Leaves Of Youth-Part 1

By Hannah Yerington

-This is the first part of a two part story..because dearest blog, is complaining about the length of it.-

 

The green leaves glistened,the little glimmers of light dancing along the trees,in delight. A small gust of wind blew past, caressing my locks as they fluttered in the air. I sighed a deep and melancholy sigh. It was the year I called the Great Awakening. The year of reality. The year of departure. The year the fairies seemed to desert me. The year I was no longer a child. The year I discovered I was not a princess. The year my costumes collected dust and my dolls whispered “come to us, once again." I guess we all had that year or a series of years but I thought somehow I was set apart. I thought, like thousands before,I was special.

But no matter how much I longed for the realm of magic, it never revealed itself to me. Santa Claus’s reindeer no longer pattered across my roof. I cried, tears soaking my red face. “Mama, why don’t the elves visit me?” Mama smiled, stroking my hair. “Elves are persnickety things, they will visit you again”. But I didn’t believe her, so my eyes rained and my heart was a storm. I didn’t believe magic could exist anymore but my soul still fought trying to give it another chance. Some told me this was growing up. But I closed my eyes when they whispered such, trying to block out the thought. I wanted to scream “I'm different! I'm different!” as they rambled on about becoming mature, about taking up the responsibilities of an adult. So I sat on my lawn and sighed, staring at the rustling leaves. I felt drained and empty. I played with dead stalks of grass, between my dry fingers and tried to weave clover chains. Each one broke.

My mom worried for me. She wondered what I thought when I sat on the lawn, under the shade of the trees for hours. She wondered why I ripped the leaves into tiny pieces and whispered into the wind. She watched me, in rage once, throw one of my dolls against the wall. I was so scared of what I had done, afraid I was a monster. I swept my doll back into my arms and frantically whispered my extreme sincere apologies. Yet, still she did not speak. She didn't even wink, or look alive. For the first time her eyes looked like the dolls in that big department store. They seemed, glazed and painted, not even the smallest spark of life. I got goose bumps. My mom looked at me in concern, but wisely said not a word.

Tea parties weren't even the same. My gloves were too small, my best princess dress pulled against my chest. I showed my mom how it pulled and she just smiled and chuckled. I was embarrassed and crossed my arms against my budding chest to hide how the dress stretched. I accidentally cracked my best tea pot and it did not appear any of my bears weren't eating the scones I offered them.

So I gave up. I sat on my lawn and blew dandelions and threw rocks, aimlessly. I sang quietly with the birds chirping. Finally one day I blew one dandelion and loudly yelled “I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS HAPPENING, BUT I WISH IT WOULD STOP. I WISH I WOULDN'T GROW UP!” I sat down, flustered, my cheeks red and blinked back tears. The wind frolicked with my tresses and I stared up at the clouds.

I remember it clearly. The rustling of the leaves became louder till it resembled a humming sound. The winds playing with my hair grew still and silent. I sat up a little straighter and stop gazing at the clouds. The humming got loud and louder. Notes, notes were playing. Awestruck, I listened attentively to the leave's tune, till it formed words:

Fall does come, her beauty regal.
Strewed with gold, She takes her wand.
A new gown to serenade the eyes.

Abruptly they stopped, words no longer uttered and the wind, rushed, a siren song it blew. Then once again it was silent. Before my eyes a maiden appeared. Fall, in her full glory began to dip her wand in the hearts of the trees. The tree nymphs smiled and slowly found themselves lulled to sleep by falls song. Why had I never noticed the tree nymphs in the trees before? To each leaf she bestowed a new gown and they crackled in appreciation. I could not speak, my tongue made of stone. Slowly she turned toward me, her soft face radiating with joy. She reached out and touched me gently behind my ear. Then as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished. I blinked, terrified and entranced.

I ran to my house, legs pounding across wet grass. Behind my ear was a small gold light resembling a fingerprint. I smiled. I heard my dolls chatter noisily and swore I saw an elf’s face peer behind my closet door. My doll's eyes twinkled with merriment. My bears grumbled for some ham at my next tea part. Grinning, I entered the gates of magic once again.

When I tell people of Fall and the leaves singing, they laugh. They always smile politely. Then they thank me for the lovely story.

~~

While, the rest of the world, grew up, I didn't. My body aged, my back got aches and cracks. I went through school and then even college. People called me innocent, even slow sometimes. But that wasn't it. I just saw the things they couldn't see, or had lost. That imaginative part of me, the child who believed in magic, just grew stronger and stronger. I no longer even needed to imagine the fairies or wonder if my doll was really talking to me. I just saw, I just knew. My experience with Fall had forever altered me.

I remember my friends telling me to grow up, hear them whisper. They wondered why I stared in raptures at rosebushes or sang to the moon. At first I tried to point things out, marvel out how they couldn't see what I saw. But soon, it came apparent that something in me, was different. I wondered why, I of all people had this privilege, yet at the same time, this curse. I gained an entire world of magic, yet lost so much of this world. The one I inhabited barely understood me.

But then, wasn't the very point of magic, that it can't be explained? That in fairy-tales, the strangest things happen to the ordinary-est of people? I could have grown up, just like everyone else. But that wasn't my destiny. Instead, I became part of a fairy tale. I often wonder if one day, someone will write my story down in a little bound book and a publisher will find it in a book. But I'm not all that old fashioned, so I find myself writing bits and pieces of it, often. .

I also wonder quite a lot about Fall. Who she is exactly. I met her sister, Spring, once. I've asked around but no one seems to really now. She just is. She always was. I'm at the age, where sometimes I just accept things. It is not a lack of curiosity as the young might believe. I never lost my tireless childlike curiosity. But though I kept my childhood burning bright within me, I've also gained much of the wisdom of time.

I'm content with the allure of mystery. Isn't that what made childhood so exciting? Getting as close to a mystery as possible, almost touching the magic...but never quite figuring it out? Knowing there was a monster in the closet, was the allure, but it actually responding to you yelling at it to leave..well that might have ruined it. The mystery of what is was like, why it was there, might be shattered. And then, the monster wasn't appealing anymore. It's the same way now. I don't know where I would be, without my mysteries. So I never forced answers. Answering everything is for those who don't have know how to just live. It's for those who can't find poetry in the roses or magic in the mystery. People might call it faith and say I'm being irrational. But why would I want to know everything? Because life is nothing when you can reduce it to facts. Why would fairy-tales exist in the first place, if everything ought to be answered?

It's always been a question of mine, if there are other people like me. There has to be. I met one once. She was in her eighties, driven mad by her fantasies, or so they thought. She kept mumbling about goblins and how bothersome they are. I visited her in her rest home. I didn't see any goblins, but I told her a little spell to ward them off, anyways. I brushed out the frizzy, matted, auburn hair of her doll and had tea with her. I enjoyed my time with her. But it also worried me. She had obviously become so entrapped in this other world, if it can be called that, that we both at access to, that she lost touch with earth. It was literally as if her mind was caught in some vortex. She had access to two worlds, yet somehow had got lost in one..and couldn't find her way back. She barely knew how to operate a sink, she never learned how to drive. She burnt her fingers on the stove, when I heated hot water for tea, on the stove. I yelled, in panic, but she said something about the fire not being alive. I wondered if she ever used a stove. The entire world had defined her as mad. I could see why. We both had the same blessing and curse. But she had taken it to far. She was literally trapped in her imagination. She spoke of nothing besides the goblins, how bothersome imps are and an old lover of hers, a handsome kobold.

I was scared that I would turn out like her. I resolved that I wouldn't. I couldn't lose contact with Earth. But I couldn't lose contact with..my other world. The world that was somehow part of earth, yet not at all. The world where teddy bears talk and there really is a man on the moon. So I lived my fairytale but I also kept contact with Earth. I made sure to talk to people, to not revert into fantasy.

For a while I became a drama teacher, because having an eccentric drama teacher seemed socially accepted. It was a role, in which crazies were accepted. Though I had done a lot of drama through the years and was qualified for the role, I soon found I was not meant for it. I never was shy, but always confined. I liked my privacy and suddenly my world became a stage. For the quote "The world is your stage, you are always auditioning.", I have doubts about. When I am smelling a flower, I am not auditioning. But I guess that is being technical. But suddenly I felt like I was auditioning, constantly. People think there are three acceptable kinds of crazy. The first is flat out crazy. The kind of homeless man wearing a fuzzy hat, crazy. It freaks people out, but without it the world would be a lot less interesting. So we tolerate it. The second acceptable form is genius crazy. Basically people assume you are so smart that you are crazy. The third form is the flamboyant crazy: The David Bowie's, Andy Warhol's, Auntie Marm's of the world. You are an artsy hipster and punk, so you are acceptable. In comes in varying levels, but it is still the acceptable kind of crazy.

My main problem was that I wasn't any of those. I tried the hipster crazy, but that wasn't me. I was a reserved, somewhat quiet person who was deemed slightly insane. But in order to make that insane acceptable in a role as a drama teacher, I had to form it into the right crazy. So when I made comments about fairies, suddenly I needed to tie it into Midsummer's Night Dream and quote a overly dramatic scene from it, playing Puck and Oberon all at once. Needless to say, I lasted less there two years and then resigned.

I knew I needed a challenging job because a challenge would keep me grounded . It gave me a dose of what is considered reality, even if it was not my reality. I wanted to write fairy-tales, as they came easily to me. But I knew the danger of that. So I took up journalism. I find that in journalism, crazies are also allowed. In fact writing is a safe haven for all the lost loons of this world. By writing reality constantly, I had a reliable tug to keep me from drifting away. I would hear fairies singing outside my office constantly as I stared at my dim computer screen. I would talk to them occasionally, but I refused to let them in my office. I knew if I did, then soon I would be pulled completely into their blissful world. I was in no way ignoring it, just making sure that I didn't completely exist in their world. But I did write fairytales in my spare time and published a few volumes of them, here and there. They did well and I was comfortably off, never being an extravagant spender.

But journalism was not in any way, my love. I enjoyed it, it was hard, but I was not passionate. I never had children, much to my dismay. So later after years of journalism, I gave little writing seminars on request, for middle school students. I was a well known writer and journalist in my town and so for many years now, I've visited the middle school and taught writing workshops. I saw some of the children, already men and women of the world, and they don't understand me in the least. The artsier, philosophical ones love me, though sometimes I wonder if it is just to analyze me. I like it there, it's peaceful. I teach classes, but I am famous for my off subject rambles about fanciful things. I lead them on tours through their school, which they have seen a million times and tell them to notice something new. I make them stand on ladders, ask them how it feels to be so tall, and then write from the perspective of some who is that tall. A giants, perhaps. I have them crawl on the ground, and ask them how that changes their perspective. Then they will write from the perspective of some one who must crawl. A baby, perhaps. I've since retired from journalism, but I do this and write my stories. I don't drift off into fantasy and I don't get chained to Earth. 

But it hasn't been easy. My other world, seem so much safer. There people don't back stab you, and beauty is always obvious. I've struggled to find the beauty in people, in this world. But I find the less I concentrate on finding it, the more obvious it becomes. Funny, how things are like that. I always like to think I am living somewhere between the fairy gates of earth and childhood.

I knew people would never really get me. That I wouldn't be accepted. That sometimes people would label me as mad.

My family wondered why I told my sister's kids that they definitely WAS a monster in their closet, when my sister was trying to convince them there was not. My sister yelled at me, thinking it was a joke. She mentioned the times I told her kids about how some goblins want to eat children, and that mermaids have fangs. She was livid. I tried to explain how these things do exist, for the last time. She said she didn't even know me anymore. She screamed at me to grow up. She is my baby sister. We barely talk anymore. But my mom says her kids always ask if they can visit the magical aunt. They think I'm a fairy.

My mom has never mentioned anything about me growing up, about me being strange. I'm happy, and I am mildly successful. She doesn't pry. I think magic has slightly touched her sometimes. I first thought this when she hummed a little familiar tune..very similar to the one the leaves sing. I asked her about it and she just murmured and walked off. I was probably mistaken. My father, a writer himself, just uses me as writing material. We never had a strong relationship and so in the later years, he has connected with me through making me his muse. It's a strange, strained relationship, but it is better than nothing. He still thinks I am insane, though.

I've lost contact with lot of friends, a lot of relatives. Something about saying "I need to go home, it is my doll's bedtime." or "Why look..the sun is being pulled away by a Phoenix today! I wonder how the sun feels about that! That's odd!", does not always go well. Once I told my doctor that an infection on my neck might be from a vampire. He said he would check it out. I told him to be careful, I was fighting an urge to bite him. I kind of regret saying that, as he won't look me in the eye, now. Some people think I have a great sense of humor, till they realize I am serious. This either scares people or they love it. Sometimes I worry I am just a fun circus for people to watch. That they keep me for amusement. And yes, some do. But what hurts the most, is those that were once close, pulling away.

My best friend from elementary school, a very artsy creative girl, pretty much abandoned me in high school. I was getting more and more involved in this "other world" of mine, and she kept mentioning this. She put up with it freshman year, but it embarrassed her. I remember once I told the cafeteria lady "I CAN'T EAT THIS...AN OGRE GOT HIS MUCUS ON IT! YOU ARE POISONING US ALL!" She pretended she didn't know me after that for the rest of the day. By sophomore year, she announced that she couldn't take it anymore. After that, we didn't even look at each other in the halls. I cried, but I knew it would not be the last time I would cry over someone. It wasn't. I lost my first boyfriend when I told him that he definitely had kobold blood and should try shape shifting. I laugh at that, now.

But this is my fate. I've had trouble accepting it. But most of all, I have had trouble accepting that I am this way. I wonder to what purpose, to what aide it is for years. That's been the hardest struggle, of all: to not know why, or to what purpose, I have become who I am.

I think that I am here to live. That sounds very simple. It is. But I think that I am meant to live in this manner, to drop a little pixie dust. That also sounds so very simple. But it isn't really. They say that we all have the soul of a poet within us, that died young. Well I am here to breath life into those poets. I find that the lost souls, the wandering artists, those starved of childhood, flock to me. I didn't understand it for years. But now I do. I'm meant to breath little breaths of magic back into their lives. Sometimes I can show people the fairies, or just make them laugh like they haven't for years. It's satisfying, but also tolling. I've been called the muse, the magic lady, the stark mad lady. All fit, quite well. I'm sort of, whatever people want to see in me.

Once on a subway, I conversed with my friend Aiken Drum, the brownie, and a young couple peered at me suspiciously. I was muttering to Aiken about how confusing subways are and who ever thought of creating such a thing. Aiken just rolled his eyes at me and stroked his beard. I kept muttering in a hushed tone, not exactly talking to him anymore, lost in the complexity of the map of the Subway station, sprawled on my lap. I never have quite got the hang of such things. Sometimes I think it's the kid still inside of me..who would much rather be escorted around.

The young couple kept staring at me. I believe the girl whispered “Is she okay? Why is she talking to herself?” The boy put his hands to his lips and squeezed her hand. The girl was obviously very uncomfortable with me. Well I was agitated as I had no idea how I was going to navigate around the subway station, once the subway stopped. So I kept blabbering to Aiken Drum, about how aggravating subways are. But I stared at the girl out of the corner of my eye.

She kept whispering to the boy, squeezing his hand. She seemed was convinced I was mad. But the boy kept rolling his eyes. He smiled widely at me, and I smiled back. Finally we struck up a conversation.

END OF PART 1..TO BE CONTINUED

Green Boy

 -Not a new story, but one that ought to be shared with the rest of the world..there is more if anyone is interested. Want to rate it? Press my link to the same story on teen ink:http://www.teenink.com/fiction/sci_fi_fantasy/article/327084/Green-Boy/ Thanks!-

Life is a fairytale. At least it was when we were young. What went wrong? What broke our bubble words, shattered our porcelain dolls? When I was young, my favorite fairytale was Fern. Fern was my best friend and first love. The only problem was he was imaginary. A conjure-ment of my mind.

I met him when we moved. I was alone in a big new house with a  busy parent and a long summer ahead of me. I was seven years old and the only child my age, I had met, was my neighbor. He was a chubby little boy with a nasty temper who used to steal my dolls and hang them by their hair. I detested him.

 My mom dragged me to mass one Sunday and in the pew right in front of me, sat a princess. Or so I thought. There sat a little girl with rose cheeks, golden curls and a princess dress of pink tulle and daisies embroidered all over the hem of the dress. She sat perfectly composed and sang with a clear cut crystal voice. She became my idol. I wanted to be around that girl. I spent the summer begging to see this exquisite slip of a child.

But this princess girl, Lizzie, was not all sugar and cream. She was conniving and nagging with her parents wrapped around her little fingers. Never the less her way with words, her art of storytelling, entranced me. I was blinded my extreme desire to win her approval. I would pick her wilted flowers and even give her my dolls. To this day I can't shake her little rosebud face from my head. I thought we were best friends.

  But she had different ideas. Her mother was an awful gossip and must have said something about my family to her daughter. Something about our hurting financial status, the fact that I didn't know my biological father and my mother was infamous for changing partners. The same stale gossip that has followed me my entire life. She turned her child against me..said I wasn't high class and Lizzie decided she didn't want anything to do with me. In her high pitched voice she said "YOU ARE NOT REPUTABLE..AND I NEVER LIKE YOUR DOLLS ANYWAYS. YOUR MOMMY IS A BAD PERSON!"

That wasn't the last time I would hear that but it hurt just the same. I cried in my mom's arms all day after that and she rocked me back and forth.
"My baby." She said
"My precious lamb..I am so sorry..I should never have let you play with that high and mighty little brat. I guess I am a bad person. Oh, darling I try to so hard. It just isn't easy! Oh, I will be better..oh my baby, my baby."

So the next day I met Fern. I was dancing to no music around the field outside my house singing
"I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE..PEOPLE ARE MEAN. I THINK THEY ARE NICE BUT THEN THEY ARE MEAN. 'CEPT MOMMY. MOMMY IS NICE!" I chirped angrily. I decided I was only going to be friends with mommies and dolls. That was the only logical conclusion. And maybe if I found a fairy I would be friends with the fairy too. 

But I did want a human friend. So it made sense that I would make one up. The main problem was I was not sure how to make a human. At first I thought about Sunday school and tried to sculpt a pile of mud into a girl. That failed. After many unsuccessful attempts to try to hit some magic words and doing a fairy dance..or how I thought a fairy would dance, I had nothing. Then inspiration struck. Obviously this would be more simple if the person was invisible. If only I could see the person. I tried to create a little invisible girl out of air but she was boring and I told her to go back to the wind.

Frustrated, I went inside and curled up among my fairytale books. They always made me happy. I picked up my favorite green covered book and read about Cinderella. Then I turned to my favorite picture. It was of a ballroom with dancing princes and princesses. But on the left side sat a little boy dressed all in green with a spaniel at his feet. He was staring straight out the page. I don't know why I loved him so much but I always wanted to look at him. Today he almost looked alive. I tilted my head.

"I think you should be my friend!" I told him
"Yes, you are gonna be my friend! You are invisible to everyone else and I'm gonna call you Fern because that is my favoritest leaf!" I whispered to the boy on the page
"NOW STAY RIGHT THERE FERN..TILL I CLOSE MY EYES..and then I will close my eyes and you can jump out of the page! KAY?!" I commanded.
I closed my eyes, put the book down and turned to face the other direction.
"ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TEN!" I hollered.


Then I jumped around. I squealed. There was a little boy all dress in green right in front of me. He had big blond hair and bright green eyes and freckles. He gave me a cocky grin.
"You didn't think that would work!" he said indignantly
"I DID TOO!" I yelled
"DID NOT!"
"DID TOO!"
I stuck my tongue out at him and wrinkled my nose "I'm in charge of you cuz I brought you to life."
"I think I should be in charge because I am older!"
"YOU ARE NOT! PROVE IT!"
"I have been in that book for years!"
"SO YOU ARE AN OLD MAN? EW! OLD MAN! OLD MAN! OLD MAN!"
Fern grinned and picked up the green book. "I COULD HIT YOU WITH THIS!"
"YOU WOULDN'T! YOU CAN'T HIT A GIRL!"
Fern scratched his head "That is true..."
I grabbed the book, smirking "BUT I CAN HIT YOU!" I hit Fern squarely on the arm.
"HEY..I WILL GET YOU FOR THAT!" Fern yelled.

My mom wondered why I ran around the lawn screaming "CATCH ME IF YOU CAN!" to the wind. And that was how I met Fern.



Fern was not always around. He said he lived inside the book and he only came out sometimes. And sometimes he was ornery and refused to come out at all. I told my mom all about him and she took it all in stride. She was glad that I was at least amused. I told Fern about all my mom's man friends and how I didn't like them. He said I needed a sword to protect myself and my mommy from the mean ones. He was smart like that. I would like to say I never hit anyone with my new wooden sword but that would be a lie. One man made my mommy cry and as my mom kicked in out the door I hit in between the legs with my wooden sword as hard as I could. My mom said she was proud of him. And Fern just laughed.


I loved Fern. He was my best friend. He taught me how to be a pirate and told the biggest whoppers of all time. At least I thought they were. And best of all he listened. He always listened. He liked to pull pranks on me. One day he told me my house was haunted. He said to get rid of the ghost I would have to sprinkle my entire house with baking soda. I listened. I will never forget my mom's shriek. I told him he was an idiot and I never wanted to talk to him again. He just laughed and I shut the book so he couldn't get out. When I finally open it he popped up, glared and said he didn't miss me. I told him he did too. After a long fight about whether or not he missed me or not he flicked me in the ear.


I was indignant and said I would never talk to him again if he didn't have a tea party with me. He agreed if he didn't have to wear gloves or lipstick. At that tea party he made me promise that when we were older I would kiss him. I told him that was disgusting, but promised none the less. I never could stay mad at him.


One day I decided I wanted to go back into the book with him but he said that was impossible. I nagged and nagged till finally he promised that maybe we could try. I held is hand and we jumped into the book. But only he went in and I stayed out of the book. I cried about that. I had so wanted to go into the book. Fern comforted me and he promised to tell me all about the world. But he never really did. That was okay, we created our own world. We threw balls, killed dragons and built fairy houses. The summer I turned eight was one of the best times of my life. Bathed in golden innocence and sunshine I spent it blissfully playing with Fern.


Fern was special. I could never proved if he existed. Often he said exactly what I was thinking or moved synchronized with my movements. Sometimes I thought he was me. Maybe he was. Sometimes I could barely see him. When we touched, I felt the presence, the warmth of him but never actual being. Sometimes it was if he was just completely imaginary. But I knew he was different.


I went to school and I made new friends. I didn't have as much time for Fern now, but we remained close. I kept Fern for years past the average life of an imaginary friend. Something always drew me back to him. As I grew older I stopped talking about him, it was embarrassing to have people tell me that he didn't exist, that I was too old for an imaginary friend. There were days he was so misted over I swore that he was just a figment of my head. Finally at age 12 I demanded an answer
"ARE YOU REAL?!" OR DID I MAKE YOU UP?" I said indignantly
Fern cocked his head "I don't know sometimes. But I think I am real. It is all very confusing."
I scrunched my nose "That sounds insane!"
"I know!" he said angrily
"No need to get punchy, Fern!"
"I am not being punchy, you are!"
"So sorry for asking questions. Next time I will learn how to not be curious."
"That is not what I meant! Gosh, don't be so difficult. It's complicated!" He huffed
"Well excuse me! What is complicated Mr. I might not even exist?"
"SHUT UP! YOU WOULDN'T UNDERSTAND!" He screamed. He ran over to the book and threw himself back into it. I shut it angrily.


Fern began to appear less often, which was fine with me. I had doubts about him. I asked my mom whether it was possible to have a real imaginary friend. She sighed and looked at me "You are too old for that kind of stuff." But I didn't want to let go of him. Maybe he really was real. But when I was around..something seemed weaker. I felt like I was really talking to the wind. One day I couldn't even see him and barely hear him. This continued as I replaced my fairytale books with teen books and him with new friends. Finally it got to the point that I was convinced I had imagined it all. Fern was completely imaginary. I never saw him anymore. He was gone. Vanished.

I missed him sometimes, my old self too. I even wondered if maybe he could have been real, but I tried not to dwell on it. I was just a silly little girl then, I told myself. I had a crush on a boy my freshman year. He reminded me of Fern. He tried to kiss me once, which I thought I had wanted .But when he leaned in towards me I remembered my promise to Fern and turned away. It was silly, but I couldn't kiss him. It felt all wrong. That was the end, I never dated him. Never even looked twice at him again.

Sophomore year I was severely confused about my life. My mom wanted us to move in with her new boyfriend, but I didn't feel comfortable about the way he looked at me, when my mom was not in the room. People said I was pretty but I felt ugly. I got good grades but I felt stupid. I wanted to be young again. I want to be little. I wanted to dance in a field. My best friend, Peggy moved and my old nemesis Lizzie transferred to my high school. I was miserable.

I ended up in Miss Regina's English class. People said she was the hardest teacher in all the school, straight as a rail and just as strict. And strict she was but she never let us write anything that wasn't us. The first thing she ever said to us was
"Hello. I have a reputation. I am strict, scary and not afraid to yell. Behave and I'll behave. First things first, this in an English class. The best writers wrote what was real. Something that resonated with people. I want you to write you. If I ever feel like you are forcing your writing to be something it is not, I will make you stop. Take out a sheet and write one of your most embarrassing moments, then write an alternate ending to it. You have 10 minutes. GO!"

I learned to love her. She,really was passionate about English. She was the first person to ever sit me down and say I should be a writer. She said I had a way with words. She asked if I read much. I said not as much as I should. She promptly took out of a stack of books and dumped them in my arm.
"Read them..I don't care if you fail math to finish them..just read them."


Those books changed my life. I became ravenous. Books were my haven. I started to devour books. They kept me safe from my problems, from the screams of my mom and her boyfriend. Miss Regina noted that my writing had improved by bounds. After I read all I could, I tried to write. I wrote fairy-tales and I found that Fern popped up in each. I was confused. I hadn't thought about him for years. But everyone I turned he seemed to be in my writing. I stopped writing for a while

But I couldn't. It was almost like he was trying to communicate with me. I wrote strange stories of a distant world that seemed to spring from my head. The land was dark and filled with strange beings,not completely formed, some not dead or alive..not undead. Just there. I felt like I was in a trance at moments,the words writing themselves.


I woke up one morning from a disturbing dream. White hands were grabbing for me..I was running through a dark forest. For some reason I was convinced that if I could read the middle of the forest I would be safe. I tried to scream, but I had no voice. I finally reached what I deemed the middle of the forest. In the middle was Fern! But he was much older, a young man, much taller then I. He grabbed my hand and faced me "It's time." He whispered
"For what?!" I panted

I woke up, out of breath and cold. Something possessed me and I walked down the stairs. I opened the glass bookcase holding my old fairytale books and took out the green one. I opened to the page of Fern and stroked the outline of the little green boy's picture. I brought the book up to my room and that night read it over again, cover to cover. I fell back asleep.

When I woke up I was exhausted. For some reason I placed the book in my book bag and went to school with it. I fell asleep during math class and almost got detention. I sat down in the cafeteria at lunch, alone. I just wanted to be with my thoughts. My friend Beth, was gone from school anyways,today. I rubbed my face and opened up the book to the page of Fern. I looked at it. Why now? Why was it captivating me so much, right now? I heard foot steps.

Suddenly I turned my head.
"GAH..who is coming over here!"
I put my head back down and tried to ignore them. The person sat down across from me. I looked up at them and gasped. It was a boy with a long mane of blond hair, fine sculpted features,freckles and sea green eyes. He was dressed completely in green.
"Oh my gosh!" I muttered under my breath.
He winked.
"No way. No way. No way. You don't exist."
He put his hand out. "Feel it."
I squeezed his hand. It was completely real.
"Can they see you..too?" I whispered.
He grinned and nodded.
"Prove it."
He hollered at a high-schooler walking by "CAN YOU SEE ME, DUDE?!"
The guy looked confused "Erm..of course I can see you."
"Oh my flippin' gosh. Oh my gosh. No way. No way."
"Yes,way!" he laughed
"WHAT IS GOING ON?!!"
"It's time."
"Time for what?!!"
"For you to come into the book with me?"
"THIS BOOK?!" I said pointing to the fairytale book.
"Yep."
"WHY?! WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON?"
"Woah, calm down..is this how you greet your old best friend? Because I need your help. Calm down."
I took a deep breath "Okay...PROMISE ME YOU WILL EXPLAIN THIS?!"
"Promise."
I shifted uncomfortably. Should I hug him or scream? "Hey I am sorry.."
"For what?"
"For being convinced you don't exist..AH, I STILL DON'T THINK YOU CAN EXIST!"
He chuckled. "You should just shut up and hug me now."
I giggled and threw my arms around him "I missed you."
"I missed you too!" he said. He whispered in my ear "Plus I think you owe me a kiss."
I pulled my arms away and glared. "In your dreams, bozo!" I hit him with my fairytale book.
He pretended to look hurt and then he looked serious "So I guess I have some explaining to do?"
"Heck, yea."
He nodded.."I just came from Heck..."
"What?!"
"Nothing!"
"After school you are coming over and I am interrogating you until I am completely satisfied." I threatened
Fern gave me a cocky smile "I'll never talk!"
"You are an idiot." I murmured 

  (Picture taken from the Ballerina Project)

This Is For Being

~The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hands Frederick  Knowles~

 

This is for those late nights when you can't sleep. When the wind it too hot and your thoughts are too warm. This is for those silly worries that you shouldn't even care about, and those little heart pricks that shouldn't even hurt. This is for the way you don't understand where your life is heading, or where you are going for that matter. This is for the dizziness you feel when you are confused about the slightest things. This is for being a teenager and all your pent up teenage angst.

This is for the crickets outside who have no idea what it means to feel a million things at once.

This is for the advice, “You should write every day..if you write once a month no one will follow you.” Or the added in words in my head, “No one will care.” This is for conviction that seems steadfast,but never lasts. This is for the poet that is inside of us, that died at a young age. This if for trying to  revive yours, but its dying again. Or maybe I'm not good enough, anymore. This is for the moments we laugh so hard, because something isn't all that funny, it just ought to be.

A lot of things ought to be, but they never will, so why does it matter at all?

This is for talking in riddles to sound all profound, but not meaning a lot. This is for realizing you miss someone for the first time and being afraid of that feeling. Missing some one means you care. It's something that feels a lot like need, but isn't. Missing means you are actually genuinely attached to a person and attached enough to feel they are far away.Attached means they can tug and you can get hurt. Isn't it funny how sometimes the people closest to you are the ones you miss the most?

The ones that are the farthest away?

Is that funny at all? Or is that just plain sad. Or maybe it is sad like sad clown, it really ought not be sad because it is actually funny. Or maybe it is just scary. A lot of things are scary, like right now. This is for when you were little and thought the scariest thing was the dark. You had the innocence of being unaware the scariest dark, resides in people's hearts. This is for sentences that are not supposed to rhyme, but do anyways, because sentences never gave a cent about what you thought. You know who doesn't give a cent about what you think?

No One.

Everyone gives a whole lot of cents for what you think. Even the ones who pretend they don't. Some day they might go broke paying for your thoughts. That's food for thought, and some one has to pay for that food. This is for the moments to feel like crying, for no reason at all. And not because of  happiness or sadness or even madness. Just being. Sometimes just being is enough to make someone cry. Not because it is a bad thing, just because it is. This is for the few people, who don't understand what that means and never will. They may be lucky, or maybe not.

But I never did believe in luck.

This is for the words left unsaid here, not because I am scared but because they aren't ready. This if for telling myself that, even if it is a lie. This is for being a difficult person, but not unreasonable. This is about being who I am, because being someone else off stage, was never anything I was anything good at. This is for being a name that you will one day know and maybe even care about..but then again maybe not.

This is for being.

                      (Photo from the Ballerina Project)

The Policy Of Truth

-One of the most flawed, most truthful stories, if it can be called that, that I have ever written.-

You, you used to have all the answers. You knew why the moon set and what made the water blue. You were the girl with the chin held high. Sometimes they said you were stuck up. But you were just self assured. Confidence was your stride and pride came with the territory. And why not? You had the grades, the potential to wear the pride. Doubts were held on leash, your pet insecurities with little collars, totally under control. Sometimes they might pull you through the park and you would scrape your knee, but what's a little blood?

There was the year she just tried to pull you down, taking..taking...because your heart only taught you to give. A living sacrifice is a horrible way to live, dearie. And your little chin was pulled down a few notches of air. Isn't it funny to think of notches of air? Well sometimes air is just as hard as wood, and hides delusions easier. There was that year you didn't feel pretty, like some ones old rag doll. You couldn't sing like an angel and your feet felt like some one's old hand-me-downs. Like they were bought from some store of clumsy, defective body parts. “Little feet, damage is fine as long as they are cheap..have any in stock?” The teacher said you were the only one struggling with the math in a pool of D's and C's. The B on your report card was a blood stain. You watched the boy, the one with the personality like a tarnished pearl you wanted to clean. You said you had no more respect for him. His face fell for the first time and you felt a bitter, empty surge of control of people's hearts and you didn't want it. An ice queen was born inside of you..

The next year was spent thawing, restoring your hope in humanity. You over-dramatize everything, child. You never did have any great tragedy, it just felt like it. You closed yourself because its so very hard to respect people. But because your greatest fear is to end up without pieces of your heart. It's an over sized heart and you protect it like a ferocious dog. I'm afraid you will bite someone one day for touching it, darling. You grew up and you stop hurting..you relearned the meaning of love. Or learned it for the first time. Love is to serve, to care about others more than yourself. But you care a lot about yourself.

Why? Why not? You fought to be who you are, to feel like sometimes you ARE pretty and that you aren't hand-me-downs. You fought to have a voice like an angel, but you found it through ink. It isn't all that beautiful but it has the hope of something angelic. But more importantly you learned sometimes it isn't about the fighting. About the faith that your life isn't yours to control. You work your hardest and then you let go. But you never were good at that. You know humanity is worth it, even though they are black and tarnished. Even though you are black and tarnished.

Sometimes the very people who have insulted you, you find are the most beautiful. Because despite whatever mean things they say, parts of them open, and you see who they really are. Just as broken as the rest of us. She told you about her past life, her brother put up for adoption and her marriage and wasn't it strange? An entire perspective changed. You always did love the broken, because some of the most beautiful things start broken. A mosaic of a broken heart that you watch turn into art.

You still fight so hard to be worth something. To paint yourself in gold and be looked at like art. You try to wrap yourself in profoundness, drink meaning so that humanity will know your name. You ought to have learned by know to let go, to just let life unfold. But you always were the folder, and unfolding is something mysterious and unsettling to you. Doesn't it it create paper cuts?

But then doesn't life produce paper cuts? I guess we just have to suck our thumbs, apply bandages and move on? One day they might call you whimsy because you never could stay in one place, always off to chase the fairies. It's not because you don't see what is in front of you, but rather you see more in front of you. As an artist you feel more because you chose to be more. Or because you feel more, you must be more? You have to be more than you are now. But the secret to be happy is to be content. Well maybe for some. For you, you need to learn how to fly. And one day when you learn to fly, you can just sit down on a rocking chair and smile. And why they ask you why you aren't flying every where, I just bet, you will say “I know how to fly, I want to learn how to sit still now.” Because you did always have all the answers, by the end.

A Spoonful Of Childhood

 -When I grow up I think I want to be a little girl in a pink dress, tossing her curls to the wind and collecting butterflies. That should suit me just fine.-

When she was little she liked big teacups and warm blankets. She loved her slippers, soft as rabbit fur and her mama's curls. She rubbed lavender on her fingers to pretend she was grown, wearing  perfume. She borrowed her mom's big orange heels and wore them around the house, sliding across the wood floor. When she swept she pretended she was Cinderella and sang. As she ran up stairs, she always made sure to drop one of her shoes on the stairs. When she came back down, she would put the shoe back on, pretending to be amazed it fit. An imaginary prince would escort her back down the stairs to his castle.

She believed the wooden fairy in her room was alive. She would cover its eyes when she changed. One night she woke up screaming, convinced the fairy had touched her nose. She never did trust that fairy. She did not give it a name because names give power. Everyone knows that once something has a name it becomes even more alive. The more you say a name, the more alive something becomes. For example: her favorite stuffed animal. She said her name over and over and over again. And with each repetition of the toy's name she swore, she could see it's sleepy eyes twinkle, more and more. She bathed it in the sink in a mass of bubbles.

She knew Lucy lived in the back of her car. Lucy was always bossing around Charlie Brown in the trunk. She didn't really like Lucy..though as she got older her mom said she was most like Lucy of all the Peanut characters. She would like to resent that statement. She dressed up as a unicorn every time her mom dragged her to the bank. She had a head band with a silvery horn and ribbons, a little pink skirt with a silvery and white tail. The banker lied to her. She invested all her savings, a sum of one hundred dollars into an account. The banker told her about interest. He said if she kept her money in long enough, so long she was an adult her interest would grow. He said it grow so much that by then she could buy as many toys as she wanted. She began to plan what toys she would still want as an adult. Then she tried to guess how many jelly beans were in the jar at the bank. But she didn't get to eat any.

She had a little book about fairies. The only male fairy had fiery orange hair and freckles. Simply put, she thought he was super cute, but she had no idea what that meant. She always looked at the pictures of him, over and over again. One sad day, she realized something. His hair was not orange at all..He was wearing an orange caterpillar on his head! She then assumed he was bald and stopped reading the book over and over again.

The fuzzy blue caterpillars always looked like small oriental rugs to her. The kind she wanted to put in her dollhouse. But she couldn't put caterpillars in her doll house, so instead she conducted weddings for them. She made little arches out of daisies and clovers and read them verses from the bibles. Then she made the little fuzzy blue caterpillars kiss, guessing where their lips were. Do caterpillars have lips?

She saw an elf one time and heard a dwarf laughing inside a tree trunk. She also knew a house where an elf lived..but only when it was warm enough. Years later she brought her brother back to the house and yet again, neither of them saw the elf. He always was elusive. Some say elves are tall and willowy, gorgeous creatures of grace and honor. But the elves she always knew were short, bubbly creatures with cheeks the color of roses. They liked to steal little things and the really small ones would even drive off in some one's little remote cars. At least her dad said so. But then her dad seem to be the authority on all of this. She should have had him scare away the three witches in her closet. She always thought they might eat her one night. Thankfully she scared them away herself. Though to this day, she can't scare the gollem like creature from her vent.

On her 15^th birthday her friend gave her a box of chocolates shaped like mushrooms. That night, before midnight they each ate one, promising never to grow up, to always stay children at heart. So she wrote poetry and walked down her street in a black cloak. She wore a crazy green skirt shaped like a bon-bon out. She skipped in the rain. At camp she gathered flowers and weaved a wreath for her hair. She danced like a spazz and sang Matchmaker at the top of her lungs. She chased her dog around the beach and fell down to wrestle him. She stuck her tongue out and made people pinky promise. She went to Busch gardens and hugged Cookie monster. She kept calling her little brother 'Boo-boo' and told her dad to tell her stories.

  Her grandpa always said, “You have your entire life to grow up, anyways.”

Pelicans And Memories

The moment  I picked up that dying fish, flopping in the sand, the salt on my tongue, sun in my eyes, I wasn't Hannah. I was the fisherman's wife, saving an enchanted fish. I was the wide eyed girl drunk off the words of a tale, late at night, under the covers, sneaking each sentence as each sound around the house meant imminent trouble. When I gently lifted it up and dived into the sea with it, being gentle as I could, I was swimming with my grandfather in Montauck, amazed he actually jumped into the ice cold water. The fish wouldn't swim, helplessly floating on it's back and I was the little girl, crying because she came home to her fish floating in her little glass bowl. But it couldn't be dead, like how my dog came home, hit by a car, guts coming out of his side, but still breathing. When I talked to the fish, gently telling it it couldn't give up, I was out my counter sighing over my math, convinced against myself I could do it..yet I could not. When I threw the fish, hoping somehow it would regain strength, I watched it fly throw the air for three seconds and land into the water. I remember learning to swan dive and I would feel like I was flying, then hurling to the water in an embarrassing flop. My legs curled too much and I thought I just couldn't. Sometimes things stop fighting, so other fight for them. I think about babies and how we are literally their voices, their fighters. I leave the water and walk to the shore, grandparents looking sympathetic yet impatient. I sometimes look at my brothers when they are close to tears but too strong or weak too admit it, full of sympathy and think..well that is life. But is it? The sand is hot and sticks to my wet feet..a small sand storm follows me wherever I go. Two boys kick sand at something moving on the sand..their dad yells "DON'T TOUCH!" I run to the fish, blood a puddle around it. I won't let it go. It has to live. I remember the swallow that was pushed out of its nest. I named him Dandylion and I took care of him. I even told him about flying, created places outside for him to practice. I tried to fly with him..holding onto some small hope, that deep inside flying is only a matter of how hard you believe. I saved Dandy and one day he flew away. I can save this fish. I throw him back into the water, over and over again. He can't swim, his fin is injured. I wonder why I care so deeply for this fish, a little bigger then my hand. I know if I leave him on the beach, that is part of nature. He will be a meal for the squeaking pelicans..part of life. But somehow this fish is part of my life. He feels bigger to me. I can't let him go without a fight. I talk to him, refusing to lose him. I want to save the world and so I start with this fish. I am afraid to fail. Fail at life. What if I can't change the world..want if I can't feed hungry bellies or help orphans? What if my writing is meaningless trash? Does it make you cry? Make you smile..make you laugh? When I pour out my soul..do you see melted brass? So here with this fish, I try to touch its fragile life..help it. It sounds ridiculous, even wrong. And eventually I  must accept, Herbie is a meal for the pelicans. I let him go, watching his frame float back to the sand bed. I want to run back at him, throw him back in the water. When I was younger my dog killed my favorite chick and I wanted to breath life back into it, pull part of my dogs life and breath it into the little chick. For a moment I hated my dog. How could something so innocent be so brutally destroyed? I want to chase all the pelicans and seagulls, away from the beach. Then they couldn't hurt this little fish, that I inexplicably had bonded to. But soon I realized sometimes you can't save the fish, sometimes you do fail, it turns out you helped the seagull..and sometimes..that's okay.

The Silver Fork

~Our first guest post,written by the fabulous Marrianne Morland, poetess and 'knitress' of the silver fairies! Here is a true recounted recounting,of an experience of a dear friend of the esteemed Marrianne.And of course,edited by yours truly ~

The Silver Fork

By Marrianne Morland

Once,long ago in a kingdom well known, there in a large castle, lived a king who ate only with enchanted silverware. He picked up his fork to aid his knife in cutting a tender parboiled potato. But suddenly, the delicate little fork took it in to her head to fly, thinking she was a fairy with silver wings. She flung herself from the king's hand and out the open stone window. Tipping and turning she smacked into walls and gutters until she landed with a splat in a muddy ditch. There she lay wishing she had not been so foolish.

However after a few minutes, a little boy scooped her up and shoved her in to his smelly dirty pocket. He ran home to his mama . He showed her his grand find, beaming with joy. His mother excited, snatched the shining fork and set it on the worn wooden table. Later she swooped up the fork and off she ran to the  cart of a merchant of considerable wealth. She placed the fork on his table, beaming with anticipation.The little fork was frightened and turned on her side, and there beside her was a wooden spoon.The wooden spoon did not like that there was such a fine fork on her table and so she would not speak to the poor little fork.

The merchant immediately bartered for it.With his new merchandise in hand, he handed a leather pouch of silver to the woman. The woman, still beaming, left his cart. The merchant packed up,and in his haste to sell his wares in the next town, dropped his wooden spoon.

After walking a long distance he became hungry and he heated some stew on a small fire. He plopped a large portion into a wooden bowl. But lo and behold he found he had no spoon.Luckily, he remembered his new ware, the shining silver fork.That would do! Thinking himself worthy of using the King's fork, he unpacked her from the box that he had placed her in. And then with much gusto, he began to shovel his chunky stew into his mouth. The fork was so disgusted by the slop in the bowl that she flung herself from his hand and into a thick patch of grass. The merchant, distressed, could not find her as hard as he tried.When the sun began to sink below the hills, he gave up his search. Soon he packed up his bag and resumed his traveling.

A few days passed.The little fork thought she was doomed to remain hidden in the grass forever when a toy maker was walking through the grass. He stumbled over a root and landed with his hand on the beautiful, elegantly wrought fork. He stared at the shining fork and an idea popped into his head. He hurried home with his newly found treasure.

He heated the fire and began carving an image in some strange material,she was only able to see over the edge of the strange bowl she was in. But then, oh then, the crazy man put her in the pot over the fire! She trembled and then fell into a dark deep sleep. She heard a slamming sound and awoke. She was in some weird box, and could not move. Terror swept over her. Panicked she thought “WHERE AM I?”

The slamming got louder and louder. Suddenly the box she was imprisoned in; cracked, and light began to pour in. The slammer got louder and the box shook.The box broke into pieces. Smiling, the toy maker brushed away the pieces of the box.

The fork felt woozy. She looked down at her handle to find she had two silver legs! She caught sight of her reflection in a little mirror the toy man showed her. She had wings! She rustled her wings and squinted her little silver eyes..she had real eyelashes and eyes and..everything. She realized she was a silver fairy! She stretched her wings and began to wobble around the work table she stood on. The toy man, his eyes shining, was not amazed by this at all.

He just chuckled lightly and his fingers tingled with little bits of pixie dust. He held out his hand to the silver fairy and she saw a small silver archer figurine was standing on the toy maker's wrinkled hand. The archer jumped off the hand and went to the fairy. The silver fairy just stared and wondered what she ought to say.

The archer looked her squarely in the eye, which made her uncomfortable and said

“She needs a name!”

The silver fairy nodded,and looked at the the wrinkled face of the toy maker for approval. She most definitely needed a name. He nodded, giving the handsome archer permission. The nameless silver fairy smiled for the first time.

"Alva-Hopea, Silver Fairy" said the archer

She smiled again. The archer seemed strangely familiar. She looked him up and down and finally thought 'Knife?' But as she thought it, she felt her little lips move and heard herself say it,"Knife?" rather than just think. She had a voice! It sounded to her like little silver bells.

The archer nodded his head and held out his little silver arm to the fairy. “Now my name is Scian, May I show you around Miss Alva?”

She blushed and took his arm. Enjoying belonging sound in which he spoke her new name.

 The two found they worked together as well as...well..a fork and a knife. It wasn't long before they fell terribly in love. Soon,the two former utensils were married and lived a very happy life in the toy maker's shop.

Alva sewed dresses for herself and suites for Scian, out of bits and scraps of velvet and linen. They lived in a gold cage and the inside was furnished and remodeled till it was made to resemble a most elegant parlor. They helped the dear toy maker refine and paint his toys,in ways only someone the size of a salt shaker could. 

It was in this way they live many long and happy years... until the pirates attacked,of course....

Check out Miss Marriane's new blog!
http://inkandpurls.blogspot.com/