Goth Visits


Whate'er is born of mortal birth

Must be consumed with the earth,

To rise from generation free:

Then what have I to do with thee?


William Blake





In those days we entered high school at the age of 16 and by the time we graduated we could legally drink any kind of alcohol we wanted, smoking was not against the rules, and the campus was “open,” meaning students could come and go during free periods. As permissive as this sounds, it had the effect of giving us all a feeling we really were going to be adults by the time we graduated.


My hall locker was given to me at the orientation festival.  It was in the bowels of the school, at least one dark corner from any other incoming student, let alone any friends of mine.  It was behind the stage entrance in a cobbled hallway that connects “the alleys” east and west.  The alleys were hallways that ran from the front of the school to the back along the rise of the auditorium floor which sits between them. There were recessed doors to the auditorium where kisses happened and where the initial lighting of various smokable substances happened as kids moved to exit the back of the school.  The back hall where my locker was trapped and maintained whatever odors were generated from these activities.


I smiled through a crowd of students laughing loudly and mixing around a sweet, fading cloud of smoke on my way round the corner to my locker.  The lights in this backstage hall were purposefully limited in case an opening door might spoil some dark show.  My locker was near the middle of the hall.  I walked smoothly reaching for my lock, when against the corner, under an alley light, there appeared the shape of the first Goth ever to be seen in that school. She was as dark as the black paint on the lockers. She had long, black hair. She was alone, leaning back against the wall, looking off somewhere beyond me, through me. I tightened and a minor electric thrill told me she must be looking at me. I smiled shyly into my locker. I thought I saw her head shift toward me.


I had no answer for her attractiveness.  I looked at her again.  I could see one of her cheeks and the end of her nose.  Her skin was a pale mask, nude and bleached. The layers of black clothes melded together in folds, leaving me with only an impression of style. She was not very tall, and her arms were still and poised.  I was fit, if a little skinny, with longish dirty blond hair. I had a typical internal fear of girls, of not being attractive to them; great hopes of sexual connection occupied my mind and even the littlest perception of interest would bring about ecstatic thunder.


I remember that first day optimism, as though I could be something more than I'd ever been, more intellectual, more social, more athletic, more accomplished, and more interesting to girls.


I continued at my locker, focusing on the arrangement of my books and notebooks.  It occurred to me that as yet I had no troubles. I felt good.  I closed my locker and, acting out a kind of subtle, puffed-up grace, I turned toward her.  But she was gone. Aw, man, she's gone.  She'd timed it like a trick on a string.


First period passed. Second passed.  My shuffle in the crowds between classes was confused and straining, until I thought I saw her again, in the corner of the student lounge at the front of the school.  It could have been a shadow.  But it distracted me from the white water worries of the hall.


“Hey Fred! How was your summer?” a friendly voice called across the hall. 


“Hey Tim. It was boring, man, but better than this though!” I responded, yelling with expensive internal energy. Crowds and noise and competitive atmosphere are very oppressive to me, mainly because I was born with a sort of volume problem, making me give up easily in noisy conversations. The result is that some would call me soft-spoken. That's a label I can handle.


Third period came and went.  It was French class. Fourth was algebra.  Then lunch. For this first week we were required to take lunch in the cafeteria. It gave the lunch monitors an opportunity to assert the rules and establish their inmate guard act.


“Can't wait till next week when we can eat anywhere.  That's the best thing about this school, an open campus.” It was nervous time in the midst of so many strangers.  The room was huge and full of echoes, and somehow the unfamiliar smells seemed unhealthy.  We moved and chatted and ate with half attention to ourselves,  looking and acting with uncertainty.  In spite of this circumspect scene, an observant person might have taken a snapshot and forever frozen the patterns that would last the next three years. 


“Oh man, Tim, you should see the foxes in my French class. I'll be a French poet soon.” I remarked.


“You wish. Hey, who's going to the Rush concert next week...” the conversation moved along beyond my wondering focus. One wall of the cafeteria was almost entirely doors which were open to a hallway that abutted another large room called the Tiger's Den, it was a kind of all purpose room.  The Den, as we called it, was an open room with trophy cases and benches lining its walls.  On the end opposite the cafeteria were two grand stairways flowing down from either corner and meeting at a landing, which we called the stage. Halfway up the left stair, in a yellowed light, stood my Goth. I straightened and looked hard, my mind losing all track of anything closer then her. The scene transmuted; time slowed; I felt the instinct of a hungry predator harden me. I didn't move a muscle.  I wanted to watch her, to see how she moved, to see anything part of her.


“Fred. Man. Hey. What is it?” Tim was looking with me but hadn't a clue.


“Shush. It's her.  Don't you see her.  The one in all black. She keeps appearing. I wonder where she's from.” My steady focus silenced the little group around me, it was a kind of deference to pubescent will.


“She's interesting,” muttered Carlton, the virgin slob, the hanger on.


Then a titter rose somewhere else in the room.  It rose to laughter, to a flock-like dance, kids jumping out of the way of something, and for a second I was distracted.  When I returned my gaze she'd left again. She must have been looking at me.



After lunch I entered a new phase in the day, I entered Tyra Johnson's English class. How could it happen twice in one day?  Well, it was the first day.  But this time, it was not another student that captured my attention, it was the teacher.  She was built for seduction, her Negro skin, her profile, her smile. It didn't matter from which angle my lustful eyes gazed upon her, she had rich and powerful curves. Her voice was boozy and confident like a lounge act; she always made me want to be high and presentable like her.   Miss Johnson. Miss Tyra Johnson. Mystery mind went awash in hackneyed-heart doodles. I wonder if she still hears the pulsating echoes of my hopelessness dreams?


If the Goth had titillated me, Miss Johnson had knocked me out.  It wasn't until I finally had to shift my legs and rearrange my stiffening posture that I happened to notice that in the back corner of the class sat the Goth.


Well, I'll spare you the daily, turgid struggle and move this story forward. I learned the Goth's name was Reverence. She was really quite shy and cute and extremely smart. She always had answers for Miss Johnson. I admired her.  But, well, it was unfortunate that her mystery was unraveled in the presence of the Miss Johnson beacon.  In time the Goth lost her allure.  She did not, however, turn away from me, though I sensed her interest was measured by some inexplicable restraint.




On a cold day in early March, as I was entering the building and walking at some distance toward the Goth at her locker.  She was pulling off her coat.  The black veil of her layered dress was briefly caught on her rising coat and she exposed her shape, all the way up to her waist.  I gaped at the fantastic structure of her tapered limbs and perfect droplet ass, covered and clinged-to by loose boyish undershorts.  As the opening of a dusty old book can bring a blinding light, so it was that Reverence disrobed simply could not be ignored.


I slowed and she quickly righted her clothes.  When I passed her, her eye caught mine.


“Fred? Do you have a sec?” now my feelings deepened.  Her voice was small and timid but it reached me.


“Sure.”  I stopped and approached her. 


“I..well..” she stammered.  My heart began a dance with my balls; a heart can be like this, jittery and reactive, and so ready for something to give it pride.


“I'd like to go out with you. What do you think? I mean as friends, its nice to have friends.”


“Ah. Well. Yeah. Sure.” Not wanting to spoil the opening by some stupid remark, we hastened to make arrangements and parted, each to our own fantasy.  Friday, after school, we'd go to her brother Keith's apartment and hang out.  Her brother was cool and probably wouldn't even be there anyway.


I met Weed for lunch that day in the courtyard. He was standing at the top of the sprawling flagstone steps leading to the front entrance, smoking earnestly. Weed had gotten his nickname by the nature of his bushy eyebrows, not the fact that he was a stoner, but he wore the suggestion beautifully.  We'd been good friends since the 4th grade. The sun had come out and warmed the air a bit.  I told him about my date with the Goth.


“Interesting, Fred. Could be interesting. Better bone-up on your poetry, I'd say.” We laughed.


“I saw her before we talked. I mean, she was taking off her coat and her clothes came up.  Wow, she's pretty nice. Lafibrillating fyoose spewshay, if you know what I mean!” I was speaking in the tiny language we'd made up two summers ago.  He gave me a giddy look through a cloud of smoke. 


“Hey, have you ever tried an aphrodisiac?” I wasn't exactly sure what he meant.


“You mean like grass or something?” I asked.


“No. I mean a drug that makes 'em so horny they can't say no.”


“Wow, interesting? What do you call it?”


“No name.  Well, lets call it, ah, slide oil. He he. Here. I have some from my cousin in New York. I tried it on Mary last week. Oh baby!” Weed gave me a smile and a wink and  pulled a smooth, little, round, white pill out of  his breast pocket.  The whole idea overcame me. It was a credulous time when pills and rocket ships and hopes for equality filled the still young mind with endless possibilities. I accepted this little bit of magic and, considering further, asked:


“Is it dangerous? I mean will she pass out or something?”


“Oh no. It strictly works on their sex drive.  Otherwise they are still the same. I swear. She won't even know it, that's the beauty of it. She'll believe its because of you.” Weed shifted and pulled deeply on his cigarette.


I tucked the pill into my pocket.


“Can I put it in a drink or something?”


“Ah, yeah. That'll work.”


That night, in the round light of my bedside lamp, I fingered the pill, examining it.   It was neat and unmarked. I put it carefully in the drawer and turned off the light. My mind and body reclined and considered what might happen with the Goth on Friday.  I pictured her slow disrobing, and her little nipples, like manifest compass points, assuring the way.  My body responded.  I thought back to the one class she'd given a presentation. It was, much to the concern of the refined Miss Johnson, a dramatic reading of Blake's poem To Tirzah. She moved in a kind of dance, first as a mortal Earth girl, hand on her curved hip and beckoning with an index finger, then as an immortal mother, with her arms closed over her chest and wearing a patronizing smile. She looked militantly into my eyes when she read the last line, “Then what have I to do with thee?” I drifted off to sleep on a carpet of answers to this question.


The next morning I walked into first period electronics class.  While I was genuinely interested in the subject, it seemed never to be much fun.  The teacher droned on about theory that he insisted we'd never be tested on but we should be exposed to.  It became a ritual among the little right triangle Heather, Gary, and I made in the back of the room. We'd greet each other with a quick game of rock paper scissors and the winner would have to run that day's parody.  Heather was the punster, always asking questions: “How are you?  Any reVOLTing news?” “WATTs the matter?” and “What, did you reFUSE to do your homework again?”  Gary always played the sick, stupid big man on campus. “Oh Fred, you should have seen it.  My weekend was so great. We drank and drank and I threw up all night long.  Oh, it was beautiful and now I'm so sick I can't stand myself.” That morning I'd won the game, but all I could think of was my Goth and how later I'd be on the adventure of my young life.


“Hey Heather, if a kid jacks off in the woods and no one is around to see it, does he still grow hair on his palms?” Heather, who was sitting directly in front of me didn't turn around, but laughed out loud and swatted my leg behind her chair.


“So, you're a philosopher today.  Tell me, does it ERG you that there are no answers  your questions?” The teacher interrupted our play, pretending to clear some giant wad in his throat. My mind drifted off.  


At lunch Weed asked me if I was going to try the pill on Reverence.  I told him yes and asked him again if he was sure it was safe.  He told me not to worry. To prove it he took out one of the pills and swallowed right there in front of me. 


“Whoa! Weed. Shit man. You're gonna start humping everything in sight, like a little fucking Shiatsu or something.”  We laughed. 


“Don't worry, man. Its affect is stronger in girls. Anyway, I gotta go meet my St. Rita squeeze.  See you later.”





“Hi Reverence.” We met at my locker.


“Hi Fred. Lets walk, its just down on Lancashire.” She led me out the west alley back door. Outside the school the true freshness of a beautiful spring breeze flowed deeply into me, balancing the anxious circumstance with excitement and happiness. It was overwhelming; I wanted to share this infection, to scream and posture like a male baboon.  I restrained myself and we walked steadily in silence for a few blocks.


“I liked your Blake recital. That was an interesting poem.”  I looked at her trying to remember all of the poem.


“Thanks. I had this friend back in New York that was a Blake freak. He was our next door neighbor.  He was older, maybe in his 40's, but we got along well.  I think he was mentally ill, but he sure appreciated Blake.”


“Are you from New York?”


“Well, yeah, I was born in New York City and later my Mom and I moved to Syracuse so she could teach at the University. We spent one year there and then moved here last summer. How about you, where are you from?”


“Been living in the same house since I was born right here in Cleveland Heights.” I spoke more easily and felt the grip of expectation loosening. The trees and the breezes kept painting across our path. Her voice was small, like mine, but somehow stronger then mine.


“What about your brother?” I asked.


“Keith came to Cleveland, mmm, five years ago I think.  He's fucking brilliant. He's a biomedical engineering professor at CWRU.  He's already tenured.  He's only 24 years old.” There was a thoughtful break as we stepped around muddy dips in the sidewalk and descended into Coventry Yard where Lancashire starts.


“Fred, do you ever write like poems or something?”


“No, but I feel like it sometimes. I see stuff and it strikes me, like whats on the surface is hiding something more interesting.” I'd begun to recall the Blake poem. “Like that Blake poem, it seems like it was a kind of plea, like a question.  Like help me out here, is there any connection between my life on Earth and the after-life? Something like that.”  I was actually winging this line of thought, but the words came naturally and from a deeper place in me.


“Yeah, Fred. I felt that too. When he says, 'what have I to do with thee?' It struck me that it's a mortal man asking questions of an immortal God.”  we slowed our pace a bit; there was a certain consuming joy in the moment, the moment of our connection.


“Did you know Blake was one of England's finest artists too? There's one painting I really like called the Song of Loss. It shows a minor god in the form of a man praying over the failed world he created, like he is really sorry about it all.” My thoughts shifted lightly over the idea of a guilty God.  The walk continued in silence for a while.


“Its over here.” she pointed and led me into a boxy, brick brownstone.  We jogged up three flights of stairs and she let us in with a key. 


“My brother's out till tomorrow, so we can hang here as long as we want.”  I watched her more closely in the amiable afternoon light shining through large, arched windows.


“Can I get you a drink?” I opened my mouth without speaking. “Yeah, I'll see if he has any beer.” she  blurted smiling and tricking her chin sneakily. The room was comfortable and filled with taste.  We sat on  a two corner sectional couch, fluffy and clean, breezy and low to the shag carpet. On a large square coffee table sat some paper pile of highbrow which I ignored. The walls were crowded with prints and posters and calls for participation, co-operatives, poetry readings, fractal art, Bob Marley with a giant spliff. Reverence brought out two rounded glass mugs and two cans of beer.  She left her shoes and coat beside the couch and  poured both beers.


“Oh wait, I'll show you the Blake painting.  Keith has  it in a book.” She skipped off into a hallway and the impulse hit me: I immediately took the opportunity to drop the slide oil into her mug.  It sank and bubbled  in an  agonizing waver to the bottom of the mug. I watched it anxiously.


She returned and sat next to me. 


“Here, it's on that page that I marked for Keith.” She handed me the book and reached for her glass.  As she lifted the beer over her lap toward her face I swore I saw her looking into the contents of the mug. I half-peered at the book nervously. When she took a long drink and smiled, I relaxed and let my worries fade.  I took a drink too.


I can't say now what I was really thinking at the time.  It seems I should have had more of a plan.  I should have maybe checked out her interest in me a little better before giving her the drug, but that isn't what happened. As it turned out she smiled more and more and became more and more friendly, in spite of the meager conversation I offered her.  I simply pointed at the picture in the book and said something like “that looks like some kind of microbiological blob there above him.  What is that?”  She shrugged her shoulders and edged closer to me.  We stared together at the image on the page and passed, by the rise of the alcohol, by the gentle quiet, by the way of nature, into that moment, among new lovers, when conversation stalls in a secluded lee and the tender fluttering hearts surge upward.


I turned to her and reached for the shade of hair hanging over her face.  I pushed it back and looked at her. Her blackened lips parted resignedly, hinting a smile, and she let her eyes close. It was all so instinctive at that point, following the signs, breathing as a pair, accepting the fumbles, going on and on touching and kissing and opening ourselves to the smells and warmth and never looking back or around or anywhere. She held out her palms and arched her fingertips upward.


“Let's get on the floor.” she whispered.


When our breathing returned to normal and the sweat began to cool, she rose to the couch and flopped loosely.  I saw her body more clearly then.  It was indistinct from grace, nothing too big, nothing too small, but natural and attractive in any pose, like a dancer's body. She was proud. And so was I. 


“How do you feel?” I asked her.  I was trying to gage what the drug might be making her feel now. She gave a little laugh like she'd thought it was a really dumb question.  She just looked happy. I let the question go. We dressed and kissed and she told me she'd like to do that again some time.  So we agreed.


The dinner hour came and we parted with a prolonged, heartfelt hug.  The walk home began in a dream.  As the feelings of amazing accomplishment settled I began to reflect more seriously on what  had just happened. Under the disappearing Pin Oak canopy a more chilling sentiment came to mind. Could that be called date rape? I'd heard of it, but it wasn't like this.  Those date rape drugs knock em out. She seemed together enough to say no if she'd really felt like it.  I honestly believed she'd have said yes anyway.


Later that night I lay in bed, my mind vacillating between the perfect sexual bliss and the questions of my conscience. At some point I recalled a line from the Blake poem acted out by the Goth: “Whate'er is Born of Mortal Birth, Must be consumed with the Earth.” I remembered Miss Johnson's crossed arms, her critical lean, and her pursed patience.  I wondered what she thought of the Mortal Birth. Then, as inexplicable as lightening, my mind, connecting the Goth and Blake and Miss Johnson, I arrived at the startling idea that I could use the slide oil on Miss Johnson.


I sat up, nervous and intrigued. I don't know if you might call it psychosis or dementia, but misguided brilliance, such as this, offers no surprise to the observer of adolescent males, and so I can admit that it made perfect sense at the time. 




Three weeks later at the end of Miss Johnson's class.


“I don't know exactly what I'm going to do Miss Johnson, my board is too big for me to carry to school and my parents have really screwy schedules.  I don't know if they can drive it in for me.”  I smiled with nervous hope. 


“Well, lets see.  You are presenting on Monday.  I suppose I could help you sometime this week. Will it fit in my car?  I have a sedan.”


“Sure, it should fit.  I'm sort of busy with track practice all week after school.  Maybe we could do it this weekend?”  She looked up at the ceiling and took a drink from her ever present water bottle.


“Alright, how about Sunday morning about 11.” I smiled.


“That would be great.  Thanks.” I smiled more deeply.  I walked out of class, my head whirling with the plan.  I found Weed in the courtyard.  We chatted.  I waited for the right moment. 


“Say, do you still have any more of that slide oil?” Weed laughed at the recollection of this name he'd made up, then he grew serious.


“You sure about that? You don't need it, you have Reverence.  She's pretty happy I hear.” we smiled at the unspoken animal cheer.


“Yeah, but I'm thinking about someone else.”  Weed stiffened slightly. 


“You gotta be careful man.  I mean we sort of knew the Goth had a thing for you. Maybe it won't work on everyone. Who are you trying to do anyway?”


“I'll tell you later, when its over.”  I was bursting, I wanted to tell him, but I had to have the stuff first.  I thought he might not give it to me if he knew.  There was a long pause, he thought, he wagged and coursed his brow, and finally, he said yes. 


The next day he gave me the pill. 


“Tell me man, who the hell is it?” I smiled. 


“You gotta promise me you're gonna keep this to yourself.”


“Sure man. Who?”


“Miss Johnson.” He drew back, his face smeared into a alarm and disbelief. 


“Whoa man. You're crazy. I mean she's hot, for sure, but a teacher. I don't know, man. Maybe you should give back that pill. Seriously. I think you should.” I backed away from him.


“No.  They're gonna write about this in the Howler. Ha ha ha!” I ran off.


The next day, in Miss Johnson's class, I greeted Reverence with a show of elegance, kissing her hand and presenting her seat for her. It was the act of a man atop the stage.  Miss Johnson eyed the class.  I imagined she'd had some idea of my energy.  Reverence kept quiet and watched me.  When class ended I walked up to Miss Johnson and said:


“We're all set for Sunday, right? I'm at 222 Marshall Road.” She nodded.


“I know, see you at 11 am. sharp.”


I turned to go and bumped into Reverence who'd just been passing me on the way out of class. 


“Oh, I'm sorry.” I reached a guiding hand out.


“What's happening at 11 Sunday?” she asked.


“Miss Johnson is going to help transport my project board from home to school.” Reverence face closed in on itself. It was an early lesson in reading the female mind. I didn't succeed.






I camped in my bedroom window. She pulled into the driveway. By the time she'd gotten to the bottom of our front porch stairs I was at the door. Seeing her brought an inaudible gasp.  She was wearing a loose and comfortable looking gray hooded sweatshirt.  I read over the pastoral mounds of her breasts: “Ohio University.” She wore a dark blue baseball cap which hid her eyes.  Her skin had that perfect iridescence blackness distilled from generations of Sub-Saharan sun. Looking upon her physical presence it occurred to me that Negroes come in all the ideal forms of humanity: lean and strong or round and soft or long and graceful. Hers was something inexpressible, yet unequivocal in the place of my desire; it was never more than the breath of a wish that converted her image into an ecstatic dream. 


“Hi, Miss Johnson.” In one hand I had the board by a makeshift handle.  In the other hand I had the accompanying materials in a shoe box. 


“Hello, why don't you hand me the board.  I'll see if it fits in the trunk.” I handed the board to her and turned to get in the passenger side door.  Her water bottle was there in the front.  I quickly dropped the pill into the bottle and jumped out of the car again to see if she needed help with the board.


At the foot of the driveway, backing up, a manic flurry of thoughts chased my senses. I pictured my drying breath in her mouth, making her thirsty, and drinking, turning back for more of me, my breath, my lips.  Her car was so neat.  She had a neat rack of cassette tapes, Chopin, Barbara Streisand, Janis Joplin, The White Album. Ha. I am the white album. Coo Coo Ca Choo. Her hands on the wheel. Her eyes straight forward.  Her mind, maybe somewhere else. Was she thinking of a plan? An errand? A date maybe? A car lurched in front of us suddenly from a connecting side street and she hit her brakes and instinctively reached out to hold me back. I clutched her hand, “Oh Man what a jerk.”


She slowed and gave me quick, concerned looks. “Are you alright Fred?”


“Yeah, wow. Nice driving.” The adrenaline scare gave in immediately to the thrill of her hand, under mine, on my shoulder.  She let her hand fall slowly, still with gentle pressure holding me back, sliding down my arm, her mahogany fingers trespassed my chest.  I almost melted into oblivion.  As her hand moved away she picked up her water bottle and took a drink.  My hands clutched like a champion's. 'Oh yes.'  I let the flow of fantasy spill into my veins.  It was perfect.


As we approached the school a little concern came from what might blow my cover, I was interminably erect, nothing could be done about it. It was as if I'd taken the slide oil.  If it were just her and I, I wouldn't be concerned, for soon she'd have nothing but appreciation, but if someone else came around it might be a problem.


As I stepped out of her car holding my shoe box, I felt sure we were alone. I felt free and bold.


I stepped around to the back of her car and she'd already opened the trunk and was bent, reaching for the board. I stepped behind her. “Can I help you with that?” and I put the fingers of my right hand on small of her back, gently.  She turned and smiled at me. “Its OK, I can get it.” I kept my hand on her back, flattening my palm onto it. She stood up and twisted around to face me.  My palm rode around her hip until the fingers had a curve to hold on to.  She looked into my eyes without emotion, not lust or reproval. She held the board with one hand and reached for my forearm with the other. “Not here.” she whispered, giving me a mock disciplinary look, and pushing my hand away. 


We closed the trunk and I followed her into the school.  It seemed empty, but when we reached the stairwell by the front lounge, I could hear the giggle of a girl. We rounded up to her second floor classroom.


Inside the room my presentation props dropped to the floor. Miss Johnson grabbed my hand and pulled me to a private spot not visible from outside the room.  She pulled me close to her, and we shared a passionate hug, my tap of steel passing teenage lust through our threads into tracks  by her hip.  All conceivable reason passed ingloriously from my mind. She spoke in a low groan, “You must be quick. We are not alone.” She turned her back, drew down her clothes, and we beat the devil, right there against her wall of words...


We held each other, sighing balm for the aftershocks. “You should go now,” she muttered, “It was the best.” I pressed my cheek on hers and kissed it, a taste to last beyond the years, and scurried into the hall adjusting my clothes. 


As a teenager, a teenage male, with nothing more than a few sporting trophies, a reasonable tan, some commendable reports, and a solo performance or two, there can not be anything more powerful that the conquest of a beautiful woman, especially one with whom you've spent half the year dreaming. 


But soon the torment of the question of rape dampened these thoughts. And again the notion that it must have been at least partly wanted by her rose in defense.  In the end I knew instinctively that she would remember this event with fondness, and that she'd not deny its perfection.  In this case, this must be the measure of morality.  And so, my doubts left me again and he smiled at a life that could not be better.


As I exited the building through the front entranceway, I passed the lounge and reached for the door.


“Fred!” I heard Reverence's voice and stiffened. 


“Oh Hi, what are you doing here?”  She ran up to me with a smile on her face, grabbed my arm, and led me out the door to the sunny courtyard. She grabbed me and made me face her.


“How was it?” she said with a smirk. “The slide oil, man? Did it work?” and she doubled over in laughter.  “Weed and I planned it for you and me, man. I just wanted you! Its nothing but a placebo.  So, did she slap you or something?” She continued laughing. I thought of telling her everything, but resisted, “No, she was nice about it.  She just smiled and told me I was a silly boy.”


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Short Story
writing Humbert
I like literary fiction and hysterical realism.
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What happens when a boy becomes infatuated with the first goth ever to attend his school.