End of an Era

We started Ampersand in April 2015 as a way to connect new and up-and-coming artists with each other and the world. It’s been a wonderful journey, full of talented and inspiring individuals, and we couldn’t be more grateful to have so many people willing to share their lives and their art with us.

Still, we can only handle so many projects at a time, which is why we’re both sad and excited to announce that we’re bringing this one to a close. We’ve loved providing a space to showcase your work, but now we’re ready to focus our energy on something new.

Thank you so much for being a part of our small community of creative minds. We hope we’ll continue to encounter your work every day.

Portraits on Recycled Trash by Dion Hitchings

Within my artwork I have found my own “unique world”
which has no rules or boundaries.
My inspirations are varied and vast, everything from dreams and Indians, nuns and demons,
the Jerry Springer Show and chickens to sins and celebrities.
My world and therefore my art,
is guaranteed to be colorful, self-revealing, emotional, childlike and
an “eye full” to all who view it.

I purposely choose to use untraditional media.
I create my works with various
children’s art supplies including, crayons, magic markers, highlighters and Using consumer boxes, discarded furniture and “trash”
instead of traditional drawing surfaces
has enabled me to break down preexisting print, images, and textures
while allowing the type and pictures from the recycled object
to become organically part of the portrait.

During the creative process, I discovered the need to deconstruct
then reconstruct the face to fit within the shape of the surface.
The results are portraits that have a shattered appearance
with broken and missing pieces but also form a more
powerful, interesting and often disturbing viewpoint.

Portraits on Recycled Trash
offers a glimpse into my own unique world,
that is filled with altered and more complex viewpoints
and an opportunity for the viewer to

Think Outside the Box.

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Dion Hitchings was born in Saint Louis, Missouri. His mother found out she was pregnant two weeks after his father’s funeral. He took up drawing at age three and never put the crayons down. Dion graduated from Washington University in Saint Louis and began a career in  art directing fashion advertising. He also met the person who would be his significant other for the next 23 years. He has worked in both Chicago and New York City.

After a series of changes within a four-year period, including losing his bf to a car accident, living through 9/11, and getting laid off, Dion altered his priorities. He got a new job, met someone new, and realized he needed to draw again.

Calling All Submissions!

Hey there, writers and artists!

We love sharing your work with the world…but in order to do that, we need work to share. To that effect, we’re calling all writers and artists (that’s YOU) to submit their labors of love.

Got a story you’ve been sitting on for a while? A couple of photos you’ve always thought were lovely? A project you’re working on? We’d love to see them! Our current theme is Coming of Age, but we’re accepting art in all forms on all topics.

Questions? Comments? Email us at ampersandlit@gmail.com. And spread the word!

Rose Who Was Afraid of Fairy Tales

Come closer, dear, and I’ll tell you a tale. Once upon a time, in a faraway land, on a dark and stormy night, there lived a little girl. Her name was Rose, and she was a princess. In fact, she was a very disgruntled princess. You see, it had been raining quite steadily all day. Normally Rose would not mind the weather–the castle was full of interesting nooks and crannies to explore–but not today. Today she’d been given a perfectly lovely new pony by her perfectly lovely new stepmother, and she wanted to go down to the stables to pet him.

Announcing…Themes!

We get a lot of requests for more specific submission tips: what exactly are you looking for? Do you have a particular topic in mind? Where can I even begin?

And while we’re not quite ready to give up free-form submissions altogether (so keep ’em coming, folks!), we did decide to give ourselves a bit of a chapter heading. So, starting this June, we’re going to curate submissions around a quarterly theme—which we’ll be announcing right here!

And what’s our first theme?

Here at Ampersand, we’re all about bringing people together, and nothing connects us more than the stories we all share.

The words “once upon a time” echo through you with reminders of childhood, lost dreams, and a space outside of time. Give us the unlikely, the ideal, the twisted, the light-hearted and brave. Give us that feeling that things aren’t always what they seem on the surface. Give us your true loves and your broken hearts.

Give us your fairy tales.

(And feel free to interpret that loosely.)

Flora, Who Was a Witch

If you ever happened to venture into the darkest part of the forest, far past the well-lit paths the village folk sometimes used, and a good distance away from the old, overgrown paths that only the brave and stupid dared to travel, you would find a little cottage. And in that little cottage, you would not find, as you might expect, a wizened old hermit, or even a frightful old witch.

You would find a frightful young witch—and more importantly, her daughter.

The witch’s daughter was named Flora and she had lived in the woods for her entire life. Unlike most children, Flora was never lectured on the many sharp-toothed dangers that lived in the shadowy groves and mossy hideaways. Flora’s mother often sent her on short trips into the woods, little journeys that she and her mother undertook in order to perform the various tasks that came with being self-appointed caretakers of the forest, and to map out the woods. As Flora grew, so did the map, which spread over the long wall of their cottage. To Flora, the forest seemed endless.

But she knew it wasn’t. Her mother often warned her about the villains that laid in waiting at the edges of the woods, men who called themselves princes and were in the habit of taking young maidens to their castles, where they were doomed to stay forever. No, it was dangerous in the fields and on the plains, and Flora was determined never to set foot beyond the safety of her beloved trees—not that she’d ever seen the edge of the woods, anyway.

“Do not go out into the light,” her mother warned her. “For if you do, you’ll surely be dragged off by some prince, trapped in a dreadful castle, and be made to stay there until you’re dead!” Her mother’s voice always rose to a horrible screech at the end of this speech, but Flora was well used to her mother’s odd temper, and she found it comforting in a strange sort of way. Never did she question her mother’s words, or wonder how it was that she knew so much about these awful princes.

So Flora grew older in the deep dark of the woods, learning the tools of her mother’s trade and never stepping into the sunlight. Coincidentally, Flora was quite pale. Her skin, which as a child had been a sheer, paper white, began to glow in her young adulthood. Herm other claimed she bore some resemblance to the poisonous mushrooms that bloomed in the night, but Flora preferred to compare her silky skin to moonlight, which she occasionally glimpsed through gaps in the trees above their little home.

Truth be told, Flora was quite pretty, especially for an apprentice wood witch. Her hair was long and dark, and her black eyes contrasted with her pale skin in a particularly fetching way. A lifetime of woods-dwelling had given her movements an easy grace, and a formidable adeptness for sneaking up on people besides. Suffice to say, Flora was pretty enough to tempt any of the princes who lived in the lands beyond the woods, not that she had any intentions of doing so.

Unfortunately, as Flora was growing older, so was her mother. And while Flora’s age brought her into the happy bloom of youth, her mother’s did the opposite, taking her from a frightful young witch to a frightful middle-aged witch. Years of bitterness and the effects of a mostly mushroom diet were taking their toll, and Flora started to notice that her mother was becoming sickly.

Flora attempted every spell and potion she could, but the sad truth was that her poor mother had lost the will to live, and her mother’s condition gradually worsened. Before long, she was confined to bed, moving only when great wracking coughs shook her frail body. Flora supposed that she could probably nurse her mother back to health if she could only get her to eat properly, but her mother refused. So, without much drama, Flora’s mother died.

Flora was, of course, very sad, and she spent many an afternoon crying into her twiggy pillow. But after seventeen years of living in the woods and caring for the many animals that dwelt there, she was much accustomed to death. And as the duties of the woods-witch began to pile up, she knew she had to go on with her life. Luckily, mapping out the woods provided her with a great distraction, and although she missed her mother, she began to notice how much busier she was now that she was a full-blown witch rather than just an apprentice. So, like most busy people, Flora began to multitask.

And that is how  it happened that one day, while out on yet another expedition to mark the boundaries of the forest, Flora stumbled into the company of another person for the first time in her life. She had been pushing further and further into the woods, hoping to find an actual edge, when she spotted a patch of herbs she’d been meaning to collect upon her return. Figuring that she might as well grab them now, she devoted her attention to digging up plant after plant until, without looking up, she found her way into a clearing.

A clearing with a horse in it.

And, on top of the horse, what she could only assume was a prince.

The terror set in immediately. Here she was, not even a year since her mother’s death, and she’d done exactly what her mother had always warned her not to do—walked directly in front of a man. Had she really come so close to the forest’s edge that she’d come across a spot that ordinary people dared to visit? Despite her dire circumstances, she couldn’t help but feel a little swell of pride. Still, maybe he hadn’t noticed her yet. Maybe she could still back away into the shadows. She turned away, hoping—

No such luck.

“What is such a beautiful maiden doing so far in the woods?” asked a slightly alarmed voice. Flora reluctantly turned back to the man on the horse. Her childhood fear of being trapped in a sunny castle suddenly sprang back, full force.

“Pay me no mind, good sir,” she said, voice shaking, both from panic and months of disuse. “I’ve just been gathering herbs for my poor mother at home.” She hoped that having someone waiting for her return might stop him from carrying her off.

“This is hardly a safe part of the woods for a gentle woman like yourself,” he said, and Flora noticed that his voice cracked slightly on the word safe. “Allow me to escort you back to your mother,” he said, sounding hopeful.

“Oh, sir, I couldn’t!” Flora responded. “It’s much too far of a journey, and I’m sure you’re far too busy to help a poor maiden like myself.”

“Nonsense!” he said, sounding confident now. “A true prince is never to busy to help a maiden in distress.” He dismounted heroically and walked towards Flora. “My quest can wait. I’ve been searching the woods high and low for the fearsome witch who’s said to live deep in the darkness, and I’m afraid I’ve made no progress at all.”

“Oh, I would hate to interrupt such an important quest, good prince; I’ll just be on my way.” Flora turned to go back into the woods the way she came.

“Miss! You’ll hardly find your way home in that direction—the edge of the woods lies in the opposite way. The only person who lives that way is the witch, and I’m sure you don’t wish to meet her alone. I myself would not, if  I didn’t need to save my own sick mother. For we’ve heard that the witch can sometimes be persuaded to help the sick…” his voice trailed off into wistfulness, and Flora felt a twist of pity at the mention of his mother. Perhaps, if her own mother had sometimes helped people—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to leave the woods. Maybe she could save his mother where she could not save her own.

“In any case,” said the prince, “I’ve not seen the witch, and I fear my quest is hopeless. I’m eager to return to my castle and leave this dreadful place before my mother passes from this world. Come with me.” Flora gulped, considering her options and weighing her fears.

“Perhaps I can help you, then,” she said, deciding. “I must admit I lied—my own mother is dead; indeed, she was the witch you search for.” The prince’s face paled at this. “But she trained me in her ways, and perhaps I could be of some help to your mother.”

“I—I—” he stammered, looking frightened. “I am sure this is wonderful news.” With clammy hands, he swung Flora onto his horse, mounted behind her, and began galloping down the path towards his kingdom. Flora was so busy thinking about her mother’s old warning to notice that the prince seemed to be scared of her now. But before very long, she realized that his head turned nervously whenever they rode through a particularly dark patch, and that his hands were sweating on the reins. For her part, Flora directed her attention to memorizing the path they were taking so she could add it to the map later, after she’d found her way home.

When they stopped for the night, Flora struck up a conversation with the prince, hoping that talking might stop him from frantically pacing around the small campfire. Gradually she learned that his name was Gareth and that he dearly loved to swim in the castle moat—the castle, she learned, was about one day’s ride away—and that he was one of seven brothers. An alarm rang in Flora’s mind. Seven? Seven princes! Even if Gareth showed no signs of wanting to lock her up in a tall tower, surely one of his brothers would. Still, she had promised to help, and she wasn’t about to back out now. Flora was so intent on this train of thought that she failed to notice that Gareth had stopped pacing. In fact, he seemed to be fascinated by her beauty, distracted by her skin, which was now glowing in the firelight. And slowly, his fear of her retreated, for how could someone so lovely be dangerous, even if she was a witch?

But even if Gareth was no longer shaking around Flora, he still was terrified by everything else—an annoying fact that Flora picked up on the next day. Above all, he was scared of the woods, telling Flora over and over again to watch out for their many dangers. Flora knew that other people didn’t love the woods the way that she and her mother did; her mother had explained that to her when Flora asked why no one else lived in them. But the prince talked about the woods the way that her mother had talked about princes—as if people who ran into them never returned.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Flora finally said, interrupting what sounded like the beginnings of a long and boring list of all the people Gareth had heard rumored to have disappeared into the forest. “Are you saying that the woods are deadly?”

“Not just deadly,” Gareth said knowingly. “The woods are the leading cause of death in the entire kingdom. My brothers never expect to see me again—that’s why the sent the unimportant middle brother.”

Gareth sounded surprised as he said this, as if realizing for the first time that he was actually going to leave the forest alive, quest complete.

“But I’ve spent my entire life in the forest,” Flora said, “And I’ve never found anything more dangerous than a misplaced wolf.”

Gareth gave her a long, frowning look. “Meaning no disrespect, lady, but a suspect that a witch born in the woods isn’t entirely safe herself,” he said. And they rode in silence for a while, each pondering the dangers the other posed to them.

***

Flora and Gareth arrived at the castle late in the afternoon to no fanfare at all. The guards looked surprised to see the prince return, but seemed too uncomfortable with Flora’s presence to say anything other than “Welcome back, your highness.” The castle’s staff were a little shocked as well, but no asked any questions—instead, Flora was quickly ushered to the queen’s chambers and assigned a few maids to fetch any supplies or provide extra hands should she have a need for them.

Left alone with the sleeping queen, Flora realized with a start that this would be her first attempt at ministering to a live patient, besides her mother, of course. Her mother, she knew, had on occasion met villagers on the outskirts of the woods to sell them charms and potions and such, but most of Flora’s witching had been done in the audience of her mother, and on animals. Seeing to an actual sick person was quite new. Seeing to an actual sick person in command of a large army was quite terrifying. Still, her youth gave her confidence, and anyway, most of those animals had been just fine.

The tale of how Flora healed the queen is actually quite boring. The queen’s illness, though debilitating, was hardly complicated, and had only progressed so far because the palace physicians were complete morons. With the constant application of various herbs and charms, the queen grew steadily better. After what felt like—and, indeed, was—months, the queen was finally well enough to get out of bed and the castle began to realize that she would make a full recovery.

The ease with which Flora had healed the queen did nothing to lessen the gratefulness of the castle’s inhabitants, especially the royal family. It wasn’t long before the princes and even the king began to visit Flora, bringing her token gifts of thanks and staring at her beauty. In less than a month, all the princes had fallen a bit in love with her—all, that is, except the eldest prince, who had yet to visit her. He had sent his thanks, but his crown princely duties kept her busy, too busy to socialize.

Flora, for her part, was looking forward to the day when the queen was, so to speak, out of the woods—at least enough that Flora could return to them. Despite her mother’s warnings, none of the princes seemed to show signs of locking Flora away in the castle, and it appeared like she would be allowed to go home. Flora took to wandering the palace gardens at night, because even though there were no trees (the people of the castle were too scared of the woods to risk an invasion so close to their home) it was the closest she could come to being back where she belonged. And it was there that Flora finally met the eldest prince.

One night, a full moon, Flora was walking through the shrubs and plants, humming because the queen was well enough to walk the length of her bedchamber twice that day, and she nearly stumbled into another person.

“My apologies,” she said, looking up into the face of her victim. “I never expect anyone to be here so late.” In all the evenings Flora had spent in the gardens, she had never seen anyone else come out after dark.

“You must be the wonderful witch who saved my mother,” she found the face saying. “I owe you my thanks.”

“Oh,” Flora breathed out, blushing because the prince was quite handsome—certainly much better looking than his brothers. “It was my pleasure to help.”

“I’m James,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve been too busy to thank you properly. I see you walking here every night—my bedchamber is there,” he gestured to a window facing the gardens, “and thought I would finally say my piece. You do look quite lovely in the moonlight; even lovelier up close.” Flora blushed again, not sure what to say, and the prince kissed her hand and bid her goodnight. As he walked away, she thought for the first time that staying in the castle might not be so bad after all.

For the next few nights, James began joining her on her evening walks, their conversations growing longer and more personal. Flora found herself blushing so often she was sure she looked sunburnt, as she had been when she arrived at the castle after riding in the open sun. Finally, after a week of these meetings, James told her that he wished to marry her. Flora agreed; James, she thought, might be worth a life imprisoned.

In the end, she supposed she should have seen the next bit coming.

***

It happened the next morning, when she was sitting with the queen while she drank her potion-infused broth.

“One of my sons, it seems, has fallen in love with you,” the queen said. Had James already spoken to his mother? He’d told her the night before that he was planning to. “And out of my gratitude for the help you’ve given me, I’m happy to agree to his wish to marry you.”

“Thank you,” Flora said excitedly. “I’m sure James and I will be very happy together.”

“James?” The queen frowned. “You mean Gareth, I suppose. Girls often get them mixed up.”

“Gareth?” Flora questioned. “Gareth is in love with me?” But the conversation halted there, as just then James entered the chambers.

“Mother! I’m glad to see up; I’ve something to ask you. Oh, Flora my dear, good, you’re here as well.”

The queen’s facial expression went from puzzled to shocked to amused as she realized what had happened.

“If you’ve come to ask to marry Flora, my darling son, I’m afraid it’s too late. I’ve already promised Gareth he could marry her.”

“But Flora has already promised to marry me, mother.”

“Well, that’s all well and good, but it wouldn’t be seemly for the crown prince to marry a woods-witch. A middle son, certainly, but you? Oh, that just wouldn’t do.”

“I’m in love with her mother, and she with me. Not Gareth. Besides, surely your life is worth a simple marriage?”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be seemly of me to deny a favor to my savior,” the queen said, mulling it over. “Very well. You will compete for her.”

“Compete for her?” James exclaimed. “But she’s already promised to be mine!”

“There’s nothing to be done. Gareth must be given his chance, after all. Flora shall choose the terms of the competition. Flora, dear?”

James realized that Flora had been silent for this entire exchange, and turned to find her lost in thought. She had been considering all her conversations with Gareth, wondering if she had missed the part where he confessed his love for her. And, with surprise, she realized that it was obvious—he did, after all, visit her far more often than the other princes, and always bearing gifts of some sort. She had thought that he was still scared of her witchy ways, that he was, perhaps, trying to keep her powers on his good side, but now she realized that he probably felt some ownership over her since he was the one who had brought her to the castle. His mind, she knew, was astoundingly simple, and to him, this probably seemed like the only way their tale would end.

She did not want to marry Gareth.

“Flora, love,” James was staring into her eyes. “How shall Gareth and I compete for your love?”

“Compete?” she asked stupidly, realizing that she had probably just missed an important conversation.

In the end, though, her choice was simple—the princes would have to spend a week in the woods, collecting various plants and things, and whoever gathered the most would win. Most of the castle, she knew, expected Gareth would win, since had had already been in and out of the woods. Most people still thought that he had actually gone to the depths of the forest to find her, and Gareth had done nothing to encourage them to think otherwise. Flora, though, knew that Gareth was terrified at the thought of the woods, and James—handsome, responsible, brave James— didn’t mind the dark trees at all.

When the time came, Gareth couldn’t even enter the woods. Flora wasn’t worth enough to brave the danger again, and he reluctantly relinquished his claim.

James was too fair to let that stand as enough of a forfeit—he went into the woods anyways. A week later he returned and took Flora the woods-witch as his wife.Well, former woods-witch, that is. Now that she was a princess, the king and queen made it clear that she wouldn’t be returning to the woods She could continue to practice her charms in the respectable setting of the caste, but no member of their family would be known as a crazy forest-dweller. James provided her with some comfort on this front, assuring her that when he was king, they would plant trees in the garden, but still, Flora missed her home.

More and more, she thought about her mother’s warning. She had, it seemed, been locked up in the castle—and entirely of her own choosing. The guilt of abandoning her past threatened to overwhelm her, until she found with surprise that she was with child. Just like that, Flora began to form a plan.

Luckily for Flora, the king and queen soon died—poisoned in their beds. Most of the castle suspected the jealous and bitter Gareth, who disappeared after their funeral. Flora believed he was the culprit, mostly, but a small part of her wondered if James had been responsible, getting rid of his aging parents for their part in her misery.

Either way, James and Flora became the new king and queen, and true to his word, James let Flora begin planting trees in the palace gardens. The servants and peasants complained, but they began to love the slow-growing inhabitants of their garden, becoming accustomed to the shade and fruit.

On the morning after their new prince was born, the people of the castle awoke to find themselves in the woods, or so they thought.

Slowly, the realized that Flora had been busier than they thought, planting seeds all the way to the forest’s edge and all the way to the outskirts of the kingdom (it wasn’t a very large kingdom). With all of the power surging through her body, she’d forced the trees to sprout a century’s worth of growth overnight. The kingdom was now part of the forest.

James pretended to be angry, but soon enough the kingdom took on its identity as the woods country, proudly claiming the entire forest as their own and hailing Flora as the wisest queen in ages.

Many more adventures would befall the people of the forest kingdom, but those are tales for another day. For now, it is enough to know that Flora had spent so much of her magic growing a forest overnight that she could hardly be called a witch anymore. Instead, she nursed her infant son, made her charms, and continued mapping out the land that would always be her home.

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Jenny Kawecki is an aspiring author, a fairy tale enthusiast, and a general lover of things. 23 years ago she was an awkward infant, and has since had the good sense to grow into an even more awkward adult. She currently lives with her husband in Annapolis, Maryland, and can usually be found curled up at home with a book or stuck in front of her laptop, editing articles for Ampersand Lit.

Blanche and the Seven Boys

When I was born, my mother insisted on naming me Blanche, though I can’t imagine why—I’d ask her, but she’s been dead for quite a while. My father, who wasn’t present at the birth, did nothing to try to talk her out of it, so I was stuck with the name, the first of many unpleasant things in life I’d be unable to avoid.

After she died and my father remarried, my stepmother took to calling me Princess. It was an attempt, I think, at winning me over, and one that mostly worked. With twelve years of hearing my name mangled and mocked under my belt, I was ready for any change.

My stepmother was so nearly identical to my mother in both looks and temperament, I had to wonder if my father had access to a secret cloning factory. Both were the fragile, trembling sort of women who tend toward mild vanity and weekend trips to the spa. And both were intent on raising me as their protégé. I would love to say I missed my mother, but the truth is, I barely noticed her absence. The weekly beautician visits, the etiquette lessons and catered luncheons, the carefully planned interactions with other society individuals all carried on as scheduled. The only difference between them was that my stepmother never, ever called me “her little Blanchette”—an irksome redundancy—and therefore she was perfect.

Of course, everything changed with my father’s death.

It wasn’t that my stepmother stopped loving me, or that either of us missed my father terribly. He hadn’t been present often enough to miss. But the nature of his death—sudden and shocking, and totally unlike my mother’s debilitating decline—was enough to disturb us both. With the added stress of managing the reorganization of my father’s multi-million dollar company (which he had, almost unbelievably, left in my stepmother’s completely incapable hands), my stepmother fell apart. Already a slave to her nerves, she developed a series of phobias and refused to leave her rooms, communicating only in the form of written notes slipped under the door which, more often than not, simply requested another bottle of vodka.

For months, the staff didn’t bother to trouble her with my madness. When I refused to leave the gardens outside our home, they set up a tent for me. When I started talking to the animals, they joined in. When I started compulsively scrubbing the porch stairs, they brought me fresh buckets of water and bandages for my bleach-cracked hands. But when I attempted to drown myself in the well, they finally slipped a long note under the door. The following morning they found a response, containing just two words:

Doctor Miir

---

Here at the asylum, they don’t bother calling by name at all. The orderlies call me “miss” or “ma’am” when they have to, but when they think they’re out of my hearing, they call me what everyone else in the ward calls me: “the girl.” I’m one of eight patients in the adolescent psych ward here, and the only girl.

Some of the guys are actually troubled, like me—orphaned rich kids whose minds are opting for the road less traveled by—but most of them have just been deposited here by parents too busy to keep tabs on them. We’ve banded together, the boys and I. We entertain each other, tell stories of our pasts, share baked goods and the miscellaneous contents of care packages, play pranks on each other, but most importantly, we help each other try to escape.

We make at least one attempt a week, sometimes together, sometimes individually, but always once a week. We have yet to succeed, but I don’t think this really surprises any of us. I can’t speak for the boys, but I, for one, am not really trying. I have nothing for me outside these walls. I don’t think they do, either; none of us have had any visitors in the three months I’ve been here.

Until today, that is.

Today marks the first time we will actually see Dr. Miir. We’ve heard his name mentioned, of course—“Dr. Miir would like to request a blood sample” or “Dr. Miir would appreciate it if you completed this questionnaire”—but none of us have actually spoken to him.

We are all, the seven boys and I, gathered together in the ward’s community room, awaiting our turn to talk to the doctor. I, it seems, will be last. We sit in silence as we are pulled out one by one. At some point, Chester tries to break the tension with an old story about his crazy ex-girlfriend (“Real crazy,” he says, “not just sad like all of us”), but it’s half-hearted and his voice trails off before he gets to the good part. Normally, we’d all laugh at exactly the right places, but not today.

The waiting is the worst when it’s just me. I feel the tick of the clock as each seconds passes, swear the slight vibration is actually pressing into skull. There are magazines on the coffee table in front of me, but I can’t touch them. I can’t move. I can’t even blink. I wonder, briefly, if the water in the toilet is enough to drown myself in, but I already know it’s not (I’ve tried), so I stay put.

“Miss?” The orderly motions that I should follow her. I do, marveling that my legs are working properly. She leads me back to my own room, where I find a slight, middle-aged gentleman waiting for me. He’s sitting on a stool, a clipboard propped on his knee, and he gestures to my bed. I sit, and the orderly leaves.

“Hello, Blanche,” he says. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

His hair is greying and very well groomed, and it makes me self-conscious of my own disheveled locks. I idly twist a strand between my fingers, waiting for him to continue.

“As you know, I’ve been studying you for some time now.” Dr. Miir pauses, watching at me, and I nod. “I believe I have developed a treatment for you and the boys. It’s experimental, but it should improve your mood significantly. Your stepmother has already signed the release form.”

I stare at him, unsure what to say. In the months that I’ve been here, the madness has mostly receded. Sure, I still attempted suicide now and then, but being around the boys, being around people who care about me again, seems to have worked wonders. Do I need treatment?

Sensing my hesitation, he pulls a pill bottle from his coat pocket, holds it out to me, and adds, “The boys have already agreed to undergo the trial.”

And that’s all it takes. I grab the bottle, down a pill, and the world goes black.

---

When I come to, the boys are with me. Dr. Miir, it turns out, was lying. The boys didn’t agree to undergo the trial; I am the only one. I try to feel sad about this, but I don’t.

We’re not sure what’s going to happen now. No one has ever taken the medication. Anything could happen.

The boys watch me expectantly, worriedly, for a few minutes before Chester launches into his story once again. This time, we all laugh in the right places, and by the time Chester makes it all the way to the punch line at the end, we’re in an uproar. But something is different, and I can see that the boys notice it, too—my laugh is off, fake-sounding, and I realize that the story isn’t funny to me anymore.

---

Over the next few weeks it becomes clear: I am dead.

Well, not really. Just dead inside. At least, that’s what Dr. Miir is calling it. He’s come back twice since his initial visit—first to make sure I was taking the pills as instructed, and then to tell me to stop. His medication doesn’t work exactly as planned, it seems. It blocks the pain, the suicidal tendencies, but it blocks everything else, too.

I’m no longer depressed, it’s true. I am a void. I wander the ward, watching the boys as they continue their activities as usual (last week’s escape attempt was the closest yet; I almost thought Brian and Scat were going to make it out), but I don’t take part. I don’t talk. I don’t feel. I try to spend as much time as possible asleep, because at least the time goes by faster.

I haven’t been taking the pills for two days now, but their effect appears to be permanent. I am a sleepwalker. I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep when Chester comes in to tell me stories. He’s been doing this every night since the first: so far he’s told me all about ages seven, eight, and fourteen. Each time he leaves, I see his shoulders hunch a little more, and I know that if I could really do anything, I’d do my best not to wake up.

---

Dr. Miir has attempted several reversals now, but my condition is only getting worse. My mental lethargy is spreading to my body; my organs are slowing down, their production drawing closer and closer to nothing, and I am bound to my bed.

Nothing helps. Miir went through food therapy, shock therapy, hypnosis, and everything in between. They even tried (with my stepmother’s approval, of course) stopping and restarting my heart. I can no longer speak, though my eyes remain open. The boys are sitting here, tear tracks marking their sweet faces, and I know they are trying to say goodbye. The pain would be unbearable, I imagine, if I could feel it. Instead, I focus on the passing of time, the ticking of the clock, waiting for the boys to give up and leave.

But when the door opens, it’s not them leaving. Dr. Miir enters.

“I have one final option,” he says. He looks much more tired than when I met him a month and a half ago. I notice that his hair is no longer kempt; the grey patches are larger. “Hormone therapy.”

Seven heads turn to look at him; my own is still. “As an adolescent, your body’s hormones might still be rampant enough to be interfering with the benefits of the medication. Or, conversely, elevating your hormone levels might be enough to halt the adverse effects of your medication.”

“What are you saying?” Thom asks.

“I’m saying,” Miir pauses, as if the words are causing him pain, “that positive physical stimulation might be the solution.”

“You’re saying we should kiss her,” Brian says. Miir nods.

“Worth a shot,” Alex says. And so they do—one by one, each of the boys gets up, shuffles to my bed, and awkwardly pecks my lips. With every kiss, every lack of reaction, I see the hope fade from their eyes, until finally Chester is the last one left.

He looks into my eyes, smiles, and whispers, low enough that I’m the only one that can hear, “I always wanted to do this. Doctor’s orders.” And when he kisses me, it’s barely noticeable at first—a little warmth in my fingers, a faster beep on the heart rate monitor. But when Chester wipes at my cheek with his thumb and it comes away wet, it hits me: I’m waking up.

“I knew there was something there,” Scat says, breaking the silence, and I look around to see six teary faces and one very relieved doctor. Everyone laughs, even Dr. Miir.

“I would advise caution,” he says, “But the more hormonal stimulation, the faster and better your recovery should go.”

“Guess we should clear the room, then,” Brian quips, and the guys all slap Chester on the back as they leave us in peace. As the door closes behind them, Chester grins at me.

“Have I told you about my crazy girlfriend?” he asks. Then he touches his lips to mine, and when the tingle shoots all the way to my toes, it’s the first thing I’ve felt in weeks.

---

Jenny Kawecki is an aspiring author, a fairy tale enthusiast, and a general lover of things. 22 years ago she was an awkward infant, and has since had the good sense to grow into an even more awkward adult. She currently lives with her husband in Annapolis, Maryland, where she can usually be found curled up with a book or editing articles for Ampersand Lit, which she co-runs with the amazing Clare Moore.

You can follow her on Twitter @JennyGrudzy.

Kissing, Tense

“The trouble with me, I think, is that I’m always remembering—what I had for lunch, what some dude said to me on the train this morning, what that Brian looked like when he kissed me for the first time. You know what I mean?”

I want to pay attention to what Emma is saying, but instead my brain has frozen in the middle of her sentence. “Brian kissed you?”

She blinks at me, pausing in the middle of taking a drag from her cigarette. “Yeah,” she says, slowly, eyes not moving from mine, “Last week, in the break room. I told you about that, right? When we had coffee on Monday?”

I shake my head. “We didn’t have coffee last Monday. Remember? You had a gym thing.” The gym thing was a lie; I had known it then and I knew it now, staring at the far-away grin that was taking over her face.

“Right, the gym thing.”

I hoped my poker face was intact; hoped she couldn’t see my frustration that she was once again kissing a boy that wasn’t me.

“Well, he kissed me. In the break room. Had this weird, ‘I’m concentrating on kissing you’ look on his face the whole time, but I forgave him for it since he’s such a good kisser. I swear, we’ve hardly stopped since. My lips are actually getting chapped, a bit.”

I bite back a sigh. My frustration is two-fold. First: I would like to be the boy kissing Emma in the break room. But that issue has long since been put on the back burner, ever since I realized that hanging on to my unrequited love would never be worth the cost of not being friends with Emma. Really, it’s the second bit that’s getting me: I would like to be the boy kissing anyone, period. In the break room or in a creepy back alley or (preferably) in my apartment, on my wonderfully comfortable couch.

Emma is tapping her cigarette against the curb, and I bring myself back to the conversation.

“So this is good, right? You guys have been dancing around each other for weeks now.” Which is true. We’ve all been watching the two of them pretend to be discreet about their flirting, waiting for the tipping point.”

“Yeah,” Emma says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I guess.” She pauses, and I know more is coming. There’s always more with Emma. “I think I can only fall in love with memories,” she says as she grinds the butt of her cigarette into the pavement.

“Oookay,” I say. “Are you telling me you’ll only realize you’re in love with me after I’m dead?”

She barks out a laugh, quick and light, but then grows serious again. “No, not that.” She runs a hand through her hair, ruffling the back. “I mean…I love the rose-colored after-images. The leftovers of a good day or a good kiss or whatever. But in the moment? I feel nothing. I’ve tried. When Brian’s kissing me, I try to feel all gooey and romantic, but I can’t.”

“All right,” I say. “What do you feel?”

“Nothing,” she responds, too fast. “No, not nothing. More like I’m aware. Too aware. Too present. How do you even get lost in a moment?”

“I think you’re over-thinking it,” I say. “Maybe you should just kiss someone and focus on the kissing. Or on taking their clothes off,” I add with a wink. “Or you could pretend the present is a memory, and just—“ Before I finish the thought, I’m interrupted by her lips on mine.

For a second, I’m glad to be the boy who’s kissing someone, somewhere. Other people right now are wishing they were kissing someone, and I’m the one doing it.

Then all I can think is Shit, Emma’s lips. They’re soft, but she’s right—they are getting chapped. I can’t stop myself from thinking that it’s Brian’s fault they’re chapped, and wondering how he would feel about this now. Seeing Emma and I, together, kissing on the curb behind the shopping center. Will he find out?

I’m just starting to wake to the moment, to realize that Emma’s hands were brushing over my body and her tongue was in my mouth, when she pulls away, a smug smile on her face.

“See, it’s not so easy to stay in the present, is it?”

It’s a testament to our friendship that she can tell my mind is wandering even while she’s frenching me on our ten-minute break.

“Guess you’re right,” my mind is not really on our words, though. I’m thinking about how we’ll deal with this moment tomorrow, next week, next month. Are we still friends?

“Don’t worry so much, Jim-bo,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “I was just proving a point.”

“Okay.” I nod, trying to shut off the worry. “I’m going back in. You coming?”

“In a minute,” she waves another cigarette at me, sprung from some pocket or hidden crevice. “I’ve got a quick date with lung cancer.” This girl, I swear; she’s got smokes stashed everywhere.

“All right,” I say. “We’ll talk more on Monday? Over coffee? No blowing me off to make out again.”

_

It’s later that night, and I’m at a house party. I haven’t been to a house party since I can’t remember when, but something about the day made me need to get out. Okay, not something—Emma’s kiss. I’m still busy worrying about it, even though she told me not to.

Two beers later, and I’m annoyed with myself. Emma says she can only fall in love with memories, but I think I’m the opposite. I want to capture that feeling again, that moment of being the guy who’s finally getting the girl, but every time I glance at a girl here, I think of us five months down the road. Will I still know her? Still want to toss her onto a bed or kiss in hidden corners? And how will she get along with Emma?

I grab another drink, hoping I can wash away this dumb preoccupation. And it works, mostly. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve introduced myself to an Emma-like girl who’s been eyeing me all night.

“James,” I say, and wish I was the type of person who would forget the name she says next.

“Alex,” she says. “Want a smoke?” Seeing my stare, she adds, “I know I should stop but I just can’t seem to.”

“Sure,” I say, nodding to the back door even though I don’t smoke, just watch Emma while she does. We walk outside, and before the first ashes hit the ground, her hands are on my waist and my mouth is attached to hers. She moans, just a little, and already I’m imaging telling Emma about this, imagining bringing Alex to meet her at work, and shuddering at the thought.

Alex must think it’s because of this kiss, though, because she deepens it. I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, thinking about the drunk party story this will probably turn into some day.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll stay in the present. Today I’m stuck in the future, still far away from my past-tense girl.

---

Jenny Kawecki is an aspiring author, a fairy tale enthusiast, and a general lover of things. 22 years ago she was an awkward infant, and has since had the good sense to grow into an even more awkward adult. She currently lives with her husband in Annapolis, Maryland, and can usually be found curled up at home with a book or stuck in front of her laptop, editing articles for Ampersand Lit.

Last Mothers’ Day

It happens like this every year: I fade out, slowly at first, and then more quickly, until all at once I am achey and slow and detached. I think I am PMSing, or maybe dying. Then I hear an ad on the radio or see a box of floral-wrapped chocolates and I remember. Mothers’ Day is almost here.

Is it typical to feel sucker-punched by a minor holiday? I’m not sure. Is it normal to have such a bodily reaction to grief, even eight years later? Perhaps grief has no conventions.

All that I’m really sure of is that this day, with its pastel-colored cookies and pink roses, seems intended to unapologetically remind me of the vacancy in my life, starting with the well-intentioned busy-bodies of the world.

“What are you getting your mom for Mothers’ Day?”

I can tell you, because I have tried, that avoiding this question is impossible. I can also tell you that for a brief, awkward moment, I enjoy the look of horror I get when I respond with as much blunt force as possible, “She’s dead.” Then I recall for the tenth time of the day everything my mother endured, the hope-filled tragedy of the last Mothers’ Day we had, and the fullness of my despicable nature hits me.

*

It went something like this: I baked a cake. Carrot, which was her favorite. The icing was lopsided and the words were difficult to read, and my childish insistence that it was the thought that counted did not hold up against my father’s insistence that we do this right. I scraped off the icing and tried again. My brothers carried a plant, not flowers, because my father claimed that flowers were for the dead.

I hadn’t even contemplated death as an option.

In fact, our Mothers’ Day celebration was two-fold: the usual festivities, of course, but also the joy of a family whose matriarch was coming home from the hospital. The doctors claimed her cancer was on the mend, that remission was a possibility, and we were thrilled. The hospital room, drab and impersonal, felt bright and full of light. Mom was even able to eat some cake.

As it turned out, she wasn’t getting better. Over the course of the next two weeks, her life expectancy dropped from several years to several months to several weeks to maybe days. Between attending school and being shuffled off to friends’ houses, I barely saw my mother again. So this is my final memory of her—so very thin but still smiling, feet swathed in blue hospital socks, laughing as she admires the blooming plant—tainted by the knowledge that the joy was false, the celebration almost a joke in light of the weeks to come.

*

“It’s okay; it’s not a big deal,” I will add, at least twelve times this year, and watch with mild (guilty) amusement as the tension eases off their faces, replaced by the relief of having moved on.

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