Haunted

I’m followed by ghosts who tease and torment me. They like to call me stupid and fat and no good. Sometimes, I let them. Other times, I try to cover my ears, but their taunts seep through the cracks of my fingers and pierce my drums, echoing those nasty thoughts, which make me feel I am horrible and bad.

My Nana says I’m crazy for listening to them ghosts. They’re dead and in the grave, and so should stay their words, she tells me when I come home crying and carrying on about who said what and how it makes me feel I will never become anything but my past.

Nana wasn’t there when those ghosts were real people who hated each other, and as a result, despised the combination of their beings which spawned me. I didn’t understand their anger, but I felt the lashes of their rage, whipped across the backs of my legs with that leather belt no one ever wore.

Nana didn’t show up until they were gone, killed by a truck that swerved left when it should have right, and in an instant, all of that hate I had known was a fine mist that cleared away when the morning sun stretched its arms and yawned. I don’t know who told her of the gruesome night, or how far she had come to stand at the foot of my bed as I woke and asked unabashedly, “Are you a ghost?”

Her wispy white bob shook with her disapproving glance as she wheezed, “No, I’m your grandmother. Ghosts live in the ground. Nanas stand at the foot of your bed and order you up and at ‘em. We’ve got a day’s work ahead of us, and I won’t stand you lollygagging and slowing me down.”

I never got a chance to ask her about a lollygag because Nana didn’t make time for nonsense or believing in ghosts that said bad things to make you feel rotten inside. She didn’t then, and she doesn’t now, so I have to appease these ghosts on my own. Or find a way to get rid of them.

“A little turpentine will always do the trick,” Nana likes to say when she’s cleaning up a stain or grime off the floor.

So maybe a whole can of this stuff will do the trick, just as soon as I can pop this lid and pour out its contents all over my parents’ graves…

- Written on May 29, 2012

Ravens

The sleek, black birds perched atop the arthritic limbs of trees once filled with life. Now winter’s frost had stripped them bare, leaving all which tried to hide there exposed and vulnerable to the roaming eyes. The eyes which never blinked.

My heart clamored faster against my chest with every step I advanced down the dirt path toward the decrepit house which exemplified all the stories I’d grown to love within the past five years. This was where the pendulum struck down the house of Usher, where Lenore brought forth the tell-tale heart, and the ravens…

Their beady eyes as black as coal frowned at me as I crossed below. The sadistic twist of my soul wished for darker skies and explosive lightning bolts to invade the skies overhead, give me the true mood of this place where haunted tales linger on the porch and in the kitchen. Blood stains ringed the floors.

I caught a raven peering at the grumpy clouds sulking above us all, and for a moment, there was a twinge of fear that perhaps he could read my thoughts,

A whir caught my ear, and I turned to see a few more of the dark birds soaring in and settling onto branches along the road from which I’d come. There were more and more than I wished to count, but it may have been my own paranoia amplifying their presence and multiplying them by three.

The ravens spoke not a sound, as I treaded softly to the wooden house, leaning to one side in its saddest state of mind. Why would you bother coming this far to see the waste that I am? It mumbled, its words garbled by the stroke which paralyzed its right side and caused it to slump just so.

At the edge of its first step, I sat and observed the ravens, now an army of one hundred or more, stationed stoically atop their posts, watching me back.

There were no words to describe the ghost which crept from behind and entered my soul, bestowing the eyes which gave me the light to see this place as it once had been in another time – the house where the deepest, darkest thoughts of our minds were liberated to wreak havoc on the page. This house was Poe’s imagination, but not his home.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

The call of the ravens echoed through the trees. Barely a whisper at first, but growing stronger and louder against the incoming breeze. I drank in their cries of “intruder,” closing my eyes and then awaiting their inevitable attack on the stranger who had intruded upon their dream.

 

- Written by Miss A on May 24, 2012

Marbles

I done seen some thangs in my life, but da day I witnessed young Tommy Woodson clean dem Bradley boys in a game a marbles…well, son, dat dem day done outshine all da rest.

Now Tommy was a tall, spindly boy – no pudges a fat on dat kid. Probly ’cause his mama was poor, workin’ to keep her kids in shoes and a roof o’er dem heads. Dat kid had risk in his eyes – probly took it from his papa, who knew a thang or two ’bout goin’ after what he wanted. Dat’s a diff’rent story for a diff’rent time, tho.

So on dis day I speak ’bout, dem Bradley boys were crouched on Miss Mayson’s porch. Dat’s where all dem childs gathered in da afternoons when summer done roll around. Dey was playin’ marbles, beatin’ all dem other childs and makin’ a good pile for demselves. Mac Bradley liked to bring him a mason jar and plop each of dem marbles in dat glass while dem childs watched with sad eyes. Lordy, you woulda reckon you took dem families away when you seen dem looks they give.

Couple of us old men liked to watch dese childs hangin’ ’bout. ‘Minded us ’bout when we were childs, I s’pose. Young Tommy held back and watched dem childs lose dere marbles one by one. Didn’t say a word. He never played ‘gainst dem Bradleys before. Nah, he played dem other kids in da park sometimes, but he knew da racket dem Bradleys had goin’. So he kept to da back of da group ‘n just watched dem lil’ childs run cryin’ off dat porch when dem marbles clanged in Mac’s glass jar.

Mac reckon he had clean all dem childs out, so he goes to seal dat jar real good, but Tommy step up and say, ‘I wanna play.’ Joe Bradley eye him real good and say, ‘boy, you gotta have marbles to play us.’ Tommy pull out his shoota marble in one pocket and seven marbles in da other. ‘I got marbles,’ he says to dem boys.

Da other childs gathered ’round day playas as dey crouched ’round dere circle and begin da game. Dat Tommy was a real shark, comin’ outta nowhere, shootin’ straight ‘n collectin’ Mac’s marbles one by one from dat jar. Pride kept Mac ‘n Joe in da game. S’pose dey reckon Tommy was touched by stroke a luck, but us men could see dat Tommy was beyond dat. Boy knew how to play ‘n he had been waitin’ for da right moment to take dem Bradleys down.

His pockets done bulged wit dem marbles from Mac’s jar, which got emptier ‘n emptier as da sun crept down. Der ain’t but four marbles left in dat jar by suppa time, but silly Mac didn’t pay no mind to his loss ’cause he still reckon he could win. ‘One more go,’ he says ‘n Tommy shrug like it ain’t no big deal to him.

‘Cause dem marbles was already his before dat last game began. Mac’s shoota marble missed that last ball by an ant mile, ‘n all dem childs ’round the boys looked on in anticipation when Tommy crouched down to shoot. Everyone sucked in dere breaths real good, ‘n when his shoota knocked out dat lonesome marble in da center, childs cheered like dat Tommy was a war hero returnin’ home. And don’t ya reckon, dat boy reach in his pockets ‘n start handin’ out dose marbles to der rightful owners, keepin’ only a few for a tip to himself, before headin’ home to his mama. While dem Bradleys slinked away to sulk by demselves.

- Written by Miss A on April 28th and May 6th, 2012

a Clown

His rainbow nest of hair spiraled in all directions, the loaded wig hanging heavily on his troubled head. He wrung his white gloved hands and sighed. Leaning forward to glance down the long, barren street, he looked to see if the bus was finally climbing over the horizon.

As usual, it was late. Which made him late. He had even tried to leave earlier and arrived at the bus stop an hour early to catch the sooner ride, but it was his typical luck that neither bus had showed up on time.

The kid’s parents would be anxious and probably upset. They seemed like the neurotic type who wanted everything to be perfect for little Junior’s birthday. Any deviation from their scheduled plans would send them in a tailspin. So much for getting a decent tip out of this one. He’d be lucky if they paid him anything at all.

Frustrated, he kicked the duffel bag at his feet, the container of all his tricks and props which made the kids laugh. This was supposed to be easy money, so he could save to buy a car, but so long as the bus failed him, he had no chances of purchasing his own vehicle to get around the vast city.

His skin itched from the oily make-up on his face, but he didn’t dare scratch the tingling feeling on his cheek. Two hours he had worked on drawing the perfect pink circles on either side, tracing the large red outline of a smile around his thin lips and then coloring it all in, and finally darkening the blue triangles over his eyes. Not to mention the fine details of making sure every inch of his face and neck were caked with an even layer of white paint.

All of it seemed pointless now. The bus wasn’t coming. It was almost at the time when a third bus should be puttering down the road, but at the rate things were happening for him, it wasn’t likely that one was going to show.

Grabbing his duffel bag, he stood and stared down the empty road on last time. Disappointed, he turned and walked awkwardly away from the stop, his long, oversized black shoes clacking on the pavement. What a sight he must have been. The dejected clown with slumped shoulders who clopped down the street.

“Excuse me, Mike?” a voice called from a car that had slowed nearby.

“Huh?” the clown asked. “How did you know my name?”

“Um, my wife sent me out looking for you here. She had your address on the card you gave her. We booked you for Taylor’s birthday party today?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ve been waiting for the bus to come for almost two hours,” Mike answered apologetically. “I would have called, but I don’t have a cell phone right now.”

“We figured as much. The bus drivers all went on strike five hours ago. We thought maybe you hadn’t gotten stuck when you didn’t show up half an hour ago, so I thought I would see if you were at home. If you’re still available, we’d love it if you could come perform for the kids,” the kid’s dad offered. “I can give you a ride home afterwards, too.”

Relieved at his change in luck, Mike cracked his first clown smile and replied, “Sure, I would really appreciate that.”

- Written by Miss A on April 2, 2012

Eavesdropping

I could tell you the story of what really happened, but that would be no fun. No one wants the truth. They want the fantasy, no matter hoe gory or outrageous it truly is.

There I was minding my own business and sitting in the middle booth at the Corner Cafe – a little nook tucked away off Seventh – where no one but me came to sip coffee and play a game of Solitaire. With real cards. None of that computer crap I saw everyday I walked from my apartment to the restaurant. All those blank faces distracted by their tiny screens and angry birds.

I should have been writing, but words faltered and remained stuck in my head. To busy my mind, I passed the time with cards and chatting to Rosie, the blue-haired waitress with arthritic hands which shook when she set my coffee cup on the table.

I liked this place, although I had no idea how it stayed open, given the only customer I ever saw was me. My endless refills of coffee could hardly keep this place in business…

And then one day, the glass door jangled and banged shut, trapping inside two giggling voices, breathless, almost giddy, like they were in love.

“Table for two, please,” a female’s voice chirped.

Rosie gestured to the empty restaurant.

“Don’t think that will be a problem,” she shrugged. “Seat yourself.”

Despite my silent please, a young couple plopped themselves into the booth in front of me, interrupting my blank view of the wall. They sat together, their backs facing me, whispering furtively.

“Do you think anyone say us?” the boy asked, glancing out the window.

“I doubt it,” the girl giggled. “Let’s just enjoy the afternoon before they figure out I’ve disappeared.”

I recognized her voice from somewhere. The brilliant hair of fire, too, neatly pulled into a bouncing ponytail at the middle of her head. She was someone famous, internationally known for her big doe eyes and brilliant smile.

And he was a nobody. I could tell. The way he hunched forward, then sheepishly eyed her, his cheeks blushing at her innocent stare. He lacked the confidence of a leading man, but she like that. Thought it was cute.

“How long before they know?” he asked her.

She laughed, “Oh, I’m pretty sure they already know. But who cares? Let’s have lunch! I’m starving.”

They cuddled together, lost in each other’s self, as I listened to their murmurs, sighs, and tender remarks. The outside sun crept behind the skyscraper across the street, and shortly after, they were gone themselves, their clandestine rendezvous drifting away with the words I had heard that afternoon.

- Written on March 28, 2012

Dreams

We pull up to a house – my non-descript comrades and me – and climb out of a van with plush, velvet seats and a smooth leather steering wheel. Who are these people I’m with? Their faces blurred and blank – oval clay heads I call my friends, my lover, or siblings. Maybe even my enemies, despite the comfortable acquaintance which leads me to full them toward the single-level house…

Only inside, there are three levels. Are we on the side of a cliff or mountain where the stories drop down one side until they hit a vast, flat backyard with lush emerald grass and a sparkling aquamarine pool. I want to live here – is the house for sale?

I wander with a faceless friend, who opens closets and peers inside. Musty coats and jackets hang cramped together. Decade-old wrapping paper stacked atop wooden shelves.

Until there is a narrow staircase which lures us through the door to a downstairs cavern lined with shimmery white stones and a hearth adorned in fire. We walk past this mysterious room, searching for something more. In the distant hour, the rumbles of thunder erupt a splitting crack as if the world is being halved in two.

And it is. I feel myself falling, falling, falling through open air, my fingers whipped by the sharp breeze that stings my bare skin. My beating heart lurches and freezes in fear while I wonder, is this the end?

It isn’t. Thin, leafy branches catch my soaring body, grasping for me with their ample limbs, but to no avail. With a thump, I land on the ground of an open field brushed with gold and lavender grains. Where is everyone? They are gone. I worry about snakes slithering beneath the tall grass and think to myself, I have to get away from here. There is no sun, but the sky is blue and somewhere far away there is a gray road where a car might come if I hurry fast.

I break into a run toward the road which stays on the horizon no matter how far I go. Why is this happening? This crazy field, the out of reach road. How can I make it stop. Come closer. Go away.

I run up to a fence, where there is a barn on the other side. A tattered, dilapidated barn that once was burgundy red, but now hunches over as a rotting brown. This place can’t be safe, but against my will I move closer to the swinging door with squeaky hinges that cry out as the wind rocks them back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. There is a persistent urge to find what’s inside…

And just as my fingers lightly touch the aged door, a chime sings to me from behind. When I turn away to see the source, my eyes are opened to the pitch black room where my alarm is reminding me it’s time to wake.

- Written on March 25, 2012

Boomerang

The boomerang sailed through the air, spinning around and around as it flew at its pointed direction – and then it smacked into the tree. A eucalyptus tree. Splintered bark fluttered to the dry golden earth.

“Great job, Derain!” Balun’s father exclaimed to his eldest son. “Very good markmanship. If that tree was a kangaroo, we’d be having a feast tonight.”

Balun stared at the boomerang, which had fallen to the ground, and hoped he could impress his father, too, as it was now his turn to try.

“Go pick up that boomerang, Balun, and let’s see what you can do,” his father ordered him.

Balun trudged slowly to the eucalyptus thirty feet away, dragging out the moment when he would have to hurl the wooden arch into the air. He never threw the boomerang as fast or as far as Derain. I never landed on his intended target, which gave his father ammunition to ridicule him for not being a strong warrior.

“I feel sorry for Balun’s future family,” his brother would snicker to their father. “They’ll never have any meat on their table unless it’s roadkill that he found on the street.”

“Ah, you should go join the women and learn to gather plants and berries,” his father would tell him. “Or else your family will starve.”

Balun bent down to pick up the boomerang and glanced up at the mark where his brother had effortlessly struck. Behind him, his father called for him to hurry up. Dropping his head in early defeat, Balun gripped the smooth wooden arch and trudged back to the spot where his father and brother stood.

“Maybe if you aim for the brush on the left, you might actually his the tree,” Derain chided him.

“Shhh, Derain,” their father said. “Your brother needs to concentrate, and his doesn’t need some cockatoo squawking in his ear.”

Balun looked at his father with surprise. He’d never heard him shush Derain. Balun’s father glanced down at his son and nodded.

“Go ahead, boy.” Show us what you’ve got.”

Balun held up the boomerang, and with all his might, he threw it at the tree. And then he watched the magnificent arch circle through the air – spinning around and around and around…until it knocked against the mark which Derain’s boomerang had made on the tree.

- Written by Miss A on October 19, 2011

Zombies/a Zoo

This is Part 2 of a writing exercise that Miss A challenged herself to do…combining prompts from adjoining pages to create a short story. 

…CONTINUED from “Strawberries/Street Corner”

Although I didn’t feel like inviting cheery cartoons into my apartment, I heard myself saying yes as I turned the key in the locks on the outside door.

Strawberry Shortcake and Blue berry Muffin followed me down the long, narrow hall to my apartment door. Strangely enough, the hall appeared to have changed as well. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered ominously. Everything seemed, well, darker, less inviting than when I’d left for the market an hour ago.

As we passed the apartment adjacent to mine, I could swear I heard loud thumps and then a grinding gnawing sound that made me shudder. Weird.

The girls, meanwhile, appeared oblivious. Holding their baskets of berries by their sides, they reminded me of little children at an Easter egg hunt.

I pushed open my front door, expecting the rooms to look as dark and forboding as the hallway, but everything looked normal. Sighing with relief, I kicked off my shoes and asked if the girls would like something to drink. I was reaching for the whiskey, but they were happy with having glasses of water.

Suit yourselves, I shrugged. I needed something stronger to cope with the cartoons wandering around a live-action kind of world.

Noticing they had left the door wide open after wandering into the apartment, I asked Blueberry if she would mind shutting it. Sickeningly agreeable, the blue-haired girl skipped to the door and started to close it. But something stopped her. Standing in the doorway, she dropped her mouth as her complexion paled, and then she screamed a blood-curdling noise I would never think possible to come from such a sweet face.

“What’s the mat – ” I began to ask, but before I could finish, I watched a grotesque, dirt-covered arm reach into my hallway and grab the poor Muffin by her throat. Long, gaping flesh wounds and dried blood. That’s what almost stopped my heart. And then I stared in horror as this zombie-like creature staggered into my apartment and sunk his blackened teeth into the blueberry girls’ neck and savagely pulled off a chunk of flesh.

I heard myself scream, or maybe it was Strawberry, whose mouth was opened bigger than mine. The zombie dropped the limp Blueberry on the floor while he chewed her sweet skin. Bright blue juice squirted from her neck on my linoleum floor. Would it stain? I briefly wondered.

Spotting the bright red hair of Miss Strawberry, the zombie licked his lips and lurched forward. Strawberry dashed behind my legs, but I wasn’t about to sacrifice myself as this creature’s next dinner, and I quickly leaped our of her way.

“What are we going to do?” she squealed.

“Run!” I yelled, and as I made a dash for the door, the bag of special strawberries caught my eye. Snatching it from the counter, I bolted out the front door, where two more zombies were staggering across the eery hall, blocking my best chance for escape.

Strawberry clung again to my leg, but I shook her off.

“We’re going to have to distract them,” I instructed, glancing fearfully at the zombie in my apartment that was slowly approaching.

With all her bright red flashy hair, Strawberry was the obvious choice for a distraction. Pulling her into the hallway, I hoped the zombies would see red and forget about me. My instincts were right. Like bulls, they charged toward the flushed cartoon.

“Sorry, Red,” I apologized, before dashing to the exit door. The last sound I heard before the door clanged shut was the high-pitched squeal of a Berry girl.

Outside, the sky had darkened to a somber grey. Cars were stopped in the middle of the street, their driver and passenger-side doors hanging eerily open – no bodies inside.

“Urggh,” I heard something groan, and then I noticed the pack of zombies dragging half-eaten bodies across the cracked sidewalks and grassy lawns. One kneeled on the ground, munching on what appeared to have been another yellow Berry friend – maybe it was Lemon Meringue?

How was I going to get out of this mess, I wondered. As more zombies killed humans and cartoons alike, more zombies – both real and drawn – were spawned, and they stumbled mindlessly into the streets, hunting their first kills.

Which could me me if I didn’t figure out a plan fast.

“Hey!” a small voice called. A dark-haired cartoon carrying a microphone came running towards me. “Can you help me find the zoo? It’s the only place we’ll be safe. Others are gathering there now!”

As I opened my mouth to say yes, the door creaked behind me, and when I turned to see what was there, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Soul-less, zombified Strawberry Shortcake and Blueberry Muffin pushing through the doorway.

“Ughhhhh,” the groaned, staggering toward me.

“Augh!” the dark-haired cartoon girl shrieked. “They got to my best friends!”

She burst into tears, and I felt bad, for it was my fault Strawberry was now one of the half-dead.

“Come on!” I said, grabbing her hand and dragging her in the direction of the zoo. My conscience convinced me I could mend my wrongdoings by protecting this girls, whose big cartoon tears splashed across the pavement as we ran from her zombie friends.

The roars of lions beckoned us to the refugee camp where humans and animations huddled in fear, all worried about how her could get out of this nightmare alive. My new cartoon friend clutched my hand as we made our way through the crowds. And then I noticed that man from the market – the one who’d sold the special strawberries I still held in my other hand.

“You!” I exclaimed. “I ate your strawberries and then the whole world turned into chaos! What is going on?”

Grimacing at the blame, he pointed at my bag and asked, “Did you eat more than one?”

“Of course I had another. I wanted to taste the berry sweetness on my tongue.”

“Then that is the problem,” he explained, his broken English completely gone when he spoke. “These berries pull the most wonderful flavors onto your taste-buds, but they also pull the darkest and strangest moods and images from your minds.”

Was he saying I created this? How long would it last? And how could it be stopped sooner than later?

And to myself, I wondered, when would I have ever thought about zombified Strawberry Shortcakes?

“Do you have the strawberries with you?” the man asked.

I held up the brown paper bag.

“Should I eat one?” I offered.

“No!” the man barked, holding up his hand to stop me. “Do NOT eat even one more of those berries. Who knows where your mind will take us next?”

Well maybe you shouldn’t be selling these things to people you don’t know, I muttered under my breath.

The man motioned for me to follow him toward the front of the zoo, where we could see an army of zombies advancing in droves.

“When they get closer, we must toss the berries at them. A virus will quickly spread among the group, and if all goes well, we’ll be able to kill them all before they get to us.”

I felt a hard tug on my right hand and looked down.

Cherry Jam – the girl who I had rescued from her zombified Berry friends – asked sadly, “Will that kill my friends?”

“They’re already halfway there, Jam. Now we gotta finish the job before they try to make us one of them.”

I offered a plump berry for her to take. She hesitated, and then resigning herself to the fact that Zomberries didn’t make good friends, she took the berry in her small fingers.

On one, two, three, the man, Cherry Jam, and myself pelted the crimson strawberries at the packs of grotesque zombies lurching our way. As the berries splashed across their ravaged torsos, a strange greenish-yellow vapor wafted in the air and burned vast holes into the zombies’ flesh.

The zombies stopped in their tracks, stunned by the gas that singed their already grotesque skin. Loud belching noises escaped from their unsightly mouths as they first ones hit by the berries fell forward, writing on the ground as their half-dead bodies liquidated and disintegrated before our very eyes.

“It’s working,” someone behind me cried with joy. “The zombies are dying!”

“Um, technically they’re already dead,” I reminded him as I hurled another berry into the chest of a cartoon zombie, who keeled over and disappeared just like the others.

Within fifteen minutes, the pack was gone for good. A rancid berry smell permeated the air from the puddle of bloody, berry goo covering the parking lot. And as I watched refugees and cartoons hugging each other with relief and delight, I couldn’t help but consider this one thought:

I’ll never taste another strawberry as delicious as the one which created this mess.

 

- Written by Miss A on November 17th & 20th, 2011

Strawberries/Street Corner

This is Part 1 of a writing exercise that Miss A challenged herself to do…combining prompts on adjoining pages to create a short story.

“Special strawberries for sale!” the man called from his kiosk at the local farmers’ market, where I frequented every Sunday to purchase my week’s worth of vegetables.

“Miss, miss, you like to buy some strawberries?” the man asked me in his broken English. “I give you a good deal – today only.”

I wasn’t particularly interested in buying strawberries this week. By the middle of autumn, the season had come and gone. In fact, it was downright strange this man had strawberries for sale when the other vendors no longer did.

“You try one?” the man asked, plucking a ripe, scarlet berry from a basket and holding it in the air. “Very good, you’ll see. Special.”

The man smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he held the strawberry toward me and dropped it in my open palm. I blinked to make sure I was seeing properly, but my contacts hadn’t slipped. I could swear this strawberry glittered like a fresh ruby pulled from the deep mines below miles of strawberry fields.

“You try,” the man urged. “You see how good and special it is.”

Warily eyeing him, I brought the plump berry to my mouth and bit into the soft, tangy center, infused with the perfect amount of sweetness and flavor. Was this strawberry better than the ones that I’d bought at the height of summer? Ten times more so. I was savoring the perfect strawberry, its delicious flavor creeping across my tongue and waking all my taste buds with joyful glee.

“Very good, right?” the man asked, his shiny eyes begging my approval.

I nodded and reached for my wallet. Pulling out a messy wad of ones, I dumped them on his table and motioned for two baskets of berries to take home and enjoy that afternoon. As if I might change my mind, the man quickly scooped up the cash and dropped two baskets into a paper bag, which he shoved into my hands.

“Have a nice day,” he smiled, and maybe it was my imagination, but I could swear there was a mischievous look in his grin.

“I hint of strawberry flavor lingered in my mouth, making me crave the burst of sweet tangy juiciness that had filled my senses only moments before. I had a short walk home, but surely the walk would be nicer if I popped another berry on my tongue. I pulled a glistening red berry from the paper bag and examined the glittering shine which reflected in the morning sun.

“How does it do that?” I wondered aloud.

Without giving it a second thought, I brought the fruit to my lips and bit off all but the very top, from which sprang a leafy center.

The second berry was just as delicious as the first, the flavors melding on my tongue and re-awakening my dormant buds…

I stood on the street corner and waited for the orange hand to transform into a white walking man so I could cross the intersection and finish my walk home. The tingly feeling on my tongue felt stronger this time, sending tiny shocks through the rest of my body. The corner began to tilt right, and I felt myself sway with the movement, suddenly noticing an apartment across the street topple on its side before the world went black.

“Is she all right?” I heard a concerned voice ask.

“Looks like she’s waking up now,” another voice responded.

A blurry fog greeted my eyes when I opened them. I blinked a couple of times, each one gradually clearing the translucent haze which blocked me from seeing – a cartoon in a strawberry hat and dress?

“What the he–?” I began, as I turned my head to see another cartoon with bright blue hair and a basket of blueberries!

“Hello!” the strawberry cartoon girl chirped. “You took a nasty fall, but I think you’ll be okay. I’ve seen worse falls than yours when I took a trip to Looney Tunes!”

“We should help her home,” the blueberry girl offered.

“What a great idea!” the strawberry girl glowed, taking my arm to help me stand. “I’m Strawberry Shortcake, and this is my friend Blueberry Muffin!”

I must have been dreaming. Surely I would wake any second from this crazy dream and find myself wrapped in the comforts of my own bed. I glanced around the street corner where I’d supposedly fallen and noticed the strange combination of brick and stucco buildings coupled with animated fruit trees and berry bushes. On the bustling street, other berry characters cheerfully walked past us, pushing strollers with tiny fruit babies and carrying leashes pulled by assorted fruit dogs and cartoon insects?

“Where am I?” I asked the Shortcake girl.

“Why, you’re in Los Angeles, silly!” she giggled. “Come on, let’s get you home where you can rest for a while.”

Staggering down the sidewalk, accompanied by cartoons, I remembered the special berries I’d bought from the smiling man at the farmers’ market. Had his berries done this to me? Had they caused me to black out and faint? I rubbed the side of my head to feel the bump that should indicate where I fell, but no knots or bumps were on any part of my noggin. This was weird. Nothing hurt. Had I really fallen? Could I simply be imagining things?’

“You live down this street, right?” asked the girl who called herself Blueberry Muffin.

What hippie parents called their children by the names of fruit? Only in California…

Nodding wearily, I followed the cartoons toward my apartment building, which still stood in the exact place where I’d left it earlier that morning.

“Are you going to invite us in?” Shortcake asked cheerily.

TO BE CONTINUED…

- Written by Miss A on November 13th & 14th, 2011

 

Cloud

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” the rain chattered excitedly, bouncing up and down in the vast gray cloud driving toward the clearest blue skies.

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” they asked and whined.

“And the heavy cloud sighed.

“Just a little longer,” it muttered. “Be patient little ones. Be patient.”

“Just a little longer! Just a little longer!” the raindrops chanted. Just a little longer we can free fall!”

The cloud plowed along. His heavy cargo made him wish for a gust of wind to push him from behind, and at the very moment he thought it, there it was – a strong gale driving from the south and forcing him closer to their destination.

“Wheeee!” the rain cried merrily. “Faster! Faster!”

They were almost there. To the valley beyond the purple mountainous peaks jutting into the vast openness below. Or above. It was all the same really. One big space where the birds and big machines soared across and through, casting shadows on the earth.

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” the raindrops asked again, clamoring for the window space where they could look and see the world they loved to visit for just a brief moment before they were sucked back into the air, slurped higher and higher until they were scooped up by a father or mother cloud and carried again across the sky.

“Yes, my children, we are here,” the cloud announced.

“And all around him, other clouds arrived, everyone holding their excited little raindrops, those devilish children who loved to fall freely and dive through the air.

“Wheeee!” the squealed, stomping on the soft floor of their cloud until small holes sucked them into the dark gray skies where they joined their friends in the race toward earth.

No tears were shed from the cloud as his load was lightened by the exodus of rain. Instead, he sighed with relief, content to cool off the ground below with these beads of moisture which annoyed him so.

One day, he longed to be the fluffy white cloud which drifted lazily through the blue sky without a care in the world. Surely that day was more than a dream?

Oh, he certainly hoped so!

- Written by Miss A on January 22, 2012