Lucid Waking

        Taralee was sitting in her moss garden outside on her roof, her feet dangling to the water below. Her pet carp, Syl, was resting by the rocks, swaying with the current of the river. She sighed and looked up at the perfect blue sky. The air was full of water and she could feel the imminent rain.
        “Good morrow, Taralee,” a voice behind her said cheerfully. She closed her eyes and tried to see who was behind her. She saw him before he sat down next to her. It had been a while since she was able to speak to him calmly and without a fight.
        “Hello, Damascus.”
        “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. She waited for his next words, but they never came. She found herself smiling; it was something that he did often. But? she prompted him. She opened her eyes and glanced at the newcomer. He was perched on the rock next to her looking over the river to the other bank. He was patient, and watching something that she knew if she glanced that way, she wouldn’t see. He wasn’t in armor, like she was used to seeing him, but he still had an air of business and superiority. She knew that wasn’t his fault; he always stepped up to what was expected of him and a lot was expected of him. But his unconscious attitude and polite manner bothered her sometimes.
        “What brings you here?” she asked after moments of silence. They sky was getting grayer as they waited and she didn’t want to be stuck in the rain. Which is strange for you, she thought, you’re a water fairy.
        “You’ve heard about the Fairy Guardian, haven’t you?”
        “Only that she’s gone.”
        “Well, I need your help.”
        “Don’t tell me the oracle thinks you’re the one to save her. If you say yes, I will forfeit my faith that she really does love you.”
        He sighed, but he didn’t laugh with her. “No, I need a good mage just in case anything happens. She predicted a young boy to be the savior. A flower fairy.”
        “That’s how it always goes, doesn’t it? Well, then…tell me, why didn’t you pick a fire fairy?”
        “Maybe because I think we’ll be traveling through forest most of the time.” She could feel the hint of irritation and hostility in his voice. She had never heard that from him, even on the battlefield. It scared her a bit, but she kept her cool and said:
        “All right, I might as well go.”
        “Then prepare yourself and we’ll meet you here in two days.”
        “That seems a bit slow.”
        “I want the boy to get used to traveling.”
        “All right,” she said. She stood up and got ready for a dive. “You’d better hurry back. It’s going to rain.”

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        It had been eons, but in the life of a fairy, it was only a couple years to make the bulk of the population nervous. The Fairy Guardian had been missing for some time: off on holiday, the note on her desk had said. But it wasn’t written in her usual neat scrawl, but a hurried scribble with blotches of ink blurring the letters. Her office was a state of pandemonium, when before it had been as neat as well-kept flower garden. The fairies were always ones to have faith in their ambassador, whether the situation of her disappearance was odd or not, but the fairy king was getting tired and scared of relations falling through between his people and the large folk. So he, sent word to their oracle to ask what had befallen the beloved Fairy Guardian and who should save the fairy world. Word came back of a flower fairy known as Panachon. He was a small sprite, and of course an unlikely candidate to save the Fairy Guardian. But, the king had faith and sent his best knight, Damascus, to meet Panachon where he lived among the field fairies. Meanwhile, he would press the oracle for news of the Fairy Guardian and where she was held.

        “But I suppose you knew all of that,” Damascus said politely as he took another sip of tea that Panachon had poured for him.
        “I had heard rumors, but I didn’t know they were true.”
        “Absolutely.”
        “So I’m supposed to go with you to find her?”
        Damascus smiled. “The king wouldn’t let you go alone. There’s also someone else I’d like to bring along, if it’s not too much trouble. She’s really much better at magic than I am.”
        Ever polite, Panachon said, “Not at all.” But he had a sinking feeling that there was something he would need that the famous knight would not be able to provide. The knight smiled and excused himself from Panachon’s cottage.
        “I’ll see you in three days, then,” Damascus said mounting his small Pegasus. “Prepare yourself for a long journey.”

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        Everything was beautiful in Eversummer. The leaves were so rich a green they looked like velvet, the snow sparkled silver, and the magnolia trees bloomed early and their blossoms stayed late. Every tree had a story of the town’s highly attractive residents and were more than happy to give the ripest fruit in the largest quantities. People came and some went, but most stayed where they were finding true love and prosperity in their childhood town. It was young and vibrant: everyone was kind to one another and the animals that coexisted with them. Never was a hearth empty and never a heart too full. The fish in the town practically jumped upon the river bank and no fisher ever took more than his fill. There was never a drought or a flood; the rain came and went when it pleased, but it always came back for the same kindness the people gave it. There was no intolerance, violence, or bigotry. Eversummer had whispers about its name as heaven on earth.
        “And why is it so perfect?” Retha asked, opening her steno notebook quickly and placing her pencil on the page.
        The man laughed. “Why it was blessed by the fae, marm. Everything about it was just the way people wished to live.”
        “But every blessing comes with a curse.”
        “No, they were open-minded about things. For every small misfortune, there followed larger fortune and people here are born with enough sense to count their blessings well. Besides, the man who founded the town was extremely intelligent; he knew how to ask things of the fae.”
        The door opened and the young woman who had agreed to board Retha came in with tea. She smiled and apologized for interrupting. Retha told her it wasn’t a problem and the old man thanked her for the refreshments.
        “If you don’t mind me asking,” the old man said once Retha’s landlady had left, “why exactly do you want to know about this place?”
        “I’m afraid I’m a bit curious about things,” she said. “When people eat more, they get larger. So anyone would expect that with the other towns getting smaller, Eversummer would get larger. But this isn’t the case and I want to know why.”
        “Part of what makes Eversummer perfect is that it isn’t too large or crowded.”
        “I understand the theory. And believe me, this is a beautiful town. But neither of those things explains where all the people have gone. Do you know, Mr. Apricot?”
The man looked abashed. “No one has gone missing. The whole town would know who did!”
        “I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” Retha said taking a sip of her tea. “I’m just a curious person. You have to be to be a journalist.”
        Retha stood up and thanked Mr. Apricot for his time. He told her it was his pleasure, though she knew her answers to his questions were not pleasurable in the least. She went up to her room and opened her log book, making more notes on his answers and stance. Then she recorded hers. Perhaps, she thought, they might be useful if I could see what I said at the beginning of this mess. Well, she added to herself, I hope it won’t be a mess at all.

(Listen to it)

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Is there order in our lives?
Can we see past woven lies?
Can we find a pot of gold?
Can we believe everything we’re told?

Is there a limit to too much?
How many hearts can we touch?
How many lives will we change?
How many people will think we’re strange?

Is there a chance to fix the world?
When different flags are unfurled?
And different languages keep us apart?
Can we listen to our central heart?
Is Human nature so long lost,
We won’t weigh the outcome before the cost?

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        He was a handsome lad of about nineteen. He was muscular, his hair had a perfect healthy shine, his blue eyes glowed expectantly, his smile was magnetic, his skin was like porcelain, and he spoke with a fairly light Irish accent. He was also completely egotistical and arrogant. Alaina knew this and she hated seeing her friends fall into his siren like trap of being able to play guitar. She knew so many of those people, being a guitarist herself, who picked up the instrument just for attention. He was no rock star, she fumed, he was a “wannabe.”
        What equally annoyed her was his ability to pass a class with seemingly no effort. She didn’t know how he did it and wondered how many people he had paid to get his work done. At the rate he was going, he would be valedictorian of his class by the time he graduated while she would end up at the bottom of the heap.
        She hated him for his easygoing nature and seeming laziness. She worked hard and she hated that he got everything he wanted without a quarter of the work. She wished she had what he did and she would have been less jealous and liked him a little bit more if he was humble. But while he was blessed with many things, he was not blessed with integrity and it made her skin crawl to think about him.
        Which was why her mind was utterly blank at the moment and she felt the color drain from her pale face. Her mouth was dry and she fought against flapping it open and closed as if the words would come out all the while looking like a deranged baby bird. Her hands were sweating and she realized she looked like a bad horror movie extra as she stared at him wide-eyed, her mouth metaphorically nailed shut and leaning forward in disbelief.
         He laughed nervously. “Is that a yes?”
        She stared at him, something bubbling in her stomach. He had asked her on a date. She hated him, so why was the first thing coming to her mind a “yes”? She leaned back against the wall trying to get the painful feel of dry saliva out of her mouth. She swallowed.
        “Sure,” she said. She felt herself mentally kicking herself and the bubbling in her stomach turn into a large rock. Now, why did you do that? she asked herself. Are you out of your bloody mind? What in the nine hells has gotten into you?
        I don’t know, she thought, but you’d better shut up. He smiled his magnetic smile and her stomach tightened. She felt herself smiling back.
        “Great! I’ll see you Friday night right here. Have a good day,” he waved as he walked away.
        “See ya!” You sly Cassanova; once and only once. I will never go on a date with you again.
        Damn, she thought shaking her light head and walking towards the lecture hall. What has gotten into you? Oh well, at least you’ve got a date with Micheal Brady!

Filed under: Realistic Fiction by Bri
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        The Sanguine River was more beautiful than it’s name implied. It ran well over half the country and even traveled between the Angora Mountain Range in the north. The river was a fortress wall for many civilizations and extra protections to most. It ran through several farm fields and guided many others to where they needed to go. The river and its tributaries were the best modes of transportation second only to the main highways on land.
        North of the Angoras and a little south of where the river ended was a well-known bridge spanning a rather seldom traveled part of the river. It was known as Riveria as it was itself a town for the little folk. In order to appease the river fae, the King of the North built the bridge as a town where they could stay. It grew to be a much larger town than anyone had supposed and still allowed boats to travel by—as long as they paid a toll—unscathed. The river ended in a waterfall at the Fae Grove and the fairies of Riveria were close enough to that main spot to live industriously and happily.
        Cassy was knew all the traditions of Riveria, as she was the main traveler between the fae and the humans for as long as she could remember. When she was too young, her brother and her parents went. Finally, she had inherited the title. Her cargo was small this time around and her pay not quite enough to pay the toll. Luckily, she wasn’t planning on passing through. She stopped her boat against the shore before the bridge and walked right on top of it. The bridge was strategically large enough for a small cart and she pulled a pinecone out of her pocket and let it drop down below. She waited a few seconds before she noticed the upper ledge of the bridge slip away and climb higher and higher into the sky. Suddenly she noticed a small door in one of the supporting poles open up quickly and a fae dressed in dark blue come out frowning.
        “Are you trying to mock us?” he said sternly. Then he recognized her and his expressions became puzzled. “Oh, hello, Cassy.”
        “Hi,” she said. “I have a delivery for you. I need to talk to someone in charge if possible.”
        The guard smiled. “Glad it’s you, the town is a bit in a party mood, I’m afraid. We just don’t want to deal with a cheeky human. Well, follow me.”

This won’t be finished, but I’d love to see what sort of ending you come up with. If not, just imagine something.

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        “I just want to be appreciated,” she said her eyes growing dewy. “Is it so hard to ask for an artist to be appreciated?”
        “Maybe we should make tee-shirts: ‘Have you hugged an artist today’?”
        “I’m serious, Tom. And you should start appreciating me too.”
        “I do appreciate you.”
        “More than just my cooking.”
        “Hey, I like your company too.”
        “Honestly?”
        “Absolutely.”
        “Then tell me why I never see you at any performance. You’re not at the ballet, I can’t get you to go to the symphony or an art museum; you hardly read any good literature. I love you; but you are most certainly not an artist. I’d help you learn these things if you want to but all we ever do is go to the pool or see a Hollywood film downtown. If you appreciated me, you’d appreciate my work, too.”
        “You’re a fantastic photographer and dancer and cook and pianist. Why do I have to tell you this over and over again?”
        “Don’t tell me. Words are not truth. Actions speak more than words. Come to a show. I have one Tuesday night. Stay afterwards until everyone is gone and wait for me. You don’t have to say anything; you don’t have to bring flowers. Just please be on time and stay to watch.”
        “That’s all you want?”
        “That’s everything. I said I loved you and I don’t want to let you go, but I’m not going to continue this if I don’t get support from you. Art is all I have and I need one of the people I respect the most to appreciate me and my art.”
        He pulled her in closer to him and brushed her hair gently with his hand. “I promise I’ll be there. Just for you.”

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        I remember that he never spoke with words. Only music. It was clearer than any language could convey. It was raw. It was sensuous. It was painful and soft. It was embarrassing. It was wrenching. It was flawed. It was.
        I remember that last time he spoke was on the gondola in Italy—Venice, to be exact—and it was enshrouded in mist. It was just the two of us and I remember being doubtful about why he brought me along. I didn’t have my instrument, but he always kept his with him. It didn’t matter what it was; he could play anything. Absolutely anything.
        The boat was gently navigating the buildings and besides the fog, the night was clear. The stars looked as crisp as cinnamon in an apple pie or white flecks of paint as they peel off to fall far below into dark water. He was sitting in his royal best, having been employed by the king and owning only the best silk. I was not so lucky and worked for my coin at various pubs and auditoriums. I had my best dress on, though. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was willing for anything and far into the evening nothing happened. He sat on the gondola with a small flute, playing an ode to the night.
        I mentioned he spoke with music, but he wasn’t speaking to me. It was more of a soliloquy and I thought I shouldn’t be listening. But it was hard not to listen, just as it is hard not to eavesdrop to someone who thinks they are alone. One wants to know what he or she is saying and I wanted to know what he had called me to listen to. Part of me suspected he wanted me to eavesdrop, even though his tone was more to anyone listening rather than to a specific person. He had definitely asked me there for a reason.
        At first it was small talk; little ditties of melodies I had heard him play so often. Then it was more of a painful thing. There was something bothering him. I got the feeling he was doing something that he had always wanted to do. He was exactly where he wanted to be in the same circumstances. But we both knew it wasn’t going to last the night. He was being honestly raw about his feelings and he blushed as he spoke, or played. Then, he lost something. He was sad and his melody lost the usual edge that he spoke with. His notes were slurring together and I realized he was crying. I reached out a hand to touch him and tell him it was all right when the melody stopped with a shrill whistle and he dropped the flute. I reached to pick it up, watching him sob, his shoulder like a buoy marking the edge of the ocean.
        I didn’t know what to say and I tried to comfort him gently easing the notes out of the flute as best I could. But the flute was not my language and it was hard for me to speak with it. I was a string player, but I had to do the best with what I had. The gondola pulled up outside the opera where we had gotten on. He leaned forward and gave me a stiff hug before helping himself out of the boat. The boatman helped me onto the shore, but by then he was long gone.
The newspapers said he had just disappeared and then reported later—much later—that he was living in the countryside of France. I had returned to England long ago with his flute, which is now sitting in a golden box under my bed. I can’t look at it without a flood of memories but at the same time I can’t just let it be. Every year, on the anniversary of his last day, I’ll pull it out and let it glint in the moonlight. For some reason, that day is always a full moon. I try and put to words what he was trying to say, to formulate an answer, I suppose, but I can’t think of anything strong enough. I wish I had answered him the way he had wanted me to: just three simple words. But it took me a long time to figure that out. He wasn’t serenading me and it wasn’t flirtatious, so it took me many years of studying other people to know what he was trying to say. I’ve tried to write him, but I think that moment is lost with the night. I just wish I could hear him speak one more time.

Filed under: End of Childhood, Realistic Fiction by Bri
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        “So what’s new with you?” he asked as he sat down next to her at the subway station.
        “Nothing much,” she said. Then she pointed at the plethora of suitcases he set down next to the bench. “What about you?”
        “I’ve decided to make a documentary.”
        “Oh?”
        “About the trains and the people on it. I’m going to go as far as it does today and then take a different colored line each day.”
        “You probably won’t get very far.”
        “The green line goes to the AmTrack station; I’ll get very far.”
        “What’s the point?”
        “To document the failing train traditions. It’s not the same as it used to be.”
        The train pulled up to the station quickly with a heavy huff of hot air. The brakes squeaked against the rails as it slowed to a stop with petrol smelling air. The doors slid open with a small, quick rebound against the sides of the train. People stepped off the train towards the exits ignoring the others trying to get on and the colored advertisements decorating the brown speckled station. They got on the train and sat by the window. The doors clacked shut and the train sped off, the wind slapping the windows and walls of the subway.

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“When life gives you lemons,
“Make lemonade.”
But lemonade is still a bit sour.
But you can profit by selling it for 25 cents
At a street corner with a cardboard sign.
There really is no perfect way
To fix things with a band-aid.
You’ll never get something sweet from sour,
But you can get something better with a little
Creativity and luck.

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