Monday, October 25, 2010

43: Idaho


“I just had the best idea.”


“Well, remember when I told you the Amish were coming?”


“On account of I read about it in the paper. Anyway, I got to thinking: sure they might find a little farmland here and there today, but what they really need is a home they can take west on the Oregon Trail tomorrow. That way when the evils of the modern world and the coyotes come a-calling they can just pick up and move on.”


“Not just any mobile homes; log cabins. Just like our Founding Fathers, and like the settlers of old. This is bigger than you and me and Boise. This is the American Dream all over again. This is Manifest Destiny.”


“Look it up. Anyway, we’ll worry about all the details later. The slogan is the best part. Just listen to this: Horsepower Houses – As Green As Grass.”

Monday, October 18, 2010

42: Washington


Jay kicks the back of your chair again. “Dyke,” he whispers, just loud enough for you to hear.

You keep doodling without looking up. It’s hard being a vampire, you think, for like the zillionth time this year.

A spitball flies by and lands on the floor. Monique giggles and you hiss at her.

The problem isn’t that no one understands you, it’s that they think they do. You’ve known you were destined for immortality since you read Anne Rice when you were 10, but since then your subculture has been totally co-opted, your own identity subsumed under a trend that you’re outside of.

It started with those stupid movies, the ones where the vampires all have dramatic hairdos and preppy clothes, and their pale skin sparkles like they shower in that stupid glitter from Claire’s. Since then instead of being a freak, you’ve become a vampire fashion victim.

The wall clock ticks one minute closer to 7:30. You tap your pointed pewter rings on your desk, rolling them – clickclickclick – like claws on linoleum. In the corner of your eye, Craig is wadding up another spitball. You sneer and put your pen to paper.


The bell dies away. “We have a new member of our class today,” Mrs. Schreiber says, after everyone has more or less settled down. “I’d like you all to say hello to your new teaching assistant, Mr., um …” She glances at a piece of paper. “Collins.”

“Cullen,” a man’s voice says, softly, but in a way that cuts through the classroom chatter. You look toward the door. An impossibly handsome man is standing there, auburn-haired and dressed like a cloudy sky, with pale white skin and piercing blue eyes. He looks at you and smiles. “Call me Edward,” he says. Your blood runs hot in your veins.

He takes a seat by Mrs. Schreiber’s desk, and class continues more or less like normal, except every time you look, he’s watching.

Or, rather, every time he looks up, you’re the one watching him.


The bell rings, followed by the shuffling cacophony of a classfull of students fleeing their desks as quickly as possible. By the time you’ve finished the last sentence and closed your notebook, even Mrs. Schreiber has vanished.

You reach down for your backpack, and when you look up Edward is watching you again. He meets your gaze for a moment, before dropping his eyes to the leather-bound book in his hands. You stand and walk toward him. “What are you reading?” you ask.

“The Götzen-Dämmerung.” he says. “It’s about hammering,” he adds, smirking.

“Thus Spoke Zarathustra,” you say, rolling your eyes.

He laughs and you sit on the corner of his desk. “So what’s an interesting girl like you doing in BHS?” he asks.

“Wishing I could get the hell out of here.”

“Everything ends eventually.”

“Does it?” You glare at him pointedly.

He coughs and looks down at his book again. “Anyway,” he says, “aren’t you a little young to be reading Nietzsche?”

“Aren’t you a little old to be a TA?”

He looks up just like you wanted. You lean in and kiss him, biting down on his lip, letting the littlest trickle of his blood flow into your mouth. You can see the cracks in his ice blue eyes. You see yourself reflected in them.

After what seems like an eternity, he breaks away. “I should go,” he says, standing hurriedly. “I’ve got to call Bel… um, my friend.”

You follow him to the classroom door and watch him walk down the hall. “This isn’t over,” you say.

Monday, October 11, 2010

41: Montana


The wolf is dead by the time I reach it, its eyes already going glassy, its tongue lolling out. The bullet hole is a spot of lichen, spreading. A thin red line runs down from its mouth like a riverbed.

I breathe in, deep. There’s a chill on the mountain air, sweet to the tongue and clear.

I sling my rifle and kneel down, run my fingers through the matted fur. I taste the blood that coats my hand, rust red.

I throw up on the rocks beside the body, then sit down and watch the clouds. The world spins. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?

Monday, October 4, 2010

40: South Dakota


To the whiteman standing by the Coffee Corner in Regent Sunday morning.

I saw you watching, just like I saw the unpainted metal silos rising over the buttes and grasses, like I saw the low hangers and fenced-in lots at the edge of town, the concrete wall with its painted sunset over pitch-black plains.

I’m through with two-state solutions: I’d erase the lines and start again. Hit me back if you want in. This land could be our land.