She tags you out, but for some reason you’re kind of happy.

Today's Story


Purple Haze

By Greg Schacht

You’re at Aziz’s place. You’re stoned. You don’t know exactly how much you smoked, but it was enough to make you forget that you were in the middle of having sex with a beautiful girl under a fluorescent Bob Marley poster.  She moans, snapping you back, and then you moan, and you almost feel it.

A quick glance around the room reminds you that you two not alone. Aziz is in the corner, passed out, snoring softly. The door is closed, but you can hear not only music, but talking coming from outside. The room is bathed in the ultraviolet glow of Aziz’s tacky blacklights. The floor is strewn with clothes, and you can faintly recognize your pants on the back of an armchair.

“What’s wrong? Oh god, did the condom break?”

Your attention snaps back to the girl. She’s cute. Really cute. You can’t help but stare incredulously for a moment, primarily because you don’t really “hook up” with girls, let alone ones that are this fucking gorgeous.

“No, just done.”

“Cool. Wanna go for a walk?”

You nod, and the two of you begin to gather your belongings and redress when Reggie, a big, mean, drunk motherfucker comes bursting into the room, saying something to the people behind him about how drunk he is. Reggie’s always talking about how drunk he is. The two of you freeze as Reggie turns his gaze to your naked chests. A quick apology and an embarrassing walk down the hall later, the two of you are outside. She hands you a cigarette and the two of you light up.

Finally, you remember her name. Amy.


It’s early in the morning, the sun is shining through your window. This was back when you had a window, before mom and dad moved to the city and you had to come with. Back when you could see the sun. You get dressed and head off to another day of 3rd grade.

That girl with the huge eyes keeps staring at you during lunch, just like every day. What’s her problem, anyway? Not that it makes a difference, girls are icky. You sigh, down the last of your milk, and walk out to recess.

It’s nice out. The guys are playing kickball against the girls. She’s there, on the girls’ side. Still staring at you. You join in, not really taking note of her. When the ball comes your way, you kick it with all your might, and it goes sailing into the air. You track the ball, running as fast as your little legs will carry you towards first base. It bounces, and as you round first, you see her again. Playing shortstop. You round second, and suddenly the ball is in her hands. You try to turn around, but the dirt is loose on the diamond and you have some trouble.

Two seconds later, you’re on the ground. She’s on top of you, holding the kickball. You can feel her body on yours, and she smells kind of like cinnamon. She tags you out, but for some reason you’re kind of happy.

“I like you” she says.

You don’t see her much after that.


Amy’s not much of a talker, apparently. You wouldn’t know, you just met her tonight. The two of you stand there in silence, dragging on cigarettes. The nicotine buzz feels good. She walks over to a car, assumedly hers, and motions you over.

After riding in silence for about five minutes, you attempt to break the silence. “Sooo… where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

After seven minutes and thirty eight seconds of riding in silence and feeling awkward, you pull up to a field. There’s a baseball backstop and a building in the distance. She walks ahead of you, motioning for you to follow. She takes you through the field, and as you walk through the wet grass, you wonder why she’s brought you out here. Maybe to tell you it was a mistake. Maybe to kill you so you won’t tell anybody.

Finally, she stops. The ground feels a little different under your feet. Like dirt. She turns to you to say something, and you notice that she has these big, piercing blue eyes, the kind that you see on movie stars.

“Recognize this place?” she asks.

You look around for a moment, and pull out your phone so you can use it as a flashlight. As you swing the light around, you can see that the ground is dirt, and that a single white line runs down it. You’re on a baseball diamond. Between second and third base, to be precise.

And just like that, you’re on the ground, a familiar weight on your chest. You look up at her, towering over you as she sits on your chest. She has this huge, stupid grin on her face. She smells kind of like cinnamon.


Greg Schacht is a high school student and full-time nerd. He lives in Glencoe, Illinois and attends New Trier High School. He writes short stories in his free time, and wishes to combine them into a book someday.


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