It must have been strange for them to wake up after 44 years of artificial slumber. There were 2,074 passengers aboard that massive transport, Leviathan, that brought them to our planet. I have often thought about what it must have been like when the robotic AI aboard their ship began the process of awakening them, when they were 1 day out from their destination, a planet they called HD 40307g, but to us is simply home.
            Apparently, we were the last hope for the human race. We were the only habitable planet in the known Universe that was a realistic distance from their planet, which they called Earth. These colonists were to be the last step in an experiment to determine whether or not their civilization could survive in an environment so alien to them. If not, extinction was imminent for the humans, as their planet was about to die.

            That was in the year 3516. We had hoped that after everything they had been through this second chance would be a new beginning. After over a century of sharing our home with them, it is clear that we have made a critical mistake. The humans have been a plague on our planet, a plague we must now cure. I believe that if we do not act swiftly we will no longer be able to, and our home shall soon meet the same fate as theirs.

            Of course I know that I must be loyal to my people above all else, and so I always have been. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of despair when the council voted in the affirmative of Secretary’s motion. As the Minister of Homeland Security and Immigration it will be my responsibility to carry out the eradication of an entire race. A race that is mostly good, but has been unfortunately doomed by a greedy few. And so I am faced with a choice, follow through with my commands and drive the humans into extinction or defy my people and save them.

            On a personal note, which I can tell no one, I have fallen in love with one of them. And I know when this order is carried out there can be no exceptions. 

The Big Brown Bear

It was deep in the jungle in the dead of night. All that could be heard was the trickling of water from a nearby stream, and the chirping of crickets. Most of the inhabitants were sound asleep, cuddled up to their partners and young. Yet, far in the background, leaves began to crunch as a great big brown bear walked over them.

            The bear walked along the dark forest path with a longing in his eyes. His immense furry legs moved with purpose, illuminated by the pale silvery light of the Indian moon. Suddenly, he stopped. The bear cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out where the purring noise he was hearing was coming from. As he turned to the right, he saw a black panther, comfortably asleep on a log. A soft roar emitted from the bear’s snout as he approached the panther. His roar got louder as he placed his clawed paw on the panther’s back. “RAAAAAWR”, the panther exclaimed, jumping off her log in surprise. She dug her razor sharp claws into the brown bear’s shoulder and scampered off into the jungle. Clutching his wound with one paw, the big brown bear hung his head low and continued on his way.

            The big brown bear was starting to get hungry. He grabbed a banana from a nearby tree and as he ate it, threw the peel up into an adjacent tree. An “AIEEEEEE” came from it as a rudely awakened orangutan jumped down, waving his fists as he yelled. “Roar!” responded the big brown bear, running towards the angry creature with his arms outstretched. But the orangutan was faster, and was in the tree pelting bananas at the bear before he could get his paws on him.

            Down the path the bear strolled, his furry head hung even lower, splattered with mushy banana. On and on he went, until he encountered a herd of elephants. The massive creatures lay sound asleep, their enormous bodies silhouetted in front of the glimmering black lake behind them. The big brown bear’s eyes’ opened wide, and a smile began to form on his snout. He ran towards the herd, roaring. And just like that, the cool night air was filled with the sound of thousands of pounds of elephant gallivanting off into the distance, of water splashing every which way, and of deafening trumpet-like blows that resonated throughout the entire jungle.

            The big brown bear was getting tired. He sat down, staring at the reflection of the moon on the dark water; whose surface was now rough and disturbed by the elephants’ abrupt exit. The big brown bear wiped a tear from one of his big brown eyes. It’s too bad no one spoke bear; all he wanted was a hug.

The Day I Woke Up Alone

When I was five I wanted to be just like my dad: one of America’s heroes. And when I turned six, my mom would let me stay up until 8:30 but only if I had eaten all my carrots, and so my hate for carrots often earned me an 8:00 bedtime. A few birthdays later, my bedtime evolved into 9pm and Mom would tuck me in under my Obi Wan Kenobi and R2-D2 covers and then her dazzling heels, red as Dorothy’s slippers, would click-clack down the hallway.

Click clack. Click Clack. Click clack.

And she would click clack down the hall and then down the stairs and out the door, swishing her hips left and right with a purpose, her thighs, freckled and sweaty, sticking to that cardinal red leather skirt she wore every Thursday. The sign outside my window frantically flashed green and yellow letters, signaling that Thursdays meant free drinks after 11, even Joe Campbell said so, and Joe Campbell knew everything. He lived in the house next to us, was fourteen and knew the square root of 100, so naturally when he told me that my mom was ‘broke,’ I thought he must be right. Joe Campbell said a lot of other things too. He said he always heard his dad saying what a good dancer my mom was. But I had never seen her dance so I think Joe Campbell’s dad was mistaking my mom for someone else. Maybe he was thinking of Sally Quimby’s mom. Sally Quimby’s mom had been a ballerina when she was in college. After two entire days of parading outside of his door, begging, Joe Campbell finally explained what ‘broke’ meant. “Did we buy an antenna TV from Mrs. Shelley’s yard sale last week because we’re broke?” I asked. But Joe Campbell only laughed and shooed me back through my doorway.

On that yard sale TV, I watched the president talking about the war. He said he was trying to get all the soldiers home as soon as he could. I hoped Mr. Kennedy wasn’t a liar, but my mom said most presidents were. Still, I hoped his promises proved true; I hadn’t seen my dad since last Christmas. I kept watching. When the TV showed images of soldiers in tanks and rescuing little children, I imagined my dad was one of those soldiers who won awards for courage, for leadership. He had been there so long, in those countries my teacher pointed out but I couldn’t pronounce the name of, that he must have been in charge of the whole army by now, I thought. But I knew my mom would be home soon, so I slurped the last of my Lucky Charms and I left the pool of milk alone because the green four leaf clover marshmallows had turned it a fungus color.

A knock.

“I can only the answer the door if my mom’s here” I shouted from atop the mahogany stools in our kitchen. Which was the truth.

“But I’m not a stranger,” the voice cooed back.

My eyes sprung open, inflating like the helium balloons floating down the Macy’s day parade. I knew that voice. I swear I knew that voice. Or at least, I used to know it. But now this voice was the memory of a distant dream, having finally faded, forced to the farthest crevice of my mind, forgotten.

When I opened the door, slowly, fearfully, it was not the man I had watched in the black and white pictures on our crumbling antenna TV. No, those men seemed fearless. Those men had broad shoulders, shaved heads as smooth as our marble countertop, faces animated by the promise of justice, hands bigger than my head that gripped unsympathetic rifles used for eliminating the enemy. But this man was not that image, not the image of America. He did not exude pride for his country. He did not epitomize bravery. This man was too plain. He was old. The wrinkling bags under his eyes reminded me of the creases in my sheets after a nap. Scars zigzagged across his face, forming letters and then words, and finally telling entire stories of death and defeat from cheek to cheek. His eyes used to be a piercing blue, a happy blue. Now his eyes had dulled to a grey, the happiness buried with the foreign schoolboys he had shot.

“Dad.” was all my meager voice could produce in response to this stranger. Even that felt forced.

My mom and dad feigned happiness, artificial at best. It was what they did so as not to worry me. But I could see through it. Dad slept on the couch. Mom went out at midnight. My dad traded the actual war for a war on his wife. He must have forgotten his sense of humor while he was there too because when I asked, “So, how’s the food taste over there?” he just gaped at me, those grey eyes of his becoming dark pools of disappointment.

The day I woke up alone was the day Joe Campbell told me my parents had gone to the brick building 22 blocks away. He said that’s where all the men in white coats worked. It was only 8 am so I trotted back to my room and slipped back under the Star Wars covers. I heard the door creak open but I shut my eyes tightly and forced myself to sleep.

The day I woke up alone was the day I stepped out onto our porch and saw what happened. It was the day my dad dove headfirst into our empty pool. It was the day his blood formed tormented shapes as it trickled down the drain. But heroes don’t kill themselves.         

The Candle

            The blackout occurred around 7 o’clock. We had just finished our takeout pizza and retreated to our individual rooms for, seemingly, the rest of the night. I cautiously stepped out to the living room, widening my eyes in hopes of spontaneously becoming nocturnal. A flicker of light appeared down the hall and out came Mother handling a candle as if it were a newborn. She appeared different. The ominous glow danced across her slightly aged face flirting with every perfection and imperfection. The flame and wick sparkled in her eye as she set the candle down on the coffee table. A sphere of light illuminated the room protecting us from the darkness.

            Down the hall, clumsy footsteps fought their way to the living room. In tripped Father and Sister. They both let out a sigh of relief and then collapsed on the couch around the candle.

“Well this sucks,” said Dad while subconsciously attempting to power on the TV.

 “I know, I was in the middle of the new gossip girl” Sister replied.

            Then I noticed my mom digging in a cabinet and coming out with a few more candles and a weirdly bound book. She lit the candles strategically around the furniture. Plopping down in the middle of the couch, between Sister and Father, she waved me to come sit down. I sat and peaked over to see what the book contained. It was a photo album. I saw a tired and weary version of my mother grasping my fathers hand tightly as they both held their newborn daughter and then their son on the next page. I was taken back to a series of birthdays and holidays with the family. Seeing members that felt long gone and familiar faces from our youth sparked our memories and the stories began. We used a candle as one would a flashlight at a campfire and took turns storytelling.

            The light-bearer chose the topic. As we made our revolutions, the light appeared to get brighter and brighter. Our memories fueled the candle. We dove deeper into each story. Its ominous glow transformed into a blinding light. Suddenly, a “pop” occurred and the flame flickered. Shortly after, the TV turned on and the lamps lit up all around the house. Sister, checking her phone, rushed into her room to watch some show. Dad’s subconscious acted up as he began flipping through the channels.

              The photo album slowly closed. I looked at Mother’s face and the sparkle was gone. Forcing a smile, she walked over and returned the weirdly bound book to the cabinet. She appeared different yet again. An accepting sadness swept over her face the way the glow from the flame did before. She protected us from the darkness, but who will protect us from the light? Asking herself this very same question, she walked over to the coffee table, calmly leaned over, and blew out the candle.

The City that Could Never Be

            Paradisus was a fast paced and lively city. It was a little bit run down in areas, but that was to be expected, and the citizens didn’t mind too much. Sleek glass skyscrapers with dazzling silver frames towered over relative shantytowns, though there was no real poverty. Paradisus lacked any government structure, and that’s just what the residents wanted.

            Members of such society, or lack there of, were of a select group: smart, ambitious, curious, and most of all independent. Kinks in the system such as income disparity and criminal activity were quickly ironed out early on in the city’s founding. Those with financial ambition made their way to the top without pushing anybody down, while others lived carefree with little in the way of assets. It was a unique combination of cooperation and initiative that kept the metropolis alive. On a typical day, an outsider might not even notice a contrast to other municipalities, barring limitless opportunities and freedom from judgment found only in Paradisus. It was a near-perfect, lawless utopia. The only fear was that someday it would end.

            No one dreaded that inevitable day more than Peter. Peter moved from Cleveland two years with romantic ideas about total control over his own life. In his “past-life”, as Paradistians frequently made reference to, was fairly regimented, with weekend visits to his parents house in the suburbs, and a 9 to 5 job that failed to captivate. He now lives in Paradisus, surrounded by acquaintances, friends, and even a wife, though none share any particular obligations to him, or he to they. Peter has a very youthful face, with charming eyes, however he is always searching for something, never contented. Beyond this, not much more can be said about the man, as he frequently changes in both appearance and mindset. He has tried nearly every role he can conceive, from businessman to scavenger to chess player. The freedom to rationalize any decision was overwhelmingly tempting to him.

            Peter has never perfected, or even respectably preformed any role he took on. He wares many hats, but none of them well, simply because he has not been forced to keep true to anything. No one in Paradisus really did find passion in any one thing, but unlike everyone else, this greatly bothered Peter.

            In late fall, Peter took to tending houses in exchange for small provisions. He worked primarily for a well kept professional who required only basic household chores. The work became cathartic for him, a nice break from the exhilarating lives that filled every other day of his existence. He wanted more, and when the man he worked for moved on to something else, Peter found a new employer, this time a couple. They required more, manual labor, roof repairs and electrical wiring. Peter’s duties escalated, and soon he was helping several dozen families with a wide range of tasks. His life was just as varied and aimless as before, but now with an element of control. He had become a virtual slave to the town, and he could not be more pleased. Any fear about losing the precious anarchical community had escaped his mind. Peter became truly happy again for the first time since he left his hometown, however his actions were starting to cause problems for others.

His willingness to be used created uproar, as the previously driven individuals became exploitative and lazy. Peter had begun to suck away the ambition so prevalent in the city by offering to do other’s work for them. His desire for boundaries spread, and as some followed in Peter’s footsteps, the people became polarized into separate camps. Dependency bread malice and vice versa. Peter left Paradisus shortly after, finding it unique no longer. Freedom consumed itself, forcing inhabitants to implement more traditional institutions. The city did not plunge into chaos with a fury of rioting and warfare. It just ceased to be different, left with few indications of its past or that unfortunate soul.

The Thoughts of a Scared Man

William sits down on the dark couch. Poof. The air streams out until the cushions sit flat and lifeless like slices of burnt toast.  He wiggles uncomfortably making the leather squeak as he moves. Then comes the silence. Tori sits next to him, her heart beating, afraid of what he might say. “So…how are you?” “Oh, I’m…I’m fine. Just fine” she replies, lying right through her teeth.” What  is he supposed to say now? She just sits there, sitting as still as ever, making him grow more uncomfortable by the minute. This is horrible. How could he look into her deep brown eyes, her soft and gentle face and tell her? It would be like hitting a puppy. Her eyes would well up with tears, her brow would furrow into wrinkled lines on her forehead, aging her instantaneously like she were shriveling up and dying.

            He takes long, slow, deep breaths, filling up his lungs until they hold too much air and he can’t take in any more. He is killing the time, trying to avoid the emanating despair that will soon wash over the woman sitting next to him. She begins to shake uncontrollably: small little shivers. Adrenaline is now pumping through her, she can’t just sit there; she has to do something. “Just tell me already! Tell me you don’t care! Tell me you’re leaving! Just go! GO!” Tori is now standing, her chest heaving with sobs. She collapses onto the floor.

            William slides off the couch and lifts up her head. He puts both of his hands on either side of her face and kisses her softly on the cheek. She glances at him, unable to make full eye contact and wipes her face. She sits up, leaning against the couch. He copies her motions and after a minute he gets up. Brushing off his pants, he turns to walk away. He takes three steps forward and stops. This is it. This is the last of it all. He looks back at her, just a bundle on the floor. Turning back around, he takes those final steps to the door, turns the knob and pushes. He steps over the threshold and feels light as air. The sun is shining and there is a cool breeze running across his face, waking up his senses. He smiles to himself.

The Tempest Inside

The glass had clouded over the years, darkening to a translucence that tempered the scene outside, but for the patrons of the Ayers Café on 44^th street, the storm seething just on the other side was still clearly visible. Raindrops swirled in confusion, each bouncing off street signs and bicycle chains in perpetual fear of losing themselves to the chaos. They coalesced into unrecognizable shapes, attempting to console each other in their misery, but quickly broke alliances, speeding off into the darkness, powered by the sheer madness of their primal energy. One shape did not fade however; it swelled and intensified until the shadow became a girl, bursting through the door in a sudden moment of clarity amid the mayhem. Wet and dripping, Jessica Colletti was born from the tempest.

She let out a slow breath, listening to the sound of it whistling through her teeth. The howling wind outside was replaced by soft, simple music that drifted through the room on a gently bobbing cork in a tub now leisurely draining the rain collected during the storm. Jessica stumbled over to a chair and slumped down into it. Her long dark hair stuck to her face and her clothes fell askew, but she allowed herself to be enveloped by the warmth of the place, sipping coffee brought to her and nibbling on a small sandwich.

Around her, people laughed and talked about petty matters: the outcome of a football game, wedding plans for a young couple, the advantages of adhering to a steady diet of iced coffee and sudoku. Patrons came and went, not noticing the storm or simply not caring.

A hint of a smile flashed across her face. Maybe, she thought, this could last. Maybe there’s something here, something that could save me. There was something about that café, the cracks in the tile, the white swirls the light brown of the baristas’ aprons, the toddlers giggling into their sweaters. They were breaches in the cacophony of her mind. They were hope. They were silence.

            Abruptly, a bottle broke. Someone shouted. She heard the muffled thud of a clenched fist to the solar plexus. Jessica’s eyes dilated and her breath snagged on a coat hook. She turned around to see two grown men brawling in front of everyone, but no one was doing anything to stop it. The other customers could only look on, too stunned to act, like small children watching parents quarrel late at night. One of the children began to cry, screaming uncontrollably, and some of the employees snapped back to reality, suddenly spurred to action by the bawling children. They scurried frantically, worker ants answering the call of the nest, doing something, anything, everything to remove the disturbance. They rushed from every nook and cranny, every crack in the tile, and Jessica screamed as she felt them crawling up her legs. But her cries only swirled into the coffee-colored chaos, unheard and unnoticed by anyone else.

            And the storm broke free. A volley of wind and rain shot through the windows, shattering glass like puzzle pieces thrown on the floor. It jumped into the room, hurtling towards Jessica with an unmistakable purpose. She twisted around desperately, bolting away from the door, but the wind wrapped around her and wrenched her backwards, through the maze of tables and chairs, out the window and back into the night, returning her to the nightmare of her mind.

            The doctors tried to help her, gave her pills and a diagnosis, told her she had paranoid schizophrenia, told her they understood her, told her they could save her. But no one could save Jessica Colletti, for the storm still seethed inside her. If you looked close, you could see it in her eyes. No matter how hard she fought it, no matter where she hid, the tempest always followed, always raged, right on the other side of the window.

The Telling

"Because you are going away to attend the college at Harvard they tell me," she said. "So I don't imagine you will ever come back here and settle down as a country lawyer in a little town like Jefferson since Northern people have already seen to it that there is little left in the South for a young man. So maybe you will enter the literary profession as so many Southern gentlemen and gentlewomen too are doing now and maybe some day you will remember this and write about it. You will be married then I expect and perhaps your wife will want a new gown or a new chair for the house and you can write this and submit it to the magazines. Perhaps you will even remember kindly then the old woman who made you spend a whole afternoon sitting indoors and listening while she talked about people and events you were fortunate enough to escape yourself when you wanted to be out among young friends of your own age."

    "Yessum," Quentin said. Only she dont mean that he thought. It's because she wants it told. It was still early then. He had yet in his pocket the note which he had received by the hand of a small negro boy just before noon, asking him to call and see her-the quaint, stiffly formal request which was actually a summons, out of another world almost-the queer archaic sheet of ancient good notepaper written over with the neat faded cramped script which, due to his astonishment at the request from a woman three times his age and whom he had known all his life without having exchanged a hundred words with her or perhaps to the fact that he was only twenty years old, he did not recognise as revealing a character cold, implacable, and even ruthless. He obeyed it immediately after the noon meal, walking the half mile between his home and hers through the dry dusty heat of early September and so into the house (it too somehow smaller than its actual size-it was of two storeys-unpainted and a little shabby, yet with an air, a quality of grim endurance as though like her it had been created to fit into and complement a world in all ways a little smaller than the one in which it found itself) where in the gloom of the shuttered hallway whose air was even hotter than outside, as if there were prisoned in it like in a tomb all the suspiration of slow heat-laden time which had recurred during the forty-three years, the small figure in black which did not even rustle, the wan triangle of lace at wrists and throat, the dim face looking at him with an expression speculative, urgent, and intent, waited to invite him in.

    It's because she wants it told he thought so that people whom she will never see and whose names she will never hear and who have never heard her name nor seen her face will read it and know at last why God let us lose the War: that only through the blood of our men and the tears of our women could He stay this demon and efface his name and lineage from the earth. 


(An excerpt from William Faulkner's Absolom! Absolom! 1936)

Thin

And a homeless hungry man, driving the roads with his wife beside him and his thin children in the back seat, could look at the fallow fields which might produce food but not profit and that man could know how a fallow field is a sin and the unused land a crime against the thin children.  An such a man drove along the roads and knew temptation at every filed, and knew the lust to take these fields and make them grow strength for his children and a little comfort for his wife.  The temptation was before him always.  The fields goaded him, and the company ditches with good water flowing were a goad to him.
And in the south he saw the golden oranges hanging on the trees, the little golden oranges on the dark green trees; and guards with shotguns patrolling the lines so a man might not pick an orange for a thin child, oranges to be dumped if the price was low.
He drove his old car into a town.  He scoured the farms for work.  Where can we sleep the night?
Well, there’s a Hooverville on the edge of the river.  There’s a whole raft of Okies there.
He drove his old car to Hooverville.  He never asked again, for there was a Hooverville on the edge of every town.
The rag town lay close to water; and the houses were tents, and weed-thatched enclosures, paper houses, a great junk pile.  The man drove his family in and became a citizen of Hooverville--always they were called Hooverville.  The man put up his own tent as near to water as he could get; or if he had no tent, he went to the city dump and brought back cartons and built a house of corrugated paper.  And when the rains came the house melted and washed away.  He settled in Hooverville and he scoured the countryside for work, and the little money he had went for gasoline to look for work.  In the evening the men gathered and talked of the land they had seen.
There’s thirty thousan’ acres, out west of here.  Layin’ there.  Jesus, what I could do with that, with five acres of that!  Why, hell, I’d have ever’thing to eat.
Notice one thing?  They ain’t no vegetables not chickens not pigs at the farms.  They raise one thing--cotton, say, or peaches, or lettuce.  ‘Nother place’ll be all chickens.  They buy the stuff they could raise in the dooryard.
Jesus, what I could do with a couple pigs!
Well, it ain’t yourn, an’ it ain’t gonna be yourn.
What we gonna do?  The kids can’t grow up this way.





(an excerpt from Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck)

Abandonement Beach

“They say at sunset on a clear evening, the mirrors all glow orange and meet in one spot, and if you sit there and close your eyes you can see the other side.”

“The other side s’not real, Birch.”

“Says who?”

“Says normal people.”

“Who’s normal nowadays?”

The glass twinkled on the beach in the evening sun. Spread all throughout the ground were shards of it from broken things. A big, rusty sign swings on its hinges saying ABANDONMENT BEACH. SHOES REQUIRED. Birch’s toes brushed the line of fiberglass sand and felt the prickles they caused like microscopic needles. Shoes in hand, she tossed them on the sand and squeezed her feet through too small sandals. She took one look at the greasy brown water with its hint of pale blue. Then Birch took off, leaving John in her dust.

"Hey wait up, Birch!"

"Keep up, John!"

They flew through the sand, stumbling around the broken glass and rusted furniture, ducking under pearly trees until they found their shack.



Built of crumbling floorboards and hair ties, it only stood four feet tall and six feet around. There was a plastic shower curtain as the door, decorated with ducks that had turned brown about a year ago. They crawled in, Birch first, John second, to find their piles of dusty treasure collected off the beach; fake precious jewels that had fallen out of bracelets, tarnished spoons, rotting ties, and an old threadbare blanket of a hideous honey hue - these were Birch’s favorites. John’s favorite abandoned piece was a blue teddy bear - the newest thing here. He grabbed it with pasty, stubby fingers and hugged it as a child would. He began to hum an old nursery rhyme quietly; Birch silently peered around for a specific seem.

“What’cha looking for, Birch?”

She turned around to stare at the boy. He was at least a head shorter than she, with wide, innocent eyes and a soft mouth half open. Birch thought he looked ridiculous holding that cotton-candy-colored bear.  She thought he looked like a toddler.

“Nothing important, Johnny Boy.”

Birch felt he was young enough for a little boy nickname, or at least acting young enough. She was tired of watching him rock back in forth, humming a baby song, holding a baby toy, thinking of Mom and Dad.

The sun through the curtain holes showed signs of a perfect sunset approaching. The air quieted, the waves grew calm, the water an oily shade of navy.

“It’s time to run home Johnny.   It's getting late.”

“But we just got here, Birch! I don’t want to go yet.” He put a whiney emphasis on here and yet, setting Birch’s teeth on edge.

“We have to, it's almost sundown. Come on, we got to go. Don’t make me drag you, Johnny Boy.”

She dragged John out of the shack, set him upright, and dared him to race her. A big smile lit his face as they sprinted back to the rusty sign. She let him win. At the beginning of grass she said goodbye to John and mumbled her house was a different way than his. She stood and waited for him to get out of sight before running back to the middle of the beach. Birch made sure she was in the cluster of mirrors, closed her eyes, and waited until she would feel all the mirrors glow. Five minutes passed, then ten, and after fifteen minutes, she thought she felt a little bit of warmth around her. Regaining hope, she felt a reel of film click-click-click behind her eyelids and an image began to form. It was herself, sitting on a bed full with lush pillows and fluffed blankets of royal golds and crushed velvet reds. She had the same face, same hair, same skin, but everything had a glow to it; her hair a brighter blonde with shiny short tendrils curling to her chin, her eyes a brighter sandy blue, her mouth and cheeks rosy. The Birch in the image started to smile, but soon a melodic voice sounded in Birch’s own ear, yet strangely enough dream-Birch turned her head. Real Birch – as she was calling herself now – watched as a beautiful blur of a woman walked in, took dream-Birch’s hand, and drew her away. The image faded, the last imageof Birch’s hand slowly waving as it disappeared into the unknown. Real Birch opened her eyes, and the sun was down, the ocean’s oil-slick black water was dead, the glass as still as before, and she was very confused. Birch refused to believe the hazy image was more than a daydream, because if that was the other side, she might lose all hope in the unexplainable. She stood up, slowly walked back to the shack, a frown embroidering her face, passed the curtains, and curled up in a ball on the ground of the horrid honey blanket. She reassured herself again that the mother and daughter were just a dream. Because Birch didn’t know of a world where she wasn’t apart of Abandonment Beach.

The Jumper

The sunset is not all that romantic. It doesn’t leave you gasping for air the way Hollywood claims it does. It doesn’t make you release a gasp of astonishment the way you would when you realize the Mona Lisa is as small as a postage stamp and covered in bulletproof glass the first time you visit Paris. It doesn’t make you stop for a moment in your tightly scheduled life to catch a breath and reflect upon the complexities of your life. No, that is not what watching the sunrise is like. Not for Marie, anyway.

The first time Marie watched the sun set, she woke up three hours earlier than the time she had set on her alarm clock. Groggily, she hauled herself out of the comfort of her warm bed and allowed her feet to carry her to the closet. Without giving more than a second glance at the clothes, she threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Well, nothing unusual there. However, her choice of clothing was unique in that she included a dark purple jumper.

Her friends and family had often made fun of her for the plain and unattractive sweater but she paid no heed to their comments. Whether facing winds traveling at twenty miles per hour or standing under the scorching sun in the hundred-degree desert, she had worn that sweater. She could recall being upset at the harsh red of her skin the summer before, as a result of the constant exposure to sunlight, and she was determined to prevent the same outcome from recurring. Additionally, wearing a garment that others would not wear made her seem unique, and she stood out among her peers. Although initially driven by a simple mentality – to prevent burning and to be distinctive among others, these goals were ultimately the manifestations of her early forms of rebellion against society’s expectations and push for conformity.
Despite how her defiance had little to no impact on changing the ways of the community, this was her first step in acknowledging the aspects of society she didn’t agree with. Marie had seen the standards of beauty mainstream media set for individuals, most of which were unrealistic and almost impossible to fulfill. Although she could not fully articulate it at the time, she understood that the walls of this mainstream culture easily bound individuals, mainly women. These impractical standards were simply glorified ideals, yet we are all expected to achieve these goals. Perhaps, she thought, that it would be all right to not abide by these expectations and expand beyond these restrictive walls of photoshopped photographs and perfect pixels.

As Marie made her way down to the park to watch the sunset, her sister decided to accompany her.
“I brought my video camera with me,” she said.
“Yeah, I brought my camera too,” Marie, replied.

Once they reached the park, the girls settled down in the swings, waiting for the sun to greet them goodnight. They sat in silence as they observed the stillness of the empty streets, full of eerie tranquility as if the streets devoid of living souls were unnatural, but the silence provided them with comfort. The street lamps further down the street seemed so small that they had reminded Marie of fireflies. Some of the lights even flickered.

As the sun descended from the horizon, it spread a warm orange glow across the sky. Marie turned her digital camera on and snapped a few quick shots of the sunset. Within a matter of minutes, the sun was already long gone into the depths of the sky and the entire town was enveloped under a blood orange haze before it was sent to bed and covered with a blanket of darkness. Her sister turned to her, and with curious eyes, questioned her attire. “Are you going to wear that jumper all night? We live in Florida, even though it’s night it’s still going to be hot.”

Marie cast her eyes downwards, towards the compact digital screen on her camera. The pictures she took of the sun didn’t seem to quite capture the essence of sunset that she was hoping for, the ideal romantic sunset that movies seemed to offer with the comforting knowledge that yet another brilliant day was finally over. The reality of the sunset did not meet her expectations, as Marie was sure she didn’t meet the suns.

Marie gave the picture one last, hard look, and then turned the digital device off. “Yes,” she said. “I think I’ll keep the jumper on.” After all, the sunset really was not all that romantic.

Someone Like You

She was hardly ready to go when Ella got the text-message saying, “I’m here.” She still had to finish her hair and choose a pair of shoes. It was about eight thirty in the evening and the summer light was still visible outside her window. There was a knock on the door and with a brush in one hand and two different of shoes in another, she opened the door and let Tyler in.
“Evening.”
He took a step in and closed the door. He was wearing dark jeans with a white button down and a grey blazer. He gestured at a picture on the wall and asked, “New canvas?”
She nodded.
“It’s nice. Are you ready to go?”
“Almost.”
She ran back into the bathroom to finish her hair while he waited in the living room.
He teased her, “If you keep touching it, it’ll only get worse.”
Once her hair was finished and the shoes were picked out, they were finally ready to leave. It wasn’t until she walked out of the door that Brad’s face popped into her head.
Ella and Brad were together for just about six months. Their feelings towards each other, however, went deeper and farther than that. He was her first love.
From the beginning, they were both way in over their heads; obsessed with each other – from texting constantly to always being together –no one or nothing could separate them.
Brad was everything and more than what any girl would look for in a boyfriend. Not only was he an excelling athlete in golf, soccer and lacrosse but he was also an extremely intelligent student. He was tall, with medium brown hair and brown eyes that made her smile every time she gazed into them. Everything about him attracted her to him and with each passing day their affection towards one another grew stronger. In a matter of weeks they were in love- a love that most would describe as puppy love. Eyes grew twice their size at the sight and even thought of one another. When the two were together, no one else existed. Every morning Ella would wake up to a message on her phone reading, “Good morning beautiful, I hope you had a good sleep.”
“So I was thinking Italian, is that okay with you?” said Tyler.
Ella had forgotten all about Tyler for those few moments.
She failed to notice that she was in the car with Tyler and had subconsciously carried out their conversation from the house to the moment she answered, “I love Italian, that’s fine by me.”
Italian – it reminded Ella of the time her and Brad went downtown to grab a slice of pizza. She had a slice of cheese with a Sprite, while Brad had a slice of pepperoni with a Coke. They sat outside eating and talking. Occasionally they would see someone they knew and conversation was put to a halt. Following pizza, they went their favorite ice cream shop and order the same thing – a cup of mint chocolate chip.
“I’ll have the Chicken Parmesan with a Coke. And she will have…”
“Ella…” said Tyler.
“Oh my bad, I will have the Shrimp Scampi with a Sweet Tea. Thank you.”
As Tyler and Ella sat at the table, she couldn’t help but think about Brad. Why did they even break up? Is there something she could have done differently to save their relationship? Nevertheless, Ella told herself that she was over it, and not to recreate the past.
“Is everything okay?’’ asked Tyler.
“Yea, everything is fine just remembered something, but its not important” she said. Someone Like you by Adele played in the background through the restaurant’s rusting speakers.
“Okay, if you say so. Ella, have you decided where you wanted to go to college?”
“Well you see, to be honest Tyler, I’m not really sure where I want to go. All I know is what I want to do.”
“Which is?” asked Tyler.
“Journalism. Broadcasting journalism, to be more specific. What about yourself?”
Although she was unsure about where she would be attending college in the Fall, Ella did know where Brad was going – to an Ivy League.
“I got a full scholarship to play football for the University of Michigan” claimed Tyler, whose face lit up at the chance to tell someone this.
“That’s great news! I’m so happy for you, I know how hard you must have worked and trained.”
This conversation between Tyler and Ella was becoming more pure. Brad was no longer on her mind, reminding her of what could have been. He was no longer distracting her. She was finally starting to enjoy being with Tyler – talking and laughing with him. Just then she realized something that she had never grasped before:
Ella had kept dwelling on the past; remembering how things used to be instead of how they were. Rather than enjoying her time spent with Tyler, all she could think about was Brad and what he was doing. In reality, Brad most likely never thought about what Ella had been doing or how she was. She was consumed with the old relationship; therefore making this new one cease to even begin to exist. She had missed the opportunity to start a new chance at finding new love. While thinking about what could have been, Someone Like You popped into in her head and she began humming the tune- contemplating if the right choice was made.

Vanity

Walking upstairs to her bedroom, Lisa Blum imagines what her night is going to be like as she slides her freshly manicured hand up the polished wood banister. She daydreams of her date arriving at her ornately carved entry doors, his arms filled with vibrant roses, dressed in a sharp black Armani suit. He takes her by the arm and leads her to the passenger side of his expensive sport car. She lifts her dress and elegantly slides down into the leather seat. Inside the large foyer of her house, metal vines wrap around the rungs of a long winding stairway. She passes by the framed family photos hanging in the hallway, all poses displaying her various stages of life as the only child of a wealthy couple. Large windows adorned with tasteful draperies partially block the view of the passing boats along the intracoastal way. She stops for a second to notice her mother lying by the pool under a giant, tan umbrella shielding her from the radiant Palm Beach sun. It upsets Lisa to see that her mother has returned from a long vacation and did not bother to see her. I take it mother does not care enough to say hello, she thought. Oh well, at least I get to go out for an exciting night; she will be jealous. Having justified her reasoning, Lisa skips off to her room ignoring the bitter feelings she has towards her mother.

Lisa enters her oversized room with lavender walls matching the silk comforter on her bed and heads straight to her walk in closet. Lisa’s clothing and shoes are organized by style, designer, and color. Her wardrobe accessories are neatly arranged in crème color armoires. Umbrellas of different size, shape and color are neatly lined in her closet. Lisa admires her extensive collection and envisions different outfit choices for each umbrella. The majority of her collection consists of umbrellas her father has brought home from places all around the world. She sits down on the long narrow bench in the center of the closet and wonders which dress she should wear. She decides that wearing a new outfit is necessary for the occasion because in order to have a good time she must look her best, and partly because it will help ease the displeasure she feels from mothers recent return.

As the day before her date night progresses, she continually wonders what is going to take place. She feels as if she is living her entire life waiting to be escorted by a man with a resume her parents would approve of. Although she has feelings for the young man who asked her out, all she can help to think about is who is going to be there and what will the other guests think of her date, as if he was a paid companion. Feeling guilty about these thoughts, Lisa decides to search her mother's closet for an impressive outfit that surely no one else would be wearing. She hesitantly creeps back through the hallway and peers through the windows that overlook the pool, hoping her mother catches her sneaking off to the master bedroom closet as if it was off limits. Without surprise, Lisa’s mother has not appeared to have moved since she last saw her. Again disappointed by her mother’s disregard, she hurriedly sets foot into her parents’ monstrous suite and rushes straight for the closet. She snatches the newest edition to her mother’s wardrobe, with the price tag still attached, and muses, I have no need to worry about returning the dress like most other teenage daughters borrowing from their mothers, she will not even notice its disappearance.

With only two hours remaining until her date is due to arrive, Lisa becomes overwhelmed with a brief surge of adrenalin, then saunters back to her room for what she always considers the most exciting part of the night. She lays out her entire outfit, jewelry and all, on her bed and steps back to take a final look. Perfect, she thinks, feeling less pleasure and thrill than her normal reaction. In her bathroom she plugs in her curling irons into an outlet and sits down in a heap onto the stool in front of her vanity mirror as if these rituals were monotonous chores. She runs a giant, wooden brush through her hair, slowly letting the bristles massage her scalp. Starting from the bottom to the top, Lisa rolls her hair around individual curling rolls and watches the steam rise quickly to the lights in the ceiling then disappear. Next, she begins the procedure of applying her makeup, starting with one eye then the other, carefully imitating the makeup consultant lessons over the years. Afterwards, she unrolls the curlers in her hair and dresses very carefully, not to ruin her makeup. She stands admiringly in front of the tall hanging mirror, assesses her final appearance, and leaves her room with a quick turn down the stairs, fighting the temptation to glimpse out of the hallway window.

Lisa carefully sits in her living room, trying not to wrinkle the back of her dress, and picks up the latest fashion magazine. She quickly flips through the pages, looking disinterestedly at the photographs. She looks up at the massive clock hanging above the fireplace over and over, but only a minute passes. Lisa carefully removes her shoes and rests her legs on the antique table in front of the couch. Now in a more comfortable position, she waits thirty minutes, then an hour. After the second hour passes, she realizes that her date is not going to arrive. Lisa wonders, has a man just stood me up for the first time in my life? Is this the feeling girls experience when they are unwanted by a guy? She glances up to the clock for the last time, recognizing that the event has already started without her and begins to weep. She does not bother to wipe away her tears as they swell in her eyes and run down her face in black unattractive streaks. She collects her shoes and the stray pieces of jewelry she slowly disassembled from her outfit, and returns back to her room. Although she was disappointed at first, a wave of relief passes over her as she ascends the stairs. In front of the lengthy mirror in her bedroom, she turns and unzips her mother’s dress, letting it fall to the ground. Lisa leaves the dress on the floor and climbs into her bed. She turns out the lights of the lavender tinted chandelier hanging from the ceiling and immediately falls asleep having nothing left to think about.

Hello, Old Friend

The summer-green blades of grass covered the lawn like the friendly fur of a puppy. As the mid-day sun hit the tips of each blade, the scene captured that nostalgic cliché image of summers past. She stepped across the lawn from the main house, in its pale-blue glory, to the small house next to it; as if this were a sibling or a child tucked under the arm of its elder.

“The bunk house” was more of a shack than a house. You could see every board that kept the place standing; all dotted with spots where the paint had chipped away from the salty sea air and the long, wet winters. Catie imagined the messes of lures and hammers and nails and screws that had filled the cupboards that she would stand on the balls of her feet to reach into as a child; the fishing rods that were always covered in dead cob webs after a each year of cold solitude and made her tingle in paranoia that a spider might wander onto her hands.

It wasn’t the safest place for her and her brother to play. Nails would jut out of the walls and floor. The sand-filled bunk beds would wobble if just one adult sat on them.

She stepped onto the miniature porch. The light bounced off of the new frame of the sliding glass door, its black richness stinging her eyes. Inside she could see fresh, white walls and clean-cut windows.

She had forgotten. The final summer her family spent there, her father slaved over reinventing this old shack. He had to replace the old boards, the foundation, everything. She had never seen the end product until now.

Her friend had become a new person. This bittersweet reunion was the realization that she was no longer welcome to revel in its childhood charm. The furniture sat back, looking at her in that same awkward, observing manner- neither of them sure what to say, neither one willing to say much. It’s sense of character had been replaced with the cardboard cutout of a summer vacation home, a sign reading “the beach life” hung in a cute, quaint tackiness. She could her the voices of renters taking a tour of the house. They probably would have said something about how this room would just be perfect for their children and grandchildren to use, with just the right amount of privacy but accessibility at the same time. Who would want to stay in a hotel anyway? The whole family could be right here on the beach. And what a wonderful view! Oh would you look at that! Can you just imagine waking up to a sunrise over the bay?

No. You actually couldn’t. Because the bay faces north and your sunrise would be behind you, hidden behind that big pine tree.

The furniture mocked her. It was all out of place. The lobster trap table did not belong in here and neither did the futon or the quilt on top of it. That quilt had kept her warm on chilly June nights, when her tanned little legs would shiver in the unfamiliarly cold rain and purple buds would bloom in a delayed spring. The new pieces of furniture “just tied it all together,” she could hear the realtor say in excitement.

“Let’s go,” Catie said, “I’m done looking.”

“Okay,” Nicole said.

The faces of the owners- no, renters- sat on the couch where they could overlook Cotuit Bay, a jubilant blue with scattered sailboat polka-dots as was typical of late July. The two girls came up the main porch and into the living room to exchange thank yous and goodbyes.

Unfortunately they were very nice people: difficult to dislike, and even harder to hate. They were an old couple perhaps in their sixties and did not seem greedy or mean-hearted. They were probably fantastic grandparents- maybe the type that would take their grandkids to the zoo just for fun, or make sandcastles with them, or have stay at their house for the week just to simply be with them. As the girls had left they stayed on that couch. Content. Vacationing. Passing time exactly as they wanted to.

The dock managed to remain unchanged. Catie always resented people who would wander from the town dock onto her beach. The sea breeze was as fulfilling as she’d left it. It filled the lungs and surrounded you without making you freeze. Fluffy air, the kind you crave on a hot, still summer day. The bay shone before her like an image through a camera lens. Now she was putting it all together. She knew it wasn’t hers anymore but she had to know, actually know and feel that it wasn’t hers. It was her past and that’s all she could ever see it as now. She could never truly live within this backdrop of her childhood summers. Her brother and father would not pull into the dock with the fish they’d caught that day and her mother would not be at home reading.

Nicole observed in silence. She was not going to say anything, mainly because there was nothing to say. This was nature’s course taking control. All she could do was patiently take it in with her friend.

They walked through the parking lot and climbed into the car. Catie drove. She had learned the roads of cape cod this past week that she stayed with her friend. She had driven from Sandwich to Provincetown with three teenage girls in the car and gone through “suicide alley” on highways infested with senility. Her brother was in Alaska, her mother in Colombia, her father in Florida. It was only her. And, as if she had known all along, she had known that this was the truth of the matter, of her reality.  

Little Wilma

The Edwin family estate lies in near isolation at the heart of England’s Lake District on a green stretch of land that reaches from the region’s first paved road west to the commodious lake their mansion is built upon. Ros Edwin commissioned the building of the estate as part of his plan for an early retirement out of manufacturing engine parts for English Railway companies. He had moved into the house at age forty-seven after its completion with his wife Victoria whom he called Vic, his eldest daughter Wilma, who was four at the time, and his infant daughter, Rachel. Victoria had been due with their son Jacob when they moved, and gave birth to him two months into her family’s new life.

The house that the Edwin family had come to live in was a grand, rectangular fortress composed of three equal stories adorned with tall rectangular windows spaced between electric lamps, which were encroached upon by ivy on the first and third stories. Ros Edwin had been adamant about buying all of the land from the site of his house several miles out to the road, and fencing it in to ensure his property would not be swallowed by the expansion of industry and cities that he foresaw progressing ceaselessly towards the coast. He saw his investment as a security that would allow him to continue raising and educating his children at home, and ensure their prosperity growing up. He had put in place the means on his property and hired the necessary hands to provide himself his own food, water, and electricity so that life could be self-sustaining. Town was twenty miles away, an unreliable, full-day’s travel by carriage that Mr. Edwin only planned to embark on once a year to take care of his finances at the nearest courthouse.

Wilma was the only of the Edwin children who had any recollection of their previous life in a suburb two miles outside of the city of Mancaster. Her memory was of little consequence except for the curiosity that it came with when the Edwins moved into their lake home. There, Wilma developed a proclivity for the outdoors and would wander from the lake around the hedged perimeter of the house, through the orchards, gardens, and stables that dotted the interior of the estate. She wore a brass whistle in case of need or an emergency, or if either of her parents wanted to check in on her. Wilma seldom used her whistle, however, for she became so proficient in her outings that she could consistently plan what her needs would be for a day, and meet the schedules she delivered to her parents on the mornings she went out. On the days that Wilma went out, she would come home in the early afternoon with nothing to show for her ventures but dirt, red skin, and a smile, and would bathe with her mother in the master bathroom before having supper and spending the evening in the foyer playing with her parents and two younger siblings. Wilma’s parents taught her how to take a hand in raising her siblings, which became her happiest pursuit on the days she chose to stay in. By the time Rachel and Jacob could talk, when Wilma was seven, she took great pride in stimulating the development of her siblings by retelling to them all of her stories of exploration and lessons in history, English, philosophy, and arithmetic, which she absorbed from her father.

One day, on an outing in which Wilma decided to walk out to the main road and watch for traffic, Wilma spotted a caravan of four or five identical carriages trotting at her from a little under a mile down the road. She watched them anxiously as they approached her, and imagined what they were carrying when she noticed the unusually large size of the rotund oak cabins. As the lead carriage approached to where she stood beside tall gate to her property, it came to a halt and a tall man with dark brown hair, a small round face, and a bristly moustache came out to greet her. He was wearing a dusty suit that was dark grey and pinstriped, and glowed a yellowish hue when the bright sun struck the dust particles on the lapels on his jacket. “Hello little miss”, he said as stopped a comfortable distance from her and stood erect with his feet together and his hands cupped gently behind his back “Do you reside here, or are you in need of a way home?”

“I reside here sir. My name is Wilma Edwin and my parents, my brother and sister and I live here. My father is Roscoe Edwin, but he is quite a ways up in the house now. My mother Victoria is as well. There are several groundskeepers nearby though if I can be of any assistance to you”

“You speak marvelously for such a young lady”, the man said “My name is George Morrow, and my associates and I”, he waved back the carriages which had stopped a ways behind him, “ are members of the Royal Society, returning from Scotland where we were giving seminars and sharing some of our recent findings with a few remarkable astronomers ”

“Astronomers?” Wilma asked looking up at the man.

“Heavens!” George Morrow said as he lifted his toes and rocked slightly on his heels “ Why, we are looking up at the stars and planets trying to clues. Trying to find what’s the same and what’s different and how it all moves the way it does. We even think there is another planet out there causing some strange things we can’t quite explain. So far we haven’t been able to see it yet”

“Oh,” Wilma said, clearly trying to process the meaning of such a foreign word.

“Would you like to see what we have going on?” the man asked with a rising tone of excitement.

“Yes, very much” said Wilma.

“Well come then!”

The man turned and Wilma skipped to keep up with lengthy steps.

“All that would be of any relevance to you would be in my carriage, much of the rest is paperwork, supplies, and some equipment which I guess you may find interesting a bit” He walked around the back and reached into his pocket for a key that he used to open a heavy padlock on the back of his carriage. He swung open the heavy wooden doors to a cabin so cluttered and marvelous that Wilma could not help but gasp. The first thing that caught Wilma’s eyes in the dim and dusty cabin was an enormous golden device that was round at the base, bulky, and composed of many gears and rods tipped with orbs of differing sizes With all of the differing mechanics, Wilma hardly recognized it as a planetary model, similar to one she had seen in one of her father’s books, but that he had never explained to her. On the walls were posters, diagrams, sketches, and letters, all depicting orbs, distances, ellipses, and calculations, and on the floor there was also large, black trunk that the man said contained a telescope.

“Its lovely”, the man said “isn’t it?”

It was more than lovely, Wilma thought. She was overtaken by the significance of it all. She did not need any explanations. It was clear to her that the collage of pictures and instruments in this mans carriage were going to change the world and impress people just as she had been impressed. This man was an explorer just as she fancied herself, and she fell in love with the bounty of material his explorations had produced. The man reached inside the cabin and began to crank the golden handle on the geared machine, rotating the shafts that carried the planets in the solar system. As they began to turn in different ellipses with seemingly no reason, he pointed to one in particular and said “This is where we are, on Earth”

As he pointed, Wilma watched the rest of the orbs turn, and knew she would never think about the world again without wondering about all of the other spheres she was watching rotate around with it.

“Thank you Mr. Morrow” Wilma said without warning “ If there is nothing I can help you and your travelers with, I must return home”

“Nothing I can think of little Wilma,” the man said “It was a pleasure meeting you. I am on a schedule, too, and must be going. The man took her delicate hand and gave a small curtsy, the hopped on his carriage and shook the reins of his horse. He waved, and Wilma turned around and began to run home as fast as she possible could.

Wilma was enthralled to tell her father about the man she had met, and to question him about the planets, and about space, and about astronomers. At home, after she had washed with her mother and put on her evening gown, she climbed the stairs to the second floor to see her father who had been writing letters in his study. “Daddy!” she exclaimed as she ran to him and jumped to hug him. He hugged her warmly and said “How are you Wilma, how was your day?”

“Amazing”, she said. “ I want to learn about space, Daddy, I want to be an astronomer” Mr. Edwin’s face tensed with confusion. It was after all, completely unlike anything she had said after a day of exploring. “Wilma…” he said.

“Daddy I met this man today—”

“A man?” What man”

“George Morrow. He is an astronomer from the royal society and showed me this incredible machine of our planets, and these sketches, and pictures of what’s around Earth. He even said they thought there is another planet that we just can’t see yet”

“Wilma, where is all of this coming from?” her father asked with little amusement.

“I think I want to be an astronomer, Daddy, I want to discover something like that that nobody thought existed” Her father could not teach her to be an astronomer, nor could he see it as a way for his daughter to be successful or respected.

“Honey, you can’t be an astronomer. Women don’t do astronomy, and besides, an astronomer may never discover anything. You could waste your entire life looking up and not do a thing to change what’s around you. You don’t want to be an astronomer Wilma. It’s a poor idea for you. There are more important things. I have to finish these letters so I can mail them tomorrow. Go and see your mother, and your brother and sister for a little while. It’s getting late soon”

Wilma left the room and was crushed and confused. She had been convinced and could not cope with her father’s judgment. He had been so cold and disinterested, and had upset Wilma who had expected support. Wilma was no less convinced though, and this made her feel scared alone. She walked to her room and opened the window, and folded her elbows on the sill as she looked up at space. The stars, the planets, and the empty black spaces were calling her. She thought for a minute and began cry, but stopped herself just as quickly. She thought about her father, and waited for a feeling to change. It did not though, and she felt scared again until she looked back up at the shimmering night sky. Things became clear to her, only very far away. She put her head down to think, and fell asleep dreaming about space.

Too Good to be True

The night always started with the car ride out to the restaurant. It was about a fifteen-mile drive, but it felt three times as long on the way there, in anticipation, and three times as quick on the way home, in satisfaction. Webb sat, feeling lonely, and gazed out of the window and watched, tirelessly, the outdoors pass by like the stages of life, the ups and the downs of hills and the shifts from smooth, paved roads to bumpy gravel ones, and back again.  He sat in the window seat, not feeling the desire to engage in the conversation or the music playing. They, Webb and his large family, were working their way to the shore. It would have been relatively undetectable, but due to the unbroken pine tree forests on their left and right, and the freshness of the breeze through the open window, he could smell, taste, and almost feel the salt in the air as they made their way closer to the destination. As he sat in the back looking out to the East, he caught quick, refreshing glimpses of the bay between the tree line, and his eagerness would only double.
Always sudden, as if it had been there all alone and untouched since the last time they left, they arrived in the rocky parking lot of Miller’s Lobster Co. A small, family owned restaurant that always had enough room for the large families who enjoyed it. The rush of fresh air in Webb’s face as he hopped out of the old Suburban and smell of the sea and the day’s catch, some of it still arriving from the last few lobster boats gliding across the bay, made it impossible to think of any problems or struggles or bumpy roads from the ride in. He made his way down towards the pier, towards the beautiful sunset, and passed open tanks of lobster and clams with groups of young kids reaching in and laughing at the touch of the shellfish to their cold hands. As they rounded the corner of the main part of the restaurant all of the quick glimpses of each part of the bay that had left only a fraction of the pleasure, came together like pieces of a puzzle; the parts fit together perfectly into a scene that could never be forgotten.
Webb leaned over to his twin brother, John, who was, after all, seven minutes older, and asked softly, “John don’t you think we could come back to this same restaurant every night for the rest of our lives and never get tired of it...” He trailed off, for his remark was of no importance, it seemed, as always because John was already engaged in conversation with the beautiful girl at the table next to theirs.
John was technically seven minutes older than Webb, who were just turning sixteen and the eldest of the five boys in the family, and it always seemed that John’s extra seven minutes propelled him far ahead of Webb in every aspect of life. Except, of course, in the classroom where Webb excelled beyond John’s furthest hope.
Webb glanced around the restaurant and felt alone. He saw John talking with the beautiful girl who looked to be around the same age as the two of them. He saw his younger brothers making friends with the lobsterman who were finishing up the day, and he saw his parents waiting in line to order their usual order. He was beginning to fall back in to his lonely mood when he noticed John’s girl look over, smile, and motion for him to come join them with her hand. Webb turned his head the other way as if to check if she had recognized and old friend of hers sitting at the table behind him, and he just happened to be in the way. The other tables were empty. He looked back at her, she was laughing with John now, and he got up to join them.
On his walk over, Webb thought of all the times he wished to be social and fun, like John, but remained his pensive self. As he sat down he noticed just how beautiful she actually was, and he blushed as he sat down next to his brother. She looked over to him and asked him something, but he couldn’t hear a word she said. He felt weird on the inside but didn’t question it. It was great. As she waited for Webb, she laughed quietly and smiled a smile he would never forget.  

Avila Road

Avilla Road

 The sun had a way of turning the old grey chipped paint into a light blue hue during the long warm days of fall. A sea of yellows, and reds, and dim orange blanketed the ground around an old oak tree that the two kids climbed each holiday to redress its apparel appropriately. The fence around that yard had its own decorations year round of Jasmine that perfumed the home and the neighbor’s home and the streets; a sweet smell that forever became connected to the old quiet town full of Jasmine. Behind the boastful branches of an oak, behind the shutters, beyond the glare of the afternoon rays, lied a living room caressed by family photos in light wooden frames along the walls. Inside that room was a fireplace, and its masculine mantel piece, and there were little tick marks on the wall with little numbers, and a yellow floral couch, waiting for the family in the photos to come home. In the front of the house there was a young maple tree rooted deep within a small dirt patch next to the dark maroon bricks that created stairs leading up to the dark grey and light blue paneled doors. The kids knew that one day that maple tree would become more of the house than the house itself; it would grow to define the yard, and the street, as it did their memory of the solemn grey house.
He was a boy of five and she was a girl of seven but they resembled each other remarkably. Out in the middle of the road they looked like identical twins; their metallic brown hair glowed in the sun, and their collection of freckles was visible through the pastel dust covering their pale Irish faces. The set of siblings could sit there for hours swimming in the puddles of California leaves, relishing the warmth of golden sun on their backs, only moving when they found themselves in the shadow of the Maple tree. They loved that tree, and the squirrels that danced on its branches just like they loved the way lizards poked their heads in and out of the tiny slits of the shutters next to the windows. Everything was big and meaningful and held feelings; everything had a story, and the two best friends made sure to remember every character and plot.
“Jonathon, Rebecca, come inside real quick.” Their parents were not yet middle aged but were already tired of working, and responsibility. With retirement came the opportunity to move and without consideration they took it. They would leave in three months, but in the children’s eyes it wasn’t enough time; there could never be enough time to finish the stories.
Their glorious fall turned into a bitter winter that blockaded them inside a house full of cardboard boxes filled with Styrofoam padding.  Their holiday became filled with packing away belongings and erasing their marks from the home; erasing their height charts, taking down crayon paintings of sunflowers and rocket ships, and cleaning out the storage closet they converted into a laboratory the summer before last. It was too cold to say goodbye to the acorns, and the pines, and the Jasmine lined fence. Behind a tower of labeled boxes, they gripped on to the vacant window sill, and with all their weight balancing on the edges of the their toes, they stared out into the yard through a blurry window and whispered goodbye from a afar, taking pictures of a memory they thought they would keep forever. “Goodbye spider in the corner, goodbye spider web, goodbye brick pathway, goodbye lizards”. Soon they were silently wiping each other’s tears during the ride to the air port, they told themselves they would be back soon. “Good bye Maple tree”.
Their hopes for frequent visits dissipated in the sun of their new playground. Their new home had the same yellow floral couch and a larger yard to play in. They would occasionally question when they would go back to their real home with the chalk filled street, but eventually the questions veered away from returning. They only wondered whether their Maple Tree was lonely, and in months time when they become reassured it was not, the questions stopped altogether.
They moved into a small white house, with a large wild yard in the front that went on for a mile until the mail box. In the backyard was a pool with a broken screen that was framed by old rusted metal and a dock made of soggy driftwood that creaked when the current was rough in the river. The living room was designed to overlook that river, and that’s where the old yellow couch went. The windows took in light that filled the white walls and white tiles illuminating the whole house, and those same windows stayed open on most days to let in a slight breeze along with a trace of sea wind.
The little boy grew much taller than his older sister but they had the same brunette curls and toothy grin and when they stood together and talked their mannerisms mirrored one another’s.  But as time gradually went by they no longer found themselves needing each other for entertainment or comfort. Before long it became time to leave the white home and they went off to college, and graduated, and had families of their own. Soon only annual Christmas cards kept them in touch.
So much time had gone by before their parents felt obligated to host a reunion of sorts. They showed up with half grins and cheap bottles of wine and a need for people to assume they were happy. They masked away their problems but from years of experience they couldn’t keep anything from one another. They confided in each other; they missed enjoying an embrace, smiling at memories, laughing at dumb jokes; they missed being happy. A picture in a glass aqua frame brought them back to a time when they were astronauts, and princesses, and dragon slayers, and when anything was possible. Jonathon bought the plane tickets the next day.
What they wanted to find was their youth, and the ability of simple things to make them happy again, but they realized they couldn’t find it here. The grey shutters had been painted over maroon and the maple tree grew tall and beautiful but it no longer loomed over the entire yard as they remembered. They were graciously welcomed into the cream colored living room that had the same rose wood fire place, but it was empty without the chocolate syrup stained rug and wooden picture frames and bowls of Gardenias their mother would collect to perfume the home. It was the same house, with nearly the same furnishings, but it was no longer their home; seeing the house, just seeing it, could not bring them back. As hard as they tried they couldn’t connect to the nostalgic memories when everything had stories and a point and could bring smiles to their freckled faces bringing out their identical dimples.
The solemn siblings walked to the window overlooking the front yard. The dusty window sill held a pumpkin spice candle in between a crystal bowl of pine cones and a picture frame of an elderly couple with their grandchild. They had to squint. The window held the same opaque tint from years before, and through it they saw their children beneath a pile of dark red maple leaves throwing each individual leaf in the air and then watching the beauty of it as it slowly zigzagged its way back to them in the pile of leaves. Jonathon opened the front door and called the cousins inside, it was nearly time to leave. He was disappointed because his plane ticket could not buy him back to happiness and every second he stood there looking over what he thought he could remember of laughter, and genuine joy, was making him more aggravated. He wanted to leave the grey house.
Up the dark maroon pathway ran his blonde son who completely took after his ex-wife with his wide brown eyes and golden mane. He rushed passed his father with youthful enthusiasm and an inability to stop. Frustrated, Jonathon motioned to the car and said, “You need to calm down. We are leaving soon.” Jonathon looked at this small, peach skinned boy with a blanket of dried mud covering the length of his two legs, when he caught a glimpse of familiar dimples. From behind his back, his son held out a handful of Jasmine filling the room with pungent sweet cologne. Jonathon stared at the jasmines and closed his heavy eyelids and slowly soaked in the clean fragrance. He could feel it manifest inside of him. After long uninterrupted seconds, he turned to the elderly man by the door, “If you wouldn’t mind, we would like to stay a bit longer.” And he went outside and silently sat down on the damp brick steps. He twirled a bit of Jasmine in between his calloused fingers and watched his children play and noticed the spiders in the corner.

A Hollow Fence

Sun burnt ears poked out from under weathered baseball caps.  The sun seemed to pulsate down on the young boy and girl, drying the mud that covered three quarters of their body.  They sat on the ground, backs against a white metal picket fence, sharp chips of mulch poking uncomfortably through their shorts. Small flies buzzed around what moisture was left on their legs and crawled over the blonde hairs sticking out through patches of already dry dirt. It had been the boy’s fault.  Now they just had to sit and wait in the sun and the dirt with the mulch jabbing their legs and the fence burning their back.

The white metal fence was old, like the rest of the house and the cracked pool it enclosed.  Its hollow metal panels were covered in enamel that had been peeling off for as long as the girl could remember. Only three months ago they had painted over it with bright white paint. Now as she ran her finger over a panel, the paint rubbed off like a sunburn, revealing enamel and rusted metal underneath.

She rested her head back against the fence, tilting her cap so that it barely blocked the yellow ball in the sky.  She knew it was bad to look into the sun and she wondered if the boy remembered that too. She almost reminded him, but she was still mad. Bored, she began to focus her eyes on the thin threads that dangled below the brim of her hat. Loosing interest in its frayed edge, she began to cross her eyes at the blue weave that covered the underside of the brim, bringing the fraying threads on the brim in and out of focus. She blew up towards the threads so that they moved.

“What are you doing?”

It was a reasonable question.  She didn’t answer. Instead she pulled the hat down so she could see only their legs and the mulched ground around them and the grass a few feet beyond.

The air was heavy and dry and thick and the weight of it seemed to build up on the brim of her hat, dragging her head down.  Even the flies that buzzed around their legs seemed to get pulled down by the air, never climbing more than a few feet above the ground.  She tilted her head slightly so she couldn’t see the boy’s skinny legs. Behind them, she could hear the hose running into the pool, making up for the water the hot air was always sucking up and never returning.

A slinky green anole emerged slowly from the browning grass onto the mulch.  Belly low to the ground, it moved easily, gliding over the mulch for a few inches and then stopping to bob up and down. When it was still, it almost looked fake, its green skin too bright, too perfect to naturally exist on the ugly brown wood chips. The lizard moved again, gliding, its throat expanding, red and scaly and beautiful. The lizard was a boy. Remembering another boy, the one by her side, she jerked her head, looking to the length of the ugly white painted, yellow enameled, and rusting metal fence.  A few feet down, the green of the hose that threaded through the fence to the pool reminded her of the lizard. When she looked back, the green anole was gone.

Beside her, she felt the boy squirm, trying to find a more comfortable way to lean against the fence. The girl plucked a piece of mulch from the vast array around her and started to peel it apart with her fingernails, setting the fibers in a line along her leg.  The boy shifted, bumping the fence accidentally. She slipped, a sliver of wood jamming up under her nail.

Tears welling in her eyes, she tossed the mulch away, scrunched her eyes shut, and hit her head back against the fence. The fence shuddered, jostling the boy and sending white chips of paint fluttering down on her hat. The tremor traveled down the length of the fence, rattling the gate and provoking a delayed stream of wasps to trickle lazily from inside one of the rusted out fence posts. She kept her head back and eyes closed, tipping her hat up and feeling the sun beating directly on her face.

The boy sat motionless as the wasps hummed around their post, for the first time since they sat down, the shadow of a smile on his face. Casually, he reached a hand out and tapped the fence gently. Another wasp crawled from its hole.

“Stop”.

Ignoring the girl, he tapped the fence a little harder- a wasp flew out this time.

“Stop”.

This time he hit the fence, sending a quick spasm down its length- three more wasps.

“STOP”.

Shooting a sideways glance at the girl, the boy rotated his whole body around, grabbed the fence with both hands and shook.

“I said, STOP”. The girl’s eyes shot open to see the old pool gate fly open, and slam back against the rusted out post.  A dozen wasps streaked out of the hole, joining the few that had already been provoked into the open. Their swarm expanded, traveling down the length of the fence, weaving angrily between the panels.

The boy jumped to his feet, whacking the fence again with his elbow, awakening more wasps and sending another volt of energy through those already in the air. Momentarily forgetting the wasps, the boy started shuffling in a small circle, half bent over in a combined fit of laughter and whimpering. Seeming to sense the movement, half of the wasps separated themselves from the cloud.

Still cradling his arm, the boy started yelling as the wasps began to drone around his head. The girl dove along the length of the fence, turned and fired.  She pummeled the boy’s head and body with water. The cold spray cut through the heavy air until the only humming left came from the water gushing out of the hose.
Exhausted, the boy sat down and slumped against the fence.  Observing thing, the girl picked up the hat that had been sprayed off and put it on his head so only his sun burnt ears poked out from underneath. Laughing, his sister sat down, pulling her own hat low over her eyes.

“I’m still mad at you”.