Not My Responsibility

Take a wild guess about who this one is about.

You are not my responsibility.
You are your own person,
an adult.
Act like one.
You are fully capable of providing for yourself
so do it.
Don't depend on me,
on anyone else to keep giving and giving.
I have nothing to give
and even if I did,
I wouldn't.
You don't deserve it.
You deserve nothing for the nothing you do.
You are no my responsibility.

Our Halloween

Since yesterday I was busy most of the day so I didn't have time to post my story. I wrote a Halloween themed short story. I actually really like this one, because it's pretty basic and simple, but it's still got this substance to it that makes it rad. Of course I'll let you guys be the judge of it.

It's a well-known myth that All Hallows' Eve is the best time for the spirits of the dead to “come to life,” so to speak. Several cultures revolve the last day of October around the notion that they can communicate with the deceased, connect with a loved one, or that the evil spirits will run amuck and terrorize those still living. I'd always been open to the beliefs and ghost stories I'd hear come every Halloween. I found everything supernatural so intriguing and buried myself in that sort of information. It became a fascination―not so much an obsession like my peers called it―because I'd always hoped there was something greater beyond this world.

For as long as I could remember, Jeremy and I would spend every Halloween together since we were kids. We started out trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, graduated to school dances, eventually moved on to costume parties at friends' houses, but then we lost interest in the same old happenings with the same people we saw all the time. When we were in high school and college Halloween just became a night to have parties, get drunk and hopefully hook up with some random guy or girl whose name was never learned. That's when we started doing our own thing, just the two of us.

It was a tradition from our younger years that we would bring the candy that each other liked. It had become a problem when neither of us would get the specific candy we liked when we trick-or-treated, so to make sure that by the end of the night we would be snacking on the candy of our liking, we'd exchange a bag of the candy we wanted. The first time I bought Jeremy his bag of Snickers I had to sneak money out of my piggy bank when I was seven and ask my older sister if she could go to the store and buy it for me―and not to tell mom and dad. I hid the candy at the bottom of my bag and right before we would turn onto our street and Jeremy and his dad would go down theirs, we'd sneak each other our bags of candy―Jeremy would get his Snickers and I'd take home a bag of Recess Peanut Butter Cups. We felt so dangerous at the time.

Jeremy and I didn't have to secretly buy each other the bags of candy as we got older and could go to the store by ourselves. In college, we couldn't even wait until later that night, so we would bring the bags of candy to school. Our friends thought we were weird, carrying on a silly tradition from our childhood, but as Jeremy put it, “without silly childhood traditions, we lose the simplicity of life.”

When parties and hook ups got too overrated and became the normalcy of our friends, Jeremy and I started spending our Halloween nights watching one movie―It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown―then we would walk around in our neighborhood and go to a small park, where we'd sit under an aging oak tree, exchange our candy, and just spend the rest of the night enjoying each other's company. He would always ask me to tell stories of a supernatural creature, a different one every year. Since it was my area of expertise, I never denied some storytelling.

Jeremy, who would often go off and think out loud about the spirit world, would start talking about the deceased and how he hoped that they still got to have a Halloween every year. He wanted to know that he could still spend October 31, sitting under an old tree in some park, getting sick on Snickers and talking with me for hours. I told him that I didn't know for sure what would happen after we died, but I knew that we would be together, enjoying each other's company.

The second year we would spend Halloween at the park, Jeremy brought along a small little box, as tiny as a jewelry box you give as a gift. He told me, “Make a wish,” as he handed me a small slip of paper and a pen. In Jeremy's mind, special nights called for special wishes, and Halloween was definitely our special night. We'd write our wishes down then he would put it in the box, bury it under the tree in the spot where we would sit, where it would wait for us to come back the next year―another one of our traditions. The last time that we wrote our wishes down, something was different about the way Jeremy acted. He stared at his piece of paper for a long time, then after a while, he flipped it over and wrote something else on the back. I asked him what he wrote down but he refused to tell me. The deal we'd made was that we wouldn't ever read each other's wishes, but one year, when the time was right, we would go through all of our wishes and see if any of them had come true. I asked him, “How're we gonna know when the time is right?” Jeremy just looked at me and said, “We'll know.”

The following summer Jeremy got pushed into traffic when he tried to stop a fight that was going on between two groups of guys on a busy street downtown. He didn't know any of the guys involved in the fight, but that didn't matter, he still tried to stop what was going on. There was a big moving truck speeding down the road when Jeremy got pushed out onto the road. He fell on his back and didn't have enough time to get back up before the truck hit him. He died instantly.

The first Halloween that I wouldn't be spending with Jeremy was the hardest. He was my best friend for life, and all of a sudden I had no best friend in my life. I almost decided that I couldn't do my normal traditions of this time of the year. It felt like I would be continuing on with something that was mine and Jeremy's: it belonged to the both of us, and without the other, it just didn't seem right. But something inside of me―maybe Jeremy's voice that I often heard when it was real quiet―told me that I should still go through our Halloween traditions.

I watched It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown by myself, laughing and smiling quietly. When it was done I walked to the grocery store to pick up a bag of Snickers and headed out to the park. It was deserted, at eleven-thirty at night, with most people already home or still busy at parties or out in the city. I walked along a dark road that lead me to the neighborhood park that I spent lots of my time at as a little girl. When I got close to the oak tree we'd sit under, I couldn't walk any further. I stood a good thirty feet away from it and chose to sit on the faded green, wooden bench for a little.

Light posts were scattered around the park, but only a few, since it was a rather small playing area in our town. You could see the orange and yellow leaves hanging onto the branches, and the sound of the rustling leaves echoed when the wind would blow through the trees. I closed my eyes and sat silently for along time, breathing slowly, and remembered all the times I'd spent with Jeremy on that night years before. My head finally felt calm, after three months of mourning over the loss of Jeremy, and my heart felt like it was at peace.

I brought along with me a small shovel and a new piece of paper. I wrote my wish down and folded it in half then stuck it in my pocket. I carried my backpack over with me to the tree, walking very slowly as I eased my way toward the oak tree. When I got closer I could see that the dirt that our wish box was usually buried under looked like it had been dug up. The ground was loose around it, and like a classic Halloween cliché, I felt a shiver go up my spine.

I didn't really need the shovel to dig up the dirt, but I used it anyway, and found the small box, its gold color faded and dirty. I took the bag of Snickers out of my bag and placed it against the trunk of the tree. Seeing the unopened bag of candy in front of me was so unusual; Jeremy would rip open the bag and devour those Snickers before I could get through five of my Recess Peanut Butter Cups. I held the small box in my hand and stood up. I figured that it was a good time to open it and read our wishes we had written down, and that's when I saw it. I took a few steps to the side, around the trunk of the tree and saw a bright orange bag of Recess Peanut Butter Cups, just sitting there on the roots and grass. Hesitant, thinking that I was imagining all of this in my mind, I waited a few moments until I picked it up and sure enough, it was real.

I frantically looked around the park, expecting to see someone walking, maybe even running away from the area. But there was no one around, not a single person in the park but me. And even if there was someone there, how would he or she know about our candy exchange? Neither of us had told anyone about it; even as teenagers and young adults, we still liked having our secrets just between the two of us, just like when we were kids.

Without thinking, I called out his name. “Jeremy?” I was surprised at how much my voice cracked as I said his name. It was shaky, and quiet, almost too soft for anyone to hear me.

I got no response. I was hoping for some kind of sign―a gust of wind, the lamps to flicker―but only silence surrounded me.

I walked back over to the other side of the tree, sat down and put my bag of Recess Peanut Butter Cups next to the bag of Snickers. I opened the small box to see a stack of little folded pieces of paper. We had put the most recent wishes at the bottom of the stack, so all I had to do was start from the top. The first few wishes made me laugh. I had written I wish I had enough money for an iPod and I wish that I will get into my #1 college. Jeremy had wished for the perfect summer after graduation and to see his older brother graduate from the Air Force Academy―both of his came true. I kept reading the rest of the wishes and noticed that as the years went by, some of Jeremy's wishes sounded more like fantasies.

After we graduated from college, Jeremy would talk a lot about starting a new life, moving to a new place and doing whatever he wanted to do. He had this romanticized view on life and the capabilities of humans. He and I both weren't satisfied with our mediocre lives we lived in our small town underneath our parents' thumbs, but unlike Jeremy, I didn't think that taking a risk like leaving town and starting all over was worth it. I got to the last wish he had written the year before and almost didn't want to open it. If I kept it closed without taking a peak as to what it said, it might have been as if our Halloween traditions had never come to an end. But again, I heard a voice inside me that told me to open the slip of paper and read it.

Almost immediately after I read the words written in Jeremy's handwriting, straight but wispy letters, I began to cry. Never in a million years did I expect to read such a wish:

I wish that Alice won't ever feel alone even after I'm gone.

It was haunting, to say the least, that Jeremy had written that as his last wish the Halloween before he died. It was almost as if he knew that something was going to happen, something that would break up our partnership. I put his last piece of paper on my knee then took the one I had written earlier that night out of my pocket. It was ironic, the things that Jeremy and I would do; sometimes we did things that twins do, sensing each other's emotions and behaving similarly, on the same wavelength. I looked at my wish, wiping my tears dry: I wish that Jeremy knew how much I missed him. And in classic Jeremy fashion, anticipating things to happen is a cosmic way, I saw what he had written on the back of his last wish: For Halloween 2009: Alice, I know.

All of a sudden, I started laughing quietly to myself. We had been through so much together that I should've known even if we were ever apart, nothing could separate us. “Things work in mysterious ways,” as Jeremy would often tell me, “you should know, Miss Supernatural Queen.” I would roll my eyes and playfully punch him in the arm when he told this to me, but it wasn't until that first Halloween without him that I really experienced what I had read so much about.

I had no idea how the bag of Recess Peanut Butter Cups appeared by the tree that Jeremy and I would sit under on Halloween night. No one was around and no one knew of our secret tradition. I couldn't explain his last wish he wrote down in 2008, and I definitely know why he wrote on the back of that wish, addressing it to me. Jeremy was special, to say the very least.

I set out on Halloween night afraid of dishonoring traditions I had with my best friend for life. It was such a struggle to go on and do our things without him by my side, but to forget our things and not continue them would be even worse. I put away all our wishes back into the box and reburied it beneath the old oak tree. I tore open my bag of candy and ate about six Recess Peanut Butter Cups, with Jeremy's bag of Snickers sitting next to me. When I finally left the park early in the morning on November 1, I left the bag of candy under the tree, but I took with me a new understanding of my friendship with Jeremy. He might not be walking beside me every step of the way anymore, but he's always watching over me, wherever I am. And every Halloween, we'll have our showing of It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, our exchange of Snickers for Recess Peanut Butter Cups, and new wishes will always be made.

Forgotten beauty

Listen to the lonely dessert
It will whisper to you the secrets you long to hear
In the dark of the night
So still and silent
Confidential it will be
With the wanderer who takes a moment
To lend an ear
To give appreciation
To a forgotten beauty

Supernatural: Convincing the brothers

Continuation of the Supernatural fic.

Dean grunted. “Well educated? You look like you're thirteen.”

Kim glared at him. “And you look like you're thirty-five,” she retorted.

Without warning, Sam burst out in laughter, bending over and covering his mouth. He knew that Dean's age was a touchy subject―since he was no longer in the “prime of his youth”―so he always took pleasure whenever he or someone else would bring up his age. Sam looked back up to find Dean's angered eyes staring at him.

Sam cleared his throat, “Sorry,” he said.

Annoyed, Dean snapped his head back to face Kim. “Okay. I've had about enough of this, and enough of your smart-ass comments,” he said, pointing at Kim. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Fine,” she mumbled, picking at her jeans. There was a tear just above her knee that she had been fiddling with for some time, making the hole bigger than it needed to be. “I came here to help you,” she answered.

Dean scoffed, raising his eyebrows. “Help us? How can you help us?” He tucked his hands into his jacket pocket, cocking his head to side, waiting for her reply. The last thing he needed was help from some teenage girl.

“I'm what you call a...a, um, a hunter historian,” Kim said.

“A hunter historian?” Sam repeated, not familiar with that term. For a moment he thought that Kim was making that term up. He had been hunting for years, and to not know something like that confused him.

Kim shrugged her shoulders. “You can also call me a hunter's aid.”

“What's that?” Dean asked.

She dropped her head, frustrated. “It's a person that aids hunters, duh.” Kim looked over at Sam, and asked, “Does he always ask stupid questions like this?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” he answered, only to receive another glare from Dean. “You know some stuff about hunting?” Sam asked, disregarding the heavy stares coming from his brother.

Kim smirked, “I know a lot more than just 'some stuff' Sam,” she corrected him.

Dean took his hands out of his pockets and crossed them over his chest, standing up straight. “So you a hunter?” He looked over the short, dark haired girl. She couldn't have been taller than five-three, of Asian descent, maybe with some Mexican mixed in there. Kim didn't look physically strong so it was easy for Dean to doubt the fact that she could be a hunter.

“I've gone toe-to-toe with some demons before,” she nodded.

“Oh, really?” Dean asked skeptically.

Kim rolled her eyes, ignoring the badgering Winchester brother to her right. “But I specialize in the history of everything supernatural,” she told them. “I know everything there is to know: about every culture, every continent, past lifetimes, the whole shebang. And if I don't, I have ways of finding out.”

“Wow, do you have a life?” Dean jeered.

She turned to Dean. “This coming from the guy that's spent more than half his life tagging along his dad, slaying vampires, chasing ghosts, and fighting demons just for the hell of it?” Kim watched as Dean was about to open his mouth, but quickly stopped himself before saying anything. “Yeah, exactly. We're all a little crazy. But you're right, I don't really have a life, at least not a normal one. But then, would I really want a normal life an of eighteen-year-old? No, I've made this my priority. I know what I do, and I do it well.”

The brothers exchanged looks. There was a softness in Sam's eyes―almost sympathetic―while he listened to Kim talk about her estranged teenage life. His first impression of Kim was like Dean's: skeptical. To find a girl in their motel room late at night (or rather, early morning) talking about Yellow Eyes and hunting would cause suspicion for any other hunter out there. Yet as she explained herself, Sam couldn't help but form some kind of trust toward her. Not just anybody would know about Yellow Eyes, or have the skill to find the somewhat untraceable Winchester brothers. So there had to be some kind of truth to what Kim was telling them.

Dean, on the other hand, was still apprehensive about Kim. It was hard for him to open up to people and have faith in the every day person―especially because you could never tell if there was a demon controlling that person inside or not. His arms were still crossed, brow narrowed, but although he wanted to throw the girl out and forget this little encounter happened, he already knew that Sam would object.

“Okay,” Sam nodded. “So you want to help us with our cases?”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “I can give you the information you need for any kind of being. How to find it, what makes it tick, and how to send it back to the pit where it belongs.”

Dean smirked. “Well we already got Sammy for that job and―”

“But I'd happily give up that position,” Sam interjected, sitting down on one of the beds. “What?” he asked, looking up at his brother. “I don't exactly enjoy being your information gopher.”

Feeling that he was being ganged up on, Dean got down to the serious question. “Okay. So then what do you want from us?”

Kim sat up straight and stopped picking at her jeans, then placed her hands in her lap. “You know, just let me go with you guys.”

“Go with us?” Dean repeated. “Like steady? Oh, I don't know Kim, we just met, it's a little too soon,” he teased. Kim rolled her eyes while Sam looked at Dean, annoyed.

“That's not what she meant,” Sam pointed out.

Dean widened his eyes, nodding. “I know that! Are you crazy?” He turned to Kim. “You want us to let you tag along with us, is that what you're saying?”

She nodded, “Yeah.”

He threw up his hands and began pacing around the room. “Yeah, right. Like that's gonna happen. We are not gonna babysit some girl while we are doing our job,” he said, looking down at Kim. “Saving the world fucking world!”

“Dean!” Sam yelled.

Kim chortled, somewhat offensively. “Oh, yes, because that plan of yours has been working.”

Dean let out a deep breath very slowly. “You know, you really gotta find that off button of yours.”

Sam stood up, taking a few steps towards Dean. “Dean, you need to calm down.”

“No, I don't,” he said to Sam. “Sorry, kid, it's just not gonna happen. Let's just pretend that what you've been telling us is true, and you're legit. And let's pretend that we were to actually let you help us...I mean, why do you have to go with us?” he asked. Then all of a sudden his face lit up like a light bulb, recharged. “Couldn't we just have some control base for you to stay at like in all those movies? Like in Armageddon.” he suggested.

Both Sam and Kim weren't following Dean's thought process. Dean was known for using pop culture analogies and references, especially about movies and rock bands. Sam often wondered how Dean's mind worked, and if it ran primarily like Bond movies with a Zeppelin soundtrack.

“What?” Sam asked.

“You know,” Dean started, “how Billy Bob was back at NASA and Bruce and Ben went up tot he asteroid and kicked ass! Huh? Doesn't that sound like it could work?” he asked, authentically enthused by his suggestion. “You could be Billy Bob,” he pointed to Kim, “and we could be Bruce and Ben. Granted, I get to be Bruce, because he's more badass. But hey, you end up with Liv Tyler.” He grinned.

Sam rolled his eyes, “Really, Dean?”

“Oh, come on, Sam,” he whined. “You can't really be thinking about letting her go with us? Are you?”

The answer Dean was looking for was obvious. A simple “no” would put a happy smile on Dean's face in a second. But Sam, being Sam―and the reasonable, level-headed brother―didn't see things the way Dean did.

Sam let out a deep breath and dropped his head. He scratched his head for a moment, looking over at Kim. Eventually, he turned to Dean and said, “Yeah, Dean, I think it'll be all right?”

“What?” Dean exclaimed.

“See,” Kim smiled. “Listen to Sam. He's the smart one.”

Dean snapped around to Kim. “You're pushing it,” he warned, pointing his finger at her.

She bit her lip. “Oh, yeah. Off button, got it.”

“Sam,” Dean looked at his brother. “Are you seriously considering letting her go with us?”

“Yes, I am,” he answered. There wasn't a playful or teasing tone to Sam's voice, and that scared Dean.

“Come here,” Dean said, pulling his brother toward the door, away from Kim, who was still seated at the small table by the window. “What if she's not being honest with us? What if she's lying and all this is just some front?”

“If I was going to do anything to you guys,” Kim interrupted, “I would've done it already.”

Sam nodded. “That's true, Dean. Look,” his voice was hushed. “What is one of the hardest parts about this job?”

Dean grinned. “Finding a motel with soft pillow.”

“Dean.”

He sighed. “Getting people to believe us about what we do,” Dean answered seriously.

“Exactly.” Sam nodded. “And you'll just be another hypocrite if you don't trust her.”

“But Sam―”

“Dean,” Sam cut him off. “If what she said is true, then I think she can really help us out. Plus, she knew who we were, about what's happened to us. And she knew Yellow Eyes. That's something you can just read about in some book,” he pointed out. “We rarely get offered any help, so I think we should take it this time.”

Frustrated that he wasn't getting his way, Dean pouted like a baby. “Leave it to you to be the sensible one,” he grumbled, walking back over to Kim. “Fine, you can come with us,” he said. “But you've gotta hold your own, you got that?”

“Yes sir, Captain Dean.” Kim stood up and held her hand to her forehead, saluting Dean as he stood there, brooding.

Sam laughed, walking over to sit with Kim at the table. “You're gonna be a handful, aren't you?”

Kim shrugged. “Maybe. Probably, most of the time, yeah,” she smiled.

Dean was sprawled across the bed, his hands under his head. “Oh, goody.”

It was such an odd way to end a case: finding a girl, claiming to know about hunting and demons, only to have her join Sam and Dean on their trek across the country. In the business of demon hunting, it was advised to always expect the unexpected. And this unlikely team of three was not expected at all.

Faith is power

Last night my internet wasn't working so I couldn't post yesterdays entry. So I'll post both yesterday and today's entries today.

For October 28, 2009:

The best part about believing is knowing the lies.
It's not the deception or suspicious thought
that simmer in one's mind,
or the anxiety of getting caught if the truth is revealed.
Dodging those honest questions is just a matter of awareness.
Know who to speak to and what to say
and how to maneuver your way out of a tight situation.
Creative is the mind that conjures the best reason,
the most believable excuse,
but foolish is that same mind that feels invincible.
No one is safe from the lies they lead.
But the one that still has faith,
regardless of those elaborate tales inflated out of jealousy,
fear, rage, amusement,
that person holds power over the rest.
Power and control to disregard any kind of distraction
that would interfere with what is most important:
faith and hope.

Music In Common

This a continuation of yesterday's entry.

“Hey.”

Logan heard a muffled voice through the melodic sound of Scorpions' “Always Somewhere” flowing through his headphones. It startled him for a moment, since he rarely ever interacted with anyone on his zen-trips to the park.

“Um, hi,” he said, sliding his headphones off his head, leaving it around his neck.

“Scorpions?” she said. She looked to be in her late twenties, dressed in jeans and a green tank top. She had on lots of necklaces looped around her neck, some pearls―all fake, though―some chains with pendants. She decorated her arms and fingers with bracelets and rings, most of them sparkled in the sun. She also sported black and silver high heels.


He nodded, “Yeah, you like the Scorpions?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” she answered with enthusiasm, swinging her bag off her shoulder. The black canvas tote was decked out in buttons with insignia's of well-known rock bands, two of which hailed the Scorpions' logo. “I've always thought that European bands do better justice to rock than Americans.”

Logan laughed briefly. “You have a point. But there's still some good quality rock that's come out of America,” he said.

“The girl, who was now sitting next to Logan, a cigarette wedged between her fingers, grinned. I have a feeling that you could go on about this. You know a lot about music, don't you?”

Flattered, Logan smiled. It was true, that he did pride himself in the knowledge of music he had acquired since childhood. It wasn't so much his expertise, but it was his passion. “Um, yeah, I know some stuff,” he answered modestly.

“I'm sure you do.”

When Logan looked over at the girl, she had this Cheshire-grin smeared across her face. From previous experience, her comment had a certain connotation that Logan thought to be a little inappropriate, considering that they just met. The two kept looking at each other until she eventually burst out in laughter.

“I meant that in a completely non-sexual way, just so you know,” she reassured him. “I could tell that's what you were thinking about,” she teased.

“Yeah, sorry,” Logan said, embarrassed. “I just didn't...but I mean...”

“Don't worry,” she said, “it's cool.” They exchanged smiles. “I'm Carly.” She stuck out her hand.

“Logan.” He shook her hand was surprised―no, impressed―at how strong her grip was. He looked down at their hands and widened his eyes.

Carly nodded, letting go of his hand. “I know, I've got a dude's grip,” she said. “I kinda need it in my business, so that people take me seriously.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She took a long drag from her cigarette, as if was the last thing she would ever enjoy in her life. “Well,” she blew the smoke out of her mouth, “I write for the Hamilton Weekly, and I started out a young age. So that was one thing I needed to overcome: my age. Secondly, I don't exactly have the style of a journalist, you know?” She gestured to her casual, yet retro ensemble. “Nor do I have healthy habits.”

“I would just call you an individual,” Logan offered.

Carly smiled, nodding. “I know, right?” She laughed. “Well, anyways, I usually take this route back to work during my breaks, and I've seen you sitting here a couple of times before.”

“Really?”

A big moving truck stormed down the street, causing a raucous and preventing Carly to respond to Logan. Both watched the bright yellow and orange truck maneuver its way down the street, chugging along with the slow mid-day traffic. This gave Carly some time to smoke her cigarette, but once it passed she picked up the conversation.

“Yep. You're always listening to music,” she said, gesturing to the headphones wrapped around his neck. “So I figured I might as well find out what you're listening to.”

He taped his black iPod he was still holding in his hand a few times. “Yeah, I've pretty much always got music playing. It's what keeps me sane.”

“I hear you,” Carly agreed. “It's like, there's so many things in this world that are totally shitty, but having music helps you make it through the day.” She paused, then grinned. “That sounded deep, didn't it?” she laughed.

Logan nodded. He could tell that this girl had a certain spirit about her. She liked to get out there and enjoy life. That, he respected, almost envied. “Yeah, actually it did.”

“I know, but I can't take credit for that. A friend of mine actually told me that a long time ago,” she admitted. “You kind of remind me of her, with the whole zen-meditation-music-listening thing,” she smiled.

“Cool,” he nodded.

Carly took a minute and looked him over. It looked as if she was examining him, his features, the way he sat, every little detail and categorizing it in her brain. She had this look on her face that seemed as if she was conjuring up some scheme in her mind.

“Interesting...” she said softly to herself, not loud enough for Logan to understand.

He looked at her, “What?”

Carly shook her head. “Oh, it's nothing. Just...thinking about that friend of mine.” She smiled all of a sudden. “You know, you should come hang out with us.”

A little taken a back, Logan didn't respond to her suggestion. He didn't usually get invited to join people he just met, hell, who did? He waited for her to elaborate, assuming that she would.

“We,” she began, “get together ever week, usually on Friday nights, and just hang out. Have some drinks, catch up, you know. I think you'd really like it,” she told him. “It's totally casual.”

Logan pressed his lips together before he answered her. To his knowledge he didn't have any plans for Friday night, and Carly seemed nice―and safe―that he agreed to her offer. “Sure, that sound good.”

Carly did a little dance while sitting. “Great, here's my number,” she said. She took out a piece of paper from her purse and wrote down a few numbers then handed it over to Logan. “Just call or text me and I'll give you directions. And if you decide you don't want to, that's totally fine too, no pressure.” She stood up and dusted off her jeans. “Of course, I do know where you sit in the park,” she said.

Logan laughed, folding the piece of paper and slipping it into his pocket. “Good point.”

“Well, I gotta get back to work. Those articles aren't gonna write themselves, unfortunately,” she said. Carly put out her cigarette with the bottom of her heel and put the small bud back into her pocket. “See ya, Logan.”

“Bye,” he said, nodding to her as she turned around.

Before she could take a few steps away, she turned back to face Logan. “Hey,” she called to him, making him look up at her. “Just wondering, how old are you?” she asked.

Logan paused for a moment, then said, “Twenty-three.”

Carly bit her lip. After a second or two she smiled. “Perfect,” she said, then turned to walk back down the street.

As he watched her disappear around the corner, Logan wasn't quite to sure of what to make of that encounter with Carly. It was somewhat random, how she just walked up to him and started talking to him about music. He also wondered why she asked for his age right before she left. To be honest, Logan was really curious about the entire situation, and was considering calling Carly about hanging out with her friends. It was only Tuesday, so he still had a few days to make his final decision. In the meantime, he pressed play on iPod, positioned his headphones back on his head, and let the music fill him.

Observation and meditation

He had been plugged in since nine-thirty that morning, making use of the five-hour battery life of his iPod. He still had about an hour-and-a-half left until the continual music pouring into his ears would fade away and become silence. Whenever Logan could, he had his headphones streaming music through them, comfortably placed on his head. Music, as he had described it dozens of times to anyone who would listen, was the poetry of the soul.

Logan had been sitting on a brick wall at the edge of the city park since The Grateful Dead cover band started their jam session that morning. They had already played through The Dead's greatest hits, their normal set up they did each week. It became a habit of Logan's to sit and listen to the first part of their session when he first started venturing to the park a few months ago. Then, after a while, he would relocate to the farther end of the park, where a nice, red brick wall was constructed, bordering the property.

Lots of people occupied the brick wall during the day, transitioning between point A and point B, hungry workers on their lunch break, or relax-seeking individuals looking to find some kind of haven at a shady park. For Logan, he just liked to people watch. It intrigued him, from a young age, to sit on the sidelines and just observe the environment around him. He kept his music playing the whole time, as well, when on the off-chance that it would happen, the song playing would match up with the people and things he would see. Sometimes it would turn out like a game, trying to fit the song with the characters walking by, wondering what each person was thinking or where they were headed. It was the mystery of the human species that kept Logan returning to his wall.