Four Sisters
Summer has always been the star of the show. When she arrives, she makes sure everyone knows it. She times her arrival perfectly to steal attention away from her sister. The moment Spring steps out of the shadows and starts to shyly show her warmth and beauty, Summer pushes past her and steps into the spotlight. She makes sure she shines brighter, hotter, and greener than Spring ever did. She is far too proud to believe that most prefer her sister over her.
Summer’s reign does not last long. Once she has had her time on the stage, she is deposed by her sister Autumn. Autumn works slowly, creeping behind Summer, bringing her chill to gradually, but steadily, push Summer out of the spotlight. As she creeps, she distracts the world with gorgeous hues of red, orange, and yellow and the promise of cool, comfortable evenings that are a welcome change from Summer’s oppressive heat.
But Autumn doesn’t work alone. She only sets the stage for the coming of Winter. Winter is the cruelest of the four. Her presence blankets the stage and sucks the color and warmth from the room, erasing all memory of her sisters. Her hold on the spotlight lasts longer than any of the others, clinging far longer than the audience would like. Some are bored by her unchanging, cold performance; some rail against her harsh, desolate temperament, but all long for the return of Spring.
When the first sister finally reappears, she teases the audience, barely stepping a toe out from behind the curtain before retreating again, leaving the audience alone with Winter. But with sluggish progress, Spring finally makes her way back into the spotlight, gently ushering Winter off the stage, and the audience welcomes her warmly.
The Pencil
“Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”
I’m sitting in my 10th-grade Chemistry class when I speak those fated words. We’re about to take a test, one of those scantron things that have to be filled out in No. 2 pencil only, and I can’t find my pencil anywhere. I lean over to the kid sitting next to me. Tom Peli-something. He’s a bit weird, and I’ve never really spoken to him much before, but I’m desperate, and this kid’s always prepared.
“Sure.” Tom pulls another pencil out of his backpack. Before he hands it to me, he holds it up between us. “Just so you know, it’s haunted.”
“What?” Did I just hear what I think I heard? I knew the kid was weird, but what the hell?
Mrs. Conway’s sharp voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Put everything away except for your pencils and erasers. I will not pass out the test until everything is away and the room is quiet. And you will need the entire class period for this test.”
After a few more whispers and shuffles of books and other materials, the class grows quiet. Tom is still holding the pencil between us.
“Whatever, I’ll take it,” I say, grabbing the pencil out of his hand.
Tom just shrugs. “Okay. I warned you.”
Mrs. Conway hands out the test, and I get to work filling in the little bubbles for what I hope are the right answers.
C. Hydrochloric Acid
A. Carbon Dioxide
B. 18 Electrons
C. Hydro—
“Of all the things you could do with a pencil, and you’re just filling in those little bubbles?”
I look up at the sound of the small voice. It sounds like the speaker is right in front of me, but there’s no one there. I look around, but no one else seems to have heard the voice. Confused, I return to reading the next question.
If a sample of matter is uniform throughout and cannot be separated into other substances by physical means—
“I’m not complaining, really. It’s just that there are so many other things you could use me for.”
Again, I look up, but there’s no one there. I glance over at Tom, but he is focusing on his test. I scan the room, looking for any sign that someone else heard the voice, but all of my classmates have their eyes on their test.
“Do you need something, Mr. Speero?” Mrs. Conway is at her desk, glaring a warning at me over her glasses.
“No, Mrs. Conway,” I answer quickly and try to get back to my test.
But when I pick up my pencil to fill in the next bubble, I notice something on the eraser. Something sitting on the eraser.
“I mean, you could doodle, or even sketch a masterpiece!” the thing says. “You could write a story or a letter. Even an essay would be better than this!”
I gasp and drop the pencil on my desk, drawing the attention of several of my classmates and my teacher.
“Mr. Speero! Is there a problem?”
“Um, can I go to the bathroom?”
Mrs. Conway looks at me sternly and then rolls her eyes. “Fine. But don’t dawdle, or I might suspect you are up to something.”
I just nod at her, stealthily grab the pencil, stuff it in my pocket, and walk out of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Tom smirking at me as I leave.
When I make it to the bathroom, I pull the pencil out of my pocket and stare at it. It looks like an ordinary pencil – yellow except for the black lettering spelling out the brand name and a number 2, with a dull, lead point on one end and a pink eraser held in place by its metal holder.
Suddenly, the eraser begins to morph. Two little arms stick out and grab the edge of the eraser, and soon a head appears. The little thing pulls itself all the way out as if he were pulling himself out of a hole. When his entire body emerges, he sits down on the edge of the eraser and looks at me thoughtfully.
I stare back at him in fascination. He looks like a fully grown man, but he can’t be more than half an inch tall, and he’s entirely white, though slightly transparent. He’s wearing an equally white, equally transparent outfit consisting of khakis, a collared shirt, and a sweater vest, and on his nose sits a pair of wire-framed glasses.
“What are you?”
The little man shrugged. “Ghost, ghoul, poltergeist. Call me whatever you like; I’m not picky.”
“Tom was telling the truth?”
“He usually does. One of the reasons most people think he’s kind of weird.”
“So, do you, like, belong to him?”
The ghost looks indignant. “I don’t belong to anyone! Tom just happens to be the current keeper of the pencil that I haunt. Or, at least he was. Now, that honor has been passed to you!”
“What? Because I borrowed the pencil?”
“Yes!” the little ghost says excitedly. “And now you get the benefit of my great wisdom!”
“Look, I just needed a pencil to take this stupid Chem test.” Then an idea hit me. “Wait, the benefit of your wisdom? Does that mean you can help me on my test?”
He sighs. “I suppose I can. But I wouldn’t be much help. The sciences are all well and good, but they don’t hold the pure passion and depth of literature or art. If you really want to put me to work, set me loose on an analysis of Shakespeare or a short story about the futile pursuit of love. I was a writer, painter, and professor of art and literature in a past life, you see.”
“Of course you were,” I mutter. “Look, I gotta get back to finish the test or Mrs. Conway will fail me for suspected cheating. Sorry, but I don’t have any use for a haunted pencil. Tom can have you back.”
“Wait!” the little man shouts at me as I exit the bathroom. “I can make myself useful! I can! I’m intelligent and ambitious. Together, we can really go places!”
“Not interested.”
“Please, don’t give me back to that idiotic boy!” the ghost begs. “I cannot stand that imbecile!”
Getting tired of the little ghost’s whining, I shove the pencil into the pocket of my jeans, but that doesn’t shut him up. His muffled voice stays with me all the way down the hall from the bathroom to my chemistry class.
“You don’t know what it’s like! He’s had my pencil for four years, and I don’t think I can take it a day longer. Please! Don’t give it back to him!”
His pleas are starting to wear on me, and I consider giving in and just keeping the pencil for the sake of the little whiny ghost professor, but when I enter my classroom, I come face to face with Mrs. Conway.
“Are you ready to take your test now, Mr. Speero?”
“Um, actually, I need a pencil.” Her raised eyebrow tells me that she doesn’t quite believe me, but she still leads me to her desk, pulls a sharpened pencil from her drawer, and hands it to me.
“Anything else?”
“No, Mrs. Conway. Thank you.”
I walk silently to my desk as Mrs. Conway sits down at hers. The little professor is still yammering away in my pocket, making my next decision easier. I pull the haunted pencil from my pocket and hold it out to Tom.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I whisper.
Tom looks up from his desk and glances at me and then the pencil. The little professor is now on his knees on top of the eraser, his hands clasped as he pleads with me. “Don’t do it! I’m begging you! I’ll do anything! I’ll—”
Tom shrugs and reaches for the pencil. The instant Tom takes the pencil from my hand, the ghost disappears, and I can no longer hear him.
Tom smiles down at the pencil. “Hello again,” he whispers to it before sliding it back into his backpack. Then, he goes back to his test without another word.
Trying to shake the memory of the tiny ghost from my mind, I do the same.
Which element below has the highest electronegativity?
Wasted
Wasted. One whole year, wasted.
How many hours could I have spent doing what I wanted to do? How much closer could I be to a finished product, a project that might actually get published? How close could I have been to my dream career? How many ideas did I ignore, discarded because they were less important, less worthy of my time?
And what do I have to show for it? For a year, I told myself it was worth it. For the man who supposedly loved me, it was worth setting aside my passion. I traded my lifelong goals for eternal happiness. So I thought. And now? Now, I have nothing but bad memories, feminine rage, and a sour taste in my mouth.
How could I have been so stupid? So naïve? How could I ever have thought some guy was worth all that? Did I want my happily ever after so badly that I was willing to sacrifice the person I want to be? To sacrifice myself for some guy?
Never again. I’ve been away from my desk for too long, but I won’t make that mistake again. This is who I am. This is who I want to be. Who I will be. My loves will be flowing prose, detailed narration, interesting characters, snappy dialog, engaging stories. Stories about adventure, longing, excitement, love. Love lost. Love found. Love cherished more than life itself. Love that lasts forever.
Why do I have to be such a romantic?
Scarily Ever After
It was just my backyard, but it had been so transformed with flowers and white runners and people in fancy dresses and suits that I hardly recognized it. It felt almost like another world.
I stood in front of a crowd of people that was all big eyes and smiles. I wore a big, poofy white dress that was so tight around my middle I could barely breathe, and the tool skirt felt like sandpaper against my legs. I felt trapped inside it, stuck so tight that I might never be able to get it off.
A man stood next to me, his smile so big it seemed to cover his whole face. He was big, much bigger than me. He wore a cape and held a sword in one hand like a prince, and he pulled me in close with the other.
A priest appeared before us and chanted in a language I didn’t recognize.
Then, I felt cold metal clamp tightly onto my wrist. I stared down at the cuff that linked me to the man before me. “It’s time for the vows. Repeat after me,” the priest said. “With this ring, I promise to be yours and yours alone, for the rest of time.”
No. No! NO! I try to scream, but my voice won’t work. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. The man leans down over me, his hot breath on my face. I can’t step back. I can’t push him away. I can’t do anything. I’m trapped; I’m—
I sit up with a gasp as my mom’s hands shake me awake.
“Sweetie, wake up! It’s just a dream. You’re okay. It was just a dream.”
I let her wrap me in her arms, and I cling to her as I gasp and cry.
“That must have been one scary dream,” she says as she rubs my back. “Want to talk about it?”
“T-they . . . they were gonna make me marry him,” I stutter.
“Who?”
“The prince!”
I can feel my mom’s body shake with laughter. “That was your nightmare?” She shakes her head as she lays me back down. “Most kids get nightmares about monsters. My kid gets nightmares about Prince Charming.”
Time Comes to Life
The grandfather clock stood silently in the corner of the dark room. It had sat in that old house for decades, dutifully counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds that passed since the moment its maker put its pendulum in motion.
But one day, after so many years of faithful service, the pendulum finally stopped.
And the instant it did, on the point where its hands met in the very center of its face, there appeared a minuscule speck. The speck grew as it pushed itself out of the clock, escaping the prison that had held it all its life.
With one final shove, the little being broke free from the clock. It dropped and, just before hitting the floor, discovered its brand-new wings. The being flapped hard and managed to slow down its fall so that it landed gently on the floor.
The little thing peered up at its former prison, tilting its head slightly, wondering how such an evil thing could look so beautiful. As it reflected, the being shook itself awake, stretching its arms, legs, and wings, feeling itself come alive.
And it was alive. It leaped into the air and tried out its wings, shrieking with joy as it learned how to fly.
Yes, the clock had stopped, and Time had come to life.
Going Out
The last two years have been the happiest of my life. After finally settling down with Derek, I’ve finally realized what life’s about. We’re not rich; we haven’t accomplished much; we don’t travel, and we don’t have a lively social life, but we have our simple life together, and that’s more than I ever could have asked for.
Which is why I’ve been ignoring Derek’s behavior recently. He’s been different. I wrote it off as him having a bad day at work, but then it continued into the next day, and then the next. I don’t want to mess things up with him, but the longer this goes on, the more I feel like I have to confront him.
He’s awake at strange hours of the night. He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He doesn’t seem to be hiding anything; he just never seems to have anything to say, which isn’t like him at all.
And he regularly walks out of the house for no apparent reason. He’s never been one to enjoy walks, or being outside in general, for that matter, but in the past week or two, he will just randomly get up and walk out the front door without saying a word to me. There’s no pattern to it. Sometimes, he does it first thing in the morning; sometimes just after dark. Once, he went out in the pouring rain without grabbing a jacket or umbrella or anything. When he came back, he was soaked to the bone and couldn’t tell me what was so important that he had to leave without a jacket.
If he would just tell me that he needed to stretch his legs or get out of the house or even get away from me for a bit, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But he won’t talk to me about it at all. When I ask him, he just gets this blank look and then changes topics or goes back to what he was doing, like he doesn’t even realize that I’ve asked him a question. It’s starting to give me the creeps.
Something inside of me has decided that I’ve had enough. I don’t want to ruin what I have with Derek, but I can’t keep acting like nothing is wrong. Something’s going on, and I intend to find out what.
So when Derek stands up and walks right out the front door while we’re watching TV after dinner one evening, I decide to follow him. I let him get out the door and onto the sidewalk before I before I get up and follow him out.
I feel guilty for following him, and I’m a little scared about what I might find, but not knowing is killing me.
I follow him down the sidewalk as quietly as I can, but he doesn’t seem to notice my presence at all. The remnants of the sunset hang in the sky, and I realize that the air is a little too cool to be comfortable. I didn’t think to grab a jacket, and my bare arms are covered in goosebumps. But I’m not about to turn back.
Before long, we reach the alley at the end of our block. The little road is much narrower than the other roads in our little town, and it ends in a dead end. Now that I think about it, it’s an odd set up. There really isn’t a reason for an alley to be there at all. But I’ve never given it much thought before.
I watch as Derek turns at the alley and . . . disappears!
I run down the sidewalk and stop in front of the alley.
The empty alley.
There’s no one there. No sign of Derek. Or anyone else for that matter.
I stare into the empty alley in disbelief. There was nowhere for him to go! How could he disappear so quickly?
I don’t step out into the alley immediately. Instead, I reach out with my hand. But as my hand crosses the threshold of the alley, it disappears. Startled, I pull it back and clutch it to my chest. My hand feels cold and sweaty, and as I look down, I realize that it looks exactly as it should.
Am I going crazy? Tentatively, I reach out again. Once again, as my hand passes the place where the roads meet, it disappears. I push forward until I can’t see anything past my elbow. I wiggle my fingers and even wave my arm around a bit, but my hand feels normal. It just isn’t there anymore.
I look around me, hoping to see something that will tell me what the hell is happening, but there is nothing. Just me staring into a seemingly empty alley with an invisible hand.
I hesitate for just a minute, but I know I’m going in there. Whatever this is, whatever’s on the other side of this invisible wall, it doesn’t matter. I have to go through. I have to find Derek. I have to find out what’s going on.
Taking a deep breath, I take one step forward, and immediately everything changes.
The first thing I notice is the cold. It’s gone from a slight chill in the air to below freezing. I gasp and cross my arms.
I’m surrounded by black walls, but there is a single, cold, white light shining straight ahead. With nothing else to do, I step into the light.
And I find Derek.
He’s staring blankly into the light, unblinking. He doesn’t even notice me standing next to him.
“Derek?” I whisper. Nothing. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. “Derek, can you hear me?”
Where did she come from? I hear a voice, but not with my ears. The room is silent.
“Hello?” I ask.
How did she get in? The voice that isn’t a voice continues. The portal should have locked as soon as he entered.
She could have followed him in, another responds. If she was fast enough. She seems to know him.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I confirm, compelled for some reason to answer, even though the voice wasn’t talking to me.
She’s not a subject, the first not-voice says, ignoring me. I have no record of her brain.
“M-my brain?” What the hell is going on? “Who are you? What is this place?”
She’s beginning to panic. Use the acetylcholine suppressor.
I can’t even begin to guess what an aceta-whatever suppressor is, but it doesn’t sound good. I take a few steps back and glance behind me. There’s nothing there but a black wall, but I know it’s the way I came, and I hope I can get back the same way.
But I can’t leave Derek. He’s still staring at that light, unaware of me or the not-voices.
I still can’t see anyone other than Derek. But there has to be someone here.
Look at the scan! the second not-voice says in a huff. There’s a reason she wasn’t made a test subject. The suppressor won’t work on her. Not as intended.
“Alright, whoever you are!” I shout. “I am tired of you talking about what you want to do to my brain. I’m not your test subject! And neither is Derek!”
It’s well worth the risk. The first not-voice responds to the second as if I hadn’t spoken. We can’t have her running off and telling others about us. It’ll ruin the whole experiment!
Who would believe her? You’ve seen how small their minds are! They can’t comprehend something so outside their perception of reality. They would claim insanity rather than accept her experience as truth. There’s no need to take the risk.
But their population varies to such a large degree! the first not-voice insists. There are those who believe in what they call ‘aliens.’ Do you honestly think not a single one of them would come looking for us? It took us decades to set up an experiment on this planet! I won’t see my research destroyed because you’re feeling squeamish about one little test subject.
“There’s nothing wrong with empathy!” I call out, hoping to sway at least one of the two beings who were apparently arguing about my brain.
Fine. I suppose, if nothing else, it will at least tell us how the suppressor works on a subject with a higher acetylcholine level. But if the subject dies, you’re the one filing the paperwork.
“Dies?” I shriek. “This could kill me?”
A noise from above startles me, and I look up to see a giant metal arm extending towards me. I stumble backwards, but I’ve barely taken two steps before my back hits a wall. I push left, and then right, but I hit walls in both directions. Did the room shrink? Or was it never as big as I thought it was?
Derek is still staring at the light with his eyes glazed over, oblivious to me, the metal arm, and the voices. He won’t help me.
“Stop!” I scream. “Please! Just let us go. I won’t tell anyone about you; I promise! Please!”
But the arm doesn't stop. It keels coming towards me until I am pinned in a corner. I scream and beg for it to stop, but –
I walk in the front door with Derek close behind. My brain is so foggy, I can barely remember if we're coming or going. I reach for the light switch out of habit but immediately turn it off again, suddenly feeling safer in the dark.
“I’m going to bed,” Derek announces, starting up the stairs.
“Oh, okay,” I say. “What time is it?”
He glances at his watch. “10:30.”
I nod and then wince as I suddenly realize that I have a splitting headache. Guess I should head to bed too.
As I climb up the stairs behind Derek, leaning heavily on the handrail, I try to figure out where my headache came from. The harder I try to remember, the emptier my brain feels.
“Hey, babe?” I call as Derek steps into the bedroom. “Where did we go tonight?”
Derek shrugs his shoulders, a blank expression on his face. “Out,” he says simply.
His expressionless face feels right, and I decide to adopt it. Pointless to worry. Pointless to care. My head still hurt, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
“Oh, yeah,” I reply. “Out.”
Moving Forward
I’m tired. We’re all tired. There is so much to care about, so much that calls for our attention. Our jobs demand our full energy and attention 40 hours a week (or more), and our families beg for whatever we have left after that. Meanwhile, friends and hobbies are neglected, along with mental and physical health.
On top of that, we are bombarded daily with things happening around the world – politics, war, racism, climate disasters, violence, cruelty, hate, poverty. We’ve lost so much, but there’s so much more left to lose.
I’m an emotional person, but it’s hard to feel so much. You get to a point where you just can’t grieve anymore. You can’t fear anymore. You can’t care anymore.
But apathy isn’t the answer. In fact, that’s probably the biggest danger. If we give into the temptation of apathy, everything just gets worse.
The better choice is stoicism.
Stoicism isn’t the absence of emotion or passion or care. It’s endurance. It’s a hardened outer shell to protect the much softer heart. If we harden our hearts, we can’t survive. But if we harden our outer layers, we just might make it.
Tears and screaming and arguing and complaining – it’s all exhausting, and it rarely makes a difference. It might be cathartic for a short time, but if it’s all you’re doing, you’ll lose your voice and your ability to feel.
But if we stand up in the face of all that pounds against us, with stoicism as our shield, and push, we just might make some headway. Inch by inch, we move forward. Every little act of kindness. Every time we protect someone who can’t protect themselves. Every time we choose love over hate. Every time we embrace rather than push away. Every time we choose the wellbeing of the planet over selfishness. We move forward.
And as we move forward, the forces we push against may pound away at the shield we call stoicism, slowly eroding it. But that’s okay. Because if we don’t stop, if we don’t give in, by the time the shield has wasted away to nothing, we won’t need it anymore. We’ll have reached the other side.
It Should Be Green
As I stand by the side of the road, which is as close as I can get right now, I look out at the woods I know so well. I spent my childhood in those woods – exploring, hiking, climbing. Those trees, the rocky dirt trails hidden under their branches, the stream that runs through them – they hold so many memories.
Somewhere under those trees is the spot where I fell in love for the first time. I can remember staring up at the stars as he timidly reached out and took my hand in his. I was so nervous that I couldn’t stop giggling.
I caught my first fish on the lake just a mile down the road. I was seven years old. I can remember standing on the lake's shore with my dad’s hands on mine, pulling my pole back and letting it fly. I can still feel the excitement at the first tug and my delight as I posed for a picture, my proud dad all smiles behind the camera.
My first real injury happened there too. I broke my ankle when I tripped on a rock. I remember tears streaming down my cheeks as I was carried down the trail.
I almost lived there once. After a fight with my mom, I packed my backpack with snacks and a change of clothes, grabbed my jacket, and left the civilized world behind. As the sun set, I thought I had found the perfect life – nothing but the stars above me, the ground beneath me, and the clean, open air around me. I went home six hours later, soaking wet from the rain.
I know those woods better than I know my own family, my own house. They have been my home when I felt like I didn’t have one. Those trees were alive long before I was born, and I always believed they would long outlive me.
But now, as I stare at that familiar tree line, only one thought crosses my mind.
It should be green.
Not red-hot with orange flames engulfing everything in their path and thick, black smoke rising into the air, blocking out the sun and the blue sky.
It should be green.
Nothing for Valentine’s Day
“You’re lying!” my coworker insists. “Women always lie about that!”
“I’m really not. I don’t want anything for Valentine’s Day.”
“If your husband comes home empty-handed, you’re gonna be pissed.”
“I don’t need flowers or a fancy restaurant to believe my husband loves me. Would it really be love if he only did those things because I demanded them?”
My coworker scoffs.
But as my husband and I cuddle on the couch in our PJs, vegging in front of the TV after a meal of Chinese takeout, I know I wouldn’t trade this for all the roses in the world.
Letting Go
Memory is such a gift. It is thanks to memory that I can keep loved ones with me long after they’ve passed. It is memory that allows me to relive some of my best moments – moments of childhood innocence and fun, the days I started falling in love with my husband, the lessons I’ve learned along the way, the moments I’ve felt most loved. I am grateful that I can hold these thoughts in my head and my heart.
I’m also thankful for the passing thoughts that I can grab hold of when I stumble upon a worthwhile thought – the story idea that comes to me in the shower, the breakthrough in the problem I’ve been having, the self-reminders of the things I have to do each day. Sure, not every thought is worth holding on to, but I can sift through the unimportant ones and grasp the ones that I don’t want to let go of until I have a chance to follow through on them.
These thoughts that I hold onto are usually a gift, but sometimes I wish I could just push them out of my mind, if only for a few moments.
I’ve learned that my husband, along with a lot of men, apparently, can spend hours thinking of nothing. While he drives or mows the lawn, or when he gets that faraway look while we sit on the couch together, and I ask him what he’s thinking about, and he says, “Nothing.”
My husband has a logical, strategic intellect that is capable of solving incredibly intricate problems and navigating formidable challenges, but in those moments, his mind is truly empty. With very little effort, he can empty his mind and focus on nothing. And sometimes, I wish I had that superpower.
Like when I can’t fall asleep at night because my mind is jumping from one train of thought to the next. Some of them positive, some of them negative, many of them neutral, but all of them distracting. Each thought that I manage to push from my mind is replaced by two more like some psychological Hydra. And so I lay there in my bed, while my husband snores away next to me, chopping down thought after thought until my brain gives up and finally shuts down.
But when I wake up in the morning, those thoughts haven’t left. From the moment I open my eyes, they bombard me. I can’t escape them. My mind won’t let them go.
I’m thankful for the power to think, to remember, to hold on to my thoughts. I’ve seen what dementia can do, and for that very reason, I’d never hope to lose this power, but sometimes, I think it would be nice to be able to let go of my thoughts, if only for a few minutes.