Apologues, Fairy Tales, & Fables

Symbolism and metaphor and analogy, oh my!

Les Deux Chanteuses

Once upon a time there lived two sisters—Prete the younger and Paresse the older—born to parents of modest means and gentle temperament. The sisters grew up the best of friends, always generous and kind toward one another in all things.

Though the sisters came from humble beginnings, they were quite extraordinary in one regard: their voices were exceptional, clear and bright as summer stars. Indeed, both girls could sing so beautifully that no nightingale would nest within a thousand fathoms, for envy.

All day long, the sisters would compose little songs which they sang to one another, and to their parents. Nothing gave them greater joy than to put their talent to such delightful use, and wistful were the travelers who heard such a happy home as they passed by.

Alas, the time came for the poor sisters to go out into the world and seek their fortunes. They had few possessions to pack, but their mother and father sent them off with enough food to start their journey and enough love to keep them warm forever.

At least that’s what they thought, those fairy-tale parents. You and I know that love can’t mend a sock, or fill a belly, or patch a leaky roof. Neither can music, for that matter. You and I know that in the real world, only firewood feeds the fire. So learned the two sisters, who all too soon found themselves with nothing but a hunger no song of theirs could soothe.

“Let us stop there,” cried Paresse, seeing candlelight in the window of an innkeeper. “Surely they’ll take pity on us, give us something to eat and beds for the night!”

The younger sister hesitated. “We’ve relied on the kindness of others too long already,” she said, thinking of their parents. “The village is close. We must go there, learn a useful trade, and earn our way properly.”

But the older sister was persistent, and she persuaded the younger girl to join her in begging at the inn.

“After we eat, we’ll treat them to one of our songs,” said Paresse. “They’ll be quite grateful, I’m sure.”

The sisters were met warmly by the innkeeper and his wife, who fed them well and then led them to a cozy attic to sleep. But when offered the gift of the sisters’ singing, the couple declined, tired from their long day’s work.

The next morning, the sisters continued on their way, refreshed and humming a cheerful tune. It wasn’t long before they came upon the village, bustling with shops and tradespeople of all sorts. There were tailors and seamstresses, bakers and cobblers, fruit-sellers and ironsmiths. There were maids and ladies-in-waiting on errands from their mistresses. All around were the trappings of commerce, and the sisters stared in wonder. Here was the world where they must make their fortunes, for better or for worse.

“Well,” said the younger sister bravely, “I suppose we should see what we can do!” And before her older sister could say a word, she grabbed her hand to pull her into the nearest shop.

As it happened, the sisters had stepped into the shop of an old tailor. He was a clever fellow, and had devised an ingenious way of getting more light into the little shop, with a roof that could be moved through a series of pulleys and levers. But even more fascinating was the tailor’s work itself. All around the sisters were bolts of fabric, jars of buttons, and plump pincushions stuck through with shiny silver needles. Wondrous, colorful things that were nevertheless hard to connect to the finished dresses and stately suits that hung throughout the shop.

“We’ve come to the village to learn a trade,” said the younger sister, offering the old tailor a deep curtsey. “Pray tell, good sir, what is the life of a tailor like?”

“Hmmm,” grumbled the old man. “The life of a tailor, you ask. Well, it’s stuck thumbs, for one. It’ll be years before you’re proper handy with the thimble. And your back will trouble you sorely, what with hunching over your work day in and day out. Oh and your eyesight will go, no doubt, from all the squinting at seams. And—”

“Enough!” cried the older sister, who pulled Prete back outside roughly. “Bloody fingers and blindness? Surely there must be something better!”

The two walked on a bit until they reached a pleasant little shack, ablaze with the light of a dozen ovens. The delicious scent of fresh bread came wafting through its open windows. Peering inside, the sisters could see a woman kneading dough. Her apron and arms were dusty with flour and her face was deeply flushed.

“Look, Paresse!” cried Prete. “A bakery! Wouldn’t it be lovely to make cakes all day? You’d never be hungry again!”

“Or cool,” shuddered Paresse. “Those ovens must be scorching! Sweating morning, noon, and night? What a dreadful life that must be!”

And so it went all day. As they walked through the village, Prete asked questions of the shopkeepers and tradeswomen, exploring their workshops and examining their wares. Everyone she met was eager for help, and she knew that she and Paresse had only to choose. But Paresse merely followed mutely, silently wishing she didn’t have to work at all.

“My dear sister,” said Prete gently, pulling Paresse under a nearby tree. “If I cannot convince you to join me in some apprenticeship, if nothing appeals to you, then I fear we must part ways. We promised Mother and Father that we would do our best, and I cannot beg another meal from the good innkeepers.”

“Oh, Prete,” wailed Paresse, finally confessing her true thoughts. “I wish we could have stayed children forever. I wish instead of stitching or cooking or cleaning we could just sing our pretty songs!” And with that, she collapsed in a tearful heap against the trunk of the tree. Her younger sister pulled her close, and for a time the two girls sat together, each lost in her own ideas and worries.

Now, it just so happened that at this very moment, perched in the tree above them was a sleek black crow. Only, the crow was really a witch who had disguised herself so she could come to the village and see what evil could be done. And when she heard Paresse, the witch knew exactly what that would be.

With a caw! caw! of wicked delight, she jumped from the tree into the bush, to hide her next transformation. When she stepped in front of the two sisters a moment later, they saw a woman with raven-black hair and a magnificent black velvet cloak. Her eyes glinted formidably, and the sisters felt compelled to bow before what they could only assume was a noblewoman.

“My dear,” said the witch, addressing Paresse. “I could not help but overhear you just then. Am I to understand you are great songstress? If so, that is a wonderful coincidence indeed, as I have been searching for just such a thing!”

At these words—indeed, at the very sight of this striking presence—Paresse was so shocked she couldn’t utter a word.

“Well…m’lady,” stammered Prete. “We….I…my sister…we’ve come to the village to—”

“Yes!” cried Paresse, having found her voice. “Yes, I am! I am indeed a songstress! I can sing song after song after song, as you wish. As can my sister! We can show you, if you like.”

The cunning witch suppressed a smile. “Is that so?” she asked, now addressing Prete. Prete nodded, though somewhat hesitantly.

“Well then, doubly lucky am I today. I shall take you both,” she declared matter-of-factly. “You shall sing songs for me every day, when and as I wish. Happy songs, sad songs—whatever I command, however many I command. Les deux chanteuses. ”

Beside her, Prete heard Paresse gasp. She, too, was amazed by what she heard. But young Prete was sensible, so she summoned the courage to be bold. “By your leave, good lady,” she replied, “could you kindly tell us more? Are you from the royal court? Does the king seek entertainment? Are we to live at the palace?”

The witch’s lip twitched ever so slightly. “No…” she began slowly. “It is not the king who requires music. Indeed it is of no consequence who does. You shall live by your songs, that is all that matters. Or perhaps…” and here she shifted her gaze meaningfully to Paresse. “Perhaps you would be happier in a scullery? Scrubbing pots and pans is good, honest work for girls such as yourselves…” The witch let her words trail heavily, with just a touch of scorn.

Paresse stepped forward. “No, m’lady. We…I—”

“How much?” Prete broke in. The terrible witch narrowed her dark eyes dangerously, but the young girl pressed on. “How much, for a song?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t wish to put a price on the beauty of music,” said the witch lightly, glancing away. “I only ask that you sing…” (and here she paused to look back at the sisters) “...all day. As I imagine you have done all your lives, no?”

Paresse nodded eagerly, but Prete remained silent.

“It is your very favorite thing in the whole world, is it not?” Again Paresse nodded. “Then how,” she smiled and spread her hands, “could you possibly ever grow tired of it?”

Prete and Paresse looked at one another, each thinking something very different.

“I will leave you now to consider, but I’ll return at midnight to this very spot. Should you wish to accept my offer, meet me here then.” And in a flash of black, she was gone.

Now, I’ve told you already how much the two sisters loved one another, how in all ways they were devoted to the other. And you’ve seen for yourselves a bit of each girl’s character and nature so far. So I’ve no need to tell you about the argument that ensued between them, and how the division in their hearts pained them both. Suffice to say they were of two wholly different minds by the time midnight approached.

At the appointed hour, the witch appeared, even more dazzling in the moonlight. The sisters embraced and bade one another farewell. And in an instant, Paresse and the black-hearted witch were gone.

Many years passed. Prete took up work with a kindly candlemaker, a trade that regularly brought her into the homes and shops of nearly everyone in the village. Every day she could be seen delivering her bundles of beeswax pillars and tallow tapers, always tied up neatly in paper and twine. As she walked she sometimes sang softly, both for her own amusement and to pass the time. However, it wasn’t long before the beauty of her voice betrayed her, and all the children in village were soon begging her for a little song or rhyme whenever she visited.

To the old tailor and his grandchildren she sang:

Tyrian satin and nimble fingers—
Un manteau mignon pour la reine des abeilles!
Careful now, not to break her stinger
Elle va percer vos petits oreilles

To the baker and her nieces she sang:

Je t’apporte le suif pour les pate brisees,
Je t’apporte le suif pour cuire a la nuit,
Plump berry tarts on copper trays,
Prickets and tinder to last for days

And so it was that Prete the candlemaker became known as Prete la Chanteuse, and her music filled the lives of the villagers with as much light as her candles.

One evening, Prete took a walk to the grove where she last saw her dear sister. She placed her palm upon the tree under which they sat that fateful day and sighed. Soon she fell to singing a beautiful but mournful tune. Her voice carried up into the branches above her, higher and higher until it met the ears of a bluejay at the very top.

The bluejay listened for a moment, then hopped down a branch, then listened some more, then hopped down closer. Lower and lower the bluejay went, drawn by the voice of Prete far below, until it was perched just above her. Prete went on singing for a time, then sighed once more and gathered herself to go.

“Wait!” cried a voice. “Don’t go, dear sister!” Prete whirled about, looking for a the speaker. She saw no one but the little bluejay in the tree. Prete looked around, bewildered, when suddenly the bluejay said: “Sweet Prete! It is I, Paresse, your older sister! Do not be afraid, for it is truly me. I live under the enchantment of the wicked witch we met that terrible day. I heard your voice high up in the trees just now and knew instantly that it was you! Oh, sister, I have missed you so!”

As you can imagine, there was then was a scene of great rejoicing, but also much amazement. Having greeted her younger sister, Paresse went on to tell the story of the spell under which she had lived so many years, beginning the very night the sisters parted. Ever since then, poor Paresse had been forced by the witch to sing all day and all night, endlessly. Every minute of every hour of every day, Paresse sang and sang and sang. Spellbound, she could do nothing else. She could not eat or drink or even leave the witch’s cottage in the woods.

Now, there are all sorts of evil in this world, and the witch’s was the kind that feasts on the pain of others. And since the music that Paresse sang was so full of sadness and longing and loneliness, it fed the witch’s wicked soul quite well. Soon she gave up all her other evil schemes, doing nothing but gorging herself on song. Eventually, the witch grew fat and round and stupid with laziness. Her sleek black hair became matted and her lush velvet cloak slowly tightened, becoming threadbare and dull.

When Paresse saw that the witch was weakening, she decided to try and trick her into letting her escape. Paresse begged her for just one day of freedom. “Oh, please let me go find new things to sing about! I can see that hearing the same songs over and over is making you thin and frail,” she lied. “Soon you will waste away to nothing and die!”

The witch, nearly witless from gluttony, agreed—but on one condition. Paresse could leave for one single day, but she must do so in the form of a bluejay. As such, no one would would be able to understand her if she tried to tell them about the enchantment. And come midnight, she must either fly back to the witch right away or die on the spot.

Hearing this, Paresse was heartbroken, thinking her chance of escape was gone. Still, she agreed to the terms, desperate to get away. As soon as she nodded yes, she felt the whoosh! of evil witch magic transforming her into a bluejay.

As fast as her wings would take her, she flew straight to the little village. There she hopped from window to window, seeking some sign of her sister. But Prete was busy about her candle deliveries, and though the little bluejay visited all the same places her younger sister went, always she missed Prete by a few minutes.

The day wore on, and the little bird grew hungry. But she knew just where to go: the baker’s, where she helped herself to a feast of crumbs swept out the back door. Night came on soon after that, and the cold made her little bones shiver. Again she knew just where to go: from the tailor’s scrap heap the pulled a length of silky ribbon and a strip of soft lace. With these she flew up to the highest branch in the tallest tree she could find. Here she set about making herself a cozy nest in which to spend her last precious hours before she must fly back to the evil witch.

Darkness came over the village, and one by one Paresse watched as each home and shop lit up with candlelight. Never had she seen a more peaceful sight, and her heart ached to think that somewhere in all that soft glow was her long lost little sister.

Of course, you know what happened next—for it was then that les deux chanteuses were so happily and wondrously reunited. Talking further, they decided it must be their close connection as sisters that allowed them to understand another despite the witch’s charm.

Paresse dropped her tiny feathered head sadly. “That means nothing now, though, for the hour approaches that I must fly back to the witch or die!” she cried, despairing.

“Take heart, dear sister!” replied Prete. “I have an idea. If sad songs are what the witch wants, then sad songs she shall have!” she declared. “But come, we must hurry. It is nearly midnight and I cannot fly as you can. You must lead the way!”

Off the sisters sped into the dark forest, Paresse darting deftly through the trees with Prete close behind. With just minutes to spare, they arrived at the witch’s cottage, cold and dark and cheerless. Instantly the little bluejay Paresse changed back into her human form, and the sisters embraced.

“Now sister, listen to me,” whispered Prete. “We are going to fatten the witch up until she cannot move at all. Then we shall kill her, break the spell, and make our escape.”

“But Prete,” said Paresse. “How can I possibly sing sad songs, now that we are together again? My heart is full of nothing but joy!”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Prete answered. “Just take care to sit by this window and leave everything to me.”

And with that, Paresse went back inside the hateful cottage. Immediately, the hungry old witch demanded music. Paresse did as Prete had instructed, and moved her chair close to the open window. Her heart pounded with excitement and the thought of escape. She stalled, trying to remember the hopelessness she felt just a day ago. But when she opened her mouth to sing, what filled the room was not her voice, but that of her little sister. And sing her little sister did. Prete sang and sang and sang, each song more heartbreaking than the last.

She sang about a young tailor losing his beloved wife, stitching bits of her clothing into a blanket for his bed.

She sang about a lonely breadmaker who poured her love into her loaves, when there was nothing else to love.

She sang about a poor old couple missing their daughters.

She sang about two sisters getting lost in the wood, and deciding to seek their way out on opposite paths.

Minute by minute, the witch grew fatter and fatter, her wicked soul gobbling up the sadness in Prete’s songs. She became so frenzied in her greed that she grew blind to everything else. She didn’t notice that it was Prete she heard singing, not Paresse. She didn’t see Paresse carefully climbing out the window to join her sister safe outside. And she didn’t see Prete pull a smooth yellow candle from out of her cloak, light it, and throw it in the cottage. The old witch didn’t see the two sisters pulling shut the window and trapping her inside, but surely she smelled the smoke of the flames before they burned her alive.

And surely the old witch heard the song the sisters sang as they ran away, hand in hand, the spell broken at last. Surely that happy song was the very last thing she ever heard.

 Poesie the Changeling

Once upon a time there lived a changeling by the name of Poesie. Poesie seemed for all the world to be a regular girl leading an everyday life, with parents of ordinary means. Nobody knew she was a changeling or even suspected it, as she behaved just like other children her age.

As it happened though, Poesie was fairy-born. On the day she entered the world, a powerful witch had come to pay her respects to Poesie, as her birth had been foretold in the legends of the time. Legend held that a fairy child more magical than any that had ever lived was to be born that very day, and to bless her would ensure one’s good fortune.

Now, you’ll not be surprised to learn that the witch who came that day was only pretending to wish well upon the changeling. In her heart she was scheming and plotting, wondering how to capture and keep the infant sprite’s potent magic for herself. The witch decided that she’d have a much better chance at succeeding if she separated Poesie from her fairy family, and put her somewhere secret and safe until her magic matured.

So while all the magical beings were celebrating that night—the fairies and sprites and elves and other creatures you’ll never know about—the evil old witch crept into the briar where Poesie lay swaddled and sleeping, and quietly replaced her with a young fawn. Swiftly she carried the changeling off through the night, before her cries could give them away.

After a time, the witch came to a simple stone cottage at the edge of a clearing. Smoke curled from the chimney and an axe lay beside a stack of freshly cut wood. The witch leaned close over Poesie’s basket and cast the strongest spell she could, hoping to dampen her powerful fairy magic for as long as possible—until, she hoped, the time came for the witch to kill her and take it.

When the woodcutter and his wife found the basket, they were frightened at first. But soon the infant sprite’s magic enchanted them, and they agreed to keep her and raise her as their own. For ten years, all was good and peaceful with the little family. Poesie, who did not know of her birthright, grew up happy in the care of her human parents. She loved nothing more than to wander the very same woods she’d been stolen from, singing made-up songs to the birds and foxes and frogs she called friends.

Then one day, on Poesie’s eleventh birthday, the spell the witch had cast took hold. It was indeed a powerful spell, and one that from that day forward would cause the changeling many tears and much trouble. You see, the witch cast a spell such that everything Poesie touched would hurt her—or she would hurt it.

If she tried to pick blackberries, brambles would tear at her clothes and hair, and she’d come away with nothing.

If she drew the old wooden well bucket, splinters would find her fingers.

If she picked up a piece of crockery, soon there’d be shards on the ground.

If she moved to embrace her father, she’d step on his toes or snag his beard.

All of this was harmless enough, but as the years went on the spell grew stronger and more dangerous, and the accidents and mishaps worse, until Poesie no longer dared venture out of the cottage. This was a very sad time for the little changeling, who missed her forest friends but feared what might happen to them in her presence. Four years passed, and during that time Poesie wiled away her hours at the window, reading books and writing stories to entertain herself. And so while she could not go out into the world, the young changeling wandered far and wide in her own imagination.

On her fifteenth birthday, the latent magic the witch had been waiting for blossomed in the young changeling. She didn’t know it and couldn’t feel it, but all the magic of all the fairies she had descended from was blooming inside her. What’s more, this very special magic began to counteract the effects of the witch’s spell. Poesie noticed fewer and fewer mishaps befalling her until one day, she decided to go pick an apple—and nothing happened:

She walked carefully through the clearing, cringing at every twig snap, bracing for a tumble or twisted ankle. Nothing happened.

At the apple tree she hesitated, ready for the thunk! of fruit hitting her head. Nothing happened.

Finally, she reached up and plucked a perfect, rosy red apple. Eager for the treat but expecting the sting of a wasp or the bite of an ant, she paused, waiting. Nothing happened.

And so it was that the spell which had caused so much pain was finally broken.

Deep in the forest, the evil witch could feel the change. She lifted her crooked chin and sniffed in the direction of the little cottage. She knew the time had come to kill the changeling and take her magic, before she could fully grow into all her powers. Off she set through the woods, a dagger hidden in her cloak. The old witch smiled to think of how powerful she’d soon be.

Now, little is known about the fairy magic of old times. That’s because it didn’t want to be known and still doesn’t. But it’s said that nothing is more powerful than a fairy who has suffered like an ordinary human. Fairyfolk are born to lead whimsical, enchanted lives—that is the way of things. But a changeling placed in humble human hands learns things that their brethren do not, such as loss and pain and sacrifice. When Poesie was forced to give up the things she loved to keep them safe, another kind of strength carried her until the magic foretold in the legend returned. This was the power the witch faced, as she crept up on the darkened cottage.

No one knows the for sure what happened to the witch that night. Most say she was outmatched by Poesie the Changeling, and her dagger found a home in her own wicked heart instead. Others say Poesie spared the old witch, having no wish to cause pain ever again.

But everyone agrees it’s a very bad idea to try and steal the power of anyone, human or fairy. You never know where a creature gets its magic.

Thistle and Sassafras

"Tell me about your garden," he said, looking at her expectantly. "Tell me what you've grown."

She felt her cheeks flush hot with shame. "I don't have one," she admitted. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of dark seeds. She unfolded her palm to show him. "I only have these." 

He frowned at her open hand. "Why haven't you planted them?" he asked her.

She didn't know what to say. She knew she didn't have a good answer. "I've tried to," she said, feeling smaller and smaller. "But the ground is hard, and I don't have shovel." She lifted her head and looked squarely at him. "I don't have a shovel," she repeated, feeling naked, stupid, and cold.

"Why don't you use your hands?" he asked her. She glanced down at them. They suddenly felt clumsy and useless. "I suppose I should," she mumbled. She realized he wasn't listening. He wasn't even looking at her anymore.

She felt her chest tighten in the way it did when she was asked to account for herself. Then she remembered that she did grow things, in a way - though not in a garden. Things that provided joy if not sustenance. Dandelions and wild strawberries, thistle and sassafras. They sprang up in her yard, more plentiful and bright each year. Sometimes she gathered them up and gave them as gifts. 

The things she grew didn't feed the people she loved. But they seemed to bring happiness nonetheless.

She cleared her throat, and said quietly: "I grow other things."  

"What's that?" he replied absently, still facing the other direction. 

"Other things," she said again, louder. "I grow other things. I can show you, if you'd like..." 

But his attention was elsewhere; he was gazing at something far off in the distance. She peered at the horizon, trying to discern what it was he saw. But she could make out nothing.

And she didn't know if he could see things she couldn't - or if it was the other way around.

Empty Pockets

She dreamt that night. She dreamt of beautiful, formless things - vaporous thoughts that gathered tangibles as they spun: scraps of paper, bits of fur, twigs and string - the makings of a new home. 

When she woke, she stretched and rose from her bed. She pushed open the window, ready to greet the day, and saw, there on the sill, a pebble. It was smooth and white, flecked with bits of blue. She had no idea how or why it came to be there, but it was pretty, so she put it in her pocket.

Throughout the day, she reached into her pocket to make sure it was still there. It was a small thing, but it gave her pleasure, to roll it between her fingers and know it was hers. That night, when she undressed for bed, she left it in her pocket. She wanted to carry it with her the next day. Then she went to sleep, thinking of her curious, mysterious gift.

Her dream that night was more vivid. Darker. She turned and murmured in her sleep, dreaming of wind. It carried more things to the nest, things she needed - but it carried some other things off with it, too. 

In the morning, another pebble sat on her windowsill. Bigger than the first, and solid blue - the color of the sky just before sunrise splits the horizon. Again, she didn't know how or why it was there. Again, she took it and placed it in her pocket, where it clinked against the other. She heard them clicking in her pocket together all day, those two stones. Like two thoughts. Two possibilities. Two outcomes. 

And so it went. Every night she dreamt of something growing, changing, and every morning she awoke to a stone outside her window. Some were larger than others. Some were rich in color, and some plain. One by one, she added them to her pocket. She started to notice their weight as she walked. She could feel them against her leg, sometimes comforting - but sometimes distracting, too. She could hear them jostling together with each step she took. She dug her fingers deep into her pocket and gathered them into a handful. But she didn't take them out, and she didn't show them to anyone. 

Then, one day, she woke up and there wasn't a pebble on her windowsill. She looked around, wondering why. Maybe tomorrow, she thought, strangely disappointed. 

But the next morning, again there was no stone. When she opened her window, there was only the sun and sky and a breeze that teased her hair. She inhaled deeply, lifting her face to the warm light. There were no more stones, but there was still everything she needed, right outside, waiting for her. She knew the trees, the grass, the birdsong - were gifts enough.

She kept the pebbles she'd collected. But when she chose her clothes for the day, she wore a different dress, with empty pockets.

She wanted to have room for anything new she found - or that found her.

The Drawing Tree

There once was a girl, who knew a boy, whom she used to meet every day at a certain tree in the forest. The tree had a broad, smooth trunk, and thick, sturdy branches that seemed to reach all the way to the sky.

The boy and girl had made up a game to play. Each day, they would take turns carving a picture into the tender column of the tree's base. First the boy would make a cut, then the girl. They used a small pocket knife that didn't scar the tree too deeply, but that left a clear imprint in the wood.

Every day, they built on the design they had started. The girl would pick up where the boy left off, and vice versa. Neither of them really knew what they were making, because the shape and pattern changed with each of their cuts. One day it might look like clouds in the sky; the next, a nest of birds. Neither knew what picture the other ultimately had in mind.

One day while she was waiting for her turn, the girl looked up and noticed how strong the tree's limbs were. "Let's climb it," she said to the boy, who was concentrating on the bark beneath his knife.

"I can't," he said, without looking up.

"Why not?" asked the girl, surprised. "Don't you know how to climb trees?"

The boy paused in his work and looked at her. "I do," he said. "But I can't climb this tree."

"I don't understand," the girl said, frowning. "Look how easy it would be. These branches would certainly hold our weight, and we'd be at the top in no time."

"I can't," said the boy again. And he turned his attention back to the tree's trunk.

This went on for quite a while. Their picture continued to grow day by day, thanks to their combined efforts. But as the days stretched into weeks, and the weeks stretched into months, the girl longed more and more to climb the branches above them. She invited the boy to join her again and again, but he declined each time.

Eventually, the girl grew tired of their game. The design they were carving had ceased to be interesting to her, because it seemed like it would never be finished. She wanted to try something new. She craved the challenge of pulling herself up through the tree's body, bit by bit. She knew she could do it. And she knew once she reached the top, she'd have a beautiful view of the forest below.

But she didn't want to do it alone. Once more she pleaded with the boy. "Please, let's climb the tree. I'll help you. It might be difficult at first, but I promise we can do it."

The boy shook his head. "No. I can't climb this tree," he said flatly. "Let's just keep drawing. Look at how beautiful it is so far."

But the girl didn't see anything beautiful. She saw a tree trunk covered with grooves and scratches that didn't add up to much at all. She sighed, saddened by their wasted efforts, and she decided today would be the last day she came to meet the boy.

She told him, saying "I'm not going to come here any more, if you won't at least try." And the boy was angry. He said some unkind things to her. He didn't understand why their game wasn't enough for her.

"Because I want to see how high I can get," she said. And she turned and left the boy alone at the tree. And she didn't come back to it the next day, or the next, or for a very long time.

But one day, the girl happened to be walking through the woods, near where the drawing tree was. She was curious and felt nostalgic, so she decided to go look at it.

She approached the tree slowly, scared that seeing it might make her sad. But as she got nearer, she frowned. She couldn't see their carving. It was gone. The trunk of the tree was smooth and blank, erased of all the shapes she and the boy had made in it. It was as if they'd never been there.

She stared at it, nonplussed. It was surely the same tree. She recognized the twisted fingers of its roots, and the gnarled knot just below the first branch. But no trace of the picture remained.

The girl felt her chest tighten. She felt angry and sad and disappointed and hurt and confused. She'd spent so many afternoons here, playing the game the boy wanted to play, long past the point that it was fun for her. And now there wasn't even any evidence she'd ever been there at all.

She took a deep breath and waited until she felt calm again. She leaned against the tree and closed her eyes. The girl listened to the sounds of the forest around her: a distant birdsong, a light breeze whistling through the leaves above her... Suddenly, she had a thought. And a smile came across her face as she turned back to face the tree and reached up. Her hand grasped the nearest limb tightly.

She climbed slowly and carefully. She concentrated on finding sure footholds and balancing her weight. She glanced down once or twice, but in excitement at how far she'd come - not fear. When she looked up to see how close she was to the top, she saw nothing but more branches. She realized it might take her quite a while to go all the way up. But she kept going, determined.

A few minutes later, as she was taking a break to catch her breath, she heard voices. She looked down and saw two people walking towards the tree she was climbing - a boy and a girl. She squinted, trying to make out who they were. And at the same moment she recognized him, she saw the boy reach into his pocket and hand the girl a small knife.

The girl watched the couple for a few minutes. She heard their laughter. She saw the girl make her mark on the trunk with a practiced hand. The girl down below was pretty, with long hair and an eager smile. The girl in the tree felt a little bit melancholy, but strangely unsurprised. This was the game the boy loved to play, after all. She briefly wondered whether he would tell his new partner about his previous visits to the tree. And she wondered if it was him who'd made their picture disappear. But then she realized it didn't matter at all. It had nothing to do with her anymore.

She continued to watch quietly for another moment, afraid of being discovered in her perch. But the boy and girl on the forest floor were busily engaged in their game. She doubted they'd hear her. And from the enraptured expression on the new girl's face, she knew it would be a while yet before she grew restless and bored - before she looked up to see what was above them.

And she doubted the boy would climb the tree with her, anyway, when she inevitably asked. He seemed content to stay right where he was.

The Pond

There once was a girl who liked to visit a small, still pond in the wood. It was a quiet, lonely place where no one ever bothered her, and she could be alone with her thoughts.

The girl liked to stand at the edge of the water and peer down at her reflection. Sometimes she'd toss a pebble onto the glassy surface, and watch as it shattered the face that looked back up at her. The girl would wait until all the ripples had calmed and her likeness had composed itself. Then she'd drop another pebble, breaking the watery mirror into a thousand pieces all over again.

Every day she would visit the pond, and every day she'd throw stones at herself, fascinated by the way a quick flick of her wrist could splinter and smash what was so tranquil and serene a moment before. It didn't matter how smooth and tiny a pebble she used, or how big and jagged a rock - they all had the same disfiguring effect on the girl in the water.

One day, she leaned out over the pool, looking to find her reflection. But all she could see were the stones she'd been throwing, piled so high on top of one another that they nearly spilled out. She plunged her palms into the cold water, gathering up handfuls of them. She noticed how heavy they were, and she realized that if she wanted to start her game over again, it would be quite a lot of work to reverse her efforts. It would take just as long to empty the pond as it had taken to fill it up. Maybe even longer.

The girl didn't think she had the strength to do it. She looked around, feeling lost and unsure of how next to amuse herself.

Suddenly, she had an idea. The girl unlaced her shoes and peeled the stockings from her legs. Carefully she placed one foot into the cool of the pond, then another, feeling all her collected pebbles and stones packed firmly underneath. Step by step, the girl walked across the water that had held her double captive for so long. She marveled to think how much time she must have passed here, to have filled the water up so completely.

The girl reached the far side of the pond and stepped out, glad of the soft, dry grass beneath her once more. With her shoes and socks still slung over her shoulder, she headed into the unfamiliar woods that stretched out ahead.

She'd never been to this side of the pond before, and she was in the mood to explore.

The Words

The words sat inside the girl, threatening to choke her if they weren't set free.

"Let us out," they begged. "We'll kill you if you don't."

"No you won't," answered the girl, swallowing them back down again. "You'll die yourselves if I just wait long enough."

"You can't," scoffed the words. "You never could and you never will."

The girl took a deep breath and held it. She willed the air in her lungs to trap the words in a thousand tiny balloons, and carry them off where no one would ever read them. 

"We're still here," said the words, after a moment. "Nice try though."

"You'll only make things worse," the girl sighed. 

"No we won't," the words replied. "We'll change exactly nothing. Not for the better and not for the worse. Things are what they are already. We've had nothing to do with it."

The girl, realizing this was true, said, "Fine. But only a few of you can come out. The rest have to stay. Decide amongst yourselves who it'll be."

The words clustered into a huddle to confer, jostling one another and tangling up their meanings. They spoke in a whisper so the girl wouldn't hear. Finally, they called out, "Okay, we're ready!" and ten or twelve sentences marched forth to be released.

The girl closed her eyes and opened her heart, and dozens of words took flight, beating their wings frantically to get clear of her before she could change her mind.

Those left behind watched, satisfied for the moment. They knew it was only a matter of time before the rest of them would be set free, anyway.

The girl knew it, too. And all she could hope was that when they were, they wouldn't carry her off with them. 

Tetherball

I've taken up a new sport! Tetherball. It's so great. Of course, you can't play by yourself; you need a partner. Mine is always the same.

We stand across from one another (not side by side), and smack the everloving hell out of a ball. The ball doesn't really go anywhere; it's tied up, so it can't move very far. It just goes around and around, back and forth, from him, to me, back to him again. He hits it, then I hit it. I hit it, then he hits it. And so on and so forth and so on.

Sometimes one of us will swing and miss, and the ball winds up on its rope, tighter and tighter until clang! against the pole - it has no more slack.

So we wait for it to come undone.

Then we hit it some more.

It's an excellent workout, too! Totally exhausting. In fact, on days when I play tetherball, I don't have the energy to do anything else, like write, or think, or feel. I just lay around afterward, dazed and slightly confused as to who, if anyone, won. There's no referee, so sometimes it can be hard to tell.

Tonight the game was especially rough. I slammed the fuck out of that thing. He hit it pretty good, too. Eventually, he had somewhere else to be, so he left. After he'd gone, I took a closer look at the ball. It's taken quite a beating lately. It's torn in a few places, and starting to lose its shape.

So I untied it, brushed some of the dirt off of it, and put it back inside my chest.

I probably shouldn't play tetherball anymore.

Flower Trade

Once there was a girl who had some flowers to trade. There were all kinds of flowers in her bunch: some cultivated and common, some exotic and wild. Mixed in with the more attractive and desirable of these blooms was a handful of weeds, thick-stemmed and sticky.

She bound up the bundle with paper and string, but loosely, so that all the blossoms could be easily seen: the hot pink petals of the peonies, the milky white hoods of the calla lilies, the vibrant violet trumpets of the foxgloves. She tried to make sure nothing was hidden from view - not even the weeds, ugly and plain as they were.

The girl took her flowers to the town square, where she waited patiently, feeling the breeze dance with her hair. It wasn't long before she spied someone in the distance, walking towards her. He approached slowly, and straight on. When he got close, she realized he was smiling at her. She had no choice but to smile back. They looked at one another for a long moment before either spoke.

"Hello there," he said.

"Hello," she replied.

He nodded toward the flowers she cradled in her arms. "I see you're here to trade." 

"Yes," the girl said, and held up her bouquet so that he could examine it. But the boy only grinned harder. The girl couldn't remember the last time anyone had seemed so happy to see her. His smile was like sunlight on her skin.

"Oh, I don't need to look," he said. "I already know I want them. Let's trade." And from behind his back, as if by magic, the boy drew a massive bundle of his own flowers, wrapped in newsprint and red satin ribbon. The girl laughed, charmed by the surprise, and stepped closer to see what he held.

"Do you like them?" he asked. But before she could answer, he continued: "I'm afraid they're only weeds."

The girl frowned and looked at him curiously. "Surely not," she murmured, and with the tip of her finger, pushed down an edge of the bundled-up newspaper. She saw a flash of brilliant color, and she knew he was wrong - very wrong.

"Oh yes," he insisted. "Every last one." But the girl wasn't listening to him. The vivid blues and reds and yellows of the bouquet he held had captivated her, and she was peering deeply in, drinking in the riotous colors and intoxicating scents. She looked back at him, puzzled.

"But...these aren't weeds. These are glorious! Some of them I've never even seen before! Like this one..." The girl pointed at a long, elegant stalk topped with a delicate, cup-shaped bud. The outside of the bloom was a shocking electric blue, but the inside was smoky and pale. The flower reminded her of a summer storm: lightning, thunder, and soft rain afterward. "What is it called?" she asked. "How do you grow it?"

The boy never took his eyes off her face. He was still smiling, but his tone was serious. "I told you," he said. "It's a weed. They all are." And the quiet way in which he said it made the girl realize: he truly believed this to be so. He moved away from her slightly, pulling his blossoms from her greedy gaze. "So? Shall we trade?"

The girl sighed. She didn't understand. She knew the boy's flowers were rare and beautiful, and that he could make a very good trade on them. She didn't want to trick him into giving them up for less than they were worth. But he didn't seem to realize what she was offering in return - or he didn't seem to care.

And she wanted his bouquet, badly. She wanted to pull out each of those startling blue stems and inhale its sweet perfume. She wondered what else was mixed up with them, that she hadn't even seen yet.

All she could do was take what he was offering, which was far more precious than he realized. All she could do was to be grateful, and enjoy what he gave her for as long as it lasted.

But she hoped that the next time he was ready to trade, he recognized the value of what he had to share.

The Ugly Thing

There once was a girl who found an Ugly Thing. She wasn't looking for it. She just came across it one day on her walk. Rather than go around the Ugly Thing, she approached it, curious. As she got nearer, she saw it was even uglier up close. The girl was fascinated. She stared and stared. She walked the length of it, examining every last inch. And the more she saw how ugly it was, the prettier she felt.

Every day the girl would visit the Ugly Thing - sometimes more than once. She grew to know every ugly crack and every ugly crevice, until the Ugly Thing's ugliness was as familiar to her as her own beauty.

Many, many days went by. The girl grew a little bit older. She started to feel the pinch of time and watched as people she loved passed out of her life, in the ways that they sometimes must. The girl spent her walks to and from the Ugly Thing deep in thought. She thought about who she was. She thought about what she had learned, and what she still wanted to. She thought about the things she had filled her life with so far - what she'd made room for and what she had crowded out. And the girl started to feel a little sick when she realized how big a place the Ugly Thing had in her heart.

At that moment, the girl vowed to stop going to the Ugly Thing. But she knew it would be difficult, as breaking habits always is. So she tried to understand this need of hers, to see the Ugly Thing. The girl realized that every day that the Ugly Thing remained ugly was a day that she could still feel pretty - even on those days when she wasn't sure she was. Even on those days when nothing seemed true or clear, the Ugly Thing's ugliness was a reliable constant by which she could know up from down, right from wrong. Every day the Ugly Thing told her I am ugly, but you are not.

The girl felt shame. She felt disappointed in herself, that she'd come to rely on an Ugly Thing for anything, much less as a way to love herself. So the very next day, the girl sat down to make a list of all the places she could go, instead of to the Ugly Thing.

She was still writing long past the hour that she usually took her walk.

Fire

Once there was a girl who liked to go camping in the woods. She spent her days exploring, collecting wildflowers and kindling, and listening to the noises of the forest. Sometimes she brought things she found back to her camp: feathers, smooth river rocks, a pretty piece of broken eggshell. Sometimes she brought back nothing at all.

One evening as she was drifting off to sleep, she heard the sound of twigs snapping just beyond the clearing. "Who's there?" she cried out, surprised but not frightened. At first, there was no answer. The girl kept still and listened, her senses keen from the many nights she'd spent alone in the wilderness.

A moment later, a voice called out from the darkness: "Put out your fire!"

The girl sat up where she lay, clutching her blanket tightly around her.  She cocked her head in the direction of the voice. "Where are you?" she called back, shivering slightly. "I can't see you!"

"Put out your fire!" the voice repeated roughly. The girl stood, letting the blanket drop, and walked toward where she thought she'd heard the voice. She squinted into the black, but she could see nothing. Yet the hairs prickling on the back of her neck told her that someone was close.

"I can't put it out," she answered, peering about for the visitor. "It keeps me warm at night, and safe." The girl took a cautious step forward. "Would you...would you like to join me?"

"No," the voice responded flatly. "I don't like the smoke. Put it out!"

The girl frowned, and glanced back at the small fire she'd made. The night was clear and calm; no wind disturbed the smoke, which disappeared into the sky in a straight, silky column. "But," said the girl, "that's not possible. And anyway, if it does bother you, why don't you move further away? The mountain is wide; surely there's enough room for us to get clear of one another." As she spoke, the girl stepped softly forward, straining to see whom she spoke to in the frigid night air.

"It's too bright," answered the voice, ignoring her response. "I can see the light from miles away. Put it out!"

With her arms held out in front of her, the girl walked forward in the dark again. She wasn't afraid, but she wished for daylight so that she could see her mysterious guest. "Well that's just silly," she replied, more to herself than anything, for she was tiring of this game of cloak and dagger. "If the light bothers you, you can just look away, or close your eyes."

The voice was silent.

It was then that the girl noticed how far she'd wandered from her camp. She realized she was cold, and she suddenly longed to be back near the flames she'd carefully nursed from sparks, nestled cozily beneath the stars.

The girl turned and walked away from the voice in the wood. "I'm going back to my fire now," she called over her shoulder. "You can join me if you'd like, or go build your own, or leave the forest altogether. It's up to you."

A few paces later, and she felt warmth on her skin again. She sat on the ground, cross-legged, and inched up closer to the fire. She held her palms out flat, luxuriating in the waves of radiating heat. She poked a small branch into the flames, stirring them back to life. She watched the embers split and glow, orange and black, beautiful and dangerous. The girl stared into the fire for a long time, thinking about the strange conversation she'd just had.

When a noise in the woods broke her daze a little while later, she decided to stay put, to stay silent, and to tend to the thing that was keeping her alive in the icy winter night. There was plenty of warmth for anyone who wanted to join her, but she was done chasing voices in the dark.

If Only

Once there was a girl on a journey to a place she'd never gone before. Never having been there didn't slow the girl down, however, for she was impatient, and keen to be in a new place. She became so anxious to reach her destination, in fact, that she took to traveling at night, despite being unsure of the path.

The girl stumbled in the dark, stubbornly pressing on even though prudence would have had her wait til dawn. "If only I had a lantern," she pined, and just as the words escaped her, the girl tripped and fell into a burrow hidden in the forest floor.

She sat for a moment, stunned into silence and unsure what she ought to do next. The moon, who'd been watching, took pity on the girl and shone more brightly. Illuminating white light pooled around her, and she dusted herself off and climbed back out, never noticing the change in the cold night sky.

On the girl walked through the small hours, stopping only to gather wild berries and drink from the stream. Sunrise spread slowly on the horizon, and soon she was warm and confident of her way once again. But it wasn't long before the girl, tired of the road, sighed, "If only I wasn't alone." The birds in the branches heard her complaint, and cheerfully raised their voices in the morning sun. A tune suddenly came to her, and the girl began to whistle it without wondering from whence it came.

Believing she was close to her journey's end, the girl moved ever faster through the wood. She paid no attention to where she stepped, crushing wildflowers and scattering the makings of an animal's den along the way. "If only it were tomorrow!" she remarked, dreaming of all that would be different, and forgetting all that wouldn't. 

But the sun, who could have inched his way more quickly across the heavens and granted the girl's wish, did not hear it. He only heard the birdsong that filled the forest and floated up to the wide, blue sky, from where the girl on the ground looked

Applesauce

A boy and a girl went apple picking one day, in an orchard not far from their home. They each carried an empty bushel to fill with the fruit of their choosing, and wore smiles befitting a sunny afternoon.

The boy made his selections with care, examining each for ripeness, for color and shine, before twisting, pulling, and placing it gently in his bin. He worked slowly, peering up through the branches in search of what would be worth the trouble to attain it. 

The girl, on the other hand, picked frequently and indiscriminately, with little regard to what she chose. Her basket was soon full, and bore evidence of a haphazard harvest in the form of bruises, wormholes, and sticky stems.

Despite having no room left, however, the girl wanted more. Seeing the boy's bin was still fairly empty, she took it and poured in half of what she'd gathered. The apples tumbled together roughly, and the boy watched silently as his own crop disappeared underneath that of the girl, who promptly turned back to the trees. 

"Don't worry," she laughed. "We're just making applesauce anyway."

They left the orchard a little while later, two bushels heavier than when they'd come. It wasn't until they were nearly home that the boy realized neither of them had a pot big enough to cook all the apples they had collected at once. If they were to keep them from rotting, they'd have to boil batch after batch after batch. 

The thought of all that work made the boy hungry, so he plucked an apple from the top of his haul to munch on. The load didn't seem to get any lighter, though.

Moonlight

I'm driving down a backcountry road, somewhere off the map and unfamiliar. New terrain. Nothing especially striking about the landscape, though occasionally I'm surprised by a pretty vista. But I'm whizzing along, no time to stop, so these sights are just what I glimpse in passing. The main thing is the road. Staying on the road.

I'm alone, of course. Everything I need in a sturdy suitcase, perched on the backseat. I can see it out of the corner of my eye, and it reassures me. Everything I need is here.

Suddenly, something feels off. Alignment? Suspension? I can't tell exactly, I don't know mechanics that well. I only know the drive isn't as smooth as it was a few miles back. I'm tempted to push it, to gun for the next milestone, but experience has taught me that can spell disaster. I have to stop. I have to see what's wrong.

So I pull over and spend some time kidding myself I can figure out the problem. I circle the car. Inspect the tires. Peer under the hood. I walk several yards away to scrutinize from a distance, as if a bit of perspective might reveal the issue. But whatever it is, it sits deep inside my car, secret and silent and out of reach.

I drive on. It isn't safe to stay in the dead, dark of night, in a strange place. Because out of nowhere it is dark, and cold. Shivering, I remember my suitcase. Everything I need.

But then it's worse. The car is shaking so badly I can't trust it anymore. In what feels like it could be the last decision I'll ever make, I stop again. Make the same rounds. Tires. Hood. This time with a heavy dose of self-recrimination. If only I'd learned more about the car. If only I'd taught myself how to fix it. If only I'd taken another road.

I want to believe that someone will come along and help. But I'm so far from the main highway that it's doubtful. My isolation feels like a punishment for too many crimes to face here alone, in the quiet. With only stars for company and moonlight as witness.

It's time to find out how well I packed.

TAKO KICHI

There once was a girl determined to fly a broken kite. She didn't know it was broken, of course. Every time she couldn't get it skyward, she just made up a new excuse.

"Not enough wind today."

"The string must be too heavy."

"If only I could run faster..."

Some days she was so discouraged by her failure, all she could do was sit sadly, holding the kite, wishing desperately to see it soar. She ran her fingertips across its smooth paper, ignoring the splinter in her thumb. She wound its tail around her wrist over and again, loving the sense of being tied to something so beautiful. "Next time," she said. "Tomorrow for sure."

The girl didn't tell anyone about the trouble she was having. It was too embarrassing to admit. After all, she thought she had everything necessary to achieve flight.

Then one day, she found the crack in the kite's frame. It was large and obvious, and she felt stupid for not seeing it before. She let disappointment wash over her like icy wind, and tried not to feel angry about her wasted efforts. She admitted her shame to her friends, who laughed and hugged her. "The only thing you're being stupid about," they said, "is acting like that's the last kite on earth."

She smiled back, knowing they were right, even while thinking: Not the last. Just the one I wanted most. And then she noticed how welcome the cold breeze actually was: bracing and fresh and full of winter's calm. It was so cold that it threatened to freeze the tears on her face and keep them there forever - but she knew better about that, too.

Monkey’s Fist

 A boy and a girl sit crossed-legged facing one another, with a knot of rope between them. The knot is thick as an apple, gnarled and tight. It would take all of their strength to untangle it. It would take cooperation.

The boy is anxious to do exactly this; he's thinking about the many things they could do with a sturdy length of rope. "We could build a swing," he says, "or make a jump rope. We could wrap it around a tree branch, for climbing."

But the girl doesn't want to untie the knot. She likes the feel of it in her hand, and the reassuring heft of it. She likes running her thumb across the whiskery fibers that have come loose. It wasn't easy to get the rope so intricately bound, and though she can't explain why, she knows something would get lost in the undoing of it.

And the girl doesn't see toys and games in a line of unused rope, anyway. She sees an anchor that will hold her in place. She sees a tether and a chain to all the worst parts of herself. She sees a noose.

"What if I told you I want to leave it like this?" she asks the boy, holding it up like a promise that feels true in the moment. "What if it was never anything else?"

The boy looks at her, and looks at the knot. He thinks, saying nothing. After a moment he stands up and comes round to sit just beside the girl.

"Then I suppose I'll have to find a new way of looking at it." And together they waited for dusk, and for the shadows that creep and twist, changing what we see--if not what's really there.

The Mirror of Lack

There once was a girl with two mirrors in her room. In one she saw all that she was; in the other, all that she wasn't.

The girl looked in both mirrors every day. The first showed her someone lovely, with grace and poise and laughter in her eyes. It was easy to smile at this reflection, and to turn from it with her head held high.

But in the second mirror was a face drawn with reproach, and the heaviness of disappointment. This image left the girl feeling shot through with shame. Not for having done something wrong. Just for not having done enough.

One day, with the shifting of seasons, she noticed the light that came through her window no longer hit the second mirror - the mirror of lack. And though she tried, she could no longer make out the inadequacies she'd once beheld there.

It seemed obvious what to do next. Because how many mirrors does one need, anyway?

Safe On The Sand

And here's how it might go:

You'll both be walking on the beach, content to stroll along, when all of a sudden she'll run into the ocean, splashing and laughing and looking back over her shoulder, wordlessly daring you to follow. You won't be able to resist at first. She's as vibrant as the sky and you'll want to stay near her. So you'll give chase, catching her in the shallow waves which you'll break together, your bodies pressed close. She'll shiver in the cold and look into your eyes, asking, inviting, challenging. Your arms wrapped tight around her will satisfy you both, for a moment. Let's stay here. It's deep enough.

But then she'll want to go in further, and she'll pull away from you to wade out into the surf. Her movements will slow as her limbs fight the dregs of tides that have come from far, far away - that have always been there, really. Her stomach, her chest, her shoulders will sink out of sight, and you'll feel a twinge of fear as you watch. Be careful. Keep your footing. 

And the currents twisting around her legs will threaten to sweep her away. She'll feel them and she'll want to give in, because the helplessness is intoxicating, and it promises something beautiful, if she can just hold her breath long enough until there's more air to be had. 

You'll want to follow, you'll be sorely tempted, but you won't. You know better. You know there are things lurking beneath the surface that can sting, can cut, can kill. You know that people drown every day, and you won't take the risk. The beach is good enough for you. 

Meanwhile, she'll be deep, deep out in the water. She'll wave to you, beckoning with her arm stretched up as high as she can reach - but you'll just wave back. I see you. I'm not coming in. 

And she'll be disappointed, and momentarily afraid, but she'll keep an eye on the coastline and always know the way back.

And her arms and legs will grow strong from swimming alone, with nothing to hold onto. 

And her lungs will pump and her heart will pound, and she'll feel as alive as she can feel, here on this earth. 

And you'll grow smaller and smaller in her eyes until she can barely make you out where you stand, safe on the sand.

Of Baskets And Balls

"Bet you can't make a basket," the boy said, and smiled challengingly. He held in his arms a wooden crate the size of a barrel sliced in half. It was big enough to hold a bushel of apples, or a litter of puppies. It was completely empty, and the way he angled it toward her seemed like an invitation to fill it.

The girl glanced at it and scoffed, because she knew only a clumsy fool would miss the shot. "Are you kidding?" she teased. "I could do that in my sleep." She lobbed the ball softly and without thinking, and it landed with a satisfying clud. They both peered in at the ball, which settled quickly and easily in the deep vessel. Immediately, she picked up another ball, and this time using her left hand, flung it in just as handily.

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm impressed," he admitted, looking pleasantly surprised.

"That's nothing," she said. "Watch this." The girl turned her body completely away from the boy and the crate, and, closing her eyes, lightly tossed a ball over her shoulder. She waited until she heard the tell-tale thud before spinning back around, grinning in anticipation of her success. When she did, she saw that the boy had moved a few steps away from her while she wasn't looking. Still, the ball had gone in. Undeniably, it had gone in.

"Ok," he said to her, nodding begrudgingly. "But I bet you can't do it like that again."

She held up her open palms in acceptance of the challenge. Let's find out, her gesture said.

It was then that she realized he was no longer holding a large crate, but a medium-sized woven basket. It looked familiar to her, but she didn't know why. She wasn't sure if this counted as cheating on the part of the boy, but she didn't want to be a whiner or a spoilsport, so she wordlessly turned away, and got into position. This throw would be the trickiest yet. But she had faith in herself. She knew she had a good arm. And she had been collecting the best, surest softballs she could find, for years. She couldn't have been better prepared.

The girl took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, steadied her shoulders, and visualized the empty basket. It took a lot more concentration to throw at a target she couldn't see. A lot more work and focus and even - anxiety. She knew she was overthinking, but she didn't see a way around it. The situation seemed to require it.

Finally, she silenced her mind and let her body take over. The ball slipped from her fingers in the way it always did, neither too soon nor too late: only when it was ready to go. But this time, instead of a single clunk, there was a rattle, then a thonk-thonk-roll. She'd missed. Or rather, the ball had gone in momentarily before bouncing back out again. She'd scored - and then lost - all in a split second.

She turned back around and looked at the boy, whom, she noted, had stepped several paces from the spot he'd been in before. He didn't seem surprised by her failure, but neither did he seem disappointed. He wasn't gloating and he wasn't satisfied. He was just...expressionless.

It was at that moment that it dawned on the girl why the basket he held seemed so familiar. She cocked her head, unsure and unwilling to ask what she knew she had to. "Did you..." she faltered. "Is that from...the carnival?"

"The carnival?" he echoed, frowning slightly.

"The basket," she said, pointing at it, noticing that it seemed even smaller than before. "Is it yours, or is it from the midway?" He looked down at what he held in his hands, as if seeing it for the first time. The girl walked to him so she could examine it, too. As she reached him, she gave a start. The basket he held was indeed smaller. In fact, it was so tiny, it probably wouldn't have held even her smallest, most worn down ball. Or it might have, had they jammed it in with force - but then she might never have gotten it back out again. Or worse: they might have broken the basket in their effort.

"Never mind," she said, and gathered up the balls she hadn't yet thrown. "I should probably keep these for now, anyway."

And with that, the girl went home to practice some more.

Ashore (unfinished)

A great shipwreck. The black and foamy sea claims all lives except one: a young sailor. He clings desperately to a scrap of hull, the tempest tossing him this way and that. The man knows tonight he must surely drown or be torn apart by sharks—but hours pass and he somehow stays afloat.

Come morning, the streaky light of dawn reveals an incredible sight: he is close enough to land to swim ashore. But the reef is jagged and the current sucking him swiftly toward it. No doubt I have survived the storm only to be dashed upon these rocks, he thinks bitterly. Wave after wave pushes him closer to the razor-sharp reef. At the last moment, the sailor maneuvers the splintered hull into a shield, protecting himself from the jutting coral. The thrusting sea recedes, leaving him safely banked in the atoll. He can finally stand. The sailor picks his way carefully across the rocky shore, vines of seaweed twisting around his ankles.

The steps seem endless, though really it is less than a minute before he collapses on the sand, waterlogged and near-dead from exhaustion. The day passes while the man sleeps. Unbeknownst to him, hidden in the tall grass nearby, an ancient, mottled tortoise watches all of this unfold.

Dusk besets the island. Seagulls cry, returning to shore’s edge to spend the night. With the sun gone, a chill awakens the sailor. He blinks slowly back to life, then pulls himself painfully upright, feeling the cuts and bruises of his battered body. Hunger and thirst ring distant alarm bells, but first: the cold. It is coming on fast now, and he must find shelter.

Never before has the sailor been lost, much less on a deserted island. He has no idea how to fashion a suitable shelter for himself. All he can think to do is gather everything useful he can find, then see what he can make of it. The night passes in frustration—and fear—as he tries and fails, again and again, to coax palm fronds and fibrous strips of dead plants into the shape of a roof. The effort keeps him warm at least, though he does not realize it. All the while he works, thinking moonlight is his only companion, the man is unaware of the tortoise in the grass, still silently watching him.

It is morning before the sailor finally finds success. He devises a way to weave the wide palms together by degree of size, creating imbricate clusters sturdy enough to block wind—and, he hopes, rain if it comes. The labor has left him with too little energy to search for fresh water, which he knows he must do next. He crawls under his pile of soon-to-be roof tiles, thick enough to provide warmth. But as the man drifts toward sleep, his brow is furrowed in worry. How will I survive? Will rescue come? And if so, will it come soon enough? His stomach growls as if having the same thought. Mere hours past the ordeal of the shipwreck, past the circling sharks and the dangerous reef, the sailor thinks nothing of these obstacles now overcome. He fixates only on what he lacks, and dark thoughts carry him into dark dreams.

From the shadows, the wizened old tortoise watches.

Afternoon: clear blue sky, no ships on the horizon. Refreshed by sleep, the sailor rises with determination. He must find water immediately; his thirst is urgent. Inland, the rough brush tears at his legs. There is no path, no precedent set to ease his way. The island is unyielding and unforgiving, the going hard. Hopelessness besieges him, a surety that all is lost. I don’t know how to find water, the man thinks. And I will die for not knowing.

Eventually, the landscape changes, slowly clearing as the elevation rises. A vast mountain sits at the heart of the island. Water flows down, thinks the sailor. I’m on the right track. Pushing deeper into the valley, the man scans his surroundings as he goes. Suddenly, a bit of yellow catches his eye. A mango tree, flush with bulbs the color of sunshine. Gaping at this discovery, he suddenly freezes, listening. Water. He can hear the tell-tale musical tinkling of a stream. He follows the sound and quickly comes to it. Fresh, clear water trickles down a steep ravine the heights of which are hidden in wispy clouds. Food and water. He is saved. Despite his weakened state, the man yells in triumph.

Not far away—for the sailor has had to fight very hard to move very little—the tortoise on the shore hears his call.

After drinking his fill of the stream, the sailor makes a basket of his tattered shirt. Carrying as much as he can, he retraces his steps back to the beach camp. The ripe, juicy fruit nourishes his body, but as he eats the sailor thinks of nothing but the shelter still to be built—and the foreboding clouds in the distance. He’s no architect, and he knows it. Fastening some tree branches together is one thing, but how will I get this whole thing upright? Sourly, he tosses aside a piece of mango skin.

A small rustling sound in the grass behind him. A crab, he thinks. Then the rustling becomes the heavy crunching of a large animal flattening dead leaves. The sailor jumps and turns, and sees the sharp triangle of an open mouth reaching for the discarded mango. Before him, slowly chewing the fruit he has thrown, is the tortoise that he hasn’t known has been watching him since his luck-filled landing. Astonished, the sailor cautiously steps forward. The creature is bigger than anything he’s ever known like it. He stares as the tortoise chews, looking older than time itself. Deep, dry wrinkles crease and stretch as she swallows. The scaled stumps of her legs bend deeply, as with the weight of her many years. Across her broad back, thirteen scutes in a concentric pattern of moss green and gold. She is the history of the sea itself.

Having finished her bite of food, she begins to speak.

“What…don’t you…know…that you…can do?” The words move through her throat like rough stones. They roll to the feet of a man sure of his own madness. Two days on a deserted island and he’s lost his mind. That can be the only explanation.

“What…don’t….you know….that…you can do?” she repeats.

The sailor stammers. “I..I don’t understand. Who are you? What…I—”

“It is…easy…to…forget…what was…hard…to…achieve. Do not…forget. Do….not…forget.” The tortoise turned her heavy body, and before the sailor can process what’s happened, she is away and gone through the reedy grass.

Danny’s Doors to Nowhere

Danny builds doors to nowhere, right in the middle of the day. There you’ll be, setting one thought down and picking up the next, and boom. Danny has put a door smack in your way.

You’ll have no choice but to walk through it, because Danny is a master carpenter. He can take any old harmless question, encode it with secrets and promises and hidden potential, and blend it so seamlessly into your path that you’ll hardly sense the danger. You might vaguely wonder: why this, why now, why me. But Danny’s doors have a way of appearing when you’re already mid-stride. When you’re energized and full of life and joy. Sometimes I think that’s the point. Danny wants some of what he thinks you have too much of—what he has trouble finding on his own.

But Danny’s doors lead to nowhere, that you must never forget. You can do whatever you want, when Danny gives you a door. You can slip through as quiet as an unremembered dream. You can whisper, letting your fingertips linger on the frame, leaving bits of yourself for him to think about. You can dance through naked, daring him to watch. You can shrug off whatever brick of anger or sadness you were holding, because a doorway feels like the right place to let go.

It doesn’t matter. When you get to the other side of one of Danny’s doors, you’ll be alone. You’ll look back and see his blank face of non-intention. He was never going to go through himself.

Danny knows his doors lead to nowhere, and he’s comfortable right where he is.