Alice H

Senior Writer | Cresco, PA

Alice Hlidkova was born in Czechoslovakia and moved to New York City post-1989's Velvet Revolution. A self-taught journalist, she reported for Lebanon's Daily Star and covered the Arab Spring and the Iraq War. Alice then entered the tech world, studying at Carnegie Mellon and co-founding a startup. She authored "You Screwed Up!" a self-help book on entrepreneurial growth, and "Fly My Lady," an inspirational journal for women. Her fiction, including "Pretty Girl Complex," addresses modern female struggles and heroism. Alice divides her time between the U.S. and Spain.
As a StoryTerrace writer, Alice interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below!

The Geometry of Us

“My brother slapped blue tape on the carpeted floor, screaming, “I will kill you if you cross the line,” Hot Wheels jiggling in his pocket.
For a moment, I pictured chaos—blood splattered across the walls like violent brushstrokes. My posters became chaotic swirls of color reminiscent of Pollock paintings.
I turned on the vacuum, dust swirled. “Watch out!” he said, reaching for the cleaner hose. “You're on my side,” I countered, swinging it.
He left, slamming the door.
Cry baby, I thought.
I vacuumed along the tape's edge, the lines precise, the drone steady. Suddenly, it sucked up plastic. “Are you crazy?” he shouted, crossing the boundary. “Change the filter!” He crossed again, grabbing the vacuum. “Give it!”
“Leave me alone,” I tugged.
“Let go!”
“You're on my side,” my eyes on his forehead.
He retreated to his bed, back against the wall like a king holding his throne.
The vacuum rattled, staples and dust clashing inside.
“That's plastic,” he noted, desperate.
“Shut up!” My voice was firm.
His eyes followed me, a mix of annoyance and curiosity. I pulled the hose along the bed's edges, the machine thudding against the wood, echoing in the room. Marbles, erasers, and a gum wrapper were sucked away, making him flinch. I ignored his reactions. He was my little brother after all.
The dresser, my final chore, stood between the bed and the bathroom. Stooping, I vacuumed beneath it, catching a pen. “That’s enough!” he said, taking over with purpose. He then organized toys, polished surfaces, wiped screens, and straightened his bedspread.
His wall was a gallery of precision, with car posters aligned beneath the organized array of glow-in-the-dark stars. My space, in contrast, was a canvas of spontaneity, adorned with fingerprint smudges and scribbles. This contrast mirrored our unique selves yet belied the deep connection we shared.
Bound by curiosity, we found unity at the window, where dreams flew on a shared clothesline against the vast canvas of the sky. The chore became a joint venture: he, with the precision of an aspiring pilot, clipped the fabric shapes at perfect angles, while I indulged in my Wonderland fantasies.
“If you could fly, where would you go?”
“Anywhere but here.” he waved his hand.
“Me too.” I looked down at our garden below, a mix of order and imagination that reflected the world we created together.

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