// flash fiction- the beginning of the end of the world //

The new moon hung low in the sky, a narrow yellow crescent in the dark like the slitted eye of a resting but ominously watchful cat. My breath hit the air in small explosions of smoke. I’d left the flashing lights far behind but I could still feel them in the frantic beat of my heart.

It was the beginning of the end of the world.

The strangest part (it occurred to my mind, slowly) that the oddest thing, the thing that was bothering me most, was the silence. No sirens, no screaming. Just a long, dead nothingness. I was standing in the dark, the edge of a tree branch jabbed into my shoulder. I moved aside a little, staring into the dark with confusion, my arms held out from my body. Then I remembered- I had bolted.

The lights, the men pouring from cars and tanks like beads from an overturned container, helicopters hovering and beating the air like giant hornets, the rush of people through doors and down halls and the rush of blood to my head. Mr. Lee - he’d pressed something into my hand. I clenched my fist onto an envelope. I hadn’t failed him yet, that was a relief. I began walking, slowly, continuing to piece together what had happened.

The lights, oh those lights- the darkness wasn’t a fear but a blessing after those lights. We’d been standing, the last of us, on the steps of the school and all the lights had gone dull as one light, brighter than them all, had suddenly leapt on us like a ghostly bird of prey from the sky. Mr. Lee had put the envelope in my hand, behind my back and then, unable to stand it, I had broken away, into woods where soldiers wouldn’t dare follow. A futile cry of halt, Mr. Lee’s voice calling my name, my own footsteps crunching through the snow as the darkness had welcomed me.

It suddenly struck me how hard my heart was throbbing. I hadn’t run like that since- it was bizarre in that moment to have a flash back to childhood. I could see Christy now- his hair flopping and damp on his forehead as he leapt after me. The sunlight and green, tender yet prickly grass… me laughing and gasping as my hands smashed against a tree-

My hand did collide with a tree, jerking me into the present again. A strange foreshadowing that had been. For it was true again, in some ways. Details changed- no sun, no laughter now. But Christy behind me, somewhere, threatening my victory. And me determined as I’d always been- to win.

xx this isn't inspired by world current events, although it probably would be more worthwhile to address those. anyways, it's inspired by (heartlessly enough) an accident scene earlier tonight that detoured us on the way home. the streetlights gave everything this extra, harsh drama, and then on the other side was that narrow-eyed moon. i transported, what can I say, and words started forming- so this happened xx

// the christmas ornaments //

The Christmas Ornaments

via pinterest 

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the holidays, it’s easy to miss little things. Seemingly unimportant things. To hurry by the displays of ornaments, tugging children away before they break something - is that little glass trinket really $12?!

Away you rush, leaving the sparkling trees behind without noticing a little white tulle clad, balletic fairy hanging and twirling on the limb of a silver, tinsel tree. Nor do you notice a handsome, bright nutcracker just across the aisle, standing-or dangling - at attention, on a green tree decked in festive color. It certainly would never cross your mind to look close enough to notice their tiny faces, frozen into wide-eyed stares that had been fixed on each other since the beginning of the season.

Until the day before Christmas Eve. A little old lady wrapped in a thick, warm sweater hobbled in from the frigid parking lot and paused at the dazzling display of trees. She had just found out that her daughter and grandchildren were coming home for Christmas and she wanted something special to brighten up the house. She selected a tube of bright, shiny balls, some tinsel and colorful lights and a twinkling yellow star. Then she looked around for something more- and her eyes fell on the fairy and the nutcracker. A smile split her soft, wrinkled face as she gently took them from their trees and went to make her purchases. Her grandson would surely love the soldierly nutcracker. And her little granddaughter would be entranced by the fairy, she just knew it. 

So, the nutcracker and the fairy went home with her. She lived in a little house on a quiet side street. In the living room, amidst bookshelves, squishy, comfy chairs and old rabbit-eared TV set, stood a little evergreen tree. She set down her bag of trimmings and dusted off her record player. It took her a little while to sort through her stack of old records but eventually she found her Christmas ones and started them spinning. Bing Crosby’s deep, homey voice filled the house as she began trimming the tree, humming along to the tunes in her crackly voice, worn like her records but still lovely. Slowly but surely, the tree was transformed into color. The nutcracker and the fairy went on last of all, side by side near the top of the tree. Satisfied, the old lady brewed some tea, and sat admiring the tree and watching a TV program before heading to bed.

The next day her daughter and grandchildren arrived in a whirl, with all the noise and bustle that holiday visits bring. Bags to be unpacked, presents to be set under the tree, treats to be eaten - but the tree didn’t go unnoticed. The little girl had scampered over to look up at it, reaching up to try to touch the fairy before darting away again. After the hubbub had died down, the grandmother led them over to admire the tree properly, showing them their special ornaments with pride. Even the daughters sad, lined face lightened a little as the tree unlocked memories of carefree childhood Christmases. Before long the sky grew dark and they all dressed up and headed off to the church for Christmas Eve service. Not a sound could be heard in the house. Outside, snow began to fall.

When the family returned, the little girl was asleep and the boy nearly so. They were both put to bed and the mother and daughter soon followed suit. The still, silent living room was filled with the blue light of the moon, peeking in fits through the clouds. The clock was ticking…tick…tick… until it was the last minute of Christmas Eve. Then the hand touched midnight.

We’ve all heard the tales of magical things happening on Christmas night. Animals gifted with speech, a fat jolly man and his reindeer traveling around the world in record time, or Christmas trees growing, wooden toys coming to life and mouse armies waging war in living rooms. And while it’s hard to say whether any such stories are true, it is certain that if any night in the year feels like something special is about to happen-could happen - it’s Christmas. Deep down we all sense the wonder of this night of nights when the supernatural really did touch earth, once upon a time. When stars and angels sang, when kings brought treasures. Is it any surprise, then, that so many stories have been told about fantastical adventures happening? Or that we, no matter what, always hold in our hearts a childlike belief in this ‘magic’ of Christmas? 

What happened as the clock struck twelve? No flash of light or chime of bells. If anything, only a deeper hush in the already silent night.  Then something stirred, barely audible even had there been anyone awake to hear. Like a breath, or the stir of a breeze, the tree seemed to quiver, inhale and exhale. Then, near the top of the tree- a movement. A glisten of moonlight on sparkling tulle. A flash from martial, golden trim. 

With a graceful gentle movement, the fairy stretched her arms to their fullest, then swooped them down like bird wings. The nutcracker briskly brought his gun from his shoulder and then held it across his chest. Both looked around, wondering and blinking, then turned toward each other. 

The strings that had held them captive had melted into nothing, like snow in spring. The warmth now was not that of the season, but of the heart. The nutcracker set aside his gun. The fairy smoothed her skirt. He held out his hand, and she took it. An old music box, sitting on a bric-a-brac shelf, began to play a Christmas Waltz. And, together, they began to dance. The tinsel glistened, a draft stirred the sheer, pale curtains. Outside, the sliver-edged snow clouds parted and the stars in the dark sky were like a mirror to the ice and the lights below. 

They didn’t speak. No words were needed, really. Just the moment- the music-the magic. This brief time would have to last for forever. It was their forever. Even when the gentle ring of the music box faded and they were held fast to the tree once more, even when they were tucked into darkness for another year- in their hearts they would dance together until the next Christmas Eve. And then the next. Just as the world, each year, seems to slow into a loving dance and become blanketed with peace and light, the ballerina and the nutcracker would find the promise of love each year. Just as people, trapped in our endless solar circuit, in wars and tears and darkness, can see- for one moment each year- the star’s eternal light, they would be able to remember what it means to be real. What it will be. What the angels really meant when they sang-

‘Peace on Earth’

xx merry christmas everyone. as a side note, I haven't been able to get out of my mind the awful contrast between our Christmas and that of the people of Aleppo. I can't put words to what this juxtaposition makes me think or feel- but pray for those people.  xx

// little story //

The tension in the air was tangible- as real as the forgotten pens in restless fingers around the room. The stern grey walls, carpet and computers seemed to grow livdi with electric charge. Glazed, intent eyes focused on one glowing screen, distracted only by the numbers and lights that speaks in a language of data. The overhead lights seemed to buzz in their sockets.  A steady pulse of seconds, ticking down gave those in the room a common heartbeat, a rhythm of suspense connecting them all to time itself. Everything seemed a vortex, swirling around one moment, set in one screen. 5 seconds… 4 seconds… (never had seconds seemed so infinitely long)…3…2…

  A pause, a hush. Even the beat of the clock stopped a moment. Then, clean and confident, an image appeared on the screen. No introduction or preamble- simply a picture of another world, a foreign and inhuman landscape that even in it’s unveiling seemed to speak defiance to those who looked on.  The first noise was a choked laugh-sob from the director.

  “You- you’ve done it. We’ve done it.’ The room erupted into ecstatic murmurs as another picture, then another, pulsed from space.

  One man alone stood speechless, his eyes shining and his lips parted as congratulations seemed to fall unheeded in his ears. Finally, as if coming from a daze, he took a reanimating breath and slowly adjusted his glasses.

  ‘I… need to call my wife…’ He said, his hand aimlessly patting each pocket in search of his smartphone. Someone pressed into his grasp and he dialed the number. He waited for the waves to connect them across the miles to where she sat in anxious prayer, alone in an airport. She had been delayed by weather from reaching her husband in this of all moments, this moment of giving birth. The room hushed for a moment.

  ‘Katy? It’s me- it worked, Katy. It worked.’ A pause and then finally a rush seemed to sweep him and his face exploded into a grin. Everyone began to cheer as he laughed his thankfulness to the Creator. And one by one, more images marched across the screen.

xx I didn't have a name for this one. I got the idea from a science magazine I was reading in a waiting room. It was describing the emotional reactions of scientists and I just got ideas :) I'd like to expand but it's sort of self contained...  I'm still going to be posting the Q&A video, sometime soon.  xx

// the test of the talents //

The Test of the Talents

Once there was a man, who had much property, money and influence. He had a grand house, full of well cared for servants. All had good reason to both love and dutifully serve their master, for he had done much for all of them. 

Now it happened that the man had to take a journey, far far away and for an indeterminate length of time. Before he left, he called 6 of his servants. They were picked from various ranks and tasks, some seemingly very important and some more humble, the last being a simple stableboy.

To each servant the man entrusted one talent, safe within a bag. These bags were as varied as their recipients, but the matching of bag to person was sometimes surprising. The treasurer was given a simple leather bag, while the stable boy was given a bag made of shining purple silk. 

‘I leave each of you with the same amount- your task is to do with it what you think wisest, and best. When I return, we will see how each has succeeded.’ With these words, the man swept a cloak over his shoulders, picked up his luggage and went out to enter his coach. The servants heard the clatter of hooves and wheels as their master began his journey, and each wondered when he would return. And they all began to ponder how to best use their talent in the meantime.

For some, the decision was swift, others were worried about their own ability to rightly use the money. The treasurer hurried away to his counting table, to begin thinking about the way to invest and make profit. The cook began to think about what it would provide for a great meal to prepare at the return of his master, mentally listing all his masters favorite foods. The stable boy was perplexed, as he returned to his simple room in the stable. He decided for the moment to think more and ask advice of others who might know better what to do with his talent. The housemaid decided that undoubtedly the best thing to do would be to update her own wardrobe- surely the master would think that a worthy endeavor? The gardener began to remember the longing he had once had to risk something really important, and thoughtfully handled the bag, wondering if his time had finally come. The butler began to wonder the same thing, he too thinking about what way he could use this one talent to increase it’s worth, maybe tenfold!

Time passed and the servants began to carry out their various plans.

The stable boy, after hearing each plan of the others, finally decided to use the talent to buy seed and plant a new garden. This soon proved to be a wise choice, for the gardener could no longer tend his duties. The others didn’t give much mind to the simple stable boy as he toiled at his garden after his normal duties, but they would have missed the fruit of his labor had it ceased.

The treasurer first began to think about a wise investment. But before long, the one talent of his own began to have a strange effect on him. He polished and fondled it, tossing away the masters leathern bag and fashioning a gaudy jeweled box to display his talent as it glittered uselessly on the shelf.

The cook, knowing that he lacked the skill or canniness to invest his talent outside, instead saved it carefully against the day the master returned, his magnificent feast already planned in his mind. In the meantime he continued faithfully  carry out his duties in the kitchen, preparing the food that the stable boy brought in.

The housemaid went and bought a new wardrobe and soon her work began to suffer, for she dawdled before the mirror and flounced with her dresses when she ought to have been working. She began, with her new finery, to flirt and tease some of the menservants, and began to slowly lose her once good reputation even in the town. Many wondered at the master keeping such a loose and frivolous maid, and his name began to suffer through her careless, vain actions.

The gardener and the butler both researched the best options for investing their talents. Neither lacked in careful planning, but they avoided the foolishness of the treasurer in laying dormant for so long that the talent became an end in itself. Each invested their talent. Before long, the gardener gain was pouring back in, a great success. But the butler, through no fault of his own, lost even the one talent he had used. He was devastated and fearful, wondering what the master would do.

Eventually, the master arrived with no warning. The house went into a flurry, the maid trying futilely to catch up on her neglected work, the cook ordering ingredients and cooking madly, sending the stable boy out for his prize vegetables. The treasurer gave his talent a last polish, shining up even the box in which it sat. In the shadow of the masters return it seemed to have somehow lost its luster, and a strange nervousness sat in his heart. The gardener prepared a presentation of his earnings, while the butler, his lips dry and his spirit heavy, tried to think what he could say to his master. At last the meal was set, and the master called all 6 servants into the room. They waited, quietly, while he ate. At last, he cleared his throat and sat back.

‘Before I left, I entrusted you each with one talent, to use wisely. Now I have returned and the time is come to give an account of how you have done. Cook, you have outdone yourself with this wonderful meal- I have tasted all of my favorite things and your personal gift to me has given me much joy. How did you use your talent?’

“Well, master, you’ve been eating it. I couldn’t think of anything better I’d like to do than to cook you the best meal possible, one that you alone would enjoy more than anyone else could. So I’ve planned and planned, and now you’ve had it, and I’m truly happy if you liked it sir, that I am.’ And he gave a little bow, his round cheeks even more flushed than usual. 

The master smiled. ‘Your gift thought only to give me pleasure. And yet, I see too that everyone here has been well fed in my absence. You were faithful in your task and that gives me as much pleasure as this-‘ he motioned to the table-‘ your labour of love. Well done, my faithful servant.’

Next came the house maid, her fancy dress swishing on the floor. She stood in a theatrical way, purposefully exaggerated. The master observed her with a critical eye, under which her brazenness faded. She looked down and began-

‘I- I bought myself new things, with my talent, sir. I- I thought, well, you know- it would look nicer, around the house and surely it’s no crime for a lass to want a few pretty things.’ She was growing defensive, though the master had said nothing. ‘Folks notice me, in town, and they know who I work for, that they do. Maybe my heads been turned a little, but my works not suffered, not much that is-‘

‘You have fooled yourself, child, if no one else. Yes, fooled yourself and made a fool of yourself, at once. I have heard in town of your new reputation, and it’s reflection on mine. Your vanity and selfish self-absorption have caused more damage than you know, to yourself and others. Those garments you bought can do nothing for you, and I want you to gather them up and burn them, then return to the duties you are meant to fulfill. The only garments suitable for my house are those I gave you.’ 

The maid stepped back and burst into tears. Next, the treasurer came, clutching his box with desperate pride.

‘I thought about many things I could do with this talent, sir… I counted up many sums that could have worked well to invest, and thought of many things I could purchase. But then I began to realize sir, how lovely the talent really was. I think I’ve never seen such a talent as this one, in all the years of counting and keeping I’ve done. So I used my own time and money to produce this box to display it in, and I’ve polished and cared for it so. See, how it shines?’ His voice, though still loving and almost furtive as he gazed into the box, had a disillusioned ring to the edge. The master looked sad.

‘This talent was not given to you, for you. It was not given as an end, but as a means. And yet you have turned it into an idol, and worse yet an utterly useless one. I would far rather you had lost the talent at the bottom of the sea than see you so given over to it, as though it were a living thing. I have been told of how little you now provide for the needs of the poor, and though I wondered at the telling at first it is now made plain to me. You have devoted your time to something that in the end is nothing. The only course that can help you now is to destroy the box and the talent within. But the box is yours and you cannot rid yourself of one without the other. This choice is yours- but if you refuse you will no longer be able to retain your post. ‘

The treasurer stared for a long moment from his master to the box. But it was too late. Though the sight of the glittering thing jarred his eyes now, and he almost hated it, it had too thoroughly stolen his heart. His feet as heavy as lead, he left the room. His master watched him go with deep sorrow etched on his face, almost as though his very heart ached.

“Perhaps someday his fate will change and he will be restored once more. Until he is willing to give it up, I can do no more. And you, stable boy. You were awed by the riches of the bag I gave you as much as the value of the money inside. What have you done with your talent?’

The stable boy shifted from foot to foot, embarrassed at being called on.

‘Well, begging you pardon, I didn’t rightly know what to do at first. I heard all the others plans and, begging all your pardons, none of them seemed quite right for me, if you know what I mean sir. I did think about doing something grand, but I didn’t know just what. And then I said to myself, ‘you’re nothing but a little fellow, and simple at that. Do something as you can handle, my lad, or you’ll just look a fool.’ So I looked about and don’t you know, I’ve always hankered to grow a garden of my own, much as I love the horses and critters. So I bought seeds, and a book or two, and I started work. And wouldn’t you know, I wasn’t half bad, begging your pardon sir, and yours Mr. Gardener. But things just grew and grew, the more I worked at them the better it seemed. And then, you know, Mr. Gardener couldn’t keep up with his work on account he had to tend to other things, so since I was already doing my own I just stepped in, as it it were. Just as handy! So, sir, that’s what I done, begging your pardon. I hope it was well, though I can hardly hope it was as wise as it ought to have been, and I daresay I should have chosen different. I did do my best, though, sir.’ Abashed at the length of his own speech, the stable boy stepped back into line without waiting for his masters reply. His master was smiling.

‘Blessed are the humble, for they shall be exalted’ He said. ‘You have done wisely, and rightly, my boy. Not only did you remember your own shortcomings, you have used them to bring great gain. Not only did you do well yourself, you were there to help another. Your contribution aided the whole household, although you didn’t boast, nor many even thank or notice. Yet I see all, and I commend you. Well done, my good, faithful, humble servant!’

 The masted turned last to the two remaining. The gardener looked eager, but the butler didn’t raise his eyes, licking his lips and wringing his hands. The master looked concerned, but graciously called the gardener first. He stepped out confidently, holding out a folder filled with papers. This his master took, and perused it while the gardener spoke. 

‘ You know, sir, I’ve long wanted to really DO something, something big and risky. Not foolhardy, but something that really counted, that could cost me something. Something that could tear you up by the roots- not to go all garden talk on you. But I did my research- some of which you can see in that folder- and I went for it. I invested the money you gave me and it’s payed back 10 times more than I even hoped. And what is more, it’s now firmly rooted so it should keep bearing fruit for years to come. I’m proud, sir, I won’t deny it. But I’m also thankful, thankful I dared to try it and be able to stand here with my head high-‘ 

He paused, suddenly remembering the butler, whose set face had paled a little. ‘But I certainly can take no credit beyond doing my research and trying to do right. A man can’t do more than that. The rest’s just luck, or providence, I guess.’ He finished quietly, glancing at the butler. 

These last words seemed to bolster the butler a little and without waiting, he stepped forward.

‘It was the same for me, as what he described.’  His voice trembled. ‘I looked at all the information and chose what I thought would be best, but- I failed, sir. I failed, I lost the talent, and disgraced your house. If you see fit I would not think it wrong of you to send me away, sir.’ A tear slipped down his cheek despite his efforts to be calm. At last his strength failed and he put a hand to his face, quiet sobs shaking his shoulders. The gardener put a comforting hand on his shoulder. What would the master say? 

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, the sound of the chair being pushed back across the floor startlingly loud in the silence, he rose.

‘You say you failed.’ He began, his eyes distant. ‘How do we define failure? You did the same as this man- but the outcome was different. Can we judge your actions by their purpose? Or must we judge them solely by their consequence? You set out to do right- you did do right. Your intention was to do what was best with your talent. You think you failed, because what happened was not what you thought should happen. But you, yourself, have not failed. You did well. ‘ He reached into his pocket and held out a new talent, glinting in the evening sunlight that poured through the window. ‘Not only did you do your best, you came to me honestly when you had failed, if failure you call it. Here is a second chance. But never forget that what we see as failure can in fact be the gateway to something even better.’ 

The change that came over the butlers face was astonishing. It seemed to radiate with a reflection of the sunlight that already had begun to fade. He bowed low.

‘Thank you, master.’ His voice shook, but gained strength as he went on. ‘I see now that your test of our wisdom was in fact a display of your own. You wished us not only to do, but to learn. To learn of ourselves, our strengths and weaknesses. But also to learn of you. You’ve given me this second chance, and it is my honor to continue to serve you as best as I can.’

The master smiled, and looked from one to another.

‘He has spoken rightly. You have all done what you thought best. Or,’ glancing at the housemaid,  ‘what you wished was best, though in your heart I think you knew the difference. And you have all learned something. You now can better serve both me, and the world, if you choose to use your learning rightly. Now, you may go. Go and continue to learn, continue to serve. And remember this test of the talents.’

The end.

this is something I've been pondering for sometime. I needed in my own heart to know- what would the Master say?? And although I think this is the answer, it's so hard to accept in your heart. What if my own plans went awry? Could I trust the Master to make things right, His way? This story is a challenge for me, and I hope to readers as well. Let me know what you think!! The one character I forgot was a grumbler- maybe someday I'll rework the story and add some things. In the meantime- enjoy!!

p.s. I searched for hours to try to find a nice image to go with this but I give up. Abbiee et al., I don't know how you do it. 

// you say you want to be alone //

via pinterest

you say you want to be alone.

but i watch you
and i've seen your sad eyes watching others

and i think you don't want to be alone at all

you've just convinced yourself you should be.

after all it is easiest
not quite so frightening

but then if a lifetime alone
all alone
isn't scary
i don't know what is

you're not so very old you know
and you should believe the mirror that tells you you're pretty still

i saw you the other day
when that gentleman walked by you on the street
he looked at you and smiled
and your cheeks flamed just like roses
and you smiled back

you really are pretty

we girls all think so.
you have no idea
we all look at you when you go by
in your pretty plain dress
and secretly wish we were faded and mysterious
and sad
just for a day, to try it out

folks say we young are fools
in love, in life
but the old are fools too
in love and in life

for they often let them drift by
to show us how much better it would be to be wise

but is it more foolish to make a mistake
or to prudently shake your head
or just to pick a nosegay because

flowers are young too
and they share our knowledge
that your beauty doesn't have to die when color does

open your window
open your door
take a step outside
look across the street to the park

did you play here too?
i wonder.
the roses are blooming in the city garden
walk a little farther
take a look.

the gentleman from the other day is here too.
he walks here often.
he does love roses.

they have a scent and warmth
he misses in the office sounds
and drab colors
of his paper world.

does he want to be alone?

or did he, maybe, come walking
looking for those roses again
like you came looking for
a paper poem.

we are all fools
in love, in life
old and young

but there are times when
the greatest wisdom is
 what some call folly,
and the truly wise know is
anything but.

xxx i think i write more to excavate my own psyche more than anything else. oh well. if you like the diggings well enough to read them maybe you can forge them into some sort of shovel to help dig you out too. or just enjoy them for face value since maybe that's all they really are. who knows. xxx

//untitled story //

 abi and willa stood in miss ferns doorway, staring at her with wide eyes. abi's lower lip was quivering slightly and willas face was flushed with quiet fury.

'now get along out of here, both of you. i tell you i wont teach no dark girl.' miss ferns round face was angry and spiteful, as she glared over her pointed glasses. without a word, willa grabbed abi's moist hand and pulled her out the door. 

they didn't stop until they reached the park. abi was sniffling but with the braveness that typified her family, she was managing to hold back tears. willa slammed into the seat of one of the swings and began pumping back and forth with a vengeance. the full skirt of her pink cotton dress billowed with the wind. abi stood watching and waiting for her best friend. after a moment, willa dragged her feet to come to an abrupt halt. she studied abi for a second.

'i will never, never NEVER take another piano lesson from her.' she declare quietly. abi shook her head.

'willa, you can't say that. you love the piano so much.' she reminded her, her voice soft and singsong. willa stared into abi's face. she hopped off the swing and walked over to wipe one tear from her chocolaty skin. abi tried to smile. willa suddenly smiled too.

'i will show her. just wait.'

* * *

willa's mother was furious, possibly even more than willa herself. she didn't want willa to go back to miss ferns house again. but willa had changed her mind. to her piano lesson she would go.

she walked into the piano room, her head high and her lips pressed together. her golden auburn curls were topped with a big blue bow, to match her dress. miss fern seemed to have forgotten the incident, sitting in her normal pompous spot in a cushioned chair beside the piano. her floral daydress was buttoned up her ample front and her hands folded across her lap. willa didn't say a word as she set her book on the piano. then she began to play. after a few notes everything sounded discordant and off key. she continued to play, a little smile on her lips.

'that's enough willa, what in the world?' miss fern ordered. 'why aren't you playing any of the sharps or flats?'

'i'm not using any black keys.'

'why on earth not?'

'i'm only using the white keys.' willa turned and looked miss fern right in the eye. 'they must be better since they're white.' 

miss fern went white. she looked about to slap willa, but willa didn't flinch. she just kept staring at the old lady, her blue eyes calm and steady. after a long moment, miss fern took a deep, shaking breath.

'your lesson is done.' she whispered. willa rose and took her books. she walked to the doorway, then turned around.

'the color of someones skin doesn't change who they are or how important they are anymore that it does the piano keys. and you need every last one of them to make a song. you need every last one to make music.' 

then she walked out the door without another backward look.

the end

xxx i've had this idea floating around for a while... i may develop it further someday, i don't know. it's supposed to be set in the 1960s, i don't know if i was able to get that across in this short of a piece.

racism makes me so mad, it's so utterly ridiculous.xxx

// a short work of fiction //

via pinterest

The tinny clink of the tea pot lid entered my consciousness, although I had perhaps been aware of her presence before that. I put my head over the newspaper. She was making tea, her movements slow and almost irritable.I wondered if that emphatic bang of the lid had been purposefully to annoy me. Knowing Sylvie, it was most likely. I smile and set the newspaper down.

"Good morning, mon cherie." I said, stretching a little. She smiled back, a small smile but a satisfied one.

"Good morning, Alexandre." She replied, her voice scratchy from sleep and a bit weary besides. How I wish the woman would just once explain, to me at least, what goes on inside that head of hers. We've been married two years next week and I still don't know half of what she means and none of what she thinks. For the past few days, she has been this way- even more quiet and curt than normal. I know better than to let it bother me- I always have. Still, it would be nicer if she would just explain herself. I don't know if she can though, not out loud. It's why she's a writer.
I watch her, her black pajamas clinging to her thin frame. She moves, back and forth, through the almost choreographed motions of her morning ritual. The sunlight coming in was golden new, tinged with the reflected light of the buildings across the way. The brown of her hair and the brown of the tiles on the wall merge into one shade, and she looks so very natural and home-like. It swells my heart a little to see as I sit waiting.

She carries over my tea, sweetened exactly the way I like it. One thing I do know- it is these very little things that, from her, mean quite a lot. When we met, in university,  it was the first inkling I had to knowing she liked me as much I as I(to my own perplexity at the time) liked her. She would do little things, like offer to bring back my library books, or even just sitting with me a lunch. These things would mean nothing from some other girls- from her, they mean everything, for she would not go out of her way for another man than I.

She sits next to me, craning over to look at the headlines. I move the paper over.

"Not much. The world is in the same state as always."

"It is the way of things. Every day different, every day the same. Living, dying, being born and reborn." Was her remark. I agreed even if I didn't quite understand her.

 I should note here that I am an accountant, a man of numbers and symbols, things that do as you ask if you use them wisely and require nothing more than adherence to their rules. The only way I succeeded in literature and philosophy was because Sylvie had helped me. Poetry in particular is beyond me altogether. It is surprising, I suppose, that we should have fallen in love. It is, as she would say, the way of things. She is still quietly scanning the paper. 

"There is a notice of puppies for sale." I mention, as casually as I can. She glances up, a strand of bang hanging over one eye.

"Oh Alex. No puppies, not now." She hates dogs, although she has promised that one day when we find just the right one, I can have it. She herself likes cats, which in turn I have an aversion to. One of each would be perfectly fair. In time.

"They are poodles anyways. I don't want a poodle." I said. A grin splits across her face, showing her fine teeth. 

"Why not, I could see you with a poodle. You can wear my beret."

"Very funny." I applaud, standing up and bringing my cup over to the sink. When I turn, she is watching me, her eyes unusually soft, and with a strange exhausted excitement in them.

"What?" I asked as I go to get dressed. She flushes, her cheeks shining in the morning sun.

"Nothing."

* * *

I dress quickly, realizing that I have lingered too long over the empty words of my paper. I hurry towards the door. Sylvie is waiting by my coat, her arms tightly wrapped around her ribs, pulling her butter yellow bathrobe taut. Her fingers quiver a little. I stop under the coat rack, facing her.

"Sylvie, what is the matter?" I asked. She leans back a little to rest against the wall. Her wide hazel eyes pull me towards her and I kiss her. She laughs a little, her throaty little laugh that only comes from deep inside.

"You're going to be late, Alex." She reminds me.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me why you are acting so strange." I declare. She stares at me for a moment, that strange smile still on her lips. It makes her look girlish, something she usually avoided, and with success. Not this morning. Then she tosses her head, flicking her bang out of her glowing eyes.

"Oh, just... don't bring home lamb for dinner because I can't stomach the smell."

"Alright...?" I trail off, not in the least satisfied. She sighs, a breathy, exasperated, exhilarated little sigh and shrugs her shoulders happily,

"What is your favorite name for a baby? And do you hope it is a boy, or a girl?" 

I will be late to work. Quite late, actually.

* * *
 
xxx I don't even know Is the tense odd? I  probably should know exactly what tense it is but I don't. I wanted to write/post something so I picked that picture and went with it. It's not very Christmas-y, sorry:) I am planning and hoping to get one more Christmas short story done in the next few days. I just need to... start it. xxx