Lucid Waking

            It was three o’clock in the morning when the phone rang. I was in no state to get up, so my roommate answered it. Her groggy voice traveled across the apartment enough for me to get a gist of what she was hearing. I knew that our days as students were finally up and we had indeed gotten caught.
            It started a couple years ago when we were high school juniors and we first met on the greyhound traveling to Ohio. I was sent by my parents; she was running away. We talked a bit and realized that we had a lot in common. For one, we both wanted to go to Harvard University and when by some miracle we both achieved our goal, it took almost no effort to seize the ticket.
            My parents were less than thrilled that I had joined such a society of rich kids learning law. They sent me to three jobs in order to pay for it, but I knew no matter how hard I worked to stay above water, I could never get the money to go to Harvard. A little luck came to me when my great grandmother died, leaving me most of her money. Since it was mine, I saved it for college, but since it was less than a year away, the fundraising was tough.
            During the summer I had even more part-time jobs and I did small things like car washes and bake sales to raise just a little more cash. Thankfully, my parent’s weren’t using the cash I earned like I thought they might and I slowly had about two thousand dollars. Contacting the girl on the train, Michelle, I found out she didn’t have that much either. We decided that the going was too slow for this to go anywhere. I’d have to quit some of my jobs when school started and that would cut down on money making considerably. We decided it was time to steal.
            I went to the library one afternoon and researched locking picking and various security devices. When I came home after dinner to cold chili, I decided to start that night at a small joint: my house. I knew all of the security that there was and it would give me the chance to practice going past people once I was in. My parents did a good job of hiding their cash from me so I thought it was an extra bonus that I’d have to find it.
            As sure as my parents were asleep, I snuck into their bedroom, found the money stashed in a safe, and proceeded, with my book on unlocking safes, to find the code. It took me four hours, but I finally found about six hundred dollars worth of cash alone. I thought selling jewelry would be a little obvious, so I took all of the money. It wasn’t much in the long run, but it was good practice.
            My parents were beside themselves when they found the money missing, but I said I was asleep and didn’t hear anything. The money stayed under my bed until I could take it out and put it in the bank. Michelle didn’t have the same luck as me, but she managed the next time she tried. I went on to harder buildings: past laser beams, picking locks, burglar alarms. I got very good at just smashing devices instead of leaving them intact. I was almost caught once, about two days before the phone call, and that was a burglar alarm that went off silently, before I noticed it. The police searched the place, but luckily, the ceiling was removable. No one ever checks up.
            By this point, Michelle and I were both together doing our crimes the same night in order to pay back the financial aid. If anyone asked, we got the money from our parents. People stopped asking. We got careless. We got the phone call at three o’clock in the morning from a friend saying that the police were on our way. We packed our bags as quickly as we could. We used the fire escape out the back door and we ran.

Filed under: End of Childhood by Bri
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            Nobody liked Jacob Manilow. His mother was a shady character who was supposedly highly involved in witchcraft, although by this time, there was no such thing as witches. His father was a supposed drug dealer, but again, those were just rumors. Jacob himself was a little bit odd. Nobody in the world had bluer eyes; anyone looking at them had to squint to see his irises at all. He rarely ever blinked and he was at least a head shorter than everyone else in his class. During recess he would sit on the bench and stare at nothing in particular. In class, he just about never talked and he would stare at the blackboard taking no notes and making no sign of understanding or recognition. The only time he would move would be taking tests, which he always got one hundred percent correct. His homework was also superbly done and except for his uninvolved parents, his teacher always considered that he had help on it.
            It was never the kids his age that teased him. It was always the older ones who claimed they were not afraid of anything. They would ridicule him worse than they intended and the next day, they would disappear from school because of a sickness. But no one else spotted the pattern and the beatings continued. It wasn’t until that day in December when he finally cracked, as was bound to do, that the world realized what this child was.
            Mrs. Shorter and Miss Tall were watching over the kids in the schoolyard during recess. As was routine, a group of older students walked up to the blond boy on the bench. Miss Tall glanced at Mrs. Shorter, who happened to be looking the other way, and sighing, walked over to the bench.
            “Stop this right now,” she yelled as soon as she was close.
            The older kids jumped and blushed as they turned to her. She moved in closer to reprimand and give them a punishment when behind them, the little boy stood up. He blinked twice and then stood on the bench.
            “How many times do I have to tell you…” she started her voice losing power as she watched the small blond boy with the bright blue eyes grow taller behind them.
            “Thank you, Miss Tall,” he said finally; now that he was the height of a small tree, “I can take it from here.”
            “Oh no you don’t,” she said finding her voice. “You’re not going to do anything of the sort. These children need discipline and you’re above fighting them.”
            The boy smiled looking oddly much older than his actual age. “You’re right I will be fighting from above.”
            He leapt off the bench and kicked madly into the air. One of the older boys collapsed, his face cleaved in two, while the others ran as fast as they could. By now, Mrs. Shorter was blowing her whistle madly. Miss Tall took off her jacket and threw it at the boy, who was now flying towards his running classmates to weigh him down, but it just burst into flame and blew away in ashes.
            “I know you’re mother,” Miss Tall yelled after the boy as he kicked another one of the bullies in the face. “And she never liked punishment. Just because they were mean, gives you no premise to kill them.”
            The boy stopped, the word “mother” plainly on his lips. He turned to Miss Tall; his blue eyes now a hauntingly beautiful cranberry red.
            “She’s a wonderful person,” Miss Tall said. “And I know you’re human.”
            The boy’s eyes were pink, now as he drifted farther down to the ground. As soon as his feet touched the earth, he collapsed, crying. Miss Tall pushed away the other kids who had completely stopped their activities to watch, and pulled up the crying boy. She brought him to the school and blew her whistle again. Playground life resumed and after leaving the boy in the principal’s office and explaining that his actions were punishable, though provoked, she went back outside and with a wave of her hand, got rid of the dead bodies.
            Their parents were distraught, naturally, but they were too afraid to mention some sort of punishment on the boy who did it. After all, he did it once, who’s to say that he wouldn’t do it again? Miss Tall was incredibly silent on the matter, but she was told to watch the boy ever after to insure that nothing happened while he was at school. Beyond that, nothing changed. He would still stare out into space gathering information through osmosis and performing well on his tests. He graduated with the rest of his class, but his parents were absent from the occasion, and he moved on to bigger, but certainly not better, things.

Filed under: Apocalypse by Bri
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            Cool, soft rain and warm caressing sunshine was the only weather. No one had to worry about winds whipping shelters to and fro, destroying everything in their paths. People almost forgot the fear of pelting rains and lightening storms to destroy the perfect nature. Some days, the sky was unspoiled by clouds, and the sun gently lit up the earth. Other days a light, but cheerful gray covered the sky, but allowed the sun’s light to shine through.
            Trees were allowed to live in harmony with people, and stood proud among the landscape. People kept the land clean and free of litter, although the occasional refuse pile for bones, nutshells, or seeds as well as human waste hidden in the forests. There were no plastic, glass, or paper containers strewn about the backwoods. The oceans were a blue-gray and had no refuse lying on the sides by the shore as an after thought. One could almost see the fish swimming, waiting to catch their breakfast on the surface. Various colors swam under the water, flitting back and forth in and out of sight. Sand was soft and faded gently into water; the water would leave fragile lines where it kissed the shore.
            Some of the predators helped the humans get food, but mostly the animals left them alone. They lived with each other, only taking enough food for from another species for themselves or a pack and leaving the rest to tend their ways. The animals lived anywhere, and were seen often by the shores and the forest, though occasionally they would venture out to the fields or human villages. They did not terrorize the people and the people generally left them alone.
            Children would come during their daily play sessions and try to play with the animals; the parents weren’t afraid because they knew the animals wouldn’t hurt the children. People lived believing what they wanted and didn’t force people to believe what they believed. The civilizations were excellent at weaving and painting and would use these as money. They would often have something another person made and so no one had anything someone else didn’t; there was no need for crime. The people lived their lives creating masterpieces and watching children, contently in paradise.

Filed under: Paradise Lost by Bri
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If I had feathered angel wings
You know where I would fly?
Around the world in several days
Giving out hope in lots of ways
Watching smiles break out on faces
As night turns into day.

If I had glossy fairy wings
You know where I would fly?
Through windows to children’s beds
Putting magic in their heads
Helping imaginative dreams grow
As night turns into day.

If I could just get off the ground
You know where I would fly?
To places that I cannot go
And hope I don’t crash below
To help them anyway I can
Until night turns into day.

Then its back home again
To meet and see all of my friends
Tell them talks of stories bold
Inspire them so when they grow old
They’ll want to help the world too
And hopefully they can.

Filed under: Poems by Bri
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            It seemed like quite a while ago when they had that conversation. They had been sitting on a towel at the beach under one of his mother’s old summer umbrellas and talking. He had agreed to help her watch her brother and twin cousins for the day, so that she wasn’t alone. She proposed taking them to the beach for a picnic and after that, they found themselves watching the children play in the sun. She had leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder before he took a deep breath and asked her the question that had been bothering him most of the morning.
            “Have you ever thought of being a mother?”
            It was an odd question for a sixteen year old to ask another his age, but she didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Quite nonchalantly she answered: “Sometimes.”
            They watched the three children again in silence. He blushed, thankful that she wasn’t looking at him.
            “It seems like it would be a handful,” he said trying to stimulate conversation.
            “Well, yes. But I love children and I think that there are times that the trouble is worth it. What about you? Do you want to be a father?”
            He faced the water again, caught unawares. “I suppose so.”
            “Just suppose?”
            “I never really thought about it.”
            “Fair enough.”
            She sat upright again and shouted to her brother to stop throwing sand. He pictured her as a mother, like she said and leaned back on his elbows. It would be a while before either of them were parents, but he knew deep down that she would be a good one. She smiled at him, but remained sitting.
            “What do you want to do in college? It’s a little closer.”
            “I’d like to major in robotics,” he said dropping eye contact for the sea.
            “That’s unique.”
            “What about you?”
            “I think anatomy and psychology would be good for me.”
            “Why those two?”
            She blushed. “I like the way the body works.”
            He blushed, too, but he didn’t know why. She made a motion to yell at the children again, but didn’t and leaned back on her elbow so that they were at eye level. Neither one said a word. But they didn’t have to.

Filed under: Realistic Fiction by Bri
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            “Every instrument has a soul, a personality,” she said as she sanded the small body of a violin. “It’s up to the musician to find out what their instrument is to them.” The group of students she was speaking to nodded. Some took notes in small spiral notebooks with pencils attached to string. The students in the back giggled and whispered to themselves.
            “I fully believe,” the lecturer continued, “ that a musicians’ job is to get to know their instrument before they can make music. Just like two dance partners must know each other before doing a flawless dance, so you must know your instrument. Technique in both music and dance is important foundation to the storytelling, but it does not enable the full excellence. Technique is like words in a story, but it does not determine how good of a storyteller you are or how good the story is.”
            Rebecca let her eyes wander from the woman sanding and whittling away at a new violin. She glanced at the brochure she had in her sweaty hands, at the workshop on the cover. “Oakland Workshop” it said in large bold letters, “home of the most famous violinist and woodworker Sarah Parker.” Rebecca sighed. She agreed that it was amazing to see her in person, but after reading all her books, listening to interviews, and doing all the research she could, Rebecca hadn’t heard anything new.

            “So that’s what I learned at the wood shop today,” Rebecca said to her mother at dinner.
            Her mother smiled. “That’s good, sweet heart.”

Filed under: Realistic Fiction by Bri
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