When you begin to write a story, do you write the entire thing in that period of time or do you come back and complete it later?
Do you ever feel your stories come to life in aspects or situations of your own life?
Are some of the characters in your stories based directly off of people you know?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
messing with time
And when Frank returned home late at night from his trip that had lasted just a little over a year, he reached out to give a one armed hug to Laura who all but jumped into his arms, returned Peter's brief nod in his direction and slowly turned to meet eyes with Marisse. It was in that simple moment that she knew, she just knew.
Frank pushed the front door open, lugging his large suitcase over the front step. His green eyes darted around to the kitchen where Marisse stud, stalk-still, like a deer caught in the headlights, and a spasm of guilt ran through his travel-worn body. Laura's hazel curls appeared from somewhere in the kitchen as she rushed to embrace him. Frank wrapped the arm that wasn't clutching the handle of his suitcase for dear life and hugged her back, catching Peter's wary gaze and nodding very so slightly in return. Disentangling himself from Laura, Frank licked his lower lip with a quick moist tongue and flicked his bright eyes up to Marisse's dark ones, feeling curiously ill to his stomach.
The front door seemed so far away and yet much closer than Frank cared it to be, as his adrenaline-spiked arm reached to turn the handle. The door handle felt cold and unfamiliar to Frank who was feeling more trepidation with every jagged breath he drew from the chilly night. A gush of warm air hit Frank's tight face and his muscles strained slightly to pull his suitcase over the front step. The tiny wheels rolled then smacked the block of wood, moving only when Frank screwed up his face and pulled the dead-weight up and into the warm and yet freezing house. He dragged his suitcase over the patterned carpet, refusing to relinquish his hold on the black handle. His green irises slid from the right to the left in quick procession taking in the little Frank could see of the kitchen which was Marisse oddly frozen, still wearing a white cooking apron and Peter standing a little behind her, his chin pulled down to one side, staring at the floor. A girl with bouncy hazel curls whipped around the kitchen door frame, rushing at her father. Laura. Frank received her affection, hating the feel of guilty sweat rising on the back of his neck and the fresh waft of perfume he smelled. When did Laura grow up and begin to do things like wear perfume? A twinge of regret added to Frank's discomfort as he wondered with an aching heart what else he had missed in his children's lives. It was not even a full second later that he met eyes with his other child, who's head moved downward and upward in an awkward motion that Frank attempted to copy. Marisse stared at her husband's hunted face, feeling rather prey-like at the moment as well, vulnerability seemed to radiate from her every pour. Slowly Frank drew his eyes to a complete stop into hers and Marisse saw them travel far away to another country and another woman and to another life. Marisse saw his guilt reflect across each minute he'd been gone, and that reflection was her confirmation, and that confirmation was the end.
Frank pushed the front door open, lugging his large suitcase over the front step. His green eyes darted around to the kitchen where Marisse stud, stalk-still, like a deer caught in the headlights, and a spasm of guilt ran through his travel-worn body. Laura's hazel curls appeared from somewhere in the kitchen as she rushed to embrace him. Frank wrapped the arm that wasn't clutching the handle of his suitcase for dear life and hugged her back, catching Peter's wary gaze and nodding very so slightly in return. Disentangling himself from Laura, Frank licked his lower lip with a quick moist tongue and flicked his bright eyes up to Marisse's dark ones, feeling curiously ill to his stomach.
The front door seemed so far away and yet much closer than Frank cared it to be, as his adrenaline-spiked arm reached to turn the handle. The door handle felt cold and unfamiliar to Frank who was feeling more trepidation with every jagged breath he drew from the chilly night. A gush of warm air hit Frank's tight face and his muscles strained slightly to pull his suitcase over the front step. The tiny wheels rolled then smacked the block of wood, moving only when Frank screwed up his face and pulled the dead-weight up and into the warm and yet freezing house. He dragged his suitcase over the patterned carpet, refusing to relinquish his hold on the black handle. His green irises slid from the right to the left in quick procession taking in the little Frank could see of the kitchen which was Marisse oddly frozen, still wearing a white cooking apron and Peter standing a little behind her, his chin pulled down to one side, staring at the floor. A girl with bouncy hazel curls whipped around the kitchen door frame, rushing at her father. Laura. Frank received her affection, hating the feel of guilty sweat rising on the back of his neck and the fresh waft of perfume he smelled. When did Laura grow up and begin to do things like wear perfume? A twinge of regret added to Frank's discomfort as he wondered with an aching heart what else he had missed in his children's lives. It was not even a full second later that he met eyes with his other child, who's head moved downward and upward in an awkward motion that Frank attempted to copy. Marisse stared at her husband's hunted face, feeling rather prey-like at the moment as well, vulnerability seemed to radiate from her every pour. Slowly Frank drew his eyes to a complete stop into hers and Marisse saw them travel far away to another country and another woman and to another life. Marisse saw his guilt reflect across each minute he'd been gone, and that reflection was her confirmation, and that confirmation was the end.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Wolff
"They had been separated for over a year." (354, The Benefit of Doubt, Tobias Wolff) Marisse suspected him of being unfaithful but didn't have the heart to cause an uproar. It wasn't out of worry for her children that she failed to confront her husband, it was because the invisible band that used to connect them tightly had loosened or broken, Marisse did not know but she felt no desire to retrieve what might already be lost. Marisse was no novice to loss; when she was twelve her alcoholic father had died when his liver gave out, but that was no sad event to the budding teenager. If she had one bruise, she had twenty where he'd struck her.
In a just a few more years, Marisse's life took another major turn. An American man, visiting France at the time, took her by surprise in a fury of charm and worldly experience that left her speechless except for the small "yes" she managed when he asked her to return to America with him.
In the years to come, Marisse Sheeline and Frank Murphy would trade cultures, share newly founded memories and before long Marisse found herself sporting a large diamond ring on her left hand and a small baby at her hip, Peter, her first child. They lived happily for a while, Frank's work took him all over the world but he always came back, bearing a little toy for Peter and a large kiss for baby Laura. Whether it was real or not, Marisse convinced herself that they were in love, like any married couple should be.
Age had barely touch Frank; his green eyes shone just as brightly and his smile was still youthful. On the other side of the scale, bearing and raising two children had robbed Marisse of her once lustrous dark curls and her large dark eyes seemed duller than they had been in her first years with Frank. Every year Peter and Laura grew up, Frank's business trips became more frequent and longer.
And when Frank returned home, late at night from his trip that had lasted just a little over a year, he reached out to give a one armed hug to Laura who all but jumped into his arms, returned Peter's brief nod in his direction and slowly turned to meet eyes with Marisse. It was in that simple moment that she knew, she just knew.
In a just a few more years, Marisse's life took another major turn. An American man, visiting France at the time, took her by surprise in a fury of charm and worldly experience that left her speechless except for the small "yes" she managed when he asked her to return to America with him.
In the years to come, Marisse Sheeline and Frank Murphy would trade cultures, share newly founded memories and before long Marisse found herself sporting a large diamond ring on her left hand and a small baby at her hip, Peter, her first child. They lived happily for a while, Frank's work took him all over the world but he always came back, bearing a little toy for Peter and a large kiss for baby Laura. Whether it was real or not, Marisse convinced herself that they were in love, like any married couple should be.
Age had barely touch Frank; his green eyes shone just as brightly and his smile was still youthful. On the other side of the scale, bearing and raising two children had robbed Marisse of her once lustrous dark curls and her large dark eyes seemed duller than they had been in her first years with Frank. Every year Peter and Laura grew up, Frank's business trips became more frequent and longer.
And when Frank returned home, late at night from his trip that had lasted just a little over a year, he reached out to give a one armed hug to Laura who all but jumped into his arms, returned Peter's brief nod in his direction and slowly turned to meet eyes with Marisse. It was in that simple moment that she knew, she just knew.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
my take on a text without a single author
"My name is Hixstra. My parents chose this name for me because I was born during the full moon..." I thought this particular story flowed surprisingly well despite having many writers work to complete it. I really liked the phrase, "Not many people find their mirrosias in only 15 years of life." Mirrosias are spiritual partners or essentially soul mates, so it's interesting how the main character finds the equivalent of a lover at such a young tender age.
The lines I though were a bit awkward were: "...is completely about luck.", "I was lost in my thoughts and was soon lost in a new place.", and "And as the knife entered my body...". All of those sentences were grammatically correct but they didn't sound entirely right or weren't in rhythm with the surrounding writing. I would change them to: "...is based completely on luck.", "I was lost in my thoughts and in a matter of seconds became lost in the physical world as well.", and finally, "And as the knife pierced through my chest."
I agree with three out of four of the morals written for this story.
1. I think it's entirely true that even though you may think you're connected to someone, there is always that possibility that you are in fact, not at all.
2. Sad but true that anybody could be wielding the knife that pierces your back. You never know.
3. And the very famous line "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer" is extremely valid.
4 "Trust nobody" Although that is so cynical, it's fun to say, I think it's very unrealistic. You need to place your trust in some people; it is fair to encourage people to think carefully about where they're putting their trust but to get by life retaining all of your sanity you need true and trustworthy friends.
The lines I though were a bit awkward were: "...is completely about luck.", "I was lost in my thoughts and was soon lost in a new place.", and "And as the knife entered my body...". All of those sentences were grammatically correct but they didn't sound entirely right or weren't in rhythm with the surrounding writing. I would change them to: "...is based completely on luck.", "I was lost in my thoughts and in a matter of seconds became lost in the physical world as well.", and finally, "And as the knife pierced through my chest."
I agree with three out of four of the morals written for this story.
1. I think it's entirely true that even though you may think you're connected to someone, there is always that possibility that you are in fact, not at all.
2. Sad but true that anybody could be wielding the knife that pierces your back. You never know.
3. And the very famous line "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer" is extremely valid.
4 "Trust nobody" Although that is so cynical, it's fun to say, I think it's very unrealistic. You need to place your trust in some people; it is fair to encourage people to think carefully about where they're putting their trust but to get by life retaining all of your sanity you need true and trustworthy friends.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Subtlety and Lies
If you've ever read Harry Potter, you'll understand it when I say I'm good at "Legilimency". I can almost always tell when someone is lying to me but that's little to brag about considering how easily I delude myself into believing the things I want to hear.
I tend to cringe away from established religions; although I feel there is validity in a lot of the things they do and preach, I personally think it's all one intricate lie. But it works. People want a community, people want structure in their lives, and probably most of all, people want to believe that they do more than rot in the ground when they've died and that's there's a divine god or gods watching over them.
Even though I am deeply skeptical of religion in general, I have fallen prey to many other deceptions in my time. These are the cases in which I had successfully lied to myself to ensure the existence of pretty "truths" in my false reality. It's a little pathetic because I can tell the second a lie leaves someone's mouth, whether it grumbled or glided, but sometimes I just choose to believe. I'm very human this way. I think it's in human nature to want your world to fit neatly, never to be boring though because I'm pretty sure that everyone is some way or another likes challenge or adventure.
Me, I'm more prone to believe the little lies or white lies because I'd like to think that the sweater I'm wearing actually matches my skirt or that no one really did see me fall on my butt when of course the whole quad did. It's the bigger things, like religion or society, that you'll have a harder time of convincing me to convince myself of. This is a hard statement to make because I'm sure that I'm still currently under the impression that some lie my parents told me when I was young is true, however as a general rule I am less prone to fall for the more extreme or important lies.
I confess that I have lied on multiple occasions; the odd thing is that I am very rarely caught or busted for them. I do remember quite vividly possibly the largest lie I've ever told and all the consequences it caused. With something this dramatic and intense it's only fitting that I was in second grade when it all happened. For some reason I've labeled it "Strawberry" in my head when though it had absolutely nothing to do with strawberries whatsoever.
Well...I had this friend in the year below me who shared my name and she was seriously allergic to peanut butter, even the smell could set her off so she had to carry a needle with her always. And one day my science class did the classic experiment where you drop a padded egg from a height and hope it doesn't break but one kid in the class, his name was Gabe, used a can of peanut butter to protect his egg. I think it actually worked too but as soon as it was over the teacher scooped up the can and promptly threw it away. He told us briefly about my allergic friend and forbade us to mention to her the can full of peanut butter sitting in the trash can under the staircase on the concrete. And so of course the first thing I do as soon as I'm dismissed for recess is find her and explain all about the peanut butter can contaminating the place where she usually plays.
I clearly remember how her eyes had gotten very wide as she asked whether there was really that amount of peanut butter on the play structure. I'm pretty sure my eyes got a little wide too, I'd forgotten that she played on the play structure not the patio. But that completely took the fun out of my warning and I shamefully admit that I, without hesitation, nodded in earnest.
That split-second decision turned into a week of pure guilt as teachers and parents became involved in the situation and the entire play structure was scrubbed down in what was the many hours of a couple of high schooler's free time. I kept up the lie for that week, and at one point I even tried to convince myself that the crackers a third-grader had eaten on the structure at lunch had contained peanut butter in the middle, justifying the entire thing to be cleaned.
On the constant verge of tears, it was only after I actually threw up from my guilt and the stress my lie had created did I confess. I remember after much consideration, sprinting into my parent's bedroom after eight o'clock at night (which was wayyy past my bedtime back then), crawling under the covers and with my face hidden, and explaining what I had done. They had pulled back the covers and after saying that they had started to suspect my dishonesty though they hadn't been sure, they comforted me, praising my honesty about my dishonesty.
Even just thinking about that story causes me physical pain, I'd like to think that I learned a pretty hard lesson that week. It so happens that whenever I'm about to tell a lie now a days the word "Strawberry" floats into my head and something very much like the truth seems to spill from my mouth instead.
I tend to cringe away from established religions; although I feel there is validity in a lot of the things they do and preach, I personally think it's all one intricate lie. But it works. People want a community, people want structure in their lives, and probably most of all, people want to believe that they do more than rot in the ground when they've died and that's there's a divine god or gods watching over them.
Even though I am deeply skeptical of religion in general, I have fallen prey to many other deceptions in my time. These are the cases in which I had successfully lied to myself to ensure the existence of pretty "truths" in my false reality. It's a little pathetic because I can tell the second a lie leaves someone's mouth, whether it grumbled or glided, but sometimes I just choose to believe. I'm very human this way. I think it's in human nature to want your world to fit neatly, never to be boring though because I'm pretty sure that everyone is some way or another likes challenge or adventure.
Me, I'm more prone to believe the little lies or white lies because I'd like to think that the sweater I'm wearing actually matches my skirt or that no one really did see me fall on my butt when of course the whole quad did. It's the bigger things, like religion or society, that you'll have a harder time of convincing me to convince myself of. This is a hard statement to make because I'm sure that I'm still currently under the impression that some lie my parents told me when I was young is true, however as a general rule I am less prone to fall for the more extreme or important lies.
I confess that I have lied on multiple occasions; the odd thing is that I am very rarely caught or busted for them. I do remember quite vividly possibly the largest lie I've ever told and all the consequences it caused. With something this dramatic and intense it's only fitting that I was in second grade when it all happened. For some reason I've labeled it "Strawberry" in my head when though it had absolutely nothing to do with strawberries whatsoever.
Well...I had this friend in the year below me who shared my name and she was seriously allergic to peanut butter, even the smell could set her off so she had to carry a needle with her always. And one day my science class did the classic experiment where you drop a padded egg from a height and hope it doesn't break but one kid in the class, his name was Gabe, used a can of peanut butter to protect his egg. I think it actually worked too but as soon as it was over the teacher scooped up the can and promptly threw it away. He told us briefly about my allergic friend and forbade us to mention to her the can full of peanut butter sitting in the trash can under the staircase on the concrete. And so of course the first thing I do as soon as I'm dismissed for recess is find her and explain all about the peanut butter can contaminating the place where she usually plays.
I clearly remember how her eyes had gotten very wide as she asked whether there was really that amount of peanut butter on the play structure. I'm pretty sure my eyes got a little wide too, I'd forgotten that she played on the play structure not the patio. But that completely took the fun out of my warning and I shamefully admit that I, without hesitation, nodded in earnest.
That split-second decision turned into a week of pure guilt as teachers and parents became involved in the situation and the entire play structure was scrubbed down in what was the many hours of a couple of high schooler's free time. I kept up the lie for that week, and at one point I even tried to convince myself that the crackers a third-grader had eaten on the structure at lunch had contained peanut butter in the middle, justifying the entire thing to be cleaned.
On the constant verge of tears, it was only after I actually threw up from my guilt and the stress my lie had created did I confess. I remember after much consideration, sprinting into my parent's bedroom after eight o'clock at night (which was wayyy past my bedtime back then), crawling under the covers and with my face hidden, and explaining what I had done. They had pulled back the covers and after saying that they had started to suspect my dishonesty though they hadn't been sure, they comforted me, praising my honesty about my dishonesty.
Even just thinking about that story causes me physical pain, I'd like to think that I learned a pretty hard lesson that week. It so happens that whenever I'm about to tell a lie now a days the word "Strawberry" floats into my head and something very much like the truth seems to spill from my mouth instead.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The Fictional and yet Cynical Story
It's just way too easy to get caught up in this perverse game we call high school. But you take two steps backwards and quite suddenly you're seeing an entirely different story, the kind that makes you freeze in place and stare shamelessly.
And what I am doing here, you ask? Well, I'd like to tell that I'm at MHS watching the game from the sidelines, drawing from a wisdom beyond my years, and yet here I really am, just another piece on the board moving and playing until I've reached the goal, which is...?
I'm sitting on the quad with fake grass, about to lug my backpack to Spanish class, pretending I like the girl hovering next to me who's chattering about-how would I know, I wasn't listening.
The walk to the actual classroom is short, very short, but at the same time it is so, so long. It feels like every person I pass forces me into a new state of being; I stare just a moment too long at some people, smile at friends, and avoid eye-contact with the people I don't know so as to reduce any potential amount of awkwardness. At first this whole process can be very exhausting, but like any sport, the more you practice the better you get. And I've had tons of practice.
The teacher walks in five minutes late, sets his blue water bottle down and asks us to take out our binders and homework. I pull my bag towards me slowly, turning my head to look at the clock. I'm facing another 54 minutes and 28 seconds of class. I will the clock hands to tick faster, even just a little faster, for me, please? Oh yeah, but I'm just messing with you, if you're in high school now you know that nothing, nothing is on your side, even a stupid clock.
But don't get the wrong idea now, I'm not one to be blindly cynical, I'm just one who likes to evade severe emotional pain. Confused? OK, fine, he's in this class. No, this is not like the ex-boyfriend who a girl gracelessly dumps hiding behind a cowardly e-mail, and now she can't even look him in the eyes anymore. Nah, this just happens to be the boy sitting three seats to my left whom I didn't let myself in love with last year.
We meet eyes for the split of a second, so fast that an onlooker would have missed the exchange completely. And yet in that half of a moment I'm met with two conflicting desires; one, to hear him whisper my name just one more time, and two, to puke, violently, and then walk out of the classroom without cleaning anything up, flipping him off. I suppose the description was a little pointless, that feeling comes in a pretty little package of a word, teenager.
Why do some people speak of love as though it is the divine food of the gods, an everlasting beauty that elevates the mundane human to a point in the beyond? I'll tell you why, they've never actually been in love, they've been in denial. "Love" is like a poison that churns slowly in your veins, draining you until you are a pale ghost of your former self, weak and drawn to the one with the honeyed promises. Let me clarify one thing however, love in itself isn't harmful, love for a brother or child, or even friend can make one stronger, love for a lover, however, is pure, intoxicating, glorious poison.
Can you blame me for the sleepless nights I spent fighting nature, and myself in a grueling effort not to fall almost all of last year? And here I am now, a normal day at MHS, and I'm still playing high school's cruel game, trying to win when they're are no winners, only losers and survivors. But even more embarrassing than having not figured that out yet is that despite everything, when I see him from across the quad every morning, I'm right back to where I started.
And what I am doing here, you ask? Well, I'd like to tell that I'm at MHS watching the game from the sidelines, drawing from a wisdom beyond my years, and yet here I really am, just another piece on the board moving and playing until I've reached the goal, which is...?
I'm sitting on the quad with fake grass, about to lug my backpack to Spanish class, pretending I like the girl hovering next to me who's chattering about-how would I know, I wasn't listening.
The walk to the actual classroom is short, very short, but at the same time it is so, so long. It feels like every person I pass forces me into a new state of being; I stare just a moment too long at some people, smile at friends, and avoid eye-contact with the people I don't know so as to reduce any potential amount of awkwardness. At first this whole process can be very exhausting, but like any sport, the more you practice the better you get. And I've had tons of practice.
The teacher walks in five minutes late, sets his blue water bottle down and asks us to take out our binders and homework. I pull my bag towards me slowly, turning my head to look at the clock. I'm facing another 54 minutes and 28 seconds of class. I will the clock hands to tick faster, even just a little faster, for me, please? Oh yeah, but I'm just messing with you, if you're in high school now you know that nothing, nothing is on your side, even a stupid clock.
But don't get the wrong idea now, I'm not one to be blindly cynical, I'm just one who likes to evade severe emotional pain. Confused? OK, fine, he's in this class. No, this is not like the ex-boyfriend who a girl gracelessly dumps hiding behind a cowardly e-mail, and now she can't even look him in the eyes anymore. Nah, this just happens to be the boy sitting three seats to my left whom I didn't let myself in love with last year.
We meet eyes for the split of a second, so fast that an onlooker would have missed the exchange completely. And yet in that half of a moment I'm met with two conflicting desires; one, to hear him whisper my name just one more time, and two, to puke, violently, and then walk out of the classroom without cleaning anything up, flipping him off. I suppose the description was a little pointless, that feeling comes in a pretty little package of a word, teenager.
Why do some people speak of love as though it is the divine food of the gods, an everlasting beauty that elevates the mundane human to a point in the beyond? I'll tell you why, they've never actually been in love, they've been in denial. "Love" is like a poison that churns slowly in your veins, draining you until you are a pale ghost of your former self, weak and drawn to the one with the honeyed promises. Let me clarify one thing however, love in itself isn't harmful, love for a brother or child, or even friend can make one stronger, love for a lover, however, is pure, intoxicating, glorious poison.
Can you blame me for the sleepless nights I spent fighting nature, and myself in a grueling effort not to fall almost all of last year? And here I am now, a normal day at MHS, and I'm still playing high school's cruel game, trying to win when they're are no winners, only losers and survivors. But even more embarrassing than having not figured that out yet is that despite everything, when I see him from across the quad every morning, I'm right back to where I started.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Call me Evelyn
Call me Evelyn. It's not the name my parents gave me, but it came around and choose me anyway. I won't lie to you and yet everything I'm about to say is complete and utter rubbish.
I didn't understand the first time I was told. But maybe it's like one of those times when your whole world is flipped and it's just easier not to understand and not to believe.
They came for me when I was about five, I didn't know at the time how they knew and singled me out, but looking back now I guess setting an entire house on fire without any visible means of doing so might have done the trick. They also told me it was out of impulsive anger. But I didn't need them to tell me that, I remember now.
I remember the look on my mother's face as she scolded me for acting up, and I can even recall the tone she used when declaring I return to my room without the ice cream bar I'd been craving all day. After that it was a bit of a blur. I do remember the flames and how they made my face feel hot and sweaty. But from then on it was just snip-its of fleeting memory...
a hand closing around mine...my face pressed tightly against my mother's orange sweater as she rocked me back and forth on our front lawn...the sounds of loud hoses and people yelling...
Seeing as it was that very night that they visited me for the first time I probably should have put it together but I was young and tired from my day's adventure.
You're probably by now wondering who "they" are. Well that's a hard question to answer. There are a lot of "theys" out there, but they go by different names. If this clears it up, at midnight on the night in question, a couple elves and a sprite woke me up with some interesting news.
Like I said before though, I just didn't get it the first time. How could I be a Taylazcu, or one of the magical folk (I later found out it was elfish slang for "one who possesses magic") when both of my middle-class, very conventional parents were perfectly normal. But I also found out that faeries don't have "parents", they're born from the things that go unnoticed in life. After examining me for a minute or two, the elf with the dark eyes told me I was born from a tear drop that fell from a small boy when he scrapped his knee in gym class and no one saw it fall. That's comforting.
Oh yeah, did I mention I was a faerie? Yep, apparently I get all sorts of cool powers but not wings. Those are fairies that get wings, the tiny flashy little critters, personally I find them quite annoying, but that's just me.
Actually, as it is, I look sort of human. Well, I could get away with it at five, now, I think anyone could tell I'm not normal. I've never seen a full human with violet, cat-like eyes, jet-black hair that falls in unchanging curls to their waist, and skin without a dot of color anywhere, perfectly white. But maybe I haven't looked hard enough.
Anyway, I'm getting off topic. After that first enlightening visit, they moved me from my "parents" house to a hidden and small forest surrounded by tall mountains where a sweet old dwarf and his wife looked after young Taylazcues. They left me there for many years, until I grew up enough to be on my own. I never saw the elves or the sprite again but they did leave me with the main and most important rule of being a Taylazcu, that was to never ever reveal oneself to a human, and to forever hide the secret that allows our two worlds to coexist in peace.
But there was one question I never asked them before they introduced me to the dwarfs and took off. And that brings me back to why you're to call me Evelyn.
I asked the kindly dwarf couple many questions about the new world I was beginning to accept and they answered those easily enough. But when I asked why I'd been raised by the humans I thought were my parents for five whole years (something I discovered was almost unheard of), they couldn't tell me because they really had no idea.
But what they could tell me was that my name was actually Evelyn. I denied this. I told them I was called May. May Rosalie Sartian. They told me that was the name the humans gave me and it wasn't my true name. Then the dwarfs proceeded to explain how everyone, even humans had a true name that embodies their enduring soul. I didn't really get any of that at age seven, or however old I was when I was told, but all I know was from then on I made everyone call me Evelyn.
I didn't understand the first time I was told. But maybe it's like one of those times when your whole world is flipped and it's just easier not to understand and not to believe.
They came for me when I was about five, I didn't know at the time how they knew and singled me out, but looking back now I guess setting an entire house on fire without any visible means of doing so might have done the trick. They also told me it was out of impulsive anger. But I didn't need them to tell me that, I remember now.
I remember the look on my mother's face as she scolded me for acting up, and I can even recall the tone she used when declaring I return to my room without the ice cream bar I'd been craving all day. After that it was a bit of a blur. I do remember the flames and how they made my face feel hot and sweaty. But from then on it was just snip-its of fleeting memory...
a hand closing around mine...my face pressed tightly against my mother's orange sweater as she rocked me back and forth on our front lawn...the sounds of loud hoses and people yelling...
Seeing as it was that very night that they visited me for the first time I probably should have put it together but I was young and tired from my day's adventure.
You're probably by now wondering who "they" are. Well that's a hard question to answer. There are a lot of "theys" out there, but they go by different names. If this clears it up, at midnight on the night in question, a couple elves and a sprite woke me up with some interesting news.
Like I said before though, I just didn't get it the first time. How could I be a Taylazcu, or one of the magical folk (I later found out it was elfish slang for "one who possesses magic") when both of my middle-class, very conventional parents were perfectly normal. But I also found out that faeries don't have "parents", they're born from the things that go unnoticed in life. After examining me for a minute or two, the elf with the dark eyes told me I was born from a tear drop that fell from a small boy when he scrapped his knee in gym class and no one saw it fall. That's comforting.
Oh yeah, did I mention I was a faerie? Yep, apparently I get all sorts of cool powers but not wings. Those are fairies that get wings, the tiny flashy little critters, personally I find them quite annoying, but that's just me.
Actually, as it is, I look sort of human. Well, I could get away with it at five, now, I think anyone could tell I'm not normal. I've never seen a full human with violet, cat-like eyes, jet-black hair that falls in unchanging curls to their waist, and skin without a dot of color anywhere, perfectly white. But maybe I haven't looked hard enough.
Anyway, I'm getting off topic. After that first enlightening visit, they moved me from my "parents" house to a hidden and small forest surrounded by tall mountains where a sweet old dwarf and his wife looked after young Taylazcues. They left me there for many years, until I grew up enough to be on my own. I never saw the elves or the sprite again but they did leave me with the main and most important rule of being a Taylazcu, that was to never ever reveal oneself to a human, and to forever hide the secret that allows our two worlds to coexist in peace.
But there was one question I never asked them before they introduced me to the dwarfs and took off. And that brings me back to why you're to call me Evelyn.
I asked the kindly dwarf couple many questions about the new world I was beginning to accept and they answered those easily enough. But when I asked why I'd been raised by the humans I thought were my parents for five whole years (something I discovered was almost unheard of), they couldn't tell me because they really had no idea.
But what they could tell me was that my name was actually Evelyn. I denied this. I told them I was called May. May Rosalie Sartian. They told me that was the name the humans gave me and it wasn't my true name. Then the dwarfs proceeded to explain how everyone, even humans had a true name that embodies their enduring soul. I didn't really get any of that at age seven, or however old I was when I was told, but all I know was from then on I made everyone call me Evelyn.
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