Harmonious Hearts 2019--Stories from the Young Author Challenge

by Ryan Almroth

  “Honestly….” He frowned. “I’m a little bit bored. It’s just this isn’t particularly riveting, I’m sorry to say. Must we ask the same questions every time?” He didn’t have the energy to move his hands much while talking, but the boy believed how he was feeling showed. His whole-body language indicated that the emotion he had revealed was true. Slumped, shoulders hunched. Not anything like he’d felt when he had entered, as he had nearly jumped and skipped into the chair.

  Still, if the therapist’s words were anything to go by, she could see progress. The boy hadn’t expected her to enjoy his little rebellious streak, not to mention his disrespectful tone. Maybe she was just trying to look for the bright side. It was her job, but she had declared the fact he was engaging, and that was a net positive in her book.

  “You know we do,” she said, as if making sure to ignore his attempts at humor. “And I’m sorry. They’re routine, as you probably know by now.” Her words seemed to have an impact as the boy huffed and complained.

  “I hate routine, always the same old, same old.” He was surprised by his own words. Back when he agreed to try this therapy, routine had made things easier—when he had nothing to lose and yet nothing to gain and he was just hanging there. It was just getting up and… and then staring at the ceiling a dozen hours later. Not so now. What had once made things easier now just left him feeling bored. There had been a time, not too long ago, where knowing what to expect, and what he had to endure made it so he could push through. He hadn’t liked surprises. Now however it just seemed to him like going in circles.

  “Yes….” She nodded sympathetically, as if she was aware of the problem, which only made him wonder why she asked the same questions anyway. He had heard her spiel about determining his mood. And “bored” was definitely better than “cold” or “nothing,” like he had answered previously, but even so.

  “How was your week?” They had scheduled weekly sessions, and so this was another question that popped up often. The boy played with a strand of his hair, twisting it between his fingers. He had hoped this question wouldn’t come. He had hoped they could just talk about music and other pointless crap. He deliberately avoided her gaze, knowing very well that if he looked at her, his nonchalant expression would be detected as a lie. The boy tried to go for a casual answer, though he had the feeling that, as soon as the words left his lips, he had failed at that.

  “You know, same old, same old.” He made a tremendous effort to shrug, even though what had transpired hadn’t exactly left him in the mood to be jovial. It chewed at him, and perhaps figuratively jumping at the opportunity to let it all out, spoke of how much it was affecting him.

  The therapist seemed to lean closer, though the boy was certain it was just his emotions coloring the scene.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said. And the boy had no response except a deep sigh. Of course she wouldn’t. Who was he trying to fool? She was an expert on emotions and uncovering lies, and also the closest thing he had to a friend. It might have seemed kind of pathetic, given they’d only known each other for a month, but it was the truth. It had to do with his lack of interactions, with how little he was willing to deal with the crap others gave him, but he hadn’t really made any friends. Not that he thought them necessary or instrumental in any way, but still the fact remained. Other than his mother and father, it was with his therapist he had the closest relationship. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad, he thought.

  “What?” He didn’t know why exactly he pretended he could fool her, when the words were trying to spill out even as he faked that his week had been normal, and that he hadn’t been trying and failing to cope with his emotions. Because this was not normal, but then again, when had he been normal?

  “I said I don’t believe you. You’re clearly feeling uncomfortable with something. It’s dying to come out. I can help. Why aren’t you being honest?” The boy still avoided her gaze. He focused instead on splashes of color on the wall. They had started growing on him. While they still looked all the more random, he found the more he looked at them, the more he felt they were appropriate. They seemed to fit the moods shared within that room, at least with him.

  “It’s nothing…,” he mumbled, then said something so softly that even though she was not five feet from him, separated only by a desk, she couldn’t hear him. It was her turn to ask what he had said.

  “You’re going to have to speak louder than that.” And to the boy, those were words that he hadn’t wanted to hear. Maybe they were on the verge of a breakthrough, he did not know. While he had never been one to have his mood at soaring heights, and he had been melancholic all throughout, the fact he was so close to bursting, so close to revealing what it was, was terrifying. It had all come from a moment of weakness, and he frowned briefly as he recalled what had caused all the progress they had been making to go tumbling down. But from greatest darkness came the greatest light, and maybe he should just let it out.

  “I said, just some silly gender stuff!” That was how it was, right? He couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. He just had to bring it up once more. Really when the boy had gotten up, after a night’s sleep—something that still seemed unreal to him as he had spent so long without any real sleep—he had hoped for a chat about music. Something to help him relax, not the talk. The talk that, yes, he had brought upon himself, but one he definitively loathed.

  The therapist, for her part, did not lose her composure. In fact, she didn’t even flinch at the sudden volume of words.

  “How so?” she asked.

  “How long ago was high school for you?” He realized the question might come off as rude, so he quickly added, “It’s just, they call me by my name, and it’s my name, but sometimes they add Miss before it…and I can’t deal with it. It’s gotten even worse lately!”

  Ah. So that was it. The therapist adjusted her position, finally straightening herself. It was her job to get him in a good mental spot, but still, she had to be fair. Perhaps not neutral, but fair indeed.

  “I’m assuming they wouldn’t have known? Unless you told—” She was interrupted by his huffing and crossing his arms. He was definitely reacting with more energy than usual. As if he had been slighted, which, to him, he had been.

  “I know, they couldn’t have known! It still sucked!” He pressed his hand against his earbuds, tugging at them, trying to unknot the laces. He wasn’t doing a very good job, his movements harsh, the earbuds getting progressively more tangled the more he tried to unlace them. It was frustrating, but then not as frustrating as some other stuff.

  “Why is that a problem? It is terrible, and it hurts, but I’d think you’d be used to it by now.” It was cruel, what she had to say, but she hoped to cause a reaction. She could only hope that the gentle tone of her voice limited the amount of hurt she caused.

  “Yeah.” There, it hit him with a thud, like his backpack sliding out to the floor when he arrived home. He felt the need to explain himself, though. “It’s just… I’ve spent so long just not feeling, that when I feel, it’s like ten times worse, you know?”

  He stared at his hands, as if he was unsure of exactly what to say. What else was there to add? There wasn’t a magical cure that would make it all go away. There weren’t any magical words that would make him feel better, were there? In his misery he knew what she was going to say. He had brought it upon himself; he knew he had. How could they have known him as a boy when he had never revealed it? Still it hurt, and he was tired, and he wanted change. Change seemed so good, if only it could happen.

  The therapist sighed, and the boy couldn’t help but be amazed. All throughout the sessions, even when he went on a tirade about music, he had never heard her sigh. He had heard her say that he should take a break, or let her speak, but never a sigh. Had he pushed her to the end of her patience? Did she not know how to deal with him anymore? The boy’s mind was quick to make assumptions.

  “Mister… actually I have realized we never did settle on a name f
or you—”

  The boy interrupted, a sheepish smile on his face. Why was it that every single time he felt miserable, a question, not asked but present nonetheless, made him reply? He said the name he had been thinking of for a while now.

  “I’ve been toying with the idea of naming myself Karl,” he admitted. It wasn’t the first time he’d tested the name, but it was the first time he had admitted to it out loud.

  The therapist smiled, as if he needed her approval and told him it was a good name, before adding some other stuff.

  “Karl… I don’t say this lightly, but you need to tell people about it.” He couldn’t help but shiver, as if it was confirmation of everything he had thought.

  “B-but how can I do that? What if people don’t accept me? What if they laugh? I’ve heard the tales.” Karl had forgotten his lack of energy, he had forgotten his reservations, letting out of his mouth all the doubts he had been feeling ever since he had realized that yes, he was a he, he was who he was. “I mean, it’s not exactly easy!”

  The therapist grabbed the edge of her desk. Contemplative. She didn’t speak for a while. And the silence, more than that time she had stared at him or the times her voice hardened, made him nervous. At last she spoke.

  “It’s not easy, but it’ll get easier with every person you tell.” She came closer, and for a second Karl thought she was going to hug him. They had always kept personal space, boundaries that now seemed to shake in their foundations. It helped—even though it was a simple friendly approach—seeing how close her eyes were, and how much more obvious it was they shone with kindness when not separated by a desk seemed to ease his worries. “You told me, and didn’t that feel liberating?”

  The boy couldn’t help but laugh. “More like terrifying!”

  The therapist smiled a bit too. And then she continued.

  “There are certain methods to deal with it. You’re not unique, and you’re not alone.” At the widening of his eyes, she couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Oh, I assure you, you’re not!”

  Composing herself, she finally concluded what she had to say.

  “I can’t promise you you’ll be accepted by everyone, as I can’t promise you that it’ll fix your depression.” He had been right about that. He felt depressed. “In fact, it’ll probably help, but you’ll still need to work hard on other factors….” The boy grimaced. He hated hard work.

  “But in the end, won’t it be worth it, just for being you?” Karl nodded, though, in reality, he wasn’t quite certain of it. He thought the therapist could see it, because she had an exercise for him.

  “Repeat it out loud. I am Karl. It might sound dumb and stupid, but just do it.”

  “I am Karl.” What at first seemed to him like whimpering, like begging to be accepted, soon came out more determined. And with every time he repeated the words, he couldn’t help but feel more strongly about it. This was what he had felt for so long. This was what he was—not a girl, not a shining example of the feminine, but him. Karl. The name he had toyed with and imagined gained form in his mouth, not as some far-off concept he could dream of, but as him. It was his name. There was no doubt about it. He was just that, he was Karl.

  And it felt pretty damn nice to admit it.

  M. CALDEIRA is a Portuguese author who started writing even before she could read. A translation student, she truly believes that applying her personal love of writing to her work improves her literary translations. Though she plays with her synthesizer and mixing table to make what she calls music, and scribbles and lets her mind wander through sketches, it’s writing that she considers herself best at.

  Though M. Caldeira has been called many things, some of which she heavily disagrees and doesn’t identify with, she has always believed that rather than being defined by the names that she’s called, she should define herself by what she makes. Be it when translating the words of others or when writing her own, re-shaping stories is the one thing she can do no matter her mood.

  M. Caldeira distracts herself from her obligations in a show of procrastination not only by writing, drawing, and composing but also by playing video games. Her ever-expanding library isn’t anywhere close to being completed, and her backlog is so big it’d scare most people. When she’s not busy unwinding after school, she can be found on Twitter @McPortugalem discussing games, fan communities, and stuff that catches her eye.

  Blond Dahlia

  By Jordan Ori

  There are two sides to Colton—the football star with a great best friend and beautiful girlfriend, the pride of their small Southern school… and the secret side who suspects he is gay, longs to be a professional drag queen, and practices the art in secret. Colton keeps these two aspects strictly separated, but that’s about to change….

  COLTON ANDREWS. That name, that wretched name that has been forced upon me. That guy who has no free time because he always has to practice football even though he hates being quarterback. That guy who has to play sports rather than sing like he wants to, because in the words of his father, “Singing is not a career. It’s a hobby for girls and homos.” That guy who has to be a good boyfriend, and carry on a good name for the Andrews family. In my life I have to get good grades, get a football scholarship, and eventually marry some pretty girl, like every Andrews man.

  I don’t want to be Colton Andrews. I want to be The Blond Dahlia.

  To the naked eye I have a perfect life: I’m handsome, I’m blond, I’m athletic, healthy, smart, rich, popular, loved. And I’m dating the most beautiful girl in all of Briarcliffe High, Brandi Jones. She’s sitting next to me now in the shotgun seat of my white Porsche. Her curly hair, tawny skin, plump lips, and bright smile would make any guy melt inside, but not me.

  I glance in the mirror and see my best friend Dalton sitting in the back. He’s not buckled in and is lying down with his legs on the window; classic Dalton, always breaking the rules. His leather jacket is the same color as his hair, which contrasts with his ivory skin and eyes as blue as a husky’s. My dark eyes trace his sharp jaw and follow down to his ab muscles that tighten when he laughs, and I give a slight smile. Then all of a sudden, my daydream is interrupted.

  “This is me,” Brandi says, smiling as she opens the car door. I follow her out, stumbling. “Are you okay, babe? You seem out of it.” She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses my golden cheek. I wrap my arms around her little waist like a prisoner being forced against his will. I am a prisoner—of society.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. She reaches up and her pillow lips touch mine. She truly is beautiful, so why do I flinch when she touches me?

  “You must be tired from football. Go home and get some rest. You can’t be like this for prom on Friday.”

  I fake a laugh, and then she kisses me on the cheek one more time before galloping into her house. I sigh and head back to the car. Dalton’s already in the front seat, smiling his wry smile with a cigarette between his teeth. Who smokes cigarettes anymore? I swear to God he looks and acts like a greaser from the fifties. I sit down behind the wheel and look at him. How can someone’s eyes be that blue?

  “Dude, what’s up with you?” He exhales and turns to look at me as I drive. It feels like snakes are slithering up from my stomach and into my throat. “Your girlfriend’s insanely hot and you couldn’t look less turned on when you kiss her. Like, we get it, Colton, you’re basically the most attractive guy in Georgia, but what’s your standard? Victoria’s Secret Angels?”

  “I just….”

  “Are you not attracted to her?”

  “She’s attractive.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  My heart’s beating a mile a minute; is he going to say those three tantalizing words?

  “Pull over here.”

  Thank God! Those are not the three words I thought he was going to say. “This is my driver’s ed. It’s two hours long. I’ll come to your place after.”

  I nod, and he gets out and leans on the window. “If you
don’t like her, don’t torture yourself. You’re a modern-day James Dean. You can have any girl you want!”

  Of course I don’t want any girl, but I smile anyway and wave goodbye to him, and then watch him walk toward his class. There’s no way to describe his beauty other than extraterrestrial. The jet-black hair, snow-white skin, piercing, icy eyes, a body like a runway model. Then my heart sinks. Actually his beauty could be better described as forbidden.

  So I drive home in a trancelike state, bopping my head as if I’m listening to music. Alas I’m only listening to the roar of my car. Eventually I reach the house, and after parking my car, I run in and dash up the stairs to my room. My dad is currently on a business trip, and my mom is performing brain surgery all night. And, of course, Dalton isn’t coming for a little while, so I have two hours. I have two hours to become The Blond Dahlia.

  I go into my closet and take out my wig cap and smush my fair hair into it. Then hurriedly I reach under my bed and slide out my tub of makeup. First I pull out the glue and glue my eyebrows down with purple Elmer’s so I can draw over them. It’s almost as if I’m a kid in art class goofing off and gluing my brows, but I have a plan, and the teacher can’t end my ecstasy. Then I stick my hand in, grab the primer, and rub it all over my face. The face you’re born with doesn’t have to stick. I see faces as blank canvas ready to be brushed with truth.

  I move on to color correcting and rub a maroon foundation stick around my mouth and under my eye bags. It looks weird at first but once you blend it into your foundation, your skin looks flawless. Plus my five o’clock shadow has lots of reddish undertones, so I need to cancel that out. After that I slather my face in foundation, covering every pore and imperfection. I use my football-worn hands to rub it into my skin. Then I powder my skin, and the brush tickles my face like little foxtails, preparing me for the concealer, which I use to get rid of any last trouble spots and brighten my face. Finally it’s all finished when I dab my spongy pink blender all over my face. I am on my way to sealing a spot in an art museum.