(no subject)
A short story written for Writer's Craft:
It’s hard to see, but, squinting with your head tilted at an angle and with enough light, you’ll be able to see “Nothing ever stays the same” etched onto the trunk of the old oak tree down by the river. This oak tree must have had hundreds of initials-usually paired together and in hearts-scrawled along its sides, like an abused lover. I don’t know why, but I knew she must have carved those words onto the tree. I could distinctively hear her whispering them into my ear, her voice low and mischievous.
A whole summer had gone by, but I can feel the weight of her on my shoulders. I can still feel her bony spine pressing against my back, the way it would when we’d sit back-to-back by my pool in our bathing suits. There are so many things I remember.
During those silent moments where neither of us spoke, the sun’s heat would sink into my skin and I’d count in my head the knobs of her spine I could feel sticking out. Every two weeks there’d be another one protruding out of her smooth, clean back. Half of them would be covered by her long tresses. They fell twelve inches past her shoulders and shone like rubies in the daylight.
I was even more envious of her vibrant hair when she started growing it longer. I can’t exactly say why, but she looked so much more intimidating that way. It was only when we were alone she’d speak to me in that tone that was so condescending. On the first day of summer I asked her if she wanted to go to the beach the next day: “We can go sun tanning; grab a hot dog or something. It’ll be just like last year.”
She wrinkled her freckled nose. “The beach is too crowded during this time of year. Sun tanning gives you cancer, and hot dogs are disgusting anyway,”
I didn’t really know what to say so I never bothered asking again.
Last year, it wasn’t like this. Her brother would drive us down to the beach in his Jag while we listened to Jimi Hendrix. I remember feeling so much younger then. She was sixteen, and she was beautiful. People use to stop and stare at her; her curves reminded me of the rolling valleys back home. Now, we just stayed at the poolside. We never went out in public unless we had to. Now, people still stare but will themselves to look away right after.
***
One afternoon the wind was harsher than usual. It whipped through the grass so that it looked like the green blades were the ocean’s waves. I thought of all the times I had sat in the shallowest part of the water and buried my feet in the gritty cold sand. Each time a wave came in I’d let it push me farther and farther back to shore.
Sitting out on the patio chairs, Cherry’s popsicle was dripping down her chin and slender fingers so that they were sticky and bright red.
“I tried smoking today,” she said all of a sudden.
“You tried what?” My voice came out sharper than I meant it too. “Sun tanning gives you cancer, but so do cigarettes, you know.”
“Whatever,” she mumbled and got up to get changed.
I remember spending far too many days trying to be her saviour. I was the bridge that brought her back to reality, I’m sure of it.
Or maybe it was the other way around.
***
Sometimes, she’d sleep over at my place. Asleep, she was a whole different person. She looked vulnerable in the dark, like a creature hiding from the night terrors in the shadows of a forest. It was as if all the fronts she put up during the day crumbled to dust at night. The moonlight spilling through the window illuminated the hollows of her face and collarbones. Cherry reminded me of a fragile bird lost in the branches of her own twiggy bones. The dips and curves of her body became sharper and deeper, until I had forgotten about the infinite hills at home.
I always thought of her metamorphosis as this: each time her waist and wrists shrank, I’d imagine pieces of the Cherry that I had originally met shedding off like snakeskin, falling at her feet.
***
I remember wheezing, feeling disoriented and collapsing onto the ground beside her. Nothing but the soft gurgles of the river paired with our heavy panting reverberated inside my head. This is where we’d usually end up on our Saturday morning runs.
Looking up at her, I shaded my eyes from the bursts of sunlight peeking through the leaves of a tree. She was sitting on one of its thickest branches, hacking away at the wood with her Swiss army knife. I hated when she climbed trees because she knew I was never able to pull myself onto the branches, I’d always have to look up at her.
“Hey,” she yells down at me. “If you could move anywhere, where would you go?”
“What’s wrong with California?” I liked California. I liked watching the annual surf competitions. I liked the hot weather and wearing sunglasses all year.
“You can’t tell me you’re going to stay here forever. People change, and seasons need to change too.”
“It’s comforting to wake up to the familiar though.”
Cherry finally stops carving and pockets her knife. “Still, one day you might just wake up and not find the same California you used to know.” Slowly making her way back to the ground, the sun kissed her arms and I wondered how such a small girl could be so strong physically, and mentally as well. Jumping down from the lowest branch, she says, “You have to be ready for these things. You can’t depend on the familiar all the time.”
I didn’t know exactly what she meant then, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She was right. Today, I sit alone leaning against the marred bark of the same tree. An unmistakable emptiness is amplified by the sound of the river rushing by.
I never wanted to leave her.
But she was the one who left me, and now all I feel is an intangible heaviness, with more than just the stifling air weighing me down.
Also, I borrowed Psyche In A Dress from the library a few days ago and found a note inside; it was a nice surprise:
Bits of songs that remind you vaguely of airplane air caught between aisles and rows and windows covered in cloud that turns to water if you touch them and the same water will fall over your head someplace far away and maybe you'll look at an airplane in the sky and wonder who is crying.
-Aelya
3/08
It’s hard to see, but, squinting with your head tilted at an angle and with enough light, you’ll be able to see “Nothing ever stays the same” etched onto the trunk of the old oak tree down by the river. This oak tree must have had hundreds of initials-usually paired together and in hearts-scrawled along its sides, like an abused lover. I don’t know why, but I knew she must have carved those words onto the tree. I could distinctively hear her whispering them into my ear, her voice low and mischievous.
A whole summer had gone by, but I can feel the weight of her on my shoulders. I can still feel her bony spine pressing against my back, the way it would when we’d sit back-to-back by my pool in our bathing suits. There are so many things I remember.
During those silent moments where neither of us spoke, the sun’s heat would sink into my skin and I’d count in my head the knobs of her spine I could feel sticking out. Every two weeks there’d be another one protruding out of her smooth, clean back. Half of them would be covered by her long tresses. They fell twelve inches past her shoulders and shone like rubies in the daylight.
I was even more envious of her vibrant hair when she started growing it longer. I can’t exactly say why, but she looked so much more intimidating that way. It was only when we were alone she’d speak to me in that tone that was so condescending. On the first day of summer I asked her if she wanted to go to the beach the next day: “We can go sun tanning; grab a hot dog or something. It’ll be just like last year.”
She wrinkled her freckled nose. “The beach is too crowded during this time of year. Sun tanning gives you cancer, and hot dogs are disgusting anyway,”
I didn’t really know what to say so I never bothered asking again.
Last year, it wasn’t like this. Her brother would drive us down to the beach in his Jag while we listened to Jimi Hendrix. I remember feeling so much younger then. She was sixteen, and she was beautiful. People use to stop and stare at her; her curves reminded me of the rolling valleys back home. Now, we just stayed at the poolside. We never went out in public unless we had to. Now, people still stare but will themselves to look away right after.
***
One afternoon the wind was harsher than usual. It whipped through the grass so that it looked like the green blades were the ocean’s waves. I thought of all the times I had sat in the shallowest part of the water and buried my feet in the gritty cold sand. Each time a wave came in I’d let it push me farther and farther back to shore.
Sitting out on the patio chairs, Cherry’s popsicle was dripping down her chin and slender fingers so that they were sticky and bright red.
“I tried smoking today,” she said all of a sudden.
“You tried what?” My voice came out sharper than I meant it too. “Sun tanning gives you cancer, but so do cigarettes, you know.”
“Whatever,” she mumbled and got up to get changed.
I remember spending far too many days trying to be her saviour. I was the bridge that brought her back to reality, I’m sure of it.
Or maybe it was the other way around.
***
Sometimes, she’d sleep over at my place. Asleep, she was a whole different person. She looked vulnerable in the dark, like a creature hiding from the night terrors in the shadows of a forest. It was as if all the fronts she put up during the day crumbled to dust at night. The moonlight spilling through the window illuminated the hollows of her face and collarbones. Cherry reminded me of a fragile bird lost in the branches of her own twiggy bones. The dips and curves of her body became sharper and deeper, until I had forgotten about the infinite hills at home.
I always thought of her metamorphosis as this: each time her waist and wrists shrank, I’d imagine pieces of the Cherry that I had originally met shedding off like snakeskin, falling at her feet.
***
I remember wheezing, feeling disoriented and collapsing onto the ground beside her. Nothing but the soft gurgles of the river paired with our heavy panting reverberated inside my head. This is where we’d usually end up on our Saturday morning runs.
Looking up at her, I shaded my eyes from the bursts of sunlight peeking through the leaves of a tree. She was sitting on one of its thickest branches, hacking away at the wood with her Swiss army knife. I hated when she climbed trees because she knew I was never able to pull myself onto the branches, I’d always have to look up at her.
“Hey,” she yells down at me. “If you could move anywhere, where would you go?”
“What’s wrong with California?” I liked California. I liked watching the annual surf competitions. I liked the hot weather and wearing sunglasses all year.
“You can’t tell me you’re going to stay here forever. People change, and seasons need to change too.”
“It’s comforting to wake up to the familiar though.”
Cherry finally stops carving and pockets her knife. “Still, one day you might just wake up and not find the same California you used to know.” Slowly making her way back to the ground, the sun kissed her arms and I wondered how such a small girl could be so strong physically, and mentally as well. Jumping down from the lowest branch, she says, “You have to be ready for these things. You can’t depend on the familiar all the time.”
I didn’t know exactly what she meant then, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She was right. Today, I sit alone leaning against the marred bark of the same tree. An unmistakable emptiness is amplified by the sound of the river rushing by.
I never wanted to leave her.
But she was the one who left me, and now all I feel is an intangible heaviness, with more than just the stifling air weighing me down.
Also, I borrowed Psyche In A Dress from the library a few days ago and found a note inside; it was a nice surprise:
Bits of songs that remind you vaguely of airplane air caught between aisles and rows and windows covered in cloud that turns to water if you touch them and the same water will fall over your head someplace far away and maybe you'll look at an airplane in the sky and wonder who is crying.
-Aelya
3/08