Short Story: Life and Death and Seeds

At the Beginning of Time, the earth shaked and as a result two seeds were dislodged from First Tree, and fell into a crack that went straight down to the bottom of the world. It was just so that one seed represented life and the other death. They were fed by a deep channeling river that seeped into the crevice, one that the First People drank from on the surface. When the First People borne children and then grand-children they grew elderly and died. They were buried underground and gradually their remains sank down to the seeds.

The seeds matured into saplings and later young trees. The tree that represented life was Zycie*. The tree that represented death was Mortem. Whenever a new child was born Zycie added an extra ring to its trunk. Whenever a person died an extra ring was added to that of Mortem. Zycie’s leaves symbolized current nations, tribes, languages and traditions. In contrary, the tree of Death’s leaves symbolized all that had become no more. The birds that sang under the earth symbolized dreams and they perched and flew back and forth from both trees, for an idea or hope that had become deceased in one person may be reincarnated in another.

After awhile the humans became only a little more populous on the world but Mortem stored memories of all that had ever been since the Beginning. Zycie would bud a new leaf for a baby that had started a life, only to let it wither like in autumn when that person died. The crumpled leaf fluttered down to the waters of the underground river (now mighty after many rains) and swept to the roots of Mortem. The tree drank up the mulch and sprouted an identical leaf from its matter, but one that would never fall, until the echoes of that person finally became diminished.

That is why Zycie only grew a little while Mortem never stopped being taller. One war leader could exist on the Death Tree for many, many mortal lives if he had influenced an entire culture. Years later its top poked up from the deposits of stone and entered the foundations of a mountain. Still seasons later it punctured the crest of Lonely Mountain and continued to grow like a small wild bush. But that is far to the east and many daywalks.

If you could keep your leaf upon Zycie forever would that make you immortal? Indeed. That is how some humans became gods. You must journey beneath the earth for many years. Then you must take a leaf molded out of the bark of the First Tree, which is rumored to be buried in the most ancient temples and shrines. You must write your name upon it with Blood Clay and dab the surface completely with scented oil from a sacred herb. Finally, you must tie it securely to a branch on Zycie. Of course, this process takes much time, endurance and cunning. It is thought that there are terrible beasts guarding the Underworld and it is punishable by death to steal from a temple. Therefore, it takes only the most diligent humans, ones more often than not born with supernatural abilities, to accomplish this ordeal.

*Życie in Polish means life and mortem in Latin means death.

Short Story: Cherry Blossoms

She plucked the bunch of four cherry blossoms from the pink tree. She said it would be of use to me later on. Then she disappeared.

I inspected the flowers, which looked like roses. They had almost no scent. Did they have pollen that was magical? Would the blossoms never die? I put it aside on the granite table, and looked at it the next morning. The flowers had dried up and become flat, like put underneath a flat weight. The day after that they had shrunk to one-third of its size. The preceding morning I noticed a brownish tinge had blemished its resolute hue. The stems were as stiff and inflexible as twigs. I sniffed them. Now it had a scent, a strong one of herbal tea. The ideal fragrance for a perfume.

Short Story: That's What Beautiful Is

I flipped through the magazine, and eye-shocking advertisements of models with intense makeup demanded me to look. Too fake, too phony. Do you really expect me to believe that that lipstick, that shampoo, that mascara, that dress will make me as gorgeous as the woman plus with my entire hair and face done with complete other products?

But one girl really caught my eye. She was a photo to commercialize Avon, but that wasn’t the point. She was my idea of beautiful. She had pale but smooth skin and messy dark blond hair with a careless fringe of this-way-and-that strands hanging in her eyes. And those eyes. They shimmered like a deep and haunting ocean and sparkled like the sea sparkles when the sun is directly ahead and makes it seem like there’s a thousand diamonds bobbing in and out of the waves. The irises glitter, making an impact on you. The faint eye shadow blends into the real blue fire. She had seemingly no makeup until you noticed the pale lipstick.

She has that ageless glamour: glanced at far away, she appears to be thirty or forty. Close, and she’s sixteen. Her personality seems shy and she doesn’t do much with her hair and makeup like she’s trying to draw no attention to herself. Like the woman doesn’t want anyone to notice her. Well, she’s got my attention. All that lipstick and blush of the other models is too loud, too artificial. Her looks are quiet and real. Like me.

Short Story: The Legend of Antarcticus

This is an epic made of mythology, which was inspired by a dream I had about a warrior woman named Antarcticus, a tower, and a king. Jadefireeyes

Once a king constructed a tower to the stars, and he decided to resurrect Antarcticus. No one knows what she is, or how she was born, but the force of her birth caused Pangaea to arise out of ocean water. Millions of years later, she slew the dinosaurs and other monsters unknown to the human imagination. But her greatest fiend was Erescedence, the mother of all beasts. Erescedence was enraged that Antarcticus was killing all her immortal children, so she trapped her in Polaris, the North Star for all eternity.

Antarcticus was a legend to all beings. When she fought monsters, she was a terrible monster herself, and killed them with tooth and claw. She was an earthly child, and that made her strong. Erescedence, however had the essence of something else. She had star dust in her spine and the night in her jaw, and scaly skin too radiant for mortals to look at. Her name became the basis of a word we use: iridescent. When humans became numerous on this world, they sheltered inside caves for fear of venturing outside where they would disappear into her gaping maw. At this time Antarcticus had taken the form of an intelligent woman with spears and other weapons, and this gave them inspiration to make tools of their own. They called her “Warrior-woman”.

As monsters slowly disappeared from the planet and people became more populous, Antarcticus ceased warfare for the first time in eons and focused on civilization. She dwelled into the useful battle tactics of stationary forts and other such architecture. The humans mimicked her, and settled down in their now secure communities and started to farm. They revered her as a goddess. She represented revolution, progression. Victory in war.

Erescedence was the first and the last of the pure race of monsters, and so as all her kin reproduced, the fierce blood of the beast lessened its intensity. Soon enough even the most primitive humans could fend them off. But Erescedence remained as invincible as she was millions of years ago, back when the universe met the masculine spirit of Chaos and thus Erescedence was created. She did not originate on Earth. Her roots traced back to the very substance of Unknown, which made her unmovable, unbreakable and therefore undefeatable. Her heart was a tsunami. Her life was violence, unhonorable murder.

She always detested Antarcticus, the Child of Earth. The mother of monsters could not to this point seek out a way to destroy her, for she was more resourceful and adaptable than ever in her human form. So she froze her in a star, her pulsing blood in the sky.

When Antarcticus in all her prowess left the world, a great desolation fell upon the humans. Instead of fighting as one against the monsters and raging outside hardships, they fought amongst themselves. They turned away from the great and beautiful Antarcticus to other gods and idols. The female warrior could only watch the only race she ever loved with a cold gaze, only guide lost travelers by Polaris because of the laws of the zenith and celestial dome. Their creations became imperfect, their knowledge diminished. But the loss had implanted them a sense of emptiness in descending generations, a desire to discover something hidden. The people created science. But without the guidance of Antarcticus it was impractical.

The king knew the tower was possible. Science had covered the world a need to doubt everything and believe nothing. To reach the stars he only needed a right way of looking. The construction took many years and workers.

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Antarcticus emerged in the form of a small child, grasping a knife with diamonds on its hilt. She knew the old king wanted to use her for his own benefit so she plunged the weapon into his throat and left him dead on the floor of the tower. She raced down the stairs and entered into the world.

She at first crushed ants with her foot who were acting uncivil as practice to make fairness. The girl had no memories of being Antarcticus. Instead, she “lived each day like for the first time, and learned how to do this thing called justice”.

The day she turned thirty she ceased aging, because the only way to fight well was to stay immortally young. She kept her body in well shape but now had senior experience. At this time Erescedence did not yet know that her enemy had evaded her, and caused no more harm than usual. She bordered the world by lying in a loop and every time she breathed, she created the tides. Each time she stirred she woke up a tsunami.

On learning Antarcticus had escaped she vowed to drown every last of the woman’s beloved race, so she stormed in Oceana and created storms like never witnessed before. The woman knew it was time. Time to kill the great monster.

So she sought the giant snake, and she lead her to a great expanse of snow where the native semi-monsters ate ice and birds swam like fish. They fought for many days and nights. The sky thundered endlessly, the lightning vowed never to stop flickering. The shorelines were engulfed by the sea, and it rained, rained, rained, until deserts became fertile enough for forests and forests were flooded past revival. Months passed and Erescedence still lived, while Antarcticus quickly tired. It was now or never.

“Tell me, O Snake, mother of all monsters and evil things, what will it take to slaughter you?”

The she-demon gave a hiss that rattled the monsters. “Nothing can kill me. I am inviccccible. You may have sssslewn my children, but not me. You can try for the resssst of Time! Antarcticussss, you will never desssstroy me.” She opened up her jaws in a grin.

The sword of Antarcticus flashed like the lightning overhead as it sought a weak spot. “Then maybe invincibility also makes you wise. Who are you, and what am I?” She wanted desperately some information. The legends about her birth were inaccurate. She needed to fully know herself, and know her rival if she was to succeed.

The snake paused for the first time in weeks, as though thinking this request over. “I am Eresssscedencccce, the offsssspring of Chaossss and the Universssse. Assss for you, Antarcticussss, you are the daughter of Earth, which makessss you weak.” Her mighty tail flicked mockingly. “I am the sssspawn of sssstars.”

She gestured with her gruesome head at the night sky. “You ssssee them? Eyessss, watching, protecting me. Loving me, if you wissssh to usssse that foolissssh human emottttion.”

Short Story: My Manhattan

This was an essay about New York City, but don't worry, I added my own spunk and experiences to it. Jadefireeyes

 

New York City used to be a forested island where beavers gnawed on wood and bears roamed and deer pranced through bushes, and countless types of trees hugged the land. It was sold to early Americans for a few petty trinkets because of a deal not fully understood. Skyscrapers had long sprung up, obscuring the sky, and automobiles had claimed the noisy streets. Crowds of bustling people march on the sprawling pavements, and advertisements and lights dance in Times Square. Fancy department with well-renounced names vie for dominance. They say it’s the city that never sleeps, the most magnificent city in the world. Therefore, it would be easy to predict that Manhattan has infinite attractions, but I only indulge on a sparse few, all of them cheap for a large dose of leisure.

The Empire State Building is a prominent spectacle, rising above the metropolis skyline, and the urban city looks finer still when viewed aloft the observatory deck. It even lights up in flashy colors for special events. However, I prefer to just gaze upwards, because of the expensive tickets required. The Statue of Liberty, a long-celebrated icon of New York and freedom, is cloaked in a creamy green icing and is worth a visit to see on the free Staten Island Ferry, which I enjoy as well. I look over its railings to see the rippling deep water, and savor the sensation of wind tickling my cheeks. Ellis Island is also an option, which received immigrants going to the United States looking for a better life.

Sometimes the subway can get a tad dull, and it’s a luxury to know that a station is bedecked with sparkling stores: Grand Central Terminal. I don’t go there to specifically to buy, but to do one of my favorite pastimes, window-shopping. I relish checking out glittering merchandise and the wide diversity of spectacular items you can purchase. After all, renovations since it opened in 1913 have transformed into a safe haven for the bored hub of visitors.

Rockefeller Center is the jewel of my sightseeing. There is a mighty sculpture with an inspiring fountain piercing its metallic skin. During winter, there is an ice rink that is worth it just to observe the happy people milling around on bladed shoes on frozen water. Fine cafes make up the structure of this creation, which was named after a billionaire. Regal flags salute the wind.

 

A street

away is my pristine escape from the hubbub of the city. There are benches surrounding strips of raised platforms. On them are flowing fountains and ponds that a few people tossed shiny coins into – I believe the water gushes from either toads or angels, I can’t remember - built into the seclusion of greenery. Here is where my mother and I always eat our lunches. Farther down are stone pots cradling roses and other blossoms. Even here are fancy stores; my favorite is the one that dishes out only assorted chocolates, the imaginative kind with endless nuts, shells, coating and shapes.

It’s an ideal place to be, wrapped by the sweet tendrils of a mute silence but still in an outstanding avenue. Forming a right angle to this is a much larger street:

Fifth Avenue

. They annually close it for the Crazy Hat Parade. I made a triangular prism out of drinking straws and secured it together with pipe cleaners to construct the frame, then stuffed it with fake flowers, sparkly cloths, and trailing ribbons. I was ecstatic when a woman asked to take a photo of me. After all, I had fierce competition, summing up with taxis created completely out of metro cards, freakish hats rising ten feet in the air, and crazy concoctions from a wide array of materials.

I wrench myself out of this scene to transport you to the lush, achingly beautiful Central Park. This is the influencing force why horse and carriages still trot around the altered modern Manhattan. The region I recall most vividly is a calm lake, where lithe birds wade nimbly through the lapping waters. The sunset reflects on the placid surface, as the sun retreats its way down over the view of the city. Trees, that bring tranquility to the mind, rein here. It is one of the loveliest places in New York. 

How can we forget museums? They deliver an aura of wonder of the past. For example, the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The awe-inducing exhibits make you adore the amazing things elapsed humanity has reared. This is why I love Manhattan, the Utopia next door.

Short Story: Neglected at Sea

This was written by my friend. Jadefireeyes

One day, a girl was desperate to swim in the ocean. She hadn't been there for weeks, and she felt she couldn't go another day without feeling the slap of the water on her skin. So she asked all her friends who lived nearby if they wanted to accompany her. To her great disappointment, they all said no. 

So that evening, close to the time when the lifeguards went home, she went with her father. They planned to go only for a short time; an hour or two at most. 

Her father brought along a chair, and she brought nothing but her flip-flops and towel. She went immediately to the waterline, relishing how the cold water tickled her toes. The sun cast a dim light and the waves were foamy and rough; just the way she liked it.

After tiptoeing further in, she plunged right into a large wave, not much bigger than herself. Her loose hair became instantly straight as she came up for air. For the next half hour or so, everything was peaceful: the daughter swam in and out of the waves, always making sure the strong current never pulled her far from her father's chair, and the father himself paced slowly along the shore or sat in the chair, daydreaming.
Suddenly, the girl felt a small pain in her left ear. However, her ear reached up to feel her earring hole, which had been occupied not a second earlier with a small silver loop. She checked her other one, but it was fine. 
She frantically swashed her hands back and forth through the water, hoping against all odds that she could find it. As suspected, the swift current drew it away quickly and quietly, and the girl was forced to go to land. She fondled her other earring, as she walked up carefully to her father. "Can you hold this for me?"
"Where is the other one?" the father was quick to reply as soon as he saw the item in question. 
"I lost it, in the water," she answered truthfully. She knew she could've hidden it, but she felt telling him was the better option.
"YOU WHAT?" he demanded loudly. He was clearly furious, and instantly started ranting to her about how she could just lose earrings again and again at the beach. Also how she didn't strip herself of all valuables before heading into the water. 
She departed to the sea as soon as he was done, but fluent to her father's nature she knew there would be a very stern lecture afterwards about this. In the meantime, she tried not to cry and dove in, expecting to be welcomed and comforted by her beloved ocean. Instead, she felt like lead, drifting to the bottom every time, her legs wiggling in protest as she pushed upwards. the seaweed that was so rare that lightly scratched her legs earlier now seemed to wrap around her in lengthening tendrils. 
Without even realizing it, the bound strips of seaweed were causing her to drift farther away from the shore. When she did realize it, it was when her feet could no longer touch the bottom. Instead of hiding her face from the shore so her father couldn't see her tears, she anxiuosly scanned the horizon 360` clockwise until she did see it. 
Her father was too obsessed about the accident that he didn't even notice until the lifeguards left the beach. He examined the water, but couldn't see any signs of his daughter. A panic seized his chest and he jogged along the shoreline.
The girl however, had grown tired and fell unconscious beneath the waves. She was swiftly brought back to reality with a sharp pat on the back and found that she had grown a tail and surrounded by a coven of other mermaids.

Short Story: Wild West

I wrote this in five minutes. Don't judge me. Jadefireeyes

 A vulture sailed over the empty and bone-dry valley, a lone spec of life throughout the entire desolate sky.

In the shadows of the granite profiles of the towering mountains, in the desert-ridden waste-lands the dance of life gave way to death. Every creature lived to die, but attempted to live as long and successful life as possible. It was the American Wild West, and that was its nature.

I moved through the tawny sunsets and sunrises dappling the rigid backbone of the endless ranges, the one soul with a clear purpose in sight. I myself had once been lost in this strange, perpetual world, undecided. But now that knowledge was mine.

And that purpose was now to wander. I yearned to feel the excitement of the young cowboys as they herded their loyal cattle across the threshold of the frontier, experience the anticipation of the gold-seekers eager to find their fortunes in beds of rock.

They called me the Wanderer, and my faithful horse Red Streak. And so I, Wanderer and Red Streak rode across the few wildernesses still in existence to find the mystery of the charming West. The occasional cougar would spark an interest of the beauty of wild things, the bounty of curiosity the rest of the world had yet to provide.

We reached a vacant valley at day’s end, the silvery dusk edging the place with shrouded secrets I wished to uncover. I pitched my camp, a coarse blanket with a sack of food, water and my trusty rifle. I would replenish my ammunition at outlandish towns scattered about the harsh territories, barren to one human’s eye, teeming with life to a scavenger. I required nothing but a flowing stream and good hunting to make my simple life. Red Streak would graze the sparse desert vegetation and this would suit her fine.

I slept underneath the stars, and the sound of cattle mooing would ring from the past, passing into my dreams like memories. For once I would rest peacefully, until dawn came again.

Short Story: Paris Underworld

This was inspired by a National Geographic article. Jadefireeyes

Stories above, perhaps there’s an elegant café, lapping in the view of the Eiffel Tower. At night, the city will descend into a thousand gleaming lights, a thousand beautiful buildings, well-renowned monuments and opera houses. For now it’s a noon on a typical Saturday, and some shops and bakeries will be closed. A few pedestrians and traffic will be milling around the quiet streets and avenues, and the waiters in the extravagant restaurants will be serving lunch.

I am wandering in darkness, endless tunnels illuminated by my one lamp. My muddy boots splash in moist puddles covering the ground, wiping my hand in disgust on my already filthy overalls. My breath gathers in clouds, surrounding the water droplets on the ceiling, while staring at the endless chaos of skulls, femurs, tibias and other assorted bones. The cool air is tainted with the odors of mold and damp earth.

I am in the Paris underground, the chain of canals, deserted wine cellars, crypts, reservoirs and bank vaults. Remains of the dead greet me as I wind around the section of the catacomb, each hosting an individual story to tell, yet long passed into oblivion through the centuries.

It all began as quarries dug underground for its vast deposits of limestone and other bedrock, chiseled by the Romans in the 1^st century B.C. who once inhabited France. After they were exhausted they were deserted, and some were filled with rubble. Overfilled cemeteries with bones were first poured into the quarries in 1786. It was the start of the French catacombs.

The Paris dwellers didn’t pay much attention to the unstable foundation they were tottering on, until the first collapstion of 1774. Many such cave-ins were to follow, including one in which the earth swallowed an entire neighborhood. This prompted King Louis XVI to create a department to monitor them, and still exists today.

On my way to the crypts I passed many murals created by modern artists. Some wine cellars have been transformed into nightclubs and bachelor parties. They are all Catatphiles, people who love the Paris underworld. Whether they come to paint, party, sight-see, hold dates, or simply enjoy the thrill of exploring uncharted territory, they all share one thing in common: they come here to have freedom from the laws of the surface. The most daring stay underground for days on end.

Patrols of geologists venture through the labyrinth as well, to make sure the quarries are strong enough, so they do not crumble. There are also Cataflies, police who chase cataphiles. Most entrances and tunnels are illegal to access.

I take off my mud stained helmet, and survey the tomb. Just in the distance I hear the echoes of more visitors pouring in. I’d better get going.

There’s a whole world down in the twisting labyrinth of Paris. How to get there? Go to the nearest manhole.

Short Story: The Night of Wind and Beasts

Too forbidding? Jadefireeyes

The night was cold and alive with the voices of the wind. Thus, I ran from the gales for many miles, silently gliding among the shadows. A whisper issued behind me; a figure strode forward, the silhouette gleaming with its own light. I prayed for dawn, yet it was too far off.

Eventually, I reached a cave. It was dark inside, but I knew rain would soon join the gales. Upon entering, I found the remains of ruptured skeletons, their hollow sockets hungrily glaring at me. Unnerved, I paced delicately among the auburn bones, and cradled myself in a black, damp corner.

The sound of a violent storm thundered outside, forks of lightning igniting the world for miles. Over hanging vegetation soon became frayed by the winds, the howling, fearsome winds. Was that a shadow outside the cave?

Yes, there it was again! It was definitely moving, and something big. Could it be the dweller of the cave I had inhabited? Was that the gleam of a large tooth I saw in a flash of lightning? I feared for my life and searched desperately and quietly for a weapon.

I snatched an ancient arrow out of the hands of one of the dead. I armed myself... just in time for the snarl.

The beast leapt at me, the jaws closing upon my left hand with a metallic clip. The pain was horrible, and in half consciousness I plunged the arrow head into the chest of the great animal. Yet the skin was not penetrated. The wild beast stared through me with those yellow eyes, and prepared to bite open my heart.

I stumbled down in anxiety as it lunged forward, slaver dripping off its deadly fangs. Thrusting my hands forward, I clambered onto its back by grabbing its shaggy coat. It roared with rage, and attempted to overthrow me with a maddening gleam in its eyes.

I hung on with all my might as it spun in viscous circles, keeping away from the attacks of the utterly savage animal. In its eagerness to crush my skull in its heavy jaws, it sailed over the gorge, with me still griping on.

The wet humid air was alive with the down pouring of rain, and deafening din of thunder. Its dirty fur became slippery, and I lost my hold, falling into the jagged rocks below.

The wind howled in my ears with a stunning ferocity, and I could only feel the ultimate sensation of hurtling with terrible force, the feeling of burning hopelessness within a few short seconds.

Suddenly, I passed a pine branch jolting out of a crevice in the cliff, and I caught it with the sense of pleasant security. The pine needles and bark cut through my already wounded skin, and I screamed in agony. I craned my head downward a hundred feet down were the broken body of the ferocious beast lay in the valley, its gaunt eyes staring sightlessly at the stormy night sky.

I felt a horrible forbidding as I lost my grip on the flimsy branch, the lightning illuminating the world as I hurtled towards my death, and I felt the worst pain I ever experienced in the last fraction of a second of my life.

Short Story: Garden Dreams

 It was early, and I pulled my covers over again, but Jane wouldn’t let me sleep.

    

“Come on, I need to show you something.”

 I followed my little sister, because I knew I would never hear the end of it.

We went outside to our little garden near the house. Today it was very pretty: wildflowers splashed  the lawn  like drops  of  fire,  and  butterflies  hovered lazily like autumn  leaves. Jane obviously didn’t think so; her face was a scowl, and she narrowed her eyes. “I wish we could get rid of it! Or at least make it better.”

“Why wouldn’t you want something so nice?” I asked, shocked.

“Because just think of it,” Jane answered dreamily. “Just think.

“Instead of this old, ugly stone path, we can have a road surrounded with bright azaleas.  And  bordering  that,”  she  recited,  “we can have endless miles of exotic blossoms!”

“Nice vocabulary,” I laughed, “but I think this patch is good enough. I think you’ve been reading too many books with fancy gardens.”

“Have not! Anyway, instead of this dirty fence, we can have a proper hill laced with Old England Roses. Plus, we can have elegant benches, you know, real polished wood, right under it in the shade. And there should be shrubs all around them,” she added.

“I can’t decide what type of garden it should be, Japanese, Chinese or some other. Japanese ones are really just evergreens, so you don’t know time is passing by, but Chinese ones have to be two-thirds up a hill, some other hills in the distance, a smaller pool going into a larger lake…”

“Sounds very specific. But I really think you should be happy with this one.”

“Uh, no…it also has to have a giant maze, I don’t know what kind of hedge, well maybe yew, and there has to be a fountain and statue made of marble at the middle. And I want there to be a lot of streams with bridges crossing over them, and wind chimes everywhere you look. Oh yeah, and birdhouses too. What kind of a garden doesn’t have birds?

“There should also be trees, but they can’t cover up the flowers of course. I like willows, because their branches drape, but mostly anything else would be okay. Oh, and I want pines too, because they never turn brown and they smell nice. Wait, I forgot about having cherry and apple blossoms!

“The garden should be really, really big and I would like there to be hills, but a flat one is fine. The birds need to be colorful, and so should the butterflies. You don’t want any boring ones, do you? And there need to be a lot of trails made of crunchy pebbles, and ponds with pretty fish inside.

“There need to be a ton of roses, and tulips I guess- although I like daisies too, and since it’s my garden, I’ll add them. And I’ll make open fields so horses can run around, so I can learn to ride them-”

“June, why don’t you like our own garden, instead of making up fancy ones? You know you’ll probably never have enough money to make one so extravagant.”

Her face flushed as she answered, “Because the girls down the street laugh at it, and ask why I don’t have a pool there instead. I wanted to make it so good, I would show them gardens are better than pools.”

I wanted to laugh as I answered, “But it’s because gardens are better than pools is why they don’t like it. They just don’t want to admit it and be wrong.”

“Really?” Her voice was small when she said that.

“Really,” I replied with all the truth in my heart.

“Oh, okay, I guess it’s good for now, but I need to start planning, you know; and then I want....”

Short Story: Sky Serpent

Diary of an ocean dweller girl 6,000 years ago

The sea is only blue if the sky is blue. If there are clouds, it takes on a gray murky quality. Should there come a storm, it becomes as dark and dangerous as the atmosphere above. At this I shudder, recalling the threatening drum rhythms and the knives the One sends out to punish the people of the World for their sins. Although I was only a girl of thirteen summers, and thus is considered mainly innocent, the terrible things the One commits frightens me even in my dreams.

Right now the sky is blessedly clear, so the ocean is azure. There comes a loud, rushing sound from it, almost as bone rattling as thunder as the enormous body of water forever stirs. They say it never ends, and its water floods as far as the roots of the Great Tree that grips this World.

The rippling surface is etched with silver grooves, and green hills arise before crashing into a force of waves, foam collecting at the bulges which is the saliva of the sea. It weakens before transforming into a thin sheet of shine that descends onto the shore, dappled only weakly by the foaming stuff. The sand briefly darkens, but is forgotten as a layer of dryness sweeps down into the water. Small bubbles of air escape and make pores. My footprints are erased.

The wet curving shore feels like mud, or so my parents say. I’ve never been in the mainland, where a forest wakens up. Instead of sand being there, there is soil. I questioned them what that is. They informed me, It’s dark and filled with grasses, similar to the ones here but not as stiff and prickly, and it has clay in it as well. Dried clay is what our ornaments are made of. The mainland people even make pottery out of it.

I don’t understand what’s so special about clay, but I know that the beach is covered in a lot of pretty things: smooth colorful pebbles, dark elegant shells, scraps of wood washed up on the shore from the ocean. Does that mean there’s a forest growing under the sea? I don’t know. Sometimes the fisher men take their boats and go far out to catch big fish and the occasional shark. I’ve asked them this, politely of course, but they replied they can’t see the bottom of it.

I paused to fix my long hair, which has been made untidy by the wind that blows constantly. It’s strung with hollow shell beads to weigh it down for this purpose. Of course, I find it unattractive on its own. By my feet water suddenly gushed around my ankles, as fast as I can run. It is crawling with little mites that resemble shell-less crabs. They tickle my toes and I giggle.

Seagulls, which are big white birds with black-tipped wings, wheel above me, releasing discordant cries that are polluted with loneliness, as though living in this forlorn place has left scars on their souls. The females are nimble and with a red spot on their beaks, and meet the previous description. Males, meanwhile, are a lot larger, and brownish-gray. I don’t like them much, because they have learned that humans mean food, and constantly fly down to the ground in a massive, screeching huddle and beg for meat when they see it. I find them lazy. They are skilled fishers, and know to drop an oyster from a tall height in order to crack the shell.

There are other less pleasant things on the beach as well sometimes: sticky, icky wads of seaweed. There is a broth of seaweed in the water as well when the tide is warm. Normally the ocean is cool even in summer. It was a very bad idea to swim in that mess. The seaweed had a clinging and scratchy pull as it worked against me. I very much dragged myself through it. It still threaded through my hair days later. It was simply horrific. It is also negative experience when there is a deposit of shells several finger lengths thick, and as sharp as hunting tools. Oh, and I neglected the jellyfish: a fury if stung, but also unpleasant when hundreds of the dead creatures wash ashore, more like shiny transparent globs without stingers. They have a strange feeling, for they have a wet sensation even when dry, and are mushy yet firm at the same time. Whenever I find any that have scarlet tendrils inside I bury it with sand, for fear it still may  contain the poison.    

The sun begins to die, because the sky is gradually blemishing pink with its blood, and all the clouds are tinged golden. The ocean reflects all this majestic color, its flanks still sighing even during the growing dusk. Its horizon is a vague blue, and to my right, the ocean is a blinding white from the sinking orb. The clouds are in an odd formation, a think rectangular swath arcing over my head like the quick shelter we would build from the rain. It is a sign. I must return to my family, or a certain danger would occur. One must listen to her wise starry ancestors.

As the sun lowers into the night, the surreal silver moon is more pronounced, and stars twinkle into existence. There is more than I can ever count. Tonight the moon is half closed. It is the single eye of the Sky Serpent, a massive blue snake that coils around the World. It takes it forever to blink, thirty or so days.It routinely sheds its skin, and those flakes are the clouds. The stars are its scales, which you can only see at night.

When it rains, that is its tears, tears is gives up for us. Once, at the Begginning, its tears were salty, for it was jealous of our freedom, and it killed all the plants. People began to starve. Repenting, the Sky Serpent asked the One to collect all the water into one big place, the sea. But as a reminder, the One made all the people's tears salty as well, to show us to never sin or there should be consequences. The One was born inside the Great Tree. It controls everything, the weather, or good hunting. We pray to it so it may gove us good fortune.