Peculiar Girl & Tick-Tock Clicking

Peculiar Girl and Tick Tock Clicking

Click, click.

Stay taps her finger. Click, on the metal sink as she stares out the wood bordered window of the kitchen, her eyes multiplied and gleaming in the glass crane on the sill.

Click, on the claw foot tub, water gone cold, toes pruney.

Click, click.

The sound of her heart, locked up behind tall, icy walls of skin and bone. Click, click, her heart ticks on. No thump or bump, pound or beat. Click, click, like a clock, second hand itching toward endless minutes, caged behind arctic glass, marking down numbers and moments.

What did Stay’s heart click down to? What waited for her at the end of her tick tock heart?

No more ticking, clicking or tocking, Stay thought. She knows what this is about. She knows what has come to haunt her.

Stay, alone, never experienced loneliness. With the click, tick, taping of her finger echoing through the empty home, loneliness began to echo in her tick-tock heart, creaking and cracking through frosty ice.

How? How could this be? Her friends dance in porcupine bones and swim in paper cranes. Her love and life live in collecting leaves and bones and deceased bugs hiding under brown leaves. No room for loneliness, no space to give.

Yet now she understood, loneliness ticked in her with every tock, tapped on every surface, scratching the blue flowers from her delicate finger. A finger not hers. A replacement, cold and aching, without true sense of feeling. Stay felt like the finger, in her home, in the world. Not truly a part, barely connected, sticking out. Cold, as the blood of life did not beat to her. Breath made no difference. All she had was click, click.

Alone, a loner, all one. Stay is one. Perhaps she was just one even when her mother was around. One amongst a thousand paper cranes, one among her vials of rain, and snow creatures built in the winter. One, even when she knew she was not.

Is this growing up? Is this a passing, fleeting, tick tock moment? Perhaps tomorrow it will be gone. Minutes will have ticked and clicked it away, dissipating the loneliness, the oddness, the bloodless finger feeling.

Click, click.

For now it goes on. Second after second, her soul a mechanic meaning, her thoughts are gears and drives spinning for something, working to get somewhere. Click, click.

The Hummingbird

642 Things to write about: A bird has been following you everywhere you got for a week. Why is it following you?Whom does it work for?

Is it the same bird again? How many could there possibly be in my apartment on the 11th floor, and in the city? I only ever see it in my peripherals when I'm not thinking about it, when I turn my head to get a look I see a flash of green and it's gone. And of course, I hear it all the time, like a large bee buzzing on my shoulder, driving me slowly, ever further, into insanity.

In the elevator on my way down to the street I feel a sharp flutter on my neck, like a mosquito bite. I don't even have the urge to swat or smack it. When I turn my head to look, a long, thin beak is pointed up at me and a tiny green and blue body shuddering with the energy of its wings. A soft blur. A hum.

I'm staring at it in awe, my mouth open.

Then it speaks. "I knew it, I said to them, I said you were the one. They had me follow you all week to make sure but I knew and I was right." The bird's voice was a mixture of song and whisper

"What?" I said, dumbfounded.

"The majestry of birds, of course. She is looking and I found you. You're the one, I knew it. I can smell it on you like sweet honeysuckle in your blood. You're the heir."

A Day of Ice

Peculiar girl would have loved it outside today. She would have loved walking in the woods, the trees and every little bit of twigs and stuff covered in ice, like cystals, always with the impending danger of the weight of the ice causing giant branches and whole trees to snap with the force. At any second she could be crushed. There would be a thrill, for her, amidst the silent white of the icy world. 

Peculiar Girl and Rain

Stay corked the small vial containing a handful of raindrops. It would go on the shelf with a hundred other vials, some identical, others vastly different. Some were huge and others tiny, with only one drop inside. Each represented a different rain. If it rained for days continually, it would be just one vial. A vial for each unique storm or rain; something that came and went and could never return as it was in that moment.

Constant. Sometimes it was constant. Water falling from the sky in grey sheets, blurring everything in its nothingness. The world becoming out of focus, except for the rain. How could the sky hold so much water? Why were the clouds not falling down? Stay supposed that perhaps that was exactly what the clouds were doing - falling. The rain pours, thunders, smashes and pushing on the windows, demanding to be let in. Leaves swirl to the ground softly, without a sound, like a spring rain. When winter crawls through the drops, it howls and snaps at your heels, taunting.

Stay could live in the rain. She never felt uncomfortable or in danger from storms. No mater the ferocity. No matter the height of lightning nor the breadth of thunder, the rain was beautiful. Even if the strikes of lightning took away her lights inside, she could always use her oil lamps, hanging in abundance along the hallway walls. If the thunder shook her home with a deep crack and knocked something down, Stay wouldn't mind. She didn't mind when it shook a cobalt blue and ivory plate down, shattering it into a dozen little pieces. She made it into something even more beautiful than when it was whole. She drilled a hole into each piece, tied string to it and created a wind chime. Each storm after, the wind chime danced and trilled.

Storms make everything dull and grey, heavy and drooped. The life of the world naturally wanted to reach up and spread out. In the rain, nature told everything to hush, be quiet, calm down. Rain was forever nourishing. Water gave life to everything on Earth. It was smooth, clear and shiny. Small droplets or immense, forever spanning oceans. Stay wanted to see an ocean. A love affair between water and salt. It allowed fishes to glow in vibrant pinks and blues and for people to float happily along their beaches. The ocean was a place full of tears.

Stay once read about a pink see. Made pink from a certain algae that also gave the sea a high concentration of salt. It was the most buoyant place on earth. Pink waters, white sands, what a strange and wonderful place that would be to sleep in the waters.

Now, Stay sat on her porch step, a thin metal roof over hanging, keeping most of the rain off. She didn't mind getting wet though. Each time lighting flashed, Stay felt the smile on her face grow. There was no joy quite like watching lighting crawl through the sky. Like the roots or branches of a tree, or the veins of her body. the fundamentals of life lay in a storm: water and veins. The energy cracked with a force, blinding her, showing her home in a brilliant light, like a splash of day in a deep and dark night.

She didn't mind baths or showers, but she preferred to bath in the lake. It took her years after her mother's disappearance to bring herself to back in. When she did, the water lapped around her waist, coaxing her to go further. Her skin bumped in tiny dots as chills ran down her arms and spine. The sun slowly warmed her, told her it was ok. The lake was still, clear. Stay watched her toes wiggle into the clay, kicking up small bursts of clouds, and pebbles rolled away, tumbling on top of each other, tickling her feet.

Stay put her head underneath the surface and opened her eyes. It was like she had finally awakened. Finally understood. Her mother was not returning. Stay was alone, and that was ok. A fish swam by, skirting close to her hand.

When she resurfaced, it was raining. She had always loved rain. Stay and her mother used to dance in it, the used to wash their hair in the rivulets running down from the roof in great streams, like their own little waterfall. The sound would per her to sleep, when she finally manged to go to bed. Then, her first visit back to the lake, it had become something more. A sign. She was alone, yes, she was only as alone a creature could be, surrounded by the constant life that was earth.

The storm wasn't' different from any other, except it was its own. Stay corked the vial contain a handful of raindrops. The rotting leaves and moist earth intoxicated her, a smell so familiar it was like being washed away. The clear vial in the shape of a circle with a hole through the middle, like a donut, would join the other hundred vials of varying sizes, shapes and colors. Many were small bottles, some old test tubes. Most she found in the dirt, hiding like the bones on her mantel, or dredged from the lake. Brown and red apothecary jars, clear chipped test tubes and others she didn't know their past sues. The ones from the lake were her favorite. The lake spanned out further than her eyes could reach, she imagines those bottles and jars came from all over the world.

Still, many vials were bought online. She quickly ran out of her found pieces. Stay picked out bottles that spoke to her in some way. Whether unique or plan, she knew each one belonged to her when she found it, she knew the rain belonged to them.

Peculiar Girl and Cat Teeth

Cat teeth and a wolf claw, a skunk tail and assorted legs from raccoon, possums, and squirrels. Stay didn't have many bones on her mantel, but her collection grew nearly ever time she walked through the woods. They found her, in the form of a glint of yellow-white poking from brown leaves, a puff of fur nearby; sings she looked for. The only full skeleton she had were her porcupine bones, strung together and flying in front of a window. The rest lay random on the fire mantel, now with the fire silent beneath, in red and orange, mirroring autumn crawling through the windows, warming her naked toes.

The cat teeth were stacked in a small jar the size of her thumb. Molars, canines. Kitten and mature. Sharp and some with blood still clinging to the root. Ever so tiny, strong and capable. They seemed much too small to mean so much to such beasts.

Bones were strange, beautiful puzzle pieces to life. A thing most never saw while living, a beauty that only showed itself in the age of death. Stay wandered the woods and picked up the smooth bones among twigs and leaves. She marveled at the life they had, and at the energy returned the creatures returned to the world; except for that one bone.

Stay imagined assuming the role of Frankenstein. She would put the teeth on white linen, lined up in swooping rows, almost lost against the weave of the fabric. Stay watched in her minds eye as she cut her finger on a tiny tooth, the blood becoming the tooth's blood, the animal's life. The skunk bone would lye on the opposite end of the linen, ensuring a touch of the unknown, of wild mystery. Other beasts would bring her creature strength, stealth, and ferociousness.

Thumbing the bottle, stay gave it a small shake. The teeth jingled on the glass, music of life and death. A molar stock to the bottom of the cork top.

She would be no Frankenstein. She would never be able to care for an animal. Cleaning bones from the outside and dusting them, she could do. Feeding, loving and caring for a living creature other than herself, she could not.

Uncorking the jar, Stay pooled a few teeth onto her palm. How different some looked from others. Spikes and mini mountains, some with pits and others with ravines. There could be a whole minuscule world among these cat teeth. Oh, how Stay would love to live in such a world among calcified mountains.

Rivers would dig deep and trees would grow wide until they all connected, their branches grafted into one mutated web: a tree of life. The sky would turn green and the rain would be leaves. Milk flowers would grow beside the mountain and the river's water would be warm and pure from the tree's roots. This world would be free from disease. Stay imagined living in this world, alone, with no need nor desire to build separate shelter. To block out and hide away. Her bed would be moss, her cup would be bark, her shade would be the great tree of life.

Stay stretched her neck, it gave a lad pop. She had been looking so intently at the teeth in her hand a cramp had formed, snapping her out of the day dream. She carefully placed each tooth, one at a time, back into the jar.

Oh, The People You'll Meet

I met her in England, in an elderly home where they laughed and played games, had parties every week, and their own rooms with windows to a garden. She sat in bed surrounded by faded post cards and letters pinned to the wall, a vase of yellow flowers and a stack of well read books with half a glass water on her bedside. When we walked into the room she looked up from staring at nothing, a smile grew wide on her face, eyes shining, and life breathing into her sagging skin. I smiled back, reflex of the contagion, we hadn't met but we knew each other. 

I relaxed, at ease with my husband and father-in-law, we circled her bed and kissed cheeks in hello. There were brief introductions of courtesy, no one remembers them now. No, I remember the black and white post cards from Africa and Russia filled with missings and reminiscings in shaky cursive. A love letter gone soft and frail to touch, I had to step away or I would have stroked the blue letters and watch the paper fall, the love in the years disintegrating at my touch. 

Watching me, she begins to tell of her travels, the times and parts of her life she holds most dear. Walking the Great Wall of China, riding an elephant through the forests of India, living under the open sky of Kenya, shoes covered in the sand of the pyramids, scaling Volcanos in New Zealand, making wine in Italy, and hiking the great expanse of Russia. And in between, being a nurse during WWII, getting married and raising kids. 

Her life was amazing, like a book filled with endless adventures while waiting for a sequel. She found adventure in everything. Every day, she said, someone visited her now and she remembered a place she had been, a drink she had had with a friend. I asked her thoughts on America, had she been there. "Oh," she said, "I would never want to go to such a place." I smiled and nodded my head as if I understood She hadn't realized where I was from, but it didn't matter, I didn't mind.  I knew then she hadn't experienced all there was, she hadn't grown as much as I thought she would have from seeing so much of the world. She was another person, amazing, with astounding stories, yes, but human just the same. 

Dust of Danika - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

These people were obsessed, what a nuisance they were creating for the world around them, a waste of news time and a waste of tax money making these two bored cops sit out here in the blistering day because some people needed to find something out of nothing. The desire to find something other-worldly from the shooting star or UFO or meteor or Alien Sight or any other name the people were calling it as Danika and Brett weaved through the people sitting cross-legged on towels, blankets and cushions. Danika understood wanting to be part of something, for a sense of community and belonging to a niche culture, this was absurd and a little crazy.

Denial rang through her mind. She probably would have tented out here with a few friends for a good time and to see what other people would do or say in the light of cameras. This situation was connected to her, was a part of her and she a part of it. She was not an outsider wondering what had happened and hoping for a peek beyond the yellow tape. Danika was not looking to mingle with other curious minds, no, she was here to eavesdrop, to listen to the incoming reports and theories. She was an insider.

“So what’s the plan?” Brett whispered as we dodged yet another man wearing a tin hat roughly shaped into a point that stuck a foot into the air.

“This was your idea?”

“But this is your thing.”

“And your idea.”

Brett stopped abruptly, causing a cluster of girls in tight t-shirts bearing green aliens giving peace sign salutes to cuss at him before circling around and continuing their wait to a food truck serving Extraterrestrial Chili, “We should have some semblance of an idea on what to do next before we actually do it.”

“Agreed.” Brett gave me a withering look. We found a shady patch of unspoken for grass and settled down.

“Hi! Do you want a t-shirt?” A bubbly petit girl with wildly curly blonde hair and heavy plastic glasses in a forest green with lenses so thick her eyes looked like a real alien's, bounced in front of us with a stack of neatly folded shirts in black and grey. The black one on top featured a night sky with a girl flying through the air, her legs melding into a shooting star like a mermaid tail.

“What other desings do you have?” Brett stood to see the other shirts the girl brought over.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked, nodding to the newly arrived news van setting up next to the other two. Two guys hopped out and hurried over to the group of newscasters already formed in a circle near the caution tape.

The girl looked up from the mound of t-shirts she had displayed on the grass. Crouched down, she peered through the throngs of people and shook her head slightly before turning back to Brett.

“My boyfriend just made these designs and we had them screen-printed in just a few hours, based off what people said they saw. They’re probably all crazy but…”

“I’ll take a men’s medium of the girl with the comet tail.” Brett interrupted the girl.

"So you've heard them talking?" I asked.

"Not really." The girl shifted her gaze from Brett pulling out a $20 from his wallet to the commotion of newscasters getting ready to do a new report.

"These designs are based off what people here claimed they saw? Was it your boyfriend who talked to someone and drew the design accordingly or did you just overhear a conversation and used your artistic liberties to create something to sell right back a them?

"Well everyone here is a little," the girl made a circling motion with her finger around her temple, "you know? They're all babbling about a girl falling from the sky, how original, sounds like that one movie." She took Brett's money, piled up the shirts and sauntered away to another set of people.

"Fell from the sky..." She hadn't really said that. People weren't really saying that. 

"I don't know what movie she's talking about, but it's a cool idea." Brett's smiling face turned to her, new shirt proudly on his chest, the girl was fair but there was no detail in the face, no indication if she was scared, happy, or afraid. His smile faded as he looked at her.

"That's what the men in the building said. They said I fell from the sky."

“You didn’t mention that before.”

“Did you want me to tell you every last detail? I’ve only known you for half a day.”

“Yeah but telling me you killed two men is fine.”

“I didn’t know them babbling something crazy like I fell from the sky, was important information to remember or divulge. I thought maybe being scared I killed them was more important.” I said. I groaned at the image on Brett’s shirt. A depiction of me, the girl who fell from the sky. That’s insane.

“Danika.”

“What?” I said.

“What?” Brett gave me a puzzled look.

“You said my name.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, I must’ve imagined it.” I sat back down on the ground, giving in to observing the commotion with the newscasters.

“Danika.” I definitely heard someone say my name. I looked up to Brett who was settling down next to me. His face was blank, playing with a twig on the ground.

“Brett, I think I’m hearing things.” My heart began to race at the idea of not only having amnesia, thinking I fell from the sky, but now hearing things too.

“Danika report to command now.” The voice again, it wasn’t quite like a man’s voice, but it definitely wasn’t a woman’s. It had a slight robotic sound to it, like two voices layered into one. I know longer see the parking lot ahead or the grass and leaves under my hands. I can feel them the dirt at my fingertips but I see a blue room and a metal table at under my hands. The voice is there again, “You understand your mission, you will be deployed today.” The carrier of the voice was pacing behind me, I knew it then, I could feel it now, but no matter how much I tried I couldn’t turn my head around to see.

“Of course.” My own voice resonated in the blue and grey room, my hands folded in front of me, determined and ready. Then it disappeared and the parking lot, trees and dirt appear again before me. Brett is staring at me with wide eyes.

“That was insane.”

“Did you see it too?”

“See? Did you see something? You were glowing, you almost looked like a hologram, straight out of star trek.”

Dreaming of the End

For the first time, I had an apocalyptic dream that scared me. Usually I enjoy apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic dreams because it's one of my favorite genres to read/write/watch and I love getting new ideas or in the weird way that dreams allow you to, feel the emotions of what's happening.

But this one was different. There was a huge storm last night, we've been getting a lot of strange and crazy storms lately which is in itself a little disconcerting and concerning, and our power was having a hard time staying on - constant brown outs. We were in bed sleeping when  I woke up to constant lightning and then a roar of wind and rain. I told myself it was OK and slowly went back to sleep, asleep to a dream that was too similar to the half-awake state of what I was thinking.

The Dream:

My husband and I were in the car on our way to the store when suddenly the entire road in front of us dropped down and all the cars, trees, poles, buildings and people disappeared into the giant hole ahead. We frantically backed up and turned our car around and came home, but the thoughts flying through my head were why go home, what will be left of our home? This is something other than a horrible storm, this is more, we need to do something other than hide in a place we think is safe but will probably not last the next 24 hours. I don't know what to do. 
End.

Those thoughts and feelings are horrible. To know your pet is probably gone. Everything you own, gone. Everything you know gone. There is nothing and nowhere you can go for help. Cellphones and internet down-no way to find out what is happening and if there is anything or anywhere you can go for safety or where you know your loved ones will be. All you have is yourself, at that moment, and that is the only guarantee you will ever have again.

It wasn't a long dream, but it was potent. I woke up in the morning to find that some disaster had struck our town. A straight wind had uprooted immense trees and destroyed some roads, our power is still a little wonky and I don't know, nor really do I want to find out, if people's homes or lives were destroyed.

I wanted to write this down so I can go back to it and understand that feeling for a future story. I've had a lot of similar dreams but this one for some reason, I guess it was the timing, had me waking up with my mind racing.

One of my favorite apocalyptic dreams was where I was on my way to my parents, driving by myself, and the sky viciously and suddenly went a dark dark grey, not quite night, but more intense than a storm, and these flashes of light hotter and whiter than lightening blazed through the sky. Then trees fell everywhere and a huge fire started in a field to my left and without anything to really indicate it, I knew aliens had arrived and humanity was in the quick process of being taken over.

The one thing about most of my dreams where I come up with story ideas is how I just suddenly know what is going on or about to happen. There's no finding out, no proof or realization over time where evidence presented itself subtly. Just me thinking "Aha! I know!" And that's it. So every time I want to turn a dream into a story I have to figure out that HUGE major part, that is, essentially the whole manuscript - ha!

Dust of Danika - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“Did you hear about this?” The guy who brought me to his place, who told me his name was Brett, gestured to his muted TV where a newscaster spoke in front of a clip playing over and over again at different speeds. Sometimes zoomed in and sometimes zoomed out of what seemed to be a meteor flying through the night sky, blazing white with a golden tail and then disappearing behind a cluster of trees.

At first I wanted to give him a look to remind him I didn’t remember who I was let alone an event that made it to the news. But as I turned to give him a stare, my eye caught something else on the repeated video. The building I ran from less than a dozen hours ago sat in front the trees where the meteor vanished.

I dropped the cup of tea I was holding, the mug shattered on the tiled floor of Brett’s kitchen and warm milky tea sloshed on my newly cleaned feet and splashed on my bandaged calf. The shorts of his sister and large t-shirt of his own he gave me to wear were safe from the tea. I stepped forward, closer to the screen to get a better look, to make sure. It was definitely the building. I just ran across that parking lot, had been tied to a chair inside that building.

When I looked to the meteor flying through the night sky a strange feeling washed over me. A flush of hot filled me at the center of my stomach and my extremities began to tingle as if numb with cold. I stumbled back in shock and hit the island of Brett’s kitchen. Everything happened in seconds, from dropping the mug to stumbling back. Brett rushed over and held me steady by the elbow.

Before asking what was wrong he grabbed the remote from the counter behind him and unmuted the TV. He gave me a questioning look then turned the volume up. While the woman on television spoke, Brett grabbed a dish towel and picked up the tea and mug mess I made.

“Police officials urge anyone who saw or heard anything in the area to call 911. Again, the impact measured at 1.2 megatonnes but there is no sign or evidence of a crater. We ask the public to remain calm as there is no reason to panic or jump to conclusions.”  The image changed to a live video of a small group of people gathered in the parking lot of the building. They held signs with pictures of aliens and gathered around small campers with food and tents, some even wore tinfoil hats.

Brett muted the TV again. He gently set the remote down then turned to face me. Leaning on the counter, arms taught, he waited patiently. Closing my eyes I felt it again, the intense heat at my center. The sensation of weightlessness suddenly took my breath away. I snapped my eyes open and steadyied myself in Brett’s cool green gaze.

“Danika” I whispered. I didn’t know what it meant or where it came from. It popped into my head and felt right; the meteor, the heat in my gut. Danika.

“What?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember it exactly. The name sort of slipped into my mind. At least I think it’s my name but I have no context around it, no faces or voices saying it, nothing visual. Just a feeling.”

“Danika.” Brett repeated. He pulled out his phone and tapped for a few seconds, “It’s polish for morning star.” He looked at me then back to the television screen where the footage of the meteor played again. I shrugged. “You reacted pretty strongly to the video footage.” He said.

“I wasn’t lying to you about what happened to me last night. I woke up tied to a chair in that building,” I pointed to the screen.

“You’re telling me the truth.”

I nodded, “The men thought I was an alien.” I can barely get the words out. My hands began to tremble as I watched the video loop over again and the weightlessness returned. Familiarity, loneliness and grief.

“What are you trying to say? You think you’re an alien?”

“No. Of course not. I don’t know. Jesus I don’t know anything. I woke up tied to a chair with men preparing to torture me because they thought I was an alien. They said they watched me fall from the sky! They called the police.” Sweat prickled up at the back of my neck.

“Ok. Ok. We need to calm down. I feel like we’re freaking out over nothing. We don’t know who you are and for some reason we want to jump to outrageous coincidental conclusions.” Brett turned the TV off and went to his couch. He plopped himself down and stared ahead of him - out the window of his high-rise apartment.

“I’m sorry. I’m freaked out about it. I want to know who I am and after last night... and now this on the news…”

“Come here,” Brett patted the cushion beside him, “Let’s sit and chill for a minute, enjoy the view. Maybe once you relax you’ll remember something. Any tiny detail will help us help you.”

I agreed and sat beside him. The warmth of his body, his arm barely touching mine as I sat down and the smell of soap wafting from the bathroom didn’t feel like a scenario I knew, but it seemed like one I should. I tried to relax, sitting back and feeling the soft blue material of the couch cushion.

“Did you say the guys called the police?” Brett said.

“Yes but they weren’t interested.”

"The men or the cops?"

"The cops."

“I think the police are interested now.”

They probably were interested in the girl in tatters that two drunken men said fell from the sky. With multiple videos showing the same image of a meteor falling from the sky, the shake of the earth in the area and lack of evidence to show for it. Now if they went to the building and saw the remains… I took a big breath, I was in serious trouble.

“Why did you decide to help me? Kind of strange to take a dirty, barefoot girl to your apartment, I might be a crazy.” I needed to change the subject away from what happened to the men, I wasn't tell Brett that much.

Brett turned his head and opened his eyes to look at me “You are a little crazy." He smiled, "I couldn’t not sit next to you. A pretty girl who looked in desperate need of someone or something. I couldn’t walk on by only to spend months wondering what had happened to you. Regret comes from not doing something, so I did it.”

“I think I killed the men in the building.” I blurted out. So much for keeping it to myself  that last for all of five seconds. I needed him to know, I needed to know if he would continue to help and trust me with all this craziness surrounding me.

Brett coughed, “Excuse me?”

“Oh god, I was tied to the chair and they were about to slice my neck and I was so scared. I closed my eyes and there was light and a weird sound and then they were gone and my ropes were burned away. I think I did it. I wanted it done and it happened.”

“I’m sure they’re not dead--“

“I saw their body pieces strewn across the floor.” I interrupted him before he could try and convince himself otherwise.

“Shit.” Brett brushed a hand through his hair.

“oh god oh god oh god.” The reality of what happened started to sink in. My stomach clenched and I thought I was going to be ill. Brett placed a hand on mine.

“It’s ok, they were trying to hurt you. Even if you did…kill them, it was in self defense.”

There was a knock on the door. “Brett Anderson, this is the police, we have reason to believe you have a dangerous person in your home, open the door.”

My head whipped around to stare at the door, then to Brett. My eyes wide brimming with tears and my mouth agape in shock. Did Brett call the police? 

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and Glass

"What the--"

Stay nearly tripped over a box at her front door. Jumping over it she huffed and threw a glare over her shoulder at the stationary brown box neatly taped without a label, sitting perfectly intact on her porch. What the hell was it doing there? She hadn't ordered anything and nobody ever sent her things. Stay didn't know anyone who would.

Someone placed this box here. Someone walked up her front steps and set it down. The item inside given to her with purpose. The person who left it and left knowing what they wanted her to do with it. The whole moment felt surreal as she stared at the box and her throat swelled with the confusion. Stay walked around the box, going back inside to the safety of her home. Sitting down on her entryway rug she stared at the box with the screen door between them.

Stay lost track of time, as she sometimes did, staring at the box. The sun traveled across the sky, rising up and over the house wrapping its warm light like a hug. Only a hazy deep orange ray crept toward the box while the rest sat in cold shadow. Stay didn't touch the box. She got up from her spot, legs sore and aching at the knees from sitting cross legged - she stretched and cracked her spine. With a final glance at the offender, Stay closed the heavy front door and locked it.

* * *

The box lay open on the old wooden table of the kitchen, each flap pulled over and bent to display the object inside which now sat beside it. A glass crane. Not a crane made of glass that was chipped away and polished smooth. A crane made of folded glass pressed carefully as if it started as paper and turned to glass at the makers command. It was the size of a small bowl and heavy enough that it required both hands to lift.

A note inside read "How high is your sky if you only love it from the sea?" written in careful print with a blue fountain pen on handmade paper dotted with bits of seeds and petals. The crane and note sat on the table for days, untouched. Stay tried not to think about what it meant and who had left it for her.

Yet the crane beckoned her. She stroked the smooth folds and pressed her thumb upon the sharp beak. Her porcelain finger clicked gently against the thick, fragile, gleaming glass. The note now placed on the fridge with an old beaten magnet that showed up in the mail over a decade ago as an advertisement, and she set the crane on the kitchen window sill. It glowed with the light of the setting sun, splaying a rainbow across the floor and wall. Blue and green then purple and red.

Each day Stay went to her porch in hopes of finding another strange gift or cryptic letter. Hoping to find a reason or explanation left for the gift that meant so much to her that only her and her mother knew. Who else could possibly know about the cranes her mother folded? Was it coincidence? Could there be such a coincidence so large and meaningful left on her porch in an unmarked box?

Sitting at the table, tapping her fingers on the old grains staring at the crane glowing orange she wondered endlessly, losing hours and forgetting life. Was the crane pointing left? Didn't she put it up with the face pointing to the right? No, that couldn't be possible.

With a huff Stay sat up and began to pace the room. How dare some stranger give her a stupid letter with a crane she couldn't stop thinking about. The crane kept her up thinking of the dreams she had of it swimming on a frozen lake at night, cracking the ice in its wake until it broke off into a million pieces that reflected the sky. making it look like it was broken and the lake had stars. Then the crane became her mother standing on a slab of ice. She walked to the shore stepping onto the little pieces of frozen water, the dark water creeping and lapping over the white ice onto her mothers naked feet as she made her way to Stay.

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and the Wood Table

Gnarly wood with knots and holes, divots and rings in shades of pale sand to roasted walnuts ran smoothly under Stay’s finger tips. Her porcelain finger caught in a deeper groove before jumping back on track with the rest of her hand lazily tracing the ancient lines. The wood table appeared roughly made; wide, uneven patches of wood set together with pegs, the grains not matching as her eyes jumped from one panel to another. Stay could only assume her mother, or possibly the father she never knew, had made it before she was born. Sitting strong in the center of the kitchen, the table had always held what was post important: a place to fold cranes, to build cakes and skin rabbits. She had bled onto the table, coffee rings almost created a pattern like a dream catcher created filigree along the edges. Gouges in the wood from an angry knife stabbed deep while shallower points were created to hold the blade in thought.

Stay imagined the wood holding onto her memories.  With no mother, father or people to remember or create memories with her, the table was the only one she could imagine capable. Once a living thing, growing strong and tall, reaching for the sky in an endless craving for life, it understood.

Reminiscent and in need of a friend, Stay brought out her old friends. The porcupine bones were still tied together with string being held together like puppets ready to dance and run with her. Stay admired the contrast as she set the bones on the wood table. Smooth creamy bones against rough woods. The combination screamed time and life at her, life gone and time always going. The tree had grown into the earth, sinking roots into the ground while branches spread into the sky. Bones of the porcupine held the life and structure of the animal while the beast remained unaware of its skeleton, the only part of the creature left. The wood and the bones would continue to live on in death, time deepening what they once were. Everything was backwards. The tree and porcupine they were dead but in death remained alive forever, they held age as time went on. Both so beautiful and so different.

Stay craved immortality in bones.

She imagined her body lying on the long kitchen table. Her form slowly decomposing and the wood soaking up what it could of her body, allowing her soul and essence to become part of the world until years drift by and it would only be her bones left on the table. Creamy, slender and elegant cradled by the table, her small bony fingers settling in the grooves of the wood, her skull pitched back to rest along a worn knot in ecstasy.

Stay rubbed the back of her head, feeling the gentle curve of her skull bend in toward her spine, the delicate balance of her entire being resting at that pivotal point. She couldn’t help wonder at how easy it would be.

Standing up and pushing away from the table, Stay shoves those thoughts away. Thinking of life and death and the potential immortality of death is dangerous. Though she never knew what happened to her mother for certain, she felt it in the center of her heart; her mother was dead.

Stay’s mother had problems. One of the comforting things Stay read in her many books was every single person had a multitude of problems. They could have problems that were solved but created new problems, problems that followed them through life and problems they never even know they had. That was the kind of problem Stay’s mother had. The kind of problem that ate away at her happiness and told her she wasn’t ok the way she was until she didn’t know how to feel. She thought the only way she could feel normal again was through pain. Stay had seen the scars forming on her mother’s arms and peeking under the hem of her shorts on her thighs.

The life left her eyes until she looked at Stay with nothing buy greyness. There were moments when Stay thought she was ok again, when her mother would fold cranes and line them on the sill in the kitchen, she would bake a strawberry tart and dust it with powdered sugar, blowing it like a cloud over the table and smiling through the cloud at Stay. The times of momentary rightness were quickly shadowed by hours, sometimes days, of stagnation. Her mother would sit in the living room staring out the window, barely moving. No more cuts, only staring into the woods as if waiting for something. Was she waiting for Stay’s father to return? Was she waiting for a reason to live?

Her mother had a problem she didn’t know she had and she couldn’t fix it. Pills might have helped her. There was a pharmacy in town and an old, kind doctor Stay saw once as a child when she had a fever. But, her mother didn’t go. She went to the market and bought food and other necessities as if she could bake it all away.

Now Stay glared at the table that held the confections of her mother’s love. The table that taunted her with life and death, making a mockery out of all Stay knew. The table soaked in their life and love and acted like its support was enough to give in return. Did it keep her mother alive? Did the hard-hearted table stop Stay’s mother from hurting herself? Did it offer support when Stay cut her finger off? Perhaps 18 years with this table was enough, maybe it was time for her to move on from the problems of her mother and make this home her own.

 Stay wanted to stay alive. The table sucked the life out of her. It would stand like an unmoving stone as a constant reminder of the pain her mother held, making it her own. It would cut at her heart making her wonder at her father and hold resentment toward her mother.

The house had an unused landline she could dust off to call information and get a technician to install internet. Then buy an old laptop from the resale shop and purchase a new table online. Stay wouldn't have to leave the house often. She could remake the home she had into anything she wanted, a Parisian coffee shop or a Buddhist temple.

With the decision made, Stay took her porcupine pals and hung them from a hook above the kitchen window. Opening the window allowed a breeze to pulsate through, the bones becoming chimes as they gently knocked on one another like laughter.

The table would have to go.

© Ash Huntley

Peculiar Girl and an Orange Birthday

Stay wanted an orange cake for her birthday. She wanted it to be bright as the sun and sweet on her tongue. Oranges were common in the area, growing in groves in abundance on the other side of town. Stay’s mother didn’t often bring oranges home, she was keen on red fruit: strawberries ranging from blood red to lip pink to sun-kissed peach, raspberries in small bundles to be munched on in one day, watermelons cut in slices, red apples with shiny skin, cherries with their pits to be spit in competition; Stay and her mother giggling as the grass became littered with cherry seeds, secret hopes of them growing played like a song in their minds.

Stay begged her mother weeks prior to her birthday for an Orange cake. It started with simple suggestions of how fun orange would be, her mother would suggest pink strawberries or apple pie. After a week Stay’s mother shook her head with a small smile as Stay talked about the skin of the oranges making funny faces on the cake, whole slices of orange within the cake, the possibility of tarts and orange pancakes for breakfast.

Stay, at eight years old, woke up on her birthday to find oranges heaped in woven baskets and piled in pulled out desk drawers. They covered the chairs and sat in bowls covering every flat surface higher than the floor. Orange peels filled the kitchen sink and fell scattered on the kitchen's tiled floor. The floor slick with juice and rinds, Stay’s feet crinkled as she walked, her skin sticking, wanting to stay attached to the sweet coating.

Orange cream, chocolate covered orange segments, candied pecan rolls and caramelized orange rinds, orange butter and orange banana bread. Orange frosting on a frozen orange cake, hollowed half oranges filled with mousse, a bowl of rising yeast, no doubt filled with oranges, cinnamon sticks soaking in thick orange syrup and oranges in the freezer, peeled and unpeeled, as popsicles and fused in ice. Oranges soaked in jars of various liquids full of spices, oranges sliced, diced, whole and squished.

The smell overpowered stay, a waking dream as the world around her turned into the color, smell and taste of orange. Stay's eyes watered, Orange. She could smell the tangy color as she hurried, blind, to find her mother outside making orange jam, oranges piled beside her waiting to become some new delightful creation.

The warm air of the summer morning steamed over the dew speckled ground, the orange sun rose in the sky, a happy birthday lighting its way into Stay’s heart. Stay dances, her mother laughed as she continued to peel oranges, tossing the rinds into a boiling pot over a crackling fire, the segments being set aside to slowly simmer in another pot. The scent was intoxicating. Stay plucked a segment from the pot and plopped it in her mouth, the warm juices flowed down her throat, thick and tangy it puckered her cheeks. She grabbed a segment of rind from her mother’s hand and stuck it in her mouth, sucking out the morsels of juice and giving her mother an orange smile.

Stay’s orange birthday was the best birthday she ever had, it lasted for weeks, remnants of orange constantly being found and the smell lingering until this very day. The smell of her home would forever be wood, smoke, and oranges.

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and A Prickly Thorn

Admiring the thorn bush she didn't recognize Stay reached down. Stay plucked a thorn from a bush she didn't recognize and rubbed the smooth thorn between her fingers. She pressed the soft flesh of her finger to it, her skin indented, swallowing the plant until her skin gave in.

A bead of blood bubbled up, burst free from the thin skin. It took up a spectacular amount of space and volume compared to the pinprick that allowed it forth.

Bright as the morning's sun, the sport of red hovered in the cusp of the world at the edge of her finger. A gust of air rattled through the trees and shoved the bubble. It broke from its tension and seeped down her finger into her palm.

A moment gone.

© Ash Huntley

10/642 Things to Write About

A four-year-old child is afraid of the dark. Write about the child's fears and what you might say or do to help the child overcome the fears:

Curtis's over-active-imagination allowed him to hear scratches and growls. The scratches might have been squirrels on the roof, the growls mere groans of the settling house. But to Curtis, it was the scratch of a bee the size of Curtis himself, its stinger dragging on the floor as it approached his bed. The bee smiled wide and vicious.

"Hush, Curtis." I whispered to him, cuddling him in his small bed. He whimpered about the bee, the moans of monsters hiding in the shadows of his room. I stroked his hair away from his sweaty face. "Sometimes our dreams seem real, they try to follow you from the dream world into the waking world. It takes just a dash of courage to banish the monsters." I got up to demonstrate, Curtis clutched his blanket up to his eyes, peeking out to watch me, "Walk up to the odd shapes to prove there's nothing there." I approached where he said the bee sat, "Then turn on the lights." I go to the door and flip the switch. The room was basked in a bright yellow light, each crevice and corner lit to reveal nothing but toys and books.

"There's nothing in the dark except the inability to see what you know is truly there." I explained, "Everything scary will disappear in the light of the truth."

Curtis jumped from bed and ran to hug me. This was a turning point.

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and Blood in the Hand of the Beholder (edit)

"Stay."

Her mother said.

"Stay here, don't follow."

The voice a high clear bell, distorted through time, calling over an open field of long grass. A toddler barely able to follow, she stayed. She stayed until she knew it as her name. Then she started to waddle over.

"I said stay." Mother would snap. Stay remembered being told what to do. She learned the difference of her taught name and its meaning. She stayed.

What am I staying away from? She wondered.

Stay was a mystery to herself.

She stayed still when an accident in the kitchen took her left ring finger at 15. She cried out without a sound. Air crept through her tightened throat as she stared, astonished at her finger lying in a pool of blood. Her mind became fuzzy, seeing her finger unconnected to her hand.

It was no longer her finger, but a finger. It paled considerably in seconds. She panicked. Stay had no one to call out for, no one to tell her what to do or how to take care of it. Still scared of the town, she did the only thing she could think of.

Gas stove on high and a metal spoon stuck to the flame, she waited for it to glow orange. She could barely breathe at the sight of the absurd amount of blood dripping down to a puddle at her feet. She turned her mind off. Without hesitation, despite the knot in her stomach, Stay thrust the spoon to the nub of her finger.

A scream seared out of her body, her body convulsed and shrieked with the pain of it. Hot. Stinging. Searing flesh. Doubling over, she dropped the spoon. Tears bubbled up and spilled over, blurring the horrific vision of her hand.

Eyes squeezed shut, she moaned. Terrified at what had happened and what she did. It all transpired in minutes. The only sound left was her subsiding sobs. The smell made her retch: the iron of her blood, the smoldering spoon burning into the rug it bounced onto. Everything was hot and metal.

Stay clutched her hand to her chest, curled on the floor lying in her blood. It cooled and congealed to her side, forming against her, wrapping around her.

Half unconscious and unable to move, Stay imagined a pottery piece in place of her finger. Bone white with glossy forget-me-nots. An intricate series of thin leather strips would hold it in place and allow small movements. She would start it the next day.

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and a Bloody Mess (edit)

"Stay."

Her mother said.

"Stay here, don't follow."

The voice a high clear bell, distorted through time, calling over an open field of long grass.

A toddler barely able to follow, she stayed. She stayed until she knew it as her name. Then she started to waddle over.

"I said stay." Mother would snap. Stay remembered being told what to do. She learned the difference of her taught name and its meaning. She stayed.

What am I staying away from? She wondered.

Stay was a mystery to herself.

She stayed still when an accident in the kitchen took her left ring finger at 15. She cried out without a sound. Air crept through her tightened throat as she stared, astonished at her finger lying in a pool of blood. Her mind became fuzzy, seeing her finger unconnected to her hand.

It was no longer her finger, but a finger. It paled considerably in seconds. She panicked. Stay had no one to call out for, no one to tell her what to do or how to take care of it. Still scared of the town, she did the only thing she could think of.

Gas stove on high and a metal spoon stuck to the flame, she waited for it to glow orange. She could barely breathe at the sight of the absurd amount of blood dripping down to a puddle at her feet. She turned her mind off. Without hesitation, despite the knot in her stomach, Stay thrust the spoon to the nub of her finger.

A scream seared out of her body, her body convulsed and shrieked with the pain of it. Hot. Stinging. Searing flesh. Doubling over, she dropped the spoon. Tears bubbled up and spilled over, blurring the horrific vision of her hand.

Eyes squeezed shut, she moaned. Terrified at what had happened and what she did. It all transpired in minutes. The only sound left was her subsiding sobs. The smell made her retch: the iron of her blood, the smoldering spoon burning into the rug it bounced onto. Everything was hot and metal.

Stay clutched her hand to her chest, curled on the floor lying in her blood. It cooled and congealed to her side, forming against her, wrapping around her.

Half unconscious and unable to move, Stay started making plans for a pottery piece in place of her finger. Bone white with glossy forget-me-nots. An intricate series of thin leather strips would hold it in place and allow small movements. She would start making it the next day.

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and a Bloody Mess

"Stay."

Her mother didn't say much. She sat staring into nothing when she didn't leave.

"Stay here, don't follow me." Few words she remembered, the voice like a high clear bell, distorted through water, calling over an open field of long grass.

A toddler, barely able to follow. She stayed. She stayed until she knew it as her name, and then she would waddle over. "I said stay." Mother would snap. Stay remembered being told what to do. She learned the difference of her taught name and its meaning. She stayed.

What did she stay away from? She wondered. Stay was a mystery to herself and the townspeople.

She stayed still when an accident in the kitchen took her left ring finger at 15. She cried out without a sound, air creeped through her tightened throat as she stared, astonished and her finger lying in a pool of blood. Her mind became fuzzy, seeing her finger unconnected to her hand. It was no longer her finger, but a finger. She had no one to call out for, no one to tell her what to do or how to take care of it. Still scared of the town, she did the only thing she could think of.

Gas stove on high and a metal spoon stuck to the flame, she waited for it to glow orange. Nervous at the absurd amount of blood leaking out, dripping down to her socks now stained a brilliant red. Without hesitation, despite the knot in her stomach, Stay thrust the spoon to the nub of her finger.

A scream seared out of her body, her body convulsed and shrieked with the pain of it. Hot. Stinging. Doubling over, she dropped the spoon. Tears bubbled up and spilled over, blurring the horrific vision of her hand.

Eyes squeezed shut, she moaned. Terrified at what had happened and what she did. It all transpired in minutes. The only sound left was her subsiding sobs.The smell made her retch: the iron of her blood, the smoldering spoon burning into the rug it bounced onto. Everything was hot and metal.

Stay clutched her hand to her chest, curled on the floor lying in her blood. It cooled and congealed to her side, forming against her, wrapping around her.

Half unconscious and  unable to move, Stay started making plans for a pottery piece in place of her finger. Bone white with glossy forget-me-nots curling around it. An intricate series of thin leather strips would hold it in place and allow small movements. She would start work on it the next day.

© Ash Huntley

8/642 Things to Write About

My grandfather's girlfriend:

She's ancient! Holly didn't expect her age to be quite so...old. She imagined a young blonde, a gold digger. Though Papa was not rich. All he owned was his small home and charm. Old and kind Papa, his wife, Holly's grandmother, died before Holly was born. This was the first person Papa had seen since then. So late, so old.

Mom looked utterly stunned, open-mouthed staring agape at the woman standing beside her father. Speechless, Holly and her mother stood together, staring at the pair of them.

The old woman's face was wrinkled. Her wrinkles had wrinkles, her lips had wrinkles. Her eyes folded in, hidden within even more wrinkles. But, her smile was small and sweet, bright bubblegum pink lipstick smeared beyond the lips with her shaky hands. She made an effort. Her face remained tilted, eyes looking down.

"Welcome to the family!" Holly finally blurted out, starting to hold out her hand, but taking it back, unsure of protocol.

She looked up into Holly's eyes. Her smile widened. It dawned on Holly how long this woman had lived, all she knew and had done. How good it was for Papa to have her around, good for all of them.

Holly could not contain the sudden burst in her heart and she went right up and hugged her. She hugged Holly back without hesitation, arms surprisingly strong.

Family already.

© Ash Huntley

The Peculiar Girl and Dreams of Cranes

Origami was one of the few things Stay had that connected her to her mother. A woman she barely remembered. Her face a pale blur haloed in dark brown. Slim fingers and soft hands deftly folded colorful squares of paper into animals for Stay to play with. Stay would lay on her stomach, chin in hands, watching paper fold and fold and fold. Feet kicked in anticipation.

Purple giraffe, pink and brown paisley hippo, blue lion, polka dot fox and every color cat. Every pattern in every color imaginable took the form of cranes. Cranes adorned every crevice and nook of Stays room, slowly spilling out into the house and sometimes outside. A mobile of them circled above her as a baby, the mobile which now collected early morning dusk in her childhood room, rarely ventured into.

Cranes in corners, cranes in socks and cranes soaring down from an open refrigerator. Cranes lining a path to the frozen lake on a bright January day.

Footprints followed the cranes to the lake, Stay followed both. A child skipping, giddy for a surprise, grinning, hair flowing out behind her. Bare skin against the cold winter wind. A childhood whimsy at what she might find.

An empty frozen lake with a small jagged hole. A soft ripple spilled out, then receded.  Then again. Slower, slower. Stay never saw her mother. Stay returned home. Young, cold, old, alone, to a home filled with empty-hearted, color-filled cranes.

Stay dreamed of cranes. Cranes crying frozen tears. Cranes drowning in bright sunshine. Cranes flying with her upon the wings. Her dreams filled with cranes until she could not stand the loneliness of them. She spent years dreaming of cranes and  morning after morning folding them. She made hundreds of them, placing them together to create one larger than life.

Shades of purples, greens, and blues. Oranges and aqua, yellows and reds. And two large patches of black for beady eyes.The towering crane stood ten feet tall and fifteen feet long.

Spring time and a confused young teen, Stay lifted the large crane easily. The smooth paper warm and comforting on her skin, the smell of paper and ink hugged her as she took it to the lake.

Setting it on the edge, Stay peered out to where her mother disappeared. Face to the sun, she took a deep breath of wet greenery and new light. The wood and moss full of life and sounds of beasts roamed around her. Eyes filled with rainbows and cranes, she gently shoved the memorial into the water, a final goodbye.

© Ash Huntley

7/642 Things to Write About

What you ate for breakfast:

I went fishing for the first time.

I wouldn't say it was a smart idea. It didn't go spectacularly, but at least a fish was caught.

What made me think I could go fishing? The romance.

A small wooden boat with a box of colorful bait and a rolls of string. A long smooth pole and an empty lake. Ripple free, people free, full of thoughts and breaking light. Cold.

It lasted but ten minutes. I didn't have a box or a nice pole, I didn't have live bait either, just one piece of a translucent blue blob. But it worked, it caught a large grey fish, an unidentifiable type the length of my forearm. Dense and intimidating, its mouth opening and closing in silent calls for help. I too felt the need to call for help. I fight the urge to flail, to stand up and pace. Can't risk tipping the boat! Holding the heavy fish away from my body, hook still in mouth, my arm aching, I search the small lake lined with trees and homes. Alone. I look back to the suffocating fish and set it on the floor where it flops helplessly. I did not think this through.

As I quickly row back to shore, arms screaming with the urgency of not knowing what to do, the fish died. I cry. The suffering was cruel. I was been stupid, not romantic.

Only six in the morning by the time I arrive home. The fish fresh in a cooler of ice. I open it and carry the fish. It freezes then numbs my sore arms as I hug it to my chest.

Another dilemma as I stare at the dead fish on my kitchen counter. I know I have to scale it. Run a blade gently across the body over and over. Swoosh. A cut, red pools around the fish. I swear, flinging the knife into the sink and picking the fish up with my uninjured hand, away from the pooling blood. I set it aside, throw a towel on the blood and take care of the cut.

Minutes later I'm back. Again staring at the fish. Retrieving the knife, I start again. I will not give up on this fish.

This better be one hell of a fish breakfast.

1. © Ash Huntley