Saltwater

“Mariah! Mariah!”

The wind whipped my dark hair and long, white nightgown about my body as I turned around. There was a girl, a child, standing at the edge of the ocean, covered in seaweed. The moon shone down on us from its place in the sky, but it did nothing to illuminate the situation for me.  

“What do you want?” I trembled.

The girl extended one wet, slender arm. Something was in her hand. I couldn’t see it, but I knew that whatever it was, it was more dazzling than the stars and far more terrible than the darkest spaces between them.

“You dropped your heart in the sand.” The girl’s soft words were barely audible over the roar of the ocean, “I rinsed it off for you.”

~~~

Beep… Beep…

The water stain on the ceiling above my bed came into focus as I opened my eyes. An alarm clock beeped loudly in the background. I had overslept for 23 minutes. How did I manage to sleep through that wretched noise for so long? I flicked the button of my alarm clock to the off position to end the persistent beeping. 

Have you ever felt trapped in a dream? I’ve been having the same dream for the last twenty years. The scene is a wide stretch of beach at night, but the elements of the environment are never consistent.  Sometimes it’s low tide, and jagged rocks are exposed in the sand. Sometimes the water is unnaturally still and continues uninterrupted into the distance until its edges blend with the dark, night sky. Other times, like last night, the water rages with waves that tear through space before crashing back down. The little girl is the real constant of the dream. In the end, she always comes.  She rises from the ocean, from the dark places where the unknown lurks beyond our reach. She is always the same: pale, wet, urgently calling to me. She is four years old, and she hasn’t grown at all since she first came to me while I slept. 

The terrazzo floor was cold against my bare feet as I climbed out of bed. I fixed the pillows and made the sheets. I once tried to share my dream with a therapist. I sat in his office on a plush, leather armchair, but every time I opened my mouth, the wrong words rolled off my tongue. I willed them to come out honestly, to convey outwardly that which I felt inside. I tried to do it vocally, but it came out chemically instead. Have you ever cried in an expensive, leather armchair in the office of a therapist? 

~~~

“Why are you getting tears?” The therapist asked me.

“I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know or you don’t know what to say?”

“I just don’t know.” I said softly as I dried my cheeks with a tissue.

~~~

I removed the cloth hand towel from my face and looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My teeth were brushed and my face was washed. I looked very composed. I turned on the faucet of my shower. It usually took a minute for the water to come out hot, and I took off my clothes in front of the mirror while I waited. The scars on my body were faded now, but I could still feel the subtle changes in texture along the surface of my skin. For a while, I simply stood there like that. Then my twin in the mirror began to blur as she was covered by steam that condensed on the cold, glass surface. I followed suit a moment later, stepping into the shower. The water poured out of the faucet, enveloping my body in warmth, rinsing the leftover salt from last night’s perspiration from my skin. 

Do Not Exit - part 1

The clock was ticking faintly in the background as Margaret’s eyelids fluttered open. They fluttered like the pages of the book beside her, blown open by the same breeze that rustled her hair. The air conditioning was broken in the library, and fans had been placed by librarians at strategic locations in an attempt to abate the lethargy inflicting heat. Margaret closed the book she had been reading, A Depiction of a New World Called The Blazing World, and tried to smooth down her short, brown, wind rustled hair1. She had been having a wonderful dream. Margaret had dreamt that she had been mistaken for a goddess, married a king, and subsequently been given absolute power to rule his kingdom. It was all for the betterment of humanity, of course.

Margaret was still smiling what she imagined to be her best, monarchic smile when she caught sight of the clock hanging on the library’s cream colored wall. It was 2:37 p.m. and Margaret was late for her creative writing class. She hurriedly stuffed her book into her canvas book bag, which was covered in a print of grey terriers, and darted for the exit. It just so happened that the library only had one main entrance, and it was facing the opposite direction from the communications building where Margaret’s class was held. There was a set of three “do not exit” doors in the proper direction, and one happened to be propped open, a fan positioned strategically in the doorway. Margaret made a split second decision to break the rules just this once. Besides, she considered the prospect of missing as little class as possible to be a rather noble goal, and this opinion vanquished any guilt she may have developed over breaking “do not exit” rules.

Margaret may have been fine with her rule breaking; however, the Universe was not. Unbeknownst to pretty much every being on Earth, the Universe had been monitoring the planet for years and was extremely piqued by mankind’s rude disregard for laws. In fact, at just that moment the seven Laws of Nature, composing the judicial branch of the Universe, were banging their ugly gavels, and complaining amongst themselves in protest. Margaret’s rule braking was the last straw.

“One simply must not exit a door that is clearly labeled ‘do not exit!’” A Law of Nature whined.

“Indeed, the humans have been taking this simple rule for granted these many years.”

“It must not be allowed to continue!”
The God of Literal Meaning, who was in the courtroom waiting to be tried for actually breaking someone’s leg during a play at the Divine Comedies Theater, interrupted The Laws of Nature to propose a solution.

“I propose a solution,” he began. “The sign on the door merely states that one does not exit a place through it. However, it declares nothing about the individual’s right to enter a place through it. Perhaps we can allow this girl to enter someplace through the door, as long as she doesn‘t leave any place, of course.”

The Laws of Nature thought this was a wise observation, and quickly made a ruling on how to proceed. Unfortunately for Margaret, the Laws of Nature and their divine friends are incapable of being heard on this earthly world; otherwise, she may have been saved from a lot of trouble and couple skeins of yarn. As she stepped through the “do not exit” door, she did not exit the library, but instead entered into another dimension.

The very first thing that Margaret noticed about her new location was the severe temperature change. The temperature suddenly dropped from sweltering to almost unbearably frosty. Remarkably, the gigantic, medieval looking castle that seemed to spontaneously generate before her was the second thing she noticed. It was a massive, many towered, gray stone castle. Margaret happened to be standing on a dirt path that lead to the gate of the castle’s front courtyard. The castle was surrounded by a densely wooded forest that continued in all directions as far as she could see. And yes, all directions included the space behind her that had moments before been occupied by the library building.

There didn’t seem to be any signs of life around, excluding Margaret herself. The accelerated beating of her heart, caused by the shock of suddenly being in such a strange place, was a testament to her present existence indeed. For some reason it just felt fitting for her to clutch her terrier covered bag in her arms and declare, “I don’t think I’m in Florida anymore, tote bag.” Then Margaret realized how odd it was for her to directly address her bag, but since she didn’t have a real terrier to clutch, she decided she was just making do. “I’m not going crazy,” Margaret shivered in the cold air as she tried to reassure herself, but she only half believed it. “Maybe I’m dreaming,” Margaret continued her thought process aloud, “That must be it. I dreamt that I woke up in the library and was late for class. Then my dream changed and I ended up here, wherever this place is.” Margaret decided to try to wake herself. First she pinched herself because that’s what she remembered people doing in movies. When that didn’t work, she pinched herself harder. Margaret continued to pinch herself increasingly hard, and to fail at waking up despite that. This resulted in a rather sore, pink spot on her freckled arm, and a lot of frustration. Because she wasn’t having any luck waking herself, and because she was terribly cold, Margaret decided to head for the castle. She hoped it would be warmer there.

The gate to the courtyard was open, but against the stone wall to either side stood guards. They were dressed in medieval looking, metal armor, and their hands were positioned upon the hilt of long swords that rested on ground before them. “Who approaches?” asked a guard as Margaret neared the gate. Margaret was feeling very irritated over being stuck in what she thought was a dream and she wasn’t in the mood to answer questions, so she ignored the guard and continued walking.

“Hey! Halt there! Don’t be rude.” The other guard said, “my friend here asked you a question.”

“I don’t have time for questions,” Margaret responded, “I’m cold and I can’t wakeup.”

“Oh, but you have time to be impolite, huh? Well that’s just dandy.”

“Excuse me? This is my dream and I’d appreciate it if you’d cut out the sarcasm. In fact,” said Margaret, “I could do without you entirely. This is my dream after all; shouldn’t I be able to turn you into a kitten or something, if I tried hard enough?” At this Margaret tightly closed her eyes and imagined two adorable, gray kittens in the place of the knights. Unfortunately, the scene remained unchanged when she opened her eyes once more. “Drat! Some dream this is.” Margaret whined. “I don’t get to control anything about it.”

“Did she just try to turn us into kittens?” Asked the first guard, sounding rather offended.

“I think so. You know, that’s rather offensive!” The second guard said to Margaret. He sounded rather offended too. “Maybe she’s a witch.”

“I don’t believe in witches.” The other guard said.

“Neither do I, but you never know. She seems to think she is.”

“I’m not a witch,” Margaret shivered, “I’m so cold, though.”

“Well, of course a witch would say that. Wouldn’t she?” The first guard observed.

“I’m not a witch,” Margaret rolled her eyes.

“Maybe we should take her in for questioning,” said the second guard.

“I’m not a,” Margaret began, but she stopped when she registered that last comment. “by ‘taking me in’ for questioning, would you be taking me inside?”

“Well, yeah... What else could we ‘take you in‘ to?” The first guard and the God of Literal meaning, still monitoring the scene from above, scoffed at Margaret’s question. Then Margaret and the guards headed towards the castle.

TO BE CONTINUED

Constructing the World

Richard was a data entry clerk, and he worked from home. He typed information into the computer all day, his fingers pecking away at the keys. The apartment that he lived in, like all affordable apartments in the city, had thin walls and was devoid of charm. The carpet was a dull gray, the walls were off white, and the place was sparsely furnished with the essentials: table, desk, chairs, etc. Not one decorative ornament sat collecting dust on a shelf. For that matter, Richard didn’t even own a shelf beyond the one in his kitchen that held his cooking utensils: one pot and one pan. There were spoons in a drawer by the phone.

Richard had a lot of appreciation and awe for things that others may have considered mundane, and even gross. For example, when the girl above him flushed her toilet, the water rushed through the pipes in his wall, hissing like seeds through a rain stick. It was almost meditative. Richard felt accomplished when he thought up similes like these to describe his otherwise drab existence.

Richard knew the girl who lived above him because he had gotten her mail once. Her name was Sarah, and she had invited him in for lemonade when he went to return it to her. The whole time they were making small talk, sitting on her beat up sofa behind the water stained coffee table, he had wanted to tell her about the pipes. He had wanted to tell her that she influenced his world in such a personal way; instead they had talked about matters of little consequence to Richard. The girl had told him about how well kept she thought the community pool was. “I haven’t been there,” admitted Richard.

“You should check it out sometime. I’m usually there on Saturdays at 6:00.”

“I’ve never enjoyed the pool. The chlorine always irritates my eyes.”

Richard never played basketball or hung out in the clubhouse either, but strangers were always there. He knew this because his apartment was next to the clubhouse and basketball court of his complex, and through his thin walls he could hear the people there throughout the day, and often into the night. The dribbling of the basketball on the court and the muffled chatter of voices combined with the intermittent hissing in his walls to create a medley of life’s music. At times like these, his fingers yearned to soar. They wanted to fly over the keys, tapping out the rhythms of life.

Sometimes while Richard worked, inputting information for his employers, he felt like his fingers were in prison. He imagined miniature shackles attached to them, forcing them to stay in line. Sometimes Richard couldn’t take the toils of his routine, plucking at keys that didn’t matter to him. He wanted to breakout and write about life, but when he did that he reworked it so much that it became a distant thing. It wasn’t really part of him the way he portrayed it. Sometimes he wondered if the way he constructed life was indicative of insanity. As the world flowed through the pipes of his wall, and bounced on the cement below, Richard could see his mind within it. It was nestled amongst the particles of the universe, a small bit of matter encompassed in the infinite, and it didn’t seem to be of much consequence.

Nevertheless, when he wrote for himself, Richard constructed the world to his liking. He wanted to awe the masses with his eloquent words and deep insights. When inspiration took him, he would spend hours working on a new masterpiece. When he finished one, he would post it on his online blog journal. Sometimes his piece would elicit a response, and people would post their comments. Sometimes he received no feedback, and he took such instances as failures on his part. If no one commented, he figured he must have written poorly, and was embarrassed at what he had posted. The truth was that people cared about his writing far less than he thought, being preoccupied with seeking approval for themselves. When they did leave comments, they usually weren’t approvals for Richard’s work, but pleas of their own for perception as intelligent, insightful, or witty beings.

~.~

You could say that Sarah had once had a significant other in her life, but the truth is that he hadn’t played a positive role in the script of her existence. When Sarah had been upset about something he had done, she would howl at the moon. He would always ignore her, being so far removed from the world of Sarah. One day, she realized that her track was an ellipse, making the same patterns repeatedly, through better and worse. Although she was rich, her life was poor. So she gave it all up for the dream of changing the course of her existence. She had always been good at math in high school, and she missed the belief in herself that success afforded her. A new sign in the formula of life was all it took for Sarah to see her path alter from the confinement of the ellipse to the openness of the hyperbola. Her new path reached into the infinite of the unknown.

Sarah moved to an apartment in the city in order to be near the university. When she saved up enough money, she was going to go back to school to earn a degree in mathematics. She got a job as a waitress, but she barely made more than enough to cover her rent, car payments, and other bills. Six months later, she was still trying to adapt to city life. Those she considered friends were as numerous as the stars, but also as distant. Some nights, when she was feeling particularly melancholy and alone, she would sit outside on her balcony. It was on one of these nights that she noticed the man who lived below her, or at least she heard the frantic tapings of one of his passionate writing fits. As Richard’s fingers soared over the keyboard, tapping out the rhythms of life, the vibrations bounced off the walls, through the open window, and were picked up faintly, but audibly by Sarah’s ears. The sound of Richard’s typing was intriguing to Sarah. It was rhythmic, soothing, and made Sarah curious about the man living downstairs. She wanted to meet him, so she slipped her mail in his mailbox one day.

Sarah didn’t expect much out of the encounter, but she made homemade lemonade, and cleaned up the house anyway. He came the same day to return her mail. They talked for a while, and Sarah felt like there was something endearing about this quiet man who had so much to write, and so little to say. She wanted to tell him about how he influenced her life by giving her something to be interested in. Instead, they talked about things of little consequence to Sarah. Richard seemed down to Earth, and nothing like the previous man she had been with. She wanted to meet him again, so she told him about how well kept she thought the community pool was, even though she’d never been there. She hinted that he should check it out on Saturday at 6:00, when she planned on visiting the pool for the first time in hopes of meeting up with him.
Sarah didn’t know if Richard would show up at the pool, but she hoped that he would.

~.~

Richard checked off the days on his calendar, and continued to write through the week. He wrote for his job, and he wrote for himself. It was while he was free writing one night that he realized how much he liked Sarah. The title of his piece was “Things That are of Consequence in Life.” He wrote about the importance of communication, and the greatness of the postal service. He wrote about stained coffee tables, and how they were worth so much more than regular ones because they had character. Beyond that, they were proof of life. They were a testament to existence. An alter of the eternal coffee cups that keep us going. He wrote about sweet tasting lemonade, and the way in which the cold liquid made the taste buds on his tongue tingle as he sipped it. He wrote about the girl whose name he finally knew. He didn’t know that Sarah was on her balcony above him, catching every tap of every letter.

When Sarah got to the pool on Saturday, Richard was already there waiting for her. He was sitting at a table by the side of the pool, feeling self-conscious in his swim trunks without a shirt. His confidence returned when he spotted Sarah entering the gate, and she smiled at him. She walked directly to Richard and asked, “Is it okay if I join you?”

“I would like that.”

“I would like that too.”

~.~

Sarah eventually earned her degree and became a teacher of mathematics, but the most important lesson she ever taught was the one that Richard learned. She taught him that even though the world isn’t always beautiful, cheery, and exciting, sometimes it’s the mundane that is significant to our lives. Richard may not have been the center of the world, but he was the center of his world. He controlled it with white and gray reins, with white and gray matter. As for Richard’s writing career, he wrote the only story that really mattered to him. He wrote the story of Richard and Sarah, and it was a story constructed to his liking indeed. The two of them lived long lives. Things didn’t always turn out the way they wanted, but they treasured the good times, and they always managed to overcome their challenges. Through it all, their hearts beat with the rhythms of the world around them, pumping the blood through their veins like water through the pipes of their home.

Notes:
1. I'm not happy with a couple things here, including the ending. I'm posting it because there are some things that I am never satisfied with, and I think is just one of those stories.

Cherry Trees

Laura tucked a strand of her long, brown hair behind an ear as she walked to her morning class at Flagler College. Today was the first day of the semester, and Laura had set out early to allow plenty of time for finding her classrooms. This also gave her time to explore the campus that would be her home away from home for the next few months. The cool breeze that ruffled her hair was a pleasant compliment to the bright sun that warmed her body. As nice as the sun felt on her skin, Laura knew she burned easily, and since she didn’t have sunscreen on her, she headed towards the cover of a group of trees. She didn’t even realize that they were cherry trees until she had reached them. How beautiful, thought Laura as she walked up to the largest tree, Grammy would love you. The trees were in full bloom, and Laura could smell the sweet fragrance of the blossoms.

The previous summer, Laura had taken a road trip to visit her grandmother, Ella, a retired florist who lived in Pensacola, Florida. Laura felt close to her grandmother there, and had opened up to her one day, sharing her concern about the future. As her fingers traced the wood grains of the bark, she remembered the conversation they had had while raking leaves in her grandmother’s garden.

“I was wondering, Grammy,“ Laura had asked, “How did you decide to become a florist? Mom says it’s the only job you’ve ever had or wanted.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true.” Ella had smiled as she stood up, wiping her soil covered gloves on her overalls, “ I also thoroughly enjoyed being a fulltime mom.”

“Okay, but you always wanted to be a florist, right?”

“I guess you could say that. Gardening and making bouquets was something I’d always enjoyed… what’s wrong, sweetheart? You look so serious.”

“It’s just that… I’m afraid I’m making the wrong decision in going to Flagler for art school. What if I graduate and decide I want to be a lawyer, or an architect? The future is just so uncertain. How am I supposed to know what I will want to be?”

“Honey, the future is never certain. You could end up wanting to be a million things in your lifetime, but you can only pursue the things you want to be now.”

“But that’s just it! I don’t know what I want to be now. All I know is what I like.”

“And what do you like?”

“Random things. Things that don’t matter.”

“Everything matters. When you look around this garden, what do you like.”

“ It’s all pretty”

“No, tell me. If you could smell, see, and touch only one of these brilliant creations, which one would it be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I would choose this cherry tree right here.” Ella smiled as she pointed to the blossoming tree, “A pretty cherry tree can always make me smile. Sweetheart, you just need to find your cherry trees in life.”

Laura didn’t really understand her grandmother’s advice at the time, but as she traced the wood grains in the cherry tree at Flagler, she realized the wisdom behind her grandmother’s words. The beautiful blossoms of the cherry trees would wilt and die. People would have no way of knowing how many flowers would bloom the next year, but that didn’t make the current flowers any less beautiful. Laura realized that the present was just as important as the future. Whether or not she would decide in hindsight that her decision in school had taken her where she wanted to be, Laura knew that she was where she wanted to be now. Flagler was the blossoms on her cherry tree for the present. Whether or not the blossoms would grow in the same next year, Laura didn’t know. All she knew was that she wanted to follow her cherry trees in life, and enjoy each set of blossoms as they came.

The Path to Becoming a Tap-Dancing Cupcake

I would say the events of this story happened a long, long time ago if weren’t for the flighty nature of time. For a person with as many years of wisdom as I will have learned that time is merely a unit of measure, one that is as relative to the universe as size. For that reason I might also have said that one with as few years of wisdom as I would understand these things. The later statement is perhaps the more truthful one as I am not very old by my standards. At this point, some may be wondering who I am, but an impression of me differs from one person to the next. I am sure there are many opinions of my being, but I cannot honestly give any impression of myself other than my own. And so, it is not who I am, but what I have done that I shall tell you. In this manner the reader may judge on his or her own who I am.

My story begins in a place far, far away. Again, as so much in the universe is relative, I feel compelled to expound. Let us be reminded that distance is the integral of velocity. It would take a fixed velocity just under the average(1). speed of light to reach the place where this story begins during one life span. And so, we may conclude that it was indeed far, far away. It also was a place very similar in both setting and technology to the reader’s. In fact, it was so very similar that one could think of it as a parallel Earth.

Although it all began with the birth of a baby girl, let us fast forward to the first point of interest of the story. Let us fast forward to Claire’s (that was the baby girl’s name) first day of school. It was a bright and sunny day that Claire stepped out of her family’s van. As she tentatively walked towards her first classroom, for her first lecture, on her first day of school;
Claire’s family shouted from their vehicle many statements of departure.
-Good luck, her mother called, everything is going to be great!
-Don’t learn too much, her little brothers hollered, your head could explode!
-No, no, Clair’s younger sister shouted, just have fun!
-We’re proud of you, added her father, you’re going to do great!

Now, all these comments may seem to be encouraging (with the exception of the exploding head remark), but Clair was feeling rather shy on her first day of school, and the noisy commotion from the huge white van was drawing entirely unwanted attention to herself. So she gave a hasty wave in the direction of her family, and scurried away to class.

Although it was Clair’s first day of school, by no means did she lack in knowledge. By the age of sixteen, Clair had already perfected the arts of tap-dancing, yodeling, reading, mathematizing, and bee charming. These beloved activities had brought her much enjoyment. She would have been quite content to be a tap-dancing, yodeling, reading, mathematizing bee-charmer; however, she wanted to pursue a career that involved many more skills. Clair had her heart set on nothing less than obtaining absolute power, and subsequently taking over the world for the betterment of mankind.

In the age that she lived, as in all ages before, people were of a race that was far less than perfect. Clair had repeatedly observed the mistakes of the rulers of Titrations, Clair’s country. She could see clearly that anyone willing to be a King or Queen did not have the royal thought capacity to be one. There were two royal families in Titrations, the Demodidles and the Elofontains, that could reportedly trace their lineage all the way back to a deity. Belonging to one of these families, either through birth or marriage, was the only way one was allegedly qualified to occupy the throne. The reason for this thinking was quite the same as the great chain of being that the reader’s own country experienced back in the dark ages. Unlike the reader’s country, the monarchy of Titrations had not yet been successfully challenged by free-thinking, John Lockean personalities.

Instead of perfecting the system, every time a monarch made a series of stupid mistakes that sent Titrations into a downward spiral of living conditions, there would be a public uprising leading to the beheading or hanging of said monarch. The two divinely descended families would then offer their best candidates for the job, and the public would choose one. Candidates from other families would pop up now and then, but since they did not have the same stature as the divine duo, they would never accomplish more than being able to say they tried for the job.

Clair knew there had to be a better way of managing affairs, and she was determined to figure it out. Not knowing where else to start, she first tried to find the answer in physics class, since the subject did cover the way the world and universe worked.

One day Claire was leaving class when a familiar person stopped her. It was Ezra Samson, a guy she had attended a yodeling class with years before.
-Hello, Ezra said to her, fancy meeting you here!
-Hi, responded Clair, it has been a while indeed!
The two chatted and caught up for a while. When Ezra asked what she was going to school for, Clair responded quite honestly as she saw no reason to lie to an old friend.
-Ah, Claire said, I am looking for a way to change the world for the betterment of humanity. I have been looking for the answer in physics class, but I’m not getting anywhere. For example, today I learned about how everything has a frequency, and that emitting specific frequencies can control specific objects. I haven’t even touched on methods of perfecting the world yet.

To Claire’s surprise, Ezra’s demeanor completely changed. His neck grew stiff, and he squinted as suspicion overtook his face.
-That sounds like magic, he said, all that about frequencies controlling stuff. Don’t you know that the bible says that all magic is of the devil?
Although Claire was quite familiar with this controversial book from Earth, she did not take it literally. She couldn’t understand Ezra’s point of view, so she asked him:
-But didn’t Moses use magic when he parted water?
-No, no, replied Ezra, Moses said it was really God doing that.
-But then God does magic?
-Precisely.
-So God is of the devil?
-Blasphemy! Ezra shouted, how could you make such an accusation?
- You just said that all magic was of the devil.
-Yes!
-But then you said that God does magic.
-He does, not Moses.
-So how is god not of the devil under these conditions?

Poor, ignorant Claire did not realize that in the years since she knew him, Ezra had become the president of a parallel to what Earth beings called the inquisition. Her statement was far too heretical to be allowed, and so he immediately went to the headmaster of the school and demand she be expelled. Sadly, the headmaster was a closet Nazi who immediately complied, saying:
-No school for you!(2)

That is how Claire was forced to leave Titrations, for no school in the country would admit her as a student. Claire decided to see if she could study with the Amazons. The Amazon’s primary focus was architecture, and Claire didn’t see how this could help her in her goal of taking over the world for the betterment of humanity. Nonetheless, she didn’t have many other options. So, Claire headed for the school of the Amazons.

The Amazons were a very selective group. After all, fifty percent of the world’s population was ruled out of admittance from birth. But as the fates would have it, Claire made a really good connection on the way. Claire had stopped for lunch by a small lake with a little island in the center. If she had seen the sign a mile back she would have read that it was called “Haunted Island.” Claire had missed the sign though. She was sitting by the water when someone from the Island began screaming. Claire dove into the water, and began swimming. Having really good swimming legs (no doubt strengthened in her tap-dancing years) Claire made it to the island in no time at all. It was a very small lake, after all.

When Claire reached the island, she found the person responsible for the screaming. It was a very tall girl about Claire’s own age.
-Please help!, the girl hollered.
-I will if only you will tell me what is wrong, replied Claire.

And so the tall girl gave a swift account of her predicament. To make a long story short, she was actually the queen of the Amazonians named Libby Hippolita. Libby had been traveling with her friend, Aimz the explorer. When they saw the sign “Haunted Island one mile ahead,” they had to check it out. Everything had gone fine until Aimz needed to use the bathroom. They thought they were in luck when they spotted an old, abandoned building marked as a restroom. Upon entering the building they found that it was actually a portal to an alien realm, and subsequently the source of everything spooky associated with the island. The toilet stall was actually a transportation device left by the Aliens, and Aimz had been abducted before Libby had had a chance to react. Not knowing what else to do, she had done the logical thing for a person in panic: scream.

-We have to get her back! Libby howled.
-We will, said Claire, just calm down! If we put our heads together, we can surely think of something. Are you sure aliens abducted Aimz? No offense, but I’ve always thought aliens were a myth.
-So did I, the Amazonian queen replied, but then I saw them!
-How did you know they were aliens?
-Because they didn’t look anything like you or me. They were yellow and lumpy looking. Plus, they emitted a strange buzzing sound.
-Well, that’s nothing, said Claire, they sound like they were covered in bees. I am a bee charmer myself. Couldn’t it have been bees?
Libby admitted she had never thought of that. The idea that they may not be dealing with beings from beyond her world calmed her. Then Libby made a remarkable observation about the structure of the restroom building. It was one that only a trained eye would notice, but being the Queen architect of the Amazons, she had a trained eye indeed. Libby realized that the outside of the building was three feet thicker in length than the inside had been. After examining the outer wall of the building closely, the girls discovered a hidden panel.

The secret trigger that opened that panel was also easily spotted by Libby, and upon pressing it, they uncovered a hidden room! It was only as wide as a hallway, but it was as long as the building, and ran parallel to the bathroom stalls. Inside was a confused looking Aimz, and a girl covered in bees.
-This is so deranged! Libby exclaimed. What are you doing abducting people in bathrooms?
The bee covered girl explained. It was a very simple explanation. She had decided at an early age that people were very silly beings always cutting their monarch’s head off, and then putting other silly monarchs on the throne and all. She preferred the company of bees, which were predictable and logical. Everything they did was for the benefit of the hive. Besides, she liked the way their wings tickled when she let them walk on her. And honey was her all time favorite food, so she was really quite set on an abandoned island. The only thing she had to do was keep those silly people away. So she tried to make the island appear haunted.
-I never would have hurt your friend, the bee girl said, just scared her a little before I let her go.
-I am going now! Aimz said, don’t try and stop me!
But the bee covered girl did try to stop them. She began clicking her heels in such a way that made their heads hurt.

Claire, knowing the bees that covered the girl would not sting her since she was a bee charmer too, tackled the girl to stop the foot tapping. Their heads want back to normal.
-What was that? Libby asked.
It turns out that the bee covered girl was also a genius who had discovered just the right foot tapping frequency of controlling people’s minds. If she tapped fast enough, she could make anyone pass out.
-I learned about that in physics! Claire exclaimed.

Then Claire revealed her ultimate goal of taking over the world for the betterment of humanity. She sympathized with the bee covered girl, but told her she was going about things all the wrong way. She did have an idea though. If only they could figure out frequencies to make people do other things, it would help her vastly in her taking over the world. If only the bee covered girl, Aimz, and Libby would help her, Claire was sure they could do it. After much talking and debating that we shall skip over, they all agreed to the cause.

One year later, they had worked out the proper frequency through an intense string of mathematical formulas. It would have taken much longer if Claire wasn’t so good at mathematizing. Once they found the frequency they wanted, they made grand costumes that resembled cupcakes because everyone could trust a cupcake. Then they tap-danced their way across many lands.

All who heard their tap-dancing had renewed within them a desire to better humanity. Everyone became nice, respectful, and free-thinking. Very soon people began writing documents of the caliber of John Lock. After only 30 years, the world was a much nicer place.

And so that is the story of my life. Some people would call me a tap-dancing cupcake. Others would call me something along the lines of a yodeling, reading, mathematizing bee charmer. In any case, I succeeded in transforming the world for the betterment of humanity, even if I didn’t actually take over the world myself.


End Notes:
1. The speed of light varies with the medium it is traveling through.
2. Based on Seinfeld’s soup Nazi.

Notes:
1. This story was written in 2006. It won first place for fiction in The Odyssey.
2. This isn't the finished version. I'm too lazy to locate the flash drive that has the finished product, but if you can find errors, please tell me and I will just correct them on here.
3. I'm not sure where to make paragraph breaks. I feel like I made most of them haphazardly. Also, I like using the word "haphazardly." I even use the word "haphazardly" haphazardly (when I feel like it). ah ha ha... I'm silly.

Mom, the Baby Stinks!

My sister was born in my family’s old apartment one week before we moved out. I was two and a half years old at the time. I don’t remember the apartment much, although the house we moved to, where my parents still live, is within walking distance. I was too young to remember the color of the carpeting, or the height of the midwife who rushed to our place when my mother went into labor. What I remember is arms. There were the arms of my father and the arms of my mother, her hand clasped tightly in his. There were the arms of the midwife, bare and steady. There were arms encircling me, tan and freckled. They were the arms of a lady named Meg. She was my mother’s friend, and she was in charge of watching me. I was seated on her lap, off to the side where I could barely see my mother through Meg‘s freckled arms. When my sister was born, and the cord was cut, Meg eventually let me down from her lap. Two more arms had come into the world. They were tiny arms with ten tiny fingers. When I reached the side of the bed, my tiny sister, Michelle, was in the arms of my exhausted mother. I walked up to them and said, “Mom, the baby stinks!”

Yes, the very first thing I said about my sister was not how beautiful she was, how fragile looking and small, but that she smelled. My sister has never let me forget that fact once she learned it from my parents as an older child. She teases me about it incessantly, although I think it would be in her interest to let it slide. Who wants to be thought of as smelly, even as a baby? This is just one of the many things we disagree on, and we have disagreed on plenty. My mother once wrote a song about how much my sister and I could bicker. We certainly haven’t always gotten along, but I would give my liver for her, and donate my two arms too if she ever needed them. My sister is my best friend.

When I was a kid, my mom used to take my siblings and me to a lake by our house. We would spend all day in the water, feeding the bigger fish, and catching the minnows with our cupped hands (and letting them go). My sister and I would float around and pretend to be fresh water mermaids; readily available Cattails would become our tridents (we didn't know those were supposed to have three prongs). I remember playing make-believe. For a long time, the favorite game of my sister and I was "Lilly and Ivy," an ongoing story where we battled monsters, and had grand adventures through the many realms we imagined our yard to contain. "Don't step on that flower!" Michelle would yell, "It makes you walk backward." But it would be too late. I would already have stepped on the daisy, and then my sister would have to chase me around the yard, as I stumbled backward through it. She would find a magic leaf to end my plight. Then we would make spears out of the branches of our "Sunflower tree," and use them to battle the goblin hiding in one of our forts. We always won. Our adventures always had happy endings.

We grew older, and eventually grew out of our make-believe games. We would spend the day at the mall shopping, or call our friends and get a group together to go see a movie. Even though we were two years apart, we tended to hang out with the same people. And then she got sick. My sister, Michelle, got very sick. It was the winter of 1999, and I remember because so many people in our small town were freaking out about “Y2K.” All of my parent’s energy went into caring for my sister. I would stay up all night, my insomnia fed from the energy of their fear for her. I would stay up late with my sister, and fall asleep in her room. My mom brought blankets in, and we slept on the floor. Then, one night I woke up to chaos. My mother was leaning over me, panicking, “Call 911!” She turned back to my sister, and I remained, laying dazed on the blankets on the floor.

“Call 911! Michelle isn’t breathing.”

“What?” I gasped at my mom.

“Just bring me the phone!”

I ran down the hall, and into our kitchen, but the phone wasn’t on the hook. I was terrified and panicking, and I didn’t think to hit the button on the phone’s base that would make it beep, hinting to its location. I tore through the house, searching the countertops and tables. I found the phone on our dinning room table, and ran it to my mom. My arms were shaking by the time I got there. Michelle was sitting up in bed, coughing. She was okay. She was going to be fine, but I realized that day just how precious life is. The people we care about can be taken away so easily. Life is such a fragile gift. Endings aren’t always happy. The bacteria that was infecting my sister’s system couldn’t be defeated with tridents made from cattails or spears made from our “Sunflower tree.” My arms weren’t strong enough to make her better. That took the arms and the brains of doctors over the course of four months. Her lungs were so damaged from her illness that she had to use an inhaler for a year after she had otherwise recovered.

My sister has always been there for me when I’ve needed her. She has taken care of me when I’ve been sick, and talked me through the rough times when I’ve been down. I know that I’m lucky to have a person like her in my life, a person I can depend on no matter what. A person who I’ve already been through so much with.

The Geode

As the geode collided with the cement below, one reality shattered into existence and an infinite number of possibilities died. Even from my height on the balcony, I could see the sparkling shards of crystal scattered among and around the pieces of its formerly encasing rock, like blood that had been spilled from a body. And it was I that had murdered it. I knew in an instant, in that instant when the eruption of sound and matter exploded below me, that I had made a mistake. Why had no one heard? The scene below remained void of life. As I looked on from the balcony, not a soul came to investigate the noise that had seemed deafeningly loud to me.

Why did I break the geode? I didn’t feel compelled to do it in the beginning. I remember the first day I saw it. I was nine. My childhood friend, Austen, and I found it by the riverside, but we never knew how it came to rest there for sure. We assumed that the river carried it to us; where it resided before that we never even asked. Its gray surface, polished smooth assumedly from time spent in the river’s running water, was oval in shape, and resembled a fantastic egg in our juvenile imaginations. It became our treasure, and we took it upon ourselves to guard it with the utmost care. We waited for the day its mysterious mother would swoop in to battle us for the prize. Our afternoons were spent fencing each other with swords made from Maple limbs, practicing our skills for the future battle.

The geode became the focal point of our friendship, and of the creative passions of our youth. At the end of the summer, I was sent back to my parents in the city; my summer vacation at my grandparents house being over. I never saw Austen again after that. At least, not for twelve years. When I returned to my Grandparents home the following summer, I discovered that Austen’s family had moved. An elderly Ukrainian couple inhabited their old house. They invited me over for pierogies, and let me explore the pisanki eggs, and other decorations they had around the house whenever I wished. I spent a good deal of time there. It’s amazing how sponge-like a house can be. Austen’s old house was saturated in his presence. The memories of him were imprinted on the walls and seeped into the carpet. Every corner sheltered ghosts of the past. My grandparents told me they could get Austen’s new address for me, and I don’t know why, but I never tried to write him.

It’s easy to imagine how surprised I was to see him again after twelve years. It was my first semester living on campus, and his third as I later discovered. I was walking home from class when he suddenly appeared, stumbling out of the on campus medical center, as graceful as ever. He had hardly changed at all. His dark eyes locked on my lighter, brown ones, and we shared a moment of delightful surprise. I had an overwhelming sense of fate. I thought it meant something that a person I could not forget was reentering my life so randomly, but I soon felt that this was not the case. The initial delight that he projected at meeting me quickly faded into indifference once we began to get to know each other again. I began to believe that I didn’t matter to him at all. But then… I found it. I had stopped by his place, on the third floor, to speak to him. His roommate let me in, saying I could wait for Austen, who was supposed to get back from his appointment any minute. And there it was. The solid, gray geode rested on top of a shelf against the wall that the balcony protruded out from. He had kept it all this time.

I wondered what it meant.
Why has he kept it for so long? It must mean something to him. He must value it after all. That would make his indifference a front, but why would he do that? It’s possible that I’ve changed. Maybe I’m just not the person I used to be. He is so unchanged that time doesn’t seem to have gone on at all since we were children, except for his attitude towards me. Why is acting like this? What does he really feel? I needed to know what was inside.

Notes:
1. I free wrote the first paragraph and have been trying to base stories off of it for a while. I used the same paragraph in "Virginia Creeper." I know they advise against reusing material, but I don't think I'm using it how I originally wanted to in either story. I might write a third story based off of that paragraph later. Maybe I will make it an exercise to see how many different plots I can work it into.