Cochrane

I wish I had said the words.

My hands slipped from the wheel, for just a second.  Hot tires losing grip on the cold, wet concrete for just a second, letting out a shriek before control was regained.

Rain blurred the windshield, the wipers barely able to keep pace.  Tears streamed down my cheeks, making matters worse.

Control regained, the yellow lines streaked by in a blur.

My hands gripped the wheel, longing for the feeling of losing control. 

In the rearview mirror, amidst the red glow, I almost saw her face, for just a second – haunting and beautiful, and then gone.

Mile marker 27 passed by, caught in the glow of my headlights, and then disappearing forever.

The CD skipped.  I wished I was in better shape.  I wished I was better looking.  I wished I was anyone other than me.

I wished I had said the words.

I let go of the wheel, relishing the feeling of letting go, of relinquishing control.  The steady thud of the warning strip matched my heart racing.

She said the words once, and I didn’t say them back – not because I didn’t feel it, but simply because i was afraid – afraid no one could ever feel for me the way I felt for her.

I pulled the car back into my lane, window down, feeling the rush of air surge past me, as the moment passed.

Regret, heavy and haunting, filled the car.

A curve loomed ahead.

I wished I had said the words.

I could smell the gardenias.

She was with someone else, then.  Someone who didn’t… feel the same for her as I did.

I wished I had said the words.

The curved edged closer, just ahead.

I wished I had said the words.

Beyond the curve, in the black, was nothingness. 

I let go of the wheel and closed my eyes. 

I wished I had said the words, but didn’t.  I only hoped she didn’t know – I wouldn’t want her to know, to miss the secret everyone knew.

The car slowly drifted to the right – an offspring of not getting standard maintenance .

The safety bumps slowly matched up with the music on my stereo. 

The curve ahead was no longer ahead, the safety bumps behind.  Dust flew behind, a cape of what was, a harbinger of what would not be.

I wished I had said the words.

Blackness enveloped the night, a peaceful serenity enveloped every fiber of my body.

The curve disappeared. 

The priest promotes war, and the soldier peace.

....Continued



The invaders came, with a swiftness the villagers could not foresee. The hum of the massive army's footsteps shook the earth.

The women scrambled to the hiding places within the jungle - but most were too late. The Japanese soldiers captured some - the most attractive and youngest - and killed the rest. The soldiers didn't waste any bullets or time, striking down most with bayonets while hanging over the edges of their caravans.

His wife was one of the unlucky few - from his vantage point of his rooftop he saw the soldiers grab her, pull her to the ground.

Smoke filled the streets. Blood soaked into the dirt, turning the brown soil black.

He watched from his roof, unloading his rifle into the trucks of invaders. The shots echoed out, but were swallowed by the cacophony accompanying the oncoming army. He killed three soldiers before emptying his ten-round clip.

Tears streaked down his cheeks, the cries of his love being taken away reverberated through his soul. His shaking hands threw down his rifle, and he made his way down from the roof and into the maelstrom of the street.

He could still hear her screaming, through the gunshots and terror.

The Japanese soldiers shouted curses in a tongue he did not understand. They flowed out of their vehicles, killing men, women and children with an indiscriminate hatred he could not understand.

Through billowing smoke he ran, hearing only her shouts for mercy. He was getting closer. Somewhere off the road he heard her cry, sobbing, begging for them to stop.
He was getting closer.

His neighbor - and best friend - lay in a pool of his own blood.

Turning away, tears and smoke stinging his eyes, he ran as fast as he legs would carry him. He ran, bullets flying by, life-long friends dying all around him.

He ran, through the smokes and the screams, through the bloody mud and the hailing bullets.

A shard of shrapnel tore through his leg, sending muscle and sanguinary fluid flying. He stumbled to the ground, face first.

Her screams echoed, calling for him, calling for mercy.

He pulled himself up, struggling against his body's desire to just collapse.

He watched as soldiers throw torches into his home - the home he built with his own hands, the home he built for his betrothed, when they were barely more than children.

Leaning against a tree, blood flowing like sap down the bark, he limped into the jungle, and to the love of his life - and towards the end of his own.


......to be continued......

To end is to start, to surrender is to know.

The refrigerator rattled.

He sat next to her, hands in his lap, feeling the warmth of her shoulder against his. He could smell her perfume, dancing in the air gingerly, mixing with the scent of her hair. The faint aroma, vanilla and innumerable spices, was intoxicating.

He couldn't concentrate on the movie playing - some jejune "indie" comedy about a group of pampered, self-indulgent post-teens. All he could remember was the disdain he felt, watching those absurdly attractive kids pretend to be depressed, knowing they would return to their lives of luxury and endless love.

He stole a glance at her - she was watching the movie in utter rapture.

Down the hall, in the apartment across the way, their neighbor shouted at her baby in Spanish, uttering curses simultaneously beautiful and heart-wrenching.

The movie cut away to a slow motion montage, set to some underground indie pop song.

His roommate lit a cigarette and made a joke - something not even remotely witty or funny. She laughed, shaking him with her. His heart dropped, suddenly turned to lead. His head, filled with unease, bitterness, and spirits, felt light.

Something funny happened in the movie, apparently. Everyone in the room - his roommate, the girl he fell in love with, but could never tell, and his roommate's friend - laughed gleefully. Everyone except for him. He understood their joy, but not first-hand. He understood it as a scholar - only from afar, as if it was some foreign idea. Because for him it was.

Music started to play in the apartment next door, thumping base lines and squealing guitar.

He summoned what little courage was available to him, reached his left hand out, and gently touched her leg, feeling the warmth and softness extend through his arm and directly into ever fiber of his being.

But only for a moment.

Feeling her so close, the physical distance completely conquered, only served emphasize the truth.

He closed his eyes, trying to stay in that moment - his hand on her thigh, her letting it rest there. If it was out of pity or kindness, he didn't know - and tried not to care. Sweat formed on his brow, and tears in his eyes.

The movie played on.

He watched her watching it. She didn't look at him, never looked at him.

The movie played on.

His roommate made another joke, and she laughed, locking eyes with him. They held the gaze, her and the roommate.

The movie played on.

He took his hand off her lap - she didn't react - and folded it back into his own.

The movie played on.

Everyone laughed.

The movie played on.






The movie played on.

I thought it was a dream, but who's to say

She sat on the steps to the library, so tiny framed against the monolithic building.
A stack of books sat on a step to her left. She was writing in a notebook, not looking up at anyone or anything.

He wouldn't learn it until later, but her name was Angela. She lived in an area where all the streets were named after prestigious colleges, and none of the neighbors knew each other's name. She was beautiful - at least to Crispin. She was smart - brilliant, scary smart. She didn't belong at a community college, sitting alone on the cracked steps to the library, but there she was. Amazing and alone.

He made his way past the maze of hipsters and gangsters, geeks and jocks, dodging the smokers and the spitters and the people who thought they were his friends. Head down, greasy, unkempt hair hanging as a shroud, a heavy bookbag slung over one shoulder - always just over one shoulder for easy access to its contents - he ambled onward.

She didn't know, and would never find out, that his name was Crispin. He was from broken homes across the country. Smart, sometimes funny, and painfully average. And already in love with her.

They shared a class. And in that class they occassionally shared words. And outside of the class, they occassionally shared time. Never enough for him. Every second awkward for her.

They were grouped together once, early in the year, quite on accident. He said something that sounded like a line, but wasn't meant to be. She asked him about his writing, and why it sounded so lovelorn.
He said every story he told was a love story, because that was all that mattered.

He fell in love with her. Not because she was beautiful. Not even because she was brilliant. He fell in love with her because she saw him.


She sat on the steps, the sun drenched afternoon. Other students flowed around her, going to classes or home or to meet friends or to nowhere in particular. Crispin saw her from across the quad. Her golden hair was shining, beautiful. She never saw him, and he never said hello.


She stopped going to class one day, with no explanation or warning. An assignment was handed out - to write a story about something sad or amazing or terrible that happened in their lives. Angela wrote the story, but never turned it in. When Crispin asked her what hers was about, she wouldn't say - she just turned white and silent. He didn't ask again.

She stopped going to class one day, and only Crispin noticed. The professor, who was too caught up in his own delusions of grandeur, never took attendance. Crispin just asked him one day, what happened to her. The professor shrugged and said she just wasn't there.


She sat on the steps, writing, alone. Crispin watched, surrounded by strangers, thousands of blurred faces, and he was alone with her. His skin broke out in goose bumps, defying the summer heat. He stopped, just for a moment, the air leaving the world.

She hadn't been to class in a month. He hadn't spoken to her in just less than that.

He stopped, just for a second.

Angela sat on the steps, writing in her notebook. She was beautiful and alone. And Crispin walked away.