Marcie shone bright like a star that night after opening night, the after-glow of the first kickass performance radiating off of her in a heavenly aura. She had shed the form of a seventeen-year-old Marie Antoinette into a comfortable white dress that would make the real Marie Antoinette faint. Her outfit matched her physical personality perfectly. People in the cast said that she’d felt happier that night than she had been in a long time, that one simple night after the high school cast party. I didn’t notice anything particularly different about her that night. I was just glad that she was happy.
I don’t even remember taking the photo, but I definitely took it home with me. I found it in a forgotten box of mementos in my back closet and I haven’t been able to stop looking at it since. My fingers refuse to let go, despite the fact that I had had absolutely no part of this girl’s universe. Hell, I was “the Groundskeeper” out in Marie Antoinette’s luxurious garden, hardly a leading man. I never really knew her, let alone had I spoken to her, but she held my attention nonetheless. Unfortunately, she never held any sentiment for my standout performance as “the Groundskeeper” or held any sentiment for any of the other students within the cast and crew: Marcie was saving that sentiment for Mr. Lenart, smiling her demure smile, eyes locked with his, forever frozen in time within the photograph.
I wonder what happened to her. Marcie had graduated later that spring and no one at school really heard from her much after that. Maybe she made it big, like she was always committing to during every one of her performances. Maybe she lives life on the rogue, travelling around the country looking for shows to perform. Maybe she’s married to Mr. Lenart and is raising her own kids just like the rest of us, living the ordinary life, acting dreams put aside. I hadn’t even thought about her before now, not since high school. I wonder if I’ll ever really get over her…
Story by Katie Rose Davies
There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I’d be going back to the farm anytime soon, Mama and Daddy be damned. Daddy’d smack me silly if he heard the language I’m using these days, but Roy says God don’t mind the way you talk—it’s how you look that’s important. And I knew he was right. Because when Roy looked at me, and the way his hands felt—but I’m not supposed to talk about that, neither.
I got the letters from the farm the same night as the induction, so there wasn’t no time to read ‘em beforehand. I put on the white robe and waited for my Sister, Cheryl, to come and help me with my hair before the ceremony. Roy liked us all in white—says God told him that his girls should appear clean and pure as shorn cotton. I always liked white, anyways.
“Patsy?” I heard his voice, suddenly, startlingly me since I was waiting on Cheryl, not him.
“I’m coming, Roy,” my voice was shaking just a tad, an excited and terrified feeling erupting inside of me. Why was I scared? Mama always told me if I was scared, just to sing a little song, but Roy didn’t like us girls singing unless he told us to first. Said that God had certain expectations about a girl’s voice and how she should use her mouth, even if he didn’t care about your words when you were talkin’. It all seemed confusing at first, but it wasn’t hard to get it after a spell.
“Patsy, don’t keep me waiting,” he was right outside the door. Cheryl was missing—she was always running late—and my hair was all messy, but it’d be better to be punished for an appearance abuse than for keeping Roy waiting too much longer.
Story by Devon Fulford
God I’d give anything for her to look at me that way just one more time. She was exquisite, the definition of wild, perfect and all mine. We were meant to be, I felt it, she felt it, everyone around us felt it. The first time I saw her, my heart started racing like it wanted to jump out of my chest, I remember vividly, I got weak, I stuttered. I could barely speak and she just giggled, smiled that sweet honeysuckle smile, so gentle and quaint, innocent at first glance. It was a honeymoon the first few months, it was a dream and I never wanted to wake up.
Soon enough we moved in together, on a spur of the moment Saturday night/early morning decision, we eloped. For us, there was never a dull moment, and soon after she was pregnant. Those few months were the best months of our lives, I had never seen her so happy, as if she was a child. One sunny afternoon we were sitting on our porch when all of a sudden she let out a scream that still haunts me. She was in immeasurable pain, I rushed her to the emergency room as fast as physically possible, but we were too late, we lost the baby.
She was never the same. She lost the curiosity in her eyes, her lips turned down indefinitely and I don’t think I ever heard her laugh again. I was so worried for her, I tried everything to comfort her but she believed it was all her fault. She thought she killed her baby and she could never forgive herself. One night before dinner, I found her lying limp on our bed, her antidepressant medication bottle empty and the light of my life gone.
Story by Victoria Raschi