Short Story: "Dreams"

My Dear Reader,

It's been a while since I've posted fiction on here, so here's a little something for you.

"Dreams"

By Cecily Jane

And that is when I realize that they don't love me.

Maybe they never have. Maybe what they love is this life they've made, complete with a house, two cars, and a respectable amount of children. They love their American Dream, and I'm only a part of it. An appendage to it.

I am an expendable part of their life.

That's why they're doing this. No one who loved me would do this. No one who loved me would make me put these chemicals inside me. No one who loved me would let these pills play with my brain and diminish me. They look at me, and they see only the darkness. They do not see the loneliness that feeds it. They do not see the child behind it. They only see a dark spot on their perfect life, and they want to bleach it out of existence. Never mind that I will be corroded, along with my pain. Never mind that I will fade into nothing. In their eyes, it will be a pleasant nothing. An empty shell that will smile vaguely on command and look good in pictures. That's all they want. They have no use for me.

I am a torrent of raging emotions. I am lost in the storm. I am reaching out to for something to hold onto, but they don't reach back. They just glare at me in disapproval.

And so they send me away to the cold professionals who will scoop out my insides.

This can't be love.

Love is what I hold onto, even if I've never seen it. Even if it's only a hope in my heart. If they love me then I have nothing left.

They can't love me.

They can't.

**************

We just don't know our baby anymore.

Neither of us know when it all started to change. There used to be laughter in our house. We took it for granted back then.

If only we could go back to how it used to be.

We are doing the best that we can. It's not enough to simply say that we are struggling. Each member of our family has problems, and with each passing day, those problems get harder to solve. This is not a band aid over a skinned knee. This is our last chance to bring our child back before we reach the point of no return. That's why we rely on those who know how to fix these problems. We put our baby in their hands in the hopes that we will have a future. It's a little scary when the bills come, and sometimes we're not sure where the money is going to come from. But they tell us that it's helping. They tell us that if we just pull through, there is a chance. So we do.

We are overwhelmed and exhausted. But it's not hard to see where this behavior will lead. We've read the articles. We go to seminars during lunch hour, holding hands as we are confronted yet again with symptoms and statistics. The future we have been shown is frightening.

We have to trust the people who understand what is happening to our child.

This is a problem we have to solve.

We do all of this so that one day, we can hear that laughter again. That's the hope we hold onto, even if it seems we may never hear it again. Our baby is everything.

We can't lose our baby.

We can't.

Regards, best wishes, and understanding,

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Dear Gentleman, Dear Lady"

My Dear Reader,

I know I've been away for a while, but here I am, with new entries planned. For now, please enjoy this randosity.

"Dear Gentleman, Dear Lady"

By Cecily Jane

Dear Gentleman,

You must understand that there are wolves at my door. I feel that I must be upfront about this at the beginning. I realize that everybody is stalked by a creature of some kind or another, and that the subject thereof is somewhat taboo. I do not mean to boast or complain about the breed or the number of them. I am only trying to inform you, for the benefit of your own safety, that not only are they particularly ferocious, they are so numerous and wild that I am still not sure how many there are. I don't go around counting other people's beasts, but I am of the opinion that this is above average.

I wish I could end it there. In fact, I wish that didn't have to write you this at all, but I know that you must be thoroughly warned. Please forgive me for the intimacy attached to the following:

When I say that they are wild and ferocious, I mean just that. But before you can fully understand the degree of their ferocity, I must tell you that these wolves used to live inside the house. They were very cunning, stealing in silently and tearing my house apart only when they were all the way inside. I am sure that I do not need to describe the destruction that they caused. I will say that it was extensive.

There was a point where it was beyond certain that getting the wolves out would be impossible. This was the general consensus in my entire village. My neighbors were so weary of getting bitten that they had long stopped visiting. I was effectively in quarantine, with the hope that once I was fully devoured, my wolves would no longer be a threat to them.

This, as you can guess, was not how it turned out. It took time, but I was able to drive them out one by one. If you don't believe me, I can easily show you my scars.

Perhaps by now you are thinking that I should have moved. It is obvious enough a solution that I did try it more than once. This seems to solve the problem only temporarily. If I leave as silently and covertly as they once came, I can slip out unnoticed. But they know my scent, and I cannot hide my tracks from them. I am lucky if I have time to put my home in order before I find one stalking along the borders of my property. When one comes, others soon follow.

I do find that moving is helpful, though. It gives me time to devise new defenses and get stronger windows. Most importantly, I find that it is much easier to become part of a new village than to convince an old one that your wolves have been chased away.

So, yes. I have lived in many places. I have slowly been able to replace my damaged furniture stick by stick. I have devised plans and backup plans so the wolves will never be able to cause as much damage again.

Over the course of time, I have learned their habits. I know their moods. Sometimes I can distract them long enough to sneak outside and fix an awning, or paint. It took a full year before I was able to get a fresh coat of paint on the entire outside, but I did it. If you looked at the house, you would see no indication of the pains I took. Most in the village have no idea.

This is another thing: my neighbors don't know my full history, nor do they understand the true nature of my wolves. I have tried to warn them, but it is not often that I can write such a detailed letter as this one. But, of course, my first village taught me that there are circumstances in which it is difficult to determine if this behavior is prudent. Things become taboo for a reason.

Now, I will tell you a secret that I usually keep close. I charge you with it only as a response to the specific requests you have made of me. Please guard it as well as I do.

I will just say it plain: the wolves occasionally get back in the house. It does not happen often, but it happens. I do not believe that it is possible to keep them out indefinitely. Sometimes, if I am careless, they will slip through the crack of an open door. Other times, I will return from the market and find one in my kitchen. I have made discreet inquiries as to possible solutions, but this has lead to little success. I have become practiced at getting them out, but the process is exhausting. The repair work is only slightly easier, if only because the work is spread over a longer period of time.

And now that you know the extent of my situation, you can see why I cannot let you inside. It is hard enough to keep them out when it is only me in this house. You could imagine the trouble if there were more occupants. I would not subject you to that. I could not bear it if you ended up with my scars.

In all reality, it is much more work than you would have expected. These wolves, I know, will never go away. I have a hope that someday they will become tame, but I couldn't ask you to wait for something that may never happen.

This is how things are. This is my fate, and I cannot change it. I dream of ways to get to you, but those dreams will stay unfulfilled. The best way to love you is to let you go.

Please don't share my pain with me. I love you too much to let you near what will tear you apart.

Mournfully,

Lady

Dear Lady,

You underestimate me. You underestimate how much I expect to work. I will tell you: a lot.

There are things that a man learns as he grows out of boyhood. One is that everyone has something. I once met a man whose house was infested with hornets. And if it's not hornets or wolves, it's lice, or rats, or some other kind of creature. There is always something. People with ladybugs and butterflies only exist in fairy tales.

Another thing I know is that when you find a good woman, you work for her. You work hard to get her, and you work hard to keep her. Otherwise, she will only find someone else who is stronger and better looking. Perhaps a boy would be scared by your letter. I am heartened.

I do have my pests, you know. I am not brave enough to write it down, but I have them. You will learn all about them soon enough. When I move into your house, they are sure to follow.

I love your house, you know. I admit, I often come to look at it from a distance. It is quite breathtaking. A man knows that a house like yours can only be kept so well by an extraordinary woman.

I've met your wolves there. I know, I probably shouldn't have come that close, and I apologize. But I saw them. One came up and sniffed my hand. I might have been fooled if it weren't for her wild eyes.

I think you've made a crucial miscalculation. You say that it's harder to fight wolves with two; I would argue the opposite. You have not seen the kinds of doors I can build or the traps I can set. You would be amazed, I think. If I was yours, I would spend my life keeping those wolves at bay. Together, I know we could do it.

Do you think that it's any easier to watch you fight them alone? Let me come and help you. Let me be as near to you as I can be, for as long as I am. We will work wonders together.

I love you too much to be frightened by you, you see. I certainly love you too much to to give up. I will come and gaze at your house and socialize with the wolves if that is all you will give me. But I think that you are smarter than that. I think that you will see that the best way to love me is to let me in.

Yours always,

Gentleman

Regards, best wishes, and metaphors,

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Sunday"

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this today while in Sacrament meeting. To prove it, I've also added pictures of the notebook I keep in my scriptures. So yeah.

"Sunday"

By Cecily Jane

I am waiting in silence.

Perhaps it is not true silence. I can hear myself licking my lips. I can hear the soft bustling of the air conditioner. I can hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. And once in a forever, I hear the scraping of a shoe on the carpet, the rearranging of a suit coat, or the wriggling in a padded pew.

I lick my lips again.

I'm not hungry this month, but then, it's only the first hour. This place has a way of leaving your stomach empty.

What I am is thirsty. So thirsty, that I'm trying to think of things that will water my mouth enough to overcome the dryness.

If I left this room, it would take me only half a dozen steps to find a drinking fountain. They don't turn them off on a day like this, and I've often wished they would. Instead, it sits there, perhaps giving its own gentle hum as its machinery stores water and keeps it cold. If that's how such things work. I do know that it hums.

It would take less than ten seconds to get there, push the button, and get my fill of water. And if I left this building and took a five-minute drive, I would have glasses and pitchers full of water. Not to mention cupboards full of food.

I have so much that I don't use.

But I am not at home. I am here, in the silence, and as the clock ticks out the seconds, I stay. I listen to the stillness. I speak to the One who made both my tongue and that water it craves. I hear the shoes against carpet as they come closer and closer, and when the noise stops, I lift my eyes to the tray I know will be there.

I take a piece of bread.

I pass the tray.

On normal days, I am happy to take it. Today, it is stealing the few drops of moisture that I have.

No, not stealing. Receiving. No one else put this in my mouth.

The piece is almost too small to chew, but I always chew it anyway. I know what it means. I also know what it means to me. I remember.

The shufflings of shoes have stopped, and before I can get a few more silent words out, the silence is broken by words spoken out loud.

No, not broken. Filled. Edified. Sustained.

And the words, now spoken, melt back into silence. I am pleading now, even as the spot on the back of my tongue won't moisten. But I am not pleading about that. There are many other things I lack. So many other things.

I know why I am sitting here. I know it down to my bones. I would do anything to be here. I just need longer in the silence. I have more things to say. I have more promises to make. And I need more time to wait, and to listen. There are so many things I need today.

There's a nudge at my arm, and I look up. The tray is exactly where it should be. I give a weak smile as I take the thimbleful of water and let it pour through my lips. I pass the tray and keep the water on my tongue for a bit. I know what it means. I know what it means to me. I know that today, in this moment, it is more than it ever was.

I open my eyes today. Other people have my tray and are partaking of it, just as I did. Now it's their tray. Our tray. It is the small amount of nourishment that we share together.

My throat is so dry that I can feel every drop slip through it. It is all that I will have for a long while, but I'm not worried about that. How can I? If I had taken more than that thimbleful, I would have drowned in it. How can I worry about that when I have only a few precious seconds of silence left?

There is so much more to say. A lifetime of things. But I am not sending any words out, not even silent ones. I am waiting for the words that will come to me.

I was hungry, and I was fed. I was thirsty, and I was refreshed. But I am hungry and thirsty in so many ways. I could be lying in a sea of fresh water and still crave what I crave now.

The silence will soon be filled with pleadings just like mine. It will be a series of vignettes made by those who hunger and thirst.

But this is my time alone, and I am listening. I am waiting.

And then, I'm not waiting anymore.

I am receiving.

There is more in this world than bread and water. You can survive on bread and water, but there is more to that in living. You need more than a beating heart, if the heart is empty.

I know it again this month, but then, this is just the first hour. This place has a way of leaving your heart full.

And what I am is full to bursting.

There is a silence that teaches. There is water that lives. There is power that speaks to the fleshy tables of the heart.

I know this now. I know it again. And I am full enough to let the silence leave me. I am primed and ready.

In a moment, I will be wading in living water.

-Cecily Jane

*There are several things that make this less than factual. First of all, I was late today, so I took the sacrament in the foyer. Second, it's a fifteen minute drive home. Third, "cupboards full" really means a cupboard and a drawer (I don't eat much at home). However, I was actually as thirsty as I depicted myself. I was drinking a tall glass of water as I typed this.

Short Story: Sacred

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this piece of Mormon fiction a few months ago. Take it as you will.

Sacred

My mother thinks everything is so important.

“Don't drink that!” she says, when I reach for some coffee at the gas station. I don't know why she gets so worked up about it. My friends' parents don't. Of course, they're not like us.

They're not like her.

I'm sacred, she says. Not special—sacred. Made by God. Placed here. Sent.

She says that God made my spirit, and then tailored a body for me to live in. It was crafted, she says. My body is that big of a deal—crafted by God. I'm supposed to learn how to use my body. How to care for it.

How to control it.

Controlling it, she says, it what life is all about. It's why I was sent here, or at least, that was part of it. God took all the trouble of making this body for me, and then He went and made a whole world so that I could learn how to use it. That's how important it it.

Sacred, she says.

And there's more to it, too.

My body, this thing that God created, is some kind of weapon. She says that if I learn how to use it, if I learn how to control it, to master it, all kinds of things are supposed to happen. Joy is one of those things. Not pleasure—joy. They're supposed to be different.

And then, of course, there's the devil. He always gets mixed up in this stuff. My mom says that God wouldn't make a body for him, and that's mostly what he's so mad about. So he goes around and tries to get me to misuse my body, just out of spite. For something that happened eons ago. I don't know how I managed to get messed up in it. And I certainly don't know why he would take so much trouble to mess around with me. It seems way out of his way.

When I ask her, she squeezes my hand and says that he's jealous. That he's trying to make me fail. He's trying to trick me into believing that my body isn't sacred, so that I won't realize that it gives me power over him.

Somehow, my body gives me that—the ability to beat the devil. But only if I use it right, if I feed it right, if I control it at all times. I have to watch what I do with it and what is done to it. I especially have to watch what goes into it, and what words come out of it.

At all times, and in all things, and in all places.

I have to be one who acts instead of one who is acted upon.

Because I'm sacred.

And that's why I can't have coffee. It takes her all the way from the gas station, to the car, to the grocery store, and all the way back to the kitchen table just for her to explain it to me. Like I don't already know. Like we haven't already had this conversation a million times.

Sacred. Of all the things she could say, she says sacred.

And then she takes a deep breath, stands up, and tells me to do the dishes.

I can't wait to get out of here. Tomorrow I'll wake up, go to school, and get away from Mom and her lectures.

One day, I'll be out of here for good, and I'll go far away and do what I want. No lectures involved. No guilt about being so holy. Just me, and what I want.

That's all.

The next morning in the car, she's talking about joy again. She says you have to work for it. I tell her that I'd prefer to never have to work at all. She laughs at me and tells me that it's because I'm still a child.

Laughs at me.

My own mother.

She's saying something at me, but I get out of the car and close the door. Can't let her ruin my whole morning.

You'd think that I would finally get a break from all this, but I don't. Because she doesn't drop me off at school, oh no. That doesn't start 'til eight. Instead, I'm in church. Before the sun even comes up. Church.

At least I'm not alone. They make all of us go this early in the morning. I've spent every Sunday with these kids as long as I can remember, and we understand each other. We understand how ridiculous it is. After all, not everything is a matter of life and death. Not everything matters so much.

I grit my teeth as I get through the lesson. Old Testament people were messed up, and that's pretty much all I get out of it. At least they didn't have mothers who lectured them. Or maybe they did.

It takes forever for it to be over. Fifty minutes stretched into eternity. I guess it wasn't so bad; after all, there were some interesting bits. And at least it wasn't just me.

Mom wants to know what I learned about when I climb back in the car. She always wants to know what I'm learning. I have to say something, or she'll start talking again.

It's always funny when I get to school and see my friends getting dropped off. Their morning has just started; I've been up for hours by now. A couple of them hand coffee cups back to their parents as they put their backpacks on.

They must think I come from another world.

And I do. But I try not to show it.

It's really stupid, if you think about it. Making us get up early and not letting us have any coffee. All because of how sacred we are. Sacred people never get what they want, apparently.

It's a certain type that gets coffee on their way to school. They have the hair, and the clothes, and everything. They look at me as they walk by, or rather, they glance as they walk by in groups. I'm not that different from them.

I'm only different in every way that matters.

Regards, best wishes, and I'm not sure what to make of that myself,

-Cecily Jane

Short Story "Blind Date"

My Dear Reader,

I apologize for missing my post last Tuesday. The truth is that I found out about the tragic loss of a friend just before I sat down to write my post and, well, it just didn't work out. I hope that you will instead enjoy a light-heearted story I wrote over the weekend. I often write stories to help me get over things, and this story acted as a kind of therapy to help me through an unrelated (and essentially trivial) circumstance. I'll see you again on Tuesday.

"Blind Date"

By Cecily Jane
The way that Wilbur’s sweaty head shone in the yellow porch light made it resemble a serving of mashed potatoes, smothered in butter and surrounded by a meager helping of black gravy. Sweat was seeping out of his hands, so that salty beads were casually weaving their way down the stems of the carnations he was holding. He could run right now and no one would know, except her. Even then, she would probably think that he hadn’t come at all. He could go right back to work tomorrow and tell Cheryl that everything had worked out just as terribly as he had warned her that they would, and then give her enough disappointing details to make her buy it. Heaven knew that his brain was concocting a new horrendous scenario a second.

It took him a full five minutes before he mustered the courage to dry his hands on his khaki pants, leaving a thick, dark streak in their wake. He knocked on the door. The sharp yapping of a dog started before Wilbur could bring his knuckles back to the flowers, and it was the kind of barking that came from a dog that would bite.

He was opening the door to the passenger side of his Buick before he knew it. What did she say her name was? He should write it down somewhere, just in case. She had a hard time getting in at first, and had to recline the seat a little to fit. He was relieved to see that she was about as heavy as he was; one less thing that he had to worry about. He usually reclined the seat a little, too. He waited for her to buckle her seatbelt before he started the car and pulled out to the empty street.

“You didn’t put your blinker on,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your blinker—you’re supposed to put it on when you merge into traffic.”

“Oh.”

There was silence in the car before Wilbur managed a strained, “So how do you know Cheryl?”

“We used to work together,” she said. Wilbur could see a scowl start to form on her face.”

“So where do you work now?” he said.

“At the DMV.”

“Doing what?”

“Drive tests.”

“Ah,” Wilbur said, making sure that he had turned his headlights on and checking his mirrors an extra time. He could tell by her voice that she really wanted to work just about anywhere else.

“How do you know her?” she finally asked.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Cheryl.”

Wilbur gulped loudly. “I work with her now.”

“At the capitol?”

“That’s right.”

The wheel was starting to get slippery in Wilbur’s hands, and he hoped that she wouldn’t notice as her eyes periodically darted towards his speedometer. As they went down a hill, he saw her clutch the armrest out of the corner of his eye. He checked his mirrors again.

The stop at the light wasn’t as smooth as Wilbur meant it to be, and he closed his eyes for a second so he wouldn’t see her shake her head at him.

“It’s green,” she said. She hadn’t loosened her grip on the armrest.

“Oh, thanks.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” she more demanded than requested.

“Well, I . . . I . . .” The wheels squeaked a little.

“Are you purposely staying in that van’s blind spot?”

“No, I . . .”

“Slow down! You’re going forty in a construction zone!” she shrieked.

“Um . . .”

“Did you just change lanes in an intersection?”

He let off the gas, but the car kept going faster, and faster, and somehow the steering wheel melted away as he tried to put on the break, but the car was screeching out of control even louder than his date was. And then, though the car was speeding up, time seemed to slow down. He saw the intersection come closer and closer, but he couldn’t do anything about it. They were doing to die.

When the blue Buick collided with the side of the Chevy, Wilbur could hear the scratching of metal against metal. He could smell the burned rubber. He could even feel the impact throw him against his seatbelt. But more than anything, he could hear the incessant screaming that came from the passenger seat. If only he could close his ears.

***

Wilbur opened his eyes to find himself still on the front porch, holding carnations and sweating like a pig. It had all been in his head—the woman, her job, the crash. Realizing how long he had been holding his breath, Wilbur took a deep breath and hailed a cab.

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Rachael and Sarah"

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this a couple of years ago, so it may not be as great as stuff I've written recently, but I decided to post it anyway because I think that it captures a part of humanity that isn't documented often. Or something.

"Rachael and Sarah"

Rachael was cutting celery in the kitchen when she heard the familiar jingling of keys outside of her door. She placed her knife down gently, rinsed her hands, and quickly walked to the door. Turning the knob, she found Sarah standing in the welcome mat, shuffling through her backpack in the search for keys. Hearing the door open, Sarah looked up, saw Rachael, and frowned.

“You don’t have to keep the door locked all the time, you know,” she said.

“I know,” Rachael replied, sighing to herself a bit, “but I was home alone and, well, you can never be too careful.” Rachael stepped back into the apartment, closing the door and making sure the door was locked.

“So, how was your day?” Rachael asked as she went back to her celery. Sarah waited until Rachael was too far away to see her unlocking the door, and then flung herself on the couch.“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, taking a deep breath and resting her tired eyes for a second.

“You don’t sound very convincing,” Rachael replied with a smile, “did you have a rough day?” Sarah rolled her eyes and scowled.

“I said it was fine. Just an average day. Nothing out of the usual,” she insisted.

“Well, if it was just and average day why are you . . .”

“I said it was fine!” Sarah interrupted as she angrily got up and stormed to her room. Rachael sighed again as she watched Sarah leave. There was obviously something wrong, but why wouldn’t she talk about it? Why was she always so cold and unresponsive? They were already two months into the semester, and yet Rachael felt they were practically strangers. How would she and her other roommates be able to gel as an apartment when Sarah was always either gone or in a bad mood? Would they just have to tolerate each other for nine months, or would they become actual friends?

Lying on her bed, Sarah closed her eyes, took deep breaths, and tried to calm herself down. She hated Rachael’s constant questioning and goodie-goodie attitude. Her other roommates didn’t demand to know what she was doing at every single minute, so what was Rachael’s problem? Sarah was an adult, after all, and she answered to no one. So who cared if she had just broken up with her boyfriend or not? And why did she have to report it to anyone? Rachael is nice and all, Sarah thought, but sometimes she can be just . . . intolerable.

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Oscar Night"

My Dear Reader,

Here's that short story that I promised back in October. Enjoy!

Oscar Night

The red carpet was so crowded with stars and paparazzi that some reporters had to put their hands over their eyes to shield themselves from the constant flashing of cameras. Two or three photographers buzzed around each couple as the actors were interviewed, testing the composure and professionalism of all involved. When another limo pulled up to the carpet, the flashes started even before the passengers came out from behind the tinted windows.

When the limo door opened, and the flashing got worse, Roland Burns had to squint as he waved. When he turned back to help Mina Needham get out, he held his hat out so it could cast a shadow over her eyes. Mina smiled graciously and called back to Brendon Everill, who closed his eyes completely as he stepped out into the swarm of reporters and photographers. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Mina’s cream, tea-length gown would no doubt be splattered all over celebrity magazines in the next few days, with commentary on its elegant simplicity and what it meant about her career and character. Her cream shoes, pearled handbag, and dark curls would get a similar treatment. The same would probably not be so for Roland and Brendan’s black tuxes and bow ties, but that didn’t seem to calm Brendan’s nerves as the trio was inundated with questions.

“Roland! Are you and Mina a couple?”

Roland had to put on a smile as he shook his head, and the three of them walked a little ways down the carpet arm-in-arm. They separated as they were interviewed about their upcoming movies, though Mina cast a few concerned glances in Brendan’s direction.

“I think that this role was very important to me, because it let me flex a few muscles, as it were,” she let out a small laugh and apologized for the pun. “It was great to take a break from my usual characters—you know, the girls-next-door and such—” She stopped as Roland put his hand on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear, then excused herself. It was too noisy to hear what they were saying, but the cameras followed them as they made their way back to the beginning of the red carpet, Roland looking more and more worried. When they stopped on the curb, one of the sound technicians was able to put his boom mic close enough to pick up some of their words.

“What do you think is wrong, then?” Mina asked. Her tone was strangely genuine.

“I don’t know; it’s just a weird feeling. Like something bad’s about to happen. . . oh, no.”

A camera was able to follow Roland’s gaze fast enough to catch the flash of a knife going into black leather, only a few feet away. As one man sunk to his knees, the other took his weapon and fled.

Without a word, the stars sprinted off in two directions, and while Roland managed to catch the man before he hit the ground, Mina kicked off her high heels and chased the stabber barefoot across the busy street. She was going at top speed, with her dress and her hair flowing behind her, dodging cars left and right. When she caught him, she pulled his leather coat with her left hand and clenched the arm that held the knife with her right. He went down like a roped bull, and Mina was able to get the knife out of his hand quickly. It took a few seconds before the police caught up to them, and she wiped her forehead as she walked away, an army of policemen handcuffing and reading rights behind her.

“Mina! What just happened?”

Mina rubbed her temples as she tried to guarantee everyone that things were under control and that she was definitely not a hero. As she explained the martial arts she had taken in preparation for her latest role, she heard a familiar voice call her name, and saw Brendan put his hand on his upper arm and point to hers. It was only when she looked at her own arm that she realized that the knife had grazed her, and that she was bleeding pretty badly. She excused herself and went towards Brendan, who was undoing his bowtie.

“I talked to Roland; the guy will be fine,” he assured her, taking his tie and wrapping it around her wound. “He was able to stop the blood, and the ambulance is on the way. It’s a good thing that you were there.” He winced as the cameras started flashing in his face, and Mina suggested that they should tend to the large number of actors who were probably feeling very neglected.

When they left and it seemed that there were no eyes on them, he was able to finish stopping her blood. She reached out her hand and touched his arm as a gesture of gratitude, and suddenly, after a full year of playing opposite her, Brendan finally found the courage to plant an unscripted kiss on her lips. She returned the kiss with even more appreciation.

From the window of a nearby hotel suite, two children watched them in amazement.

“It’s just like a movie,” Katie squealed, watching the chaos unfolding down below.

“Well, it’s the best movie I’ve ever seen!” Mikey said.

-Cecily Jane

Short Stories: Five Six-Word Novels

My Dear Reader,

There are those who have said that my posts are too long; especially my Fiction Friday pieces. So, in order to drastically reduce the average length of my blog entries,* I will instead write you some six-word novels, a genre developed by Ernest Hemingway. Feel free to add your own (or title mine) in the comments.

Novel #1: I won. He lost. And died.

Novel #2 (or: Gone with the Wind): Two selfish people--one stupid movie.

Novel #3: He drank; she screamed. He stopped.

Novel #4: One man, one sacrifice. Mankind redeemed.

Novel #5: She's going to Paris; I'm unemployed.


Chao!

Regards, best wishes, and brevity,

-Cecily Jane

* And yes, I'm being sarcastic.

Short Story: [Untitled]

My Dear Reader,

As you may have guessed by now, I love writing letters, which explains why all of my posts are in letter form. The truth is that any time I write in the first person, I tend to make it a letter. It makes it easier to justify why the narrator is speaking and who the intended audience is. It also lets me speak through the character, which is pretty fun. So I hope you enjoy the following story in letter format. I wrote it yesterday morning after a stroke of genius, and I was originally going to call it "I Will Not Marry You, Mr. Brown." That was before I actually wrote it, and it was going to be a letter from an old spinster refusing some middle-aged Romeo or something. I liked the story it turned out to be a lot better. The problem is that I came up with this great title which no longer fits the story, and I can't get it out of my head long enough to think of something else. Thus, the task has fallen to you, Gentle Reader. After you've read the story, give me a title suggestion in the form of a comment. I'll choose the one I like the best. Good luck and happy reading!

[Untitled]

Dear Jason,

First of all, I did no such thing.

Second, how dare you think that I would do something like that? How could you think she would do something like that?

Third, are you seriously so afraid of talking to me directly that you had to send me a letter about this?

I have told you before that you are a coward; you’ve proved me right again. You’ve known me for how long, four years? You really could have just asked me in person. Now I have to respond to you in kind, and you know how much I hate writing letters. You really need to stop being this melodramatic, or she’ll never marry you.

Sorry, that was a bit harsh. It was also the opposite of the point that I was trying to make. I don’t blame you for being upset, after all, I would probably feel the same way in your situation, but what you heard was absolutely not true. Would it help you if you heard what really happened from someone who was actually there? Fine, I’ll tell you. I’m not going to write pages and pages, so don’t ask me for more details after you’ve finished reading this. This whole thing isn’t any of my business anyway, and I’d prefer to stay out of it as much as possible.

Yes, we did go to New York, but your “facts” are all wrong. There were at least ten people who went with us, and if your grandmother was feeling better, we would have invited you, too. In fact, Christine didn’t want to go at first because you weren’t coming, but when I told her that she could either be in Philadelphia without you or New York without you, she agreed to come. It’s not like she should lock herself in her closet just because you’re away. Besides, she needed something to get her mind off of everything. Anyway, I wasn’t the one who invited Greg, and it wasn’t Christine, either. He invited himself, and since he had a car, we let him come. Maybe that was a bad idea, but we are all adults and we should be able to handle ourselves by now.

We did all of the things people usually do there. We saw some shows, we visited a few restaurants, and we saw some of the sights. Amy hadn’t been there before, and you know how Lucas is always trying to impress her, so we spent most of the time being dragged around by Lucas while he tried to sound knowledgeable about everything. It wasn’t that bad, since we were in good company, but I promise that I was with Christine nearly every second, and she barely even said two words to him during the whole trip. I don’t blame her, either, because he was trying to seduce just about every teenaged tourist he could find. In fact, I remember very clearly that Christine called him repulsive. Does that make you feel better?

On the last night we were there, we ended up in a bar. I don’t even know where it was. Now, I realize that this is the part where you think that I didn’t see what was going on, but I was there. Yes, I planned the trip, but I wasn’t driving, and if I didn’t have a choice about climbing up and down the Statue of Liberty, I definitely didn’t have a say as to how we should finish the evening. I was so tired by that point that I ordered my milkshake and sat in a booth in the corner. I could see everything from there. I suppose that Lucas’s mountains of facts were really starting to work on Amy, because they were all over each other. Across the room, I saw Greg and Christine talking. She had a glass in her hand, but I never saw her take a drink; she just stared at it with a guilty look in her eyes. I bet that he ordered it for her, and I bet that he knew why he shouldn’t. I think that he wanted to make her vulnerable, so I watched them closely so I could swoop in and save her if need be.

Don’t blame me for letting it get this far; she’s my best friend and I have to accept that she needs to make her own decisions. I was not, however, going to let this guy ruin everything, and you should know that I wouldn’t. I’ve gone to too many AA meetings with Christine already, and I wasn’t going to watch while she threw away everything she’d worked so hard for. For the record, I didn’t see her raise the glass to her lips even once, and you can imagine how proud I was of her. Instead, she was crying. I hope you realize that it was probably about you. He had his hand on her shoulder, and it seemed to help. I guess she’s sick of me telling her that it will be happily ever after. I noticed that Greg was drinking, but he didn’t try anything, and eventually the others got tired and wanted to go home. They asked Christine to drive and she declined, not because she was drunk, but because she was still upset. I drove. Greg said that he wasn’t ready to go yet, and let us take the car without him. He promised to take a taxi.

So, you see? They weren’t even in the same room together after that. I know that for a fact because we shared a room, and she was so drained that she went straight to bed when we got to the hotel. I read a chapter or two from my book until my head cleared from the smoke and alcohol, and I followed suit. It wasn’t until we woke up that we knew that Greg was in jail. He called his hotel room with his one phone call, and Lucas was unfortunate enough to answer it. He was so hysterical that I still don’t understand what Greg was accused of, exactly. I didn’t really want to know. It makes sense that he would say that Christine was with him so he could get out of it. Christine denied her part of it and refused to go with the others to get him, and I stayed with her. She was a mess, and she could use your support right now. Did you think of that? Anyway, the story ends with us piling in the two cars and having a silent and very awkward drive home. Of course he would ruin everything. We were just lucky that he didn’t do anything too stupid, and that he was released after twenty-four hours.

Now that you’ve read what happened, I want you to take a deep breath and think about all of this. Do you really think that she’d chose a jerk like Greg over a guy who drops everything to nurse his sick grandmother? Of course not. You should get on your knees apologize to her for even thinking such things of her, and when you’re done groveling to her, you should apologize to me for accusing me of putting her up to it. And don’t you dare write me another letter; you have my phone number and I want you to use it.

The next time you write me a letter like this again, I will personally go over to your apartment and slap you.

Your friend,

Wendy


-Cecily Jane

Short Story: The Adventures of Logic and Reason

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this story for a class and didn't find out until later that it hadn't been assigned. You might be surprised at how often I do that. I still really enjoyed writing the story, and I think that it gives you a little insight into the way my mind works. Sufficed to say, I too like to banish logic and reason every once in a while. You'll see what I mean.

The Adventures of Logic and Reason

There is a moment, just before the dreamer opens her eyes after a peaceful night’s rest, that reality and fantasy are blurred. In that moment, there is a gentle bridge between the Dream land and the land of Living, where everything makes sense, and there is no question as to whether horses can fly, or dragons exist, or that the dreamer is far away from her bed on a tropical island.

This world, which the natives call Salim, is visited nearly every night by every human being on Earth, and yet the memory quickly fades, and as it slowly slips from the human mind, Logic and Reason take its place. For this reason, Salim is secret, but unguarded, and hidden, but not lonely.
The inhabitants of Salim, who had lived in this peaceful land for as long as memory existed, loved their land very much. These inhabitants were not few, except for when they were many, and were not male, except for when they were. It was hard to say whether they are real or not, or whether they are concrete and distinct beings, for they could change shape and form to better comfort their visitors. With the absence of Logic and Reason, who had been forever banished from Salim, this was made possible.

No one ever thought that Logic and Reason would be mad at being shut out of Salim. To be honest, no one in Salim thought about anything at all. Logic and Reason, however, thought of everything, and this was their advantage. One day, Logic came up to Reason and demanded Reason to conspire with him.

“If we work together,” Logic said, “the chances of being successful are greater.”

“This sounds reasonable,” Reason reasoned, “but what is the purpose of this effort?”

“If we return to Salim,” Logic droned, “it will be easier to access the Dream World.”

“Oh, the Dream World! I have always wanted to go there!” Reason replied, smiling in spite of herself, “Is it not reasonable to assume that if we are given influence in this new realm, we will have a greater influence on the human mind?” Logic took a deep breath and paused for a bit, and his tired, old face sagged into a sort of frown.

“Yes,” Logic answered, “but it is not logical for me to explain this to you at this time, since you already understand the principle.”

“Obviously,” Reason said.

“Indubitably,” Logic groaned, and fell asleep.

Such was the situation between the land of Living and the land of Salim, although nothing happened for quite some time, as Logic and Reason found anything but thought very restricting. Logic was old and wise, and resolved to sit in his rocking chair and smoke his pipe, until a more logical course of action presented itself. Reason was young and sharp, and carefully searched every possibility before bringing a plan of action to Logic for debate. Since there were an infinite amount of possible ways to conquer the land of Salim to took a very long time for every possibility to be explored.

Meanwhile, completely unaware of the danger that was slowly, but rationally presenting itself, the inhabitants of Salim went on their merry way, fixing what wasn’t broken and discovering what they had already found at least three times before. They played before breakfast and in breakfast and on breakfast. They tasted sounds and listened to smells. They heard what had not been said and ate what didn’t exist. As long as they didn’t think about these things, they were happy, and as long as they were happy, they were content.

Eventually, however, the inevitable happened. Reason had narrowed the infinite possibilities down to the probable possibilities, and brought the probable possibilities to the attention of Logic, who was taking a nap since his services had not been required for quite some time. With her comrade asleep, Reason had to explore another set of infinite possibilities in order to decide how to wake him up.

In the meantime, there was much to be celebrated in the land of Salim. After all, they had kinged the prince and princed the king, who was tired of having absolute power and wanted to be a real boy again. So the people of the land of Salim drank pie and ate confetti to celebrate the blessed occasion. If they had not banished Worry, who waited at the barrier between Salim and Living, the natives might have sensed the coming danger and started to prepare, but they had banned Preparation as well, so her presence might not have made much difference, come to think of it.

Back in Living, Logic woke up on his own, though Reason was rather disappointed that her efforts had been for nothing. Reason wasted no time in telling Logic all of her plans. After she finished, Logic wasted a lot of time rehashing everything she had said, weeding out all of the contingencies that had already been weeded, and then he weeded them again. Reason didn’t mind, though, because she found redundancy excessively entertaining. After all, there was a reason that Logic only had one friend, as there were not many people who could tolerate an old windbag like Logic, besides, the smoke from his pipe smelled like burned cabbage. One might not think that it was logical for a man to have tobacco that smelled like burned cabbage, but since Logic doesn’t like most people, it made sense. And after Logic rehashed the plan, he decided that it wouldn’t be logical to rehash it again, and he spent twenty minutes explaining why. After that, they decided it was time to move. It was lucky for them that the natives of Salim were completely clueless, because in the time that it took Logic and Reason to decide on a plan of action and finally get around to carrying it out, the entire land could have moved out, or built a fortress around their barrier, or written a novel and gotten it published in the time it took them to get to the borders of Salim. They got there all the same, though, and conversed with Worry for quite some time, using her experience as a blueprint for failure. After all, Worry didn’t
exactly have a reputation for actually getting any work done.

Logic and Reason were somewhat confounded when the reached the threshold that separated Living and Salim. It was made out of a single sound, which was shrill and repeated itself over and over.

“That must be the alarm,” Reason reasoned as she clasped her head in her hands.

“If you are referring to the sound of an alarm clock,” Logic said, yelling over the noise, “then I would have to concur.”

This was an unexpected setback for the pair, but Reason should have known that she would have to expect the unexpected. It was Salim that they were trying to get into, after all.

“If there is a sound, it is logical that there is something that makes the sound. That is what we must go after first,” Logic stated, and Reason nodded. But they could not find such a thing, and they did not understand why a sound could act as a gateway between two lands, and it took them hours to figure out what to do next, mostly because Worry kept distracting them with paranoid theories that involved light fixtures.

Finally, Reason proposed a very unique course of action.

“We could just walk through the sound,” she said, causing Logic to raise thick, gray eyebrow at her.

“If it is not logical for a barrier to be made out of a sound in the first place, it is definitely not logical to try to traverse something that cannot exist,” he said.

“Well, is it not logical that the barrier of Salim is completely illogical?” she countered.

“I’m outraged!” Logic huffed, obviously offended, “I believe we’ve already discussed that in order to conquer Salim, we must make it a reasonable place. We cannot start succumbing to their ways.”

“I guess you’re right,” Reason said, lowering her head in humble defeat, “but what do we do now?”

“There’s only one thing we can do,” he said, looking at his wristwatch, “and that is to go home and get some rest. It is rather late and we shouldn’t deprive ourselves of sleep.”

“I suppose,” Reason said, swiftly ending the first (however short) rebellion that she had ever ignited. They walked back home, careful to stay in well-lit areas and watch out for strangers, and never returned to the borders of Salim again, since they were never able to solve the mystery behind the sound of the alarm clock. They were probably better off that way, however, since it was likely that as soon as they entered the land of Salim and saw the absurdity that lived there, they would have either gone crazy themselves or run away as fast as possible.

And then, as if the entire land of Salim had been a dream of some other being, it faded away. Perhaps someday someone will dream it up again, and explore this peaceful land and the happy people who live there. Or perhaps there will come a time when Reason and Logic find their way into Salim. It probably wouldn’t be a pretty sight, though.

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: Mother Superior Jumps the Gun

My Dear Reader,

I'm generally awful at coming up with titles, but this time the title came first, and it was so good that I wrote a story around it. It deals with Catholicism, something I actually know very little about, and though I tried to do my homework, I won't be surprised if it turns out that I got something wrong. I hope you enjoy it, regardless. Kudos if you can get the reference.

“Mother Superior Jumps the Gun”

“Just take it, Helena. I won’t be able to sleep tonight unless I’m sure you and the other sisters are safe.”

“What makes you think that the abbey is any safer with an armed seventy-year-old?”

“I’m serious, Helena.” His eyes grew wide and his large, bare forehead wrinkled. “Take it.”

“I’ve never handled one of these before. I’m going to end up hurting someone.” Mother Abbess Helena held the gun between her index finger and thumb and away from her body as if it carried the plague. “I’m a nun, John. I’m not going to go around shooting people.”

“You don’t have to; that’s the great thing about guns,” Brother John said, though Mother Helena was very certain that there was no such thing. “You don’t ever have to use it. You don’t even have to keep it loaded. You just have to put on a show. Anyone in their right mind who sees another human being with a gun has to believe that the gun is loaded and that the owner knows how to wield it. They’ll be too scared to harm you.”

“Even if that human being happens to be a walking skeleton that wears a habit?” She shook her head and tried to hand the gun back to him. “No one will think that a person like me will actually shoot someone. And then he’ll just get angry and be more violent than he has to be, or worse, I’ll make a mistake and I actually will shoot him. There’s just nothing good about this.”

“There’s also nothing good about that monster being out there and on the loose. Trust me, Helena. If that guy shows up, you’ll be glad to have that little piece of machinery to back you up.” Brother John looked up through his large-rimmed glasses at the large ceiling that towered above them and grew quiet for a moment. It was dark outside, and the chapel stood majestically as if it guarded its inhabitants from the darkness of the world. Brother John looked Mother Helena squarely in the eyes. “You need to protect this place, and the people who live here. You have to.”

Before she could respond, Brother John raised a hand to tell her that there would be no further discussion on the matter, then turned and slowly walked away. She watched him go, feeling the weight of the steel in her hands as she wondered how much pain his arthritic knees were giving him. John was a silly man; he had always been. She should know, after all, they had played together as children in that very same abbey many years ago. Things were different then, but not John. Most people grew older and wiser, but John just grew bigger, having been born wise beyond his years. He had only recently closed the gap between his wisdom and his age, but he still thought with his heart instead of his head, and he still acted first and consulted guidelines later. No one else would insist on giving a gun to an abbess; no one who knew what taking orders meant would even think of such a thing. But John had. He had probably been spending too much time reading the news and was overly concerned. It was true, though. That monster was out there, but handing her a gun? That was why he would never become an abbot, despite his seniority. Abbots had to be an embodiment of strict obedience; John liked even the smallest sliver of elbowroom. He was impossible.

As she stood in the chapel and stared at the door that Brother John had exited, the pectoral cross that dangled below her shoulders felt heavy on her neck, as if it was trying to pull her attention to the stone floor below her. She sat down on a pew and let her bones rest a little. How old was that floor? It was one of the few things in the world that was older than she was, and that realization gave her comfort somehow. The floor, the large pointed ceiling, and even the stained glass windows were exactly the same as they has been when she was a little girl, going to the school run by the abbey. Back then, the Mother Superior had been a staunch, harsh old woman who spoke more with her eyebrows and her forefinger than she did with her tongue. It seemed strange the Helena was now in her place, and she hoped that her students thought of her on better terms than she had thought of Mother Abbess Julian in her time.

Things were different now. It was hard to count the wars that had rumbled through the world since then, some of which had called upon her friends as a sacrifice. Her father was one of those sacrifices; he had died fighting in Europe when she was very young. It was his idea for her to go to school here, and she wondered what he would have thought if he knew that she had spent her entire life in the abbey. She would tell him that she still had more to learn.

Her father knew those stained glass windows very well, for it was he who first taught Helena who all of the people were and what they meant. He told her about Daniel, who had clung to his faith even when he was surrounded by man-eating lions; and Judas, who had given up on God because he was weak and selfish. Her favorite, though, was the depiction of Saint Helena, the mother of Constantine, whom she had been named after. Saint Helena was honored for her humility and piety, living modestly even though her son was the ruler of the world. Although she was meek, she had changed the course of Christianity in the world. Helena hoped that one day she would be able to live up to the example that went before her.

The pectoral cross felt heavy again, as if to remind her that the abbey she had lived in for so long, stained glass and all, was now her responsibility. She hadn’t sought out the position of abbess, in fact, she had almost refused when she found out that her sisters had elected her into the position, but the other nuns had insisted, telling Helena that her cool head and years of experience made her the perfect choice. As she sat alone in one of a hundred pews, she felt the insecurity wash over her again, and she tried to shake it off. She loved this place, and everything that it stood for. She loved the people that came there, no matter if they went home at night or if they had made the abbey their home, as she had. There was so much to love; so much to protect. She would do anything to keep this place safe. She would even sacrifice herself.

Mother Helena had been buried in her thoughts for too long, and it was getting late. She was starting to get tired, and she knew that she still had much to do before she went to bed. In fact, she was surprised that she had already wasted so much time. She smiled a little as she got up to leave the chapel, when a sound from behind her froze her in place. Her heart stopped beating for a split second. Had she imagined it?

The noise came again, a small creak that was getting louder. She knew that sound: the outside door was opening. She suddenly felt very cold and very scared. Should she turn around? Should she run? No, she was the abbess, the mother superior. She had to take care of this.

She felt her hands shake as she slowly turned to face the intruder, and something hard hit against her thigh. The gun! She had forgotten all about it. Now was not the time. The door was about fifty feet away, and in the dim light of the ancient chapel she could only see an outline. It was coming towards her.

“Hello?” she said, trying to stop her voice from trembling the way her hands were. There was no response. She called out again, but she received no answer. Her hands started to shake even more.

“I’m Mother Abbess Helena Timothy. Can I help you?” she said again to the shadow, who continued his pace towards her, creeping along the ancient floor past the window that contained Saint Helena. Before she knew it, she had raised her arms and pointed the large metal weapon at him.

She tried to warn him, but it did no good. The figure kept coming. She told him she would use the gun, but there was no response, and the chills that were running down Helena’s spine were too much to bear. Why was her finger on the trigger? Was the gun even loaded? She wanted to check, but the inching outline kept coming, and she was trapped. What would he do to her?

She didn’t mean to pull the trigger; she didn’t want to. She was surprised when a deafening thunderclap came from her hands, and the gun pushed her back a step as it fired at the figure. Helena was horrified. She couldn’t believe herself. She looked at the gun like it was an incarnation of evil, as a blanket of regret covered her. What could she do now? She looked up to see that the shadow was still coming.

It was now time to scream, for Helena had run out of options. If this was the man the police were after, if this was the monster, the gun in her hand would make little difference. He had seen it, she had even fired, and he was unaffected. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t reason with him. She could only pray.

She quickly touched each shoulder as she started to plead, getting the words out as quickly and as solemnly as possible. The prayer would probably be her last. As she finished and opened her eyes to face her end, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

“Tanner?”

Tanner stopped in the light, looking at Mother Helena with a confused face. He pointed to her gun and signed a question. The shame that she felt inside of her became heavy as she motioned for him to sit down with her. With the few signs she knew, she tried to explain to Tanner what had just happened, realizing that he hadn’t heard the explosion of the bullet as it escaped from the gift that John had insisted upon. Tanner looked okay, and she definitely hadn’t hurt him, but as her eyes made a quick sweep of the chapel, she gasped quietly.

Saint Helena was completely gone.

-Cecily Jane

"The Fall"

My Dear Reader,

Today I have for you another short story that I have written recently. This one comes from an assignment where I had to write a story about a Good Samaritan attempt that went horribly wrong. I tried to use the story to express what happened to me during an experience that occurred about a year ago. Sufficed to say, I was in a similar position that the main character Camille is in in the story, and reacted similarly. As I wrote this story, I tried to explore how different people react to things that they aren't prepared for and what that means about who they are, ultimately searching my own soul for answers to questions I hadn't dared to ask. It's still a fictional story; my experience wasn't nearly as extreme or tragic, but I feel that the part of my soul that is contained in this story really gives a kind of reality to it that really works in the story. I hope you enjoy it.

The Fall

Camille’s hiking shoes hit the loose dirt with a satisfying crunch when she jumped out of the car. She almost wanted to go back into the car and hop out a second time just to make that sound again, but then reminded herself that she was supposed to be having a horrible time, and instead made her slight smile fade into a scowl. She had better things to do than climb some hill all day. She attempted to adjust the straps on her backpack, but the straps were being stubborn and she quickly became frustrated. As she gave one last angry tug, she suddenly felt someone else start tugging, and was so startled that she almost lost her balance and she suddenly had her brown hair all over her face.

“There you go, little girl,” he said with a smile as he patted her on the shoulder. Camille was not a little girl, but Michael had been calling her that ever since she was born and he wasn’t about to stop any time soon. If he weren’t her brother, he would have been in big trouble. She stood silently for a second, watching Michael go over and help Eve get some things out of the back of the car and refused to feel any less frustrated than she had been previously, even though Michael’s interference had solved the problem with her backpack straps.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said. Camille rolled her eyes. When she didn’t budge, Eve came over towards her, and Camille smirked at the giddy, bouncy way she had of walking. Eve was fine, all things considered, and she seemed a perfect fit for Michael, but she was just too blonde to be taken seriously, and ever since Michael had proposed to her she just kept getting worse.

“Hey, Cami! Isn’t this exciting?” Camille nodded grudgingly and decided to forgive Eve for using the name that was reserved strictly for her mother.

“Now, I don’t exactly have a specific route for us today; I thought we could just wander around for a bit and have some fun. There are some caves a ways down, and they’re not especially deep, but they’re still pretty interesting,” Michael said. Camille had never regretted Michael’s Eagle Scout more than she did in that moment, but she knew that she had to start walking before Eve started to say something else to her.

It actually was a pretty nice day outside, and Camille had to admit that it was good to have a break from her computer for a while. Thinking a little more about the situation, she realized that she wasn’t really as mad about going hiking as she was mad at being coerced into going hiking. Michael had practically dragged her along, and his motives were as transparent as glass. He was undoubtedly going to orchestrate some one-on-one time between her and Eve, and she wasn’t looking forward to that at all.

“So, how long is this going to take?” Camille asked. Michael chuckled.

“We’ve been here less than five minutes and you’re already ready to leave?” he said.

“I’ve got things to do.”

“You spend too much time with your nose in a book. If you don’t get a little fresh air every once in a while, you’ll get so pale and weak we’ll have to carry you around in a stretcher and feed you broth by the spoonful.” Camille scowled again, but kept moving. The faster she went, the faster she would be back, and Michael would be off her case for at least a week.

They all walked as Michael told Eve an embarrassing story about how Camille had fainted in her science class a couple of years ago when she was asked to dissect a lizard, and he didn’t stop until they were able to see the mouth of the afore mentioned caves a little way off. It was actually only one cave, but Michael hadn’t been there since he was Camille’s age, and it was easy to forget details after that much time. Camille wished that he had forgotten more things.

“You know, now that I actually see it, it doesn’t really look that interesting,” he said. “Maybe we should just keep going.”

“Oh, I don’t know, they seem pretty cool to me,” Eve said, turning to Camille. “Don’t you think?” Camille nodded.

“Well, you two are welcome to go exploring for a bit, if you want, but there’s a stream on the other side of those trees and I wanted to do some fishing,” Michael said.

“What do you think, Cami, do you want to look at this cave with me?” Eve asked.

And there it was: the dreaded one-on-one time. They must have planned this before they even left, because Michael knew that Camille wasn’t patient enough for fishing. Camille eyed Eve and Michael for a bit, but eventually decided to play Michael’s game.

“I’ll go with Eve,” she finally said. The other two looked especially pleased, and Camille rolled her eyes again as Eve took her by the hand.

“This is going to be so much fun!” she said.


“So, what’s so important back at home?” Eve asked. They were only a couple feet away from where they had previously stopped, but she apparently had no time to lose.

“What do you mean?” Camille said.

“I thought you had things to do.”

“Oh, that. I’m writing a play.”

Eve was impressed. “A play? I had no idea you were the next Oscar Wilde.”

“Well, there are seventeen girls and two boys in my drama class, and we haven’t been able to find any plays to do that have that many female parts. So I figured that maybe I could write one myself, and I’m pretty far, but if I don’t have anything by Monday Mr. Saunders says that it’ll be too late to get anything ready by Christmas.”

“Ahh,” Eve said. Camille thought she looked a little more relaxed, “That’s why you’re so upset. I just thought you didn’t want to go because of me.” Camille stopped.

“Eve, I’m fifteen. I can give my brother away without throwing a tantrum.”

“You must be pretty mature for your age,” Eve replied. Camille shrugged and kept walking.

“It doesn’t matter how mature I am if I can’t handle a little blood,” she said.

“Oh, lots of people are squeamish—it’s not a big deal.” Eve looked at Camille and saw that her cheeks were pink. “Of course, I can talk to your brother about those stories if you want.”

“No, that’s okay,” Camille said. “But thanks.”

They kept going for about five minutes, taking flashlights out of their backpacks in preparation for their journey. From the outside, Camille could see that it wasn’t like any cave that she had seen before. The ceiling was at least three or four stories high, and there were shadowy outlines that indicated some stalactites that came down so far that they almost touched the floor. Camille was glad that she had chosen to go with Eve—after all—she had been in theater in high school too, so they had some things to talk about.

As they entered the cave’s mouth and went in a few feet, Camille had the distinct impression that something wasn’t right, and stopped cold in her steps.

“What’s wrong?” Eve asked. Camille stood silently for a minute before she responded.

“Do you hear that?”

There was something, a faint shuffling sound that was somewhere close, and though neither of them could put their finger on it, and they looked around and listened for a while until it got louder and closer, and Eve gasped.

It was too late. Eve’s gasp had caused Camille’s head to snap back to Eve’s direction, where she saw a couple if loose rocks slide underneath Eve’s feet, causing Eve to lose her balance and fall over. It was like it had happened in slow motion, with Eve’s head slowly, gently, and unnaturally swooping to the air. Camille tried to reach for her, but her arms were too short and filled with lead. They both screamed in a low and melancholy voice. Time suddenly sped up when Eve’s head slammed into a stalactite with a big “crack!” as they collided, and soon all Camille could see was her bloody, lifeless body.

Camille could barely do anything but stand and watch as the blood flowed from the body of her future sister. Every drop of blood that poured out of Eve seemed to pour a drop of something else into Camille, a kind of drug that made her senses too sharp and her blood too hot, as if she was standing inside paranoia. It was making her lose her mind. Her brain had somehow started beating, along with her heart, so quickly that it mutated into a pulsing that was completely overpowering, unbearable, and paralyzing. And so loud! It was all that she could hear, and most of what she could feel. She then looked at Eve, knowing that a good person would try to stop the bleeding and start to get their hands dirty, and found that the most she could do was contain the screams, sobs, and vomit that was desperate to escape her. After standing in a silent horror for a period of time longer than any she had ever experienced, she gathered the strength to slowly back away, gradually gaining speed with her distance, and left Eve behind.

Things were moving too fast to comprehend. Voices, shapes, colors, values, and logic all mixed together into a blur that was unintelligible. She was only able to catch bits and pieces—the wall of the cavern, an admonition from her mother, the grinding of the floor on her face, a sentence from a book. They were all both suddenly present and suddenly superseded by Camille’s pulsating body. Above all else, that needed to stop, but in a swirl of light and emotion that took her completely out of her reality, it wouldn’t, and Camille saw her brother run past her as she lay helpless on the cave floor.

Michael must have come running when he heard their screaming. They were still close enough for him to hear them, and he knew the voices too well to be untroubled by their helplessness. It was at the entrance of the cave that he found Camille, who was huddled like an animal against the cave wall. He said something to her. She didn’t know what it was, but she nodded anyway. He said something else, and this time she strained to comprehend the words. He told her that he needed to see if Eve was okay before he could help Camille, and Camille shuddered at the thought. What he would find would be worse than what he could imagine, and as he cleared the space used for emotions to make room for everything he had ever learned that could be of any help, a deep and distant part of him would know that it would be of no use. Still, Camille knew that he had to try. His shirt managed to soak up most of her blood, but it was still flowing, and was going to flow no matter what he did. Camille closed her eyes and tried to die.

When Camille reluctantly opened her eyes again, the pulsing was still there, though it was now less like a coursing river and more like a bad headache. She saw the unmistakable silhouette of a grown man sitting in the dirt, weeping uncontrollably. It all came back to her quickly and painfully—the fall, the blood, her cowardice—and she suddenly wished that she could stay right where she was, huddled and unseen, forever. Anything else was too much to bear. But as she looked at her brother through the slits in her eyelids, she felt her heart swell, and her joints start to move, and suddenly she was sitting next to Michael with her hand on his shoulder. Her touch startled Michael, who momentarily stopped his sobbing and turned to look at her with his wet eyes. There was an uncomfortably pregnant silence for a moment, as both had everything and nothing to say. In that moment it was Michael’s eyes that told Camille everything that she needed to know, for in them she could see the mixture made from remorse, loss, anger, failure, blame, guilt, sadness, concern, and a thousand other unnamed things.

“There was so much blood,” Camille finally said, her words piercing the barrier of silence. Her voice was simultaneously desperate and empty, “I just, I couldn’t . . .” she stopped to find the words, and instead looked intently in Michael’s eyes. “I just couldn’t, you know?”

Regards, best wishes, and the human experience,

-Cecily Jane

"Answers"

Dear Reader,

This week I thought I'd let you see a little bit of the other things I like to write, and by that I mean fiction. This story is the result of an assignment in my creative writing class where I was asked to create a story entirely in dialogue about a person who tries to convince another not to get married. I started out doing something completely different, but I was walking to work one day and passed a bus stop, and the story just smacked me in the face so hard that I knew I had to write it down so I could get it out of my head. I've never done a story quite like this before, and it's actually my first attempt at Mormon fiction. So here it goes . . .

Answers

“Hey there, Elder. Oh, don’t hide your name tag. Missionaries only do that when they’re about to do something shameful.”

“Oh.”

“And I just have to say that when you’re sitting at the bus stop alone on a Saturday morning, there’s no one around who doesn’t know what you’re up to already.”

“Who are you again?”

“Don’t you remember me? I was the one who broke up your Jell-o shot party last week.”

“So you work in the cafeteria.”

“Don’t look at me like that; I’m not the one running away from the MTC.”

“At least I don’t have food all over me.”

“Hey, you forget that I’ve just spent all morning washing your dishes. You’ve obviously got a lot to learn . . . who is she?”

“Who is who?”

“The girl you’re running back to. Who is she?”

“How do you know that there’s a girl?”

“You don’t look mad enough to be doing it for a good reason.”

“Excuse me? What’s a good reason?”

“If the Church wasn’t true. That’s a good reason. It’s the only good reason. But it is, and you know it, so it has to be a girl.”

“How do you know that I know?”

“You’re conflicted. You’ve got that look in your eyes that says that you’re trying to decide if you should do what you want to do or what you know is right.”

“How can you come and sit down next to me and just say stuff like that? You work in a cafeteria.”

“Is that all you see when you look at me? Pity that you looketh on the outside of a girl. If you must know, I’m a BYU student, in the honors program as a matter of fact, and I’m a good three years older than you, so you ought to respect your elders.”

“You’re judging me by what you see.”

“No, if I was doing that, seeing a handsome young man in a business suit waiting for the bus with that black tag, I wouldn’t think that you were what you are.”

“And what’s that?”

“Selfish.”

“Thanks.”

“The only reason people ever do the wrong thing is that they’re selfish. You know, putting themselves before the Lord?”

“I’m not doing this for me, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh, don’t lie to yourself. It’s not really for her and you know it.”

“What exactly do I know?”

“Well, I’m sure that you’re sitting there telling yourself that if you’re not there she’ll fall to pieces and apostatize or something, but you’re just trying to convince yourself because deep down you know that you are supposed to be on the other side of that fence.”

“Your knowledge of my inner thoughts are quite astounding, Sister.”

“You mean is. My knowledge is quite astounding.”

“Great, now you’re correcting my grammar, too. When it this bus going to get here?”

“Oh, not for another five minutes at least, and by the way, I’m a college student. I can’t help but correct you.”

“But the sign says that it comes at the half hour.”

“In the two years I’ve worked here, the bus has never been less than five minutes late. Looks like you’re stuck with me just a little longer.”

“Great.”

“Of course, there’s always time to go back.”

“No.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Okay, now you’re projecting your own guilt onto me. It’s just not healthy.”’

“What did you say you were studying at BYU?”

“I didn’t, but it’s psychology.”

“Figures.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So you were going to tell me about this girl you’re in love with.”

“I’m going to marry her.”

“When, tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”’

“Is she a member or not a member or what?”

“Like I said, it’s none of your business. But she’s taking the discussions.”

“Ah, the plot thickens. You’ve got an investigator at home and you think that you not serving a mission will help her join the church and marry you.”

“Well, yes.”

“Like I said, you’re deceiving yourself.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“The thing she really needs right now is an example. She’s looking at you as a guy who’s willing to sacrifice something, and maybe she’s wondering if the thing you’re sacrificing for is worth it. How are you going to show her that it is by going home?”

“She won’t see it that way.”

“You’re a missionary. The moment you put on the name tag people are always watching you. Like the other day with the Jell-o shots. You might have thought that it was pretty amusing, but what you didn’t know is that there’s a guy on our crew who’s from Nigeria. He’d never even heard of the Church before he came here. But we’d been talking to him about things and he seemed interested, but when he saw you and your buddies acting like a bunch of monkeys, he refused to let us contact the Provo missionaries.”

“So it’s all my fault then, huh?”

“Well, let’s just say that you tarnished a reputation that is important for missionaries to have. You thought you were safe. You think that all of your hours of studying and rule-abiding mean that it’s okay to be a little rebellious in the cafeteria. Well, you’re still the Lord’s servant, even when you’re eating, and people are still watching.”

“What do you even know about serving a mission? Have you served one?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“Then you know nothing.”

“I know that you are supposed to be on a mission right now. The Church is true, right?”

“Well, I guess.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Elder. You know that you know. Now, if the Church is true, then the prophets are prophets, right?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Then if the prophets are prophets, you should do what they tell you to do. And they’re telling you to go on a mission right now. It’s the whole Nephi principle. You follow the commandments, and things work out.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“That’s because it is simple, Elder. Most things are.”

“My situation isn’t.”

“Yes it is. You have been commanded to do something, and you’re afraid to do it, so you create this entire scenario about how your girl back home will fall away if you’re not within five feet of her. Seems pretty simple to me.”

“You don’t even know her.”

“I know that she’s not good for you.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because she’s leading you away from the truth. Or at least, you’re making her do that. There’s a time and a place, and your place isn’t at this bus stop or back home. It’s here. I’ve seen people like you before. Are you willing to live the rest of your life knowing that you were so close to having the best two years of your life and that you threw it all away? What will your girl think of you? What will you think of yourself?”

“Why am I even talking to you? I don’t even know you and you sit down next to me and start insulting me?”

“If you don’t like me, you can leave. The thing is that the only place to go is back to the MTC. Your choice.”

“Or you could leave.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Figures.”

“You really think that you have to be there for her to be baptized, huh? Don’t you have any faith in her agency?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean that we were sent here on Earth to make our own choices. If you’re in love with this girl, you must trust her, right? If you trust her, you should trust her to make her own decisions like she’s supposed to.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Yes it is. In fact, if she doesn’t make this decision on her own, how can you know she’s doing it for herself and not for you?”

“I’ll just know.”
“How?”

“Just drop it, okay?”

“What the . . . oh, I see that look in your eyes. You’re trying to hide something from me, but you’re not doing a very good job.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“By the way you’ve been talking, you must think you’re the dumbest guy on the whole planet. You’re not sure about the Church or the prophets or anything, and you’re just so dense that you can’t even get what I’m implying when we both know that I’m being exceedingly blunt. You have to realize that we’re both seeing the same thing here, it’s just that I’m blanking on this one thing that’s in your eyes, what is it? Oh, I know. She’s the one, isn’t she?”

“Is this bus coming or what?”

“Don’t change the subject; she’s been writing you, hasn’t she? She’s been saying stuff like she can’t understand the gospel the way the Elders are explaining it, and it was so much better when you were there. And then she said that you had this special spirit that made her want to learn more about the Gospel, but these new guys just aren’t doing it for her.”

“No she didn’t.”

“Well, she’s lying.”

“How do you even know that?”

“Ha! Got you. She really did say that, didn’t she?”

“Well, not in those words, but . . .”

“She’s manipulating you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the Spirit is the same no matter where you go. The Church is, too. If the missionaries are bringing her the same Spirit she felt around you, wouldn’t that just make her testimony stronger?”

“I guess.”

“So don’t you think that this whole ‘come home and save my soul’ business sounds just a little fishy?”

“You don’t even know her.”

“You’re right; I don’t.”

“Finally, I’m right about something.”

“But I know people, and I know people who try to get missionaries to come home. If she really loved and respected you, she’d respect what you were doing for your beliefs, especially if she’s experimenting on the Word herself. She’s manipulating you.”

“You already said that.”

“Well, I’ll say it until you’ll listen.”

“I am listening. At this point, it’s not much of a choice.”

“Maybe you’re hearing me, but I don’t think you’re listening. You’re not even listening to yourself. You’ve got a girlfriend who’s steering you away from what you know is right and you’re so confused you don’t know what to do with yourself. Well, I’ll tell you what to do. You just go back. I won’t tell anyone, and for all they know you went to see the nurse or something.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Well, I’m sure you can think of something. Your district president is the only one who needs to know the truth.”

“The last time I talked to him, he was talking to me about the Jell-o thing. You reported it to him.”

“Well, first of all, that’s the rules, and second, it wasn’t me, it was my supervisor.”

“Same thing.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for all your problems.”

“That seems evident.”

“Look, there’s the bus coming right now, have you made your choice or not?”

“I think I’d stay here just so I don’t have to listen to you anymore.”

“Well, it’s a start. Are you going to admit to yourself that serving a mission is the right thing or are you going to go off like a coward and hate yourself for the rest of your life?”

“You know you’re incredibly over dramatic?”

“Well, I am a theater minor.”

“Ahhh.”

“Well, the bus is here, and I’ve got to read a chapter on Alzheimer’s by four, so I leave you to make your choice.”

“Fine by me.”

“You gonna stay there?”

“I’m not going on that bus with you, that’s for sure.”

“Well, I hope I see you tomorrow at lunch, Elder. Tomorrow’s pizza.”

“Okay, see you, Sister.”


In the end, I honestly don't think it's the best piece of writing I've done, but I was really aiming for non-cheesy, and I think I managed. Mostly, I think it just means a lot to me personally, because the bus is always late, and the missionaries do have Jell-o shot contests, and my Nigerian co-workers were taken aback. But I think that there's probably a little more to it, maybe something that can be changed and shaped into a better story in the future. After all, writing is never finished; it's just abandoned.

Regards, best wishes, and dialogue,

-Cecily Jane