, along with the scent of the flowers, refreshed me, but soon felt bittersweet. I wanted this to be my life. I wanted to live here with you.

You slipped off your muddy shoes and dipped your feet into the cool creekwater, while I laid down in the weeds. I screamed at the world and every horrible thing it had done to you, and to us, until you forced me to quiet down by splashing water on my face. I was scaring the birds away, you’d exclaimed. I didn’t care about the birds, though, I cared about you. I wanted to make everything right for you. I wanted us to live happily ever after, in a fairytale. We would love each other until the end of time. We wouldn’t have to worry about our parents, or anyone else. Just us, the forest, and a love that was stronger than the universe itself. Maybe we would be like two princesses, and we could have our own castle. Or maybe we would be two pirates, living at sea, with our own ship. Our love would live on, even after the end of both of our lives, just like folklore.

Fake Name

“What’s your name?” Asked a woman from across the street. I assumed that she must be my new neighbor. She looked to be about my age, early 40s possibly, with a lot of plastic surgery.

“Ev- I mean, Diana Olander.”

“You by yourself?”

“Yeah,” I paused, “I just divorced my husband. I’m trying to get away from all of that.”

“I get it. I just did that too. We all go through it at some point, don’t we?”

“Yeah, I suppose we do.”

“This is a nice house. I was wondering who would be moving into it when I saw that it was sold.”

The “house” that I bought was not so much a house, but a mansion. It was painted white, with a dark blue roof, and vines that grew up the sides of it. It wasn’t the prettiest thing I’d seen, but it was huge. I was also short on time when I was looking for houses, and it was the first thing that I could find. It was across the country from where I used to live, back in California. Getting used to the East Coast might’ve taken a while, but it wasn’t hard to find connections there.

The next day, I was getting ready to have a party. I may have been living there by myself, but I knew that the people would love me. They already thought it was mysterious that I just showed up out of nowhere with all of this money. I went out and bought the most exotic furniture, the fanciest clothes, and enough alcohol to last for five years. I wanted to stand out from them. I wanted them to see my house and know that Diana Olander lived there. That was the life that I’d always wanted. I would never take California back. I didn’t even want to remember the life that I lived there.

I walked out to my front porch, in preparation for all my guests to arrive, and saw a newspaper that was thrown on my lawn. I picked it up and almost threw it in the garbage, when I saw the front page. My old self stared back at me. She had much longer hair, that was blonde rather than brown. And her eyes didn’t look as tired as they were now. I almost felt jealous of her.

Last Saturday, Patrick Blanco, the son of the founder of Clean Driving, a line of cars that run on renewable energy, was found dead in the backyard pool of his home in Philadelphia. Authorities are not yet sure who did it, but there are multiple suspects in the case. Eva Blanco, Patrick’s wife, went missing soon after his body was discovered. She is currently one of the most prominent suspects. There is still an ongoing search for her, so please notify your local authorities if you see her or have any information on her.

Did You Hear That?

The people here are so rude. I don’t know why they won’t listen to me. I don’t know why they’ve taken over my house.

This place is meant for me. I physically cannot leave. I’ve been condemned to live here forever. If I were to try to leave, I would be lost within a void of nothingness. I would cease to exist. At least, that’s what I think would happen. These people don’t get it.

I wander through a room with walls that are painted bright pink and covered in pictures of butterflies and flowers. This is where one of them sleeps every night. Another room, the one next door, has white walls with blue bed sheets. Instead of butterflies and flowers, pictures of a little boy are placed all over the room—on the dressers, hidden in the shelves, and even taped on the walls. None of them sleep here.

The front door creaks open, and a little girl comes running back into the house, followed by a woman and a man. I feel a pang of jealousy, a painful reminder that these people have the freedom to come and go, but I don’t.

“Your brother would have loved that show,” the woman says.

“He liked the circus?” The little girl asks.

“Of course he liked the circus.”

The little girl takes a bag of things—goodies from the trip to the circus—and dumps them out onto the blue bedsheets in the room filled with pictures. “I wish I had known you,” her head points up at the ceiling, and a look of longingness crosses her face.

The man and the woman follow the girl into the room and stand in the doorway, their faces just as dejected as the little girl’s face, and their eyes watery.

These people have to leave. This is my house. It belongs to me. They can leave, but I can’t. This house is the only life I can ever have. I knock over all the pictures on the top of the dresser in frustration.

“Did you hear that?” The man asks.

“Yeah, the pictures fell down. I wonder how that happened,” the woman responds, looking at the floor next to the dresser where they all fell.

“It must've been a ghost.”

The Spider in the Garage

“The spider in the garage started talking to me today. I’d never heard him talk before. He told me that he would take me away, in the same way that he paralyzes his food, wraps it up, and eats it. He told me that I would be next. I started laughing and I told the spider that he was crazy. He didn’t look amused, though. I tried to move away from him, but to my dismay, he really had caught me in his web. At that moment, I was no different than a fly. And that made me wonder, what made my life have any more value than that of a fly? Why should I deserve to live and not a fly that has the misfortune to get caught in the spider’s web? I’ve been about as productive in my life as a housefly. I’ve merely been an annoyance to you. I know that I can’t change any of that now, but that’s not what I wanted. I wish I could redo all of it.

“Anyway, that nasty spider had always been there mocking me, and I tried to punch him in the face, but I never could. He was always there. He tried to paralyze me, but I dodged his attack. I was able to break free from his web. It was a close one. But maybe I should have just let him kill me. It would have been easier if I had. You wouldn’t have to deal with me. I wouldn’t have been a housefly to you and everyone I’ve ever known. I wish I had always been there for you, but I never was. I couldn’t. The spider was always mocking me. It showed me that I deserve to be killed, like any other fly.”

“Dad, I think you should get back to bed now. The nurse will be here again in the morning.”