"Blueberries"

 

[A double post for the day--making up for missing Wednesday's entry.]

After sweeping all the shards and dust from the floor, Ian hurried the ceramic angel and the wing he had broken off of its back into the forest behind the house, where the dirt near a low-growing cluster of blueberry bushes was still soft and bare, untouched by moss or grass. With the wing as his shovel, Ian dug a hole. The pale cast of the figure's material clawed like a scream, a sharp white next to the dirt's darkness when he laid the angel down, but he didn't know what else to do.

When he finished, he looked at the blueberries. Handful by small handful, he filled the pockets of his jackets. He didn't want any; he just needed the excuse. One of the blueberries burst. He glanced at the crevice between his forefinger and his thumb, at the skin where the purple mark was beginning to spread.

A shout split the air like a crack of thunder. Ian turned around. His father was home.

"The Nut House"

 

He came into the kitchen while she was seated at the table and said, "I've got to know."

She closed her book on her lap. "Are you sure?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I've just--I want us to be excited about this together."

"You're sure?"

He nodded again.

"Okay," she said, letting her smile come out of hiding. She eased herself up from the chair. "I got you something that I actually bought to give you whenever you asked. Or, if you didn't ask," she added, tiptoeing toward the closet, "I was just going to give it to you after." She took a bag from the lowest shelf, reached inside for its contents, and passed him his gift.

He studied the antique metal sign.

"I don't get it," he eventually admitted. "Are you telling me it's furry? Or crazy? Or..."

"Use your sense of humor," she told him.

He looked at the sign a while longer, until she finally saw the light break across his face. "Oh," he said, and then, "Oh," with a smile. "A boy," he whispered. "It's a boy."

"Runaways"

 

Moira swore that no one could have heard her crawl out her bedroom window. Her parents certainly wouldn't have. They never listened, just called instructions to her while they balanced their checkbooks or filled out forms for work, telling her to clean her room, or do her homework, or change bratty little Liam's diaper, though at least they never told her to change Grandma's. But it was just an endless sea of chores with them. When she sneaked through her window that night, it was as if she broke through the surface of the ocean, although she made her escape very quietly, taking care to avoid even breathing too heavily.

Which was one reason she was so surprised to find the ash tree from her front yard, labeled by the people from Public Works with a tag that read "65," following her down the sidewalk.

Moira had sat in Sixty-Five's shade enough times to feel certain that the tree meant her no harm. It was the only fact that she felt certain of when, hearing its roots tap their way over the cement like the feet of a thousand tiny insects, she turned around. She made a few stuttering attempts at a sentence before whispering, "You're not supposed to be here," thinking both of her belief that she had left the house in secret and of the tendency of trees to remain in fixed locations.

Sixty-Five remained a few feet away. It tipped the uppermost part of its trunk to the right as if asking a question.

"Trees don't move!" Moira hissed. Sixty-Five replied by slowly waving its branches, giving the impression that a small wind was stirring them.

"You know what I mean," Moira said. "Trees don't get up and walk. They have roots."

A larger branch swung around until it was pointing at her chest.

"Me? I don't have roots. I have my family. Not like they're going to notice I'm gone or anything. Not till they need the toilet cleaned or whatever."

Somehow the branch curved inward so that Sixty-Five appeared to be pointing at itself.

"Trust me, they'll see you're missing," said Moira. "But I'm not as big as you are. And no one there cares about me."

As soon as the words left her mouth, Moira saw Sixty-Five's leaves droop. At first she thought that the tree was tired of arguing, which was confusing, as she always imagined that a good shade tree was nothing if not patient. Then Sixty-Five began to back away, and she realized the weight of what she had said. All those days before, with Sixty-Five looming high above her while she sat in the yard, Moira had assumed not that the tree cared about her, but that the tree was just being a tree, indifferent to anything she did or wanted.

She had made similar assumptions about her parents.

Once she and Sixty-Five were back in the yard, Moira dropped to her knees and patted the dirt back in place over its roots. It turned out, as she saw the tree's wings unfold like moth wings in the moonlight, that the work wasn't so bad after all.

"He Tried to Keep Them Safe"

Vintage paperbacks, wrapped in poly bags, on the shelf at the used bookstore.

He knew it was inevitable that they would get older, so he tried to keep them safe. It was a thin kind of protection, the love he had for them, one that inevitably would fail against the harshness of the years; yet he wrapped them up tightly, and for the most part, it was enough. Of course, a moment arrived when he realized that he had loved them a long time, but he sat with them less and less each day. Then, he knew. He understood that he would never stop loving them, even after he let them go.

"I Won't Forget"

 

"Come on," Mark's mother said to him, "you've got to put it back now." Mark glanced up at his mom, then set the plush elephant down on the shelf. She picked him up; he looked away. 

"You said I could get him next time," Mark whispered, his chin resting so firmly on her shoulder that he felt each word that he spoke as a drop of pressure underneath his jaw. He watched the elephant get farther away as his mom carried him down the aisle, as if he were in the car and watching it through the rear window while she drove.

"I know, honey, but I had to pay the man to fix the washing machine, remember?" she said. "Next time," she told him, "I promise." 

Instead of listening to his mother's promise, though, Mark was staring at the toy elephant, whose head he swore he had seen turn toward him. A slight stretch of his neck forward, and Mark was able to see the elephant raise its trunk and fold its ears back against its body.

"See you later, Mark," the toy elephant said.

Mark looked at his mom; her gaze was locked ahead of her. He looked back at the elephant.

"Please don't forget about me," it said.

"I won't forget," said Mark. His mother looked at him then, just as the plush elephant lifted its trunk higher and waved goodbye behind her.

"Children Made of Stone"

 

Lars knew as soon as he saw his new neighbor step onto her front porch and close the door behind her that she was coming over to introduce herself, which is to say that she was coming over to complain about his kids. There was a certain stiffness of posture and weakness of smile that preceded questions like Do they run around like that all the time? and Lars had learned to spot it well. What he hadn't learned was how to make someone believe that his children would turn to stone if ever they stopped moving.

"Daddy, I'm hungry!" Bianca called as she and James ran around the ash tree in the corner. Lars shook himself free of his thoughts and reached down to the table for one of the sandwiches he had brought outside for lunch. He thought about telling her to run over and pick it up, but then, even as he was watching their neighbor cross her lawn toward them, he decided otherwise and instead jogged toward the ash tree, sandwich in hand, to join the kids in their game of circles. It was the least he could do for the children he would never be able to hold.

"Plates"

 

The day after Annelise gave birth, two women whom Annelise didn't know came to her hospital room and gave her the plates.

Annelise accepted the box, which also contained four salad bowls to match, and gave the women a long, lean frown. "What are you doing with my mom's dishware?" she asked them.

"Not hers," said one of the women. Her hair was sprayed and pinned into a neat ponytail, and her hands were folded in front of her. "They're actually yours. Your very own set."

"They're affordable, durable, perfect for kids to eat off of," said the other. "My mom used to make me spaghetti all the time. Always with the noodles and sauce separate. I'd mix them together on a plate just like one of those."

"My mother would leave rolls out for me on one of the small plates," the first woman said. "She was usually at work by the time I woke up for school."

"Welcome to the club, Annelise," the second woman said. "Hold on to those plates, and you'll do just fine." The two women exited the room, leaving Annelise to sit back on the hospital bed and think, about cheese and crackers, toaster waffles, all the good things she could remember, and to feel, for the first time since she had seen her daughter's face, a little less afraid.

"Obey All Posted Signs"

 

I stopped the car at the intersection--badly, I know; I felt the seatbelt catch like air in the throat of someone choking--and I looked at my dad, calm in the passenger seat. Again he pointed out the window at the arrow.

"That doesn't look like a real sign," I told him.

He gave a half-smile and let his breath escape slowly, through his nose, a teacher trying to be patient with a bumbling student. "Part of learning how to drive is learning what to look for," he said. "See if this helps." He made a few gestures with his right hand, signs that I had never seen before, and suddenly I saw. I saw everything. Now the air really was caught in my throat. I looked him in the eyes once more, and he nodded. "Same as before, press the gas pedal down, slowly, slowly...." The car's nose lifted, we lurched into the sky in the direction of the arrow, and more than ever before, I felt the enormous weight of moving forward.

"One Big, Fat, Juicy Apple, Part Two"

 

[I wish I could do justice writing about the large events rippling through the world right now. Until then, I go with the little moments that I know. Hope you're all well.]

Nailah's mother knew things that Nailah herself did not. Nailah understood this fact perfectly and hated it. Something about apples in particular made her mother suspicious, and not even all the books in the library could distract Nailah from trying to find out what it was when they made their afternoon visit.

"Mommy," Nailah said as they entered the children's room hand in hand, "I like apples."

Her mother laughed. "I figured as much, since you made a song about it."

They made their way to a pair of beanbag chairs. "They're really juicy," said Nailah.

"So I've heard."

Her mother handed her a cardboard picture book, which she accepted but kept closed as she pondered what else to say. "I like how they're big," she finally offered. "When I hold them in my hand? They're big."

"That they are," said her mother.

"And hard."

Her mother glanced up from her novel.

"And..." Nailah rummaged through her thoughts for all the words that belonged to apples. "Crunchy?" she said.

Nailah's mother leaned forward. She took Nailah's picture book, opened it to the first page, and handed it back.

"Try reading this for a while," she said. "You know, if you had gone with something like 'smooth,' I probably would have had to ground you." She leaned back in her beanbag and returned to reading her novel, while Nailah, completely dissatisfied with the simple illustrations in her picture book, peered over the top of it at the pages her mother was reading, trying to divide those chunks of words into slivers, desperate to digest that tempting fruit, knowledge.

"One Big, Fat, Juicy Apple"

 

"There you go," Araceli said, setting the plate in front of her daughter, "one big, fat, juicy apple."

The apple had actually been cut into slivers better suited for Nailah's little pink petal fingers, but she didn't seem to mind. Nailah giggled and smiled, and Araceli turned to rinse an apple for herself under the kitchen faucet. When she glanced back, however, she discovered that Nailah's delight had little to do with the snack she'd been given.

"Nailah!" Araceli said. "What are you doing with Mommy's phone?"

Instead of placing the phone in Araceli's open hand, Nailah grinned and pressed a button. Suddenly Araceli's phone was transmitting a deep line of dance beats and bass notes, and Araceli's voice, heavily autotuned, was singing a club-ready ode to a big, fat, juicy juicy apple apple apple.

"Oh, lordy," said Araceli. "Honey, what did you do? How did you do that?" Juicy juicy juicy, sang the phone, and Nailah laughed. Araceli narrowed her eyes. "What exactly does it mean to you when you hear that?" she asked.

The music continued. Nailah shrugged and looked around the room, as if the answer were hiding somewhere nearby. "I don't know," she finally said, with a simple, timid smile. "That you have a juicy apple?"

Araceli took the phone from Nailah's hands. "Exactly," she said, marveling at both the depths and limits of her daughter's knowledge. "Now what do you know about uploading and selling music files?" she asked as Nailah reached for an apple slice with both hands' chubby fingers. "I think we just figured out your college tuition."

"The Crown Prince of Flowers and His Children"

 

As they grew, the young blooms turned away from the Crown Prince, preferring instead to face the window, as if they had eyes to behold the world, and what they saw with those eyes was a painting created specially for them. "Why do you want to bother with anything out there?" the Prince of Flowers scoffed from where he sat, high on a bookcase. "Our kingdom has everything we need." The kingdom encompassed the bookcase and the table below where the children were kept and included in its service a steward quite unlike the flowers who nevertheless knew when to bring them food and water. It was a fine place.

Yet the morning came when, before the Prince had opened his sleepy petals, the steward carried the Prince's offshoots outside, bringing them to a spot just on the other side of the window. It was so the young plants could grow up tall and straight, he heard the steward say. The Prince, being a proud plant, accepted this counsel with calm and stoic silence, even though it dismayed him. He thought of bees taming their hunger with the help of the young plants' pollen and ants climbing into the young plants' pots to make their tunnels among the roots. The Crown Prince of Flowers only wished to protect his children from the world outside, even if--and this he knew was true--that world was better with them as part of it.

"Board Games"

 

He lifted the lid of the old cardboard box, with its splitting corners and the artwork decorating it faded to a thin yellow. Inside, there were the game board and the game pieces, but there were also pieces of his childhood that had been stored away, for some reason, here: class pictures from grade school and candy wrappers. Handwritten notes from a friend.

"How did you play this game, Dad?" his daughter asked. She cast a frown at one of his green plastic soldiers as she took it from the box.

"You know," he said slowly, "I'm not really sure. I'll have to see what I can remember." In the corner of the tray, next to where the dice rested, he saw two of his baby teeth.

"To Go"

 

Harriet was putting away the dishes when, suddenly, her teenage daughter, Elena, appeared next to her, holding a box.

"Oh, hi, hon," Harriet said, closing the cabinet door. "I didn't even hear you come in. Did you have a good night out?"

Elena looked as if she had just seen a car crash. She stared ahead for a few seconds before her eyes shifted toward Harriet. "Night?" she asked quietly. "How long have I been gone?"

Harriet crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Well, Chris came to pick you up around six, so, yeah. That long. You okay?"

"You still remember who I am? Quick: which bedroom is mine?"

"Second one on the right, the one painted green like you've had it for the last three years. Ellie, you're scaring me."

With one hasty leap of a step Elena stumbled into Harriet and, still holding the box, wrapped her arms around her. "I love you, Mom," she said. "I'm sorry for scaring you."

"Please don't let this be drugs," Harriet whispered into Elena's shoulder.

"What?"

"I said," said Harriet, stepping back, "I miss you giving me hugs." She nodded at the plain white box. "What do you got there? Leftovers?"

Elena glanced down as if the box had just appeared in her hands, the way she had appeared in the kitchen moments before. "Oh," she said. "Yeah, I guess. In a way. Just something from where we went." With a resolute nod, she smiled and held the box outward. "I want you to have it, Mom."

"Oh, honey, we just ate dinner not too long ago."

"No, not like that," Elena said. "Just--whenever you need something different." She passed the box to Harriet, who raised an eyebrow and placed it on the counter. Elena smiled at her again. "I'm going to go take a shower," she said.

"Just let me know if you need anything," Harriet said. She watched Elena climb the stairs. She knew she wouldn't have many more chances to watch where Elena went. The box on the counter was small and simple and begging for Harriet to open it. So she did. And her eyes went wide. She could barely begin to imagine how far her daughter had gone.

"Salt the Earth"

 

From the corner of the room, across from where their foreign guests stood, Lot's wife heard what her husband offered the mob when it demanded that the strangers come outside: "I have daughters, virgins both. I will bring them out here, and  do what you will with them, but do not touch these men who have taken shelter beneath my roof."

Every tear that Lot's wife then would have cried instead hardened inside her, becoming a lump in her throat, a knot in her bowels, a clenched fist that she felt in all the other muscles of her body; and every tear traveled to the field within her that had been given to Lot to grow his nation, until the field was dead and dry, just as her heart for him now lay fallow. Never again would she bear his child. She would find a way to make certain of that.

"Safe"

In case the picture is hard to see, these are being sold as "Safe Tunes" headphones.

"I'm sorry, my lord," said the wizard to his evil overseer, "but they've proven too powerful. Never again shall children catch wind of the faint whispers of sex and hints at medicinal pleasure that music offers. No, they shall heed their parents' orders and grow up to be respectable citizens who pursue careers in health care, or perhaps business administration."

"Not necessarily." The overseer stroked his beard with fingers as gaunt as bone. "Dip the pacifiers in antibacterial coating," he instructed.

"The one laced with arsenic? Yes, my lord," the wizard said, disappearing with a flourish of his robe into his chamber to summon the spirits of mass production.

"Use a Napkin"

Napkin sketch courtesy of Wesley Wong

"Oh, come on," Davey's father said. He tugged on the boy's sleeve to try to pull his forearm away from his mouth. "You're too old to be wiping your face on your shirt. Use a napkin already."

"You know why he doesn't want to do that," said Davey's mother. "Let him use the back of his hand. He can wash it off later. There's no harm."

"No harm? Next he'll be seeing the Virgin Mary on the front of a tortilla. You're indulging the boy. Making him too soft to deal with reality."

"And you're crushing his imagination."

It didn't matter to Davey what either of them said. He was watching the low red light from the candle in the jar pulse like a heartbeat over the napkin's folds. With each quick shift in the light, the demon's face changed expression, exposing more or less of its sawblade teeth. "Go on, bring me close, boy," the demon begged. "Let me tell you what to do." Davey didn't want to. But maybe, he thought for a moment, while his parents' voices rose above him like shadows, maybe if he did just wipe his face, everything would finally be all right.