Short Story: Mari and Leomi

The sound of the scanner beeping each item is still ringing in her ears as she leans on the closed window. The rush of the fan pushes the echo further into her brain. It hurts. Her feet hurt. Her lower back hurts. The scent of soap on her hands reaches her nose and the reminder of washing them vigorously under the kitchen tap, wakes her the fact that she’s still in her work clothes. She passes the rooms as she makes her way to hers, and they swivel in and out like human turnstiles; her mom getting ready to leave for the late shift cleaning bank offices, her sisters, one coming home from school the other leaving for a late class. Her father pacing about trying to find the remote he just set down, wanting to change the channel before his soap opera starts.

She takes a shower and changes into her pajamas, a pair of checkered shorts and a white cotton tee. She serves herself dinner as her mom exits leaving a, “Mari, don’t forget to mop the kitchen tonight” behind her. Mari only forgot once and that was because standing another minute after a long shift became too much to bare.

She has become too accustomed to sitting in front of a screen watching a show or a movie while eating. Headphones on and she walls herself in for a moment of tranquility. No matter the content of the show, be it drama, action, comedy- it walls her in those little worlds away from her own. A temporary safe-haven where she can’t be reached to pay the rest of the bills, to clean up after everyone, to be a filler in someone else’s void.

She ends the evening with tea by the window, sitting on the radiator watching the last light of the day melt into a pink sorbet of clouds, foaming into a blueberry pie being cooked slowly. The sun is tucked under the horizon and the moon will soon make her appearance. Venus or that bright star has opened the show. The deep blueness intensifies, and the wind blows away the shadowy grey clouds. The tea is not scalding hot anymore but she takes careful sips anyway savoring the taste of the green tea leaves, no sugar just the punch of green that is so soothing and welcoming after a long day. She could hear her dad snoring already from his room and she decides to call it a night even though it’s only nine o’clock.

Rolling herself in her covers like a burrito, she’s able to snuff out the tractor like air conditioner. In these few moments before closing her eyes, she always tries to make a note to buy a new one but come morning, light smears the note away until the next night. She hasn’t cried herself to sleep lately due to the exhaustion of putting her body to work again. Her mind swivels like a huge eye, wildly in all directions from the repetitive work; scan, scan, scan, swipe card, take bills, pack it all, give receipt, scan, scan, scan, swipe card, take bills, pack it all, give receipt and on, and on. Unable to find the threshold, her baseline, she just passes out from the lack of commands.

A field has opened into view. Long green stems, peppered with little white flowers bounce on the tall, swaying grass. She can see her arms moving it all aside as she walks through. She cannot feel the grass scratch her sides, but she can feel the softness of the tips of flowers kissing her elbows as she makes her way through. The sky is a big blue tent free of clouds. The sun is far on the other side and a soft shade looms happily over everything, keeping it all cool and light. There’s a woman up ahead and she spots her with her face against the swaying grass, smiling as it grazes her cheeks gently. The woman looks up and sees her, she waves, and Mari waves back. The woman beckons her to come closer but Mari awakens to the sound of the air conditioner trucking in place as the light of the morning trickles through the curtains.

Under the shower head, she vigorously spreads the foamy soap with a wash cloth over her body. The sweet scent of the rose scented soap reminds her of her dream; the woman’s face plastered like wallpaper on the inside of her lids. With each blink, she can see her clearly and with each blink her foolish little heart melts for this woman. Ready to go, she leaves her goodbyes behind her, and heads to her shift at work.

Repetitive work is work and even among her circle, honorable work. She’s seen people respect her a little more for it. When you’re down and jobless no matter what caused it, people will blame you for being lazy. It’s their solace, Mari concluded. They are buoys in the middle of the ocean trying to convince you to stay afloat as another marker in this mere existence. No cruise ship will lower itself to you, so you got to work, even if it just means to float on the vastness of this seemingly perpetual blue. It’s not that she didn’t want to work, she was just having a hard time getting her mind to realize it had a body to attend to here on earth. Some days felt like she was running after a balloon, and wondering why she should catch it in the first place, why not let it go and let it finally get popped by the heat of the sun? Those were the hardest days to get through but on the outside, she just looked as if she was sitting down by choice, rather than being weighed down by this need to catch her mind before it burned.

The smell of the floor cleaner greets her as the automatic door opens, the pulsing beeping sounds smack her ears and she waves to her co-workers already into their shift. She clocks in, ties her apron on, and receives her assigned register for the day. During lunch break, she could see the woman mouthing something between her slow, tired blinks. Mari chews her food appreciatively as she tries to decipher what the woman is saying but reading lips is something she could never figure out. Her break is over and she uses the bathroom before heading back into the fray. After lunch, it becomes a little hectic but nothing compared to the four o’clock rush, good thing she’s on her way home by then.

On the bus, she decides to close her eyes for a bit. But the woman is no longer smiling or trying to tell her something instead she’s peering at her curiously making Mari’s cheeks burn in embarrassment. It’s that special kind, the kind of embarrassment you feel when someone you like gazes into you as if they’ve seen you completely and already something has awakened in them too. Most people feel happy for the reciprocation, not Mari. It feels terrifying, especially since she still feels raw from digging her way up from the depths of her sadness.

She arrives home, showers, and then settles down to eat dinner. Everyone around her is too busy in their own orbits. She doesn’t watch any shows or movies. It’s silly, she reasons, but it’s a change from her usual dreary landscape of her mind. Her mind is now fully preoccupied with the mysterious woman, nothing else will do. The woman is beautiful; her eyes are the color of licorice and she bets they must give out a sweetness so sharp they can trip up anyone’s gait, her hair is dark and tightly coiled, the tips barely grazing her lower back. She cleans up, washing the dishes with her mind panning over the landscape of the mysterious woman, zooming in on her smile and her inviting eyes.

She rolls herself into her covers and closes her eyes as the air conditioner’s roaring motor fades and a field opens once again and this time the woman pops up into frame laughing softly, “there you are again, I thought I dreamed you up!”. Mari furrows her brows, “isn’t this a dream?”. The woman shakes her head slowly as she smiles, “how silly” and takes her by the crook of her arm to a group of tall trees.

The trees are thick, creating a half circle, with the roots combing over each other. Grass is interspersed within each nook and the woman clears a space for them to sit down. “I’m Leomi, what’s your name?” tucking her legs underneath her, she responds, “Mari”. Leomi clasps her hands to her chest, and repeats, “Mari” as if she’s savoring each letter in her mouth. “Well Mari, nice to meet you” and extends her hand to her. Mari shakes it as Leomi places her other hand over it and holds them there. She gets closer and she can see the texture of her skin, the deep line in the middle of her plush, grape tinted lips, and the short thick eyelashes curtaining her eyes. Mari was right, sweet dark licorice and she can feel herself stumble. “Wow, you’re so pretty Mari”, Leomi says but Mari insists she’s not. Leomi sucks her teeth, “but you are. Look at those crescent moon eyes, bright like a deep summer day and your rounded nose, like mine but mine is bigger but that’s okay” and she pauses to laugh as Mari presses her lips together suppressing hers. “I can also see something in them. I think it matches a bit of my own something. But I can’t explain it, you know? It’s like something deep within me is pointing at you and saying, ‘there’s home’. So here I am”.

The wind rustles the leaves, knocking a few as it rains green for a moment. Mari feels so peaceful, ‘so here I am’ doesn’t sound strange to her but a little doubt creeps in. Even if it is her doing, so what? Elixirs of any kind can finish the job, this task her mind has set upon soothes the last bit of roughness in her. This is so soothing, nothing wrong about it. Mari leans closer and moves a long curl from Leomi’s face and in a blink, morning opens as it closes a door.

Work, home, eat, she can’t wait to dream again and again. Mari is excited to learn about Leomi each time; how she likes to suck on a slice of lemon because she believes it keeps her teeth white, or she removes the pie crust first so she can use it to scoop up the filling bit by bit, or how she likes laying on the grass, letting her body curve into the ground watching the sky change colors. Each time is bittersweet, she eventually needs to wake up and when did her mind become so punctual? Always waking up before she can get a chance to kiss her and right when the sun breaks through the horizon. She looks out the window and orange juice has spilled its way over the blue mantle of the sky. She turns off the a/c and a few tears spring from her eyes.

Eventually she realized she would cry again. It doesn’t matter how dry she felt after the last episode, there’s an ocean inside her constantly renewing itself, the deep goes deeper than her body can show. She wipes the tears away and focuses on the last dream she just experienced. Leomi brought a basket of raspberries. They ate them one by one; feeding each other the small, soft fruit, an offering to each of their lips from the other. Then suddenly, Leomi takes a fistful squeezes them letting the juices run out from between her fingers staining her knuckles. She reached for Mari’s hands and coated them with the crushed berries. Gently she massaged them on Mari’s open palms, “this is my heart in your hands, Mari. I want you to take it and nestle it into yours”. She guided Mari’s hands to her lips, offering the crushed berries to her mouth. Mari ate them slowly, kissing the tips of Leomi’s fingers, one by one. And just when she leaned in for a kiss she awoke. How cruel. But as the morning brightens to the lightest blue, she needs to remind herself, it’s just a dream, right?

The following night she has a nightmare. The scene opens to an empty corridor. It’s long and she makes her way through, uncertain to where it leads. Up ahead she sees a door with a glass window. Mari peers in and watches what appears to be Leomi in a hospital gown. Her long, coarse hair tied back into a pony tail, her face etched with concern as she watches someone move in front of her. Mari tries to open the door, but it won’t budge. She feels suffocated, the sadness is creeping into her lungs, long fingers obstructing her nose, wrapping around her tongue stiff. She can’t scream and she awakens as her pounding fists break the glass. Daylight has not broken through, the clock reads 2:00 am and she’s drenched in sweat. She heads to the bathroom to take a shower and changes into a fresh pair of pajamas. She removes her sheets and lays the covers out so they can dry. It’s as if she alighted from a pool straight onto her bed. She sits on the floor, holding her knees, crying and frustrated with her foolishness. She’s holding herself, trying to keep the lump in her throat from choking her back into the deep sadness again.

The days pass onto each other like a newspaper folding and unfolding by a man’s wrinkled hands; uncaring, calculating, and the inevitable smell of ink- the contract to the daily life of the world. She saves enough to leave her parents. She comes to the realization that she can no longer stay. The repetitiveness of everything is driving her mad. Just like Leomi told her about something within her pointing to Mari as her home, something inside her was begging her to leave pointing elsewhere so she can find her home. Her mother becomes concerned and calls her relatives on the west coast to let them know that Mari will visit, so she can at least have a place to stay as she figures out everything. Her father argues that if it wasn’t for his pension everything wouldn’t fall apart without her and says sternly, “But that doesn’t mean you should go running away like a scared little girl. You’re a woman! Own up to life and live it! Work hard, that’s why you’re here, that’s why I came to this country, to work!”.

The guilt clips at her heels but it doesn’t weigh her down. She takes a greyhound across the country, to the west coast. She watches the city disappear, long highways open a crack within her and the last remaining pieces of her old, broken self fly out like paper cranes. She smiles at each passing exit and she no longer grieves about anything anymore and even as she reaches her destination, not even uncertainty can cut a new wound over the healing scars. She sits at a diner and orders a piece of blueberry pie. She dips the crust into the soft blueberries, scooping each morsel into her mouth. After paying the cashier, she leaves and walks out of the diner and walks towards the park. Up ahead a trail catches her eyes. She follows it and an excitement she has never felt before simmers within her slowly, building its way up to her lips and spreading into a smile.

Mari crosses her way through a few trees and there she is sitting, watching a bubbling stream crawl by. She recognizes the coily hair shining under the real, bright sun. She makes sure she isn’t dreaming, pinching her arm until her skin turns into a dangerous red, she tugs at her hair and she can’t believe it. She gets closer and Leomi turns around, “Mari!” she stands and hugs her so tightly, she can feel the curve of her body fit into hers, “you found me! I can’t believe it!”. Leomi peels away at the hips to look into Mari’s stunned, happy face, “you actually came to find me” and she kisses her forehead, her nose, her cheeks and finally her lips. They stay connected for a long while. Mari breaks the soft silence of reunion, “but how? How? I thought I was dreaming” Leomi spreads her arms wide, “I have so much to tell you Mari, so much”. They link arms and Mari leads her back to the diner, “I think I saw your favorite pie on the menu”.

Short Story: Dandelion

Something poetic reaches the tips of her fingers but she digs them into her nose. Flicking the dirt she has found, the window offers a new insight- a car crash. One car slammed the breaks but the other couldn’t swerve around and impacted it from behind. Both drivers are pointing and yelling, sweaty foreheads, clammy button down shirts, and she by the window wondering what it must be like to own a car, pay the bill monthly for the insurance, to go to work five days a week, and get a paycheck to split like tasteless, bitter, pie slices fed to their respective collectors. Holes in her socks, an old t-shirt a faded grey with bleach stains, and worn out pajama pants. Who cares? She thinks to herself and so another voice echoes, ‘yeah who cares?’.

The plates get cleaned, the pot gets scrubbed, she mops the floor and for a second, she imagines herself calling out to someone, ‘honey everything is clean come look’. Or the same scene but they help her, putting their arms around her, passing her the towel to dry the soapy stove, and playfully roughing up her hair kissing her temples. All this is soothing for a couple of minutes, while brushing her teeth, washing her face, and taking a shower. But as soon as her legs slither into her cocoon of a blanket, it fades and as it does it injures. The picture becomes static and the corners become knives that extend to the deepest part of her and rip her in two. What’s it like to watch the world live? First, you have to die, and second you can never come back to life again. What’s more cruel is that you’re still alive. A voice echoes in her mind, ‘but you’re really dead, right? How else can you see what others miss because they’re too busy living?’

Waking up is easy. The battle is the thoughts that spring out like soldiers from a foxhole, all clamoring to be fed, to be looked at with their rifles, their grenades stuffed in their pockets. When they are not fed, they launch every weapon, every bullet flies towards her but they don’t hurt, instead they remind her how she’s alive but can’t really die a real death. Strange, but in some poets mouths a beautiful nightmare. We die half deaths to mourn a life we can never touch, or something like that, she thinks. The voice echoes again, ‘it is like that, how else can you live?’

What the poets don’t dare write about is how poor one becomes when one cannot provide for themselves, when they are in the fits of sadness, or depression, that’s the proper way to say it, yes? Fits of sadness sounds mild, depression sounds a bit stark, what kind of name can you give whatever takes hold? What kind of name can encompass the shit show that becomes your life when you’re running on no fuel, no energy because it’s being spent on keeping yourself alive while aggressively fighting the desire to die? She accepts help from the government, unless she makes a bit of money from freelancing and then they take that away not aware that sometimes not moving is not an option she wants, it just happens. The kindness of relatives is only extended briefly and then the frustration of helping an empty flesh bag of a person that cannot provide for themselves when the tools are readily there for the taking becomes too much. Then they stop visiting. Who wants to throw money at carrion anyway?

Today is a mild day. No frontline of thoughts coming to assault her today. The window frames a quiet morning, a waft of freshly baked bread comes through. She changes into proper clothes and sits by the laptop, a mug of coffee with milk waiting to be attended to. She flips the laptop open but does not turn it on. She picks up the mug and drinks the hot liquid in sips. She takes a deep breath and stretches her arms, and they softly land on her knees. She begins to cry. Not the type of depressive wails that comes from the frustration of not being able to adapt to every stressor of living a normal life, not the type of cry that comes after fighting for too long, not the type of sobs that come forth after being able to place the words with the feelings, no not those. It’s the silent tears that fall from eyes that have not been able to close all night, it’s the tears that fall after a sunny day, a hot summer day pierced by grey clouds, a small shower to refresh the heated pavement. It is the gentle cry of a warrior in repose, sitting after walking for too long to a destination she’s not sure even exists, and offering her face to the sky, rejoicing in a moment of solitude that is hers, one not afforded in the battle with one’s own demons.

She breathes deeply as they waterfall slowly, catching some in her mouth, tasting the saltiness, a nourishment she has yet to give a name to. She squeezes her knees, she sits back watching her reflection on the laptop screen. She makes a gun with her hand, she pulls the trigger and laughs. The voice echoes, ‘but we are already dead, what would be the point?’ “To end the suffering”, she responds. But the voice says nothing. “We are not suffering” she says, “I am mourning a life I cannot live”.

Short Story: Wymuth

“What am I looking at?”, he chuckles to himself. He watches it scamper about and then waddling like a penguin to a rock, little arms stretched out until they grab it. “Oh my goodness, why am I not…” and he reaches around for his camera but as soon as he turns it on, fixes his view on the little thing, it vanishes.

Wymuth is too old to go after a leprechaun or was it a fairy? Either way the sun was getting up there ready for its shiny, noon display. The terrible, majestic sun and its pinpoint heat ray. He had his wide, brimmed hat on and had no fear of a little heat this summer.

Wymuth is an old coot. Too picky to find someone to settle down with and too grumpy for the city that birthed him. After taking his savings, and a deposit of his pension in his debit account monthly, he set off into the woods. He bought a piece of land, made a small cabin to his liking and set a wide patch for vegetables and fruit.

On his rocking chair he settles, feeling his sore bones and muscles relaxing against the cushions. Back and forth he goes, slowly closing and opening his eyes, his lids scratching the dryness until they close with calmness. His mouth still not wanting food, his belly still content from a feast of warm oatmeal and strawberries fresh from picking in the early dawn. Something in his mind pokes around in his heart. Like a vagabond, the thought hitchhikes across the highway of his brain, swimming down past his throat, and landing in the ocean that seems too alive, and yet too tired to consider this traveler of sorts. What did this thought want? The defenses were picking their teeth, not caring or thinking it a threat. The thought, waving around its arms and saying, ‘I feel so empty’. The defenses just smack their mouth together just to say, ‘that’s just you, we’re fine here, we got everything we need’. It wasn’t enough for the vagabond now stomping its feet, ‘but I need something, I am missing something!’. The defenses did not want to get up from their comfortable spot, but they did anyway, took out a shiv and killed the thought until the blood spilled out like a fountain. The clean up crew came along, sweeping the carrion and flushing it down. To Wymuth, it was just a fart. He happily tilts to one side and let it rip. He chuckles and snorts until he’s awake again and a little hungry.

Frying some eggs, that the hens laid, he carefully transfers it to the awaiting slice of bread. He places a pinch of salt, a piece of a leafy green lettuce, and a couple slices of an heirloom tomato. He tops it off with another slice, that he smeared with pesto. Upon taking a bite, “this is what I’ve been missing”. As he chews, he goes back outside hoping to see the little creature. He could only see the thick, trunked trees standing tall, with green lush branches swaying slowly from a passing breeze. The little creature is probably shuffling away between the bushes. He concludes, “I scared the thing, look at me, a big fleshy creature just wandering where he shouldn’t”.

Drinking orange juice, he waters some herbs lining the back part of his cabin. He adjusts the green sheet he made into a roof over the delicate herbs to make sure they don’t burn under the sun.

What else could be said of Wymuth? He likes to wear his soft, brown corduroys every day until they are so dirty, he has to wash them. He prefers cotton button downs than t-shirts, and socks do not agree with him during the summer. He wiggles his toes in his sandals, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight. But what about Wymuth that he does not know of himself? That’s a better question that most people explore about themselves. Not Wymuth, why would he do such a thing? But little does he know, that those thoughts that spring once in awhile come from a heartache he has yet to recognize. He may fart them out once in a while, but some, without his knowing, have cemented themselves between his teeth, lining his callused fingers, and even between the graying hairs on his head. They were about a love he could not have and to him it was all or nothing; if I could not have her then I don’t want no one else, literally. He was not like people who compromise and say: ‘well, love comes in all forms’; ‘we learn to love’; ‘being alone is too sad, I’ll have anyone that can close that void’.

So, who was this woman? She was a ray of light in the dark abyss of humanity. The kind of person God makes every once in a while, when the devil ain’t looking, depositing the soul in a vessel where he can’t reach them. Her calling was higher than the lower realms that we live in and call home. To her, she wanted to heal the world, so he pulled back, let her go and now he’s here. Here, is a clearing in a forest, a piece a land he negotiated and eventually bought. Here, is where he plans to die. Here, is where he’s showing the real God, what his hands can really do.

God is a fickle thought to most people. Actually, a lot of people. They give this God either too much power or no power to the point in where they conclude- they, he, she, whatever it’s called does not exist. But life is funny for some. The way one goes about the world says more than what we wish it did. The things hidden from us aren’t really hidden and the things in clear view aren’t always a buoy to hold on to until something else comes along. Wymuth knows what God is and with certainty what God isn’t. It’s so easy to be swayed by a dangling carrot when one is hungry, especially when one is starved and with eyesight obscured. But when one knows where to find food, and have a clear view of the landscape a carrot doesn’t seem that appetizing now does it?

Wymuth couldn’t sit in the company of other people anymore. The conversations never went where he was trying to get to, and people seemed too enamored with this carrot chasing game. If he tried to tell someone what he found out, they seemed to want it packaged like this; the steps, the how and the why’s and how much do I have to spend until I could achieve what needs to be achieved? Such soulless people, Wymuth would think. Being a preacher was not his calling for sure, he felt his soul die a little with every encounter. To preserve and nurture it, he felt that he needed to go away. His Claire went away to help, but he just couldn’t convince her to take him with her. The heartache? not being with Claire until he dies. But he keeps an altar like she taught him; a wooden shelf, a goblet of water, and a candle burning. He would light the candle and say, “this light I offer to my beloved, so she never gets lost in the dark of someone else’s energy.”

Mornings and nights pass onto each other. Day by day, Wymuth diligently tends to his garden but also goes into the forest. He cleans up the garbage left by careless hikers. He rearranges the fallen branches, and even takes some with him for the upcoming winter. Every morning, he wakes up and kisses the dawn and every night he sends a prayer with the wind for Claire. He gets older each day, but the tinctures, the vegetables, and the walking he does keeps him out of any real danger. His soul makes the defenses to these intrusive thoughts, striking them down, and even squinting their eyes trying to come up with a plan to destroy the origin of their births. Wymuth on the other hand, comes across a strange sight. Small rocks arranged in such a way, it seems irregular for the scenery. He looks about, hoping to spot the furry creature responsible for such a display. Alas, they make no appearance. Wymuth shrugs and walks on, a bag in hand and a picking stick on the other, looking for debris not belonging to the forest.

One morning as he kisses the dawn, eyes lingering at the sun breaking the horizon, a brilliant orange and red staining the clouds, he sees something scamper away from the pumpkin patch. He goes over and makes out the little shoots springing from the dampened earth, and walks about to inspect if any damage was done to the neighboring vegetables and fruits. There were some empty strawberry bushes, but he sighs and hopes that the little creature is as careful as he was now. He doesn’t mind hungry thieves, he would only be upset if the plants were ruined in the process. He says into the shadowy morning, “They should taste really good, the soil here is fertile ya know” and walks back towards his humble abode leaving a, “just don’t rough them up too much or else they won’t sprout nothing good to eat” behind him.

By the candles he lights up in the night, as he eats his dinner, he watches the rain fall too roughly. His defenses have found the source, they urge him to pick the peppermint leaves, to take a few sprigs of rosemary, and to add cloves in a pot of boiling water. He makes the concoction and after eating his dinner he swishes the warm liquid about his mouth and spits it outside. He blows out all the candles with a satisfied sigh.

Wymuth is awoken in the middle of the night by a couple of pots falling from the cabinets. He slowly sits up on his bed, and through the mosquito net, fixes his eye towards the kitchen. He sees the little fella he saw weeks earlier. Its shadowed figure still, wondering what the old man was going to do. It shuffles quietly towards to opened door, and sprints fast away from the cabin. Wymuth laughs, “I wonder what its looking for?”. He falls back to sleep unbothered.

The little creature is sprinting so fast it looks as though it leaves white glitter trailing behind. It makes its way back to its home in a tree. Sitting down, panting a bit, another little creature gets up from its slumber. They don’t look like much; short, stout little things, they’re almost as cute as otters but not hairy enough to be considered one. Their dark eyes shine, and the awoken little thing just sighs and shakes their head. They’ve concluded that the old man is harmless, but his companion just wanted to make sure. He found no weapons, and he just seems like a lonely human doing no harm, which was counterintuitive to him, they’re always up to something, he thought.

In the morning, Wymuth rearranges the pots back into their respective places, as the oatmeal simmers in a pot on the stove. He went out to get the strawberries, putting them in a basket and washing them. He halves the strawberries and arranges them on the oatmeal. Eating directly from the pot, he savors his breakfast; the oatmeal sweetened with cinnamon, a pinch of salt and cloves, paired perfectly with the freshly, washed strawberries. His palate is simple, he does not mind the same breakfast days on end, as long as it is this sweet and this satisfying.

The little creatures took to Wymuth, watching the old man from afar picking up the stuff those people leave behind. Such an inconvenience to them, tripping over these foreign objects as they move quickly about. They made offerings to the forest spirit, going so far as arranging the stones as the spirit likes them. But no avail, the garbage just keeps coming. They would watch these big things walk about, their big feet squishing sometimes the food they eat, how dare they? How dare they come here and step all over their home with their big ugly looking feet?

One creature pointed to the old man’s heart, they saw something else glowing there. It was a different color than the rest of the old man’s light. They grew concerned. One went to the river and fished out from the depths, a translucent, blue stone. They wanted to gift this man, with the odd colored light, with this blue stone, hoping it would help him. They left it inside of a bucket of water by the side of his herb garden.

Wymuth returns home, sweating and feeling hot. He places the bag of garbage on the back of his truck, ready to be placed in the large bin near town. He goes to grab his shower caddy with his soap and sponge, and makes his way to his makeshift shower. He was in the process of making another room for the toilet and bath, but he needs more material. He is hoping to finish before it gets too cold. For now, the outdoor shower was a luxury. The shower’s floor was a patch of smooth stones and moss, surrounded by a tall wooden fence. He retrieves the bucket of water, that he keeps by the herb garden, and the small cup next it. He strips down, not having neighbors to worry about and goes in. He grabs his soap, and splashes some water on him to create the suds. He smiles as it refreshes his skin and creates a soft, sweet minty scent from the soap, enveloping him in a wonderful cool off. As he scrapes the bottom of the bucket, to rinse off the soapy foam, he splashes the water and something hard hits him on the shoulder. With a delicate thud, it falls on a patch of moss. The translucent, blue stone glints off light. He reaches down to grab it, “what a beauty” he says out loud, “where did you come from?”.

He walks back to his cabin, bare feet picking up dirt, which he wipes off on a towel before entering his home. He grabs a hanging towel and places the stone on the table. He gazes at it as he dries off. He goes to his wardrobe and picks out a fresh pair of underwear, puts it on and sits down still staring at the little stone. His soul defenders have figured it out, and whisper to him, ‘place it in the goblet of water that you have for Claire’. He fetches the wide mouth cup, delicately placing it on the table. He gently places the blue stone at the bottom. Soon enough, a blue light blooms and spills over the sides. Wymuth is urged to look inside, as he does he could see Claire reflected in the light and his heart is warmed. He could see her smoking a cigar and blowing the smoke slowly over someone’s head, she then moves about to reach a big, green leaf which she then uses to fan away something dark roaming too close to the person she’s treating. She sees the dark energy and with a rough word it vanishes. A few tears spring from his eyes, and the creatures are watching him outside. They watch curiously, as the strange light dissipates and his own light glows stronger. Wymuth then says, “thank you, I just needed to know if she was okay” knowing somehow, with a nudge from his defenders, that it was the little creatures doing, “thank you” and he softly weeps, a few tears landing on Claire’s reflection. They scurry off leaving a patch of a small, leafy herb behind them. 

Short Story: Oliver

This story came to me while I was showering one evening, as I was thinking about strange signs life can give us sometimes, and how we come to realize things too late. The end might seem a little dramatic, but isn’t that how it feels, when we are too late to grasp what could have been? So here I present, “Oliver”.

He chews the antacid as he closes his briefcase. The quarterly reports nestle between thick manila folders, loose pens, and a calculator. He adjusts his sweater and heads out the door. 7am skies on a spring day, dew still lingers, and the sun hazes caught between gossamer clouds.

Routine as railways, his feet the unwilling steel tires effortlessly gliding through, passing coffee shops and their inviting aromas of freshly baked goods. A sign sways lazily on a light pole, almost falling from the clear striated tape:

NEVER HIDE TWO EYES

SEEN AND HEARD

ALWAYS

He smiles at the inanity of it and continues, checking his watch now and then, knowing the train arrives at 7:30am every weekday morning. He sees another sign stamped on another light pole:

IF YOU SEE WITH TWO EYES

NOT HIDDEN

MAKE WISH

He scoffs, “yea, I wish” and laughs quickening his steps not wanting to miss the train -a few more blocks- he thinks to himself, egging himself further down the avenue.

He spots another sign:

MAKE WISH—->

His curiosity peaks and he veers away from the routine for a few minutes. He looks down the alleyway and decides on an impulse to follow. He wipes droplets of sweat off his forehead and smacks his chest gently wondering why the antacid isn’t kicking in yet.

A door is ajar, and he looks in. A solitary, wooden chair is off to his right, the room appears empty. Just as he is about to run back to his designated tracks, seeing there’s only five minutes left until his train arrives, something emerges from the shadows. He is momentarily taken aback as a small creature greets him by nodding its head. He notices the deep wrinkles on its face and within each fold, small mushroom like moles peek through. “I will grant you one wish” and it extends its arms towards this man.

He in turn watches before him, in his mind’s eye: a football game he played when he was in high school; playing a piano in a recital as his father records it with a video camera; a kitchen where his mother stirs a pot smiling at him; walking across a stage where a woman is holding a rolled up, ribbon tied paper; and a woman pulling away after kissing him, cheeks flushed, lips stained by the cherry soda they were sharing, the taste lingering on his tongue and her words echoing, “I think I love you Oliver”.

Before he could formulate his wish, a pain strikes him, his arm goes numb and he falls face down. He watches the creature disappear in a plume of upturned dust, the woman still in his mind’s eyes, “I think I love you Oliver” smiling. He could never bring himself to say them back. All the things between them seem trivial now. What was he looking for in life anyway? There was something strange happening between his mind and his heart. But as the blood slowly spills over the corners of his mouth, he could only taste the cherry soda.