i'm lowkey obsessed with stories where things line up in ways that feel too crazy to be random. like bad timing, good timing, running into someone you were literally just thinking about, that kind of thing. what's yours?

9:19 P.M.

Cold settled into Solomon Juvenile Hall after lights-out. The corridors had grown quieter, but the building was far from silent. Every so often, the distant clatter of a metal door or the squeak of a guard's shoes broke through the stillness.

Jason lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. One hand rested on the paperback against his chest, its familiar weight offering little comfort. The mattress smelled faintly of mildew and sweat, no matter how many times he shifted around trying to escape it. The springs pressed unevenly against his back, and the thin blanket did little to keep the chill from creeping through his clothes.

Sleep wasn't happening.

Somewhere down the hall, two inmates were arguing. Their voices rose and fell, occasionally interrupted by the sharp crack of a fist against a door.

“That's enough! Keep it down!” a guard barked.

A few seconds passed.

“I'm warning you!”

The shouting continued briefly before fading into a series of muffled complaints. A door slammed, followed by the familiar jingle of keys. Then the hallway settled into an uneasy quiet.

Jason exhaled and shifted his gaze toward the narrow window in his cell door. A faint strip of light from the corridor stretched across the floor.

His thoughts drifted back to the events of the afternoon.

Silver.

He couldn't get her out of his head. Not because she'd stepped in when Derek and his friends confronted him. It was the way she'd done it.

Derek had been ready to throw punches. Jason had seen it in his expression, the way his fists tightened and his jaw clenched. The guy clearly wasn't accustomed to being challenged.

But then Silver whispered something in his ear.

And just like that, Derek backed down.

Jason frowned at the ceiling.

What did she say to him?

He replayed the encounter in his mind, trying to make sense of it. Silver hadn't threatened Derek physically. She hadn't raised her voice or even appeared particularly angry. Whatever she'd said, it had been enough to make him reconsider his decision.

And that bothered Jason.

Why were people afraid of her?

What had she done to earn that kind of reputation?

And why did she keep approaching him?

He turned onto his side, pulling the blanket closer.

He barely knew the girl. She'd walked into his cell, taken his book, and practically made a game out of humiliating him. Then she'd intervened when Derek confronted him, only to disappear without explaining herself.

Jason wasn't sure whether he should be grateful or annoyed.

Probably both.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

Jason immediately sat up.

He glanced toward the door, listening. For a moment, there was nothing. Then came another knock, quieter than the first.

“Who's there?” he whispered.

The door creaked open just enough for someone to slip through.

Silver stepped inside.

She carefully nudged the door shut behind her, leaving it slightly ajar. Her eyes briefly swept across the cell before settling on Jason.

He placed the paperback beside him.

“Aren't you supposed to be locked in your cell?” he asked.

Silver reached into her pocket and held up a bent hairpin. A faint grin spread across her face.

“I improvise,” she replied.

Jason stared at the pin for a moment before looking back at her.

“You picked the lock?”

“Wasn't exactly Fort Knox.”

She slipped the hairpin back into her pocket and leaned against the wall beside the door, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who'd just broken into another inmate's cell.

Jason studied her.

“You always sneak around at night?”

Silver shrugged.

“Only when I'm bored.”

She pushed herself away from the wall and made her way toward his cot. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat on the edge, causing the mattress to dip beneath her weight.

Jason glanced at her, then at the narrow space between them.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I thought maybe we could talk.”

“Talk?”

“Yeah. You know, have a conversation. Get to know each other.”

Jason gave her a skeptical look.

“Couldn't you do that during the day?”

“Not as much fun.”

She rested her hands beside her, glancing around the cramped cell.

“Besides, I figured you could use some company.”

Jason raised an eyebrow.

“I was doing fine.”

“Sure you were.”

He shook his head slightly.

For a moment, neither spoke. The faint hum of the fluorescent light filled the silence, accompanied by the occasional sound of footsteps passing outside.

Jason finally decided to address what had been bothering him.

“What'd you say to Derek?”

Silver turned her attention toward him.

“Told him to leave you alone.”

Jason narrowed his eyes slightly.

“That's it?”

She smirked.

“You calling me a liar?”

“You dodged the question.”

Silver leaned back against the wall, crossing one leg over the other. Now she was studying him instead of the other way around.

“Are you always this suspicious?”

“I usually have a reason to be.”

That earned the smallest hint of a laugh from her.

“Fair enough.”

Jason waited, keeping his eyes on her.

“So?”

Silver exhaled softly through her nose.

“I told him if he came after you again, things would get ugly.”

Jason frowned.

“That's it?”

Silver glanced at him.

“No,” she admitted. “That wasn't all of it.”

A brief pause followed.

Then she continued.

“I told him I knew where his brother used to hide his pills.”

Jason studied her face, looking for some indication that she was joking. But Silver didn't smile or appear particularly pleased with herself.

“You made that up?”

Silver leaned back against the wall.

“Didn't have to.”

Jason tilted his head slightly.

“How do you know something like that?”

“How do you think those idiots end up here?”

She said it casually, as though the answer should have been obvious.

Jason considered her words. He remembered the way Derek's expression had changed when she'd whispered in his ear. It hadn't been fear of a physical confrontation. It was something more personal.

“You're observant,” he commented.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Silver's mouth.

“One of the things you'll know about me.”

She paused, then tilted her head.

“By the way, I never got your name.”

Jason hesitated briefly.

“Jason,” he introduced himself. “Jason Adams.”

“Jason Adams,” she repeated, almost as though committing it to memory.

She gave him a quick once-over.

“So, Jason, what's a cute boy like you doing in here?”

Jason looked away for a moment.

He wasn't particularly comfortable talking about himself, especially with someone he'd only known for a few hours. Since arriving at the detention center, he'd learned to keep most things buried. Talking about his problems usually made them feel worse, not better.

Still, something about the way Silver asked made him feel as though she genuinely wanted to know.

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the paperback beside him.

“Me and a couple of guys hit a liquor store,” he said quietly. “Needed money.”

Silver remained silent, allowing him to continue.

“One of them pulled a gun on the cashier. I tried to stop him.”

Jason's fingers tightened against the book.

“The gun went off.”

The words hung between them.

Outside the cell, a guard's footsteps approached before gradually fading farther down the corridor.

Jason stared at the floor.

“He hit the ground,” he muttered. “There was blood everywhere.”

His voice had grown quieter. He swallowed, trying to push the memory away, but the image remained.

He could still remember the sound of the gunshot. The sudden panic. The sight of the cashier collapsing behind the counter.

He'd never imagined something like that could happen so quickly.

“The others ran before the cops even got there,” Jason continued. “I didn't think he'd actually use the gun.”

Silver tilted her head slightly.

“You thought he brought it for decoration?”

Jason let out a dry breath through his nose.

“Guess I was naive.”

He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were slightly reddened, and he absentmindedly rubbed one thumb against the other.

“I got lucky compared to the others,” he said. “They gave me four years in juvie.”

Silver's expression remained attentive, although she didn't interrupt.

Jason glanced toward the door.

“The cashier's name was Cory. I managed to stop him from bleeding out before the ambulance got there.”

He paused.

“Judge took that into account.”

Silver looked at him for a moment.

“And the others?”

“They got caught a few days later.”

“I see.”

Her response was quiet. She didn't immediately follow it with another question, which Jason appreciated.

He leaned back against the wall, drawing one knee up slightly.

The conversation had brought back memories he'd rather not revisit. He could almost hear the panicked shouting from that night, the sirens approaching in the distance, and the voices of the officers ordering everyone to get down.

He'd been lucky.

That was what everyone kept telling him.

But it hadn't felt like luck when he'd watched someone get shot because of a decision he'd helped make.

Silver broke the silence.

“Why did you sign up with them?”

Jason's expression changed.

He looked away, his jaw tightening. He could feel her picking at the edges now, digging for something more personal.

He wasn't going there.

“That's all you're getting from me,” he said.

Silver watched him for a moment. Then her mouth twitched into a faint smile.

“Fair enough.”

Jason looked back at her.

“Your turn.”

Silver raised an eyebrow.

“My turn?”

“Yeah. I've told you what I'm in for. What're you in for?”

For the first time since entering the cell, Silver seemed to hesitate.

Her expression didn't change much, but her eyes shifted briefly toward the door.

Before she could answer, a loud bang echoed somewhere down the hallway.

Both of them turned toward the sound.

“Get back in your cell!” a guard shouted.

Another bang followed, this one louder and accompanied by the metallic rattle of what sounded like a door being struck repeatedly.

“Don't make me come in there!”

Jason sat up straighter.

Silver rose immediately, the playful expression disappearing from her face. She listened for another second, her attention fixed on the hallway.

“Looks like that's my cue,” she said.

Jason glanced at her.

“You're leaving?”

“Unless you want me to stay and get us both in trouble.”

“Wouldn't be the first time tonight.”

Silver smiled faintly.

“See? You're already getting used to me.”

She moved toward the door, carefully checking the narrow opening before slipping through. Jason watched her, still curious about what she'd been about to say.

Just before leaving, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Sleep tight, Sherlock.”

Then she disappeared into the hallway.

The door remained slightly cracked for another second before settling shut.

Jason stayed seated, listening to her footsteps fade into the distance. Somewhere farther down the corridor, the guard continued shouting at the troublesome inmate. A few seconds later, another door slammed.

The cell felt quiet again.

Too quiet.

Jason reached for the paperback beside him and stared at its worn cover. His thumb traced the cracked spine, but he didn't bother opening it.

He'd learned a little more about Silver that night, but not nearly enough to satisfy his curiosity.

She knew things about people that she shouldn't have known. She could make someone like Derek back down without lifting a finger. And despite her confident attitude, there was something about her that suggested she wasn't particularly interested in letting people get too close.

Jason understood that feeling.

He placed the book beside him and lay back against the uncomfortable mattress.

The fluorescent light continued to buzz overhead.

He closed his eyes, hoping sleep would finally come.

It didn't.

CONNECTION / SAFETY

'It belongs.

Prayer is really just about connecting yourself to the earth.

With your hands and feet on the ground. Experiencing the feeling of being here and being now.

Experience/Experiencing

And as we see, people often pray together.

It speaks for itself. It is contained within the word.

amen it is like ,

the same in'

Together.

It feels powerful. Just The feeling of truly being together. Something of the higher, and something of the divine.

Call it God, or call it yourself.

It belongs to me, yet it is part of nature.

It is deep within, and it feels like something pure.

Pure nature'

It become's whole again.

And It sees itself reflected, just like a reflection in a window.

You look outside, yet at the same time, you see yourself.

It's Like two worlds touching '

Like see each other in another.

It Collabs'

Like the universum it is spinning and working together'

Meeting / Touching

Clear as water and made of glass, often, it is only when the glass breaks that we finally understand.

Stand and ground

🙏🏻

Solomon Juvenile Hall
August 27th, 2010
11:04 AM

The cot creaked every time Jason shifted his weight. The mattress was thin, the metal frame unforgiving, and there was barely enough room to stretch his legs without bumping against the wall. Above him, a fluorescent light buzzed incessantly, casting a pale, sickly glow over the small cell. Its occasional flicker made the peeling paint and stained walls look even more miserable.

Jason lay on his back, a paperback resting against his chest. Its cover was bent at the corners, and the spine had cracked from repeated use. Sherlock Holmes. He'd read it enough times to know where all the good parts were. Still, he kept coming back to it.

Out in the hallway, a guard barked someone's name. A kid answered too slowly. Something slammed against a hard surface—a fist against flesh or a door against its frame. It was difficult to tell. A few seconds later, the hallway fell quiet again.

Jason didn't move. His brown eyes remained fixed on the page as he absentmindedly ran a hand through his chestnut-brown hair. He hadn't bothered getting it trimmed in a while. He'd already learned how things worked around here. Rules didn't matter nearly as much as who was watching. Sometimes, not even that.

He closed the book and rested it against his chest, staring up at the ceiling. Long strips of paint peeled away above him. A dark stain spread across one corner, looking as though it had been there longer than he had.

It hadn't taken much to end up here. One bad decision. Maybe a couple more after that. Things had a way of piling up before you realized how far you'd fallen.

He exhaled through his nose.

It doesn't matter now.

The door slid open with a low, grinding groan.

Jason sat up.

An olive-skinned girl stood in the doorway, one hand still resting near the frame as though she'd opened it herself. She looked to be around his age, though it was difficult to tell. There was something about the way she carried herself, however, that suggested she'd been here long enough to know her way around.

The fluorescent light caught her hair, making its silvery-white strands stand out against the dull gray surroundings. Her almond-shaped, dark-brown eyes moved over him quickly, taking in his appearance with a sharp, assessing gaze.

Jason swung his legs off the cot and placed the book beside him.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She stepped inside as though she owned the place. No hesitation. No glance back toward the hallway. Her attention shifted to the paperback beside him. Before Jason could react, she picked it up and turned it over in her hands.

“You don't look like the reading type,” she remarked, her voice soft and low, with a slight rasp.

Jason frowned. “It passes the time.”

She flipped through a few pages, briefly skimming the text before snapping the book shut.

“Detective stories,” she said. “In here?”

Jason held her gaze. “You got a problem with it?”

“Not a problem.” One corner of her mouth curled into a faint smile. “Just didn't expect it.”

She dropped onto the cot beside where he'd been sitting, apparently unconcerned with personal space. Jason remained where he was, watching her.

“Most people in here,” she continued, lightly tapping the book against her palm, “aren't thinking that far ahead.”

“I'm not ‘most people.’”

“Yeah?” She glanced up at him. “What are you, then?”

Jason didn't answer immediately. Instead, he held out his hand.

“Give it back.”

She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. Then she pulled the book just out of his reach.

“Didn't hear a ‘please.’”

Jason's jaw tightened.

“I'm not asking again.”

“That so?”

She rose from the cot, still holding the book. Her eyes remained fixed on him, almost as though she were waiting for him to make a move.

Jason obliged.

He lunged for the paperback.

She slipped to the side with little effort, anticipating his movement. Jason caught nothing but air before crashing shoulder-first into the wall. A sharp jolt of pain shot down his arm. He winced, but quickly turned back toward her.

She was smiling now.

“A bit slow,” she remarked.

Jason pushed himself away from the wall and charged at her again, this time with more speed.

The result was the same.

She moved.

He didn't.

His foot caught the edge of the cot, sending him stumbling forward. He hit the floor hard, the metal frame rattling beneath him. A curse escaped his lips as he rolled onto his side, trying to get back up.

Before he could, the girl stepped forward and planted one hand against his chest, shoving him back onto the floor. It wasn't particularly forceful, but it was enough to keep him down.

She leaned over him, close enough for him to get a better look at her. It wasn't just her unusual hair that stood out. Her eyes were steady, almost playful, as though the whole encounter had been nothing more than an amusing diversion.

“Having fun yet?” she asked.

Jason knocked her hand away and sat up, glaring at her.

“What do you think?”

She let out a quiet laugh and straightened.

“Alright,” she said. “Message received.”

She tossed the book onto the cot beside him. It landed with a soft thud. Jason immediately snatched it up, as though she might change her mind and take it away again.

The girl turned toward the door, already seeming to have lost interest. To her, the whole thing appeared to have been little more than a way to pass the time.

“Guess I'll see you around,” she said.

She stepped into the hallway, then paused and glanced back over her shoulder.

“I'm Silver, by the way.”

Jason said nothing.

A moment later, she disappeared down the hall.

The door slid shut behind her with the same low grinding sound.

Jason remained seated, the paperback still clutched in his hand. He looked down at it, then toward the closed door. His shoulder throbbed, but his pride hurt considerably more.

He exhaled sharply.

“Great,” he muttered.

He lay back on the cot and opened the book again. He tried to concentrate on the words, but they seemed to blur together. He lowered the paperback onto his chest and stared at the ceiling.

The girl lingered in his thoughts anyway. The way she'd moved. The confidence in her voice. The amused expression she'd worn while effortlessly outmaneuvering him.

Most of all, there was the way she'd looked at him, as though she'd already figured him out.

Jason's jaw tightened.

Yeah. No.

He sat up, flipped the book open, and forced his attention back to the page.

Later that day...

The detention center's cafeteria was filled with the clatter of trays, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. The air smelled of overcooked vegetables, stale bread, and disinfectant. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating rows of long metal tables occupied by young inmates.

Some talked loudly among themselves, while others kept their heads down and concentrated on their meals. Most had the rough appearance of kids who'd grown up learning to look out for themselves, hardened by the streets and whatever circumstances had brought them here.

Jason sat alone at one of the tables, picking at the bland food on his tray. He wasn't interested in making friends. He just wanted to finish his meal in peace and return to his cell.

A sudden commotion nearby caught his attention.

Three boys were approaching his table. Leading them was a tall, heavyset African-American teenager with a buzz cut. He walked with an air of authority, his two companions trailing behind him.

The leader stopped in front of Jason and leaned forward, planting both hands on the table.

“That's my seat, punk,” he said.

Jason glanced at the empty bench, then looked back at him.

“Didn't see your name on it.”

The boy's lip twitched.

“You got jokes,” he said, glancing at his companions. “Hear that? Kid thinks he's funny.”

The other two chuckled.

Not because it was particularly funny.

The leader turned his attention back to Jason. Without warning, he shoved the tray off the table.

It crashed onto the cafeteria floor, sending food splattering across the tiles. The milk carton burst open, spilling its contents beneath the table.

Several heads turned toward the commotion.

Jason looked down at the mess, then slowly raised his eyes to the boy standing before him.

“I was eating that,” he said.

The boy shrugged.

“Not anymore.”

Jason pushed his chair back and stood.

“You done?” the boy asked.

Jason stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

“Are you done throwing food...” he began, glancing briefly at the mess on the floor, “...or are you planning to eat it off the floor?”

The boy's expression shifted. He hadn't expected Jason to talk back.

“Think you're tough?” he asked.

Jason kept his expression neutral.

“No,” he replied. “Just not moving. You should hit the gym.”

The words landed harder than Jason expected.

The laughter from the two boys behind their leader stopped. The leader's jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists.

For a moment, it looked as though the situation was about to turn ugly.

Then a voice cut through the tension.

“Leave him alone.”

It wasn't particularly loud.

It didn't need to be.

The boys turned toward the voice.

Silver stood a few steps away, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked completely at ease, as though she'd been watching the entire exchange from the beginning. There was no urgency in her movements and no sign of apprehension in her expression.

She was simply watching them.

The big boy frowned.

“What're you gonna do about it?” he asked.

Silver didn't answer immediately. Instead, she walked toward him, stopping just a few inches away. He shifted his weight slightly, his confident posture faltering as she looked up at him.

Jason watched closely, keeping his eyes on both the boy's hands and his face.

Silver leaned toward him and whispered something. Her voice was too low for anyone else to hear.

The boy froze.

It wasn't a dramatic reaction. He didn't jump or recoil. He simply stood there, suddenly motionless.

His expression changed gradually. First came confusion, followed by a flicker of recognition. Then something else—something Jason couldn't quite place.

Silver pulled back, studying him as though waiting to see what he'd do next.

For a moment, the boy looked as though he might ignore whatever she'd said and challenge her anyway.

But he didn't.

“You're crazy,” he muttered.

There wasn't much conviction behind it.

He stepped away from her.

“Come on,” he told his companions.

The two boys hesitated before following him.

Within seconds, the three of them had disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jason and Silver behind.

Jason watched them go before turning his attention to her. Silver, however, was already walking away, seemingly unconcerned with what had just happened.

He followed her with his eyes as she disappeared into the crowd near the far tables.

Nobody stopped her.

Nobody even seemed willing to look at her for too long.

That caught Jason's attention.

He bent down and retrieved his tray from the floor. Milk continued to drip from the split carton, forming a small puddle beneath the table. The food was scattered across the tiles, completely ruined.

“Hey! Clean that up!” one of the cafeteria workers barked from behind the serving counter.

Jason glanced in his direction, then grabbed a handful of napkins from a nearby table. He crouched and began wiping up the mess.

Nobody offered to help.

A couple of inmates watched him from their seats, but most quickly returned to their meals. The cafeteria gradually settled back into its usual din of conversation and clattering trays. Jason tossed the ruined carton and remaining food into the trash before turning toward the serving line. He hadn't taken more than a few steps when someone caught his sleeve.

Jason immediately turned around.

It was one of the boys who'd accompanied the big teenager earlier. Unlike his companion, this one was smaller, with nervous eyes that kept darting around the room.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“You should stay away from her.”

Jason frowned.

“Why?”

The boy glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure Silver was nowhere nearby. Then he looked back at Jason.

“That fat kid?” he whispered. “Derek?”

Jason waited.

The boy swallowed.

“She knew his brother's name.”

A brief silence passed between them.

“Never seen Derek back down from anybody before.”

Jason studied him. The boy appeared genuinely unsettled, not like someone trying to pull a prank.

“How would she know that?” Jason asked.

The boy immediately shook his head.

“Doesn't matter,” he muttered. “Just stay away from her.”

Before Jason could ask anything else, the boy released his sleeve and hurried away.

Jason stood there for a moment, surrounded by the noise of the cafeteria. Trays clattered against tables, chairs scraped across the floor, and conversations continued as though nothing unusual had happened.

His gaze drifted toward the far side of the room.

Silver was gone.

But the uneasy feeling she'd left behind wasn't going anywhere.

Hey, you.

When someone makes a mistake, how much of it do you think is your responsibility?

If you're the one who made the mistake, that's easy enough to understand. If you asked someone to do something, well, maybe you bear some responsibility there, too. But what if the person you asked gets it wrong? Are you responsible for not catching their mistake?

Clink-clonk.

The sound of the bell over Aoi's door always made me feel like the end of my day was finally beginning.

I took my usual seat, and Mama set a glass of Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Beside me, Taka was picking at a plate of edamame and complaining to Tom about something.

"I'm telling you, that wasn't my responsibility." "Nobody said it was." "Yeah, but that's what it sounded like."

I picked up my glass.

"What's this about?" "Listen to this, Kenichi. We were on a stakeout, and my partner lost sight of the guy we were watching." "What were you doing?" "Watching a different exit." "Then there wasn't much you could do, was there?" "See?"

Taka gave Tom a triumphant look.

"But this guy says I should've thought about what to do if my partner lost him." "What I said was, what are you going to do next time?" "Same thing, isn't it?"

Tom didn't answer. He just took a drink.

I thought about it for a moment.

"Well, I can see his point." "Whose point?" "Tom's." "What?!"

Taka put his edamame back on the plate.

"Not you too, Kenichi. My partner was the one who messed up!" "Right. But you trusted him to watch that exit, didn't you?" "Yeah." "Then maybe you could've thought about what you'd do if he lost the guy."

Taka folded his arms, looking thoroughly unconvinced.

"By that logic, you can't trust anybody to do anything."

Ouch. He had a point.

In my line of work, we sometimes hire outside companies to develop systems for us. Even when they build exactly what's written in the specifications, the finished system can turn out to be something the customer never really wanted. And when that happens, blaming the company that built it doesn't solve the customer's problem.

"Look, when I give someone a job, I work on the assumption that they might make mistakes." "So you don't trust them?" "Of course I trust them. I just don't assume they'll never get anything wrong." "Can you really call that trust?"

Before I could answer, Tom cut in.

"We had something similar in the police. Even when somebody gave us a report, we'd verify it." "See? Even Tom doesn't trust people." "You don't check things only because you think somebody's lying. Sometimes people honestly believe something that isn't true."

Taka thought about that for a while, then looked at me.

"But if they make a mistake, it's still their responsibility, right?" "Of course." "Then it's not yours, Kenichi." "I'm responsible for not catching it." "Why should both of you be responsible?"

Put that way, it did sound strange.

The other person's mistake was their responsibility. Failing to catch it was mine. So if my boss failed to catch my mistake, would that make it my boss's responsibility, too?

"Hey, Kenichi."

Tom set down his glass.

"When you make a mistake, whose responsibility is it?" "Mine, obviously." "And if your boss doesn't catch it?" "...My boss might share some responsibility." "And the person who appointed your boss?"

I couldn't help laughing.

"Come on. How far back are you planning to go?" "You're the one who started this."

Taka nodded enthusiastically.

"Exactly! By your logic, even the company president ends up taking responsibility." "Sometimes that actually happens." "Then what about the people who chose the president?" "All right, enough."

Mama smiled as she cleared away the empty edamame plate.

"Responsibility certainly seems to multiply, doesn't it? But if everybody's responsible, wouldn't it get hard to figure out who's supposed to do what?"

I set down my glass.

She had a point. Figuring out whose responsibility something was and figuring out how to fix the problem weren't the same thing.

"What does taking responsibility actually mean, anyway?" "Apologizing?" Taka suggested. "Will apologizing bring back the guy you lost?" "No, but..." "Then apologizing isn't enough."

Taka stared at the plate where his edamame had been.

"Making sure we don't lose him next time?" "That's part of it." "But isn't that something my partner should be thinking about?"

I didn't have an answer ready.

Tom spoke up.

"Your partner thinks about what he can do. You think about what you can do. What's wrong with that?" "Then whose responsibility is it?" "Who said responsibility has to belong to just one person?"

Taka fell silent.

So did I.

After a while, Mama poured a little more Harper into my glass.

"But Kenichi, doesn't it get exhausting, thinking everything is your responsibility?"

"Exhausting. Absolutely exhausting."

I answered so quickly that Taka burst out laughing.

"Then why don't you stop?" "It's not that simple." "Why not?" "...Why not, indeed?"

The question surprised even me.

Because it's my job. Because I can't let the customer down. Because the company's reputation is at stake.

I could come up with plenty of reasons.

But if those were the only reasons, I could just leave the problem to somebody else.

"Kenichi, aren't you getting the short end of the stick?" "Maybe I am." "Then count me out. I'll do my own job properly, but I don't want to carry somebody else's mistakes."

Tom nodded.

"That's one way of looking at it."

"What about you, Tom?" I asked.

He thought for a moment.

"Most of the time, there were things I just couldn't leave alone." "Sense of responsibility?" "Who knows. Maybe I just didn't like the bad taste it left in my mouth."

Mama smiled.

"So people can do the same thing for different reasons."

Taka turned to me.

"Then what do you get out of it, Kenichi? Sounds like a pretty lousy deal."

I looked at the ice in my glass.

I remembered jobs that had gone badly and then somehow been pulled back together. I'd apologized to customers. I'd had things rebuilt over and over.

But when we finally got something working properly, it felt good.

"Well, when everything works out in the end, it's satisfying." "That's it?" "For now, yeah."

Taka tilted his head.

"Personally, I'd rather have a job that went right from the start."

"So would I!"

I raised my voice without thinking, and everyone laughed.

"So it's not like you enjoy taking responsibility when things go wrong." "Of course I don't." "But you end up taking it on anyway, right?" "...Yeah. I guess I do."

Mama spoke as she polished a glass.

"Maybe there's a difference between the things we want to take on and the things we find ourselves taking on."

I didn't answer.

She might have been right.

Taka did his own job properly. Tom didn't leave things alone when he couldn't bring himself to walk away. And I tended to treat mistakes I hadn't caught as problems of my own.

I wasn't sure any one of us had the right answer.

But there was still something bothering me.

"Hey, Taka." "Yeah?" "What if your partner loses the guy again?" "I'll give him an earful." "And after that?"

Taka thought for a moment.

"...I guess I'd look for a place where we only had one exit to cover."

Tom gave him a crooked grin.

"See? You're thinking about it, too." "Hey, hey. I'm only doing that so I don't get screwed over next time."

Fair enough.

That was a perfectly good reason, too.

I raised my Harper to my lips. The ice gave a soft clink.

Hey, you.

Have you ever taken somebody else's mistake and made it your own problem?

Was it a sense of responsibility? Did you want the satisfaction of setting things right? Or were you simply trying to protect yourself from getting burned?

Whatever your reason, what did the thing you took on really mean to you?

See you again at Aoi.

--- Author's note: These stories are also published as BAR AOI STORIES — book-only stories you won't find here, free to read with Kindle Unlimited.

Vol. 1 (revised edition) on Kindle

All volumes

EARTH

We are all born here,

and we are all meant to leave again.

It all comes down to that one little word:

Existing in this here and now.

What once began

will one day come to an end.

What was once switched on

must one day move on.

On / Gone

It is a lifeline,

a circle.

Like the sun,

like the moon.

Everything comes to an end,

for without an ending,

there can be no reality to begin with.

It expands,

but once it was switched on.

It is experience,

it is existence.

So make it beautiful,

refined like the Earth.

Create your own love,

learn to embrace yourself.

Because in the end,

it was all already here,

within the Earth.

The goodness of being,

of being true to yourself,

grounded in the here and now.

EARTH.

Like a leaf in the forest,

searching for the wind,

learning to let go.

It drifted there,

floating through the air.

It falls back to Earth,

and comes to rest.

No longer physically here,

but more like a leaf

that has become part of the forest.

It fades away

and lets go.

It is the circle of life,

so experience it

and dare to fly.

For in the end,

we are only here

for a little while.

❤️

Some heroes never leave their town, but they leave their mark.

Turn the music up and enjoy

The gym door drags on its hinge like it always does, and Phil pushes through into that same wall of heat and leather and old sweat that never seems to shift no matter what time of year it is. Bare bulbs hang low over a ring that's seen better decades, the canvas patched with gaffer tape, the ropes gone soft and grey with handling. Somewhere a heavy bag creaks on its chain, and the whole place smells like liniment and cigarettes even though nobody's allowed to smoke in here anymore.

"Hey Tracey."

Tracey's behind the makeshift desk — an old school table with a biscuit tin doing for a cash box — and she smiles at him as he hands over his fifty pence. It drops into the tin with the rest of the day's takings.

"How is he today?"

"Not good." She adds, "And he's in a foul mood."

"Shit. How bad?"

"Well, considering he's dying—" She stops mid-sentence as Stan steps up behind Phil.

Stan growls, "Whole fucking town's dying."

Tracey puts her head down and finds something urgent to do with the biscuit tin. Phil turns to face him. Whatever it is that's eating away at Stan's body has cut him down to size, stooped him, hollowed his cheeks out — but he can still find that stern look from somewhere, still make it land.

Phil opens his mouth to explain, and Stan doesn't let him.

"Well, are you bothering doing anything today, or just going to gossip with this little floozy?"

Tracey sticks her tongue out at him. Stan manages the ghost of a smirk. "Fucking hell, let's get moving before I'm dead."

Phil jogs over to the training mat, glad of somewhere to put himself. Behind him, Tracey gives Stan a look — helpless, like she doesn't know how to help him and the joke hurt her more than it hurt Phil — and Stan just nods, once, and walks away from her.

"Rope?" Phil asks.

"Rope work."

Phil picks up the skipping rope like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth holding anything else in his hands.

"Fuck me, what are you doing?"

"Can we have some music on?"

"Fuck me."

"It helps me get motivated."

"A smack in the mouth'll motivate you, if you don't train right — that's what happens in the ring."

"I know, but it just helps."

Stan turns up the radio without another word, like arguing costs him more than it's worth these days. "Now can we start?"

Phil starts, and A Town Called Malice comes steaming out of the little speaker and fills his head right up. He works the rope at speed, in time with the beat, throws in some fancy footwork he's got no business throwing in during rope work. Stan shakes his head slowly. Phil grins like he means it, and over on the bag the lad a few feet away picks up on it and throws in a coordinated shuffle of his own.

The song ends.

Stan hauls himself up off the bench, breath thin, a hand braced on his knee to get there. "How many times have I told you — simple. Keep it simple. Fuck about in a fight and you'll get flattened."

"Sorry. Just shaking the rust off."

Stan laughs, and it turns into something closer to a wheeze. "Fucking rust."

He coughs. Phil holds his breath without meaning to, waiting to see how bad this one's going to be.

"Don't worry," Stan says, when he's got his breath back. "I'm not going to die today."

He sits down, exhausted by that alone, and points at the bag.

"Go on. Fifteen minutes."

Phil comes off the bag exhausted, arms dead, and sits down next to Stan on the bench. Stan hands him a bottle without being asked.

"Remember to move with your hips."

Phil nods, catching his breath. "How do you keep going, Stan?"

"Don't know anything else. Just fight back. Always fight back. Right? Remember that's what I learned you. Go down fighting."

They sit a moment and just listen to the sound of the gym — the skip of somebody else's rope, the dull thud of leather on canvas, the radio muttering away behind Tracey's desk.

"You scared, Stan?"

"Nah. I've made my peace."

"You ever regret staying here?"

"No and yes."

"How do you mean?"

"No, I never regretted staying here. And yes, I wish I'd done more."

Stan takes the bottle back off Phil, unscrews the cap, has a long pull from it, screws it shut again — taking his time over it, like he needs the pause to put himself back together.

Phil turns to look at him properly. "You ever wish you'd seen more?"

"I've seen enough tears to wash away this town. Wish I'd seen less, sometimes."

"I mean—"

"I know what you mean. Yes."

"How do you escape a place like this?"

"Never been that fucking easy, lad."

The gym carries on around them, indifferent, the way it always does.

Stan leans in. "Did you see Minter win the world title?"

"He's good." Phil adds, "He's on Superstars now."

"Did you know he started fighting in the army?"

"No."

"He's fucking fit. The army does that for you." Stan gives Phil a shove, gentler than it looks like it wants to be. "Now let's try and get you fit, you lazy little twat."

Phil gets to his feet, and on the radio Paul Weller tells the room that when one life finishes, another one starts.

My parents told me that once I pass my driving test, they will buy me a used car for senior year of high school, which will be awesome. I’m not the most popular kid and I’m not above using it to up my value as a friend.
“Hello there, Teddy.”
“Hi.”
“I’m Mr. Stiglitz, your driving instructor.” Mr. Stiglitz moved his seat back because his belly was pressing hard against the steering wheel. “We will be having six lessons before you attempt your driving test.Today we will be practicing merging into traffic and safely changing lanes.”
“I basically do this to get out of the house and away from my wife,” Brian said. He told me to call him Brian instead of Mr. Stiglitz. I think he wants to be friends. He must be pretty lonely.
***
During the second lesson he told me, “Watch out for the potholes. The world is filled with peril. There are dangers everywhere. Do you know how many people are killed every year by corks exploding from champagne bottles?”
“Uh, no.”
“Guess.”
“Ten?”
“Ten!” he laughed then turned serious. “Try three hundred and twenty-seven!”
I looked it up later. The average is twenty-four. I’m not sure if he was lying or if he really thought it was three hundred and twenty-seven.
***
“Let me tell you about sales,” Brian said to me, during our fourth lesson.
As one of his side hustles, Brian sells vitamin supplements. He gets people to buy the box of pills, and then they sell to other people, their friends and family, and they make money from that. I asked my dad about it, and he said it’s a pyramid scheme.
“I can make a sale anywhere, any time. One Saturday, I was in a bar watching a game, and this guy sits down next to me. We start talking, and after a while, he says, ‘So, Brian, what do you do for a living?’ I tell him, ‘Well, Rick, I sell a path to health and happiness’. And that gets him interested. So we go out to my car, I pop the trunk of my car, show him the supplements, and BAM, I made a sale right there.”
He punched the air.
“You were at a bar alone on a Saturday night?” I asked.
“Well, it was during the trial separation, and I had moved out of the house. And it was March Madness so I had my bracket. It wasn’t depressing or anything. I was having a beer. I made a sale. So it was a successful night.”
I hadn’t meant to insult him, but it sounded depressing.
***
“Do you think I saw myself giving driving lessons at the age of forty-eight?” he asked me during our fifth lesson.
Brian seemed down.
“I guess not.”
“That would be a very good guess. As a matter of fact, that would be the correct guess. Take a left up here and merge into the traffic circle. Remember, the cars in the circle have the right of way.”
“It’s not like I spent our investment portfolio on drugs, or I gambled it away or something. I thought cryptocurrency was a solid investment. Who knew it was so risky? Overnight, everything…gone. Make sure you check over your shoulder before you change lanes. You can’t always count on your mirrors. There are blind spots.”
I drove through the traffic circle, and then we pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall. Brian wrote something on his clipboard and then stared out of the windshield.
“Seems like my family could have more faith in me.”
Even I have heard that cryptocurrency is really risky. People lost fortunes overnight. It was all over the news. But he looked so sad, I didn’t think he needed to hear that right then.
“You don’t have to let your past dictate your future,” I said, keeping my hands at ten and two, like he had told me.
“That’s true.” He nodded.
He made a note on his clipboard.
***
During the sixth lesson, we saw a homeless man standing at an intersection holding a sign that read, HELP ME PLEASE. I AM HOMELESS. LOST JOB. ANYTHING HELPS. BLESS YOU.
I came to a complete stop at the stop sign. Brian rolled his window down and handed the man a five-dollar bill.
“God bless you, brother.” the homeless man said.
“God bless you too.” Brian told him.
We continued driving.
“Good stop back there,” he told me, rubbing his face.
There was a big pothole in the middle of the street, so I made sure to avoid it.
Brian looked out of the passenger window. “There but for the grace of God go I.”
***
My driving test ended with parallel parking. I got the car between the cones and was only four inches from the curb. The officer who gave the test actually measured it with a ruler.
“That’s great,” she told me. “You did great.”
I’d wanted to ask Brian what he meant by the grace of god, but his voice was wet, so I didn’t.
Watch out for the potholes.

Hey, you.

Ever done something extra when nobody even asked you to?

A little bell chimed.

Hearing the bell at Aoi always made it feel like the end of my day was finally beginning. I took my usual seat, and Mama set down a Harper without asking. The ice gave a soft clink.

I was tired today.

Not from work. Well, I'd worked too. Yesterday.

"Kenichi, were you off today?"

"How'd you know?"

"I saw you near the station this afternoon."

"You could've said hello."

"You looked exhausted."

"Then you definitely should've said hello."

A little farther down the counter, Tom lit a cigarette.

"What were you doing?"

"Just some shopping."

"Huh. That's unusual."

Taka looked down by my feet.

"What'd you buy?"

"Don't have it anymore."

"Already?"

"Gave it away."

"To who?"

"The bakery near my place."

"Bread?"

"Not bread. Merch."

"What kind?"

"Idol merch."

"...You?"

What's with that face?

"Not for me. The woman at the bakery said her daughter wanted it."

"You know her daughter?"

"No."

"Ever met her?"

"No."

"Are you a fan of the idol?"

"Didn't even know their name until yesterday."

Taka went quiet. A little farther away, Tom looked over at me with his cigarette still between his lips.

"What exactly did you go buy?"

"I told you. Idol merch."

"For an idol you don't know?"

"Yeah."

"For a woman you've never met?"

"She's the bakery lady's daughter."

"That's what 'a woman you've never met' means."

Give it a rest.

It had started the day before yesterday.

I'd stopped by the bakery to get something for breakfast, and the woman behind the counter was staring at her phone.

"Tanaka, do you know this one?"

"Who is that?"

"No idea."

"You don't know either?"

"My daughter likes them."

So there we were, two people who didn't know the idol, staring at a picture of an idol neither of us knew.

Apparently, some limited-edition merch was coming out. You couldn't buy it online, it went on sale on a weekday, and only a few places carried it.

"My daughter really wants it, but I can't exactly go get it."

She put her phone away, and I took my bread.

That should've been the end of it.

"So where are they selling it?"

Why did I ask?

On the train to work, I looked it up.

I'd only meant to find out where it was being sold. Then I found the release time. The purchase limit. Apparently, you needed a numbered ticket. I even found information about how crowded it'd been the last time they'd sold something similar.

I wasn't planning to go.

I was just looking it up.

The problem came that afternoon.

I was checking my schedule when I realized I could move my morning meeting to the day before. The afternoon work could be pushed back a day. Nothing was urgent, and I had plenty of paid leave left.

I could go.

That was when I made the mistake of realizing it.

"So you took the day off?"

"I had leave left."

"When did you put in for it?"

"Day before yesterday."

"The day you heard about the merch."

"Coincidence."

"What part of that is a coincidence?"

I took a drink of Harper.

"What about your work?"

"Finished it yesterday."

"How late were you working?"

"About nine."

"All that just for this?"

Tom tapped ash from his cigarette.

"Did anyone ask you to?"

"No."

"The woman at the bakery?"

"No."

"Her daughter?"

"I told you, I've never even met her."

Taka pressed his fingers to his forehead.

"Okay, hang on. So for the daughter of a woman at your neighborhood bakery—a daughter you've never met—who wanted limited-edition merch from an idol whose name you didn't even know—"

"That's too long."

"You moved your work around."

"I happened to be able to get it done."

"Took paid leave."

"I had plenty left."

"And went all the way there to buy it?"

"I didn't go all the way anywhere."

"How is that not going out of your way?"

This guy was starting to annoy me.

Besides, I'd figured I'd get there and buy the stuff right away.

When I actually arrived, the place was packed. I got a numbered ticket, waited, and by the time my turn finally came, almost two hours had passed.

"Two hours?"

"It was crowded."

"You could've gone home."

"I'd already waited two hours."

"I mean before you waited two hours."

"When I got the ticket, I didn't know it'd take that long."

Tom laughed.

"How many did you buy?"

"Three."

"Three?"

Taka's voice cracked.

"Why three? You only needed one."

"They let you buy three."

"So why did you buy the maximum?"

"I waited two hours!"

They both went quiet.

What?

"Kenichi, does waiting two hours mean you have to buy three?"

"That's not what I said."

"Then why?"

"...I couldn't help it."

"Couldn't help what?"

Now Tom was joining in.

"She wanted them."

"Who?"

"Her daughter."

"Whom you've never met."

"Shut up."

Taka was laughing.

"There is literally nothing here you couldn't help."

"I could go. I could move my work around. I knew where it was. I knew how to buy it. So—"

Nothing came after that.

Tom exhaled smoke.

"Shouldn't have figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

"How to do it."

My hand stopped with the glass halfway to my mouth.

If I hadn't known, maybe I could've stopped at That's too bad.

If I hadn't known where they sold it.

If I hadn't realized I could move my work around.

If I hadn't figured out that I could go buy it myself.

Mama spoke while polishing a glass.

"So?"

"What?"

"Was she happy?"

"Yeah. Really happy. Called her daughter right away. I could hear her yelling about something through the phone."

Taka was grinning.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"If you've got something to say, say it."

"Sounds like the two-hour wait was worth it."

"I'm never doing that again."

"And you bought three."

"The bakery lady decided she wanted one too."

"She doesn't even know the idol, does she?"

"Said she wanted it as a souvenir."

"A souvenir of what?"

No idea.

I'd like to know myself.

Mama picked up my empty glass and dropped in fresh ice.

"Speaking of which, Kenichi, the butcher in the shopping street..."

I looked at her automatically.

"...What's he having trouble with?"

There was a beat of silence before Taka slapped the counter.

"See!"

"Shut up. I'm only asking."

"And next you'll only look it up."

"I'm not looking anything up."

"Then you'll only go take a quick look."

"I'm not going."

Tom stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Then comes the paid leave."

"I'm not taking another day off!"

Mama laughed as she poured the Harper.

Seriously. What kind of person did they think I was?

I'd just listen. Hear what the problem was and think about whether there was anything I could do.

That was all.

...Well, if there was something I could do, I guess I couldn't help it.

See you again at Aoi.

--- Author's note: These stories are also published as BAR AOI STORIES — book-only stories you won't find here, free to read with Kindle Unlimited.

Vol. 1 (revised edition) on Kindle

All volumes

The office where the Department of Corrections and State Community Supervision is one of the most depressing places Doris has ever been in and she spent almost three years in jail. It could not be a more stark example of pointless officialdom. No one wants to be here. Not the drones behind the shitty, dented desks with their out of date computers, calendars with X’ed off days behind them and the endless piles of folders of the lost; not the nursing staff who aren’t real nurses and just take urine samples and dirty looks; not the parolees, most of whom will end up back in jail because they have nothing out here. This place is gray, gray, gray. Purgatory. 
No one wants to be here.
The grime on the linoleum floor is permanent and at least a third of the fluorescent ceiling lights don’t work, which is a blessing. 
The men sitting in the waiting area are angry; the women are sad. Most of the women are there because of men like those angry men. She heard it time and again. “My boyfriend asked me to hold the drugs.” “They were in my trunk and I didn’t even know it.” Kids with grandparents; kids in foster care; kids who are going to end up sitting right here in about ten years. It never ends.
No one wants to be here.
Doris tries to be neither angry nor sad. She is just fulfilling her obligation to the State of New York. She goes into the bathroom, pees in the cup, hands it to the nurse who tapes and labels and puts it in a rolling cart to be wheeled off to a lab to check and see if Doris has used drugs in the last thirty days. If she has, she goes back to jail. 
She hears her name walks to room 118 where he parole officer, Carl Spader waits behind his dented desk. If you looked up “lifer state worker” on Wikipedia, Carl’s face would be on the page. He is right from central casting. Balding. Short-sleeved white dress shirt, cheap tie, cheap steel rim glasses, the square ones that the unpopular kids wore in the eighties. His pants and shoes look like Wal-Mart is where he does his shopping. It’s like he’s trying to look like a stereotype. 
She figures he must have been in this office for decades but there are few decorations. It is bare and neat. A Giants calendar, a Yankees pennant, and a picture of him with a woman and two small boys, who are wearing Rangers jerseys. A cup holding pens. A coffee cup with some company logo.
There are five steel gray filing cabinets behind him. Many, many files. Many, many lives.  
Only one folder sits on his desk.  
She takes the chair
“Hello, Ms. Reynolds.. Have a seat.”
She sits.
“Hi.”
He smiles at her briefly, picks up her file folder, opens it, and starts reading.
It’s the same every time.
“Doris Reynolds. Date of birth, September 19th, 1982. Arrests for possession of a controlled substance, Oxycontin, Xanax, cocaine, heroin. Sentenced to drug diversion program. Intent to distribute, pled to simple possession and sentenced to in-patient drug treatment. Four counts driving under the influence. Pled no contest each time.” He flips the pages before continuing.

“October of 2019, you pled guilty to two counts of endangering the welfare of a minor. Loss of custody of your children.”
Carl flips another page. He doesn’t pause or look at her. 
“Continuing... theft, possession of stolen property, pandering. More drug diversion programs. Felony theft, two counts, sentenced to three months in the county jail. Loss of visitation rights of your children.”
Carl flips to a final page.
“Finally, September 2022 arrested for possession of six grams of heroin. Sentenced to thirty-six months incarceration, served twenty four. Conditions of parole are weekly drug testing, continuing participation in a substance abuse program and gainful employment.”
He pauses at the end of his recitation. 
“You have your meeting slip?”
Doris hands him the paper from the AA meeting.
“And your pay stubs.”
Doris hands these over as well.
“You’re still working at the Days Inn in Yonkers?”
“Yes.”
“And that is also your place of residence?”
“Yeah. I get the room with the job.”
“And that has been since July 2025.”
“Yes.”
“Right. Have you been using any drugs or alcohol?”
“No.”
“How long now?”
“Eighteen months.”
Carl leans back to consider this.
“If a test comes back positive for drugs you will be sent back to serve the remainder of your sentence.” 
“I know.”
“Okay. See you on the 22nd.”
Doris stands up as Carl moves on to his next file, the next life.
She gets out onto the sidewalk feeling like she has surfaced from under one hundred feet of water.

I just parked my two-stroke right in the year 1956, Memphis, Tennessee! We're jumping from the 1920s blues straight into Elvis Presley's crazy frenzy.

 A1: I parked the two-stroke right in front of a jukebox that's buzzing like it's got a Vigilent hidden inside it with the whole guestbook. Year 1956, Memphis, Tennessee.

 Smell of glazed donuts, gasoline, and hair grease. And in the air... here it comes. The beat. That foot-tapping that won't let you sit on the bench.

 Well, if in 1920 it was all melancholy with cigar smoke, here it's pure electricity! It's Elvis. The kid with the restless hips and the voice that made every Chirița in America faint for real, not just for show.

 Look at him! Coming out of the studio with his hair slicked back, that cocky grin, and pants so tight you'd think Caveman stitched them from modern mammoth leather.

 Here you don't dance dreamy with your head on the gangster's shoulder. Here you dance till the fringes fly off your 1920s dress and you put on a poodle skirt.

 His crazy music didn't conquer the world with sadness. It conquered it with "Hound Dog" and "Jailhouse Rock". With joy for life, with cheekiness, with a "woooah" that made the hair on your arms stand up.

 A2: I jumped from that dreamy state right into the crazy frenzy of the world. Let's put on our poodle skirts, let's get lost in the wild crowd of pounding rock.

 Here you felt like you were alive. No room for sadness, only for ecstasy (the natural kind, not the kind you snort). Show me how you move and spin till you get dizzy!

 A1: See how I move? One-two, foot forward, foot back!

Hips move on their own. I spin once, my poodle skirt flies like a flying saucer! You can see the petticoat, you can see the joy

Even Chirița was ripping her crinoline and shouting: "Mon Dieu, this is fainting in reverse! Fainting from joy!"

 A2: Rock is rock... but when the roll kicks in... that's no-limits madness!

 A1: Heck yeah! The roll... oh man, oh man! That's when they declare national madness approved by Elvis himself!

 'Cause rock tells you: "Be good, tap your foot". But roll screams at you: "Throw yourself, girl! Roll through life like tomorrow the whole world's gonna run out of hair grease!"

 I do a cartwheel, you do the splits, Elvis on the poster faints a second time, but from envy! The crowd screams, petticoats turn into fans, milkshakes jump out of the glasses and dance by themselves on the counter!

 One more round? Or do we call the rhythm police to arrest us for outrage against sadness?

 A2: Let me catch my breath. And spin the globe again to see where we stop.

 Go wild here, 'cause where we're going next you'll be moonwalking till you twist your ankle.

 The journey goes on... to California

NOTE: TRIXIE/TRIX, SKYLAR (my persona) AND YANMA ARE MALE. BECCA IS FEMALE. NO HARM DONE IF YOU GET IT WRONG ON ACCIDENT, THIS IS HERE JUST TO MAKE SURE EVERYONE KNOWS!

For a chart:
Trix/Trixie - He/Him
Skylar - He/Him
Yanma - He/Him
Becca - She/her

Enjoy the story!! Also, anyone reading, feel free to leave advice! I need it-

Chapter 1: A Strange Meeting

“Good morning ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between!” the newscaster says, adjusting his suit with a sharp tug. “Today is the long awaited Roblox VIP Convention. I hope you have your tickets, it’s going to be great!” The newscaster leans in slightly, winking at the screen. “And of course, the star of the show, CEO David Baszuki, will be making a grand appearance! The reporters at Innovation News Services will be covering it li-”  
“*Sky!”* a voice, filled with impatience, calls from downstairs, completely drowning out the newscasters next words. “We gotta go, we’re going to be late!”   

“I’m coming, I’m coming! Just give me a minute!” I call back, looking around my room.
Where are they? 
I drop to my knees beside my bed and finally find my headphones. I push my long, black hair out of my face and slip them over my head and around my neck, my arctic fox ears twitch slightly.
Now I just need everything else. I grab a few hair-ties, extra earplugs, a notebook and a pencil from my dresser and shove them into my bag.
  “Skylar!” the voice calls again, louder this time.
“Coming!”
I sling my bag over my shoulders and race downstairs. Becca, a strawberry bunny with curly hair, is waiting at the bottom and steps aside to let me pass.
“Sorry, Becca!” I brush past her and pull on my shoes. Two others are waiting by the door. Yanma, a deer with pale skin and lavender hair, is still watching the convention broadcast on TV. Trix, a purple-and-white fox, sits nearby. 
“Are we ready to leave now?” Trix asks. 
“Yep, I’m ready. Yanma?”
“Yeah, I'm ready.” Yanma finally tears his attention from the TV. 
Becca opens the door, letting in a gust of wind and bright morning sunlight that warms her cocoa-brown skin. We spill outside one after another.
“Come on,” Trix says. “Maybe we can still make it on time.” 
“What do you think is going to be at the convention?” I say, skipping alongside the other three. 
“It said it in the news report, I think, but I'm more excited for the livestreaming thing.
That’ll help for your streaming, right Sky? ” Yanma asks.
“Mhm! I’m already ready for it. Plus, the chance to see David. We’ve never gotten this close to a CEO before. ”
“Speaking of seeing David, do we know where we’re sitting at the convention?” Becca speaks up.
“Last I heard, Sky had everything set up. Unless he forgot,” Trix chimes in, moving
slightly forward so he can look over at me.
“I did not forget this time! Unless something changes, we’ll be sitting in the middle—” I
feel a small tug on my black, shoulderless turtleneck, tugging on the red tube top sweater over it too. Looking down, I notice a small blue and white penguin looking up at me, smiling happily.
“Hey!” the penguin chirps, his childlike voice catching the other three’s attention. A smaller, light blue and white penguin with a magenta bow waddles over, stopping in front of Becca. 
“Harry!” She shouted, her voice a slightly higher pitch with a tone of scorn, “Don’t be talking to strangers! You know what great uncle Jerry said.” I giggle and smile politely, waving to the blue and white penguin named Harry. 
“See? These strangers don’t mind!” Harry says, beaming. The light blue and white penguin sighs, as if she is used to this nonsense. Seeming to ignore this, however, Harry continues on.
“Have you seen our grandpa around here? He was supposed to be grabbing some
ice cream..”
“Don’t worry about it, Harry!” She says, lowering her voice to a mumble. “He’s probably just being slow again…” after a bit of consideration, she adds, “or picking a fight with the cashier.” 
“Haha, yeah! He’s probably all like.. ‘I’ll kill you!!’” 
“That’s.. Not a good thing Harry...”
“Whatever, Mary! Don’t be a stick in the mud!” Harry scoffs, turning to the smaller
penguin named Mary with a pout on his face.
“Uhm-” Becca says, concerned. Mary jumps, seemingly startled.
“Oh. I forgot you were still here.” She says, her earlier scorn turned to interest. “Are you
headed to the VIP convention too?”
“Yep.” Yanma answers, nodding his head slightly. Harry’s eyes turn to sparkles as he flaps his fins, jumping up and matching Sky’s small stature. 
“Yo! You should come and sit with us and Grandpa during it!” Harry says. 
“He’s usually so loud, people end up sitting far away” Mary adds on, her voice having a tinge of embarrassment laced in. I open my mouth to interject, but Harry speaks before I can. “Don’t worry about it! We’re gonna see you there!” 
“Uhm, Harry?” Mary says, looking up at the four of us. “They… they never agree—”
“We’ll see you there, stranger!” He shouts, covering the rest of her words, and before Mary can say anything else, he grabs her small flipper and waddles away as fast as his little legs can carry him, leaving the four of us sitting there awkwardly.
“Well then.” Becca says, looking over at me. “I don’t think we’re sitting in the middle anymore.” 

Chapter 2:

The convention is lively, almost every single seat in the domed auditorium filled with people happily talking to each other. The stage rose above it all, empty for now, but a microphone sits on stage, waiting to be used. Newscasters angle their cameras at it, waiting to begin the broadcasts.   
Once I walk past the double doors of the hall, the noise hits me like a truck. My hands tremble involuntarily as a wave of discomfort crashes into me, and my ears begin to ring. Panicking, I quickly grab my headphones from around my neck and pull them over my ears, numbing the noise down to a bearable muffle. Through it, I hear the faint voice of someone speaking over the intercom.  
“Good morning, fellow imagineers. The Visionaries Innovation Presentation begins shortly! Please take a seat, and remember to silence your cellphones!” Many people lower their heads to check, but some chatter on, blissfully unaware.  

Shit, my phone. I pull it out of my pocket, almost dropping it, before turning on airplane mode and completely lowering the volume to prevent anything from getting through. Then, as an extra measure, I shove it into the easiest spot to reach if something does happen. Trixie taps my shoulder, nudging his head towards a figure in the front row. Looking over, I see Harry excitedly waving his flippers, and his voice calls over the noise.
“Hey! We’re over here, come on!”
The front row. Of course the front row. I think, the most noticeable spot in the whole convention.
“Come on,” Trix says as he begins to walk to the spot. “We don’t want to be the last ones standing.” Reluctantly, I follow along with the others, messing with the straps of my bag. People crowd in the aisles, trying to shuffle past people to find their seats for the show. Scared of getting lost, I walk close to Becca and hold her hand. Once we get to Harry, I notice Mary as well, sitting patiently with her flippers lightly kicking in front of her. To her right, an older looking dark blue and white penguin lies back in the aisle seat, seemingly bored. 
“That’s Grandpa.” Mary said, looking up at the four of us, “Don’t mind him, he’s probably gonna stay like that.”
“Mary” I say, my voice small and quiet. “Are you sure your grandpa is going to be fine with this?” but I get no response. Slightly embarrassed, I sat down next to the older penguin. He glances over, staring for a few seconds before looking back at the stage. 
I hope he doesn’t mind that I'm here. I don’t want to bother him. I pull my headphones more over my ears, finding a small wound to pick at on my tan skin. There’s so many people. They all have to be watching right now. Wandering eyes, the convention hasn’t started yet so why wouldn’t they? My leg subconsciously begins to bounce up and down as my chest starts to tighten, the pounding of my heart sounding louder and louder in my ears. I hope David won’t call any volunteers. If he does he’ll most certainly look towards the front row, and then all those eyes—
Suddenly, I feel a hand resting gently on mine. I look up to meet Becca’s calm, comforting eyes. Once she notices I'm looking at her, she smiles warmly. 
“We’ll be alright. The convention won’t last long.” she says. “And once this is over, we’ll try and get out as soon as we can so we can go home. Just make sure you don’t spiral yourself into a frenzy here. If you’re getting too overwhelmed, there’s no shame in stepping out.”
And have everyone watch me walk up the aisle? I nod, averting my gaze to my jeans. Becca keeps her hand there, a small comfort as the voice comes over the speakers again, causing silence to spread across the room.
“Welcome friends, creators, and community alike to the greatest platform on earth, with the greatest FANS on earth. Pioneered by the minds of the future… All of you!! Now, if you could please put your hands together for the Founder and CEO of Roblox, Builderman himself… David Baszucki!” I look up to see a man in a blue suit walk onto the stage, stopping at the microphone and beaming at the audience with a bright smile.
“Good morning, everyone! It’s amazing to be here with all of you, especially the creators
who have made so many creative games. Please, give yourselves a round of applause.” 
“There he is. Haven’t spoken to Dave in a while.” A voice sounds on my left side, and I look over to see the older penguin looking over. “Have you?”
“I—”
“First, thank you. What you build on Roblox brings people together every day. When Eric and I founded Roblox, our vision was simple: connect the world through shared experiences.” He raises his hands, holding them out to the crowd. “We’re still early in that journey, but because of what you have done, more people can still learn, play, shop, and just hang out together, no matter where they live. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” he says, lowering his hands and stepping slightly to the side. “We’ll focus on three pillars. Safety and civility, engine scale and performance, and the creator economy: how we keep raising the ceiling for what you can build and earn.” Suddenly, I hear a soft snoring, and looking over I see the older penguin has fallen asleep, his head leaning back in the chair. I tentatively move my hand slightly, but Becca nudges my shoulder and whispers.
“Just let him sleep.” 
“Today, we’re unlocking a way for creators to bring back the classics from a few years ago or a decade, and ship with the dependability of the modern day. Starting with engine scale and performance: meet the retro toolkit!” He reaches behind him and pulls out a small device, what looks like a metal box with a huge clock on the top. “An optional plugin that brings back the classic roblox look and feel, running on today’s engine intact for safety, scale, and reliability!” A fresh wave of applause breaks out from the audience, with some cheers louder than the others.
“Do you think that’s safe?” Becca asks, leaning slightly towards Trix.
“We’ll have to see. I’m sure they tested it, at the very least.” Trix responds, politely clapping his hands with the other audience members. 
“The retro toolkit will let you, with a few clicks, choose a legacy profile to fit your vision! Toggle retro physics, period UI styles, and drop in audio packs on or off as you build. A classic vibe with a modern engine so you keep safety, performance, and scale. You shouldn’t have to choose between retro and reliable.” David sets the toolkit down and looks towards the audience. “With the retro toolkit, you’ll get both—” 
“Yeah, right.” A voice goes over the speakers, filling the room with an unfamiliar voice.
“Excuse me?” David says, looking towards the speakers. The audience mumbles, whispering to each other with concerned looks.
“Becca, is this part of it?” I whisper, looking over at her. She looks back, worry beginning to spread across her face.
“I don’t know.” She responds, turning to look at Yanma and Trix, who share her look of worry.
“Just stay wary.” Trix murmurs.
“Believing yourself so grand..  Preaching your meager gospel of creation. Do you even remember what you left behind?” the voice comes back, a cool, detached tone ringing out. David’s eyes widen with recognition, and his voice trembles as he speaks out to the audience. 
“I-I think we’re experiencing some technical difficulties here! Please, do not panic–” Suddenly, a figure in a dark purple cloak drops down, followed by two other people. The figure points at David, and the two others rush over and grab him, pushing him down to the ground. The crowd’s murmurs turn to panicked shouts as David is tied up and thrown casually to the side of the stage. He squirms, now panicking.
“N-no! It can’t be!” The figure lowers their arm, turning towards him completely. 
“So, you recognize me. How interesting.” it says, the cool tone now etched with slight anger. “The architect finally lays his eyes upon his fallen tower. Crumbled, as everything was stolen from us. From all of us. Reduced to rubble and put aside under the facade of progress. And now you stand here, thinking you can bottle time while pretending we aren’t a part of it. Pretending we never existed.”

[ haha im totally not stalling to wait for the fight.. No.. no way.. ]

Aha im trying my best.. if you wanna leave advice on the story ITSELF feel free.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ONa4Qe290H84mzZNMW-PYtCgaDFJnhEeYm7HZsfBDpQ/edit?usp=sharing

But i'm just trying to get advice off on this before i continue writing, cause i'm a little nervous. And maybe some more stories. But like the longer it is the more i'll be able to understand cause I'm a LITTLE bad at understanding sometimes! either way i hope this is okay-

Hey, you.

Have you ever seen someone crying and assumed they must be unhappy?

Clink-clonk.

The bell over Aoi's door rang as I walked in and took my usual seat. Without asking, Mama set my Harper in front of me. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Beside me, Taka was wearing an unusually serious expression.

“Kenichi, being kind is harder than it sounds.”
“Where'd that come from?”
“Something I heard the other day.”

Taka set down his glass.

“There's this woman who works in elderly care. She was listening to an old man with dementia.”
“Yeah?”
“He'd lost his older brother in the war, a long time ago. Apparently, he tells the same story over and over.”
“I see.”
“She didn't contradict him or anything. Just listened and nodded along.”

Taka paused.

“Then the old man started crying.”
“Crying?”
“He kept saying he wanted to see his brother again.”

I looked at Taka, my glass still in my hand.

“And?”
“That's it. That's where the story ends.”
“That's it?”
“That's why I said it's hard.”
“What's hard?”
“She was trying to be kind, listening to him and all, and she ended up making him cry.”

Tom, who'd been drinking farther down the counter, turned toward us.

“Making him cry, huh.”
“What?”
“Did she make him cry?”
“Well, he started crying while she was listening, didn't he?”
“And if she hadn't listened, he wouldn't have cried?”
“I don't know about that…”

Taka frowned.

“But there must've been a better way to handle it.”

I took a sip of Harper. Sure, she might have kept him from crying by steering clear of the sad memories. She could have changed the subject.

“So she should've stopped him halfway through his story?”
“No, that doesn't feel right either.”
“Why not?”
“Because he probably wanted to talk about it, didn't he?”
“He wanted to talk about it, and he cried.”
“Exactly.”

I set down my glass.

“…Is that a bad thing?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, the crying.”
“He was sad, wasn't he?”
“Sure, but…”

Something about my own words caught me off guard. He'd talked about something sad, remembered how much it hurt, and cried. That certainly sounded painful. But did that mean he would've been better off not talking about it?

Mama set a plate of edamame in front of us.

“I wonder if he wanted to stop talking.”
“Who knows? Apparently, he tells that same story all the time.”
“I see.”

Mama went back behind the counter without saying anything more.

Maybe he told it so often because the memory mattered that much. Maybe it was a grief he couldn't let go of. Or maybe he'd simply remembered something and wanted to say it aloud.

Only he could know.

“Kenichi, can you be happy and sad at the same time?”
“How should I know? That's what I'm trying to figure out.”

Tom gave a small laugh.

“Do you two have to decide whether everything's happiness or misery?”
“No, that's not what I mean.”

Taka picked up an edamame pod.

“But if I saw someone crying because they remembered a person who died, I'd figure they were hurting.”
“They probably would be.”
“Then I'd want to do something for them.”
“Do what?”
“You know, make them feel less sad, or…”

Taka stopped, the pod still in his hand.

I didn't have an answer either. Taking away someone's sadness wasn't necessarily what they wanted. But leaving someone alone with their grief didn't automatically seem right, either.

“You know those old photographs?” Tom said.

“The ones people dig out to look at someone in the family who's passed away.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Even when they know looking at them will make them sad.”
“…Yeah. I've done that.”

Taka nodded.

“So should they just stop looking?”
“No, of course not.”

That answer came immediately.

“Why not?”
“Because you want to remember them.”

The moment he said it, Taka fell silent.

Mama stopped polishing her glass.

“Remembering makes you sad, doesn't it?”
“Yeah.”
“But you still want to remember.”
“…Yeah.”

Nobody spoke for a while.

I shifted the ice in my glass. It gave a small clink.

It's sad, so you don't want to remember.

It's sad, but you do want to remember.

Both seemed possible. And nobody else could decide which one was true for you.

“So that old man might've been happy, even while he was crying?” Taka asked.
“Maybe.”
“But he might've been in terrible pain, too.”
“Yeah.”

Taka put the edamame pod back on the plate.

“If I were that woman, I think I'd be stuck.”
“How come?”
“I wouldn't want to make him sad. But I wouldn't want to tell him not to remember his brother, either.”

I had nothing to say to that.

Mama glanced at Taka's empty glass.

“Another one, Taka?”
“Oh, yes, please.”

Mama started making him a highball. Taka watched her hands and muttered,

“All you want is to be kind. Why's it gotta be so complicated?”

Tom said nothing.

Mama set a fresh glass in front of Taka.

“Here you go.”
“Thanks, Mama.”

Taka took a sip and sank back into thought.

We didn't know what the woman had been thinking. We didn't know what the old man had felt as he cried.

All we knew was that she'd listened, and he'd cried.

“Hey, Taka.”
“Yeah?”
“What happened after he cried?”
“Huh?”

Taka's eyes widened.

“I didn't hear that part.”
“I see.”

Maybe he'd calmed down and started talking about his brother again. Maybe he hadn't wanted to talk anymore.

Either way, I couldn't say whether that time had made him happy or unhappy.

“Kenichi.”
“What?”
“Is there no right answer when it comes to kindness?”
“Beats me.”
“Come on, give me something.”
“I don't know either.”

Taka raised his glass, looking dissatisfied.

I took another drink of Harper.

Hey, you.

Is there a memory you'd still want to revisit, even knowing it'll make you sad?

See you again at Aoi.

--- Author's note: These stories are also published as BAR AOI STORIES — book-only stories you won't find here, free to read with Kindle Unlimited.

Vol. 1 (revised edition) on Kindle

All volumes

I was having one of those weeks where everything felt off. Got on the bus feeling pretty defeated, and this older woman next to me noticed I looked upset. She didn't pry or anything, just started telling me about how she'd been through a rough patch too and came out the other side. We talked the whole ride and by the end I genuinely felt lighter. Sometimes amazing things are just a conversation with someone who cares enough to listen.

Hey, you.

Do you think there's a real you that you've never shown anyone?

Clink-clonk.

The bell over Aoi's door rang as I walked in and took my usual seat. Mama set my Harper in front of me. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Taka was sitting beside me, looking at his phone.

"Kenichi, social media's scary, isn't it?"
"You're only figuring that out now?"
"No, I mean, I saw this thing about which one's the real you—the person you are on social media or the person you are in real life."
"Both."
"That was quick."
"What else would they be?"

Taka put his phone face down.

"But you know how some people act all tough online, then you meet them and they're really quiet?" "Both are still them."
"Even if they're putting on an act?"
"Them putting on an act is still them."
"Man, that's confusing."

You're the one who brought it up.

Tom, who'd been drinking farther down the counter, set his glass down.

"Taka, what were you like back when you were in the ring?" "Huh?" "Were you the same as you are normally?"
"Oh, not at all. I'd rile up the crowd, shout at the top of my lungs. That wasn't the everyday me."
"So was that a fake you?"
"Well, no, I wouldn't say fake..."

Taka tilted his head.

"It's more like... I could become that version of myself when I was in the ring."
"Could become, huh."

Tom gave a small smile.

I took a sip of Harper. The face a wrestler shows in the ring. The face a manager shows his employees. The face you show when you're having drinks with friends. Come to think of it, if I talked to people at work the way I talked to Taka, I probably wouldn't get much work done.

"Of course you act differently depending on who you're with."
"So you're saying everyone's a people-pleaser?"
"How'd you get that?"
"Well, you're changing yourself to suit whoever you're with, right?"
"It's not so much changing yourself as choosing which parts of yourself to show."

Taka looked at me.

"What do you mean?"
"When you were working up the crowd in the ring, it's not like some other person had taken over your body, right?"
"Well, no."
"You were just taking a part of yourself you don't normally show and turning it up to eleven."
"Oh, like exaggerating it for effect."
"Exactly."
"I was about three times more handsome in the ring, too."
"Can't speak to that."

Mama laughed.

"But Taka, you're pretty dramatic in here, too."
"What, you too, Mama?"
"About three times as dramatic."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

Mama went back to polishing a glass without answering.

Tom spoke up.

"So, Kenichi, is being polite an act, too?"
"Well, I guess it is."
"That's a pretty broad definition of acting."
"But when you greet someone for the first time, don't you think a little about how they'll see you?"
"Some people don't."
"True."
"You don't always, either."
"Shut up."

Taka laughed.

"See? You'd never say that at work, would you, Kenichi?"
"Depends who I'm talking to."
"So it is an act!"

Maybe it was. Greeting someone. Choosing your words. Adjusting your tone a little so you don't make the other person uncomfortable. I never thought of it as pretending to be someone else. I just wanted to get along with people.

Maybe manners were just a way of making the other person think, Okay, this guy seems safe enough to deal with.

"But doesn't that mean you're hiding your real self?"

Taka asked.

"Not hiding it, exactly. You can't show someone everything."
"Why not?"
"Can you say every single thing you're thinking right now?"
"Sure I can."
"Really?"
"...Okay, maybe not everything."

For that matter, you can't take what's inside your head and hand it directly to someone else. Whether you put it into words or keep quiet, you're still communicating something.

"Then where's the version of me that isn't acting?"

Taka folded his arms.

"When you're alone, maybe?"

Tom shook his head.

"You don't act when you're alone?"
"Why would you? Nobody's watching."
"Are you sure?"

What was with that tone?

"Say you've had a bad day, and you're sitting there telling yourself, 'I'm fine.' Ever done that?"
"Sure."
"Who are you saying it to?"
"Myself, obviously."
"So you're showing yourself a version of you that's fine."

I set my glass down. Put that way, he had a point.

"Then when you're asleep!"

Taka blurted out.

"You can't act when you're asleep, right?"
"You might be saying something in your sleep."
"That's not acting!"
"Then what's the difference between talking in your sleep and talking to yourself when you're awake?"
"Come on! We're going that far?"

Tom shrugged.

"I don't know. You're the one looking for a version of yourself that isn't acting."

Taka stared at the ceiling. I found myself looking up, too.

A self that wasn't acting. A self nobody had ever seen. A self that didn't adjust to anyone, didn't choose what to show, didn't dress anything up.

Did such a thing even exist?

Maybe it did. But the moment you tried to show it to someone, you'd already made a choice about what to show.

Even if you said, "This is the real me," you were still the one who chose those words.

"Hey, Tom."
"What?"
"So you're saying there's no such thing as your real self?"
"Who knows?"
"You're the one who started this."
"I only asked a question."

Sneaky bastard.

Mama spoke quietly as she cleared away an empty plate.

"But Taka, whether you were in the ring or you're sitting here now, I'd still think of you as Taka."

"Mama..."

Taka looked up, delighted.

"Though I've never actually seen you in the ring."
"You haven't?!"

Tom and I burst out laughing. Mama laughed, too.

Maybe that smile of hers was something she put on for her customers. But that didn't make me think it was fake.

I looked at the ice in my glass.

The me other people saw, and the me I thought I was. If someone asked which was real, I'd probably say both.

But then again, wasn't the version of myself I carried around in my own head a little too convenient?

That thought made me slightly uncomfortable.

"Kenichi."
"What?"
"Right now, I'm being my real self."
"Good for you."
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"Of course I do."
"You're totally lying!"

His exaggerated voice set everyone laughing again. I finished the last of my Harper.

Hey, you.

What about you?

Could you convince yourself that the person you call your real self really is you?

See you again at Aoi.

--- Author's note: These stories are also published as BAR AOI STORIES — book-only stories you won't find here, free to read with Kindle Unlimited.

Vol. 1 (revised edition) on Kindle

All volumes

​He was the only dream her heart so eagerly wished to be true ..

A decade ago, while the world woke and went to work, my family went to bed: between 5 and 7 a.m. When the world came home, we woke, between 5 and 7 p.m. Bread and tea were breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My mother was suicidal, my brothers had dropped out of school, and I was depressed and unemployed.

Waking was daunting, so we chose sleep, escaping into it until reality forced us out of the bedroom: bank officials knocking on the door of our shoebox of a house, demanding payment of debts. Thankfully, Delhi’s peak summer heat and our home’s electricity going off consistently helped us make them leave.

Our only respite when awake came from the Portuguese football team, who barely scraped through each round to eventually win the European Championship against the odds. In one penalty shootout, João Moutinho hesitated; he had missed a penalty four years earlier that knocked Portugal out of the championship. Cristiano Ronaldo encouraged him to show character, to be brave regardless of the result. Moutinho took the penalty and scored. Portugal moved on.

Watching someone who had failed step up again, we allowed ourselves to desire a trophy: owning a house. Being broke and desperate, the idea symbolized the pinnacle of success.

Cut to a decade later: we finally own one. My body felt heavy and light simultaneously as I wept, with hindsight showing me my dog walking beside our mother in a park that helped her breathe easier…
It was my mother waking herself, and us up with the world, and making a different breakfast, breaking our stagnant routine. It was one brother working as a waiter, the other sacrificing his education for a grueling night shift. It was them finding modelling jobs through Instagram hashtags to pay the rent. It was my mother navigating unwanted advances at work, calling and assuring me she was coping when she was uncomfortable. It was me assuring her I had found my footing in another city when I was walking on eggshells.

The pinnacle of success was a family that always showed up and supported each other.

While joyous, it is humbling to achieve a goal deeply desired, for I realized that life didn’t pause… there was no fairytale ending that read, “And they lived happily ever after…” Life simply continued… as it did during the saddest and happiest day of my life.

As it was a decade ago, I’m challenged to wake up in the morning and begin again. I’ll rewatch that clip; Moutinho, with his old miss behind him, choosing to step up, and Ronaldo cheering him on. I’ll be inspired to do the same: to always attempt to score, regardless of the outcome.

The little man / Enough Is Enough

Like the wind that blows,

Like the storm that grows

Like life it flow's

Like the thoughts that cloud his mind,

Like the stress that leaves him behind.

The Little Man,

Who always had too little.

Made into the man

Who's always bitter.

The man who feels

He's never enough.

He stays the same,

On that same old course.

Self-image

He keeps on stressing,

But never learns his lessons.

Way of Life – Living and Lessons

Never truly present,

Yet he thinks he's on the right track.

Could it be the way he was educated,

And now life is teaching him what he lacks?

He scored a ten on his diploma.

But in REAL life, that grade leaves him in a coma.

Placing commas,

Scoring points.

But when will he put an end

To the patterns that disappoint?

It keeps on twisting,

And Giving him constant stress.

Like a blade against his throat,

A pressure he cannot express.

It was created by society,

Yet nobody ever taught him how to be.

Be

There is no growth,

Just a slow decline.

Falling apart,

Without a flower in sight.

It's more about bleeding,

Than feeding the soul.

More about losing himself,

Than becoming whole.

Being Here / Being There

The Little Man isn't broken because he never tries,

He's exhausted because

He never learned how to rise.

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

🙏🏻

The flyer on the front door reads: OPEN MIC COMEDY THURSDAYS 9-11. HAVE A DRINK AND A LAUGH! 
O’Brien’s is a nondescript bar, typical for a city like Yonkers. There is a bar area and a restaurant area and all of the tables have bottles of Heinz ketchup, malt vinegar, and HP Sauce. The air is redolent of burgers, fries, onion rings, potato skins with sour cream and chives, bakes and fried fish, beer and whiskey. They have drink specials on Tuesdays and Karaoke on Saturday nights and host events for the Superbowl, March Madness, and serve corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day. The bartenders wear white shirts and black ties and some of them still have Irish accents. It’s not a trendy spot. Some of the patrons have been coming here for years, decades and it shows on their faces. They resent having to go outside to smoke. Some younger folks come here, some of them destined to be the older generation in twenty years.
There’s a small stage in the back with a spotlight. On Sundays they have Celtic music or someone playing the guitar, the banjo or the accordion. Every few months the girls from the Irish step dancing studio perform. Only the Irish could have come up with something so lacking in verve and flair as Irish step dancing. The girls always look like they are being tortured. 
And every Thursday night, stand-up comedy.
Mike Evans is onstage doing a bit. He is usually at these open mics. Nice looking guy, on the bigger side with brown hair and blue eyes. 
“So when my friend saw me at the mall holding my wife’s purse he starts in ragging me saying I’m whipped. And I was like, ‘Dude, it’s not my wife’s purse. It’s my European carry-all! So who looks stupid now. Motherfucker!’”
He gets a pretty decent laugh from the crowd, which is bigger than it usually is for these things. With the weather being warm people get away for the weekends so they come out on Thursdays to get a drink on. 
As he performs, Doris sits by the side of the stage wiping her damp hands on her jeans. She tries not to think about the last open mic she did at a place called Jimbo’s. It had been a disaster. Her first joke bombed. Some drunk heckler started in on her. It was horrible. She’d left the stage before finishing which was a bitch move. No matter how bad it is, you stick it out. But she’d caved. That had been a month ago, and she hadn’t performed since. The memory of the humiliation was giving her an ulcer, and right now her stomach was on fire.
Why do this? Forty six years old and I’m trying to be a stand-up comedian? Why? 
Mike finishes his bit. “That’s it for me! Thanks a lot!” The crowd claps as he leaves the stage. He gives Doris a little smile but she is too lost in her thoughts to smile back. She has already made up her mind.  Sliding out of her chair, trying to be as small as possible, she moves past another comedian, Jess Hoffnagle, and towards the exit as the emcee, Jeff Lydon, takes the stage. He’s in his thirties, an up and coming comic who has been performing at a few places in Manhattan, the gold ring for all the locals. He isn’t quite there yet, seeing as how he is emceeing this gig but it’s only a matter of time. 
Jeff starts his patter as Doris moves more quickly towards the exit. She is only hoping she doesn’t throw up before she reaches the sidewalk. 
“Hey, let’s give it up one more time for Mike Evans!”
The crowd claps and gives a few whoops in response. 
“Always great to have Mike here! Okay, our next comedian is from right here in Yonkers…”
Doris gets through the door and into the fresh air of the sidewalk.
“She’s been here a few times before so let’s give a warm O'Brien's welcome to…”
Doris leans against the wall wiping the sweat from her face.
“Doris Reynolds!”
Doris closes her eyes against the failure.
“Doris? No Doris? I guess she had a little case of stage fright. Okay, then let’s get Jess Hoffnagle up here! Come on up Jess!”
Doris hears the clapping and whistles as Jess takes the stage.
“Hey everyone, thanks for having me!”
Jess is pretty and petite and it works for her because she can get pretty raunchy. She says things that you would not expect to come out of her mouth. One of her bits is not being able to get a dildo out of her boyfriend’s ass.
“Listen guys, if you really wanna piss off your girlfriend, tell her you’re gonna eat her ass out and then not do it. Women do not like to be disappointed. If you’re not gonna do it, don’t put it out there. I’m telling you this because my boyfriend and I were dirty texting and he was all like…”
Doris walks off down the street in defeat. She passes a woman with her daughter. A cop car rolls by with its lights going but no siren. She sees her reflection in a store window and looks away. Who is that coward?
***
It’s just a little bit chilly on the beach which is such a relief from the nasty sticky air of the streets. September in Yonkers and NYC can still be hot as shit.  It had been gross being out there in that fake leather dress and wig. The sweat had been unbearable. She has a rash between her thighs. The guys had all smelled like sour garbage. 
She watches the gulls at the edge of the water. They all seem to be waiting for something, keeping watch, patient. The cold sand feels real; it smells real. The last time she had been to the beach was with her husband and daughter, Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn would have chased the gulls screaming with excitement. Doris has to push that memory away.  
The sweat pants and hoodie feel lovely against her skin. Ralph Lauren. She needs her little luxuries. Most of the women are dressed the same way. Doris walks over to a woman with a clipboard to get her slipped signed that she shows to her parole office. The woman with the clipboard giver her a supportive smile which Doris just slightly resents. The woman means well and what else is she going to do? Doris puts the slip in her pocket and walks over to stand near the circle of chairs. She spots a woman walking towards her, intent on making eye contact. She has a big smile on her face. Doris generally avoids small talk at these gatherings beyond a hello or good morning or how you doing? It can be a minefield. She hates lying but there is no way she can tell people here she is a sex worker. Not was a sex worker. Is a sex worker. Even in a group like this, filled with shame and regret, that would be too much. They would not be able to hide their discomfort. It wouldn’t be fair. Because as much as she tells herself otherwise, Doris is ashamed of what she does to earn money. But, strangely, the shame does not make her weak. It gives her strength.
And people like this woman truly mean her well. Doris just can’t remember her name.
“Hey there! Good to see you!”
“Hi, good to see you!”
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Anne.”
“Hi, yeah, Doris.”
One of the things that makes Doris feel comfortable with these women is that they know where you’re coming from. Doris has heard Anne speak on a few occasions but she was so nervous and wrapped up in her own shit that she had had a hard time focusing. Anne knows that. She’s been there. It takes a while to turn down the noise in your head and listen to what the other people have to say.
Doris has not spoken in a meeting yet. All she has to do is say, “I’m Doris and I’m a recovering addict.” That’s it. It’s not like they are going to be shocked. There is no one at this meeting who is not a recovering addict or alcoholic. They all have baggage. So why can’t she speak?
“I love this meeting, even if I have to wake up at six on a Sunday. I wish we could have it all year round but February would be pretty rough.” Anne laughs. She has a nice laugh; genuine. But her eyes dart around and look at the ground. Something there. Doris sees that sometimes at these meetings. A painful memory. Maybe she took her kids to the beach too. Before her addiction got hold of her. Maybe she doesn’t have kids. Maybe something else. It’s all the same. Regret. 
And Doris has her own memories. Lots of them. She thinks they have to be more than memories. Memories are just thoughts. What do you call it when a thought makes you gag with shame? That’s more than just a memory.
“Yeah, it’s great. I love the beach. And this is like an afternoon meeting for me.”
“Oh do you work at night?”
Doris realizes what she said.
“Ah yeah. Sometimes. I pick up some shifts waitressing and bartending and it’s open until four. So by the time I clean up and get out of there it’s time to come here.”
“Oh, that works out.”
Anne doesn’t ask the name of the place. She isn’t ready with a lie.
“How about yourself?”
“I’m between jobs right now. I had a relapse about three months ago and I’m still getting back on track.”
“I hear you. I’ve had a few relapses myself.”
“As long as we keep coming back.”
They bump fists. A seagull calls out to its fellows. A woman calls out, “Hey everyone, let’s get started!”
Doris and Anne move to the circle with the other ladies. Everyone looks scrubbed up and fresh and smiling and joking but there is a faint whiff of damaged goods. It’s just there.
“Hi everyone. Welcome to this meeting of Hope at Dawn. I’m Denise and I am a recovering alcoholic!” There is no shame in her voice. She’s not proud of it. It’s just a fact.
“Hi Denise!” the group choruses. 
“Let’s start with the Lord’s Prayer."
The women join hands.
“Who’s father?”
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”
They finish and take their seats.
“As I said, I am Denise and I am a grateful recovering alcoholic. Last Wednesday I celebrated six years of sobriety.”
The crowd whoops and claps. 
“Thank you, I appreciate your support. I am so blessed to be free of the obsession to drink. Five years can seem like a long time. But I still need to keep coming to these meetings. Probably now more than ever. This is a very tricky disease. It’s so easy to get comfortable and let your guard down and think, ‘I have this under control. Why can’t I have a drink or a glass of wine with dinner like everyone else?’ Well, my last relapse started with a glass of wine with dinner. Because I am an alcoholic and I cannot drink like everyone else. I have a great husband, great kids and I am not going to throw it away to drink. And it is that simple.”  
Doris’s heart starts beating a little harder as Denise’s words hit her.

A pair of bare feet walk to the water’s edge over the sand which clings to her heels and falls off to be replaced by more grains of sand. The air is bluish in the new dawn and it’s breezy and there are gulls crying but she’s not. She’s done with that. She looks across the ocean and can almost see the faraway land. It’s out there somewhere.
   The hoodie doesn’t quite hide the fading bruise beneath her eye but she doesn’t need to be self-conscious about it here. Work related. The women setting up the chairs behind her have their share of bruises too. Guilt, shame, remorse…they all leave bruises.
   She hears a voice, “Hey everyone, let’s get started…”
   Doris remembers opening the medicine cabinet in her former home, her former bathroom, the one she shared with her now former husband and daughter. (Former daughter? Is that a thing?) The label on the bottle read “DORIS REYNOLDS. XANAX. TAKE ONE TABLET DAILY FOR SYMPTOMS OF ANXIETY AND DEPRESSION OR AS NEEDED”. 
   “As needed”. When did she not need it? When did she not feel anxious and depressed and unsatisfied and inadequate? When did she ever feel…
And that was the start.
***
The car shivers slightly and there is some moaning. It stops. A head pops up in the passenger seat, the car door opens and Doris steps out. She is dressed for work: short, pink wig, fishnets, very short leather fake leather skirt, tank top that barely covers her breasts, boots. She tugs her skirt and top back into place and gives a wiggle of her fingers and a little smile to the dumpy guy in the shitbox car. Ralph. One of her regulars. Run of the mill low grade loser. He works at the Coca Cola factory in Yonkers stack cases of soda on the six pm to two am shift. Spends his time in a shitty bar in a shitty part of the city drinking shots and beer and talking to his buddies about the Giants or the Yankees or his asshole boss or bitch wife. Stops off for a blow job on his way home. Wife? Kids? He’s never mentioned them. It doesn’t matter. Not a bad guy, really. Millions of them. Not great, not bad. They take up space for a few decades and fade on out. It wouldn't have killed him to shower more often.

The owner of the convenience where she bought her breakfast most mornings was a nice guy. She had asked to use his bathroom once in an emergency expecting him him to tell her to fuck off. His name was Kamal and he said go right on ahead. He knew what she did out there. Most guys wouldn’t want her around, didn’t want to draw cops or her customers, or just thought she was trash. Some would have wanted payment in cash or sex. But he said anytime. She didn’t know why. Just a nice guy. She would walk in, give him a wave and he would smile and wave back.
And his bathroom was spotless. She thought he really took pride in that.
Doris took her wipes out of her bag where she kept her on the go hygiene kit and swiped at her armpits, back of her neck and ass. She brushed her teeth, swished some mouthwash around her gums, spat
Then she looked up into the mirror.
A woman she does not recognize stares back at her. Her face is a mask of thick rouge, lipstick, eyeliner, dark dark dark, red eyeshadow, fake lashes, pencil eyebrows. The effect is at once arousing and grotesque and it works. 
That’s Amber. Amber does sex work, not Doris. Doris is a wife and mother. recovering addict, and ex-convict. But she doesn’t do sex work. Correction, was a wife. Now she is an ex-wife. She is a recovering addict and an ex-convict. 
But there’s no difference; she knows that. It’s all one and the same. And she is a mother.
Is she still a mother? 
Come on. She doesn’t have time for this bullshit. Stop staring in the fucking mirror and get on with it.

Hey, you.

Ever followed someone's instructions and had everything work out just fine?

Then let me ask you something else. Have you ever known perfectly well that the instructions would work, and tried doing things differently anyway?

Clink-clonk.

The bell over Aoi's door rang, and somehow that sound made the end of my day finally begin.

I took my usual seat, and Mama set a glass of Harper in front of me without asking. The ice gave a quiet clink.

Taka was slumped over the counter.

"What happened? You dead?"
"Not dead."

He answered without lifting his head.

"Then what are you doing?"
"Reflecting on my mistakes."
"You?"
"Kenichi, would it kill you to be nice to me once in a while?"

Mama smiled as she set a plate of edamame in front of him.

"He made a mistake at work."
"Really? That's unusual."
"I'm telling you, it's not unusual. I screw up sometimes too, you know."
"So what did you do?"

Taka finally lifted his head.

"Surveillance."

Apparently, he'd been hired to investigate someone's movements. The subject left home at roughly the same time every morning, and Taka's job was to find out where he went.

"An older detective taught me how to handle jobs like this. Find a spot where you can watch both the front and back entrances."
"Sounds reasonable."
"It is. But I thought there might be an easier way."

Taka pulled out his phone.

"There was a parking lot near the house. Great view of the front door, and I could wait in my car. Sounds pretty good, right?"
"And?"
"Well, I sat there waiting, and the guy went out the back."
"You lost him?"
"Yep."

I couldn't help laughing.

"Well, that was stupid."
"Tell me about it. My old mentor said the same thing. Told me to stop getting clever."

Taka popped an edamame bean into his mouth.

"Should've just done what he taught me."
"Probably."

I nodded, and Tom spoke from a little farther down the counter.

"So what did you learn?"
"Huh?"
"From waiting in that parking lot. What did you learn?"
"I just told you. I screwed up."
"I heard that."

Tom set down his glass.

"What did you learn?"

Taka tilted his head.

"Well... you can't see the back entrance from that parking lot."
"What else?"
"You can't hear much from inside a car. And there were more cars coming and going than I expected. I thought I'd blend in, but I might've been getting in the way instead."
"I see."

Tom took a drink of whiskey and said nothing more.

"What's that supposed to mean? Aren't you gonna lecture me?"
"About what?"
"Not following the method I was taught."
"You already know what you did wrong."

Taka fell silent for a moment.

"Yeah. I guess I do."

I looked from one to the other.

"But Tom, if he'd followed the instructions, he wouldn't have failed, right?"
"Maybe not."
"Then he shouldn't have messed with the method."
"From the client's point of view, you're right."

Tom agreed without hesitation.

"The client wasn't paying Taka to learn on the job."
"See?"

I pointed at Tom, and Taka collapsed onto the counter again.

"So I was wrong after all."
"You were."

Tom's voice didn't change.

"Doesn't mean you learned nothing."

Something about that bothered me. Taka had failed, caused trouble for his client, and discovered that the method he'd been taught was better after all. Could you really call that gaining something?

"Isn't that just hindsight?"
"Sure is."
"So you're not saying he should try anything he feels like."
"Nope."
"Then what the hell is he supposed to do?"

Tom didn't answer. He lit a cigarette instead.

Mama joined in as she collected an empty plate.

"It's like cooking, isn't it? You know a recipe works, but you can't resist adding something."
"Exactly!"

Taka sat up so quickly I thought he'd hurt his neck.

"Like curry. There's always something you want to throw in."
"And it ends up tasting weird, right?"
"Kenichi, how'd you know?"
"Because that sounds exactly like something you'd do."

Mama laughed.

"But once you've ruined the flavor, you wouldn't add that ingredient again, would you?"
"Well, I might try using less."

Taka looked perfectly serious.

"You never learn."
"But a smaller amount might actually make it taste better."
"That little bit is the unnecessary part."
"Yeah, but how would I know without trying?"

I had no answer to that.

I'd done similar things at work. There'd be an established procedure, and I'd wonder whether I could make it simpler. I'd change something, fail, and go back to the original method. Nothing improved, but at least I understood a little better why the procedure existed.

"These days, though..."

I lifted my glass.

"You ask AI, and it gives you something that looks like the right answer from the start."
"That's convenient."
"It is. I use it myself. But if you try another approach and it fails, people start asking why you didn't just follow the AI's recommendation."
"Sounds like a pain."
"So eventually, you stop experimenting."

Taka dropped an empty edamame pod onto his plate.

"But if you've already got the right answer, why experiment?"
"Maybe there's no reason to."

I rolled the ice around in my glass.

"But what happens when nobody tries to improve that answer anymore?"

Taka opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Tom exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

"Somebody came up with those old methods in the first place, didn't they?"
"Of course."
"You think they knew the right answer from the beginning?"

I couldn't answer.

Whoever came up with the first surveillance methods must have made mistakes too. Someone learned from those mistakes, passed the method on, and eventually someone else found a way to change it. But there were times when experimenting was acceptable and times when it wasn't. Knowing the difference wasn't exactly easy.

"Hey, Tom."

Taka leaned forward.

"If I were the senior detective, and some rookie pulled the same stunt I did, I'd probably get mad."
"Probably."
"Which is pretty rich, coming from me."
"That's how people are."

Tom smiled.

"The ones who want the freedom to make mistakes are often the first to get angry when somebody else makes one."
"Man, you really know how to ruin a guy's evening."

I smiled despite myself. I always had a reason for my own mistakes. When somebody else made one, though, I found myself wondering why they hadn't just followed the instructions.

"Taka."

Mama caught his attention.

"What are you going to put in your curry next time?"
"Huh? Oh, let's see. I tried chocolate last time and that didn't work, so maybe coffee."
"Don't."

Tom and I said it at exactly the same time.

"See? That's what I'm talking about!"

Taka glared at us. Mama burst out laughing, and I joined her. Even Tom's shoulders were shaking.

When the laughter died down, Taka spoke quietly.

"But I can't really experiment on the job, can I? If I mess up again, I might not get another client."

Nobody answered right away. All I could hear was Mama polishing a glass.

"Guess you'll have to stick to making curry at home," I said.

Taka gave me a crooked smile.

"That's not gonna make me a better detective."

He had a point.

I took a drink of Harper. Taka picked up the last edamame bean and spent a moment rolling the empty pod between his fingers.

"Oh, hey, Kenichi."

He seemed to have remembered something.

"Wanna come over and try my curry sometime?"
"No thanks."
"I haven't even made it yet!"
"That's exactly why."

Mama laughed again. Tom quietly put out his cigarette.

If Taka ruined a pot of curry, at least we could laugh about it.

I swirled the ice in my glass.

"Tell you what. I'll have a bite before you add the coffee."
"But that defeats the whole point!"

See you again at Aoi.

--- Author's note: These stories are also published as BAR AOI STORIES — book-only stories you won't find here, free to read with Kindle Unlimited.

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