⊱ a collection of short stories ⊰

[111misc]

Dearest Reader,
There is so much to love in this world, yet my soul, for her favorite, has chosen words. I can't help it, I love to write, to read, to speak. I love music and sound. The saying is that the pen is far mightier than the sword; however it is often forgotten that it is, in the very same moment, more gentle than the flowers and their petals thin as dust. I am not sure how I would carry on if words were taken from me. The most tantalizing part is that they have yet to be fully mine. They are wild things, tigers, running around rampant in my mind. I can't control them, they are too dangerous to be tamed, right now. This is why I value you, Reader, you will help me tame them. And I respect you because I know how invested a reader gets. Writing is just a form of reading, I think. Instead of going to the library to find a book you want to read, rather, you just decide to make it. The great thing about choosing to write one day, instead of picking up the book by your bedside, is that everything you've learned through reading, watching movies, talking to people, listening to music; you can use. Every time you have mourned the lack of character development in someone's story, or brooded over how pathetic a writer's adjective choices are, or grimaced at a grammatical error─every time you finish a book and have sworn you could have done it better─you can fix those things, when writing. You can use the beauty you have found in the world, too. For every fanciful breeze, magnificent narrative, sweet smelling rose, or kind smile that a friend may throw your way, it can end up in your words, translated into the immortal. You can use all the pain and all the joy you feel in your heart. You can let it flow, a river of ink straight from your heart to your paper. If that isn't the happiest thought, then I'm lost.
Reader, you may be wondering what I'm doing here, with my time, with yours. Why am I wasting your computer batteries on reading this silly letter? Well, it's because I care. I care about writing, but even more than that (I know, can you believe I care about anything more than that?) I care for my soul. I'm afraid I would die without writing and reading. Or worse, I'd live for a very long time, empty.
A part of me thinks that there is no way I'm as unique as I think I am. I'm sure everyone loves to read, at least on some level. Reader, I have no doubt you love to read. Why, you ask? Because you are here, on Chicken Smoothie, at my little corner. You came here voluntarily, and have read this far, so you can't be that much of a lost cause. I'm grateful you've kept going in my letter, if it were me, and this were someone else's writing, I might have stopped by now. Let me cut to the chase. I love to write. I love to read. I want to improve who I am, and I want to keep my sanity. Writing is the only way for me to do that, sometimes. I think that everyone has a little maniacal dragon in them that loves to horde words, instead of treasures (what am I talking about? Words are the best types of treasures, after all!). If you want to read my short stories, these plots and characters that sometimes come to me, then please, read away. Comment. Criticize. Flatter. Whatever you want. Read, and let me write. These stories, I'll try and make them have a purpose. Most will probably be analogies. I know I may bore you sometimes, Reader, but don't judge me too harshly for that. I love you, after all. I mean, let's get real here; where would I be without you? Well...granted, I'd be in the same place, physically, but I would be so alone. Thank you for keeping me company, and pretending to care, even if you don't.

-The Author

[111misc]

a flower's coquetry
glass
...
...
...
...

[111misc]

This, dear Reader, is a place for where your critiques will go so I won't forget about them, and for now, a small summary of my writing styles, my goals, my favorite books, and just a bit about me to understand why I write the way I do, is below.


Hello, good Readers. Please, call me Pan, or if you knew me in another life, call me what you did then, be it Chessie or Misc, to each their own. c: I just thought I'd share about myself, like all authors like to do. I am a transcendentalist, and avidly believe in those principles, though I take it more as a philosophy than a religion. I love nature and beauty, and most of all, childhood. I'm kind of desperately obsessed with it, if you couldn't tell from my username and signature. Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie, is my favorite book. It is all about the loss of childhood....about growing up. I cry when I read it. My favorite authors are Victor Hugo, Barrie, and a few others, but I list them in my "interests" paragraph, so I won't bore you with those now. One of my favorite movies is The Fox and the Hound, a Disney movie. But let me just tell you that The Little Matchgirl, a short that can easily be found on Youtube if you are curious, is by far the most moving thing I've seen. No one lives a perfect life, mine is no exception, but there is no need for petty details. I love symbolism and the concept of individuality. Hopefully that meager summary will suffice for understanding my writing.


none so far; I mean, I haven't written anything yet, so how could there be?

[111misc]

A play on the style of Hans Christian
Anderson, not my usual style, but wanted
something more fairy tale than novel.

⊱ a flower's coquetry ⊰

There is a meadow far away, hidden by a forest. It is atop a mountain peak, the highest in all the world. Yet, there it never snows nor hails. Every day from six in the morning to seven in the evening the sun will make her way across the sky, dancing her waltz. It is not often she notices the tidings of Earth, she becomes so involved in her ballet and pays the audience no heed. The sun was vain, and the rare times she cast her radiant glance towards the world, it was to the oceans and the lakes, to marvel at the shining thing staring back at her. Her reflection shimmered, gauze, on the water. She quickly became bored, though, and would sigh and move on. So it went, each and every day. The world grew older, the trees became gnarled that had once been tall, and where great mountains and plains had been rested new landmarks, man made. To the sun they were like ant hills, so small and so industriously made. Cute, she would giggle, sometimes dipping her head in for a closer look; but never too close, for then she would surely melt the statues that intrigued her so. But the sun grew bored with those little things, and would sigh and move on. The world aged more and more, but the sun stayed young forever. She would gambol across the skyline, pink and rosy when she woke for she was so excited to dance again that day. When she went to sleep she was sanguine, tired from the day, but happy. Noontide was her favorite time, when her golden hair would lash out every which way, wild and absolutely magnificent. Flickering and glowing and shining. She was one thousand times as beautiful as any star, and the moon, next to her, looked black. She was youth, day after day, laughing and frolicking, always bright and moving, never staying too long.
There came a time when the world was very old. To the sun it seemed no more than a month, at most. That was why she was so surprised to glance down at the world to catch her reflection in the Atlantic Ocean. She saw along the coast many strange, floating things. She saw, swarming over the lands she danced over, a bigger audience than ever she knew existed. So many forms! The sun was curious, but moved on, turning her cheek for the sake of her performance. She would not want her audience to think she'd forgotten her dance steps, especially when they were so numerous!
During this year, the year the sun finally looked back down at her charge, there was one place no man had set foot in. It was the place closest to the sun, and this meadow, aforementioned, was a beautiful sight. It was pure and gossamer, the flowers grew tall and waving. Their petals were like pearls and rubies and jade. The grass was emerald, and surrounding the glade there was an aura of tranquillity. Dragonflies with rainbow wings flitted from perch to perch, a mirage in the air. Companion to them were butterflies, wings lazily flapping, bigger than expected, and dotted with oranges and blacks and whites and purples. Robins and swallows sang melodiously the song of eternal summertime. Everyone there was happy, for they knew not the concept of sadness.
There was a flower in that garden more lovely than the rest, if one star can shine brighter than his brother, if one angel can sing sweeter than the next. He was a sunflower, his petals were gold, and his center, onyx. He was more clever than his brothers and sisters, the roses and the lilies, the tulips and the baby's breath. He was bold, and proud, and he was a wildflower, and when a bright gale blew through the meadow, he did not cringe, but staid his stalk, and faced the challenge. He was an enviable creature, the sunflower.
The sunflower, every day from dawn until dusk, would set his eyes on the gleaming sun. He was the only one brave enough to look at her, the others would cower. They loved her, for she was their mother and their sister, but she was too magnificent for them all. They all feared her as one fears a God. All, that is, save the sunflower. He would watch her silently throughout the day, taking note of her beauty, her grace, her flaming golden hair, her molten eyes, the warmth that rolled off of her skin, wave after wave hitting him; a tide of comfort and majesty.
The sunflower grew to maturity, and the world grew no younger. One day, early in the morning, when the spiders and mice still slept, and most flowers were hanging heavy with dew, he collected all his bravery and courage.
"Bright Sun, you are so beautiful. Can you hear me up in your sky? Would you glance down for me, for a smile?" He watched her, avid, as she moved along. Indeed the sun did hear him, but she blushed, and looked away, her yellow hair thrown across her face. She had heard many call for her. Mayans, Greeks, Egyptians. They had all revered her, and had been her best audience. She never gave herself away too clearly though; for she was a performer, and must keep up her act. The voice of the little yellow and black flower had been different than the commanding and pleading voices of the men, though all creatures seemed, at that point, the same to her. The voice was filled the coquetry, the tone was light, not begging, and he repeated the words every morning and evening for her, looking towards her with love. In his words she could tell he had loved her for a very long time, watched her ballet one hundred days in a row, never clapping or booing, never turning away but never making a point to be seen, either. He was just there, admiring her, for the longest time. So why now? The sun giggled to herself, and continued on her way. Had this miser of an audience member decided to try and catch her eye? Did he think he was worthy of her? The sun felt the idea repugnant and nonsense. She sighed, and moved on.
The bright flower, however, was tenacious, like all flowers, and did not give up. Every summer and spring he would call to her throughout the morning, past noon and until dusk, when she would quietly slip from his sight. She never answered. Autumn would come and he would grow cold. But hopefully the flower looked at his love, and her bright warmth. When he looked at her the breeze avoided him, and his petals did no longer shake from cold. He was comforted. Leaves fell around him, copper and rust, but he stayed tall, and held his stalk. His friends wilted, preparing for winter, gathering their strength, but he could not bare to leave the world of the sun, of his passion, warmth, and happiness.
Winter came. The she-wolf cantered through the mountains, riding on harsh winds that felt more like ice than air. Her fur was white and silver, and her eyes were the dead black of stone scraped raw of grass and dirt. Winter cradled them in all her well meaning fury, a bitter woman, cursed. She would try to hold the world in her hands, rock it to sleep as a mother would her child, comfort it, cover it in a soft blanket and keep it safe; all she did, though, was kill what she touched. Her fingers, frost, bit and snapped at the flowers and animals, and the powder covered them in a blanket, not of comfort, but of bone chilling cold. The flower shivered, weak, and every day, though the freezing air, he would call to the sun.
"Sunbeams, shine down on me! See how I shiver, can you see me crying, up there in your palace? Beautiful lady, don't forsake me for my loyalty and love." His voice made Winter sad, and she would try and kiss him, make him feel better, let him know someone cared for his poor soul. But when she touched her lips to his petals, they turned blue and white, and froze off.
By February there was one petal left, light yellow, like the moon behind clouds. His black center was no longer ebony or onyx, but inky and smoldering, like thunderclouds. He was rotting away. The sun passed every single day, and he continued to sing and call for her, abosessed with her beauty and her warmth, but so lonely for how paradoxically cold she could be.
"Sun," he whispered, at the Beginning of March, "please?" His voice had grown weak, and his last petal fell. The sun was directly overhead the flower, when he called to her this time. Strange, she heard his whisper clearer than any loud call in all the years of the world. She paused, for an instant. Golden hair fluttered around her pale face, and her eyes glistened with something akin to true emotion. For a moment she nearly looked down. But then she grew bored, and sighed, and moved on.

[111misc]

⊱ glass ⊰

Here is the story of how my life changed forever... That was an idiotic thing of me to say. No one cares about me…and even if someone does, like my parents or something, its not like I will be remembered forever. Neither will you. Not unless you do something so amazing that people just ogle at you when you walk down the street—like building the first flying saucer or finding a way to capture eternal youth. Anyway, unless you do something chimerical and magical like that, which I doubt, because if you were going to do something like that, you wouldn’t be reading this stupid little memoir and instead you would be working on the serum for ever lasting life and getting all sweaty and gross like my brother does in P.E. class while you work in your garage building a model space ship—you would never be remembered for more than four generations, tops. And even then, probably as an old faded picture in a drawer, or an explanation why the family owns an old fashioned lamp or something. The parents will say, “Oh, that old thing! That lamp is an antique! It belonged to your great grandma, Martha,” and then the little kids will nod, their eyes kind of cloudy as they zone out, and the parents will say, “She is that old lady in the picture on that desk downstairs…do you know what I’m talking about, Sweetie?” and the kids will nod and still have no idea what in the name of ice cream—which, to kids, is the equivalent of God—their parents are babbling about. And then you are lost.
“Gwen! Get your sorry self down here!” My mom, Joy, called out, her normally perfect mousy brown curls unruly (and a bit frizzy, to be honest). This was pretty much the most important day of her life, as far as she was concerned…it always was. I ran down the stairs, my own dark hair flying out behind me as I jumped the last few stairs. I forgot I was wearing high heels, at the time, but as soon as I left the floor I remembered the heels on my shoes—too late, of course, as I hit the bottom and had to grab onto the thin iron railing that lined the dusty and creaking stairs to keep from crumpling to the ground from the pain that just shot through my legs. Biting back a curse, wincing slightly, I quickly let go of the rusted metal, flattening out my dress a bit awkwardly, as Joy came out again from the bathroom, her hair perfect again. “Gwen, really?” she sighed, her icy eyes roving over me critically. Nothing new there. “Go brush out your hair again,” she dictated, pointing a finger at my unruly curls, tumbling long down my back, to around my elbows if I held my arms down at my sides. I sighed, a bit irked. I hated all this crap. Joy rolled her eyes, handing me a brush she kept in her purse. Of course it would be my mom who always kept a hairbrush in her purse. How did she even get this thing in there? Giving a sigh of disgust, I reluctantly swiped the brush through my dark hair, not even wincing when strands were ripped out of my head…I had a hard head. Now, I would just like to take a moment of your valuable time to talk to all you people who scoff and say, “What? Pulling out some hair with a hairbrush? What are you…two?” No. I am not two, all you moronic losers out there. Go ahead and take one of your big fat hands and take a nice handful of your hair, and then just give a healthy yank, as hard as you can. Go ahead. Don’t start crying, now, we only just started. Okay, good job, now, instead of taking a hand full of hair, like someone would do to you if you were in a fight or something, and instead, take only a clump of strands. Not a handful; a few strands. Then yank. That, my dense friends, is what it feels like for a girl to brush their hair every single day. Now tell me this; could you do this everyday? Morning and night? Not to mention all the crazy things people are doing with their hair nowadays, like straightening it, and curling it, and blow-drying it, and dying it, and highlighting it, and lowlighting it, and way too many other things for me to list, as I’m only fifteen. If you ask me, we girls, at least the ones who endure so much torture for their hair, are true warriors.
Anyway, back to my reverie.
I was brushing my hair, and Joy had already collected my younger brother, Arthur, and somehow gotten him into a suit, combed his hair, which was just like Joy’s; wispy, light brown, and curled in perfect ringlets. Joy always told me mine was just like my dad’s, whoever that stranger was. She said he had this nice, dark, wavy, thick hair…and I guess, lucky me, I got it. As I combed the last knot out of my mane, I threw the brush on one of the beat up red chairs in the living room before running out to the car after my mom and half brother. Arthur had already claimed the front seat, so I shoved myself in the back, severely wrinkling my dress in the process. As I tried to smooth it out unsuccessfully, my mom picked up the phone and began to call her fiancé…soon to be her husband. “Yea…yea…sure, honey, anything.” She purred like a fool over the phone to him. I rolled my eyes, sitting back in the car as we drove by trees and rivers and hills with the speed of an ostrich. Ostriches run pretty fast. Sometimes I imagine that this beat up old car is an ostrich, and that I’m riding on top of it in the Sahara, or that it’s a cheetah, and I’m hanging on to it for dear life. My favorite though, is when it is a gazelle—they are one of my favorite animals, gazelles. They are so graceful, so calm, and they don’t hurt anyone. As Joy continued to fall over Mark on the phone, and Arthur played some gory video game or another, I closed my grey eyes, trying to calm down and rest. I had been up practically the whole of last night; doing homework and cleaning my room for Joy’s big party tonight. Now, you all might be wondering why people, unless they are as nosy as you can get, which they are, would be coming into my room. The answer, that Joy and I shared a room. Mark, and all his things, shared a room with Arthur…even though he wasn’t his dad. Arthur’s father, I knew for a few years. He was a nice guy, but he didn’t know what to do with a kid. Who does? He went away and joined the army, I think, but I don’t know if he ever came back…he didn’t ever call again, but that could mean a lot of things. No, Mark was the new man in Joy’s life. The one who was going to help her “clean up this mess of a life,” and get her “back on track.” What had gotten her off track to beginning with, and made such a mess with her life, don’t ask me. You don’t want my answer.
So, Joy is having this party tonight, for her and Mark’s wedding and all, and I get the honor of cleaning our room! Lucky me! Not only that, but it doesn’t help this is my first year of high school, and I literally feel as if my head might explode one day…these teachers of mine want it on a platter, I’m sure of it.
Soon we arrived at the church, a roundish building, with thick walls and not a lot of space that had one small steeple coming out of the centre of it, making it look like a giant thumbtack to me, though I wouldn’t tell that to Joy. She wouldn’t understand. As we pulled up, I was already blushing, the redness clear as crystal on my pale cheeks. I reddened because, there, in the little assembly for the wedding, were all my friends—and there were not a lot, either—family, and pretty much everyone in town. Despite how much Joy annoyed the crap out of me, apparently she was pretty darn popular with the rest of them. Why is it that all the nasty, fake people in the world are the popular ones?
Becca, my best friend, a short girl with fair hair and a bit of a chubby face, though she was gorgeous when she smiled, waved to me. She must have thought I was happy. Before I knew what was happening, I had been pulled into the throng of bridesmaids, in all their grotesque splendor, with the handpicked-by-Joy dresses made of a light purple color and a huge, obnoxious bow at the color in pale cream. I tried again to straighten out the fabric, some weird silky material that wrinkled whenever you tried to move--or breathe, for that matter--and made you feel like you were suffocating because the collar was so high on your neck. I failed, yet again, and gave up, content with looking on at the ceremony of Joy and Mark. I’m not afraid to admit it, I did zone out during the service. It was way too long for me, practically three hours of Bible reading and vow giving and mushy looks and slideshows. Lucky for me, I guess, was that I was allowed to check out, since I had no duties to perform. I wasn’t even the maid of honor! My own mother getting married, and she chooses some rich friend or something to be her maid of honor! Not her own daughter. Is that messed up or what?
Soon the service was over, and I only came back to reality in time to watch Joy make out with Mark at the “You may kiss the bride,” part. Great. What a perfect wake up call, right?
The entire party Mark and Joy held hands, Joy’s other hand holding a fashionable cocktail, letting her long white gown drag in the ground. What did it matter, after all? Its not like she was wearing it again…at least not for another few months. The party, pretty much, was all the guests coming up to Mark and Joy and giving these huge, happy smiles for them, congratulating them and shaking Mark's hand and embracing Joy. I would have vomited if I had been closer, but I had refused to go down, so I watched from the balcony above. It wasn’t really a balcony, but it was like an old greenhouse on the edge of the apartment complex we lived in, though there weren’t any plants in it anymore. It was all empty and dusty, the glass framed in grey dirt and cracked. I liked it up there; the glass blocked out some noise, and the grate floors felt good on my bare feet (I had taken off those painful high heels as fast as I could as soon as we got back, and hid them under my bed in a box, where I knew no one could steal them. Not that I would have minded much, really. I hated them with a passion, but they were expensive, and Joy would have killed me). As I heard the muffled voices of the crowd directly below me, I leaned my head against the window, looking out onto the treetops and the horizon, the bright stars setting in tiny reflections in my light eyes through the thick glass. I let a deep breath inhabit me, and I gave a slow blink. The smell was of coffee beans and soil, with maybe a hint of sunlight. The smell of sunlight is the most wonderful smell you will ever find, it really is. It smells of morning, of dusk, of happiness and of wonder. In the nighttime, when something smells of sunlight, it is almost magic.
The soda I had snatched from the party felt warm in my hands, and the energy gained from it had worn off long ago. I thought vaguely, as I pulled my bony knees up to my chest, what it would be like to run on top of the trees’ canopies into the horizon forever, and never fall.d I daydreamed about that for a moment, about running off on the trees, running on them until the trees ended and the world came to a halt, welcoming me to peace. I didn’t even see the thick and cloudy glass that separated the forest and me that night; all I saw was my route, and my safe haven. I knew that there, beyond those trees, there was something beautiful waiting for me. There would be a land where it only ever smelled of sunlight, where the skies were blue, and I ran barefoot through glades and meadows. With these last thoughts I fell asleep, my warm drink spilling out of my hands and draining on the grated floor. My head leaned back on the dirty glass, eyes closed, my dark hair falling over my face as I slept through the night.
I woke in the morning, after the party, to the sound of Joy’s voice yelling my name, “Gwen! Is this where you’ve been all night? I’ve been looking for you all over!” She swore, exasperated, having found me in my haven. I could tell she was lying, but she didn't care. She slammed the green house door behind her, and I could smell her cheap perfume crawling through the air. I tried to look up at her, but she was standing in front of the sun, and it blinded my pale eyes. As I glanced away from her, ignoring her, to her outrage, out towards the forests, my eyes raw with the hazy feeling that people get in the early mornings when they are woken up, I saw none of the splendor I had seen before and that I had dreamed of in the forests; but my eyes were blocked by the stained glass in front of my eyes, the cracks and blemishes becoming more clear to me than the green forests beyond. Joy was still lecturing me, but I paid no heed. With a trembling hand I traced a long jagged crack in the green house window, seeing only the thick glass in the clear morning light, the green beyond blurring and twisting to distortion behind the cracks and dust, which was suddenly so obvious to me. And for reasons I couldn’t understand at the time, my eyes started to bubble over with tears, and I couldn’t even hear Joy’s roar anymore, not even in the back of my mind as she told me off. I tried a last time to find the forest again, but the glass was too thick, and the perfume burned my nose, turning all the soil, coffee, and sunlight to ash. I couldn’t see anymore through the tears building up in my eyes, and at last, just before I would have given up and cried, Joy took my arm in her hand, and she hoisted me up, not gently either, though I never realized it, and dragged me out of the green house. And, even if she would have let me—I would never go back.