Tell them.

Do I have to?

Why wouldn’t you?

Why wouldn’t I? Because at this stage of my life, I’d rather forget. Too many years of therapy; too many self help books. Want to see the loose pages? Anyway, there are enough of those stories out there already. Who needs to read another salacious broken home, abused childhood tale.

Oh they do. They can’t get enough of it.

And why is that?

Schadenfreude.

What the hell does that mean?

Inequity aversion. It’s German.

Can you be more specific?

Enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others. Should we delve further into that definition or do you get it?

Yeah, I can actually say I get it. Guilty. Admittedly, I’m a rubbernecker. I was about 8 years old in the car with HER on the Belt Parkway when I first discovered rubbernecking delays. I asked. “Mommy. What are rubbernecking delays? She told me, “When drivers slow down to gawk at a traffic accident. I started to laugh not only at the word gawk, and asked her if she was telling me some kind of joke.

“I’m dead serious,” she said. Stop laughing.

I didn’t press when she told me to shut up. I just looked out at all the rubberneckers and I thought; How is this OK and what are all those people looking for when they look at a wreck? It was too much for my 8 year old brain to process. I wanted to ask my mother; So you're telling me these people driving are doing the wrong thing and there is a sign as proof, basically a part of the rules of the road. Is that OK, and should they get away with it? I knew better than to ask.

So you get it. Come on. Be a sport. I have a sneaky suspicion you have a macabre story to tell. And I know a part of you wants to tell it.

I really don’t. And trust me that’s a good thing. But let me do this, just for fun, because I like you, and because I think you really want me to share, let’s play a game. I’ll give you a few scenarios, and you get to decide which one of them is about me.

Game on.

How ’bout a Lutheran pastor came to counsel a drunk mother and she coaxed him into her bedroom. The child in the house heard the moaning and thought her mother was getting hurt, so she opened the door and saw them both naked.

Or how ’bout a drunk mother picked her daughter and two friends up from the school dance and played chicken with every tree on every curve on the way home until they crashed into a ditch.

How ’bout a drunk mother that regularly beat her daughter with a metal hairbrush. The school nurse would ask about the prickly wounds and the child would lie and say she suffered from a rare skin rash.

How ’bout a drunk mother that twisted her hands around her daughter’s braids until she fell down on the floor in pain, continuously smashing her face into the linoleum floor.

How ’bout a drunk mother that was a pedophi….

Stop. Enough. No. Don’t stop. Is there more?

Yes.

It’s ALL about you, right?

Maybe, maybe not. Actually you’ve gotten me in the mood and this is kind of fun. I’ve warned you before, stories like this can be depressing. Do you or don’t you want me to continue? Do you want to talk recipes instead?

No. We are not talking about food today. Stop deflecting and I will too. You said you wanted to play, so let’s play. You know I can handle it and so can they. I don’t think it’s necessary to confirm or deny to you or to them if any of the above actually happened to me.

Actually, it just came to my mind that I used to write all this sappy shit about what happened to me. At one time, I might even have considered some of my writing good. Either way, it was therapeutic. But whatever happened to me happened so long ago, whatever I wrote, I no longer care to reread it.

Why don’t you give us a taste of the writing? Come on. Just a little.

No.

Why not?

It’s useless information now. Irrelevant.

I disagree. You already admitted to Schadenfreude. You are an admitted rubbernecker. Spill..

Alright, alright, since you’ve gotten me in a mood, here is a taste. I think when I wrote this I was reading Virginia Wolff, or some other stream of consciousness. I wrote this many years after the abuse, long after SHE was dead with one particular incident of abuse in mind. Catch a glimpse of this sappy shit. You asked.

Sunlight failed to penetrate the murky curtains at three o'clock in the afternoon. Broad daylight, on a June afternoon simply desired to pirouette with the living, but instead the light, as it fought its way through the peephole of the front door, found the face of death holding ironic iniquity. The one who lay dead on the cold slate floor of the entryway never saw it coming, the puppet master's final flaw. The one who stood victorious above her was momentarily pleased with her bare hands when they took over and choked the life out of the one who gave her life. But the piper always commands a payday. Liberated, the dust motes seemed to celebrate as they danced their way around the room. Once settled, the shedding of combined DNA mixed with indeterminable dirt remained, irreconcilably scattered.

Left turn, yup you just made a big left turn here. Stream of something or whatever, dark, but I like it. Do you mind telling me what is going on here? What was it that inspired this?

What the hell, since you say you like it, just this once for them, but I mean it, I really don’t want to talk about the past anymore. I’m tapped out, really, but let’s let them have it.

I actually tried to choke my mother to death, I think. I sort of blacked out. For a minute I thought I had it in me to become a murderer. Jerry Springerish enough for you? I was 15 and after a decade of extreme abuse, I had come home from school one day and went right up to my room like I always did to find anything and everything that mattered to me destroyed, crushed and littered all over my room, the poems my boyfriend wrote, my Elton John records, my artwork, my old teddy bear. I picked up the stuffing on my way out the door and a small glass eye on a mission to find HER.

SHE was near the front door. I don’t know why because she rarely went out. Maybe she sensed the impending doom and wanted out, or more likely she was expecting a liquor delivery. I pushed her up against the foyer closet door and put my hand around her throat squeezing and squeezing the life out of her pounding her into the door. “Why why why,” was all I said, and then I spit in her face and released her. She fell to the floor and looked up at me with the fear in her eyes that she could have seen coming from me all those years, if she bothered to look. It was the first and last time I attacked her. I fought back. And it felt so right and so wrong. I ran away from home that night. It was over. And I was safe. Or was I, because those of us that know this rodeo, we Jerry Springer show wannabes, most of us make it out but we are tossed into adulthood having never had a childhood, broken.

I don’t know what to say.

Don’t say anything. Shit happens. I’m good. Really. My scars are a badge of honor these days. All hope is not dead. Mitfreude.

Oh haha. Now it’s you going all German on me. I’ll bet you looked that word up.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Since you wrangled me into playing this game. What can I say? I like antonyms. Reversals. You tell them what mitfreude means.

Mitfreude. To delight in or share in someone else’s happiness. Ahhh. Treffer. Touché.

But I will make no promises when it comes to driving out there on the open road. Understand?

Verstehen.

Introduction

I love the transportation industry and have been in it for most of my life. I have been a trucker since the early nineteen eighties. But the desire to be a trucker was born many years before I ever knew how to drive. I have been able to work in several segments of the transportation industry as well. First, as a parts man, then as a mechanic, and finally a truck driver, and now I am motor coach driver. I want to share my life story with you of how my life has been impacted by the transportation industry for the better and the worse.

I grew up in the suburbs of the city of Los Angeles with all its traffic and hustle and bustle. I was born in the mid-fifties and all that was involved in that time. While growing up I was able to do many things before I started to drive, some of those things had to do with dirt. Yes dirt. I think the first time I encountered it I ate some of it, and it wasn’t too bad. Then I learned to play in it but even then, cars and trucks were on my mind. I made freeways or roadways in the dirt to drive my little plastic cars, then as I got older my dad helped me to learn how to plant vegetation in it and take care of what I planted. As I grew older, I got odd jobs of taking care of lawns besides our own. My dad was gone all the time working as a parts man for Ford Motor Company in Santa Monica, so I became the person he put in charge of the lawns. I enjoyed this type of working with my hands and using the skills that my dad taught me in his perfectionist ways. But I also mixed it with my need to move, first by walking, then bike riding, then running and finally driving. As I reflect on my need to move it brings back a great memory that I shared with my dad, Charlie. We lived close to Disneyland at the time and when we were there, I was about nine years old, and I really wanted to go on a ride. This ride had go-carts, but you had to be a certain size, weight and be accompanied by a parent. I pestered my dad enough that he finally took me on it, and I was the right size and weight. I got to be in the driver’s seat while my dad sat next to me and helped me with how to maneuver that little go-cart. I was driving and I loved it from that moment on. Not just the going fast part, after all how fast can a go-cart go with a Briggs & Stratton 5 horsepower engine on it for power. I loved the movement of it and the strategy of driving it in the proper places and not hitting anything while I was driving it. Nothing in life has ever filled me with so much peace and excitement at the same time.

My dad was not around much because he worked so much at the Ford dealership. But all the dads at that time worked all day and I cannot think of one who was not gone all day. There was an airplane pilot that lived across the street who took trips and then was off for a few days, but he was the exception. My friend Greg’s dad who was home most nights because he was in construction was also an exception.

The city was a place where you did not talk to strangers because they would just look at you with a glare in their eyes and walk on past you. I thought that most people were unfriendly until I moved out of the city years later. I think I was an average kid at the time and did the average things like go to school, do chores at home, mind my parents and so forth.

But as I grew older, I grew more rebellious of authority, my parents, civil authorities, and government authorities. As I look back at that time most everybody my age was rebellious because of all the civil unrest over the war in Viet Nam and before that Korea. One of the big three TV stations televised the war on TV during dinner hour. Which, I did not like by the way, but there it was right in front of you, soldiers aiming rifles meant to kill other soldiers on the other side of the field. We could also watch the Ed Sullivan show, Laugh-In, or Carol Burnett, or Saturday Night Live, show for comedy relief. There was a drug culture forming as well and a counter-cultural movement for those who wanted to “drop out,” of the so-called society called “hippies.” This is where I wound up for a few years, imitating their lifestyle. In fact, I did not realize how many years until later in life I was stuck there. It was not until I was 33 years old that I parted company with this lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock & roll with the help of Jesus Christ my Lord.

One of the other reasons that I originally got into trucking was to escape the normal day to day routine of life, the eight to five for five for six days a week, and to do whatever I wanted to do with my time. I learned as the years passed by that my ways were not the best ways to live my life. The escaping life part of driving created more problems.

Once I learned to drive there was no way to hold me back from the open road. I do not think that everyone has this desire, but I certainly did. So, in the process of living my life I traveled to many places and meet many people. I loved the freedom of being able to travel because I loved to drive. I love the road, maybe it is because I loved the dirt and being on the ground instead of in the sky or on the water., that is just the way I am wired.

As a trucker for several decades, I will do my best to share my life experiences with you which that has made me who I am today, both good and bad experiences. Hang on! Some of my story is a rough ride and I hope you enjoy it and that it sheds a little a little more light on those guys in the big trucks who pass you on the road.

I dedicate this book to my son Mike and hope to fill in some of the 27 years of life that we missed out on together. I also thank God for the family He gave me and my wife of 18 years Joy who has been there for me as much as God has. Also, to my friends who a part of my life that loved me and put up with me in so many ways and sowed their treasures into my life. All who were a part of my life thank you for sharing your life with me. A big thank you to my birth parents whoever they are for being able to give me up and put me into a good family, I am forever grateful to you.

Life continues to happen during trucking or whatever else that you choose to do as an occupation. There were also key moments in my life that led up to me turning my life to Christ. The Lord ministered to me through circumstances of my life and His word and many other ways and still does today. These moments will be referenced as a God moments.

Omphalocele

December 05, 2024

This holiday season, betwixt Thanksgiving and Christmas, people are supposed to be thankful. Some people are thankful for all that they have. I am thankful for what I don't have.

Look up the word omphalocele. View whatever pictures you will. Think about how many changes to your life this condition will cause. Think about how much money will be needed to live with this. Think about how much more will be required to cure or repair this.

Substitute omphalocele with any other debilitating condition or disease you can imagine. Then, this holiday season, and every other day since, remember, "It is not that you have what you want. It is that you want what you have."

Nuff said.

Dear Diary,

“No AI.” “Only truly creative types allowed.” “AI is a fraud.”

I encountered all three hurtful statements today. Can you believe that people would deliberately target me with painful insults?

It began with a blanket email I received this morning from my so-called friend. He asked me and three other guys if one of us would consider being his best man for his upcoming wedding. He added that his bestie had to deliver a humorous speech about our relationship, but added, “Make it from the heart. No AI.” How dare he? Why did he feel the need to humiliate me in this email string?

Later, I read the guidelines for a writing contest I wanted to enter. This one said, “Only truly creative types allowed. No machine-generated entries.” I can see good uses for such artificial writing such as helping with computer tasks and writing boilerplate language, but not for a writing contest. Your own writing ability must shine through. But why did they have to zing me by adding “no AI”?

But the most spiteful reference came in the evening when I saw that a Facebook friend posted that I am a fraud!

Have a good night, my diary. I won’t.

Sincerely,

Andrew Irwin

Foreword

Dear reader, before you dive into the crazy world of Bozo’s adventures, let me share something funny. At first, our hero’s name might seem harmless and even a bit silly. However, if you speak Georgian, get ready — this word takes on a completely different meaning.

But don’t rush to get upset or close this book! These little language surprises are what make the world of stories so exciting. As they say, "What’s funny in one language might be confusing in another."

So, forget about being serious. Open your heart to humor, absurdity, and… zucchinis! This story isn’t meant to be deep, but it’s sure to make you smile.

Enjoy reading, and cheers to unexpected coincidences!

The Adventures of Bozo and the Zucchini

Bozo wasn’t just a weirdo. He was the neighborhood’s official supplier of nonsense. One day, he decided that his true calling was to become a chef — even though his only dish, a burnt fried egg, made his neighbors cry. Out of fear.

“A genius doesn’t wait to be understood!” Bozo declared and headed to the town fair with a giant zucchini he named “The Zucchini Avenger.”

At the fair, Bozo told everyone that his zucchini was a superweapon capable of scaring away evil spirits… and tax collectors. The crowd chuckled, until Bozo started a demonstration. He climbed onto the stage, swung the zucchini, and accidentally hit a giant pie meant for the baking contest.

The pie exploded. Layers of dough, berries, and cream flew everywhere. The respected mayor ended up with a face full of cream, looking like he’d tried on a new mask. Meanwhile, old Mrs. Maggie, who hated pies, shouted, “Now this is entertainment!”

Realizing things were going downhill fast, Bozo grabbed a microphone and announced, “This is not just a pie — it’s modern art! I call it ‘Berry Celebration with Zucchini.’”

The crowd froze. The mayor wiped cream from his face and said, “This… is brilliant!”

From that day on, Bozo became a local legend. And the Zucchini Avenger? It was pickled and sold at a charity auction for a record price. Because Bozo proved that even complete nonsense can be a success — as long as you present it with confidence.

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

The town of Oflen, home to many races, was not often a place that one would find the Dwarven race. Even still, the quaint and quiet town was home to a young Dwarf named Kithri. The streets were their playground, the gutters their resting place, and the locals their entertainment. This was how Kithri liked it, and, being the only Dwarf around, they learned at an early age the benefits of being low to the ground.

Sneaking around was never really a necessity for survival, but Kithri learned how to manipulate their stocky frame to be undetected to any passers by. It became a sort of game for them, seeing how many people Kithri could successfully hide from, and just how far they could push the envelope.

Kithri was born into a family, they think. They were orphaned before an age that allowed for solid memory. In reality, the only glimpse of their parents that Kithri could make out was by staring at their reflection in the river and imagining themselves as an older male or female. This never lasted long, though, as Kithri would come back from the daydream and cringe at the actual thought of themself as either gender. Obviously, they knew that gender was a concept that existed, but they never attached themself to either gender. Growing up Kithri didn't feel like a little boy or a little girl, but rather felt like they were beyond the concept. This got roped into their sneaking game rather quickly, as they would introduce themself and wait in anticipation to see what others would gender them as, often ending the conversation early when the other party grew confused by their seemingly random cackling.

When Kithri wasn't entertaining themself with daydreams and innocent trickery, they were sitting by the local forge, mesmerized by the craftsmanship of the swords, shields, and armor made from various different metals. The warm glow cast off of the gold, the almost-reflective sheen of the silver, the rainbow of colors that gemstones came in; the entire world of smithing was an enigma that Kithri wanted their own share of. At the age of ten, Kithri decided to use all of their practice sneaking around and fiddling with disposed machinery to attempt to break into the forge. In the dead of night, with only the occasional chirp of a cricket, Kithri made their move. The lock was harder to pick than they'd expected, yet they were eventually able to pick it open and open the door slowly enough to avoid the creak that they knew the hinges were prone to making. The world was their oyster after that day, and they would spend multiple nights a week acquainting themselves with the feeling of tools, gemstones, metals, and using scraps to craft various trinkets and small weapons. The weapons were so small, they weren't even very practical even for someone of such a short stature as Kithri. Still, this went on for three years until Kithri felt confident enough in their abilities, that they asked for an apprenticeship. The blacksmiths laughed, but still allowed Kithri to join them. What they thought would be a chance to finally get their hands on better materials quickly went south. The blacksmiths decided that Kithri would make a better errand person at their age, much to their chagrin. One year later, however, Kithri had managed to stash away a small amount of materials, little by little, until they could craft a proper weapon. Their semi-nightly trips to the forge were enhanced by their ability to now access better materials, undetected, during day trips to the miners. The sword that Kithri crafted was a thing of beauty; a golden handle, silver blade, and a sheath unique to Kithri alone. The sheath disguised the sharp blade as nothing more than a decoration. Made purely of soft and inexpensive moonstone, it would surely deter anyone from stealing it. Kithri decided to quit their apprenticeship only when he discovered theue next passion; one that they felt even more strongly about than smithing.

Kithri was no stranger to the bustle that happened on weekends in Oflen. The otherwise peaceful town would gather in the square and light up the night with music, laughter, and, of course, plenty of ale. It was on one such night as this that Kithri happened to look inside and lay their eyes on a magical sight.

Perhaps they were just too young to appreciate it at first, but Kithri loved how this place seemed to enchant the townspeople. He recognized the faces of some that often walked past them in the mornings, tired and melancholic, now with large smiles on their faces and warmth in their cheeks. The one thing that every one of the smiling faces had in common? They all just so happened to be holding a brown mug with a white froth sloshing above the rim.

Dwarves didn't reach their age of maturity for forty years and, at fourteen, young Kithri knew that this would have to be their next venture. Waiting for twenty-six years seemed agonizing, so Kithri began plotting. They didn't like breaking the law, but had done so before at this point. Breaking and entering as many times as they did in years prior would have definitely been enough to see a jailhouse or two, but the decision to do so was always justified to them. So long as nobody was hurt by their actions, was there harm in it? Accidents happen and things go missing all of the time, was it so wrong to take half an ounce of silver here and there? To Kithri, the law was important, but happiness and freedoms were much more just in some cases. Their plan came to fruition four years after the fateful day of discovering the tavern life.

The town of Oflen, home to many races, was not often a place that one would find the Dwarven race. Kithri had always known that, and used it to their advantage. Their status as a minority helped shape them into an impeccable rogue, and the town not seeing many Dwarves kept Kithri from being questioned when the then eighteen-year old lied their way into becoming a bartender. Later, they would go on to own the tavern known as The Golden Mug. Many years passed, and at the age of thirty-one, Kithri decided that a change of scenery was in order. There's only so often they could find joy and excitement seeing the same things and same people day in and day out. Their uncanny natural ability with bar tending was sure to land them a job elsewhere and, when eavesdropping in on a conversation at the bar top, Kithri learned of a mysterious town called Blade's Refuge. There was some sort of disappearance there, yet Kithri felt almost called to be there. They didn't know what would come of a life there, yet they still gave away their beloved tavern and packed up their things in the pursuit of change.

I wish to live as a swallow that displaces vast borders, unauthorized. How beautiful it can be to live in such liberty through untamed thermal winds over the boundless and bent earth. At peace in the innumerable varying shades of blue that decorate the third dimension. Surfing the currents of the sky's breath towards uncharted wonders.

Are we, mankind, not asphyxiated by estrangement due to the perception that distinction of appearance, unnaturally somehow changes the composition of our substance. We find ourselves in a static state, entrapped by a nefarious moral intersection where crucial decisions, that carry far-reaching consequences, are made by incompetent characters that lack the empathy to comprehend that we are one. That ego creates the illusion of individuality and that singular identity is a concept that will lead to a friction so great, that we would set fire to each other.

Whatever happened to the ideals and values that we so mechanically urge into the malleable minds of our youth? Love thy neighbor and do not hate. We memorize the script, but never get to play the character, as we've run out of money and motivation to do so. We have surrendered our dreams to the god of war and riches. We have abandoned our faith in love, loyalty and compassion.

I mourn as I observe the human addiction to vanity and fall prey to the obtrusive propaganda displayed on every mirror, window and wall that might allow intrusion into our psyche.

We are not different, nor are we unique, yet we thrive in the conflict we design in observation of miniscule genetic abnormalities relative to the face of some God painted by a man that was confined to his own imagination. There is no color in the eyes, hair or skin of the Creator, there is no face to the origin of existence and there is no gender to the particles that bear the weight of all that was, is and will be. We are nothing, yet we are everything.

All I know is that the only thing that matters is to love.

Kooky King Kong kapellmeister

just jabbering gibberish (A - K)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Kooky knucklehead klutz

knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed

knobby kneed kleptomanic.

There I stood, waiting for her. We had gotten tickets to a once in a lifetime ball, it being once in a lifetime because in the 21st century we rarely see balls take place. But we somehow got tickets to this one. I was a nervous wreck. We’ve always loved dancing together, but it was just fun and silly dancing while cooking or cleaning or soft romantic sways when we were on a date. We’d often talk about what kind of dance we’d do for our first dance once we got married. But this, this was the real deal. And there I was, completely nervous, and waiting for her to arrive. I was fidgeting with the jacket of my tux when I heard a gasp behind me. I turned around and saw several people staring at the ballroom’s grand staircase, their mouths agape.

I slowly looked at the staircase and I saw her, the love of my life, descending like a queen to her throne. Her wavy, walnut hair cascaded down her back, save for one small twirl framing either side of her face. Atop her head was a small, silver tiara with three gems, an opal in the center flanked by two smaller emeralds. She wore a matching silver necklace with a matching opal on it. Her dress was breathtaking, it was a lighter forest green color with off the shoulder sleeves and silver trim along the hem and neckline. I drank in the sight of beauty that captivated my attention. I looked at her face and saw her smiling back at me. Her lips were a muted red color, inviting but not overwhelming. She had the briefest hint of green eyeliner that matched her dress. But what entranced me was her eyes, a melted chocolate color, warm and smooth and something that I could get lost in forever.

I made my way to the steps, arriving just before she reached the bottom. I gave her a warm smile, filled with love, and offered her my hand. She took it and descended the last few steps. We walked to the center of the ballroom, me still holding her hand, and we pause and face each other. As if the musicians were waiting for us alone, they started playing a waltz. I took her into my arms and we danced. As we spun around the dance floor, the music, the background noise, and the other people faded from existence: it became just her and I. The joy filling her smile, the love in her eyes. Everything was lost her in presence, everything except how much I loved her and loved this moment. After the waltz ended, the musicians changed to a soft, slow melody, one that did not need a style of dance, just two hearts beating as one. I pulled her to me and put my hands on her hips, she instinctively wrapped her arms around my neck.

I gave her a soft smile and whispered, “You are so beautiful.” She grinned, then buried her face in my chest. I brought my lips close to her ear and said, “I love you.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide, tears starting to form in them. I asked softly, “May I kiss you?”

She slowly nodded her head, a smile on her lips. I leaned in and gently pressed my lips to hers, and I could feel her smiling ever wider. My breath hitched as I pulled away, our breaths mingling for a few intimate moments.

The rest of the night, we danced and smiled and laughed. I may have even kissed her a few more times, but I couldn’t help it because she was the woman I loved and she looked absolutely radiant.

The next morning, I slowly woke up, my eyes cracking open to welcome the morning light. A smile grew on my lips as I remembered the wonderful events of the previous night. The ball, the dances, the looks, the kisses, the radiant love of my life. I closed my eyes, still smiling, and turned over towards her in the bed. But my hands only touched cold sheets. I opened my eyes and my smile faded. She was not next to me in the bed. There was no second pillow on the bed for her. And that’s when I realized that last night, that wonderful and amazing night I shared with her at the ball, was not real. Just as she was not real. It was all just a dream.

I rolled back over, away from the spot where I thought she’d be before I realized none of it was real. I closed my eyes tightly, wanting to shut out the false memories. I pulled the blankets over my head, and tears started to fall from my closed eyes. The pain of having these fake memories was too much to bear. I either wanted them to be real or wanted them gone. Instead, I was forced to retain them. So there I was, stuck and crying. A romantic without anyone to love. A dancer with no partner.

I don’t think I remembered how long I stayed up in the office before Sin drove me home. They forced me to leave after I picked up something for Willow while Florence stayed behind with her.

A part of me wanted to ask and make sure she made it home alright, but that was kind of out of my hands. I shut the front door behind me, leaning back against it as my legs shook. I was feeling shaky all over.

“Julian?” I heard my mother call out for me.

I didn’t have the heart to answer her. Instead, I slid down to the floor and shakily put my head against my arm as I curled up against the door. “Fuh,” I breathed, feeling my body start to amp up until the shakiness became hard shudders.

“You want to talk about it?” My dad’s voice broke over the silence and I jolted, looking up quickly. He was leaning against the wall casually, his expression the ever calm, non-judgmental figure he always was.

Wincing, I looked back down. “I… really messed up,” I told him as I pulled my hand up to the top of my head, keeping it down. “And– I got in a lot of trouble for it.”

I heard my father let out a soft sigh. “What happened?”

I blinked, and tensed for a moment before letting out a huge sigh. “I took off,” I told him, feeling pretty ashamed. “I got in an argument with my mentor, and took off on her. We didn’t really go over much because I— couldn’t really get myself to stop talking for a second and just listen. I ended up almost getting this person killed.”

“That sounds about right,” my dad snorted before walking over to the couch.

“Thanks for the words of encouragement,” I muttered under my breath before slowly getting up from the floor to walk towards the kitchen. Damn, I was tired. “They’re going to be keeping her overnight. I guess, they’ll probably have to alter her brother’s memories since I had her send out that stupid text,” I breathed. “But… she’s going to be alright. I just almost got an earful from Red, and Sin wasn’t too happy with me either.”

“Do you think that's unreasonable?”

“No,” I told him quickly. “I royally effed up. It was… almost a lot worse, so I’d say they’re right to be upset.”

“It was your first time, Julian. How did you expect it to go?” Dad asked, his tone even.

“I don’t know,” I groaned, closing my eyes. “I honestly thought it would be a lot more embarrassing, but instead it just ended up being more terrifying than anything.” I admitted. “I nearly ended this poor girl’s life, and then I admitted a lot of things to her because I felt bad that I was scaring the shit out of her.” Thinking of her as a woman was the last thing on my mind right now, but every time I wanted to, it just drove home how kid-like I felt. We were the same age… or had to be, and as far as I felt right now… We were both just kids playing in the shallow end of the pool hoping to cross over to the deep end, and she was just as unfortunate, if not more so than I was in this situation.

“You didn't kill her, and from this experience, you now know how to prevent this situation from happening again.”

I wasn't sure about that. “How did you communicate to Mom that it was too much?” I asked quietly, turning to look back at the couch.

I carefully grabbed the phone charger and plugged my phone in before stepping into the living room then slowly came to sit next to him.

Dad let out a hard breath. “My situation was very different from yours.”

I wasn't sure what to say to that. It felt like I was sort of taking a stab in the dark. I ran my hands over my pants, my palms feeling itchy. “I-” My resolve sort of went with it. What little of it that I had at least. “My mentor said not to get attached,” I told him. “I'm afraid of what will happen if I try to do this with someone else. I want to follow what she says, but… I have so many disagreements.”

Dad watched me for a moment and I felt so exposed under his gaze. For a second, I didn't think he was going to say anything, but then he spoke up. “It’s a difficult decision to make, and one that shouldn't be made lightly. Humans aren't… conducive to our way of life. They're fragile and easily manipulated. Your sister learned this lesson the hard way.” I looked at him, seeing his expression become sad. “She wasn't trying to punish you by telling you to distance yourself.”

It came off so much different when he put it that way. I only wished I got that same concept when she said it. Instead, it sounded like a death sentence to get attached.

“You just met her. You've no way of knowing if you're going to turn her, or if she'll even be capable of being a vampire.”

“I don't want to turn her. I wanted to get to know her more first… She seemed like an okay person and then after a while, I really didn't want to hurt her. I was just going to walk her home, and then— she got scared.” My throat tightened. “I didn't like seeing that look on her face and I hated the lies building up, so I told her a lot… to try to make her calmer, but instead she got really upset when I told her I was just going to take the memories away after so she could go back to her life.” I closed my eyes tightly. “I don't want her to get hurt, but I feel really awful after seeing how scared she was. If that's the look they all make…” I didn't want to do it again.

“It’s not always like that. This is why you should have taken the help given to you, which I’m sure you will now that you’ve gotten a taste of how delicate the situation is.”

I grumbled a little under my breath, but accepted the reality of it.

“You’re not going to have all the answers right now. And this isn’t something that can just be explained and understood. You have to experience it and learn. I’m not going to tell you to stay away from the girl, but…” His gaze hardened on me. “I’m going to tell you that whatever you choose, you will have to live with the outcome, whatever it may be. Can you do that?”

I nodded slowly. “It doesn't sound like I have much choice,” I told him quietly. It made me wonder how many people my mom had bitten over the years before settling with my dad. Tentatively, my gaze dropped to my hands as I kept trying to wipe them on my jeans. “I'm not in a hurry to try to turn anyone,” I admitted. It sounded like a lot of responsibility and I didn't want to try to lead someone when I didn't know much myself. “And I still would rather let her have her life instead of me making any split second decisions. Mom had a lot to tell me about how it can royally mess someone up, turning them and— I don't want to take her from who she's got in her life. We barely know each other.”

“It can, but there's a lot of unknowns. I'm not advocating you turning anyone. You're young and still learning, but it's yours and her choice.”

I nodded. I agreed with that. “Would you have willingly turned if you and Mom met under different circumstances?” I asked, curious. “I mean… knowing what it's like now. With a hindsight bias.” I just wanted to know the difference… if it was even worth it all at, because Florence's words echoed in the back of my head naggingly. Monster. I shuddered, swallowing the knot in my throat.

Dad thought about the words quietly, the silence dragging on for a moment. “Yes, I think I would have, especially knowing what I know now.” He sounded so sure of his answer. “I gained much more than I lost, and given all of the hardship… I wouldn't really change anything.”

I relaxed a little. It didn't sound so bad then. “It was just really alarming in the moment then,” I mumbled, thinking about it. Thinking back in the hours prior, it had… felt good. Having fresh, unpackaged blood. Tasting the caffeine in her system and getting the little high from it made me feel so much more okay with the lack of coffee I could have drank previously. “Her blood tasted really caffeinated,” I said to him then. “I liked it.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. “You and your damn coffee,” he rolled his eyes, but he had a smile on his face.

My skin flushed warmly as I laughed a little. “I really like the taste.” I admitted, smiling wider. “Florence wanted me to give her alcohol, and I think I'm glad I didn't.” I breathed out slowly. “I don't think I would have liked the taste as much.”

“That’s fair. I think her point was that if the girl had been a little off center, it might have been easier to not frighten her,” Dad said, trying to achoose his words carefully.

“Yeah…” I wheezed. “But who knows how it would have changed the way her blood tasted.” I perked up a little at the thought. “Maybe if I do get good at it, I can just find people who don't need to drink and I can just–” I stopped and looked at him, feeling my nerves rise up. “Not… Have to taste alcohol. Especially if they'd drink or eat the stuff I like.” My voice went a little quieter. I didn't care much for alcohol, but there were a few things I liked already. “Then I don't have to work around the infused stuff anymore. It'll be kind of like a reverse… kind of.” I didn't think I would be tasting caramel off anyone, but maybe the sweetness of it would have an effect.

Dean laughed. “Maybe, that will be a lot more work on your part then,” Dad said before getting up. “Get some rest, glutton. Maybe you can go see the girl tomorrow night.”

“Sure,” I told him. “I think I'd like that.” I got up too, going the opposite way of my dad as I walked to the hall. Briefly, I turned back, and I noticed my mom leaning against the stairs just about halfway down. My brows rose, my face turning a little red and I turned to go towards my room as I heard my mom start to talk to my dad.

How long was she there?

I didn't know. I wasn't sure I wanted to, but I shut my door behind me before staring at my bed. Man, it felt good to be at home. My phone was off and in the kitchen, out of reach so I could just tune it out and I glanced at my closed laptop. I loved the simplicity of it all. Stepping up to the wall mount, I turned my monitor on before flopping back down on my bed. My hand roved over to my nightstand for my wireless keyboard before I pulled it onto my lap to type onto the screen. I pulled up some music, started off from my last playlist and leaned back to relax.