Mercurial Mailman

Benny was being chased by the school bullies again. He spied a small door along the wall. Benny swung in and dived behind a counter. Footsteps thundered past, and voices shouted in confusion. Benny breathed a sigh of relief.

He peered above the counter to see where he was. The room was small, the far wall covered in cubbyholes stuffed with packages. Letters spilled out of a large sack on the ground. Was this a post office? Something moved. Benny quickly ducked down, peeking around the corner. A bearded, athletic-looking man wearing a white toga walked out from behind a stack of cardboard boxes carrying a lyre. He was starting to play when a woman walked in.

 “Welcome to Mercury Mail!” the man said, setting down the instrument. He spoke with a Greek accent.

Benny didn’t catch the entire conversation. The woman seemed to have a letter, and called the man Hermes. After she left, Hermes dropped the woman’s letter into his sack, heaved it over his shoulder, and left as well. He wore winged sandals.

Benny, still hiding, thought about what he’d heard. Hermes was the the Greek messenger god; he’d learned about it in history class. And the lady had paid him in drachmas, ancient Greek money. Was this postal service really run by a god? In any case, Benny wanted to go home. But before he reached the door, Hermes came back, sack now empty. Benny stopped in his tracks, startled. Hermes looked surprised too, but smiled.

“What brings you here?” he said.

“I was… being chased?” Benny replied uncertainly.

“School bullies?” Hermes asked. Benny nodded.

“I hate those,” Hermes said disapprovingly. “Do they come after you often?” Benny nodded again.

Hermes laughed. “Don’t be so frightened! I’m not Zeus. He’s one to watch out for. I’m just Hermes! Who are you?”

“Benny,” replied the boy.

“Well Benny, would you like some help avoiding those bullies?” Hermes asked.

“Okay,” Benny replied.

“Wait here,” said Hermes, disappearing behind the cardboard boxes. He came back with a shoebox for Benny. Inside were a pair of blue sandals.

They fit Benny perfectly. “Try running,” prompted Hermes. But Benny hadn’t gone far when two wings sprouted out from each sandal! Benny shouted in surprise as he zoomed forward three times faster than before. Hermes laughed. “No one can catch you now!” he exclaimed. Benny slowed and looked at the god with wide eyes.

“Gee, thanks,” he said. “But why…?”

“I dislike bullies,” Hermes said simply, shrugging. “But anyway, time for you to run along now!”

Benny was still in a state of awe, but picked up his backpack and headed out the door. That man really was a god! He glanced at his watch. 4:30. Oh no! His mother would be wondering where he had been! Benny broke into a run. His sandals sprouted wings again, and he sped off into the distance.

Hermes smiled to himself as he watched the boy go. Mail sent, mortals happy. A good day’s work.

Dracula's Return

The employees of the hospital thought it was odd when a tall, thin man walked into the hospital covered in black clothes and asked for a job at the hospital morgue. They thought it was even stranger when the man said his name was Dracula and seemed convinced that he’d been born in 1430. But, being believers of science rather than myth, the hospital employees decided he was being theatrical and gave him the job. They needed more people anyway.

As such, everyone was surprised when all the bodies disappeared the next day.

Naturally, the first suspect was the alleged vampire. Especially since “Dracula” had disappeared with the corpses.

The hospital contacted Harker & Helsing, the local detective agency. Refusing to take the hospital’s claim of an undead suspect seriously, the agency sent James and Victor, two bumbling teenagers.

 “Where would a vampire hide?” Victor wondered upon receiving their assignment.

“Maybe a cemetery?” suggested James.

No other ideas between them, the two set off for the local cemetery. As they approached, they found a group of perhaps twenty milling among the tombstones; not a likely place for a runaway vampire. Yet before turning back, the boys realized this group was quite strange. They were all rather pale. Some even lacked limbs. But most conspicuously, each donned a tattered hospital gown.

New vampires?

“Now what?” whispered James. Victor shrugged.

“Look for Dracula?”

They cautiously approached the crowd, ready to run at any moment. James fingered the small knife hidden in his pocket. The boys circled the group once, wondering briefly if the potentially-vampires were even aware of their presence. There was no tall man in black. They were about to report to the hospital about their discovery of the missing undead when Victor noticed something on a nearby stump. A dark, humanoid figure sitting on it was partially hidden in the shadows.

James and Victor approached the figure, certain it was Dracula. But as James reached into his pocket for his knife –  

“Why does everyone hate me?!” Dracula wailed. “I thought making more vampires would give me companions. But they just ignore me and wish they were dead again!”

He noticed James and Victor.

“I would kill you, but I would still be friendless,” he said sadly. The boys were speechless for a moment.

“Maybe if you didn’t kill people so often, they’d like you more?”  ventured James.

“Really?” said Dracula, brightening. “But they’re always afraid of me,” he added dismally, hanging his head. James and Victor looked at each other uncertainly. This hadn’t turned out as they had expected.

The boys tried to comfort Dracula by telling him that other people were also ostracized at times, and assured him that they would help him find his place in society.

“You could start by returning the corpses,” advised Victor.  

Dracula listened intently, gaining hope through their words. He even became convinced that it was his duty to help others who were as misunderstood and discriminated against as he was.

And thus, Dracula became an advocate for minority rights. 

Through a "Window"

College essay that I may or may not use... but I like it! :D

The glass panels surrounding the ice rink are clear today. Through them, I see a group of young figure skaters getting ready for practice. They giggle amongst themselves as they start skating around the rink. Their coach sternly tells them to stop talking and start skating. The skaters tone down the conversation a little and are soon hard at work, skating, spinning, and jumping. I see my nine-year-old self bumbling around, trying to remember my program for my first competition.
I took my first skating lesson in second grade and never stopped. Skating is one of the constants in my life; I’ve gone through other extracurricular activities, like soccer, ballet, gymnastics. I’ve changed schools, changed houses, changed countries, but through it all, I’ve always been a figure skater. Skating for so long has, of course, taught me many things. There are the usual life lessons of perseverance and time management. But it has also taught me that falling a few times is a necessary part of life if you want to succeed. That 5:30 am actually isn’t that early of a time to wake up and head to the rink. That winning doesn’t necessarily involve a gold medal. I’ve learned that most people outside the rink think it is weird, if not bordering unnatural, when your leg can easily go above your head.
Skating is my life (minus school). I’ve put hours and hours into it, giving up other things I might have otherwise done, but I still love the sport. Even when I stop skating regularly at the old age of, perhaps, 24, I will never forget the excitement of competition, the feeling of flying into the air, and the laughter and fun times I’ve had with the best friends I made at the rink.

Fête de Noël

Une histoire avec des mots de vocabulaire choisi au hasard :D Peut-être une histoire bébête mais ça m'est égal :P

Hier soir j’étais avec Chloé. Elle est une petite fille très mignonne de trois ans avec des yeux qui brillent comme les astres et une personnalité qui corresponde. Ses parents étaient à une fête de noël ce soir, alors j’ai restée avec Chloé. J’accepte toujours avec gratitude quand ses parents me demandent à la soigner. Elle est comme une petite sœur pour moi. Elle a commencé aller à Montessori cet an, mais elle avait eu des problèmes médicaux, et elle y est allée depuis seulement deux semaines, bien qu’il soit décembre. Donc elle ne se fait pas encore à Montessori. Elle était très heureuse de me voir cet après-midi.

« Bonjour, Julie ! Est-ce que c’est tu qui va m’accompagne chez moi aujourd’hui ? » Elle m’a demandé en prenant ma main.

« Oui, » j’ai dit. « Mais tu vas rester chez moi un peu parce que tes parents ne va pas être chez toi pour quelques heures. Ils sont à une fête. »

Chloé a fait un visage drôle. « Je veux aller à une fête, » elle a dit avec une moue.

J’ai rit. « Ne t’inquiet pas. Nous pouvons avoir une fête aussi ! »

Chloé a souri. « Oui ! J’en veux bien un ! »

En marchant à mon logis, Chloé m’a dit ce qu’elle veut à sa fête.

« Est-ce que je peux inviter Michelle ? Nous pouvons rire des films drôles de Noël et chanter des chansons renommées. » Michelle était la meilleure ami de Chloé, et elle habitait à l’autre côté de la rue. J’ai dit à Chloé que si la mère de Michelle agréait, elle pourrait venir.

Quand nous étions sept minutes de ma maison, il a commencé à pleuvoir. J’ai pris la main de Chloé et nous deux a couru le reste de la voie.

Quand nous sommes arrivé, Chloé a déclaré, « Je suis très mouillé ! » J’ai cherché des serviettes pour nous. Quand nous étions secs encore, j’ai jeté un coup d’œil par la fenêtre. Il y avait un orage ! Chloé était un peu triste parce que Michelle ne pouvait pas venir.

« Le temps est très désagréable aujourd’hui, » elle a dit avec un soupir. Mais je ne voulais pas abandonner l’idée d’une fête. J’ai trouvé des disques compacts des chansons de Noël et je les ai mis dans mon ordinateur. J’ai tenté à trouver des biscuits de Noël aussi, mais je n’ai pas aucune. Donc Chloé et moi, nous avons fait cuire des biscuits ensemble, et puis nous les avons mangé en regardant « Un Noël de Charlie Brown ». Quand les parents de Chloé sont revenus, elle a du retourner chez elle. En quittant la porte, Chloé m’a dit, « Il était la meilleure fête de Noël ! Merci, Julie ! »

Joyeux Noël à toi aussi, Chloé !

College Essay

Well, with all that effort, it seems a shame not to use it, and also not to stick it anywhere else. 

When I started piano lessons at five years old, I spent more time underneath the piano than actually playing it, hiding from the bore of repetitive practice. As the years went by and I learned to play, however, I grew to love the piano and the music I made. Now I don’t escape beneath the ivories; music is my escape. When I play, I close my eyes and lose myself in the notes. The melodies push away the daily stresses of life, painting scenes of peace and tranquility instead. I’ve long known the happiness that music brings to me, but it took one rather unusual recital last year for me to fully understand why I love to perform.

It was at Life’s Garden, a retirement community in Sunnyvale. My piano teacher held recitals at retirement homes year round, and Life’s Garden was a place we frequented. While younger students started to play one after another, the residents filed into the room, some on walkers, some with canes, all going slowly and quietly to find seats.

At last, it was my turn to play. That day, I performed Mozart’s “Fantasia in D minor”. The music reminded me of a ballet and my fingers turned into dancing ballerinas. I enjoyed the sounds, imagined the dancers striking perfect poses, finishing the piece with a flourish.

With that, the recital ended and everyone moved towards the back of the dining hall for refreshments. Yet amidst praises and greetings floated a twinkling melody from the piano once more. I turned around and was surprised to see a lady who must have been at least 70 years old sitting at the piano. Her playing, a bit rusty at the beginning, progressively became more fluent and emotional. Captivated by her music, I wondered what had compelled her to play. She had looked, after all, frail and not extremely enthusiastic when she came in, just like most of the other senior residents in the audience. Then it struck me. Of course! It must have been our music! While the sound of her last notes still resonated in the air, I watched as she turned and stood up from the bench. Her beaming expression made me smile, too. I was proud that I had helped make her spirits a little higher, her day a little brighter.

            I have performed at more retirement home recitals since then. On the surface they look the same as before: sometimes people in the audience doze off and snore loudly, or shout into each other’s ears, trying to have a conversation over the sound of the piano. Yet in my heart I know they are listening. I play with stronger conviction and satisfaction; the music that is my life permeates theirs as well.

Le Train

Chaque jour, je prends le train au bureau. Chaque jour, la navette est la même. Je marche sur un trottoir gris et passe des maisons et des bâtiments gris sous un ciel gris. Je vois les mêmes gens, mais je ne connais aucun. Nous avons nos propres vies occupées ; pas de moment à perdre à dit bonjour.

Je composte mon billet. Le son de la machine se confond avec tous les autres bruits dans la station. Je n’attends pas sur le quai ; après avoir le prenant chaque jour pendant cinq ans, je sais comment arriver exactement à l’heure. Comme le mouvement d’une horloge, je monte le train et trouve ma place. Les autres gens font la même.

J’attends que le train roule. D’abord, je pense que tout est comme toujours, maussade et monotone. Mais quelque chose est différent. Je ne peux pas dire quoi ; mais une vue, un bruit, un sens…

C’est un enfant.

Il ne peut pas avoir plus de cinq ans. Ses yeux bruns brillent avec enthousiasme. Il porte un manteau jaune et bleu, et une petite casquette. Il est avec sa mère, une jeune femme qui apporte un sac à dos. Probablement l’un de son enfant.

Le petit garçon dit à sa mère tout ce qu’il voit.

« Regarde, maman ! Cet homme-ci tient un livre mais il dort ! » il dit, en le montrant du doigt.

« Cette femme a un chemise avec beaucoup de fleurs. »

« Maman ! Et l’autre, il parle à quelqu’un avec un téléphone portable. Je ne pense pas qu’il est heureux. » L’homme avec le téléphone jette un cout d’œil au garçon, moitié conscients de lui.

« Ce train est tellement excitant ! Est-ce que vous pensez que l’école va  être si amusant, maman ? »

Ah, donc il est son premier jour d’école, je pense. Je regarde mon montre. Oui, il est le premier septembre. J’ai oublié.

Mais en écoutant ce petit garçon, j’ai réalisé quelque chose.

Les couleurs, ils ne sont tout gris. En fait, il n’y a pas de gris dans ce train. Jaune, rouge, violet, vert… Si j’écoute, les bruits, deviennent les conversations. Je regarde par la fenêtre ; je n’ai jamais vu la beauté de la campagne que je passe toujours. Je ne dois pas continuer avec ma vie sans couleur. Je ne dois pas faire la même chose jour après jour, année après année.

Je descends du train un arrête tôt. Je veux changer ma vie, et je veux commencer maintenant.

Alternative Ending

From Kindred by Octavia Butler

1

… The black man hit him one more solid blow, and Rufus collapsed. There was no question of his getting up this time. He was out cold.

As I approached, the black man reached down and caught Rufus by the hair as though to hit him again. I stepped up to the man quickly. “What will they do to you if you kill him?” I said.

The man twisted around to glare at me.

“This good for nothing trash has done enough to deserve to die a hundred times over,” he growled. He punched Rufus in the head once more for good measure, then let him drop. The girl winced as she watched Rufus bounce slightly as he hit.

“Let’s go, Alice,” the black man said, taking the girl’s hand.

“Please, Dana,” said Alice quietly to me. And with that, the two of them disappeared into the woods.

I stared after them for a moment, confused. How had she known my name?

Of course. Alice, the young, thin girl I had seen at my last trip here. I hoped the best for the two of them, then looked back down at the unconscious body beside me.

I knelt down beside Rufus and rolled him over onto his back. His nose was bleeding. His split lip was bleeding. His face was a lumpy mess, and a red splotch was steadily growing on the side of his shirt. He makes a strained kind of noise, like he wants to say something, but ends up coughing instead. Despite all that Rufus has probably done since the last time I saw him, I don’t want him to die. If only for the reason that I don’t know what would happen to me if he did. There’s a stream nearby; perhaps I could try to get him conscious again, or wash some of his wounds before looking for help. When I come back, the red splotch has grown to cover nearly half his shirt, and he looks a few shades paler than the last time I saw him. That red spot worries me, though I’m also very uncertain that I want to see how badly he is hurt underneath.

Suddenly, I feel very dizzy again. Am I going home again already? But Rufus is still half dead…

I had knelt to the ground and held my head in my hands to try to stop the dizziness. Now I wasn’t dizzy anymore, but something didn’t feel right. I opened my eyes and looked down at the ground – but it wasn’t ground anymore. I was curled up on hardwood flooring.

“Dana? Are you okay?” A voice asks. Kevin? Rufus? It doesn’t sound like either of them. I look up and see a sandy-haired man in glasses looking down at me in concern. I squint at him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in my life.

“Who are you?” I ask uncertainly. “Where am I...?”

The man helps me up guides me to a chair. It’s soft and modern-feeling. Am I back to 1976, then? I seem to be in some kind of office. Books are everywhere, filling the shelves along the wall and piled up on the desk. A wastebasket overflows with crumpled papers.

The man studies me. I meet his eyes when I’m finished looking around the room. They’re light blue, and I am faintly reminded of a coffee shop, but I don’t know why. He looks nearly as confused as I am.

“You really don’t know where you are or who I am, do you?” He asks. I shake my head no.

“Do you know who you are?”

“I’m Dana,” I reply.

“That’s right,” he says, sounding a little relieved. “And I’m Bryan. Your husband?” He says this last part questioningly, hopefully. Husband? Where’s Kevin? Well. First things first.

“What year is this? Where am I?” I ask. The man who says he is my husband tells me it’s 1976 and that I’m in my house, our house, in New York. A thought suddenly crosses my mind. But no. It can’t be.

I look at Bryan, stare at him hard. If this is my life, shouldn’t I have memories of it?

“What… what happened?” I ask. Perhaps if I figure out what happened on his side, I can figure out what happened to me.

Bryan wrinkles his brow. Something tells me I’ve seen this expression before, even though I am certain it’s not something Kevin ever had. “Well, we were sitting in this room, talking,” he begins. “Then you said you felt dizzy, and I told you to go lay down for a bit. But then all of a sudden, you disappeared – and then, a few seconds later, you appeared again. Kneeling, as you were just now.”

A feeling of terror washes over me. I had left Rufus while he was still hurt, still half dead.

What if it had been worse than that?

To be continued...

Loss

click after you read the story --> http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrg59vm5OH1qcd9hyo1_500.jpg :P

I can't believe I've lost you. After so many years, it's hard to see your place empty, never to be filled with your bright, comforting presence again. I still come to bed and expect to see you there waiting for me, but alas, I am alone. I'm not sure that I can ever rid myself of the grief that came with your disappearance from this life; it's hard for me to even listen to music now! Music, that beautiful thing that used to always cheer me up. You always had it in you, helped bring it into my life. Yet when you left me, the music did too. So many songs, some of them I can’t remember anymore. How I miss you, your wonderful words, the fun games we'd play... But don't worry. I will never forget you. I will never be able to replace you. I don't think they make iPod shuffles anymore.

Magic

It was partially hidden in the back corner of the little shop, sitting there as if it were trying to hide behind the shiny new guitars that were placed in front of it. She had caught a glimpse of it as she was playing on one of the other pianos, a Steinway grand on prominent display at the front of the store. When she pointed it out to her friend, it took him a while to see it, too.

“What piano? Those are guitars, silly.” She didn’t know what drew her to it, but it was a force strong enough to make her get up from the Steinway and walk over to the back of the shop to point it out.

As she got closer to the piano, she could see that it, too, was a grand, though far less grand in appearance than the shiny new Steinway. The wood was ancient and worn. Perhaps it had once been glamorous, but whatever glamour it had once enjoyed had long disappeared. The keys were yellow with age, and a few of them were chipped. The metal pedals were no longer a sparkly gold; the paint had flaked off, leaving an ugly grey-brown color behind.

Yet none of that mattered. She was entranced, gazing at it in admiration as if it were the most beautiful instrument she had ever laid eyes on. Her friend watched her curiously. All he saw was a dinky old piano. As if in a trance, she sat down at the bench and ran her fingers over the keys, feeling them without playing.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”  She says to her companion. He shrugs, unsure of how to respond, but decides to humor her.

“Yeah, it’s alright.” She gives him a pointed look.

 “It’s not just “alright”. It’s amazing.”  She turned back to the piano and played a few notes. The sounds that came out are rich with emotion, yet sweet and as soft as a feather pillow. Her companion’s eyes open wide in surprise; if he hadn’t been staring straight at her and the piano, he wouldn’t have believed such a sound had come from such an instrument. She sees his expression and starts to laugh.

“See, I told you! It’s beautiful!”  She starts to play a song, one that both of them love. The sounds fill the entire little shop and catch everyone’s attention; the other customers stop their browsing, and even the clerk leaves her place at the front desk to come closer to listen. She plays her heart out, and he leans on the piano. They look into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the crowd that has gathered around them.

She ends the song with an artistic flair, letting the final chord last loud and long. Her audience applauds with great enthusiasm, and she turns on the piano bench to face them with a stunned look.

“Holy crap, I didn’t notice people were listening,” she says unceremoniously. Everyone laughs, and the clerk pips up, “Man, you are amazing. That piano has been sitting in the corner forever, and no one has ever made it sound as pretty as you did. It was like magic!”

She blushes and gives a little smile.

“It sure felt like it.”

Last Night

16 kids

14 bikes

12:30am

Perfect time for a ride.

Heading to the tea house

Looking for some drinks

12am closing time

Even for 16 customers.

To Quicklys, then?

Grab your bikes

Two are running

It's also closed.

1 in the morning

Biking back to dorms

See drunk college kids

Getting ready for a fight.

Time to play a game

Reverse hide-and-seek

Where are the Nicks?

First time it's cold in Davis.

Back inside, try to pack

Give up and look for tea

Find some in backpack

Tastes kinda disgusting.

Start a movie

Fall asleep

Where did 4am go?

Somehow it's 5.

Run outside again

To the parking lot

Up six levels

Don't you get it?

It's so beautiful!

Reds and golds

You can see it rising...

Ouch. Looked straight at the sun.

Really sleepy

No, not really

Really happy

But also sad.

Cram into elevator

It has clear walls

Wonder if we'll break it

Somehow stay intact.

Crazy breakfast

Way too early

Or is it late?

No idea now.

Laughing

Crying

Hugging

Packing.

Please don't leave me

I'll never forget you.

Seems like an end

Doesn't have to be. 

Confession Room

Prompt (from yeahwriters.tumblr.com): [Write about someone who finds a room in which teachers and students have written confessions all over the walls]

He ran through the halls, ignoring the surprised stares of the other students, wiping tears from his eyes, trying to see through the splotches on his glasses. He turned down hallway after hallway until he found himself in a dimly lit corridor he had never seen before. Confused, he slowed to a walk. There were no doors in this hall; to either side of him were walls with layers of gray-white paint peeling off. A single lamp that seemed to be at the end of the hallway is the only light source. As he approached the end of the hall, he saw a single, ancient wooden door. The words Je suis desolé were ornately engraved in a half circle at the top of the door. It looked as if it were once elegant, but years have carved sharp scratches and ridges into the old wood. Tentatively, he tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Wiping a stray tear from his eye, he decided to go in. Why not.

The room is pitch dark. He feels the wall, looking for a light switch. He finds it, and three feeble lights flicker on. It’s a very small room, about three quarters of the size of most of the classrooms in the school. It’s empty except for a lone, broken desk in the corner. He looks around, curious about this newfound discovery. There seems to be markings on the far wall, the one closest to a light. He starts to make his way towards it, but nearly trips and falls over something small and cylindrical. He kneels to pick it up. It’s a little flashlight. He clicks a little button. This flashlight is powerful; its light fills the room. He looks around him. All four walls of the room are completely covered in markings. In the light, he can see that it is writing; the walls are covered in ink from sharpies, markers, pens… and where there is no more space for ink, he can faintly make out words carved into the wall. He is so captivated by this confusing yet intriguing discovery that he nearly forgets about why he had found the room in the first place. Yet those thoughts still hover at the back of his mind, refusing to go away.

He continues on his way towards the far wall, careful not to step on the few old pens that litter the floor. This wall seems to have the oldest writing. Some of the messages are faded and barely legible. He begins to read. I’m sorry. I hurt her too, with everyone else, even though they never caught me. I’m sorry. I’m the one who put the final in his backpack. I’m sorry. I started the rumor and blamed it on her.

Everything written was an apology. Students, and teachers too, it seemed, letting out their deepest confessions. Some of them stemmed from “regular” high school drama. Other stories, some of them phrases, some long paragraphs… not so much. Each one started the same. I’m sorry.  

He made his way slowly around the room, reading all the messages he could make out. Students apologizing for bullying others, for cheating on big tests, for sneaking off to drinking parties, for going behind the old shack to smoke for the first time. Teachers telling of their own cheatings, of their infidelities, of their own experiences with drugs and alcohol. Sometimes, it seemed that both sides of one story had written confessions on the walls. Even in the stories that might have seemed to be black and white on the outside had guilt pervading all involved, including the victims. The stories seemed to span many years, probably alluding to stories as old as the school itself. He noticed that none of the notes had much in common with his own problems. The thought made him uneasy. His own problems weren’t important. They were stupid, really. It was self centered of him to think that way. He slumped against the wall, slid down, huddled in a corner of the room, his head buried in his knees. He curled up so tightly he heard his glasses crack, but he didn’t care. He half heartedly hoped his broken glasses would leave a gash in his face. He would deserve it, anyway. Why was he here anyway? A stupid kid overdramatizing his own stupid problems in his own stupid mind. A thought crossed his mind. Why was any of this here? What prompted all these people to scrawl their confessions on an old classroom wall? He lifted his head and sat up on his knees. He wiped his glasses on his shirt and noticed they weren’t broken. He stared at the writing on the wall in front of him for what seemed like an eternity, not really thinking about anything. The letters began to swim in front of them, some of them popping out at him. The whispers of the thousands who had been to the room before him seemed to come alive to him, all speaking at once so that he didn’t hear what they said but somehow understood it all the same. As if in a trance, he picked up a pen. A black sharpie. I’m sorry, he scrawled in a miraculously empty space. I’m sorry that I did that… to me.

He suddenly felt very light headed. He stood up slowly, letting the marker roll onto the floor. He walked towards the door, opened the door as if he didn’t see it. He went down the dimly lit hall staring straight ahead. Not once did he look behind him until he found himself at the bottom steps of the school’s library. All the other students hustled and bustled around him, not noticing him at all, as usual. But for some reason, this time, it didn’t seem to matter as much. He sat down on a bench and shook his head a few times as if he were waking from a dream. He cautiously rolled up his left sleeve. The slits looked like they were closing already. Looking at the ugly wounds, he decided to make a promise to himself. This one, he would keep. Never again. He wasn’t worthless. The thought seemed foreign to his mind. Not worthless? A part of him sneered. Are you sure about that? But this time, another part of him stood up to it. Yes. Yes, I am. He thought about all the other things he had done. Letting his nails grow long so that he could file them to points. The half legal substances he kept in the shoebox in the closet. Never again. None of it.

He rose from the bench with an odd feeling. Was it… could it be… a bit of happiness?

He never found that mysterious corridor or the room of confessions again. And that was perfectly fine.

Discovery

Let’s go biking.

Where?

Anywhere.

So we set off. It didn’t’ matter where, or in which direction. Just somewhere.

We turned this way and that, picking whichever route seemed to take us away from city sounds. Eventually we spotted a path that seemed to lead to a patch of green shaded by a ring of trees.

Let’s go!

It was a green river. We biked along it, admiring the surroundings. A single asphalt path ran along the river, which flowed to our left. Huge trees lined our other side.

Look at that tree over there!

It was a friendly looking tree, with branches that seemed to extend into our reach. We dropped our bags and bikes and started up. The wood was firm but felt soft, and reminded one faintly of foam.

It’s like magic.

We lay in its branches comfortably. It felt like we were sitting in the sky. 

Captured!

There’s danger in the air. I can sense the fear of my companions through every pore in my skin. The giants are coming, herds and herds of them. They come in waves, their shadows casting a gloom to fit the tension they bring to us. Some decided to sprint for land. Most of us make our way to water as fast as we can. I decide to follow the crowd to the pond; I can swim faster than I can move on land.

Once I am at a safe distance away from the giants, I look around me. The younger ones about my age are hopping around. Some of them are joyous to see the first sunlight after a long winter. Others are still freaking out and zooming around, unsure of what to do about the impending danger. I notice all our elders are still very well hidden, not making a single move, not even when the flies buzz around their faces. I wonder why they choose this strategy. Wouldn’t it be easier to be caught staying still? And why wouldn’t they enjoy the beautiful sun while they could? It had been a long winter, and I knew for sure that I wanted to savour every moment of sunshine. The elders, apparently, didn’t mind staying in the shade, waiting for what seemed forever. 

I watched as the giants began to disperse. Some of them stayed on land, while others headed directly for the pond where many of us were. Their large hands came down as they scooped us up and away. I watched as my comrades were taken, one by one. I couldn’t tell where they were being taken; the giants were too large and seemed to walk straight into the sun. When the giants come, they always take many of our people. Those taken eventually make their ways back to their families, but it is often after a long time and they return quite shaken up. I fear what the giants do with them. Remembering all this and all the stories I’ve heard about the giants, I resolve to stay put, far into the pond where they rarely come. I sit and watch for a few more minutes. A fly comes by, but remembering the elders, I stay still. I can let one fly pass peacefully. More and more of my comrades are taken. The giants may be large, but they are also fast. I watch as a cousin swims frantically away, but is caught in the giant’s cupped hands. A sibling hops around on the bank of the pond, but isn’t fast enough to escape another giant’s grasp. As I watch, I notice a patch of sunlight not too far away. Right now, I’m sitting in some shade. It’s getting rather cool. The sunlit patch is starting to look awfully comfortable. I wonder if it’s worth the risk. Swimming towards it would make me more vulnerable to the siege. After a short internal debate, the sunlight wins. The winter has been so long; I’m afraid of giving up any part of spring. I leave my hiding place and make my way to the sunny patch. I sit there for a while, enjoying the warmth. I face away from the chaos, not wanting to ruin my perfect moment with mild bouts of guilt about not caring for all my companions. It’s not our way to be empathetic. In our world, it’s everyone for himself.

As I get lost in these musings, I don’t notice any of the sounds that come up behind me. All of a sudden my sunny spot disappears, and I am shrouded in shade. I give a cursory glance up, and see a large hand hurtling towards me. I try to make a break for it; I’m not too far away from the pond. Perhaps if I swim away fast enough, I can escape…

It’s no use. A wall comes down in front of me, as if it fell from the sky. I look around. The darkness is closing in on me. There’s no way to escape! Suddenly I am in the giant’s hand, hurtling towards the sky. I jump around in my prison cell, trying to kick my way free. I see an opening and hop towards it. Suddenly the walls of my prison change. The whole thing is tilting up! The opening that used to be to my left is now right above me, and I lose my balance for a moment and fall backwards. I instantly get back onto my feet and try to jump for the hole. I grab a hold of the edge and feel the ground, or whatever this prison is made of, shake under me. I’m travelling very fast, faster than I’ve ever gone. And then, I’m thrown through the air. I land on top of another one of my people. It’s the cousin I saw get taken a while back.

Where are we? I ask him. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he just clambers up from under me and tries to get on top of the others that are caught in this larger prison. Our prisoners are everywhere. Some clamber on top of each other, trying to reach the edge of our prison. Others sit quietly in the center of the prison, having lost all hope. I am unsure of what to do. Once again, I follow the crowd and focus my attention on getting up and out. It’s not use; once one of us gets near the top, a huge finger comes down and pushes him back down. I stop struggling, ready to give up. I wonder if I’ll ever see the pond again.

The giants stick their huge, ugly faces in at us. There are flashes of sunlight, but they give no warmth. I am confused by the odd flashes. Some others tell me not to think about them too much. They’re just dark magic instruments the giants use.

It seems like I am in the prison forever. Every now and then I give a half hearted attempt to clamber out, but every time I see another’s attempts prove futile, I find myself giving up hope as well. The fake sunlight flashes continue.

All of a sudden, a huge wall comes down again. It comes towards me, scooping me and three others up and out all at once. What’s happening now?! I have no choice but to succumb to the giant’s power. The others try to jump out at once. One makes her way to the hole in the small prison wall and jumps. The rest of us watch as she flies out and falls into the abyss below. No one knows how far up in the sky we are, or what the fall led to. I wonder if she will survive. The others still in the prison with me pretend not to notice.

Again, I’m travelling extremely fast. Wind comes in through the hole of our prison and blasts me in the face. Then, just as quickly as I had been lifted into the sky, I am plunged back towards what I hope is the ground. After going through so much tumbling, I’m not sure which way is up. The prison opens and I see that I am back in the pond. My companions rush away as fast as possible, before the giant changes its mind and closes the prison up again. For a few moments I am stunned. I’m alive! The floor of the prison moves, and I, too, jump off and swim away as fast as possible. I make it back to my original, shady, safe position. The herd of giants begins to clump up again and walk away. I let out a sigh of relief, and feel the apprehension and fear evaporate from the atmosphere almost as quickly as it came.

I’m glad to be alive. I understand why the elders decide to keep hidden. That was a little too much of an adventure for a little toad like me. 

The Dinner Game

Fictionalized version of events that don't completely follow what happened, but close :)

“So, apparently, some people put pineapples in salt water because it makes them taste sweeter.”

Thus began the period of experimentation.

“Really? Okay, fine. I’m going to get pineapples and pour salt all over them.” Mora got out of her seat. The rest of us looked at each other.

“Do you think she was serious…?”

Apparently, she was. Mora came back a few minutes later with a plate full of pineapple. She sat down and dumped some salt on an empty portion of her plate. She picked up a piece of pineapple and dipped it in the salt. Stuck it in her mouth, smacked her lips a little.

“I can’t taste any difference.”

“Maybe there isn’t enough salt,” someone suggested. Mora rolled her eyes and picked up the salt shaker again, this time dumping salt directly onto the pineapple.

“Wait! But I said they soak the pineapple in salt water,” protested Rebecca. “Not directly on the pineapple.”

Mora gave her an exasperated look. “Okay, fine,” she said, picking a piece of ice out of her water and rubbing it over the piece of pineapple. After waiting for the ice to melt a little and doing the same salt treatment to the other side of the pineapple slice, Mora deemed her experimental setup ready. She picked up an unsalted pineapple.

“Control,” she said, holding it up for everyone. She took a bite. Then it was time for the salty pineapple. Mora picked it up with both hands and looked at it for a second before sticking it in her mouth. Her expression changed from apprehension to disgust.

“Salty!” she exclaimed after swallowing. “Ew!”

“Here, let me try,” came a voice. With her eyes still tightly closed, mouth pursed, Mora slid the plate diagonally across the table to David. We watched as he dumped a generous amount of salt onto another piece of pineapple, then stuck it in his mouth. Throughout the process, he kept his expression serious and neutral. After chewing and swallowing, he looked over at Mora.

“Do you not taste that?!” she yelled out.

“Yeah, it’s salty,” agreed David, looking as if he hadn’t eaten anything particularly interesting. Mora looked disappointed that the salty pineapple had gotten so little response out of David. She got out of her chair again.

“When I asked the counselors why salt would make a pineapple sweet, they said it’s because you get more of a response from your taste buds. You know how when you eat something really sweet, like ice cream, and then you eat something that’s supposed to be sweet, like a strawberry, the strawberry won’t be sweet anymore? It’s kind of like that.”

With that explanation, she left for the ice cream machine. She came back with a small bowl of vanilla ice cream.

“I’m going to try this.”

This experiment went down similar to the previous one. Verdict: salt in ice cream makes salty ice cream, an unhappy Mora and a seemingly indifferent David. Things seemed to be ready to wind down, but not before Mora noticed the other condiments on the table. She picked up the pepper shaker and dumped some on the ice cream. Unfortunately, like the salt, results weren’t very favorable. David volunteered to try the pepper as well, and again seemed unaffected. Salt and pepper taken care of, only the bottle of ketchup remained on the table untouched. Mora looked at the bottle of Heinz for a while, contemplating on whether she should try it. Curiosity got the better of her, and she uncapped the ketchup. Squirted a small amount of it into the ice cream. The rest of us sitting around her recoiled slightly at the sound of the ketchup coming out the bottle. No one else looked remotely willing to try ketchup with ice cream. With the exception of David, of course, who was eyeing the mixture with interest.

“Oh my god, this is disgusting,” Mora said as she turned the ice cream over the ketchup a few times. She took up a spoonful of ice cream and ketchup. It was barely in her mouth when she made a face and reached for a napkin, spitting the ketchup and ice cream back out.

“Ew! Ew! Ew!” she exclaimed. “I had ice cream, and then the ketchup all at once!”

David beckoned for the bowl with his finger. Mora looked surprised that he wanted to try it.

“Really?” she asked as she slid the bowl over to him. He nodded once, then took up the bottle of ketchup on his side of the table, squirting a very generous amount onto the ice cream. He mixed it around a bit, then took a spoonful. We watched apprehensively as he put it to his lips. Once again, he kept his neutral expression as he swallowed and put his spoon down.

“How do you do that?!” Mora squealed. “It’s so disgusting!” She left the table once again, this time to get some unaltered food for actual dessert.

“I win,” said David when she came back with a slice of vegan carrot cake.

Now that was something Mora couldn’t take.

“Oh my god. NO. I can’t lose this! I already lost to – No! I have to win this!” she yelled. She pointed to the carrot cake. “You choose what to put on this. If I eat it, then I win,” she said. At first, David refused, but eventually agreed to take the plate. He had a smile on his face as he left to wander the cafeteria. It was only after he left that Mora seemed to fully realize what she had gotten herself into.

“Oh no. Oh no. I’m scared now. I don’t know what he’ll put on it. It’ll be strawberry sauce. Yeah. Strawberry sauce,” she said, trying to reassure herself. David was gone for a few minutes.

“Where is he?!” Mora was getting more nervous by the second. We were all starting to wonder where he had gone off to. After a few more minutes, Mora had had enough. She went over to Corey to tell him of her predicament and to see if David had asked him for ideas. Corey was laughing when Mora led him back to our table. He denied helping David, but decided to stick around to see how things would turn out.

When David came back, the carrot cake was unrecognizable. It was covered in different colored sauces, much of which looked spicy. A lemon seed was on the side of the plate. Mora took one look at the mess and covered her face with her hands and groaned. All the same, she was determined to win her challenge. We all watched as she eyed the plate and poked the used-to-be-cake with her fork, unsure of what to do. Eventually she gained the courage to take a forkful and stick it to her mouth. Before it could go all the way in, she slammed it back down onto the plate, spluttering.

“Disgusting!” she cried, grabbing a napkin to remove the taste from her mouth. David and Corey laughed, while everyone else looked mildly disgusted and quite sorry that Mora had put herself through such torture. After she had gotten rid of most of the taste, comparing it to the taste of vomit, Mora slid the plate over to David.

“You eat it.”

Corey looked delighted at this turn of events. David took the plate. He asked for a clean fork, and went to get a glass of soda. We watched as he, in his customary calm manner, cut a piece of the cake with the fork. He covered its surface more thoroughly with the sauces at Mora’s protest, and stuck it all in his mouth. And swallowed. Mora was amazed.

“How did you DO THAT?!” The rest of us wondered as well. David just shrugged.

“What did it taste like?” Grace asked him.

“Well, of course it’s disgusting,” David replied, “it’s just that I still ate it.”

Mora looked very unhappy, but fortunately, had had enough and didn’t give another attempt. She asked David exactly what he had put on it. Sour cream, orange juice, lemon juice, green salsa, hot sauce, and salt, came the answer. Corey admitted to having helped with ideas. Mora seemed disappointed with herself, and found it hard to admit defeat, though she did so in the end.

“I don’t respect you anymore,” she told David. He just smiled.

With that, it was time to put our plates and cups to the dish return.

Just another typical day at the Dining Commons.    

At the Zoo

Prompt: If you earned the same salary and were treated with the same respect no matter what you chose, what would be your dream job and why?

I wake up in the morning to the sound of chirping birds and chattering monkeys. I roll out of bed, put on my work clothes, grab a quick breakfast, and head out the door towards the San Francisco Zoo, only a short walk away from my house. I’m greeted at the gates of my second home by several peacocks and nod hello to the zookeepers as I make my way towards my office. The simple plaque on the door reads, “Veterinarian”.

I love this zoo. Ever since fifth grade, I wanted to be a vet. Interest in smaller pets (growing up, I always had a dog) gradually turned to larger, more exotic animals. I love spending time with animals. Though it breaks my heart to see them ill or hurt, it makes me so happy to help them and watch them get better. Fortunately, the animals here are generally very healthy. During my free time, I like to go on rounds around the exhibits, saying hello to my favourite patients. As the only full time vet here, most of the animals know me and are comfortable with my presence, having been treated at least one time or another. Today is a quiet day. I finish up with some paperwork, and head out to the exhibits.

First, I go over to the sea lion pool to greet Silent Knight and Henry. It never ceases to amaze me to watch the two companions, both completely blind, play together in the pool. I spent much of my time watching, caring for and studying them when they first showed up. Both had had experienced traumatic situations that cost them their eyesight, and, after spending some time in the Marine Mammal Center, had come to live at the zoo. Though it had taken a little longer for them to become accustomed to the pool and their lack of eyesight, now the two sea lions can rush towards a fish so fast you’d never know they couldn’t see. I laugh as they speed towards me from the other side of the pool and stick their snouts into my hands, trying to eat their fish while figuring out which pleasant person has come to give them food. Henry gives a bark of approval after swallowing his treat, and dives back into the water. Silent Knight follows closely behind.

Next, I go to see the chimpanzees. They approach cautiously, clinging to branches, as I enter their caged home. It’s a little saddening to see their living quarters so limited, but it was good to have had some say in how big to make all the exhibits, so that the animals would be comfortable. Today, I come with a salutary bunch of mini bananas. The chimps here know me the best; I came here almost every day this past year, doing the first half of my research project on chimps in and out of captivity. Working with these animals was much more exciting than my earlier job in a lab, where I spent much of my time pipetting my specimens from test tube to petri dish. I spend a little time playing with the chimps. The bananas were also a form of thank you. Soon, I’ll be packing up and going on leave for a year, traveling around Africa to study the chimpanzees there. A small chimp, who I spend much time with due to complications during birth, is happy to try to climb up my back to reach a leaf that’s fallen into my ponytail. I pull him off and give him a quick hug before returning him to a waiting relative. I had named the chimp Kanzi, and, as a sort of side experiment, had tried to teach him the lexigram language that had made his namesake famous. It made me proud when he began consistently pointing to his name when he heard it, a few months after I started working with him. Now, as a two year old chimp, he had a vocabulary of almost 100 words. The bright little guy was definitely my favourite. I would miss him during my year away, but I was still extremely excited for my upcoming trip to Africa.

For the rest of the day, I wander among the various exhibits, checking up on the different animals, making sure they’re all feeling well. The little wonders and achievements of the creatures are what keep me here. It makes me feel like a parent watching a growing child: the newborn giraffe taking her first wobbly steps; the little polar bear finally reaching the meat at the center of the ice cube; the snake that nearly got killed by a car now coiled up contently around a thick tree branch. Watching all these amazing creatures, it’s like living in a dream.