Fiction Friday

The great front door slammed with a bang against the wind and a strong young man of 18 tramped through in heavy boots into the sitting room, to find his sister cozily reading on the couch.

"Where have you been?!" he bellowed.

"Where do you think I've been?  I told you!" she said, looking up.  "I'm sure I told you before I left.  I thought you heard me--the way you nodded your head."

He stood a few paces from the couch, dripping wet from the torrent of rain he had just left outside.  He was visibly distraught, but the signs of his worry were fading as he stood and talked to her.  She was sitting, wrapped in a blanket on the antique couch, with her stocking-ed toes toward a blazing fire.  It was a chilly night.

"Oh..." he sighed.  "I heard you say something," he replied, "but I didn't realize you were going to be gone for so long.  I was so worried, and the storm was coming."

"Oh, John!  Don't you know by now?  I'd be alright even in the wildest tempest with them.  They will always take care of me. They promised."  She paused.  "In fact," she added, "I believe they held off the rain until I got safely home."  She returned to her book, content with the thought of this mysterious protection.

"But no one knew where you were," he said.

"Of course they wouldn't!  No one would have understood anyway.  No one but you, that is."  She looked up at him and saw the concern in his face.  Turning her eyes from his, she gazed into the fire for a moment.  "I'm sorry I worried you so.  I'll be more careful next time."

He mumbled something of an acceptance and shuffled from the room.  He was the only one in the family who knew, and she was right--no one else would really understand.  It wasn't that they were un-feeling or hard-hearted, they just wouldn't understand a 13 year old girl's desire to traipse around the forest day after day, bringing back all manner of strange, unbelievable tales with her.

He went back into the hall and took his boots off, leaving them by the door.  He walked carefully upstairs, trying not to drip too much on the carpet.  He paused at the top landing, listening to his mother's voice.  She was talking to father about the dinner party next week--they hadn't even noticed Muriel had left.  He went to his room.

He hadn't meant to have understood Muri's adventures in the woods, except that one day, he found himself in the middle of them.

It seemed many years back now, but when he thought about it, it was only 11 months ago that he saw her as he walked through the woods on a fine autumn afternoon.  At first he thought she was only playing make-believe, as young girls are wont to do, but when he got closer, he noticed she was dancing with something--or someone.  He began to walk towards Muriel, but before he got much closer she stopped dancing and turned toward him, her face full of joy.

He'd never seen a fairy before, and even now he wasn't sure he had.  But it was unmistakable then that his sister danced and played with some being that was real, tangible, and with quite dainty feet.  He had seen both their footprints in the moist grass, and the fairy's departing laughter sent a thrill through his heart instantly.

Muriel had the most carefree explanation for him: "They're fairies, John!  Real ones!  Didn't you see them?  Did you hear them singing for me as we danced?"  He had to admit he'd heard something like laughter, though he couldn't distinguish it in his mind from a symphony of bells or wind in the trees on a stormy morning: powerful and playful and joyous all at the same time.  It still made his heart beat when he thought of it.

"It's ridiculous," he thought to himself.  "I've only seen her--really seen her--once, and she barely talked to me."  He thought of the fairy's face and saw her eyes in his mind.  How they seemed to glow with light, a deep light, from somewhere inside, that caught the reflection of the setting sun and seemed to smolder out the great star itself.  And then her smile.  It drove straight to his heart when he recalled the joy there and couldn't help but smile himself.

"How could I be in love with a fairy?" he said aloud.  "I didn't even know they existed a year ago."

[...to be continued]

Fiction Friday

Back and forth. Back and forth.  She gently rocked her new baby in her arms in the warm, dark bedroom.  Gentle baby coos issued from that perfect little mouth as his eyes fluttered up and down, resisting sleep, but smiling at his body's own frustrated effort.

Contentment.  Pure contentedness.  It flowed from the pair of them the way rain flows down a well-paved hill, gushing and spurting over any obstacle and rushing ever onward to its goal.

She looked at the tiny crib tucked right next to her and her husband's bed.  It was all ready and welcome to receive such a warm and cozy little bundle, ready to keep him safe and quiet and sleepy until she finished the dishes.  She took a step toward it but he cooed again.

She looked at him.  At his dark hair, his tiny fingers.  She watched him smile in his sleep..

Cribs can wait, she thought.  There will be time to lay him down later.  Dishes can wait.  He's all mine, right now.    I'm all his.

She sat down in the rocking chair, covered them both with a blanket and leaned her head back, listening to him breathe, close to her neck.  She could feel his heart beat.  She could feel his warm, soft cheek on her chest, his tiny hand wrapped around her finger.

Yes, dishes can wait..

Fiction Friday (continued...)

...

Once a month, Sophie's mother organized a community recital at the Home for the Elderly, and anyone could perform who wanted to.  Sophie's mother always signed her up to play the piano.  First she'd play, and then she'd recite the poem she memorized that month.  The applause were never very loud, and there were never enough cookies and punch afterwards and it was so long before everyone had finished their recitals.  Sophie's mother would sit and visit with the old men and women for what seemed like hours, and smile and laugh with them and hold their hand--listening to their stories and their jokes until they got tired and needed to take a rest.

When it was time to go, Sophie took her mother's hand and they walked down the street together.  Father was at work and her other brothers were in school, so it was just the two of them, the ladies of the house.  Down the street, two blocks right, and one to the left, past the big yellow house, through the park (and all those lovely trees), and up the steps of the large building.

Today, instead of letting her play in the courtyard after the recital, Sophie's mother brought her into the hall and introduced her to one of the old ladies.  

"Sophie, this is Meema.  She just moved in here." she said.  Meema had white hair and her face was pale, like the parchment pictures in Mother's bedroom.  She had thin lips and watery blue eyes, but she was smiling.  Sophie liked her smile--it reminded her of Jake.  

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Sophie replied with a little curtsy, but she hung back a little behind her mother. 

"Meema is Jake's grandmother." Sophie's mother told her.  "After his parents died, Jake lived with Meema and she took care of him."  

Sophie stared with wide eyes.  The more she looked, the more she saw Jake's face in the old woman.  Meema smile even wider.  "What a lovely little girl you are, Sophie!  I loved the poem you recited today.  Where did you learn it?"  

"Well, Jake wrote it down for me before he left, ma'am, and I've been memorizing it for the past few months.  He used to tell me all sorts of stories and poems and songs... b-before."  

"Ah, it sounded like something Jake would like.  Will you tell me again, dear, slowly.  I'm going to close my eyes, but I'll be listening.  Can I hold your hand while you say it?  You have such lovely little hands."  

Sophie put her hand in the old lady's.  It was warm and soft and dry--like old paper, like the old face, but it was strong.  Meema squeezed Sophie's hand, and Sophie began:

Fiction Friday

"I don't want to GO!" She stomped her foot emphatically.  "I don't like it there."  The brown curls on her head shook emphatically with the motion.  She didn't like dressing up, and she certainly didn't like wearing shoes.  Especially her dress shoes--they were tight and stiff and she had to keep them extra clean, which meant no running and no climbing.

"I know, Sophie," her mother said.  "But it's important for us to go."  She took a clean handkerchief out of her dresser drawer and tucked it into the pocket of her sweater.  She looked down at her daughter.  "Jake would have wanted us to, you know."

Sophie sat down in a huff on the settee by the front door.  She felt squished in her shoes and she curled and released her toes, thinking about Jake.  She had liked him, when he still lived nearby.  He was strong and big and funny and he loved to play with her and sing songs with her and tell her stories.

Then Jake had had to leave so suddenly one day, she barely remembered him saying good bye.  It was early in the morning and he and Mother were standing in the kitchen.  Mother was in her bathrobe.  Jake was dressed strangely--all in the same color with a big heavy sack on his shoulder.  They were talking in soft voices so they wouldn't wake anyone.

"Be safe, Jake," mother said.  Her voice sounded scratchy, like it did at church when "How Great Thou Art" was sung.

"I will, ma'am." Jake said.  "I don't exactly know why it's me, why it's now, but it's come down to it and I know there's something important for me to do.  Just like you always said, 'You're put here to do something no one else can do.'  Now I know what that is.  I hope I can do it."

Mother had always said that Jake was a good friend of Sophie's oldest brother, who had died when Sophie was just a baby.  She didn't really remember her brother, but she thought he would have been just like Jake.  Everyone liked Jake.  He had a way with people--helped them calm down, feel better, smile more.  There was never a fight he didn't help solve, never a mopey little Sophie he couldn't cheer up.

She never did understand why he left.  That early morning, so early it was still dark, he had told her he needed to help other people far away.  She thought those other people would like him, too.  She hoped they did.

[...to be continued]

Fiction Friday

The door closed and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.  He often had his hands in his pockets, especially on nights like this.

It wasn't that his hands were cold, of course.  They always found his pockets after he saw her.  He'd never really thought about it, but it was his own small defense mechanism--hands in the pockets was a sign for anyone to read:  "Leave me alone.  I don't want to talk to you."  So he walked down the steps and around the corner, picking his slow way home through the chilly evening, musing on their conversation, kicking pebbles with his toe.

"Are you happy?" he had asked her.  He always asked that question, even though he knew her answer.

"Oh yes, very much!" she said, eyes shining.  She always said that.

It all seemed a bit idyllic to him, no matter how many times she said it, no matter how often she explained it.  He had heard that people could be happy like that.  That it suited some people to live the life she did.  But he never saw it for her.

Hadn't he known her since she was young?  Hadn't they had grown up together, played together, gone to school together?  They had the same classes and knew the same people and liked the same things.  She had so much potential, so much energy, and so much promise!  He had seen great things in her future, wonderful things.  And yet he couldn't wrap his own conception of her around the fierce reality of her happiness as he sat there, face to face with her smile.