Morning Siesta
She sat at the edge of the earth, breathing the salty summer air deep into her lungs. Her toes wiggled into the bone-white sand; the grains reminded her of her father’s ashes. The sun rose from the horizon of the crystal blue water, and for a moment, the eye of God winked at her. As she exhaled, the weight of her decision lifted from her shoulders, exited her lungs, and dispersed into the gulf breeze. The smell of coconut and zinc oxide drifted through the wind as the sun kissed her face. Old ladies strolled by, captive in their leather skin as they waited for death. She didn’t want to cross into nirvana’s bright whiteness, never knowing the legitimacy of devotion. Her oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses hid the enormous tears that dripped from her eyes. The droplets – salty like the ocean, like her pain, like his attitude – were all she needed to wash away the taste of doubt that lingered. Twelve hundred and eighty-eight miles south was all the separation she needed to confirm that all she needed was separation. The distant sound of drums echoed in the early morning air, and she could feel her heartbeat mimic their rhythm. She shook the blanket and watched the wind spread the granules of quartz among its brethren. Barefoot, she trudged through the fine powder, hurried across the scorching blacktop, back to the car, and back to reality. “When are you coming home?” The text stared at her. The truth stared at her. The pending drive stared at her. She hadn’t been “home” in years.
“Be back soon.”
Twelve hundred and eighty-eight miles north was all she needed to tell him she was never coming home. He would not be happy.
My Own Prison
“You’re going to regret that later,” Thomas said as I tossed my Cons out of the window, somewhere between Mt. Hope and Prosperity.
“Who are you?” I asked, “The fucking shoe police?”
I realized he had a point when they kicked me out of Bojangles, just across the Virginia/North Carolina border. No shoes, no shirt, no service.
“Go sit in the car!”
“Don’t forget my extra biscuit.”
Thomas always yelled at me to get back in the car, even when I spilled the entire cup of boiled peanuts in my lap somewhere outside Savannah.
“You can’t just take off your pants on the side of the road,” Thomas said.
“My pants are covered in dirty salt juice.”
“You’re showing everyone your ass. Get back in the fucking car.”
Some good getting back in the car did me.
They say when you die, everything you’ve ever done flashes before your eyes. Well, I almost died, and I didn’t see jack shit. I woke up in the E.R. with a broken nose, fractured leg, shattered vertebrae, and a massive concussion. And a headache. What a rager of a headache.
I didn’t think the bridge was that high until I stood at the very top of it. The wind nearly knocked me over twice. The tops of my thighs landed against the guard rail at just the right height to keep the breeze from pushing my body into the blue abyss. I spat into the air to see how quickly my saliva would fall to the water beneath me, but the wind caught it and sprayed my mucus back into my face.
I don’t know why I pulled over or why I got out. Maybe it was instinct? Maybe it was Jesus? Maybe it was Maybelline? I left the door of the Jetta cracked and the keys in the ignition. “We Built This City” drifted from the oldies station as I stared into the moonlit water of the bay. The humidity tacked my hair to my neck, and tiny beads of sweat trickled down my forehead. The city’s lights reminded me of little fireflies flickering in static motion. The wind carried the familiar smells of my childhood – burnt oranges, salted air, and pension checks.
“Are you ready to die?” Thomas asked me.
“Since I was sixteen,” I said.
“Remind me to never take a road trip with you again.”
“Remind me to never go back to white boys.”
Thomas scoffed and hissed; the bottom of his pants dusted the pavement of the bridge as he strolled back to the car. A true ride-or-die would have shoved me off the bridge when I wasn’t looking. Instead, he left me there to ponder the tragedies of my sad, pathetic, loser life. The concrete beneath my uncovered, mud-caked feet vibrated as a parade of cars whipped past on their way across the water. My toes were cold.
“You’re so dramatic. Get back in the car before someone calls the cops,” Thomas screeched from the passenger seat. Despite the vehicle’s inactivity, his dirty brown hair blew in the wind like a dog out for a joyride. Let some geriatric busybody call the cops; maybe my parents would Baker Act me.
I did get back in the car for a minute. I climbed into the backseat of the car and found the extra biscuit buried beneath candy wrappers and empty Starbucks cups.
“You said you wanted to feed the fish the extra biscuit,” Thomas said.
I didn’t check my mirrors or pay attention to how close to the yellow line I was when I climbed back out. I flung open the door and leaped out of the car. I went flying into the air as soon as the minivan hit me. I landed in the shallows of the bay, face down among the piles of foreign rocks that keep the shore from washing away.
“It looked like some real Charlie Brown, shit,” Thomas told me.
The rescue crew looked for my shoes for 20 minutes; they stopped when Thomas told them I wasn’t wearing any. The doctor told my parents it was a miracle I survived. I can’t go back to school for the semester, which is a “real bummer .”Or at least that’s what I told my mom.
The frigid weather off Lake Erie was brutal this winter; I was ready to bounce anyway. Guess this road trip turned into the best spring break ever after all.
My dad bought me new shoes – a pair of black Vans- but I can only wear one until the cast comes off in a few weeks. But the real bummer? The EMTs cut me out of my vintage Creed t-shirt. Scott Stapp’s slightly exposed chest was my only bastion of happiness. How will I ironically offend all the hipsters at the record exchange now?
Maybe my brother’s old Nickelback t-shirt will do the trick.
Under the Gold Tree
Shiny bits of gold and silver paper littered the forest floor. The rising sun flickered and bounced against the metallic mess, and Frederick grumbled to himself as he realized he was the most likely candidate to clean up the disaster. Most of the fairies had clamored off to bed hours ago. The fireflies had retreated to slumber in the grass. Even the watch owls had closed their big blue eyes and tucked their chins into their snowy white plumage.
But not Lavender. She flittered among the trees, dancing to the imaginary music she heard in her head, a swirl of synthesized keyboards and airy beats. She stopped under the disco ball that hung – without a rope – spinning mid-air. A loud giggle escaped her chest as she began to emulate the glimmering disc; the wind caught under her teal tulle party dress and bloomed around her waist as she spun out of control.
“If you keep spinning around in circles, you’re going to fall down,” Fredrick said.
“But falling down is the best part of the journey, wouldn’t you agree?” Lavender replied.
As the words spilled from her mouth, she tumbled to the ground and landed in a patch of partially dried mud. Lavender tried her hardest to stand up while dusting the crusty bits of dirt from her skirt, but her legs wobbled beneath her, and she stumbled into an amirite that slept nearby. The mushroom’s gills grumbled with displeasure as she steadied on his cap.
“That’s the problem with you fairies,” the amirite said. “You never pay mind to where you’re landing.”
“Would a kiss make up for my indah-indah-indah-scretion?” she asked.
She puckered her lips and placed a noisy kiss on the top of his red and white spotted head. Frederick watched the exchange with a furrowed brow; Lavender was still intoxicated from the gnomes’ apple wine. She’d also gotten into the stockpile of psilocybin dust, Frederick was sure. He’d locked away the camp’s supply in the underground bunker under the old willow, but as he watched her dance in her private silent disco, her pupils wide with pleasure, he was sure Lavender had found a way to infiltrate the stash. She probably sweet-talked the army ant that stood guard outside the tree with a bright blue robin’s egg.
“You’re going to be absolutely, positively, certifiably good for nothing come tomorrow,” Frederick said.
“And by tomorrow, do you mean today?” Lavender asked.
“By tomorrow, I mean tomorrow.”
“But how do you determine what’s tomorrow? I haven’t been to sleep to finish off today.”
Surely, she still remembered how to tell time.
“When the sun reaches the top of the mountain, it is tomorrow,” Frederick said.
“So, then it’s still today?”
“Where is the sun?”
“Still snuggling next to the lake.”
“Then it’s still today, isn’t it?”
Frederick’s big brown eyes narrowed as his lower lip protruded from his bottom lip. He looked like a troll, not a fairy. Lavender tried not to laugh, but his face was smushed and twisted in such displeasure she couldn’t help herself.
“You’re a real grumpapuss these days,’ she said.
“Some of us weren’t out galavanting with the pixies all night.”
“I do wish the pixies were still here.”
“You wish one pixie was still here.”
“That only makes sense. If all the pixies were here, then HE would be here. But there’s no guarantee it would be him if just one pixie was here.”
“Watch yourself. He’s multi-colored.” Frederick placed his hands on his hips and stomped his tiny foot on the ground.
“So are the birds and the bees.”
“Don’t you worry about the birds or the bees. How about you worry about this mess!”
“I’ll help her clean it up,” a voice behind Frederick whispered.
When Frederick turned to investigate, no one was there. Lavender’s pupils widened, and her cheeks flushed with such rosy color that the center of her face turned a bright purple. And for this reason, Frederick knew that the pixie had returned.
“When I return, I expect to see this place cleaned up.”
Frederick scanned the trees and shrubs. He knew that that troublesome flying patchwork pixie lingered in the greenery, but he couldn’t find him. Tired of the shenanigans, he returned to his bed with a heavy foot inside the yellow tulip that stayed in full bloom all year long despite the change in seasons.
A warm breeze caressed the back of Lavender’s neck. The soft current smelled of hops and sugar, and she knew he was behind her.
“I missed you, Lavender Belle,” the pixie whispered.
“I missed you, too, Zander Goldtree.”
Lavender had spoken to him, once at the Fall Ball or the Summer Sing-A-Long; she couldn’t quite remember. She had heard rumors of his seduction, and the broken hearts he left in his wake. She’d seen him at previous gatherings serenading pixies, fairies, and creatures of all kinds with his lyre. She had even watched from afar as Zander convinced a caterpillar to morph early so that he could see the butterflies’ colors. He was bright and sunny and sparkled just like his name. He made her feel warm and gooey inside, like the psilocybin dust made her feel.
Zander silently went to the lake’s edge, and Lavender hurried to follow behind him. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite catch up. Then the pixie stopped walking, and Lavender couldn’t stop fast enough to avoid smashing into him. Purple glitter from Zander’s satchel fell onto her dress, and she gazed at the shimmering powder that beautifully accessorized her skirt.
“I think I love shiny things,” Lavender said.
“I think I love you,” Zander said.
She remained silent.
Zander stroked the side of her cheek and placed a delicate kiss where his hand had been. Lavender scanned the forest around her, but nothing was as it had once been. Suddenly, everything looked different. The pink roses blushed into shades of scarlet. The dark greens of the forest vibrated with a bright electric glow. The honeysuckle smelled sweeter. Even the snapdragons smiled at her instead of their usual roar.
“Shall we go for a walk?” Zander asked.
“If Frederick comes back and this mess is still a mess, he’s going to be cross.”
“What mess?”
Lavender peered beneath her feet and then at the earth around her. The dirt sparkled. The mess had been there – piles of confetti, discarded apple cores, empty morning dew bottles- all vanished as if the Spring Gathering had never happened.
“Zander, you’re not supposed to use pixie dust for chores.”
“For my chores,” he said, “but these weren’t my chores, now were they? A clever loophole.”
“I fell into a loophole once. Took me almost a whole week to get out.”
Zander grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him. His other hand gingerly graced the small of her back, and goosebumps spread across her arms. Lavender’s stomach flipped and turned every time their eyes met. He made her fingers and toes tingle. Lavender gazed deeply into Zander’s eyes – little flecks of blue, yellow, and green sparkled inside a deep gray sea of emotions. She tried to look away, but he had her hypnotized, charmed. She couldn’t turn her head to break the spell.
“I’d never let you fall into a loophole,” Zander promised.
“For that, I think it may be too late.”
The words came out as a mere whisper.
The colors and shapes of the forest began to swirl and mix until nothing remained the same. She spun and somersaulted down a kaleidoscope tunnel, hurling toward a pinhole of white light that awaited her at the end. She spread her arms and legs onto the tunnel walls to catch herself from falling further, but the effort was pointless. Lavender fell into a vacuum of space, a void of darkness or light. She was floating. Or was she falling? She couldn’t quite tell the difference. She tightly squeezed her eyes to darken the brightness as she fell closer to the light.
When she finally opened her eyes again, Lavender found herself clothed in her favorite nightshirt, tucked tightly into her bed, her party dress in pristine condition, hanging from the wardrobe. The birds sang a sweet song outside her window as the sun peaked through the branches of the shady willow. A firm knock on the door startled her; she sat up in bed and permitted the creature on the other side to enter.
“Are you feeling ill?” Frederick asked.
“I don’t believe so,” Lavender said.
“It’s not like you to wake up late on the morning of the Spring Gathering. I need your help bottling the Morning Dew before the gnomes arrive.”
“Frederick? Is it today, tomorrow, or yesterday? I can’t quite tell anymore.”
“Where is the sun?”
“Kissing the top of the mountain.”
“Then it must be today, then, isn’t it?”
The visions, the dream, so vivid in color, so deep in olfactory impression, so rich in sensibility, must have been a mere figment of fancy.
Zander Goldtree… the pixies of all the pixies…
Lavender laughed at the thought. She hurried from her bed, brushed and braided her lilac hair, and slipped on her favorite teal, tulle party dress. As she smoothed the rough frills, a tiny glimmer of shine caught her attention. She picked at the little purple fragment, which disintegrated into dirt as she rubbed it between her fingers. She watched as the gritty pieces fell to the earth. The wind blew along the forest floor, scattering minuscule bits across the grass.
And in her ear, she heard the angelic sound of plucked strings, and she knew the dream was beginning again.