Lucid Waking

        The apartment was small and dusty, the paint crumbling slowly off the walls. Brown water damage dripped down from the ceiling and the carpeting had unusual stains. The kitchen was a sun-worn 1950’s yellow with fake marble countertops and grease-stained, contact-papered cabinet doors. The bedroom wasn’t much better with a dirty screen falling out of the frame and a latch that was broken. The closet door didn’t open or close all the way and a black mold was creeping in the upper corners.
        Clara sighed and stepped into her old apartment. Boxes were piled up in the hallway and in her bedroom and office almost up to her chin, but she hadn’t found a good apartment to move into. Her landlord was getting nervous and twitchy about putting an ad up for a new tenant, but she couldn’t seem to find a place any better than the one she’d leave.
        She looked at her tired face in the bathroom mirror. Although she was young, the dark circles under her eyes made her look at least half a decade older. Her copper hair was flat as a pancake and drenched from the humidity, but her green eyes still sparkled in the light. She splashed some cold water on her lightly freckled face and cracked open a window in her office. She opened up the newspaper she had thrown on her desk that morning and flipped straight to the Classified Section.
        She scanned the various ads, circling the ones in her area with a vibrant red pen. As she went down the list, a particular one caught her eye. She reread it.

Summerset—2BR, 1 BATH, view of lake, furnished. Air, prkg, balcony, garden. $500. Silver Swan Aptmts. 333-467-8009.

        Summerset was a small drive away, but pretty much in the country. Very few cars, and it seemed like a pretty good deal to her. The rent was a little high, but she could afford it. She grabbed her purse and keys and set off down the stairs to where her car was parked on the street.

Filed under: Realistic Fiction by Bri
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        Sunshine Hill was located in a valley in between two large mountains in the Saint José Range. Its walls were tiered from near the base of the mountains downward to the town. A rather large lake bordered the west wall of the town and a small road to the other. There were two rather large gargoyles guarding the central gate and a labyrinth of locked doors leading into the town from each of the other walls.
It didn’t get many visitors and on the same token, not many people left. On the other side of the lake, were a few farms growing in tiers along the mountainsides. Most of the mountains on that side of the lake were also mined. The town itself was a bustling fishing town that generally flourished on mining.
         Sarah was heading with her brother towards the town like they did semi-annually in order to get enough grain to last her father a year. “They have the best grain in the country,” he would often say before going off on a tangent of the elasticity and consistency of his bread dough.
         Ian was not much older than she was, but he tried to act like the man of the house when her father wasn’t around. He would always drive and handle transactions, which left Sarah to lift the heavy bags of grain onto the cart.
         This time, she was older and fully hoping some attractive young man her age would volunteer to put the bags on the cart. It wasn’t that she was lazy; she just wasn’t as strong as her brother and could use the help. She’d feel less self-conscious without wrestling the bags onto the cart when she couldn’t lift them very far off the ground.
         Ian got off the cart and knocked twice on the town gate. The guard talked to him for a moment, before opening the gate and letting them in. Sarah helped drive the horses into the market. Ian took over again to cover the remaining length of the town. He paid a boatman at the harbor, after obtaining a pass to enter in the main town again, and they started across, with their trusty wagon, to the other side of the lake.
         “Any news?” Ian asked the boatman.
         “Nothing you’d be interested in.”
         “All right.”
         They continued the rest of the way in silence. The boat gently bumped against the shore and Ian got out to help pull the boat the rest of the way. Sarah calmed down their horses. She was always very good with animals and was probably the only job Ian would willingly give up. She led them carefully off the boat and towards the road again.
         “No news?” Ian said catching up to her. “I find that hard to believe.”
         “Maybe there isn’t.”
         “He said it was nothing we’d be interested in, not that there wasn’t any.”
         “Maybe it is nothing important. Well, to you. Maybe he heard news that his son was killed in the war, or maybe his wife is really sick. That’s news, but it’s nothing you’d be interested in.”
         “Always practical, huh, sis?”
         She shrugged and kept her eyes on the road. “How much farther?”
         “Actually, we’re right here.”
         The house was small, but well kept. Ian stopped the horses in the drive next to the house and got out.
         “Stay here,” he said.
        Sarah nodded and kept her eyes straight in front of her. Ian knocked on the door and then went inside leaving her alone with the horses. Once he was out of sight, she left the wagon seat and went around in front to pet them. At least it made her look a little more than a servant. The horse gently brushed against her hand when she reached up to pat it.
        “How long do you think he’ll take this time?” Sarah asked the horse. The other one tried to rub up against her hand she reached out her other one and rubbed its neck.
        “I’m sorry I don’t have anything to give you,” she said. “Just hope Ian’s quick.”
        “You know, if you keep talking to your horses like that, people might think you’re crazy,” someone said behind her. She turned around to catch eyes with a mischievous looking boy. She reminded her of a leprechaun almost perfectly except he was wearing brown clothing instead of green.
        “Well if there were people to hear me, that might be an issue,” she shot back.
        He laughed. “Someone with spirit. And I really should be talking, all the things who hear me are the sheep and rocks.”
        “So you’re a shepherd?”
        He shrugged. “I work for whoever will hire me and this week I’m a shepherd.”
        “What’s your name?”
        “That depends. Who do you want me to be?”
        Sarah was taken aback. “Nobody in particular.”
        “Then I’m Nobody. What’s your name?”
        “No one you need to know.”
        “Pleased to meet you, No-one. That’s quite a long name.”
        “You’re very strange.”
        “You’re very pretty.”
        “Uh, thank you.”
        They stood in silence for a moment.
        “Aren’t you going to ask me why a hired help is going around the farming district?”
        “Well since you asked: why is a hired help going around the farming district?”
        “See that’s a very curious thing, No-one. Most of the young men around the farming parts have disappeared. Some of the daughters were left, but there aren’t many that stay on this side of the lake to start out with. Rumor has it the monster in the caves takes all the sons and hides them away forever. They disappear in the night and are never seen again.”
        “How…odd.”
        “Don’t look at me. I’m not the monster.”
        “Then where did you come from?”
        “Lusitania. That’s far, far away from here. And no, not everyone is like me. I used to work in a mine there until the fumes finally got to me. Probably damaged something in my head, but I can still farm out here in the fresh air, so it works out.”
        “That’s good.”
        “No, it’s really not. It’s very boring. At least in the mines you never know if something was going to cave in and every step was a risk that you were going to die. You might scoff, my dear lady, but it’s very adventurous. My cousin and I used to make up stories about what lived in the caves. It was very entertaining. We used to believe we were explorers. Sometimes, just sometimes, there would be actual monsters down there and then we’d have to take a shovel—”
        “Felix! Get back to work!” the farmer yelled from his house.
        “Oops, that’s my cue to get back to work! Lovely meeting you, Miss No-one. Hope to see you again soon!”
        “Sarah, help me load up this grain,” Ian called from the back of the house.
        “Oh well,” Sarah said, “that’s my cue to get going.”
        Felix smiled and bowed his head. “Tell your brother to get a move on before the monster comes and gets him too.”
        “Really, Felix. What happened to all the boys?”
        “Sarah’s a very pretty name,” he said.
        “Thank you, but where is every body?”
        “I told you,” he said.
        She put her hands on her hips and gave him a persistent look.
        “I don’t know Sarah,” he said. “But if they find them I don’t have a job.”
        “I thought you didn’t like farming.”
        He shrugged. “It’s money away from toxic fumes.”
        Ian called her name again. “Are you sure you don’t know.”
        “Positive and I’m not looking for them.”
        “Well, good day.”
        “You too!”
        Sarah ran back to where Ian had already loaded five bags of grain onto the cart. He decided not to reprimand her and helped her load the remaining six-dozen bags. He waved to the farmer to thank him and set the horses back onto the ferry and through the town.
        “Did you hear any news?” Sarah asked.
        “Just about all the boys missing. Apparently someone’s been kidnapping all the farmers’ sons to take them to the mining fields in Lusitania. But you know they’ve been having trouble ever since that poisonous gas reserve was dug up lower down. That whole town is in trouble.”
        “That’s a shame,” Sarah said.
        “Yeah, well. Not much we can do. Sunshine Hill’s military is much better than ours and they seem to have it all under control.”
        Sarah remained quite, resting on the bags of grain to make sure none fell. The road back was monotonous and monochromatic until the sunset welcomed them to their own home town.

Filed under: Fantasy, Realistic Fiction by Bri
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        It was Halloween, Hillary remembered, and quite cold for October. Sean was sitting on the edge of the peer because he had to show her something. She remembered being skeptical, especially since it was cold. She hated the cold. She couldn’t remember how he managed to convince her to go down to the peer, but somehow she was there.
         The next few moments she remembered clearly. He turned around and smiled at her pointing down into the water. Coral, he had said. It glows. As soon as she took a step forward, that’s when she saw the black hand coming out of the water and grabbing Sean’s ankles. Before she could react, he was pulled into the water with hardly a splash. She reacted before thinking and looked over the side of the peer to where he had gone, hoping for a trace…
         The water glowed green in a special spot. Coral, she thought and then turned and ran down the peer.
         “Damn it,” she said. It was years after the event and the weather was warmer. She had her stomach to the peer and she was staring at the dark water, hoping, like every year, for a glow of green.

Filed under: Horror by Bri
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        She looked into the dark room, her jaw clenched. The floor was damp and the smell of rotting wood mixed with the hot sticky air. Mold grew in gray spots on the white plaster ceiling with a creaky fan in the middle of the room. Underneath the fan, a lonely chair sat in the middle of the room. A figure was tied to the back of the chair, gagged, and blindfolded. There was a small window by the floor, but it allowed only enough light to dimly suggest the figure was tied to the chair.
            She stepped onto the failing floorboards gently and crept towards the figure. At the sound of noise it tried to look for the source of the sound, but was restricted.
            “We’re here to help,” she said cutting the ropes quickly.
            The figure was still. She pulled it upward and tried to get it to stand up, but it was having trouble. She motioned for one of the people with her to take its arm.
            “Do you have the money?” it whispered.
            “Never mind about that.”
            “How are we going to get out?”
            “I’m trying to figure that out, now.”
            She peeked outside the room into the sterile hall. The eeriness came from the silence and them being alone. The walls were blinding and they melded into the floor and ceiling. Except for the scuffmarks from where they’d come, she’d believe that the whole thing had been turned on its head for someone’s enjoyment. She stepped out and led the troop of three down the hall where her captain was still talking to the head of this operation.
            She lost no time in waving her partners to the exit and put the person they had saved in the car. She could see now, it was another girl. Her hair was cut short and ragged, and she was covered in cuts and scrapes. On the way, she had collapsed and it was easy for them to gently fold her up in the trunk for a fast getaway.
            “I hope she’s ok,” one of her partners said.
            “She’ll be fine, if Isaac would hurry up.”
        Finally, their captain came out of the building and moved fairly quickly towards the car. Everyone fell into line, one person taking the driver’s seat, one in the passengers with his gun loaded and cocked, and she was in the back waiting for her boss. He slipped neatly into the back seat and locked the door.
        “Step on it, Shannon,” he said. Without further instructions, Shannon pressed the accelerator and at fourty miles per hour, shot out of the parking lot and towards the highway.
        “Where to, captain?” she asked.
        “The Purple Hotel,” he said. “Try to get there by seven o’clock.”
        “So what happened?” she asked Isaac. He sighed.
        “Nothing much. I managed to give them a small down payment, but they’re not willing to give up the girl. By the way, where is she?”
        “In the trunk.”
        “You never cease to amaze me with your hospitality, Teagan.”
        “It seemed the easiest place if we get stopped on the road. The girl passed out anyway.”
        “I’m just going to take your word on it that she’s actually there.”
        “She is,” the gunman in the front seat said, “we dragged her out.”
        “Once she’s in the hotel, Shannon you’re going to stay. Teagan, Darryl, you’re going with me back to headquarters. But give Shannon the gun because they’re not going to be happy when they find out the check is fake.”
        “What’s this all about anyway?” Teagan asked. “We haven’t got a lot of answers.”
        “Someone made a backroom deal at one point that never went through. It was probably a bet off the Boston Red Socks, but I don’t remember anymore.”
        “You don’t know any more than we do, do you Isaac?”
He laughed. “Not really. I used to be in the know, but now I just order people around and pass of illegal checks to places in power. I’m getting too old to do the dirty work, anyway.”
        “This route’s been pretty quite,” Shannon said. “Nothing out there?”
        “Just cars,” Teagan said. “And good riddance. Could you imagine if they hit the trunk?”
The car pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a large hotel. Shannon got out first, and then Darryl. Teagan got out and switched places with Shannon, who opened the trunk with the keys before tossing them in the open window to the new driver. Darryl put his arm gently around the girl and walked her to the lobby of the hotel.
        “Jeeze, she looks awful.”
        “Don’t manhandle her next time,” Isaac said from the back seat. “And look sharp, there’s someone in that black car that looks very out of place.”
        Teagan looked in the rearview mirror. “They look normal to me.”
        Just then, Darryl came out of the hotel and walked past the couple. The man glanced at Darryl and moved towards his inside coat pocket. Teagan reared the engine a bit in warning and Darryl walked faster towards the car. But the other man hadn’t done anything by the time Darryl had reached the car and got in the back seat. Teagan pulled away as quickly as she dared.
        “To headquarters,” Isaac called to her from the backseat. “And don’t push the speed, I don’t want to get stopped by cops.”
        “Gee, Isaac. Trust me for once.”
        “I will. Just please drive the speed limit.”

Filed under: Apocalypse, Realistic Fiction by Bri
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        “Is that so?” Amelia asked her dinner mate after she disclosed that her boyfriend was going to propose. “Why do you think that?”
         “It’s just a feeling,” her friend, Bianca, said. “He was awful nervous when we last had dinner.”
         “Could be something else,” Amelia said. “I thought Jason was going to propose one day, but he ended up breaking up. I found out he was so nervous because he thought I was going to kill him for ending the relationship.”
         “You do come on quite hard, sometimes.”
         “Sometimes, but that doesn’t mean you should be afraid of telling me something under penalty of death.”
         Bianca laughed. “I’d be intimidated if I didn’t know you half as long as I do.”
         “Whatever,” Amelia said rolling her eyes to the view out the window. “What are you doing this summer?”
         “Ian’s taking me to Venice,” she said. “And then to his family in Paris.”
         “Wow. I wish I was doing something half as impressive.”
         “Well, it was a surprise to me, too. That’s part of the reason why I think—”
         “Don’t jinx yourself.”
         “Hah. Well, what are you doing?”
         “Visiting my brother’s daughter in Minnesota. Just for a week and then I’ll probably find a job.”
         “Your brother’s daughter? Why not your niece?”
         “I guess she is my niece, but that would make me an aunt and I’m not old enough.”
         “Tell me about it; I’m already a great aunt.”
         “What?”
         “Oh yes, Tessa decided to be a teen mom, like her mother. I’ve got a great nephew and I’m not even married yet! Heck, I’m not even out of school!”
         “Excuse me madams,” the waiter said. “Desert?”

Filed under: Realistic Fiction by Bri
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        Although snuggled in perfect spot of land for a small town, Ignaria was anything but. The town had divided itself into two districts. The Northeastern end was known as the Rich District. The theater was located there, along with other arts facilities. Only the well-to-do were living in Northeastern Ignaria. The houses were all at least two stories high and the streets folded around them as if they were excusing themselves for bumping into such important structures. Everything was kept clean, even the courtyard where the church stood and occasionally, the poor would loiter if they thought they would get money. The dress maker’s shop was always busy on Thursday because, without fail, someone important would have a party Friday nights. The town hall was a large rectangular building with Roman columns and gothic ceilings. The floor reflected the mural ceiling like a mirror and the doors, equally shiny, reflected the color of the ceiling from the floor. The town hall was located near the center of the rich district and following that was the novelty shops: baker, grocer, and butcher.
         The other end of Ignaria was called West End, although it was more south than west. The houses in West end were little more than cottages, the richest of the residences having a kitchen, which doubled as a parlor, and a bedroom upstairs. If you weren’t a farmer, then you were probably an inn owner, which was a good business as the river was the border of the town. The main road ran against the river about a mile the other way and secondary road going into town just missed the rich district by a quarter mile before turning straight for town hall.
         If you were neither rich, nor a farmer or inn owner, or their subsequent helping hands, you were probably thief. These were usually children, orphans, who didn’t make their way into the rich district by singing, acting, or playing an instrument. These boys and girls merged themselves into several gangs, the most famous being the Band of Thieves. They were the first group to create their own private base as opposed to just meeting in the streets and sleeping in alleyways. Their popularity grew because they provided a roof over one’s head and food that eventually, restrictions were made on membership and only the elite could join. But occasionally, someone still wants to join so that they could have a place to sleep.

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        The forest was wide and thick with rough-barked trees. Twitters of birds filled the spaces of silence. Dappled shadows moved upon the ground in a gentle breeze. In the middle of a particularly nondescript clearing was a small, tan cottage. The sun lit it from above at noon, illuminating the mossy green roof and concealing the crumbling sides. In the midday heat, it smelled like candy and damp laundry. A few wildflowers grew on the outside, soaking up the sun at sunrise and sunset from the rosy lavender sky.
         The inside was like a dollhouse. The kitchen still had food in the icebox and molasses in the pantry. The dishes were clean and put away and a single glass cup was soaking in water from a water pump on the side of the sink. The kitchen table collected dust and crumbs. The living room had two sofas and a working, out-of-tune piano. The bedroom smelled thickly of mothballs and almost empty except for a single comforter folded at the foot of an empty mattress.
         The kitchen door led to a small garden outside. It was mostly weeds, but a few remains of cucumbers, strawberries, and pumpkins fought for their positions in the patch. Impressively sized thistles and dandelions grew in between the rather large orange vegetables in fall, releasing their seeds into the wind. The only remains of a path through the garden were the stone reveled when heavy rains pushed away the soil before the mud pushed it back again.
The garden stopped when the rest of the forest began again. The dappled light spread out across miles of leaves and needles. The thickness of the trees ended at the river, which was dammed later on at the edge of a small town named after the woods: Huckleberry.
         Huckleberry had a few houses and generally, the essential businesses. The mill was next to the river, followed closely by the baker, then church, then shoemaker and tailor. On the other side was the smithy and town hall. A rather well used road ran right through it and perpendicular to the river and over a shiny wood bridge. Many people had used that bridge to go to more bustling towns to sell wares and if it weren’t for the amazing talent of the town’s tenants, it wouldn’t have existed. But there was something special about the town and the forest that was its neighbor. Some said it came from the strange house, but others, not quite so naïve, believed it was a secret passed down for generations and perfected for longer than that and those who held such secrets, needed a quiet place like Huckleberry to practice them.

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        The couch sat in the middle of a very purple room: purple carpet, purple walls, and a clean glass light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. Alice was sitting on the couch writing her latest string quartet, her twin, Margaret was in the kitchen cooking for a wedding she was catering, and their niece Patricia was in the corner of the purple room building a rather large castle out of blocks. Finally there was a knock on the door that made Alice jump and Margaret curse loudly. Patricia got up from her spot on the floor and went to answer it.
         “Good evening, little lady,” the visitor at the door said bowing. “Are your aunts at home?”
         “They’re busy,” Patricia said, but Alice intercepted and gently stepped in front of Patricia and shook the visitor’s hand.
         “Please come in, Mr. Sheitower.”
         “Thank you, Miss Tailor.”
         “Go to your room,” Alice turned around and herded Patricia up the stairs. “No eavesdropping!”
         “I hope everything is going well?” Mr. Sheitower asked.
         “Oh yes,” Alice said.
         “Everything is going according to plan right on schedule,” Margaret called from the kitchen. “If you’ll just excuse me, this must be stirred constantly.”
         “Of course,” Mr. Sheitower said and turned to Alice once again.
         “Is everything all right?”
         “Well, the wedding has been momentarily halted.”
         Alice gasped appropriately. “Why what’s wrong?”
         “The bride seems to be having second thoughts. At least since she was seen last week with someone else.”
         “That’s awful! What are we going to do about this food?”
         “Perhaps it could be used elsewhere? The bank is having an open house on one of the mansions down the block and they’d be pleased to use the dinner.”
         “It’s not really for a buffet,” Alice said. “At least I don’t think it is.”
         “No it’s not,” Margaret called from the kitchen. “And I’ve just finished the cake!”
         “I’m very sorry,” Mr. Sheitower said. “I’ve more bad news as well.”
         “Oh dear.”
         “The mortgage on this house seems to be leased to your late brother, Miss Tailor and the bank wishes someone else sign the lease, or else they reserve the right to take the house.”
         “Why can’t I?”
         “Pardon me for saying, but you’re a woman.”
         “Poppycock! Ander will let me sign the mortgage if he knows what’s good for him.”
         “We can’t afford to buy the house from scratch,” Margaret called from the kitchen.
         “I understand,” Mr. Sheitower said, “but business is business.”
         “Well thank you for the news,” Alice said. “Would you like some dinner?”
         “I’m afraid I have other things to attend to. Good night.”
         “Good night. And please tell us as soon as the bride and groom change their minds.”
         “Or if there’s going to be another wedding very soon,” Margaret said.
         “Of course,” Mr. Sheitower said bowing.
         Alice closed the door behind him and dropped her hands to her side.
         “Oh, it’s such a lovely cake,” Margaret said as she went back to the kitchen to continue cooking.

Filed under: Realistic Fiction by Bri
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            I haven’t been very fond of America. Usually to a statement like that, someone older than me will drop their jaw and after gaping for a little while say: “America is a wonderful place! Where else can you have freedom of speech and not be afraid of getting arrested or killed?” England, I think. I usually counter by saying that this country has given people power who care nothing about the masses and usually mess things up. After that, I’ll leave the room promptly or switch subjects before anyone else can counter that argument and I can maintain a small sense that in a way, I’m right.
        What I thought of as America were politicians and war. No one is proud of politics and everyone hates war, so it was an easy stance for me to fall into, especially when passionate talks around me would center on those two disliked things. Independence Day for me was a time to relax and spend time with my family apart from summer school, jobs, and sitting on my bottom all day.
        Last June, I auditioned to go to Northwestern University’s music program for high school students. It was essentially college for high school students and a bit of propaganda for Northwestern’s programs. For me, it was the opportunity to live the life of a music major and see if I was crazy for choosing that path. On June 27th, I found myself dragging my two duffels and bass to Northwestern University.
        We often had performances and one of the opportunities we had was part of a mock military band on Independence Day. My friends had varying degrees of opinions on this, but regardless, we were set to play on the beach, close to the fence marking the end of the safety zone, at least one hundred feet from where they would be releasing fireworks. No one could argue that we’d have the best view.
The lockers where we kept our instruments were in a practice building closest to the lake, so it was almost no trouble to get them to our designated concert spot. Someone in charge had set up a platform to go over the sand, which made my life infinitely easier. For three days prior to the performance my fellow bassists and I (all three of us) had gone to 8 am practices with the wind ensemble to prepare. The only thing I was nervous about the day of the performance (except maybe the wind blowing sand and water into my instrument) was playing for the largest number of strangers in attendance.
        I’m not a patriotic person and brass and wind music are in impossible keys. But the music was easy to drift away from while I watched the people on the other side of the fence. In a way I felt as if I was inside a bubble and everyone was ignoring me. My family was watching but engaged in conversation that I couldn’t hear. Overall, this seemed a wasted effort.
        We ran through Stars and Stripes, America the Beautiful, and My Country, Tis of Thee without a hitch. We played songs I had never even heard of, just to show our patriotism. My legs were tired from standing and my mind was wandering. One family had brought their grill in order to make dinner. Dogs ran back and forth barking wildly, their tongues flying sideways out of their mouths as they dragged children on their roller skates down the pebble path. As it got darker, the amount of colored lights in various patterns and circles flew back and forth with limbs. My stand light glowed a pale yellow on the page.
        Once the fireworks started we were playing the 1812 Overture. And even though the song had nothing to do with the Revolutionary War, I felt something sort of different. I was sitting in the best spot for fireworks where I could see them shoot into the sky. The brass notes soared right above us with them and I was engulfed in noise. My comfortable blanket of music as I sat in the dark with my friends and colleagues was overwhelming. The only thing absurd left was the “ooohs” and “aahs” at the bursts of color. Even though fireworks cracked instead of cannons, Lake Michigan crashed to the shore instead of the Atlantic Ocean, I felt safer and prouder than I had in my life previously. I started paying attention to the notes on the page and the inflection, even if my fragile sound was overpowered by other ones. I was serving my country, no matter how small, and it was strange. From the 1812 Overture we went straight into the Star Spangled Banner. No one could hear us over the final fireworks explosion, but it didn’t seem to matter. We were going through the motions of patriotism and that was all that mattered.
The air smelled like sulfur long after the final chord was played. People sat in dazed silence, the distant sound of Chicago fireworks from miles away ringing over the water. Then, laughter and applause. We packed up our things as quickly as possible. I leaned over the fence to wave to my parents and tell my mom I’d call her once I got back to the dorm. I went back to the platform and waited for my roommate to pack up.
        The walk back was congested with giddy people and though I could understand their excitement I wanted to put my bass back as soon as I could. America for me went back to being laws and politics. But I understood a little more of what the troops felt before they left the United States. Only so far as the walk back to my dorm. By the next morning, everything was back to normal again.

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            “Echapée, changement, glissade, pas de chat, arabesque, pasé, down, chaine, step. Again!”
            Rachel gazed longingly at the slender muscular legs flying back and forth with perfect precision, the colorful leotards flying across the small practice space. Feet arched upon their toes in graceful lines, the arc of supple arms extending to gentle fingers flashed and flew back and forth as the dancers drifted across the room, and ran back to the other end to do the routine again.
            “Good! Now tomorrow I just want to see the girls in the chorus and the day after that, Alice, you’ll start your part. Good night.”
            The girls bowed gently to their teacher and then turned to curtsey to the piano player in the corner of the room. He bowed his head gently while gathering his music. Rachel sighed and patted her legs longingly. The girls filed past her, some smiling if they saw her, others just walking past, chattering about various aches and pains.
            “Ready Rachel?” her sister asked her, coming out of the studio with her dance bag on her shoulder.
            “I guess so.”
            “I’m going to have to give Daniel a ride first, ok?”
            “Yeah.”
            “I’m sorry,” Rachel’s sister brushed her fingers through Rachel’s hair. “I wish you didn’t have to come.”
            “No it’s fine,” Rachel said, wheeling her self in her wheel chair to the main lobby of the studio. “I love to watch.”
            “I know,” her sister said with a sigh. “And sometimes I wish you could be there with me.”
            Rachel smiled. “But I am there, aren’t I? In your heart.”
            “Yes, you are. When did you get so wise, you little squirt?”
            “Well I couldn’t walk…I had to get the brains.”
            Rachel’s sister laughed. “Oh, I see.”
            “You know,” Rachel’s sister said after a silence, “I dance for you when I’m on stage. I think of you watching in the audience and I just sort of…do the best I can. I might not be as good as Alice, but…”
            “You’re better than Alice to me, and that’s all that counts.”
            Daniel came out of the studio with his music under his arm and sighed. “Oh, hey, Rach.”
            “Hi, Dan,” Rachel said, smiling wide. “Let’s go.”
            Rachel’s sister smiled and pushed the wheelchair out of the studio and to their car waiting on the street for them.

(Listen to the song (it starts about 33 seconds in). And if you are interested, because it’s quite interesting: parts of a Documentary of Itzhak Perlman playing this song in London. Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 (which is the same link if you want to listen to just the second movement), part 5, and part 6)

Filed under: God Teacher, Realistic Fiction by Bri
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