I sign my life away for $25,000. More than I’m worth but it’s not like I’m going to tell them that. After all the needles and tubes and tests, I’m a bit wobbly as I make my way out the main entrance of the clinic. Is it the pill that makes my stomach knot and my palms sweat, or is it the knot of unease settled in my stomach?

The sun burns through the thin fabric of my sweater and I shiver, lifting a hand to sheild my eyes. I’m not invisible, yet no one pays me any attention. Can’t they see the wires snaking up my spine or the camera nestled in the golden rose strapped around my neck?

Maybe the pill kicked in sooner than expected. Afterall, I’m not a rat. Which is something they’ve told us too many times to count, though as a warning or a form of comfort, I’m not sure. Even in the latest batch of tests, a rat died, limbs jutting out at jagged angles, mouth open and blood crusted around its eyes.

They gave us one last out before taking us back, one by one, into the exam room. As our group shrunk from twenty to nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, I didn’t miss the way their eyes darted from one dusty picture frame to the next, fingers intertwining in their laps and feet tapping erratic rythms on the glossy tile. They’d taken our phones at the front desk but I’d brought a poetry book which I flipped through, trying to block out the annoying melody of nervousness. My eyes skimmed each page, every word burned deep in my brain from years of sleepless nights.

I tried to skip page 49. And yet, the ink pulled me in and I couldn’t get my fingers to move past it. The lines formed chains, tugging me down, down, down until I found it among the waterstains.

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Two words had been sloppily scribbled above the dash. With you. I heard the words, echoing and repeating long after my head grew foggy from all the vials of blood they took.

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone with you.

It’s a little hazy now, a memory I left behind when I stepped out onto the sidewalk. The book is tucked away in my backpack, where it will probably stay until I can bring myself to dig it out again. I don’t even know why I brought it in the first place.

I glance in a store window. My hair is darker than I remembered. Longer, too. And my undereyes are so puffy it looks like I cried all night, which I haven’t, of course. I make a mental note to get an eyemask later.

I don’t. Get the eyemask, that is. The subway’s too crowded to even breathe and I’m so sick and tired of bodies being crushed into mine I can barely stand to look at another person within a hundred feet of me. Which is basically everyone.

Only when I’m in the stairwell of my apartment building do I finally get some space. Definetely no quiet though, with muffled shouts and thumps bleeding through the walls. My skin prickles with sweat and my steps slow. I hate this place, the way the air sticks in my throat, heavy with that attic smell—all dust and insulation and crumbling memories.

But it’s all I can do to not sit down on stair 169. The door is right there, looming over me, but if I sit with my back to it I can pretend it’s not there. But eventually my legs will carry me through this door to one marked 9E.

Two hours, they said. So if they’re right and my body responds like a rodent a mere fraction of my size, I should be invisible in twenty minutes. I wonder how the other half of the trial group are doing, trapped in isolation chambers and surrounded by cameras and one-way mirrors. The rest of us will be compared to them in what I was told was an effort to determine the effect of strong emotion on the duration.

Or maybe I got a sugar pill or something and they want to see if the placebo effect is strong enough that I turn myself invisible. A tiny laugh escapes my lips. It’s not much, but it gets me into the hallway.

By the time I get to the door my legs hurt and my fingers shake a little as I fumble for my key. I push my way inside, dropping my backpack on the floor with a dull thunk. The air is dry, empty and almost stale. Not a single light is on, the bright glow of a streetlamp fighting to get through drawn curtains. It has almost always been like this, and yet a small part of me hopes —well, nevermind.

“This is my lovely abode,” I say for the researchers monitoring me. I doubt they’re amused. “I can’t decided which crime I want to commit in fifteen minutes.”

I bet that’s what the others are planning on doing. And nobody’s going to stop them, not even the researchers. That rush of adrenaline, the spike of panic—it’s perfect.

For a moment, I entertain the idea. It’s a distraction, a chance to be someone else for a night without consequences. But that’s not really what I want. Not anymore.

I flick on the light over the kitchen sink as I slip off my sneakers and kick them in the general direction of the other shoes. There’s half a chicken sandwhich next to a plate of spaghetti I should have thrown away a week ago. Neither sounds appealing and I’m not hungry so I might as well go lie down on the couch.

The still room begs me to stay and I linger for a heartbeat under the faded yellow glow. The shivers are back, cold seeping from the fake marble countertop into my arms. I have what, ten minutes now? Time is dragging as it slips through my fingers and even my phone seems confused, the spaces between each minute growing uneven.

I rummage through the drawers without so much as a word as though I don’t already know exactly what I’m looking for. Maybe all of my observers have become bored to tears and left, though I doubt it.

Finally, among the matches, two pocket knives, a pair of scissors and a stack of multi-colored notecards, I find it. Ripping off a piece of duct tape, I wrap it around and around the charm containing the camera. In my mind’s eye, I see the researchers freaking out in their lab over loss of visuals on Patient String of Random Numbers like in the movies.

“I’m just going to take a shower and I don’t think you need to see that. I mean, I’m not invisible yet.” They won’t come bust down my apartment door because they can’t watch me for fifteen minutes, will they? “Oh, and the mic too...that’s just weird, man. And I’d like to note I’m not breaking any terms of the contract I signed. I’m not removing any of the equipment from my body nor causing any damage to them.”

At least, I don’t think so. I hope not.

I cover the mic before I change my mind.

Jumbled syllables fall from my mouth as I scramble back. Splotches of my hands float in the air, my knuckles disconnected from one another. I rip at my sweater, struggling to pull it over my head.

I can’t breathe. Panic explodes through my body at the sight of my dissolving arms. Even the skin tight body suit they gave me is phasing in and out. My vision wavers and blurs. I think...I think I’m going to pass out. I can’t...

My stomach flips and turns, bile burning the back of my throat. An acidic, bitter taste burns my tongue and I’m shaking so bad my legs refuse to hold me. Or maybe they aren’t even there anymore.

I’m not sure how long I stay there, huddled in the corner between cupboards and the stove as I hyperventilate. But gradually, my breathing evens out and I can actually stand up. Though walking is another matter altogether.

I can’t stop searching for my arms, even though I can’t see them anymore. I’m nothing more than a floating pair of pants and my insides don’t like it one bit. The croissant from this morning—the only thing I’ve eaten all day—threatens to come back up and I have to keep swallowing it down. It didn’t even taste good the first time.

“Okay, focus, Lena.” I scratch at my arms, but the once comforting gesture only makes things worse. “It’s okay, Lena, it’s okay.”

The words blend together as I shuffle through the tiny living room area into a narrow corridor. In the darkness, the walls press in on me, blank faces angry and accussing. The shadows settle in my aching bones and I can’t chase them away. Not anymore.

Another closed door awaits me, another opportunity to change my mind. Just like those two girls did this afternoon when they left the waiting room.

But despite how much I’ve tried to bury it, I can’t. It keeps coming back, stronger and stronger and some day, I know it will carry me away.

When I open the door, what was and what is collide with a dizzying rush. The air is stolen from my lungs and I am frozen in time, stuck between two worlds bathed in washed-out blue—what we were and what is left.

The blankets swallow you up and I tug them back. You’re drowning again and I can’t save you, can’t do anything but wipe away the tear trickling down your already soaked face.

You whisper my name through cracked lips and my heart breaks all over again. My fingernails dig into my chest but I can’t make it stop. Slowly, your eyes open but they don’t see me. You look right through me, feverishly scanning for my face. Just so you can tell me to leave with a voice that isn’t yours.

Even your eyes are different, darkened with the unfathomable depths of demons I can’t fight. What have they done to you? They stole the man I loved, dragged him to a hell even pills can’t bring him back from.

I want to hold you tightly, want to stay beside you all through the night. I want to tell you something but the words stick in my throat.

I am a coward. A coward for not being able to face you anymore, a coward for creating an excuse for why your eyes stare right through me, all recognition gone from your face. I am not the woman you love anymore. I am a coward for wanting something from you that you can’t even give yourself.

I am sorry and angry and sad and so, so tired.

The carpet muffles my footsteps and when I slip under the covers you barely stir. I stare at the ceiling, the once familiar pattern of criss-crossing cracks nothing more than broken plaster.

The pieces I’ve tried so hard to keep together are shattering into a million shards, burning as they pierce my skin. Perhaps this is what dying feels like.

Like every time before, I roll on my side, my arms searching for you but all I find is the body of a fragile paper boy. You try to twist away, lost in your restless sleep. But I won’t let you, not this time.

I kiss your neck. Your skin is so cold.

I shouldn’t stay. I can’t stay. But if I leave, I know where I will go. I’ve visited the roof many times, stared over the edge to the ground far below. There’s too many people, even at night. But nobody will stop me now.

Then I hear my name again, so faint it might be my imagination. I close my eyes, scalding tears dripping on the pillow. I cling to you with every bit of strength I have left and, for a moment, I can pretend I’m not in love with a stranger.

She sat hunched over a book with her hood pulled over her brown hair. They called her Stray, as if she were a wild animal that had gotten lost. She told everyone she didn’t have a name, and that her parents died when she was 2. I had gotten her to say maybe 2 words to me, but she hated everyone. She was strange. Not the cut-your-hair-short-and-paint-your-nails-black kind of strange. She was the grow-your-hair-out-and-cut-your-nails-into-points kind of strange. Stray looked like she had no idea what sunlight was. She was as pale as a ghost but her eyes.... oh, those eyes.... one was red, like fire. The other was cold and blue like ice. I had been staring into those eyes for 2 years. 2 years we had been sitting next to each other, both aggressively unfriendly. Maybe we would ocassionally borrow a pen from one another, but that was it. I knew she had a dark secret somewhere, I just couldn’t figure out what it was. I had found out a few hours ago that I had the power to become invisible. I know you were expecting some crazy way of revealing it, but sorry, there’s no story there. I just woke up today and couldn’t see my reflection. That was my dark secret, but I couldn’t figure out what hers was.

“Hey, Stray?” I asked her, attempting to not sound nervous. She never told anyone her name, no matter how many times people, even teachers, asked her. Stray grunted in response. “I hate it that we aren’t nice to each other, maybe we can hangout sometime? I know you don’t have any friends or anything,” I said, she glared at me, “But maybe we could try?” I continued. I didn’t get a response that time. I almost never got a response from her.

She was beautiful, now I’m not saying I want to date her or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking, but her hair... her eyes... her skin...

“Ryan,” Stray said, snapping in front of my face, I snatched my gaze up to her and chills were sent down my spine. I had never heard her say my name before.

“Yeah?”

“I said okay. We can try,” she said. My heart was practically leaping out of my chest at that point. I grinned at her and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Stray slipped me a piece of paper before turning on her heel and walking out of the classroom, hugging her books to her stomach. I unfolded the paper, it was her phone number and her address. I didn’t even think she had a phone. If she did, she never brought it to school. The bell rang and I jumped out of my chair, grabbed my bag from beside me, and ran to get on the bus. I called my mom on the way back home.

“Hey, Ryan. What’s goin’ on?” my mom said into the receiver.

“Mom, can I go over to my girlfr- I mean, my friend’s house?” I stammered. “A girlfriend! Finally! Yes of course you can go,” she said, I said thanks and hung up. Stray rode my bus so I decided to just surprise her and get off at her stop. I slid into the seat next to her.

“Hey,” I said, hitting my hand on the seatbelt and wincing. “Smooth,” she replied, smiling slightly.

“You busy today?” I asked her, hoping I didn’t come off as overexcited, she shook her head, “Do you wanna hangout?” I questioned, she thought for a second before finally saying, “Okay.”

After my silent celebration, we got off the bus in front of her house- which looked like a freaking mansion- and Stray led the way through the door and down to the basement. I got kind of nervous and momentarily wondered what on earth I had gotten myself into, going into the weird girl’s basement. But it was unexpectedly nice down there. Couches, TVs, a minifridge. “You’re the first one to ever visit, you know,” Stray said, suddenly. She pulled her hoodie off and it was the first time I had seen her without most of her face covered.

“Where are your parents?” I asked, genuinely wondering where they were and why she could just randomely have people over. “They’re never home. Always working or getting drunk at parties,” she said, forcing a smile, I kind of felt bad for her. Essentially, she was all alone, but maybe she liked it, maybe that’s why she didn’t have any friends.

“So, what’s your secret?” I asked, sitting down on the couch, she sat next to me, looking confused. “What do you mean?” she asked me.

“You’re always alone, your hood is always up, you never smile. What’s been going on? What’s your secret?” I asked, she looked slightly shocked. Maybe I shouldn’t have memorized her entire schedule for two years. “You memorized my schedule?” she asked, as if she could read my mind... wait, could she? I slowly nodded.

“What, do you like me or something?” she asked. Think of no, think of no, think of no. Slowly, I noticed little things about her. The small dot next to her perfect nose. How she didn’t need makeup to be beautiful. “Yes,” I whispered. “I like you, too, Ryan,” she said, the chills returned, I grabbed my thumb, which is what turns me invisible. I figured she couldn’t see me, so I started physically celebrating, jumping around, pumping my fists.

“What are you doing?” Stray asked me, I stopped. “You can see me?” I asked, shocked. She nodded, I looked down, I couldn’t see my hands, so I knew I was invisible.

“I’m gonna go make a quick phone call,” I said, getting up and locking myself in her bathroom. I went to the one person I told everything to... Reece.

“Hey, Ryan, what’s up?”

“Reece. She sees me.”

“What?”

“I’m at Stray’s house. I turned myself invisible and she can see me.”

“Ooooh. You’re at Stray’s?”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point. She sees me. And she can read my mind.”

“Geez, bro, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s Stray. Anything can happen.”

I hung up, I guess he was right. Anything can happen with Stray. I exited the bathroom and I heard a door upstairs open. “Bexley! We’re home!” someone yelled from the first floor. “Crap, that’s my parents. Turn yourself invisible, now.” she commanded. I pulled my thumb and turned invisible.

“Yes, mom! I’m in the basement!” she yelled. Her parents came downstairs and hugged her, I stayed in the corner so they wouldn’t touch me by accident. “We’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” her dad said as he followed Stray’s mom upstairs. I pulled my thumb again and stared at her. “What?” she asked.

“Your name is Bexley?” I asked in disbelief, she nodded. “You’ve been lying to everyone,” I accused, she nodded again and stared at the ground. I shook my head and pulled my thumb. “Ryan, I never meant to lie. I just didn’t want people knowing me that well. I wanted to throw them off.” I shook my head at her and hung my head. I climbed out through the window and this time, she couldn’t see me.

A Grouch.

I'd rather be loved by a Grouch.

At least with him, I'd know when he meant a compliment, when he'd say one. If he'd say something sweet, charming or lovely, I would know he meant it, and it would mean quite a lot, it would be more of a deal and be sweet and warming.

Unlike with a Charmer, who would most likely continuously charm and compliment that it would lose all its meaning, all its emotion and all its, well, all its love.

For all that I'd know, a Charmer could be charming some one else, too. Maybe someone's daughter, friend, wife, girlfriend... I don't know.

:D

17.6.2020

As I sit in my virtual pub

With no packet of crisps

And no pub grub, I wonder

The beer looks great

With its frothy white head

Sat at a table with my virtual mate, I wonder

We drink a toast and the fire is glowing

To absent nights out

And the beer is flowing, I wonder

Go, going gone are the constant reports

Another pub closed

Through lack of support, I wonder

- I wonder if all our pubs will close

No frothy white head

On the end of my nose, I wonder............................

©Julian Race 17/06/2020

i hate that i

have the audacity to write about

love

what the hell do

i know

how do i know if

i ever really felt anything

or did i just want it so much that i convinced myself that something was happening

cause i keep the safety on

never taking a shot

never knowing

a scrap of anything

i only have salvaged truths

from the neighbor's trash

im a just a coward

with

an emotional pen

raspberry laced with that honey

sweet sound of you talking about

--well--

you.

and the tangy new flavor of

butterscotch mango as i

listen to your red-velvety monologue;

cause your words taste like licorice

strawberry cream

when your eyes collide with mine...

the meaning might not matter if

the taste is maple-syrup sweet and

your mouth keeps delivering dessert

but as the minutes roll by

i start to find a sour aftertaste

in your lemon words--

cause they might be within your

palate but i've realized:

you're not within mine.

“I didn’t think it would end like this.” As I walked around the kitchen, the smooth surface of the countertops under my fingers, I thought about us. Memories came rolling back to me like waves in a storm: birthdays, holidays, celebrations. Good times. “But that wasn’t all, was it?” I whispered. I closed my eyes, and saw our dark times, too. Fights. Funerals. Emotional breakdowns. I’d known this moment was coming for so long, but now... it was so much harder than I thought it’d be. “I’m sorry. You’ve always been there for me, but... it’s just not working. And I don’t know what else to do.” Tears filled my eyes, and I took a shaky breath, fighting for control. “I’ll always-” My voice broke. “I’ll always love you.” Overcome with emotion, I fled the room sobbing, leaving the cake waiting on the counter forever.

#AJAY9979

The translation of the Lucien Yentl letters.

16th of February, 1940.

My dearest Marguerite,

It’s cold, so terribly cold, my fingers wince like an old man’s. The paper is damp. The draft from my little window – do you remember? – worsened after the landlady tried to fix it. I hear the wind whistle at night, but I gather the cat to my chest and think warm thoughts of you.

My friends spoke so highly of you after your visit. They called me mad not to run home to Rouen and make ardent love to you. Parisians love differently. Men are in love with many women, none of them their wives, and no man but me has begged for a hand in marriage. Only aristocrats rely on fathers’ blessings, though I’m told even they think it old-fashioned. These artists think me a fool. They don’t know me as a Jew, nor an orphan. I am afraid they would withhold invitations and introductions.

Some ladies, one rather great actress in particular, are said to enjoy my stories. Have I told you about the letters gentlemen give their mistresses? I’ve written three so far. I am told they were very useful. So, you see, my love, I will make my fortune and steal you away from the dairy farm. Then, you and I shall live in a castle, and you shall eat oranges every day. Who I am shan’t matter. It’ll be just you and I.

Please don’t worry about the news of Germany and Poland. I was merely repeating the gossip of market streets, which means nothing. No Frenchman wants another war. The Germans are too frightened of us, in any case. And if there is a war, I shall be sure to come back to you a hero.

Write back soon, tell me how you are. It’s all that matters.

Lucien.

*

Also found in Lucien’s belongings: Apology Letter for Monsieur de Guisson.

Dear Genevieve,

So many times since our last encounter I have thought of you, of the wet curls which clung to your cheek. You think I am forgetting you, but how could any man forget one such as yourself? Accuse me of a selfish, indolent and cruel nature and you shall be thrice right, but never for a moment doubt my devotion towards you.

For months, I have watched you sing at the opera. A hundred times, I have walked past the Deux Magots Café in the hopes of seeing you perched over a café crème. A thousand evenings, I have drafted an invitation, a million more dreamed of your entering the grounds of my castle, where I should hide in disguise, and surprise you from behind, and you would know me by my lips.

I’d press myself against your hips, and find a tree to lean you against. As I think of kissing your dear, sweet face, I remember your hair and neck smell of rosewater. I will carry you to bed, should you wish it, and undress you to caress every inch of your body, I’d make you moan and whimper until you trembled in my arms. I’d make love to you until you begged me to stop, and then I’d pleasure you till morning.

My dear, you ask why I’ve been quiet. Some family matters, unfortunately, but these have not for a moment stopped me from thinking of you. I’m sure you’ve heard through little birds that I am a cad, that I could have you and leave you. Do not let anyone trick you into thinking you are the sort of woman one could so easily forget. To possess you only once would never be enough.

Your admirer,

Jean-Bernard.

These were found in Lucien Yentl’s briefcase. Though his landlady was forced to let all the rooms to German officers, she kept Lucien’s belongings throughout the war.

A woman, by the name of Marguerite Girot, daughter of dairy farmer Joseph Girot, retrieved them in 1951.

Marguerite Girot had not heard from Lucien since the spring of 1940, when Lucien Yentl disappeared. He is thought to have worked as a writer for the French resistance before being captured and sent to Auschwitz in 1942.

Marguerite Girot married André Martin. These letters were published by her one and only daughter, Lucienne Martin.

At the end of this will be a link to a song that came

to mind when I first read this challenge.

Hope - is a strength of confident expression, one that leans toward wishing things would get better, or win the lottery, or having that man or woman fall in love with you. Hope is that key word for a son or daughter to go to college. Hope is fighting off a debilitating disease. Through hope, we gain strength, or at least we hope to.

Dream - isn't just the actual dreams we have at night that keep some of us wondering what the hell they meant. To dream, is the what if of all the tomorrows to come. Hit the lottery, finally pay off the mortgage, buy a new house (all of course on a modest paycheck). To dream of a better life for yourself and your children.

Want - this is a tangible word. I want to have a cup of coffee, I want to date him/her, I want a baby. These are all doable. You can even replace want with: crave, desire, and demand. That chocolate cake looks so good. What I wouldn't give to have him/her in my arms. I want you to finish the report by Monday. Three examples of crave, desire, and demand. When you look at it, even here, you wanted explanations for these words, Evelyn Dawn. Basically, it does point to one fact: we all want ... something.

Expect - or expecting, is something we presume will happen, if not now, perhaps in the near future. Expect the teacher to hand out more homework. Expect the relatives to show up on time for dinner. Expect other people to be reasonable during conversations. We expect others to be kind, but that could be expecting too much.

When you put this altogether, what is expected of us, is to hope we can write something the writer wants to be read, and that is a dream we all look forward to.

To put in in an easier perspective: all these things are a learning curve in life called knowledge.

As promised - the song: https://youtu.be/cu3SZvYV3Ho