When Words Grow Fangs 1st Edition

Chase Connor
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/when-words-grow-fangs-1st-edition-chase-connor/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Jacob Michaels Is The Omnibus Edition Point Worth 1 6

Chase Connor

https://ebookmeta.com/product/jacob-michaels-is-the-omnibus-
edition-point-worth-1-6-chase-connor/

Why Grow Here Essays on Edmonton s Gardening History

1st Edition Kathryn Chase Merrett

https://ebookmeta.com/product/why-grow-here-essays-on-edmonton-s-
gardening-history-1st-edition-kathryn-chase-merrett/

Sending Love Letters to Animals and Other Totally

Normal Human Behaviors 1st Edition Chase Connor

https://ebookmeta.com/product/sending-love-letters-to-animals-
and-other-totally-normal-human-behaviors-1st-edition-chase-
connor/

Sending Love Letters to Animals and Other Totally

Normal Human Behaviors 1st Edition Chase Connor

https://ebookmeta.com/product/sending-love-letters-to-animals-
and-other-totally-normal-human-behaviors-1st-edition-chase-
connor-2/
When Things Grow Many: Complexity, Universality and
Emergence in Nature 1st Edition Lawrence S. Schulman

https://ebookmeta.com/product/when-things-grow-many-complexity-
universality-and-emergence-in-nature-1st-edition-lawrence-s-
schulman/

When Words Betray Us Language the Brain and Aphasia

Sheila E Blumstein

https://ebookmeta.com/product/when-words-betray-us-language-the-
brain-and-aphasia-sheila-e-blumstein/

Felons and Fangs 1st Edition L L Gray

https://ebookmeta.com/product/felons-and-fangs-1st-edition-l-l-
gray/

Play Date 1st Edition Emkay Connor

https://ebookmeta.com/product/play-date-1st-edition-emkay-
connor-2/

Play Date 1st Edition Emkay Connor

https://ebookmeta.com/product/play-date-1st-edition-emkay-connor/
When Words Grow Fangs

Chase Connor

The Lion Fish Press

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or
persons, such person or persons are merely models and are not intended to portray any
character or characters featured in the book.

Cover models are not intended to illustrate specific people and the content does not refer to
models' actual acts, identity, history, beliefs, or behavior. No characters depicted in this
ebook are intended to represent real people. Models are used for illustrative purposes only.

Book Cover Designed by: Allen T. St. Clair, ©2021 Chase Connor & The Lion Fish Press

CHASE CONNOR BOOKS are published by

The Lion Fish Press

539 W. Commerce St #227

Dallas, TX 75208

© Copyright 2021 by Chase Connor & The Lion Fish Press

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,
or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

AUTHORS’ NOTE:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. None of
this is real.

Ebook ISBN 978-1-951860-19-6

Paperback ISBN 978-1-951860-20-2

 Contents

Dedication

1. One.

2. Two.

3. Three.

4. Four.

5. Five.
6. Six.

7. Seven.

8. Eight.

9. Nine.

10. Ten.

11. Eleven.
12. Twelve.

13. Thirteen.
14. Fourteen.

15. Fifteen.

16. Sixteen.

17. Seventeen.

18. Eighteen.

19. Nineteen.

20. Twenty.

21. Twenty-One.
22. Twenty-Two.

23. Twenty-Three.

24. Twenty-Four.

About Author

Also By
 To the Among Us Geeks (formerly, “Among Us Writers”):

Thank you for your inspiration and friendship…and for making the
last half of 2020 less of a dumpster fire. Love all of you geeks!

and as always:

To my beta-readers and “feedback crew”:

I am so glad you are all here. And I am so glad you are all so blunt
with me—even if I do what I want most of the time.

To all of the readers: It has been quite a journey. I’ve loved every
second of it. Let’s get to the end together, shall we?
 One.

The Juice from Jude

“SHIT,” I whispered.
A bandit with a yellow mask—the ugliest color in the world, in my
opinion—stabbed me in the neck, and Joey just stood there and
watched it happen. Betrayal. If someone is actively shanking you in
the neck, you’d think that your best friend would at least report the
stabbing. Not Joey. The jerk just stood there with his thumb up his
butt. Of course, he had probably gone AFK and didn’t even see it,
but how do you go AFK right when your fellow bandit is about to win
the game for you?
Jerk.
Bandits is kind of a cool game, I guess. If you have nothing else
to do, obviously. It’s this mobile app where teams of four bandits—
little stick figures with different colored bandanas for masks—try to
steal loot from the other team. Half of each team defends their own
loot, and the other half tries to steal the other teams’ loot. If
someone gets caught—and killed—they turn into a ghost and have
to make their way back to the beginning to start all over again,
losing all their loot in the process. It’s a game of deceit, lying,
thievery, and screwing over your friends. So, it’s perfect for high
school kids to play. There’s no blood or gore in it, though. It’s
cartoon violence, I guess. That’s the only reason Joey’s mom lets
him play it—and it is exactly why so many other people got tired of
it.
Joey’s mom kind of…hovers. No violence in games, T.V. shows, or
movies. No gratuitous nudity or sex, either. No lying. No cheating.
No stealing. Always be kind to others. It’s not like those are bad
rules or anything, but it kinda makes Joey a dork. How are you
going to step one foot into an American high school and tell people
you haven’t seen a single Marvel movie? That’s the kind of thing that
makes the kids at school pick on Joey—all harmless, friendly stuff,
but I know it bothers him. For the most part, other kids are still
pretty nice to him, though. They just like to tease him about his
mom a lot. I can’t really argue with them and defend her, either. I
mean, Joey probably won’t lose his virginity until his wedding night,
and even then, his mom will probably be in the room, telling him to
be gentle with his bride.
She looks uncomfortable, Joey! Get her another pillow!
Or something like that. The woman is, like, the nicest person ever,
but there’s a limit to niceness we all need to agree on, I think. Even
though she always shoves food and drinks at me when I’m at their
house—which I totally love—she can be a bit much. Two guys can’t
hang out and talk about stuff if one of the guys’ mothers is standing
in the doorway asking if they need more chips.
 Having Joey invite me to play an online game on Christmas night
was kinda surprising since his mom can be so strict about things.
Usually, Christmas at their house meant everyone was singing carols
around the tree or dressing up in the same pajamas and drinking hot
cocoa or…I don’t know, volunteering at a soup kitchen for homeless
cats or something.
As I lay there, staring at my phone screen flashing the
announcement of my in-game murder, my entire bed looked like
Christmas had tossed its cookies all over. Jagged pieces of ripped
wrapping paper littered the bed around me, decorated the top of my
dresser, and made a nest on the floor beside my bed. That nest was
occupied by my six-year-old sister, and it must have been
comfortable because she was snoozing happily. She wasn’t just
snoozing happily; she had her new PJ Masks doll tucked under her
arm, and she was drooling on it in her sleep. Her doll was the blue
PJ Mask character—but I’m not really sure what that means. I mean,
I don’t know their names or anything. One PJ Mask character is the
same as the next, as far as I’m concerned. Penny—that’s my sister—
had told me the blue guy’s name at some point or another, but I
could never remember it.
Since Penny was sleeping, I’d turned the lights off and had stuffed
my new AirPods in my ears so I could give them a test drive. When I
had crawled onto my bed, I had intended to listen to The Glorious
Sons and just kick back, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate life,
but the invitation from Joey to play Bandits had been too tempting. I
mean, the game is kind of old, and no one’s really playing it
anymore, but it’s kind of Joey’s thing. It makes him happy, and
hardly anyone else will really play with him often, so I had to accept.
It was Christmas, after all. The Glorious Sons had to wait.
I watched as my little stick figure with the magenta mask—my
favorite color—turned into a ghost and floated back to the start line.
There, I respawned and became a stick figure again and was
prompted to “Loot Your Enemies!” by the game. I didn’t get a
chance. As soon as I put my thumb back to the screen to start
running toward enemy lines on the map, an announcement in big,
bold red letters popped up on the screen.
Looted.
The enemy team had completed the task of stealing all of our loot
while Joey had watched me get shanked in the neck, turned into a
ghost, and sent back to the starting point. So, not only had Joey
watched me get shanked in the neck, Nick and Callie had failed to
protect our team’s loot. A groan rolled from my throat as I watched
the screen slowly fade to black. Sad, Spaghetti Western whistling
sounded in my headphones. Two little icons showed up on the
screen.
A little swirly rope icon that read: “Play Again?”
And a Tombstone that read: “Yield?”
My thumb tapped the tombstone and the screen faded to black
before the home screen for Bandits slowly came into view. With
another swipe of my thumb, I closed the app. Getting owned so
hard on our first game had destroyed my desire to play any
additional rounds with Joey. Or anyone else, for that matter.
A few seconds later, as I had expected, a text alert popped up on
my phone.
 Where’d you go, man?
Joey was already checking in on me. I hadn’t even managed to
step away from the game for a full minute. I didn’t want to be, but I
was annoyed with him. He had watched me get butchered and
hadn’t done anything to help. Sure, he could have been distracted
by a task he was performing in the game. Or maybe his mom had
been hollering at him or something. That didn’t keep me from being
annoyed. I hadn’t even wanted to play the game, and the guy let me
get slaughtered. I swiped the alert off of my screen. He could wait
for a response.
I switched to my music and tapped on Hide My Love by The
Glorious Sons, which immediately began playing in my headphones.
Penny didn’t even twitch in her sleep when I slung my phone to the
side of the bed and swung my legs over the side. My sister
continued to drool on her new plushie as I tiptoed past her to the
beat of the song in my ears and headed for my bedroom door.
Darkness had pervaded the cocoon of my room; my phone had been
the only light while I was playing Bandits. As I exited my room, the
soft glow of the light in the living room crept softly up the stairs
towards me. Even with The Glorious Sons playing in my ears, I could
hear different music drifting up the stairs from the living room. My
phone had indicated it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, so I knew my
moms were still awake. Obviously, they were enjoying leisure time of
their own after a busy holiday season.
As I padded down the stairs, the wood slippery under my socks, I
popped my right AirPod out of my ear to pause my music. Just as I
suspected, This Christmas by Donny Hathaway was playing, drifting
through the living room doorway, which was just to the right at the
base of the stairs. Listening to the music, I snuck down the stairs to
the foyer. Once my feet were firmly against the polished wood slats
of the first floor, I grinned to myself, dashed forward, and slid across
the floor. My sock-covered feet slipped easily over the slick wood,
sending me zooming across the foyer and to the middle of the
doorway to my right. The living room slid into view. The fireplace
across from the doorway, the sofas that faced each other arranged
on either side of it, the coffee table, the lit Christmas tree in the
corner by the bay window—and my moms making out on the sofa
on the right—came into view.
“Ew!” I groaned as I slid to a stop, and my nose turned up with
disgust. “Mom! Mama!”
My moms pulled away from each other with a grin, taking a
moment to smile at each other mischievously before shifting on the
sofa to look at me. Mom was turned sideways on the sofa, her legs
draped over Mama’s lap. They had their arms wrapped around each
other and made no attempt to disentangle, but at least they had
stopped sucking face. A fire was crackling in the fireplace, and a
couple of half-empty wine glasses were resting on the coffee table,
so obviously, I had interrupted something romantic. Not that the
kissing itself hadn’t tipped me off. Both of them looked over at me
happily, not a care in the world, as Donny Hathaway sang cheerfully
in the background.
“So gross.” I admonished them again as I stood in the doorway
with my tongue hanging out in disgust. “You guys are, like, forty or
something.”
 “Forty-five, you little shit,” Mom said. “Peak sexual age for women,
actually.”
Mama cackled.
“Double-fucking-gross.” I pretended to gag.
“Language,” Mama stated blandly as she held onto Mom’s legs and
leaned forward to grab a wine glass off the coffee table.
“Sorry.” I rolled my eyes. “But really? Go to your room.”
“Every room is our room.” Mom quipped as she accepted a glass
from Mama. “Even yours. We pay the bills.”
“You know what I mean.” I couldn’t help but smile as Mama
grabbed the other wine glass. “No one wants to see old people
smoochin’ on the sofa.”
“Look here, you little virgin—” Mom started, stopped, and then
raised a questioning eyebrow at me.
I shrugged, then nodded.
“—we’re not old.” She continued. “And you’ll be happy when
you’re forty-five and have someone as hot as this one to smooch
every day.”
Mom winked at Mama. Mama squeezed her leg, tipped her wine
glass to me, then took a sip.
“No one is hot at forty-five,” I said. “Okay?”
All right. So, my moms aren’t, like, Proboscis Monkeys or anything.
They’re both pretty. But who wants to watch their parents swapping
spit in the family room—on the family sofa? No matter how pretty
your moms are, you don’t really want to see them suctioned
together at the lips, going full Plecostomus on each other. Mom
sighed, took a sip of her wine, then reached up to push a stray lock
of her golden hair back over her shoulder before leveling me with
her eyes. Mama just sipped her wine and rubbed Mom’s leg,
obviously not wanting to get too involved in the debate. She
probably would have pushed her hair back dismissively, but hers was
cut much closer to her head.
Mom sighed. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“I’m sixteen.” I scoffed.
Both of them just stared at me.
“And it’s, like, eight-thirty,” I added.
“Go to bed early then. You’ll wish you’d gotten more sleep when
you’re forty-five,” Mama said. “I know I do.”
“Mood,” Mom said.
“You’re not cool,” I reminded them. “Like, no one says ‘mood’
anymore, okay? Once people your age start using it extensively on
Facebook, it’s over. Facebook is over, too. Just in case you didn’t
know.”
“Did you come down here to twat-block me,” Mom asked, “or to
just be ageist, Jude?”
“Why can’t it be both?” I shrugged. “And why are you so gross?”
“It’s one of the boxes you have to check off in the parenting
brochure they give you in the hospital before they allow you to push
a watermelon-sized human out of your hoo-ha,” Mom said. “Gross
your kids out as much as possible. I did it twice, so I have to be
extra gross.”
I really didn’t have a great response to that. As Mom pointed out,
I had once been watermelon-sized and caused her egregious pain.
She had to be gross. Those were the rules.
 “Well, you’re doing well,” I said. “Super gross, Mom.”
“Why are you sixteen when it comes to bedtimes, but a toddler
when we’re being romantic?” Mama asked.
“It’s one of the boxes they made me check off in the being a
snotnose kid brochure at the hospital before they let me come home
with you.” I twisted my face up into the goofiest expression I could
muster.
Mama turned to look at Mom.
“He’s definitely ours,” she quipped.
“Smartass through and through,” Mom agreed.
“Do we have any sausage and peppers left?” I rubbed my
stomach, dropping the previous discussion for fear it would get
worse. “I think I need some more. And maybe some Turdilli? Do we
have any Turdilli left? How about the Bolognese? I could eat some of
that, too.”
“Help yourself,” Mom said with a flick of her hands towards the
kitchen. “But you’re going to have nightmares.”
She ended her statement by leaning over to kiss Mama. I
grimaced.
“Yeah,” I said. “But not from the food.”
My moms continued to kiss, much to my disappointment, and
Mom swung an arm wildly towards the kitchen. I knew what that
meant. Beat it, kid. I’m trying to get laid. In disgust, my nose turned
up again, but I made a hasty departure from the living room toward
the kitchen. Because I’m sixteen years old, my moms had become
looser and looser with their behavior and language around me.
Sticking around to watch them drool all over each other wasn’t going
to end well for me, so my sock-covered feet padded across the living
room, down the short hallway, and into the kitchen.
Even though my moms were obviously disgusting, they hadn’t
been lying about the leftover food that was available for my teenage
hunger pangs. When I whipped the fridge door open—Fairytale of
New York by The Pogues started playing down the hall in the living
room.
“Great make-out song,” I mumbled to myself as I peered at the
contents of the fridge.
After a quick assessment of everything leftover from Christmas
dinner, I pulled out the plastic tub holding the sausage and peppers
and the tub of Bolognese. Within seconds, I had both of them open
and had made a pretty nice pile of both on a plate. The plate got
shoved into the microwave—nothing worse than cold Bolognese and
sausage and peppers—and I closed the tubs and put them back in
the fridge. While the rich, meaty pasta and the greasy, salty sausage
and peppers rewarmed, I went about locating the plastic tub of
Turdilli on the counter. Mom had partially hidden them behind the
bottles of olive oil and vinegars by the stove.
Nice try, lady.
When I popped the lid off of the tub, I immediately brought it to
my nose and inhaled deeply, the smell of honey, orange, cinnamon,
and sugar wafting up at me. I groaned appreciatively and
immediately popped one of the little fritters into my mouth. A few
more Turdilli got selected and tossed into a bowl before I sucked the
tips of my fingers clean and returned the plastic tub to its hiding
spot by the stove.
 Next, I found the bag of buns for the sausages and peppers and
retrieved one for when my food was ready. Then the Turdilli, the
oblong bun, and I made our way down to the microwave to wait for
meaty, saucy bliss to be ready for my mouth. I set the bowl of sweet
fritters down next to the microwave and placed the bun beside it
before crossing my arms over my chest so that I could stare through
the microwave window impatiently. My stomach was growling at me.
It had been over two hours since dinner, and I was starving.
The curse of being a teenage guy, I guess?
A curse that was counteracted efficiently by having two moms
with Italian heritage who loved to cook like an army was coming to
every dinner. If you have a healthy appetite, just love food, or both,
you really need to get yourself two Italian moms. There’s never not
something on the stove ready to ladle up or something in the fridge
to slap on a plate and warm up. Our house was never without food
and lots of it. All of it delicious, of course.
Okay. So, my moms aren’t exactly from Italy or anything. They
didn’t just get their American citizenship yesterday—so I don’t know
if Italians would consider them all that Italian. However, they’re
both, like, second-generation, and were taught to cook by their
nonnas and moms. To me, that counts just as much as if they’d just
gotten off the plane from Italy itself. The way that either of them
could whip up fresh pasta and a homemade sauce backed up my
stance on the matter.
Finally, after what seemed like hours—but was like, three and a
half minutes—the microwave beeped incessantly, and I was able to
retrieve my food. I stuffed the oblong roll with the sausage and
peppers and nestled it back alongside the Bolognese. Then I
grabbed a fork and stuffed it into my pocket. The bowl got cradled in
one hand while I gingerly gripped the hot plate in the other. Before I
could step away from the counter, the sounds of Ingrid Michaelson
singing in the living room caught my ears.
Shit. Nope. Nope. Nope.
I didn’t bother going back down the hallway to the living room to
the front stairs. Ingrid Michaelson meant that my moms had doubled
down on their displays of affection. That was something I didn’t
want to see right before I stuffed my gut. Instead of my previously
planned path back to my room to gorge, I hooked it through the
kitchen to the back stairway to avoid spoiling my appetite. By the
time I was upstairs, and I hadn’t managed to spill any of my food,
the sounds from the living room were a distant memory.
Penny was still asleep in the nest of ripped-up wrapping paper on
the floor of my dark bedroom. I didn’t want to flip on the lights and
wake her up, so I did my best to tiptoe quietly—and oh, so carefully
—across the room to my desk. When I sat the bowl and plate on my
desktop, I worked so hard to not make any noise. So, when I sat
down and nearly screamed out at the forgotten fork in my pocket
jabbing me in the side, I almost ruined everything. However, a quick
glance over my shoulder as I yanked the fork out of my pocket—and
my flesh—let me know that Penny had managed to sleep through
my entrance. I ran my finger over the pad on my laptop to wake it
up before I slid my fork into the Bolognese and brought it to my
mouth.
 Again, I had to keep from groaning in ecstasy as the blue light
from the screen emitted its dull, hazy light. I only put my fork down
on the plate for a second so I could type in the address for my blog,
and as it was loading, I shoveled another few heaping fork loads of
pasta into my trap. My fork got transferred from my right to left
hand—let’s hear it for being ambidextrous—so I could scroll through
comments and feedback on my blog while I ate my feast.
The Juice from Jude—that’s my blog website—was something I
started when I was in seventh grade. It started out as a place where
I could just be emo and shit, piss and moan about whatever was
bothering me. I’d talk about how rude kids at school could be to
each other. Stupid rules our school had. The horrendous decisions
writers made on my favorite T.V. shows and which songs were my
favorites. It was kind of emo at first—lots of silly, sad poems, black
and white photos I’d taken of myself, stuff like that. It was pretty
popular when I was all dramatic and stuff. Or maybe junior high kids
have more time to sit around reading stupid thoughts from other
junior high kids?
When I started to get interested in journalism during freshman
year of high school, it changed a lot. No longer was the layout black
and white, dark and depressing. I’d changed the blog’s format to
look more like an old-fashioned newspaper—are newspapers still a
thing?—and started to write about real stuff. Like gun control,
diversity, politics, and the environment—things that really have an
impact on teenagers’ lives, even if they’re not the most interesting
topics. The Juice from Jude wasn’t quite as popular as it had been
when I wrote about silly things.
 That’s why, during the summer between my freshmen and
sophomore years, I’d started a new section of my blog to entice
readers. It was an advice column called: “Hey, Jude!” I’d always
been told I “had a good head on my shoulders” and “gave good
advice,” so it just seemed like a good idea. It was kind of an
unwritten rule of the advice column, but every message I got started
with “Hey, Jude!” with the “hey” drawn out to read “heeeeeeeeeey.”
The length of the word depended upon who had sent the message. I
didn’t ask people to do it. But the first message I ever posted and
responded to used that opening line, so it just became a thing. Yeah,
yeah. I know. But my moms actually named my sister and me after
two of The Beatles songs, so it only seemed fair that I got to use my
own name. The surviving members of the band would just have to
come after me for royalties or something, though I didn’t think that
was really something they could do. But at least I’d get to meet Paul
McCartney and Ringo Starr in court. If I was lucky, Yoko Ono would
show up for funsies.
My fingertip swiped at the touchpad on my laptop as I shoveled
pasta into my gob. Over Christmas break, like, only twenty-seven
people had visited my blog. Five of them had left messages for the
“Hey, Jude!” advice column. The first one, like a lot of the messages
I got, was from someone asking for advice on how to tell another
person they wanted to date them. That was kind of common in the
messages I received. Lots of star-crossed teenagers that didn’t
realize that the people they dated in high school would probably be
strangers one day.
At least, that’s what my moms always say.
 I stared at the list of messages, wondering why I didn’t get more.
All of the messages are anonymous—they just get emailed to me
when someone uses the “Contact Jude” form on my blog—so it’s not
like I know who’s asking about what issue. Literally, anyone could
send me a message about anything, and all I really have is an IP
address for the person who sent it. It would take someone a lot
more tech-savvy and with a lot more detective skills than I to figure
out the sender’s identity. Of course, anonymity and the fear of
opening up to me probably wasn’t the issue. The fact that my blog
was kind of boring to people my age was more likely the reason for
the small number of messages.
Okay. So, if I use, like, two in this week’s column, and two next
week, I’ll just need to receive one more message for the following
week…
I found myself trying to figure out how I could stagger questions
and answers to push my column out as far as possible. With so few
questions over Christmas break, I would have to stretch my material
thin in order to keep things rolling. Two questions to answer with my
own brand of advice wasn’t too horrible for each column. Dear Abby
and Dear Ann Landers do, like, three a week, and they’ve been at it
for decades, right?
I clicked away from the first message and scanned the remaining
four. The subject line of the third one caught my eye since it only
said “Well…” so I clicked on it. Usually, the subject line said
something like “For Hey Jude” or “Advice” or something, so “Well…”
really caught my eye. As soon as I clicked on the message, I stuffed
the last bite of Bolognese into my mouth. When the text popped up
on the screen, I nearly choked.
Hey Jude,
You convinced me. I finally came out to my parents. They
seem…cool with it? Now what do I do?
Don’t let me down!
I stared at the message on the screen as the giant bite of pasta
got choked down.
Shit.
 Two.

The Road to Hell

MY CUTICLES ARE ALWAYS kind of rough, and my fingernails are

always pretty jagged, but my fingertips looked like they’d been
through a meat grinder by New Year’s Day. I’m a nail-biting, cuticle-
picking basket case. That’s one of the ways my anxiety manifests
itself. From Christmas night on, I’d been biting my nails and picking
at the loose skin around them off and on almost every day. I think I
had started to do it in my sleep as well. Dried blood often decorated
the skin around my nails, and I woke up a few times with my fingers
in my mouth. That’s pretty solid evidence that my anxiety didn’t give
me a break, even when I was dead to the world.
Snow’s pretty common in Dubuque. Iowa, I mean. In fact, if a
winter went by without a crapload of snow, it would be a sign that
the world was coming to an end. So, as I sat at the kitchen table,
basically just cramming my breakfast into my mouth, I stared out
the window at the falling snow. Everything was already covered in at
least a foot of the stuff, so seeing the flakes falling lazily, yet heavily,
through the window wasn’t exactly great. Snow’s cool and all, and
who doesn’t love a winter wonderland, but after a while, all of that
dull gray, white, and brown really starts to get depressing. When
Spring arrived and brought some color back into the world, I wasn’t
going to be mad at it. In the meantime, I’d do my best to enjoy
Winter.
Christmas was over. Mom, Mama, Penny, and I had spent New
Year’s Eve in the living room in front of the fire as we watched the
ball drop in Times Square on T.V. School was going to be back in
session soon. We lived less than a mile from my high school, so
usually, I just walked to school each day instead of driving. Having
to do that in the snow—especially while it was actively snowing—
was not ideal. However, I didn’t like driving when it was snowy. I’m a
fatalist. Surely, I’d be driving along, the car would spin out, and I’d
die by ramming a telephone pole, like, a block from school. Probably
in a really bad outfit.
All my fellow students would see it happen, and I’d end up some
paragraph in the senior yearbook. People I didn’t really give two
shits about would be quoted as saying I was a “great guy” and “one
of their best friends.” Gag. I mean, not that I didn’t have plenty of
friends. I got along with almost everyone. But actually, calling more
than three of them “best friends” was really stretching the truth,
though. I didn’t have any facts and figures or research to back up
my thinking, but I’m pretty sure most high school kids only make
friends with other students in order to survive for four years. Once
those years are up, sayonara, bitches.
Ugh. I grumbled to myself. You’re such a freaking downer, Jude.
 Mama and Penny came into view through the window looking out
onto the backyard as I shoved the last forkful of pancakes past my
lips. Both of them were bundled up in thick, puffy jackets, scarves,
mittens, and hats, and they were running about in the snow,
laughing and prancing gleefully. It brought a smile to my face, but I
much preferred being inside where it was warm. I knew that
eventually, once she realized I was done with breakfast, Penny
would talk me into going outside to help her attempt to build a
snowman—and I’d do it—but until that moment, I was going to
enjoy being warm. My belly was full of crispy bacon, fried dough,
and syrup.
I started to chew at my right index fingernail as my gaze began to
drift off to nothingness as I stared out the window.
“Stop chewing on your fingers.”
I jerked. “Not my finger. My fingernail.”
“Well, stop it.” Mom chuckled.
“Fine,” I said.
I shoved both of my hands into my lap to try and take my
attention away from them.
“Whatcha lookin’ at, mister?” Mom’s voice sounded from over my
shoulder.
As moms do, I felt her fingers on my head, playing with my hair
as though she was trying to memorize how it felt.
“Just the snow. Those two acting like dorks.” I jerked my head
towards the window.
“They love the snow,” Mom said, her fingers trailing through my
hair. “Your roots are starting to show.”
 “Touch it up for me before school starts?” I asked.
The food in my belly and Mom’s fingers massaging my head were
soothing me and forcing me to sink into a lazy slump in the kitchen
chair.
“You sure you want to stick with magenta?” She asked as she
played with my locks. “Blue would be kind of cool. Or green.”
“I like magenta.”
“Clearly,” she said. “You’ve had this color since freshman year.
Don’t you want to try something different?”
“Don’t hate on the magenta, Mom.”
“All right. Fine.” She teased and pulled at my hair playfully. “I’ll go
to the store later. Magenta it is.”
“Thank you.”
Naturally, my hair is somewhere between dark brown and really
dark brown. I think. However, I dyed it magenta—with my moms’
blessings—during freshman year of high school. Whitmer Central
High School had an unfair policy about what hair colors guys were
allowed to wear to school. Girls didn’t. So, I dyed my hair. It wasn’t a
“boys versus girls” thing. It was a “students against arbitrary sexist
rules” thing. I was glad that girls were allowed to dye their hair a
range of colors—even if none of them ever did. It just wasn’t fair
that the boys couldn’t do the same. There was nothing else to do
but challenge those rules.
Principal Lockmore hauled my ass into his office the second I
stepped foot into school with the pinkish-purple hair. Of course, he
had seen me coming a mile away. One, magenta hair is hard to miss
in a sea of browns, blondes, reds, and blacks. Two, all of the
students had split like the Red Sea when they saw me coming, as if
in awe of someone who dared challenge the machinations of an
unfair system. I used to like Principal Lockmore okay. I mean, he’d
never been a total d-bag or anything. But the smirk on his face
when he called Mom as I sat across the desk from him in his office
still chaps my ass.
Things didn’t work out the way Principal Lockmore had planned.
He had barely been able to greet Mom over the phone before I
heard her muffled voice respond. For several minutes, I sat there
and stared blandly at Whitmer Central High’s lead fascist as Mom
explained the First Amendment, equal rights, sexism, and gender
discrimination. Mom delivered such a long, impassioned speech over
the phone that Principal Lockmore actually just waved me off,
indicating that I should go to class while Mom continued to chew
him a new one.
I saw him observing everyone at lunch three-and-a-half hours
later, and he still looked rattled. He wouldn’t even so much as make
eye contact with me. I kind of felt bad for him—I’d been on the
receiving end of Mom’s—and Mama’s—speeches before. They
weren’t fun. For the rest of the day, I kind of felt bad for the guy.
However, when I got home, and Mom explained to me why it was
important to not back down on the issue—as small as it was
compared to other important issues in the world—I got over it.
It was a small victory against gender discrimination and sexism,
but small victories add up. At least, that’s what Mom said. Mama
agreed. I decided they were right. I’d kept the dye job just in case
any of the faculty decided they could start telling kids what to do
with their hair again. For a while, maybe, like, six months, some
teachers and other faculty members smirked or sneered when they
saw my hair in the classrooms and hallways. After a while, though, it
just became normal. Eventually, other boys showed up with edgier
hairstyles, even if I was the only one with an unnatural hair color. It
just became normalized.
No one had committed like I had, though.
“How are we doing on medication?” Mom asked.
She was trying to be nonchalant about my nail biting and cuticle
picking. Obviously, she had noticed. I wasn’t so sure I appreciated
her being so chill about my anxiety since we both knew what was
going on. It was like if a person accidentally shit their pants and
someone said: “There must be a sewer leak. I better get far away
from here to check it out.”
I mean, I don’t know what someone should say if someone
accidentally shits their pants, but that’s definitely not it. Right?
“My anxiety is a little worse,” I said. “But I’m not taking a Xanax
every day. I’m good. Might need a refill in a few weeks, I guess?”
“Okay,” she said. “Just let me know.”
Mom let go of my hair and rounded the table to slide into the chair
across from me. Immediately, I hated that she wasn’t playing with
my hair. It had been soothing, even if it made me feel like a little kid.
Even though Mom could be overbearing and infantilize me at
times, she trusted me with my medication. She didn’t keep it in
some locked cabinet somewhere so that I had to go and beg for the
thing that made me feel human again. Basically, she didn’t create a
bigger problem by making me feel small, untrustworthy, and
helpless. She let me have agency. Points to Mom.
“Stop,” I said.
“What?”
“You’re watching me,” I said. “You’re pretending you’re not
watching me, but you’re watching me. This isn’t my anxiety talking.”
Mom chuckled.
“Sorry,” she said. “I guess you’re just my baby boy, and I worry.
That’s all. I know you’ll tell me if you need anything.”
“Ugh.” I groaned. “I’m not a baby.”
“You’ll always be my baby.”
“Fine.” I pushed back in my chair. “You’re gross. But fine.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Mom’s forehead right between her eyebrows was crinkling up. I
hated to see her brow get all crinkly. It meant she was concerned
more than necessary.
I shrugged. “Thought I’d Zoom the nerds. I’m bored.”
“Now I know what you think of me.” She teased.
“Mom.”
“I’m kidding,” she said. “Jeesh. But I thought we could just talk,
you know? We haven’t had Mom and Jude Time in a while.”
“We have Mom and Jude Time all the time.” I laughed at her but
made no move to stand. “You forced me to make cannoli with you
on New Year’s Eve. That was five hours of, uh, time.”
“You love cannoli!”
“I do love cannoli.” I agreed. “But I was a sixteen-year-old making
cannoli with his mom on New Year’s Eve. Super uncool, Mom.”
 She laughed. “Fine. Go Zoom with your friends. Be a douchebag
to your mom.”
I chuckled and started to stand.
“Hey.” She stopped me.
“Yeah?”
“You okay?” Mom asked. “I don’t mean are you anxious. Are you
doing okay otherwise? You seem like you have a lot on your mind.”
I shrugged and slowly lowered myself back into my chair.
“I guess,” I said. “I’ve just been thinking. That’s all.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” Mom asked.
Speaking to Mom wasn’t necessarily all that difficult for me, even
about the tough things. Even kind of embarrassing things weren’t
that hard to talk to her about. But I wasn’t so sure I wanted to talk
to Mom about the thing that had been on my mind since Christmas
night. I knew she wouldn’t laugh at me and make fun of my silly
little teenager problems or anything. My moms were always pretty
cool about discussing problems, but I still felt something in my gut
that told me to hide my worries from her. God, I hoped that went
away once I was on the other side of puberty.
“You ever give someone advice,” I asked slowly, “and then you
wonder if it was bad advice?”
One of Mom’s eyebrows arched towards her hairline.
“Like, not life-shattering or anything,” I said. “I don’t think. Like,
you gave advice, they followed it, then they want to know the next
step—like you have any clue. Maybe you were just kind of giving
them your opinion but didn’t really think they’d listen to you, but
they did, and now they think you have more answers? Like, maybe
you should have just kept your big, fat mouth shut or something?”
“This having anything to do with your blog stuff?”
“Blog…stuff?” I frowned.
“Sorry,” Mom said. “Does this have to do with your writing?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Kind of?”
“Well,” Mom looked thoughtful for a moment, “if someone asked
you for advice, and you gave it with the best intentions based on the
experiences you have, it’s up to them what to do with it.”
Mom stopped, so I just stared at her for a minute.
“And then what?” I urged her on.
“Then what what?” she asked. “I’m sure you didn’t ruin anyone’s
life, Jude. If you gave solid advice and someone chose to take it,
whatever happens is on them. Not you.”
“Well,” I said, “it feels like I have to own it.”
“That is your anxiety talking.”
“Maybe.”
Mom smiled. “I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t
intentionally hurt anyone. I’m sure you didn’t force them to take
your advice. They chose to take advice you gave in good faith. You
know, the whole the road to Hell saying.”
“Yeah.”
“If you feel like you did your best and had no ill intentions, there’s
really nothing for you to feel bad about. When people ask for advice,
they present the problem from only their perspective. They rarely
give you the full picture, right? You gave advice based on the
information you had.” Mom said. “But…”
 “What?”
“Well,” she said, “it’s not a bad idea to be there for the person you
gave advice to if your advice turned out to not work so well for
them.”
“Ugh. So, it’s not my fault, but I do own it?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Mom laughed. “I’m just saying that
you can be a supportive friend by giving advice and being there for
them emotionally. But you can have boundaries, too.”
Mom just watched me as I stood from the chair again and pushed
it back in under the table. I took my plate to the sink and rinsed it
and my fork off before putting them neatly in the dishwasher. When
I returned to the table, Mom was still watching me.
“I told someone they should come out to their family,” I said.
Mom’s eyes grew to resemble saucers for a split second before
returning to normal. Trying to hide her thoughts was not one of
Mom’s gifts.
“Yikes,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “And they did. Now they want to know what to do
next. How the hell am I supposed to know, you know?”
Mom chuckled.
“If only everyone had two moms, huh?” she asked. “Then it would
be easy for everyone to come out as whatever. It’d be hypocritical
for a couple of lesbians to condemn you to Hell.”
“Moms are more accepting.” I agreed. “Or dads, I guess? I don’t
know.”
“So,” Mom began, “talk to your friend. Maybe give yourself the
rest of Winter break to figure things out, but talk to them at school
when you can get them alone to talk privately. I’m sure everything
will be okay.”
“That’s the thing,” I said, “I don’t really know who they are.”
“Huh?” Mom frowned. “How do you give advice without knowing
someone?”
I rolled my shoulders. “It’s some person—I mean, I don’t even
know if they’re a boy or girl or how they identify—who has been
sending me messages through my blog ‘contact me’ page. I don’t
actually even know who it is.”
“Well, shit, Jude.” Mom slumped in her chair. “That’s a bit of a
mess.”
“Right?”
She eyed me for a moment.
“This isn’t you trying to talk in third person, is it?” Mom asked
slowly. “Like…do we need to have a talk?”
My eyes rolled to find the back of my head.
“Mom.” I groaned. “I don’t have anything to tell you. We’ve
covered that.”
She eyed me a moment longer and then sat up.
“Okay,” she said, “if this isn’t you pretending to need advice for
someone else so we can have a talk without you telling me all of
your business, I guess you probably need to just think on this a bit
longer, right? Decide what you want to do.”
“What can I do?” I whined.
I hated when I whined without trying.
“Either decide to offer to be there for them through whatever
happens, or you can just not answer,” Mom said. “You gave the
advice they asked for when they reached out. There’s not much else
you can do.”
“They said their family was kind of cool with everything.” I thought
it over. “So, I mean, they weren’t, like, screwed over by my advice.
They didn’t sound desperate or anything.”
“There you go.” Mom smiled. “If you choose to do nothing, that
will be okay.”
“But,” I said, “it’s kind of shitty to tell someone to come out to
their family then split, right?”
“Oh, Jude.” Mom sighed. “You can’t own the world’s problems.”
“Ugh.” I groaned and turned towards the living room. “That’s no
help at all. I’m going to Zoom with the nerds.”
“Jude.” Mom tried to stop me.
“It’s okay.” I waved her off over my shoulder as I headed through
the living room. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m here if you need me.” She hollered after me.
“I know,” I said. “Thanks.”
Leaving Mom behind in the kitchen worried about me wasn’t ideal,
and it did nothing to alleviate my anxiety, but there wasn’t much else
I could do. Obviously, neither of us had any idea how to fix the
position I’d gotten myself into with my advice column. As I headed
up the stairs, I wondered why I’d even bothered to start “Hey,
Jude!” in the first place. It hadn’t done anything to fix the nosedive
my stats had taken after I had started writing real articles about real
issues. Sometimes it was fun—when the advice requested was for
silly issues like which outfit to wear or which show to binge-watch
next. However, now that someone had asked about a real problem
and they expected me to know what to do after they followed my
advice, it was just a pain in the ass.
Once I was inside my bedroom, I shut the door and fell into my
desk chair. My elbows went to my desktop, and I propped my face
up in my hands, wondering if I wasn’t just making too much out of
the message. Sure, I’d told someone I didn’t even know the first
thing about that they should come out to their family. But everything
had turned out okay. They’d even said so in their follow-up message.
Why was I stressing out over something that seemed to be no big
deal?
Anxiety Disorder.
I shook my head clear of thoughts and pushed away from my
desk, the wheels of my chair squealing slightly as I drifted across the
floor to my bedside table. I spun myself in my chair and pulled the
drawer of the bedside table open, and retrieved my Xanax. It had
been over twenty-four hours since I had taken one. Taking the edge
off would clear my head and put the problem in perspective.
Besides, I didn’t want my thoughts to become cyclic and throw me
into a full-blown panic attack.
That happens sometimes. Not often, just sometimes. If the little
man who lives in my head who likes to scream about how I should
be worried about everything keeps repeating the same thing over
and over, eventually I have a panic attack. I wanted to avoid that
situation. I twisted the top off of the pill bottle and tapped one of
the tiny little peach-colored pills out into the palm of my hand. It got
tossed to the back of my throat and swallowed dry as I recapped the
bottle and stuffed it back into my bedside table.
 Once the drawer was closed, I pushed away from my bed and
drifted back over to my desk. I grabbed the half-empty caffeine-free
Mountain Dew—I just like the flavor and caffeine isn’t great for
anxiety sufferers, okay?—and took a healthy drink of it. With my free
hand, I ran my finger over the touchpad on my laptop to wake it up.
My computer was coming to life and casting my face in its glow as I
recapped the soda and sat it down on my desk.
Within seconds, I had opened Zoom and clicked “login” to access
my account. Moments later, I saw my face in the grainy live box in
the middle of the screen. I yanked my phone out of my pocket and
sent the meeting code to the group text. Normally, waiting for
everyone to join the Zoom meeting would have taken forever.
However, seconds later, in rapid succession, three other boxes joined
mine on my screen. I adjusted my laptop with haste, so my camera
was at a better angle.
“Juuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude!” Nick crowed from his box. “What’s
happening, hot stuff?”
“Hey, Nick,” I responded.
“Sup, you ugly bastards?” Callie said from her box before stuffing
a handful of popcorn into her mouth.
At least, it looked like popcorn. Zoom videos are never that great.
“Being ugly, beautiful.” Nick smiled widely.
“Ugh,” Callie responded blandly before reaching off camera for
more popcorn. “Don’t be so obvious about wanting me, Nikita.”
“Hey, guys!” Joey piped up cheerfully.
“Hey, everyone,” I said. “What’s up?”
 Callie shrugged, I think, and chewed her mouthful of popcorn,
another handful at the ready.
“Not a damn thing,” Nick said. “Boring as balls around here. I
can’t wait for school to start.”
“Not me,” Callie mumbled around her mouthful of food. “I just got
up. A girl needs her sleep. I don’t want to start getting up at butt-
early-thirty again.”
“I can’t wait to see all you guys!” Joey replied.
“This guy,” Callie said. “Are you ever not a raging dork,
Josephine?”
Nick cackled loudly and leaned back, stretching in his chair.
“I mean,” I said, “I kind of miss you guys, too.”
“Another lost cause.” Callie stuffed more popcorn in her mouth
and proceeded to keep talking. “Don’t you guys have lives or
something?”
“We’re here talking to you,” I said, attempting to smile. “So, that
proves you don’t have a life, either.”
“Give me time,” Callie said. “Just woke up, remember? In an hour,
I’ll be living my fabulous life doing fabulous things in my fabulous
bedroom all by my fabulous self because the fabulous snow means
my mom won’t let me go to any fabulous places.”
We all laughed.
“So,” I said, moving my eyes to Joey’s box, “how are you just
gonna let me get shanked in the neck in Bandits and do nothing,
man?”
He winced.
“My bad,” he said. “Mom was yelling at me, and—”
 “Did you know your roots have grown out, Judith?” Callie cut him
off.
 Three.

Goth Tornado

“HEEEEEEEEEEEEY, JUDE,” Dalton asked, “have you heard Paul

McCartney and Wings? Some really awesome shit. My mom and dad
showed me—”
“Everyone’s heard of Paul McCartney and Wings, dude.” I cut him
off. “I mean, Paul McCartney was in The Beatles and—”
“That’s why I’m asking.” Dalton returned the favor of interjecting.
“Like, you’re all, named after a song by The Beatles and stuff. So’s
your sister, right? So, I wanted to make sure you knew that there’s
some other cool stuff by one of them, and—”
“Do you think you’re the first person to discover that the members
of The Beatles,” it was my turn to interrupt, “made music outside of
the band?”
“No,” Dalton said as a blush rose to his cheeks, “it’s just that my
mom and dad played me this album called Band on the Run and I
thought you’d like it. Jeesh. Did you get extra hormones over
Christmas? Did Santa Claus stuff your stocking full of bitch?”
 I couldn’t help it. I laughed loudly. The two of us had been sitting
on the concrete planter beside the front door of school. First day
back to school after Winter break, and I’d been waiting on Callie,
Nick, and Joey to show up. When I saw Dalton get out of his car
across the parking lot, and we caught each other’s eye, I muttered a
curse under my breath. I knew that he’d make a beeline for me so
he could bother me with something. The Beatles and the music they
made after they broke up was apparently what he had in mind.
“Sorry,” I said. “Yeah. Okay. I’ve heard of Wings and Band on the
Run. It’s a sweet album, dude.”
Dalton beamed. “Yeah. Mom and Dad played it a lot over break.
It’s pretty cool. I knew you’d be into it, man.”
“Yeah.” I shrugged and pulled my coat more tightly around myself.
“My moms play it a lot, too.”
“Old folks, man.” Dalton rolled his eyes coolly and leaned back.
“Like, it’s always the 90s around our house.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nick’s and Callie’s cars enter
the parking lot, Nick’s silver Civic right behind Callie’s Yellow Beetle.
Beetle. The Beatles. Funny.
“It’s from the 70s,” I said absentmindedly.
“Huh?” Dalton frowned.
“Band on the Run. It’s from the 70s, not the 90s.”
Come on, friends. Save me.
“Oh,” Dalton said. “Well, I mean, they play lots of old stuff. I guess
70s, 80s, and 90s?”
“Sounds like my moms.” I agreed. “They play all of their older
music, too.”
 “Band on the Run is the first stuff they’ve played in a while that I
actually liked, though,” Dalton said. “Then, I was like, Paul
McCartney—The Beatles—Jude. I had to tell you, man.”
“You could’ve texted me over Winter break, man,” I said, my eyes
not on Dalton but on the yellow and silver cars parking side by side
in the lot. “You didn’t have to wait.”
“I don’t have your number, man,” Dalton said.
“Oh.”
Dalton’s an okay kid, I guess. Short and wiry, energetic and sunny,
he’s just a little much at times. My eyes were drawn from my friends’
cars to him. His floppy mess of red curls was tucked under the hood
of his coat, and he had his hands cupped to his mouth, blowing into
them. Obviously, he had forgotten his gloves. The fact that he had
decided to sit outside and freeze instead of going inside where it
was warm told a person all that they needed to know about Dalton.
He didn’t have many friends—so he immediately flocked to anyone
who was nice enough to listen to him.
I was today’s target. Actually, I was Dalton’s target often. Not
many people would talk to him. Or listen to him.
“Here,” I said as I extracted my phone from my pocket and
unlocked it. “Put your number in my phone. I’ll text you. Then you’ll
have it.”
“Really?” Dalton’s hands fell from his mouth and a grin bloomed
on his face.
“Yeah.” I shrugged.
“I mean,” Dalton said, “that’s cool. Next time I can text you when
I hear some music you might think is cool and stuff.”
 “Exactly,” I said.
Dalton took my phone from me, acting as cool as possible, but the
speed with which he put his name and number in my contacts was
precious. I took that short moment to look across the lot at Callie
and Nick. They had extricated themselves from their cars and were
striding towards us, both of them pulling their coats tightly around
their bodies. I did my best to indicate with my eyes that they needed
to save me without looking too crazy.
Nick caught the look and whispered something to Callie. An evil
grin overtook her face and both of them slowed down, comically
walking as though in slow motion. I was tempted to flip them both
off, but I knew that if any of the other students milling around the
entrance saw it, they might report me. It wasn’t impossible that a
teacher might pop up out of nowhere and see the gesture, either.
Whitmer Central High School was notorious for its meddling
teachers.
“Sweet,” Dalton said as he passed my phone back to me. “Don’t
forget to text me, right? So I can have your number, I mean.”
Quickly, I tapped out a message on my phone and sent it to him.
The only way to not have Dalton bugging me about it forever was to
get it over with immediately.
“Done,” I said.
Dalton’s pocket buzzed and vibrated. He smiled down at the
sound.
Poor guy.
“Don’t forget to save it,” I said. “I only give my number out once.”
 I was mostly teasing, but in Dalton’s case, I wasn’t so sure if I was
teasing or not.
“All right.”
Dalton pulled his phone from his pocket as he stood from the
planter.
“See you in first, man,” Dalton said.
He was absolutely beaming as he stared down at his phone,
tapping away at the screen as he walked into school blindly. I fully
expected to hear a crash behind me, then turn around to find that
he walked directly into one of the concrete pillars. Or another
student. Luckily, no sound followed his exit, and I felt sure that
Dalton had safely made his way into school. I turned my attention
back to my two traitorous friends walking toward me.
“Assholes,” I whispered as they approached, still in slow-mo
mode.
Nick cackled loudly and Callie merely shrugged, flipping her blonde
hair off of her shoulder. Obviously, the two of them had seen my
predicament and chose to let things play out instead of saving me
from my new music-sharing buddy.
“Dalton Ellis your new buddy?” Nick cooed. “You guys gonna have
sleepovers and make pillow forts and shit now? Talk about horses
and kitty cats and eat Totino’s Pizza Rolls while you listen to Taylor
Swift?”
Callie and I both stared at Nick.
“What?” He asked.
“That was oddly specific,” I said.
 “It was a chilling portrait of a psychopath who has spent too much
time alone over Winter break,” Callie added. “Hey, Judith?”
Nick rolled his eyes as Callie turned her attention to me.
“Yeah?” I stood from the planter and swiped my hands over my
butt, dusting off the seat of my jeans.
“Your roots are touched up,” Callie said. “Nice.”
“Thanks.” I frowned. “Why are you being nice?”
“Fine.” Callie shrugged. “Your hair looks like a flamingo gang bang.
Happy?”
Nick cackled as he and Callie started to walk towards the front
entrance.
“Wait, guys.” I stopped them. “Joey’s not here yet.”
“It’s colder than a metric fuck-ton of dicks, Judith,” Callie
grumbled, but she stopped and turned to stand with me to wait on
Joey.
“That’s—that’s a lot of dicks.” Nick’s eyes doubled in size.
Callie shrugged.
“You guys better be careful with the language,” I said. “You know
Lockmore lives to spy on me. He just needs one reason to bother me
about anything.”
Nick glanced anxiously over his shoulder towards the entrance of
the school. A group of students was still hovering, socializing, and
killing time before first period. I’d seen my phone when I had passed
it to Dalton to enter his phone number. We had plenty of time before
the bell and Joey’s mom usually dropped him off with less than ten
minutes to spare. The theory amongst our friends was that she
didn’t want him to have a second of spare time at school to get into
trouble. Which was fair. Especially with Nick’s shenanigans, Callie’s
bad mouth, and my…magenta hair?
Callie produced a hair tie out of her coat pocket and reached up to
start raking her fingers through her golden locks. Nick pulled out his
phone to check the time as Callie pulled her hair back and tied it up
in a high ponytail. She had spent time that morning putting on
makeup and making sure her hair was styled perfectly. The fact that
she was ruining her hairstyle by putting it up so early in the day let
me know that Callie just didn’t give a crap.
Winter break was over. It was Monday. We all just wanted to get
through our first day back. The first day in months of days before
Spring break arrived. That’s all high school students do, I feel. Wait
for the next vacation.
“Lockmore can blow me,” Callie said as her ponytail bobbed
around and she returned her hands to her pockets. “You’d think a
grown-ass man would have better things to do than get the pink-
headed kid in trouble, right?”
“Magenta.”
Nick snorted.
“Which is just a fancy word for dark pink,” She said.
I ignored her.
“Aren’t you ready to try something new, Judith?” Callie asked as
Nick began tapping away on his phone. “Maybe blue or something?
Or you could go blond. We could be twinsies. Well, you could be my
ugly little brother.”
“Wow,” I said. “Did Santa Claus stuff your stocking full of bitch?”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of John G.
Paton, missionary to the New Hebrides
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: John G. Paton, missionary to the New Hebrides

An autobiography; first part

Author: John Gibson Paton

Editor: James Paton

Release date: September 2, 2023 [eBook #71542]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Flemming H. Revell Company,

1889

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Brian Wilson, and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN G.

PATON, MISSIONARY TO THE NEW HEBRIDES ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is
granted to the public domain.
 JOHN G. PATON.

An Autobiography.

FIRST PART.

NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION ILLUSTRATED.

JOHN G. PATON,
MISSIONARY TO THE NEW HEBRIDES.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
EDITED BY HIS BROTHER.

With an Introduction by ARTHUR T. PIERSON, D.D.

Two vols. in box, 12mo, cloth, gilt top net $2.00.

Ministerial Commendation.
“I have just laid down the most robust and the most
fascinating piece of autobiography that I have met with in many
a day.... John G. Paton was made of the same stuff with
Livingstone.”—Theodore L. Cuyler, D.D.
“I consider it unsurpassed in missionary biography. In the
whole course of my extensive reading on these topics, a more
stimulating, inspiring, and every way first-class book has not
fallen into my hands. Everybody ought to read it.”—Arthur T.
Pierson, D.D.
Missionary Praise.
“I have never read a romance that was half so thrilling.”—
Lucius C. Smith, Guanajuato, Mexico.
“I have never read a more inspiring biography.”—Thomas C.
Winn, Yokohama, Japan.
“The Lord’s work will not go back while there are such men as
he in the church.”—James A. Heal, Sing Kong, Cheh Kiang,
China.
“I think I have never had greater pleasure in reading any
book.”—R. Thacksweil, Dehra, North India.
Press Notices.
“Perhaps the most important addition for many years to the
library of missionary literature is the autobiography of John G.
Paton.”—The Christian Advocate.
“We commend to all who would advance the cause of Foreign
Missions this remarkable autobiography. It stands with such
books as those Dr. Livingstone gave the world, and shows to
men that the heroes of the cross are not merely to be sought in
past ages.”—The Christian Intelligencer.
Fleming H. Revell Company,
{ New York, 30 Union Square, E.
{ Chicago, 148 & 150 Madison Street.
 JOHN G. PATON,
MISSIONARY TO THE

NEW HEBRIDES.

An Autobiography.

EDITED BY HIS BROTHER.

FIRST PART.

New Illustrated Edition.

Fleming H. Revell Company

PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK CHICAGO
30 Union Square, East. 148–150 Madison Street.
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

BY ARTHUR T. PIERSON, D.D.

Love is omnipotent. Wherever true passion for souls burns, there we

may find a new Mount of Transfiguration where the earthly takes on
the complexion of the heavenly.
This book presents an example of the power of such love and holy
enthusiasm, alike in one of the great cities of Scotland and in the
isles of the sea.
Even among the riches of missionary biography few such volumes
as this are to be found, and the most apathetic reader will find
himself fascinated by this charming romance of real life. It has been
well said that he who is not ready to preach the gospel everywhere
and anywhere is fit to preach it nowhere. Should every candidate for
the office of the ministry be first tried in some such field as the
wynds of Glasgow, it would prove a training in its way more
profitable than any discipline in the class-room; and it might so
shake the “napkin” at the four corners as to disclose whether or not
there were in it even one “talent” for winning souls.
We calmly affirm, after careful perusal, that this biography is not
surpassed, for stimulating, inspiring, and helpful narrative, by any
existing story of missionary heroism. Its peculiar value is twofold: it
shows how the most neglected and degraded masses of our cities
may be reached by Christian effort, and it illustrates the spirit of
missions on the wider field of south sea cannibalism. Our only regret
is that this story of missionary labor is not carried on to its successful
issue. This volume leaves us eagerly expectant of what is promised as
the sequel.
 He who doubts whether there is a supernatural factor in missions,
should carefully read this narrative. What but the power of God
could turn the demon of drink into a ministering angel, or the
blasphemer into a praying saint, or out of the mouth of hell withdraw
the half-devoured wretch who was desperately bent on suicide?
Let those who sit quietly at home in their easy-chairs, or who make
rousing addresses or write stirring articles on city evangelization and
the estrangement of the masses from the church, follow this heroic
city missionary as he dives into the depths of all this depravity and
degradation, and demonstrates what the love of souls and the gospel
of life can do to rescue those who are drowning in the abyss of
perdition.
 PREFACE.

The Manuscript of this Volume, put together in a rough draft amid

ceaseless and exacting toils, was placed in my hands and left
absolutely to my disposal by my beloved brother, the Missionary.
It has been to me a labour of perfect love to re-write and revise the
same, pruning here and expanding there, and preparing the whole
for the press. In the incidents of personal experience, constituting
the larger part of the book, the reader peruses in an almost unaltered
form the graphic and simple narrative as it came from my brother’s
pen. But, as many sections have been re-cast and largely modified,
especially in those Chapters of whose events I was myself an eye-
witness, or regarding which I had information at first hand from the
parties concerned therein,—and as circumstances make it impossible
to submit these in their present shape to my brother before
publication,—I must request the Public to lay upon me, and not on
him, all responsibility for the final shape in which the Autobiography
appears.
I publish it, because Something tells me there is a blessing in it.
January, 1889. James Paton.
 NOTE TO SECOND EDITION.
The Editor desires very gratefully to acknowledge his joy in
receiving, not only through Press Notices, but from Correspondents
in every rank, most ample confirmation of the assurance expressed
by him in the last sentence of the Original Preface—“There is a
blessing in it.”
He has been urging his Brother to complete, as soon as he possibly
can, Part Second of the Autobiography; and he hopes that the call for
this Second Edition of Part First at so early a date will successfully
enforce his appeal.
February, 1889.
CONTENTS.
 CHAPTER I.
EARLIER DAYS.
PAGE
Introductory Note 3
Kirkmahoe 4
Torthorwald Village 5
Our Villagers 6
Nithsdale Scenes 7
Our Cottage Home 9
Our Forebears 12
An Idyll of the Heart 16
A Consecrated Father 19
Accepted Vows 21
Happy Sabbath Days 22
Golden Autumn of Life 26

CHAPTER II.
AT SCHOOL AND COLLEGE.
A Typical Scottish School 31
An Unacknowledged Prize 32
A Wayward Master 33
Learning a Trade 33
My Father’s Prayers 34
“Jehovah Jireh” 34
With Sappers and Miners 36
The Harvest Field 38
On the Road to Glasgow 39
A Memorable Parting 40
Before the Examiners 42
Killing Work 43
Deep Waters 44
Maryhill School 45
Rough School Scenes 46
“Aut Cæsar Aut Nullus” 48
My Wages 49
 CHAPTER III.
IN GLASGOW CITY MISSION.
“He Leadeth Me” 53
A Degraded District 55
The Gospel in a Hay-Loft 56
New Mission Premises 58
At Work for Jesus 59
At War with Hell 62
Sowing Gospel Seed 64
Publicans on the War Path 65
Marched to the Police Office 67
Papists and Infidels 69
An Infidel Saved 70
An Infidel in Despair 71
A Brand from the Burning 72
A Saintly Child 75
Papists in Arms 77
Elder and Student 81

CHAPTER IV.
FOREIGN MISSION CLAIMS.
The Wail of the Heathen 85
A Missionary Wanted 85
Two Souls on the Altar 87
Lions in the Path 89
The Old Folks at Home 92
Successors in Green Street Mission 95
Old Green Street Hands 97
A Father in God 97

CHAPTER V.
THE NEW HEBRIDES.
License and Ordination 101
At Sea 102
From Melbourne to Aneityum 102
Settlement on Tanna 105
Our Mission Stations 106
 Diplomatic Chiefs 107
Painful First Impressions 108
Bloody Scenes 109
The Widow’s Doom 111

CHAPTER VI.
LIFE AND DEATH ON TANNA.
Our Island Home 115
Learning the Language 116
A Religion of Fear 118
With or Without a God 119
Ideas of the Invisible 120
Gods and Demons 121
My Companion Missionary 122
Pioneers in New Hebrides 123
Missionaries of Aneityum 125
The Lord’s Arrowroot 126
Unhealthy Sites 127
The Great Bereavement 129
Memorial Tributes 131
Selwyn and Patteson at a Tanna Grave 133
Her Last Letter 134
Last Words 137
Presentiment and Mystery 138

CHAPTER VII.
MISSION LEAVES FROM TANNA.
Tannese Natives 141
“Tabooed” 142
Jehovah’s Rain 143
“Big Hays” 144
War and Cannibalism 145
The Lot of Woman 146
Sacred Days 148
Preaching in Villages 149
Native Teachers 150
The War Shell 151
 Deadly Superstitions 152
A League of Blood 154
Chiefs in Council 155
Defence of Women 157
A League of Peace 157
Secret Disciples 159
A Christo-Heathen Funeral 159
Clever Thieves 160
Ships of Fire 164
H.M.S. Cordelia 166
Captain Vernon and Miaki 167
The Captain and the Chiefs 168
The John Williams 169
Evanescent Impressions 170
A House on the Hill 171
In Fever Grips 171
“Noble Old Abraham” 172
Critics in Easy Chairs 174

CHAPTER VIII.
MORE MISSION LEAVES FROM TANNA.
The Blood-Fiend Unleashed 179
In the Camp of the Enemy 180
A Typical South Sea Trader 182
Young Rarip’s Death 183
The Trader’s Retribution 185
Worship and War 186
Saved from Strangling 187
Wrath Restrained 188
Under the Axe 191
The Clubbing of Namuri 193
A Native Saint and Martyr 195
Bribes Refused 197
Widows Rescued 197
The Sinking of a Well 198
Church-Building on Tanna 199
Ancient Stone God 201
 Printing First Tannese Book 201
A Christian Captain 203
Levelled Muskets 204
A French Refugee 205
A Villainous Captain 208
Like Master—Like Men 209
Wrecked on Purpose 212
The Kanaka Traffic 213
A Heathen Festival 215
Sacrifices to Idols 218
Heathen Dance and Sham Fight 219
Six Native Teachers 221
A Homeric Episode 222
Victims for Cannibal Feast 223
The Jaws of Death 224
Nahak or Sorcery 226
Killing me by Nahak 227
Nahak Defied 229
Protected by Jehovah 230
“Almost Persuaded” 231
Escorted to the Battle-Field 232
Praying for Enemies 233
Our Canoe on the Reef 233
A Perilous Pilgrimage 236
Rocks and Waters 237

CHAPTER IX.
DEEPENING SHADOWS.
Welcome Guests 243
A Fiendish Deed 244
The Plague of Measles 245
A Heroic Soul 246
Horrors of Epidemic 247
A Memorable New Year 248
A Missionary Attacked 249
In the Valley of the Shadow 251
Blow from an Adze 252
A Missionary’s Death 253
Mrs. Johnston’s Letter 255
A Heavy Loss 256
The Story of Kowia 256
Kowia’s Soliloquy 258
The Passing of Kowia 259
Mortality of Measles 261
Fuel to the Fire 262
Hurricanes 262
A Spate of Blood and Terror 263
Nowar Vacillates 265
The Anger of the Gods 265
Not Afraid to Die 266
Martyrs of Erromanga 267
Visit to the Gordons 268
Their Martyrdom 269
Vindication of the Gordons 270
Gordon’s Last Letter 272
Plots of Murder 273
Death by Nahak 275
Nowar Halting Again 275
Old Abraham’s Prayer 277
Miaki and the Mission House 278
Satanic Influences 280
Perplexity Deepening 280
Bishop Selwyn’s Testimony 281
Rotten Tracts 283
Captain and Mate of Blue Bell 285
My Precious Dog 287
Fishing Nets and Kawases 288
The Taro Plant 290
The Kava Drink 290
Katasian and the Club Scene 291
The Yams 292
Sunshine and Shadow 292
Teachers Demoralized 293
The Chief’s Alphabet 294