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.

River Voices

642 Things to Write About: You are about to take a nap by a river, and as you are dozing off, the rush of the river begins to sound like words. What does the river say to you? What does it want you to do?

Spring arrives by thawed rivers and lakes, in the flowers blooming in every yard. I stroke the soft, cool, dark green grass and close my eyes. I feel myself drifting like the lazy river winding around me. Then I hear it. The bubbling, rumbling of the river over rocks sounds like a voice. Oh no, not here too. I'm napping on the riverside to escape the songs and voices that mumble through the box-fan at home.

I groan and try to ignore it, concentration instead on the suns' heat soaking through my lids.

"Sopphhiieee..." a voice whispers up like mist from the water's rippling surface. I don't open my eyes and I don't dare move. "Sophie," it says again, "I know you can hear me now. All this time I was trying to contact you through the fan. I should have known a more natural approach would be more successful."

I must be dreaming. I open my eyes and look around, I'm alone. There's a swirl of water spiraling in the center of the river. I swallow and take a step away. The swirl lifts up from the water and the voice returns. "You're the only one who can help me."

City Raccoons

642 Things to Write About: Write a story from the point of view of raccoon. What is the city like at night? Why do you knock over garbage cans? Do you get along with other raccoons?

Fortunately, I belong to  small tribe, the City Racs. It's easier that way. The lonely ones receive no help, they stick out and become loathed. They give raccoons a bad name, knocking over cans, causing commotion, mayhem, and awareness.

In a group you can create a raccoon ladder, quietly climb up the fury bodies of your fellow raccoons and remove thrown away food in a quiet and more dignified manner. Not that all is swell in the City Racs group. There are a lot of squabbles over scarps and fights to earn more stripes.

Not all are cut out for city life, either. It's busy and crowded. There's a lot of struggle for territory and a constant need to feel part and protected by and in the group. I wasn't always part of the City Rac group. I know how it is to be a loner out there. That's why I'll do anything to stay here, among the group. I'm the bottom of the ladder, I'm the bandit of the bunch.

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 Snow

The snowflake lingered on Stay's outstretched hand. It didn't melt upon contact, turning into a regular drop of water to be collected in a minuscule vial and placed on her shelf of rain. It remained full and intact. A tiny, delicate cut of the world, a piece of shattered cloud fallen merrily to her hand. Stay had been outside in the snow for hours, cooling her hands for just this.

The icy design sat on a knuckle. The flake was a cathedral of ice, filled with spires and dancing light - a thing to pray to. another flake joined it, this one more rounded, with delicate cut-out pieces and swooping lines from point to point. The flakes faded. They could not last forever on her skin that insisted on being warm for short bursts of time.

No matter how long Stay stood outside, surrounded by sugared trees and bushes caked in ice, no mater where she stood, whether by the lake as it creaked under the pressure of heaps upon heaps of snow, luxurious and soft, or standing on the roof of her house, slick like an ice slide seducing her to her doom, she could not become or remain cold enough. She remained strong and steadfast, standing tall and sure either at the edge of the ice on the roof or at the lake. But neither place made a difference. Her blood would take the tiny sting, as the flakes landed, away. She would always enjoy it from afar, the snow, dusting the world in a haze of melted lines and cold calm.

Cold and calm. That is how the snow made Stay feel. She preferred the cold. To let the warmth from her blood leech out into the dry air like a wet huff, an exhalation of glorious remorse. She could stand, still as an ice sculpture, as the world pushed down from all sides.The cold took it all away, in a hush of white-noise. Every time it snowed she stepped out into it and it fell on her like a hug. A hug from a friend she always looked forward to seeing.

© Ash Huntley 12/2013

Hagrid Is Going Places

I was did a small series called Hagrid is Going Places. I had the lego Hagrid in my coat pocket and then my purse for months (he's still in my purse actually), and I would occasionally take him out and take his picture! I may get into it again. In the mean time, here are the pictures.

On my brother's new truck

On my novel

In front of an aquarium at the dentist (I should of put him in the chair!)

Restaurant in Port Huron, MI (Kate's Downtown)

At a restaurant in Fenton, MI (The Laundry)

Think I should do more? If I do, I'll make the shots from further away, give a better sense of location and environment, which is most of the fun!

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 3

Chapter 3

My hand stilled mid-stroke on the couch cushion, a dash of blue a shade darker than the rest where I smoothed the fabric in opposing directions. Holding my breath I waited for Brett to hold me still and allow the police to bust in to take me away. I would let it happen, I deserved to be taken away. When Brett didn't move I looked to the door in anticipation. 

Knock-knock-knock,  “Brett Anderson open the door or we will use force.” 

“Danika, go to my bedroom closet.” Brett hissed at me as he stood and looked around his apartment as if everything needed hiding. He brushed a hand through his hair and gave me an urgent look.

I jumped off the couch and shuffled to the larger of two bedrooms at the end of the hal . His bedroom was tidy with a black and grey striped rug stretching across the floor, a bed made in dark grey sheets and books scattered on a metal bedside table. I sighed with relief as the closet door opened quietly. I pushed the hanging clothes aside, closed the door, and sat on a pile of shoe boxes.

The wall of the closet shared the wall of Brett’s living room. I pressed my ear to the plaster and listened as Brett opened his apartment to the police. Mumbling and incoherent conversation, a pause, and then Brett’s raised voice, “Not without a warrant you're not." Then his door closed and I heard someone enter the bedroom. I held my breath and shrank back into the dark of Brett’s clothes. I tucked my feet up, making myself as small as possible.

When the closet door opened and Brett pushed aside the clothing, I couldn’t release my fetal position. I stared up at him, fear cascaded through my blood and my heart thumped loudly in my ears, I swear he could hear it too.

“They’re gone.” Brett turned and sat on his bed.

As I crawled out of the closet I realized how fast things seemed to be moving. Brett and I weren’t friends, he had no need to protect me and every reason to give me to the police. He should never have brought me to his home. He was caught up in some kind of romantic notion and must be regretting it by now. I needed to leave.

“They were looking for you.”

“I’m sorry.” I stood in front of him biting my lip.

“Apparently one of my neighbors saw us come in. The police are looking for a girl in a tattered blue dress who was seen fleeing a crime scene.” His green eyes were cold.

“I’ll leave.” I said.

“Where will you go?”

I shrugged, “I have nowhere to go but I can’t stay here. You have no obligation to help me or protect me from the cops. I shouldn’t have come here with you.” I remember how my head spun when police knocked on hid door a moment ago. My mind had flown into accusations that Brett had turned me in. I didn't trust him either.

“I can’t just throw you out.” Brett bit at his thumb nail.

“Listen Brett, thank you for trying. Thank you for giving me fresh clothes and pushing the police away. But I’m not your problem and we don’t know anything about one another. I don’t even know anything about myself, we can’t build trust let alone a friendship like that. I think we both feel weird and it would be best if I left.”

I left the bedroom and hurried toward his front door. I grabbed a pair of flip flops sitting with his other shoes on the way out, silently apologizing and thanking him. Before Brett could even leave hid bedroom, I was out the door and down the hallway of the apartment complex. In the elevator I put the large flip flops.

The elevator grunted its way to the ground floor. Something smasheed into my head. I yelled and fell into the metal side, images flashed before my eyes. A face peering into mine, a bright light ahead, my eyes squinted as I attempted to make out other blurry shapes. Then a sharp poke in my arm, I gasped and tried to struggled free but I’m paralyzed. The memory was gone. I’m leaning against the elevator wall, the door opening. No sign of anything having fallen and my head no longer hurt.

I cautiously stepped out into the lobby. I squelched the thudding of the pain and fear from my memory. Brett burst from a door marked STAIRS. He barreled at me, I took a step back wondering if he changed his mind and called the police to come back and get me.

“I thought about it and you should stay with me.” He’s out of breath and sweat glistened on his brow.

Biting my lip I nodded.

Back on his couch I confessed, “I know you shouldn’t trust me because who the hell knows, but, I’m having a hard time trusting you too. It seems awfully convenient that you were at the park right when I needed you, that the police showed up and that you keep offering me help.”

“There’s nothing I can say to make you trust me but I hope my actions, for a lack of a better term, speak louder than my words.” Brett gave me a small smile but the term meant nothing to me. His smile faltered as I my face remained still.

“I think I had a memory.”

Brett sat up straight, “What?”

“I was in the elevator and I swear something hit me in the head and then it was like I was there. I was lying down and a someone was above me, looking at me, with a bright light above them and I felt a poke in my arm but I couldn’t move.”

“hmmm.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it sounds clichéd but I believe you. It’s not any more bizarre than anything else you’ve said.”

“Don’t you think you should be more freaked out about everything? You found me in a park, brought me home, I told you I killed someone, the police show up, people are freaking out about aliens, and I don’t know who I am.”

“I think it’s kind of cool.” He shrugged.

“Well I’m freaking out.” Tears build again, my lip hurt from biting on it so hard and my leg began to throb from my constant jittering.

“We should go!” Brett stood up suddenly, excitement pouring off him. He grabbed his coat and sunglasses.

“Go?”

“To the site where the loons are camped out. To where the meteor supposedly landed. See if we can find anything or if anything else comes to you.”

Brett routed around in a closet by the door and pulled out a pair of grey converse with dirty laces, “Here, these were my sisters, I think they’ll fit you.”

“Were?” I go over to him and put them on. He was right, they do fit. He shook his head at my question, not meeting my gaze. I dropped the subject and stood back up, feeling exposed in the short shorts, baggy shirt and shoes. “Ok, let’s go.”

The parking lot crowd had tripled in size since I saw it on the news. Food trucks and merchandise, tents set up along the edges and police tape encircled the building. I began to feel queasy as we approached the crowd, wondering if somehow people would know.

No one did.

© Ash Huntley

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

Yukaton River Part 2

NOTE: This is unedited and the story will change. I haven't posted in a while so I thought I would share this rough draft.

The boat is packed with vintage cases in burnt orange, brown, and the occasional pink. Hard plastic with metal clasps, the luggage takes up far too much room. There is barely room for the couple to sleep. They don't mind, Timothy can sleep anywhere on anything, allowing Pen to sleep in the only comfortable soft spot.

They packed their lives into these cases. Books, clothes, stuffed animals: Pen's penguin and Timothy's tiger. Both their parent's took a strange liking to alliteration, and it featured often in both their lives. They also packed love letters, bottles of perfume, their favorite pop, and Tim's article collection on UFO sightings. Pen also packed complete new outfits thanks to her paranoia of not having the exact right thing for any weather or situation.

Other cases contained survival gear: tents,nets, fishing poles, matches, wood, mini canisters and hiking gear for cooking, rope, fishing line, extra shoe laces, many pairs of socks and underwear, bottles of water and a purification system, handful of towels, soap, nail file and clippers and scissors, two single sleeping bags, a king size wool blanket, and copious amounts of toilet paper.

As the sun rose on the land and everything appeared on fire, the neighboring town folk bustled outside Pen and Tim's tent, which sat among the ruins of Rim. Kids ran in circles singing a tune about fire and death. The echoing shatters of hammer on steel roused them from their tent. Upon sticking their wary heads out they saw a canopy had been lifted then nailed to the ground. A bonfire blazed outside it with meat skewered above, roasting. People sat on the ground beneath the tent, basking in the shade. Women and children played hand games: clapping, slapping, thumping, while men beat drums and danced, hopping from foot to foot. It was a celebration to say goodbye.

As the couple stepped into The Blessed Express an hour later, the party continued full tilt. Few came over to wave them off. Children gathered leaves from the giant river trees and threw the waxy green bits at them. A carpet on the boat.

The moment they untied the boat, it propelled forward. Silence fell and not a single hand waving could be seen from the party. They we're alone along Ash River.

© Ash Huntley

Yukaton River: Edit

Name: Yukaton River.

Commonly known as: Ash River or The Dead River.

History: Hundreds of years ago the largest town of the area, Rim, lived along off Yukaton River's widest point.  Mysteriously, and suddenly, the town burned to the ground. It is said cracking and popping of fire and the screams of the inhabitants could be heard on any given June 13th at 11:15 PM.

Legend: Ashes of the people mixed with ashes of the town blew into the river. Blackened and thick, heavy with the ash of the dead, the river slowed until finally it stopped. With the river filled and stilled, trees and plants withered and died, and animals fled. Soon after, everything grew back tenfold. Lush and deep green, the trees grew tall, leaned in, and created a dense canopy over the river.

Today it is eerily clear and deadly still. Yet if you set a boat upon its surface, it will move south at a quick pace, as if a strong current had taken hold. It is believed spirits of the dead protect those who travel upon the river. But if they disembark before the river reaches its destination at Tamishi Sea, great bad luck will befall them. They will not survive their next 48 hours.

Pen (whose name is Penelope but finds it cumbersome, shortens it as much as possible, and does the same to others) and Timothy (whose name Pen actually likes and only calls him Tim on occasion) go to the ruins of Rim on June 13th. They arrive precisely at 11:15 PM. 

Pen and Tim hear strange howls and creaks from the large trees settling with the wind.

Natives help the pair lower a large, fully packed canoe that sleeps two, into Ash River. Luggage piled high, the boat sits deep. They rest at midnight.

The canoe, The Blessed Express, is named to give safe voyage to those aboard and thanks to the blessed spirits who guard the river. The nearby town nicknamed the boat Be in reference to the Beatles song Let it Be. 

The town doesn’t have much in the way of modern technology, only what visitors give them. One of their most prized possessions was a gift from a set of sisters who traveled there many years ago; a record player. Though they don't much, they dance and sing. They especially love vinyls of The Beatles, as there is an abundance of their music. They have a fascination with the western world and often consider it to be a place of fantasy. They frequently put on small plays with rag dolls accompanied with tunes of Hey Jude and Paperback Writer to depict the strange magical realm they imagine.

The following morning the entire town congregates, blesses, and stocks The Blessed Express with their food, love, and prayer. They hide painted beads of glass and clay, dried plants, and purple flowers among the couple’s luggage and within the cracks of the boat's panels.

A grand farewell party takes place.

© Ash Huntley