You Just Lost The Game by Laura Deal

You Just Lost The Game

by Kyrsten Stockus

Because there isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough space for everyone, I dedicate this is anyone.

Table of Contents My Name -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------5 Three Cars ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------7 Picture Frame --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------9 Enagmi --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------10 Advice ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------12 Lemon Drops -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------14 Pear Trees -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------16 A Blue Notebook ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------17 Chicago --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------19

My Name

At some moments my name describes me perfectly. There is no doubt in my mind why I am called this, why it fits me. At other moments, it feels like something completely separate. This word people seem to say often around me, but in another language. Something I will never understand. There is no exact reason my name was picked. One of my parents heard it, and liked it. It wasn’t something passed down for generations. It wasn’t picked after weeks of arguments and research. My parents simply liked it, and decided to use it. I love my name for its uniqueness. I rarely meet people with a similar name, and never have I met someone who spells it the same. It can only be said one way. If someone wants to write it down, I need to spell it for them. Some part of them now remembers, ‘She’s the girl with the unusual name.’ The meaning of my name has always bothered me. ‘Christian’ or ‘follower of Christ.’ I was never a religious person, and yet my name defines me as so. It says I am a person of strong faith, a blind believer. I cannot accept this as who I am supposed to be. I cannot accept this as the meaning my name. It is not part of me. When others say it, it takes on a whole new meaning. It is something muttered in contempt. It is something stated immediately after the question ‘Who would know?’ It is laughed, as they run down the hallway. It exists in passing moments, rolling out of your mouth. A random pairing of letters, making a sound almost pleasing. Like a new kind of candy, you roll it in your mouth, unsure of the exact flavor.

I am not sure if I would change my name. If I had the chance, would I keep it? For all of my life, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been Kyrsten. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t imagine me as someone else, or at least, someone with a different name. My name has become such a large part of who I am, it is sometimes hard to remember I was born without it.

Three Cars

It is a long, quiet street, with trees lining the road. Houses sit quietly, peering out at each other. Fences creep around from the back, hiding dogs and secrets. It has a pressing silence, like it is holding its breath. But it has been holding its breath for so long, it is hard to tell whether it is waiting, or simply gone. Occasionally, a car will pass through. It seems like it brings with it the wind, and ruffles up the street. Then as itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s headlights fade away, everything becomes still again. People are rarely out, only to grab some mail, or trim the hedge. They shuffle out for a few moments, then hurry back inside. There is a smell of burning wood chips that passes through sometimes. It seems to appear from someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chimney, and spill out into everything. It seeps in through the windows, and clogs up your nose. It makes everything seem a bit warmer, but does not totally eradicate the chill. The chill that hangs low to the ground, covering everything. Even in the dead heat of summer, it causes shivers and sighs. It holds you close and blankets you. There is sometimes laughter of people passing. Children running through, screeching as they pretend to chase each other. They ignore the silence, and listen to the distant music. They run and scream and hide away. They do not see the perfect houses in neat little rows, with their faded facades and covered windows. They do not see the perfect lawns, with flowers where they should be and weeds just a rumor. They do not see the perfect families, smiling when they should

and only calling to ask about the weather or a borrowed gardening tool. They do not see their future, in one of the cold, perfect houses. And yet at night the streetlight flickers, and the perfect little houses are just cold and quiet.

Picture Frame

I did not mean to break your picture frame, I tried to fix it for you, I promise, We were just playing this stupid game, And yet you think I am dishonest,

I tried to fix it for you, I promise, I was just trying to play along, like you said, And yet you think I am dishonest, I am slashing the memory out of my head,

I was just trying to play along, like you said, I am waiting for another chance, I am slashing the memory out of my head, You refuse to give me another glance,

I am waiting for another chance, We were just playing this stupid game, You refuse to give me another glance, I did not mean to break your picture frame.

Enagmi

Every one of them had a name. Every one of them had a history. A complex map of relationships and plot twists and secrets that surprised even me. I loved some of them, and hated others. I created homes and jobs. I gave them life. It was an unusual game. I would play it like they were all alive, like they were real people. They had relationships, and parties, and work. I even went so far as to create a set of currency. To me, it was as real of a world as the one outside my bedroom. I grew to love my creation. This entire world I created in my mind and my bedroom, made out of mixed up toys, pillows, and scraps of paper or fabric. It was always growing and changing, mocking the world around me. There was Zap and Shimmer, the two cats. They were sisters, despite their different sizes and looks. One was smart and snarky, the other kind and stupid. They were always competing with each other, with others. They had no reason to worry about money, because they came from an old money family. There was Balto. His leg had been torn off and sewn back on long before arriving. He was dirty and a little smashed on the right side. But he was wise, and leader of everyone. He always knew what to do, and how to help. There was Cupcake, who despite being a boy, enjoyed dressing up in little dresses. He made them himself, using fabric from his own store. He designed the clothes for everyone, and asked for only a little in return.

There was Alaska, the greedy banker. She cheated others out of their money through scams and lies. No one ever realized, until she escaped into the mountains with all their money. There were so many of them. Each had a story. Each had a name. Each was a person. Then one day, they were just toys. Just old stuffed animals, with pieces of fabric wrapped around them. No real value, and worn too much to give away. They were just pieces of fabric stitched together, with stuffing inside. The world had died, I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even realized until it was gone. I called it Enagmi. Imagine backwards, how original of me. But it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just a game. It was a world within my own, and now it has disappeared.

Advice “Don’t use plastic bowls to mix bread,” my mother explained, as she poured the ingredients into a clear, glass bowl. She measured each part carefully, asking me how much for each. “Mix water and cornstarch separately, then add them in to thicken it,” she handed me a cup and some cornstarch, then turned back to the saucepan. The steam from the pan made the air hard to breath. “Always walk to the right side,” she pulled me over, avoiding the others on the street. The people seemed so angry, and rushed past. I stepped a bit closer to her. “Go with the grain, it’ll make it smoother,” she stated, pushing the sandpaper along the edge of the cabinet. I held a piece in my hand, the rough edge biting in. “Wash out the cans before you put them in the bin,” she reminded me, as I scrubbed the dishes from the day before. The murky water was hiding pans with spots still too stuck on to scrub off. “Always check that the tag isn’t marked ‘sale’ too,” she said, placing the blue top back on the rack. I fingered the soft edge, as she pulled out yet another sweater. “Squeeze the fruit to make sure it’s ripe enough, but not too ripe,” she murmured, holding an orange in her hand. I breathed in the sharp citrus scent, as the bumpy skin gave way. “Hold your hands forward, it makes you look more open,” she smiled, as I practiced my walk. I stared at my hands, a little bit clenched, then opened them.

“Always carry a few coins, so you don’t have to worry about change,” she sighs, pressing the last few pennies in the cashiers hand. I clutch the small paper bag in my hand, it crinkling a bit. “Can you show me how to do this again?” I ask, because I never seem to remember.

Lemon Drops Every holiday began the same. I would be woken up before I liked, forced to sit there as my mother attempted to tame my hair. Uncomfortable clothes and tight shoes. I had to scarf down a granola bar, despite the taste of fluoride in my mouth. The car was packed full with trays of food and bags of gifts. And then we were off. Our car wound its way through the hills, inside everyone sleepy and still. We brought blankets so we could sleep, and mom and dad could drive. When we reached a certain point, it became excitement. Who would spot the house first? Who would find it last? We’d start jumping in the seats and mumbling, not really about anything, just waiting to get there. And then we were there. A little apartment in a quiet building, where my grandmother lived. There, we unloaded the car and ran inside. My grandmother greeted us, with cries of ‘Look how big you are now!’ and ‘Oh, how nice to see you’. She gave her weak smile, and hugged me carefully from her chair. My cousins and aunts and uncles arrived all in the same order. They greeted us similarly, but with more hugging and less smiling. Then the children were sent away, the mothers went to cook, and the dads sat down and talked. We hid in a room, playing games with no purpose. As we waited, we snacked. On pickles and cookies and bars and olives and chips and dips and spreads and pieces of toast with some peanut butter or jam.

And now came the reason we were all there, the reason we had came. On Christmas, it was presents. On Thanksgiving, food. On Easter, a bit of both. We cheered and chatted and argued. After a while, the sun went down, and the food ran out. We grew tired and sick of each other. One by one, we’d head back to our homes. But always, before we went, my grandmother took me by the hand, and placed a lemon drop in it. “Something for the road,” she’d say, then give me another weak smile. We’d drive home on the same turning roads, this time in reverse. I’d suck on the lemon drop and watch the world go by. This is how it went, until my grandmother died.

Pear Trees My dad called him Pop, I had called him Grandfather, He called me sweetie. His legs were still hurt, After a far away war, And yet he still smiled. He seemed so distant, He just looked out the window, Watching the pear trees.

A Blue Notebook “This notebook goes to anyone who gets one hundred percent on their math test,” she explained, holding it in her hand. It was big, with a smooth cover, and pockets on the inside to hold papers. It was just a notebook, but we wanted it. I spent the day trying to figure out my chances of winning it. There was the one kid who knew all the multiples of five, but couldn’t divide. There was the girl who could add large numbers in her head, but could never keep them there. There was the girl who could work faster than anyone, but she always forgot to carry to the zero. I knew I wanted that notebook. More than anything, I wanted that notebook. But I also knew I couldn’t just win in normally. So I studied. I spent the rest of the week practicing. I took home extra sheets, and timed myself on completing them. I found flashcards and tested myself. Everywhere I went, it was numbers, numbers, numbers. Soon, I could long divide with ease and knew all the multiplication tables up to eleven. The day of the test, we all buzzed with excitement. The people who knew they couldn’t win made guesses on who would. The few of us with a chance just smiled a little, glancing at each other. Some claimed they too had studied all week for the test. Others claimed they didn’t care, while they muttered the oder of operations rhyme under their breath. I stayed silent, watching others reactions. And then the test began. I wrote my name as neatly as possible, wanting my winning paper to look nice. The numbers flew out of me, flying on the paper. They seemed to just appear

when I needed them. I wrote down every step, gave every answer a label. No way was I going to lose because of a silly mistake. And then it was over. We begged to know the answers, but wouldn’t until Monday. The rest of the weekend was spent waiting and hoping. I spent some moments believing everything I had written as wrong, and others so sure I would win. Finally Monday came, and I was at school. We waited until after the pledge to ask, to demand, who won. “The notebook goes to...” The teacher paused for dramatic affect, and everyone straightened in their seats. My heart was pounding in my ears, so loud I could barely hear. And she said their name. Not mine. The rest of the week was spent with a bitter taste in my mouth. It was just a notebook. But it was not.

Chicago Transport It took weeks of planning. Where we were staying, going, and seeing. What to eat, who to see, where to go. It took weeks of planning, but none of it by me. Early one morning, we grabbed our bags and some granola, the headed off. We stopped and met up with my cousins and my aunt, who all seemed as sleepy as me. Because it was so far away, we boarded a train. At least, that was my mother’s reasoning behind it, and so it was. The train was crowded, so crowded in fact, that our seats disappeared. A nice woman came and told my mother, one of my cousins, and I to follow her. Turns out so many other people also wanted to go to Chicago, the train wasn’t big enough to hold them. At least not in the normal seating. So I was in business class, and everything was good. The people came by, asking if I needed anything. They’d give you water and snacks if you asked. It was quiet and calm, but not silent. Everyone looked so serious in their, and I was just happy. Much faster than I wanted, we arrived in Chicago. It was just the train station, but even that seemed big. Everyone had somewhere to be, and needed to get there quickly. They stomped past, squawking into their phones, each sentence sounding like a threat, a demand. We shuffled to a map, and found ourself a taxi. But five people can’t fit in one car, and two was too much money. So I was on the floor, my knees against the door handle, my back to my aunts legs.

Then there was walking the streets, which made the train station seem tiny. So many people walking and talking at once. Every imaginable look was there, stomping down the streets. Some seemed kind and quiet like us, glancing everywhere. Their eyes grew wide at the sight of the large buildings. But my eyes grew wide watching them. The city made me fall in love. I wanted to be one of those people, stomping past in the nice clothes. Knowing exactly I need to be, and how to get there. I wanted to be one of the people the wide-eyed tourists gawked at, amazed they could live in such a loud, windy place. I wanted to live there.