I Never Learned About Stranger Danger

Most children are taught at a young age about ‘Stranger Danger’. It’s the time when their expectations for a perfect world full of good people are dashed, and to add salt to an already-burning wound, their childhood is crushed like a fresh leaf underfoot.

Their wonderous, big-eyed, childish glow is muted by the fact that not everyone loves you. That not everyone holds your wants and needs and safety close to their hearts. That not everyone will hold your hand when you cross the street.

It’s when you start to look around at the world and you see kidnappers and murderers and thieves and rapists lurking behind every innocuous and smiling face. When you stop talking to strangers and making friends outside of your comfort zone. When you cling to your parents, your courage crushed and your fears multiplied ten-fold.

But, of course, there are always exceptions. Children who choose to believe in humanity. Children who believe that nothing bad can happen, no skinned knees or scraped wrists, as long as they don’t cheat on their next vocabulary test. Oh, they’re aware, of course, of strange men in white vans giving free candy to children. But stuff like that is the work of fiction, or it happens to faraway people. Never at home. Never to good children like you.

These children know that danger exists. But they won’t recognize it when it tries to hide.


My parents attempted, like most other parents, to teach me about stranger danger and the faults of the world. But I did not believe them. Why would anyone hurt me? I’m so adorable. I’m invincible!

Another lesson of theirs, however, did seem to seep into my skull. They told me that if anything bad were ever to happen (they never specified, but I assumed they meant skinned knees and scraped wrists) to tell the nearest adult.

Adults are to be trusted. They are always good and they always know better.

I, as a child, believed this full-heartedly. I had experienced first-hand the cruelty of children, but without much contact with adults aside from my teachers and parents, I had no reason to disbelieve my parents’ words.

Children are so awful, how could adults be the same? I was sure they out-grew their monstrousness at some point.

Thankfully, nothing bad ever happened where I had to trust my life to some random adult. I mean, there was that time I got lost at the Target and I was mentally preparing myself to do some stranger-talking, but my parents were just one aisle over. So…

Anyway.

When I was in second-grade, I was visiting family in Bangladesh. We were at my cousin’s house, which, as I remember it, is a single apartment building. Behind the building is a forest and in front of it is a field and the area isn’t densely populated aside from the people living in the single apartment building.

The field was absolutely packed with forget-me-nots and they would always stick to your clothing when you walked anywhere and there were tons of puddles that made an excellent jumping ground.

One day, my cousin, my brother (Scorpion), and I were playing in the field, just doing what children do. My parents and my aunt were in the house, just doing whatever it is that adults do (probably gossiping over tea). My cousin was about ten, I was seven, and Scorpion was three.

We were having an amazing time, running around and splashing in puddles, the air humid and hanging heavily, plastering sweat to our faces, when a random man on a motorcycle appeared on the road in front of the apartment.

He was wearing a black jacket and dark pants and we’d never seen him before. He asked us if we wanted a ride on his motorcycle. But he could only take two of us. His motorcycle wasn’t large enough for all three.

My cousin, Scorpion, and I quickly discussed who should go. All three of us wanted to go, obviously, but we had to decide who would be left behind.

One of my uncles has a motorcycle, too, but he rarely let us go on rides with him because he thinks it’s dangerous. But motorcycles aren’t dangerous. They’re fun. And how could something so harmless hurt?

Eventually, we decided that Scorpion and I would go since my cousin lived in Bangladesh and would occasionally get a ride from my uncle. But Scorpian and I lived in the States and a motorcycle was novel for us. Straight out of a comic book.

We asked my cousin to tell our parents where we had gone.

We were so very considerate and cared so very much for our safety…

Scorpion and I climbed onto the motorcycle, seated in front of the mystery driver, all laughter and giggles. How lucky we were for a benefactor to magically arrive and whisk us away for fun without warning.

The ride was exhilarating. I could feel the wind combing its fingers through my hair and I could smell the damp earth as the motorcycle ate it away.

But the ride continued for longer than I had expected. We were bordering on fifteen minutes. The wind turned cold and the earth turned sour. I realized how fast we were going. How much distance we had covered.

I realized I didn’t know this man’s name.

My brother was still laughing.

I started to fidget. I asked, “Can we go home now? I’m getting tired.”

The man didn’t look at me. His dark eyes were glued to the road. “Don’t you want to ride a bit longer? It’s so much fun.”

Scorpion replied, “Yeah! Let’s keep going.”

I am starting to panic, but I keep a blank face for my brother. I hold him closer.

My cousin had told me stories of infants stolen in the night. Their organs cut out and sold. I’d seen the blind men without eyes on their faces, nothing but empty sockets. I thought that she had been trying to scare me. She’d told me of little girls and boys taken and never returned. Their families grieve, but they move on with time. The little girls and boys tortured for more, more, more.

The anxiety in my stomach grows, building into a monster, clawing at me and scraping away at all self-control. I can feel the pieces flake off onto the road and they are run over by the motorcycle’s wheels, torn up by the wind, and left in the ground far behind me in a moment’s time.

I breathe in. I breathe out.

Faster, faster.

But then, I see it.

The field with the forget-me-nots and the puddles where children play.

The man slows and stops. He helps my brother down and then me.

My family is waiting, my cousin in the front.


This story is the inspiration for my short story, A Dreamer in The Darkness. Getting on that motorcycle was a really stupid idea. I was in a strange country so far away from home. I couldn’t read in the language and I could barely speak it. So many things could’ve gone wrong, but luckily, they didn’t.

Sam, the main character of A Dreamer in The Darkness, is based on me as a child. His story is what could’ve happened.

The Awkwardness Of Holding Hands While Walking

So I was telling a story to Arachnid about this moment… and I didn’t really finish it.

I’m going to ramble about awkwardness and hands and terribly scarring moments in my life. Be warned. Parental advisory is advised.

We were talking away under the trees as people started to litter into the building.

That’s when Fishy grasped my hand.

It was wildfire, but as the awkwardness dumped onto me, it was a bucket of freezing water. I could feel eyes peering at us like we were scum. Lightheaded with embarrassment I tried to look at Fishy, to register her emotion, but I couldn’t get past the tall obstacle of her shoulders towering over my vision.

And we were walking.

“Hey,” I asked, adding to the rather one-sided conversation I was rambling on about (how her hands were like a heater) “I’m cold.”

She put her arm around me. I relaxed due to the warmness of her hands but then realized the large lump of additional awkwardness in my throat.

“Actually…” I mumbled, “Let’s link arms.”

“Sure.”

I felt like an uneven staircase. Her elbow didn’t exactly bend where mine did due to severe height differences.

“Uh…” I started.

It didn’t take another word. She let go, then grabbed my hand, her fingers slowly interlocking.

I held back the urge to scream. The level of PDA between us at that moment changed from a slowly increasing linear graph to a rapidly growing exponential one.

Third Grade Mishaps (Blood Included)

Third grade, like all other grades, is a horrible year. The pressure begins to ramp up, you’re homework gets due dates, drama, etc.

I did lots of stupid things in third grade, such as color my teeth blue with a ballpoint pen; color my entire hand blue with a ballpoint pen; lock myself in my room for hours at a time without food, water, or bathroom breaks to watch ICarly; contract the stomach flu; throw up in the hallway and walk into a random classroom with vomit all over my hands and face; throw up in the hallway again; write a short story about vampires; etc. The list could go on for ages.

But today we’re going to talk about a particular story that took place in third grade.

Like every other mostly sane person, I am in an ongoing war with mosquitos. Mosquitos are horrible (they’re important to the ecosystem but horrible to people). They are horrible and don’t you dare disagree. They suck your blood like greedy vampires and leave itching bumps that swell to the size of plastic Easter eggs.

Mosquitos, on the other hand, love me. They leave everyone else alone and make a feast of me.

Everyone always tells you never to scratch mosquito bites, but I’ve never been one to listen to everyone. But in this case, at least, I should have.

I got a mosquito bite on my left forearm and it swelled to a respectable size. And I itched it. I itched it until it bled.

(Mosquitos are one of the reasons that I despise spring.)

But, thanks to magic and a Band-Aid, the bloody wound eventually scabbed over.

(This post’s about to get somewhat gross. Squeamish readers, click off now.)

Another activity that I participated in as a naive child was the picking of scabs. *Shudders* Don’t worry, dear readers, I don’t do this anymore.

The scab was about a half-inch long (“How do I know this?” you ask. I still have a scar) and it covered a half-inch long wound. (I’m going to call it a wound. It makes the story more dramatic.)

During class, I did the inevitable and picked off the scab.

But, of course, it started bleeding profusely. (What else did I expect?)

So here I am, blood gushing from an open wound, my right hand clapped over it to try and stanch the flow, and my teacher, under the premise that nothing was wrong, merrily teaching away.

Thankfully, a few minutes later, she gave us time to work. I went up to ask the teacher for a Band-Aid, but there was another girl in front of me. I waited patiently behind her, still bleeding.

She needed a Band-Aid as well. For her papercut.

The nightmare then began.

Me: Uh, I need a Band-Aid, too.

Teacher: I’m sorry. We’re out of Band-Aids. Is it an emergency?

Girl: That’s fine. I don’t really need one.

Me: … Yeah. I guess it can wait.

It could not wait. It definitely could not wait.

Soon afterward, the teacher began to teach again. (It is her job, after all.)

And I’m still sitting there. Bleeding profusely.

I lifted my right hand to check if it had stopped bleeding. Nope. And my right hand was coated with blood.

At that point, a classmate, let’s call him Earl Omega, looked right at me. I held eye contact and glared at him with the full force of the laser-firing armada located behind my eyeballs.

I can’t remember what happened afterward because third grade was so long ago.

And now we’ll never know if Little Arachnid ever got that Band-Aid or not.

Jackie Part 3

The Giant’s P.O.V.

Oh! I peered through the eye-spot, watching a girl with a certain interest, It’s her.

“Jackie.” The word played with my tongue. I decided I liked the name, much how I appreciate the light pink flowers and the blooming scents around me. Red hair was how I remembered her, a short flash of red down to her shoulders, followed by a white shirt and overalls that had a rough texture to them, as I scanned my way down. She was a bit taller than when I encountered her last, with bread crumbs freckling her already dotted cheeks. Bored, she was throwing the last of her bread crumbs into a fire, finished with her morning meal.

The eye spot seemed to open from the chimney, in a bird’s eye view, wonderfully convenient, for this was the first time it had opened upon the girl. Particularly, I’ve been interested in her for many years, after her incident. It was amazing how humans could still stand after such crisis and problems for being such a small race. I knew for sure it was her— after all, who else could have such a rosy red appearance?

In my stalking, I heard the odd sound of lost magic: a whimsical whimper of waterfalling energy. Blue rays of light drip dropped, from my fingertips into the cloudy floor which I rested on everyday. The magic flickered under the egg white of the clouds like underground lighting.

“Am I doing too much?” I asked, frightened, staring into the waves of angry flowers. I was being too selfish again, keeping my magic from their leaves. It was better to share with others.

Their scent overtook my senses, the thick vanilla coating my lips, branching out slowly as the vines flew out towards me. They hastily grew over my figure, restraining any further action. The once peaceful set of vines quickly buckled into me, harsh thorns piercing into my skin and bone. The sensation tickled, like tiny monsters. Pain whittled in all parts of my body.

Thump! I flopped over, power draining from my consciousness, clouds bouncing upward with my descent. With panic, I scoured my cloud, overgrown with stringy green vines, blushing blurbs of blooming and budding flowers, in a sprawling spiral pattern. All suctioning my power away, ready to get me.

“Sorry.” I let my magic flow out, tending to my garden.

The vines edged away, flowers fluttering back to their sprawling legged arrangement, colors vibrant against the blank puffy cloudscape. Everything was back to normal again as if nothing had ever happened. Except for the low whistles of the blue light aggressively pumping itself back into the flowers again. A warning. Grumpily, I took a patch of the overgrowth and pushed it in my mouth, slurping it down so the awful somewhat bittersweet taste couldn’t reach my tastebuds. Vines dangled, flowers fell at my distasteful chews, and I crossed my arms, my face swelling in anger.

-By watching the antics of humans I have seemed to adopt some traits.

Magic was what kept me alive, along with the plants in the jungle like meadow—but sometimes I took too much for myself. It had so much more capabilities than just simple nutrition, such as using the middle of a flower as a telescope to watch people go by.

“Please…” I put my hands together like a begging human , “Today is a day that people congregate around for the Storytelling of Jack, and I really want to see!” I let a part of my hair fall on my blue skinned complexion, sighing. The vines hadn’t even moved in response!

“Please?” My eyes bubbled up. They loosened—however slightly, in approval. That was a good answer for me!

Blue light coursed through my body, from the very ends of my frayed white hair to the pear shape of my hips, manifested in a pleasurable moan. My hands cascaded down the bump of my neck, energy satisfyingly quenching my dry throat after the short absence of magical waves. Glowing bright, my eyes transformed into a new, ambitious shade of blue.

Feeling a breeze of relief, I gently grabbed another flower, caressing its petals. It glowed with blue light, the light drawing blue lines upon them. My thumb brushed its yellow center, dashing it with a bit of magic. Slowly, the flower telescope opened up, this time from a flower’s perspective, low down on the beanstalk.

Her back faced me, letting me take in all the mystical bits of her springy red hair, small natural ringlets formed towards the bottom. As red as ever. For some reason the thought made me want to find out more. I love the color red, fiery, ambitious, frightful, fierce, passionate… the list goes on and on. Of course, I just had to be blue! I gazed down at my knees, dark blue in its pigment and my hair also a lighter, but equally blue shade.

From behind Jackie’s figure, I saw a tiny boy. Who was this? My interest rocketed to him, his stubborn nose and a mischievous smile, strings of brown emerging from his head. And what did he want from Jackie? He appeared to be holding her hand and was certainly out of breath, huffing and puffing.

Fortunately, Jackie seemed to be in her own world, nostrils widening, (We have all heard “eyes widening” before! Why not give it a change?) to smell the scent of vanilla, whirling in the air. She enjoyed my scent! Following her nose, she ended up staring into my eyes hypnotically, through the eyespot, ready to catch a fresh whiff.

I scrambled back, a flustered blush swaying on my cheeks. Magic, having its repercussions, blasted from my fingers to the flower I was using as a telescope. Boom! It exploded, yellow pollen and seeds blanketing my bosom, as chaotic vines grew up from there. In panic, I frantically tore out the crazy plants, trying to minimize the magic I recently reloaded myself with.

Magic does two things: it either reacts with magic quickly and easily, or reacts with normal items slowly and with hard spells. – a note taken from the Witch’s Handbook.

As I tore at the flowers, more and more grew in an endless cycle, the overwhelming scent that I used to love burning the insides of my nose. They continued growing, vines swiftly edging up my torso. If I didn’t do something quickly, the plants would encase me! I shuddered at that thought, gagging at the smell as a barricade of flowers bloomed above my chest.

“Stop!” I giggled, a single leaf tickling my belly button, “Stop it!” My giggles escalated to painful stomach hollers, “hWOoo… If you don’t stop?” I was getting drunk on the scent— that’s what I get, I guess, for making such a simple mistake. They climbed up further, into strands of my hair, and circling around my neck. Everything was turning foggy, pink blobs of flowers fluttering in my face like lethal butterflies, with delusions intoxicating my mind, painting it with ink.

“STOP!” A ragged yell pranced from the corners of my mouth.

BOOM! Magic roared from up above. BANG! BOOSH!

The flowers stopped growing, doused in an infinite amount of magic. Even the cloud seemed to be exhausted from my explosion. I was out of breath, holding onto everything I could manage to grasp, every part of my body pulsing with pain, my eyes hurting the most, now dulled of their once vibrant color.  Naughtily, I gave a tired smirk, thinking, It’s all okay! If I could just…

I blacked out.

Part 1

Part 2

-Spinette Spyder

Jackie Part 2

Part 1


Jackie’s POV ~~~ 4 years later

I took a crumb of bread, threw it in the fire and watched it burn. Between bites, I saw the fire dance, tendrils of the flames swirling around the scraps of wood. The smoke breathed into my bones like a dragon, and my spirits raised up a bit higher like a knight’s war call.

I like watching the fire. My mother said I got that habit from my father, and he said I got it from her. My puzzling parents, as always.

I wish it was always now.

Two candles, in a shelf by the door, one extinguished and the other desperately holding onto its light represented them. The remaining flame climbed up the wick, and fell again, raising itself back up in a continuous cycle. My father’s flame, it was, still alive after the eight years he hasn’t came back, maybe more so than ever.

Suddenly, the fire puckered up, licking the corners of the paper behind. Cautiously, I fanned the paper out, but not before the last thing I wrote on it scorched, painted a dung colored brown. September 31,—- the year was gone.

Flustered, I crumpled up the paper, snowballing it into the fire. The white tumbled into the raging orange, as the red consumed both the colors.”Phoo!” I blew out my father’s last flame. “Bye bye, mother and father .” Memories flashed by, and as always, came back to stab me in the chest, the knife cold and hard.

I slammed the door, scrambling into the grass, blades brushing against my bare ankles.

Today, the grass was a bit pointed, frozen by last night’s frost. The ground was sparsely covered at this season, but nonetheless, this was the day that Jack fought the beast a hundred or so years ago. I was just waiting for the bells to ring, when the townspeople would gather around the beanstalk, fruitful with flowers and life.

“Heyo!” Christian greeted me, grinning widely. His limp brown noodle-like hair was in a ponytail, and he was wearing a tan scumbag shirt. A bandage was taped on his cheek, newly acquired. “What’s up? Such a normal day, isn’t it?” He was trying his best to be a charmer.

“Today is the hundred and eighth anniversary of Jack slaying the giant! Did you forget?” I pulled his ear.

“It’s today?” He seemed startled, scratching his head stupidly.

“It is, you dunce!” I let him go, and he hopped like a bunny, freed from my grasp.

He hollered, “Oh boy! I can’t wait! Let’s go, Jackie!” He held my hand, racing toward the middle of the city. He ran, almost tripping me off my feet. Tendrils of his hair flew in my eyes, as I blinked rapidly, in a bewildered flurry of hair and quick wind. Soon, we were at the Beanstalk. I could see why he was, in fact, the Running Champion of the Hallows.

“Come one, come all!” The village minister welcomed the swarms of people with open arms, his blubbery form, jolly, unfitting with his outfit of dark black, “Today, we preach the powers of Jack sent by God, hundreds and hundreds of years ago!” The good-hearted man was yelling his blessings, sitting on the circular structure of smooth stone, surrounding the green plant, sprouting into the clouds.

From my place below, I saw vines swirling around the stalk, light pink flowers blooming, and as my eyes eventually climbed up to where it seared the hefty layer of puffy clouds. The scent of vanilla coated the air, my most recent favorite smell of candles. Wanting to smell more of the delicious scent, I followed my nose, landing on a precious pink flower, on the lower vines of the Beanstalk. As I went down to smell it, the petals collapsed on each other, closing its doors to its sweet center. I turned my head, as another heavy waft of vanilla flooded my senses. The flower opened back up again! Rushingly, I bounded for it again, unceremoniously greeted by an explosion of mustard pollen dust. With my face caked in yellow, I dumbly looked onto my friends in front of me. What an embarrassment!

The group of raunchy boys laughed at me, including Christian.

“Look at Jackie, smelling the flowers! Such a girly-girl, isn’t she?” Tom, the big, strong one of the group teased.

“At least I’m not as dumb as you!” I annoyingly played with his hair, “Shut up!”

“Shut up?” He was outraged, “How about you shut up!” Tom punched me the stomach, sending me flying with the blow, “You weak little girl!”

I got up to my bearings, cracking my neck, ready for a fight. This guy was not messing with me again! Gritting my teeth, I kicked his shins, confusing him. He stole a single glance at his ankles, when I delivered a solid punch to his face. He ricocheted into the rock hard stone, grunting like a caveman as he got up to his feet. Tom stared me down, his expression like a bull chasing red. From the corner of my eye, I saw bloody teeth scattered behind his large body.

“Guys! Break it up!” Christian yelled, pushing Tom away from me. His heels screeched against the dirt, dust emitting from them.

“Yeah, Tom!” Kev was on his side, cheering him on, like a little rodent. He pumped his skinny arm into the air, screaming an almost incompressible war cry, “Kill her!”

“Stop it!” Christian stopped pushing Tom. He gave us both a sly smirk, “Do you guys really want to be fighting in front of the minister?” The minister, noticing Christian’s cue, frowned at us. It was the first time I’d ever saw a negative emotion on him, and like his cloak, it certainly didn’t fit him well.

“Or…” he added, “The minister’s daughter? You know her, Kev. It looks like you’ll be her man quite soon.” For good measure, he added a high whistle.

“Really?” Kev questioned. He didn’t quite get Christian’s plan to stop our fight.

Instantly, Tom straightened, a fragile blush forming on his cheeks. I sat down, fixing my hair and brushing the yellow pigment off my face. They aren’t anything but embarrassments! I thought to myself, I couldn’t believe what Maria would do if she saw me like that! I’m so stupid! I tossed the last of the dust off my clothes, scooting to the front. All the townspeople will be here soon, so I needed to get a good, frontward seat for the storytelling. Even if I heard the story a million times, the story of the boy who killed the giant, I never got tired of it.

“You’re so funny!” Maria tapped my nose, giggling. Neatly, she folded her legs, crisscross-applesauce, hands on her knees along with a playful smile splayed on her face. Her black hair curled carefully around her chest, covering one half of her schoolgirl tie. Her glasses were large saucers, and developed bifocals from when I saw her last. “I saw the little duel you had there. And the explosion with flower dust!” A mischievous daft shone from her voice, “You like flowers, don’t you?”

“Y-y-y—yeah.” I stuttered. Staying calm in front of a rich person wasn’t easy, especially when you eat candies from the bottoms of shoes. “I do.”

“What’s wron—” Maria was interrupted by the tolling of bells, always playing the tone they do at midnight. This morning, it marked not only the noon hour, but a special ceremony as well: The 108th Storytelling of Jack, the hero of our village.


©SPINETTE SPYDER

Jackie

I saw that Arachnid was putting her story A Dreamer in the Darkness up here, so I decided to put up my story Jackie here too. I hope you enjoy it!

Giant’s POV

-Have you ever seen a giant climb down a beanstalk? No? Well, this is what I did that night… so long ago.

Found one.

The little girl scuttled away, racing through the fields, her feet making these soft taps in the dirt. The dust billowed upon my face, as I stifled a cough, hoping desperately that she did not hear me in the still sound of the night. Choo! I sniffled. Not apprehending my presence, the adolescent ran off into the village, wearing a mask of urgency and with a slight crook in her thick eyebrows displaying swallowed, compressed fear.

I crawled through the forest of trees, my giant monstrous body causing them to rattle. Leaves crunched under my hands as I hastily tried to maneuver myself, every move a hideous crash. A few paces later, I perked up, surveying a villa. It was small, quaint, with wind slipping through the cracks of sleeping huts. Then I saw her. A blast of red, then the lock of the door. Click!

Circling around the suburb, I restlessly settled myself down near the home the adolescent sneakily slid into. I looked through a window, eager for the story I was about to unravel. The girl’s eyes were wide as she flinched at each minuscule squeak. I folded my fingers together, tight, as my eager thoughts flipped to dread, waiting for what was to come next for the poor girl.

She trudged down the hall, as my curiosity went along with her, my vision darting towards the next window, inside a kitchen. The teenager was haphazardly throwing damaged pieces of silverware, opening wooden cupboards and loudly calling for someone. Seamlessly, her tension softened into concern which, of course, quickly fastened into worry.

-Humans have crazy emotions.

Her ragged breath blew in and out, fixing itself with the rhythm that the house was bouncing along with the thumps of my heart. Ta-dum, ta-dum, tad-dum. It was the only constant thing among the chaos of her crashing, clashing and screams.

“Mother!” The call was adamant.

Nothing.

Immediately, like lighting, the girl’s boots clunked up the steps. With my curiosity on full blast, I grabbed the top of the house, pulling my face closer, almost so the very tip of my nose touched the window. This one uncovered a bedroom and an older woman sleeping peacefully. I hope her daughter doesn’t disrupt her calm tranquil dreams. I swiped a quiet , calculating finger across the window, feeling the texture of smooth glass. It was new to me—- I never had felt it before.

Then a red swish flew through the door. The girl, I thought, recalling when I saw the red haired teenager enter the hut. Her cheeks were red, her hair matted with sweat, as she climbed onto the bed. She whispered something, something I couldn’t hear from the outside, so without weighing the consequences, I pressed my ear against the wall. Warningly, the house wobbled, dirt and planks falling from the roof. The girl fell on her napping mother, somehow failing to wake her up, but didn’t even gaze in my direction. Thank goodness. My shoulders fell, as I blew a gust of air from my lips, fogging up the window.

The girl’s shrieking cry emanated from the room, an incredible, incoherent cry that shook me from my head to my toes. Tinglings of the shriek vibrated in my mind, as I wiped the fog off the window, slowly unclothing the scene, my eyes progressively dilating, my brows folded in disbelief. I gasped, my fingers fanning in front of my “o” of a mouth.

The mother’s chest was scarlet with blood, a knife glinting from the wound. The mother’s blanket was thrown to the floor, and with that a terrifying secret.

-Don’t ever ask me to describe “death” of those creatures.

I ran away. Up the Beanstalk, in the middle of the town. Giant goblets of water drooped along my long, narrow face, flicking themselves off my jaw, wetting my hair and chest. I clutched at my breasts, thankful that I still have mine. Remorsefully, I took one last look of the village. It was so beautiful, with eerie hidden horrors lurking inside, a world of stars never seen above the clouds. I was so sorry I had to leave so soon.

A early rising lumberjack yakked at my appearance. He withdrew his axe, quickening my departure.


Part 2


©SPINETTE SPYDER

Mellow Yellow Episode 17: A Conversation

TICK, TOCK, and QUINN are having a conversation in the Velvet Mines.

TICK: So, Quinn? How did you get your hair like that? (Touches his ropey-lopey hair.)

QUINN: Mary was REALLY bad at doing my hair.

TICK: How bad?

QUINN: REALLY BAD.

TOCK licks wall in anticipation.

QUINN: Ok, I’ll tell you… It all started a long long long long long time ago…

TICK licks TOCK in anticipation.

QUINN: When I was young, Mary used to always pay attention to her training and had no time to watch over me. I would do extremely dangerous things because she didn’t watch. That’s why I finished college so young!

TICK and TICK are snoring.

QUINN (grossed out): And then…

TICK and TOCK lick the wall.

QUINN: I got my normal hair stuck in a giant tub of caramel! The caramel was beaten out of a snowy egret that I tackled while Mary was making evil plans.

TICK: That’s weird!

QUINN: YOU GUYS ARE WEIRD!

TOCK: (Licks TICK) How are we weird?

QUINN: Why are you licking everything like it’s a popsicle?

TOCK: It’s a trick that we learned from Pippie Senpai. And it’s made of cake.

QUINN: Whatever! So back to my story, after my hair got stuck in the caramel it clumped together in ropey things. And that’s how my hair came to be!

TICK: Oh really? Are you sure that you didn’t just make that up to explain to us “uneducated individuals” that you were just born with natural hair?  (Pulls on his hair sharply.)

QUINN: NO!

TICK pulls a bit more.

QUINN: The story is completely real!

His hair pops off, revealing a downward-pointing arrow on his forehead.

TICK and TOCK: ARE YOU THE AVATAR? QUINN (embarrassed): No, no, this is just an arrow indicating of which way I should put on my wig. The caramel burnt it away. (Pauses, and then whispers) Don’t tell anyone, okay?

JOHN waltzes into the room.

JOHN: ZHAN’S DEAD!

QUINN: THE FIRE NATION HAS ATTACKED!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

TOCK (to TICK): I’ll protect you Asami!

 

~~~END

 

Spinette’s School Stresses

Miss me? No?

I know you do and I know you are clawing your eyes out, wondering, when I will come back (Besides mellow yellows). Did you think I was dead?

Let me tell you about a time where I was really dead on the inside, for a should-be-simple-school- group-project. For those who are wondering, this was a group project much like science fair that required two to three meetings. It was done on trifold boards with pictures of various things about a country assigned to us, and was solely based on the holiday season. On the day we were let out for Christmas Break, we would present and pass out homemade foods to the whole school. How jolly!

Well, to be honest, I was dead for quite a while before this. I was plagued with the illness of writer’s block, then sent to the fire to burn with this certain project in my life. It’s was called WHATW or Whatever Horseradish Anticipates To Wed. Of course, being a bridesmaid (leader) and all, I had to do a lot of things for this project, as I couldn’t let my ego hang up to dry after being soaked in shame. Right?

But there were some complications, as all projects do have sometimes. Nobody expects a perfect end result, but this thing—oh, it was just freckled with terrible outcomes! As I didn’t say, this was supposed to be a group project, but mostly it was all just me and a teensy bitsy little guy who could actually twiddle his fingers. For some reason, he was probably the guy who kept me from losing all my sanity. He was the only one who actually gave me something to put on the board.

One time in this particular project, we had to print pictures. A responsible-looking gentleman said: “May I take the task of printing the pictures? I have a color printer at home.” As a proper leader, I said, “Yes you may,” then emailed sternly after our meeting was over. “Get it to me before the next time we meet.” (Which was in two weeks may I add). He responded with, “cool.”

So I waited. In the meantime, I was preparing for Christmas too, smiling at a bunch of different holiday weddings (this was not part of the project). Procrastination and basically being too busy with the holiday weekend stuff held me back by a million miles.

I was also working on a another little project I like to call The Fleekness of Eyebrows. It was a fun-filled writing diary that I had complete control over, unlike the horseradish thing. As a writer, I obsessed over it and gave birth to a new child. In my pathetic defense for not writing blog posts, let me just say, it took some labor.

Nearing the end of the two weeks I was starting to get worried about the gentleman. He didn’t give me his pictures yet! Was he sick? Did he get injured? Was he dead? Frantically, I emailed him, wondering if the simple task of printing pictures has worked him to death. I asked, “Are you done with printing the pictures?” Not a single response came from him.

Soon, the next meeting rolled around. Flustered, I came in a bit late, almost crying when I saw a haphazard stack of colorful paper. IT WAS THE PICTURES. The gentleman was alive, stroking a piece paper with a nice layer of glue. I couldn’t believe it! He was alive! The pictures were right here!

Then I noticed a huge flaw. The pictures were printed on the front and back, so we couldn’t cut it out.

BLOBFISH!

To make a long story short, that’s how I was for the rest of the project.

 

 

 

 

The F-Word

I’m planning to write another post eventually on swear words in general, so this is sort of like an appetizer.

This is a story of the first (and only) time I’ve said the f-word.

But before we get to that, I’d like to talk about this tongue twister. (“Mother Pheasant Plucker”. You can imagine how well that goes. I am scared to even attempt it.) I have an acquaintance who introduced me to this song and she has managed to perfect this twisty tongue twister, but whenever she sings it, I get very nervous.

So on to the story.

When I was in second grade, I, like any other sane second grader, loved Kidz Bop and one day dreamed being among their ranks of singers. I remember that I bought Kidz Bop 19 at one point, but that was the only album of theirs that I bought or listened to. But even without having heard a majority of their unoriginal songs, I knew that I adored them.

I also thought that all the songs that they chose to sing were curse word-free.

I was watching TV one day, as I did on the majority of days, and I happened to come across one of Kidz Bop’s advertisements, in which they sang a clip of a song, Starship.

I immediately adored this song.

As a second grader, I knew that some songs had swear words and were not appropriate for second graders like myself. But my new favorite song (I know, I had bad taste back then) had been sung by Kidz Bop, right? So it didn’t have any bad words, right?

Well, when I was in second grade, I knew of the existence of bad words. I didn’t know what they were.

My Vocabulary of Curse Words

Stupid

Hate

Heck

Whatever

 

So I looked up the lyric video on Youtube and set to work on learning the song. I was quite confused when I saw that they hadn’t finished a word and instead had “f” and a bunch of asterisks. I thought that the person who made the lyric video hadn’t been able to hear the word properly and had given up. But I was not like this person. I was persistent. So I listened hard and figured out what the word was.

I had learned the entire song, even the rap parts, and I was very proud of myself. (This song is by Nicki Minaj, may I add.)

I was ready to go to the next level.

I performed the song for my father.

F-word and all.

I wasn’t allowed to watch Youtube for a month.

 

P.S. In the Kidz Bop version, the word is replaced with “We’re Kidz Bop and we’re taking over.”

What are they taking over?

(Not) Brushing Your Hair

When I was little, I absolutely detested (and rarely) brushed my hair. It was so painful. Like stabbing porcupines into your skull. (I had the fine-toothed combs.) I was (and am) one to favor comfort over fanciness, so I never brushed my hair. Maybe once a month if it was a lucky one.

I didn’t like it when my mother brushed my hair for me because it always hurt more so than if I were to brush my own hair. Therefore, when I was forced by my mother to brush my hair, I would pick the lesser of the two evils and brush my own hair.

But I never did it well enough. I never really tried. So it always looked the same before and after I brushed it and my mother would insist that she do it again herself.

I never did well enough because “brushing hair well=pain,” so I shirked my brushing duties and usually only brushed the top layer of my hair.

So I thought of a new idea to get rid of the accursed knots in my hair.

I would brush my hair myself, and whenever I came across a knot, I cut it out.

Eventually, I did learn to like brushing my hair.

In fact, I loved it.

This sudden change in attitude to hair-brushing was due to a very special brush. It came in a craft kit and it was a little compact brush that you could put sequins on. AND THIS BRUSH DIDN’T HURT!

I was mystified. I was entranced. I was lost in the magical depths of this hairbrush.

I would spend all my waking hours brushing my hair until it was really soft and shiny and people commented, “How lovely. I wish I could have hair as lustrous as yours. What shampoo are you using?”. (I didn’t use shampoo that often.)

But this time of ignorant bliss was coming to a close.

We went on vacation.

I was in the bathroom, brushing my hair when the brush flew out of my hand and fell into the toilet.

Lending Possessions

When I read Spinette’s post How To Create a Difficult Time For A Person Who Wants to Borrow Your Pencil, one memory kept flitting through my head and I thought, Hey, I could write a post about that!

Since I hadn’t yet read Spinette’s post at the time of this story, I sadly did not take revenge on this person. Let’s call him Kevin.

So Kevin was a tall, lanky guy. He always reminded me of Kilorn from Red Queen. Have you ever noticed how tall people sometimes have a hunch from always having to literally look down upon people whilst communicating to make eye contact?

Anyway, he sat to my right, which is the important part of the story, and he asked me for a writing utensil. Now, I had my pencil case open and right in front of me so I couldn’t claim to not to have any extras. I didn’t particularly want to share my writing utensils either because ever since Luke bit my pink crayon in half in second grade, I’ve been reluctant to lend my possessions.

So, by the rules of politeness, I was forced to lend Kevin my purple gel pen.

I should’ve blatantly lied.

Throughout the course of the class, I noticed him chewing on the end of my pen.

Suffice it to say that I inconspicuously disposed of it.

Jackie- A Short Story

If can’t already guess by the title, this post will be about a story of mine.

Description:

A retelling of Jack and the Beanstalk!

Kicking rocks along the street, boots worn, and short ginger colored hair-this is the outward look of a girl with many secrets, most of which she doesn’t even know.

Jackie is a rough seventeen year old girl, hardened by the loss of her parents. Today is the ceremony of the Storytelling of Jack, a warrior who protected her quaint village from an aggressive giant. Every year the once poor orphaned boy is celebrated for his achievements. Jackie looks on to Jack for inspiration, and dreams to climb up the Beanstalk just like him. But she can’t. Or at least, not without some help.

Magic flowing to the tips of her fingers, huddled over a leather notebook, scrambling with a ink pen is the Giant, so far in the sky. She sits on her cloud, sighing as she nostalgically feels something she cannot remember. It’s fluid like soothing water, but passionately burning like fire at same time, a magic she can’t even begin to place. The memories are so palpable, yet so far away—a still emptiness.

Who will fill the void in her heart?

(I know, it’s corny)

Prologue: 

Giant’s POV

-Have you ever seen a giant climb down a beanstalk? No? Well, this is what I did that night… so long ago.

Found one.

The little girl scuttled away, racing through the fields, her feet making these soft taps in the dirt. The dust billowed upon my face, as I stifled a cough, hoping desperately that she did not hear me in the still sound of the night. Choo! I sniffled. Not apprehending my presence, the adolescent ran off into the village, wearing a mask of urgency and with a slight crook in her thick eyebrows displaying swallowed, compressed fear.

I crawled through the forest of trees, my giant monstrous body causing them to rattle. Leaves crunched under my hands as I hastily tried to maneuver myself, every move a hideous crash. A few paces later, I perked up, surveying a villa. It was small, quaint, with wind slipping through the cracks of sleeping huts. Then I saw her. A blast of red, then the lock of the door. Click!

Circling around the suburb, I restlessly settled myself down near the home the adolescent sneakily slid into. I looked through a window, eager for the story I was about to unravel. The girl’s eyes were wide as she flinched at each minuscule squeak. I folded my fingers together, tight, as my eager thoughts flipped to dread, waiting for what was to come next for the poor girl.

She trudged down the hall, as my curiosity went along with her, my vision darting towards the next window, inside a kitchen. The teenager was haphazardly throwing damaged pieces of silverware, opening wooden cupboards and loudly calling for someone. Seamlessly, her tension softened into concern which, of course, quickly fastened into worry.

-Humans have crazy emotions.

Her ragged breath blew in and out, fixing itself with the rhythm that the house was bouncing along with the thumps of my heart. Ta-dum, ta-dum, tad-dum. It was the only constant thing among the chaos of her crashing, clashing and screams.

“Mother!” The call was adamant.

Nothing.

Immediately, like lighting, the girl’s boots clunked up the steps. With my curiosity on full blast, I grabbed the top of the house, pulling my face closer, almost so the very tip of my nose touched the window. This one uncovered a bedroom and an older woman sleeping peacefully. I hope her daughter doesn’t disrupt her calm tranquil dreams. I swiped a quiet , calculating finger across the window, feeling the texture of smooth glass. It was new to me— I never had felt it before.

Then a red swish flew through the door. The girl, I thought, recalling when I saw the red haired teenager enter the hut. Her cheeks were red, her hair matted with sweat, as she climbed onto the bed. She whispered something, something I couldn’t hear from the outside, so without weighing the consequences, I pressed my ear against the wall. Warningly, the house wobbled, dirt and planks falling from the roof. The girl fell on her napping mother, somehow failing to wake her up, but didn’t even gaze in my direction. Thank goodness. My shoulders fell, as I blew a gust of air from my lips, fogging up the window.

A shrieking cry emanated from the room, an incredible, incoherent cry that shook me from my head to my toes. Tinglings of the shriek vibrated in my mind, as I wiped the fog off the window, slowly unclothing the scene, my eyes progressively dilating, my brows folded in disbelief. I gasped, my fingers fanning in front of my “o” of a mouth.

The mother’s chest was scarlet with blood, a knife glinting from the wound. The mother’s blanket was thrown to the floor, and with that a terrifying secret.

-Don’t ever ask me to describe “death” of those creatures.

I ran away. Up the Beanstalk, in the middle of the town. Giant goblets of water drooped along my long, narrow face, flicking themselves off my jaw, wetting my hair and chest. I clutched at my breasts, thankful that I still have mine. Remorsefully, I took one last look of the village. It was so beautiful, with eerie hidden horrors lurking inside, a world of stars never seen above the clouds. I was so sorry that I had to leave so soon.

A early rising lumberjack yakked at my appearance. He withdrew his axe,  quickening my departure.

 

So… that’s my story! If you want to check out more of it, the story is on Wattpad too. I hope you guys will like it!

 

 

 

 

Second Grade Stories

Once upon a time, many years ago, in a land that is fairly close, there lived a second grader named Arachnid Weaver.

Arachnid was an averagely normal second grader; average height, average amount of letters in her name, average age (7-years-old).

Now, Arachnid Weaver was different in one way. She had misread the school supply list, so instead of having one 48-pack of crayons, she had two 24-packs of crayons. Arachnid, being a kind second-grader, shared her crayons with her friend, Ava, who hadn’t read the supply list at all and had no crayons. What was Arachnid to do with her second pack of crayons anyway?

Ava was a very nice second grader as well, and she treated her friend’s crayons with respect, using them for coloring purposes and nothing else. Since Arachnid always got her crayons back at the end of the day all in one piece, she didn’t mind Ava using her crayons.

Until one day.

Ava returned her crayons to Arachnid as usual, but when she opened the box, one of the crayons were missing.

“What happened to the bubblegum pink?” Arachnid asked. Maybe it had rolled under the table or Ava had misplaced it.

Ava held out a decapitated bubblegum pink crayon in her palm.

Little Arachnid took the pieces and clutched them in her hands, tears welling in her eyes. “What happened?”

Ava replied, “I dared Luke to bite the pink crayon in half.”

Arachnid yelped and thrust the potentially slobbery crayons into the nearby Luke’s hands and stomped away, ferociously wiping her eyes and mumbling, “You can keep it.”

It is safe to say that Arachnid refrained from sharing her crayons from then on for the fear of saliva contaminating her possessions.

And they didn’t live happily ever after.

The end.

My Irrational Fears #4

This is probably the fourth My Irrational Fears post, but I may have lost count. I’m not sure and I don’t particularly care.

I strongly dislike walking into gymnasiums because I am afraid that I will be hit by falling basketballs.

This fear is not entirely unfounded. I have been hit on the head by falling basketballs about a fourth of the times that I decide to visit various gymnasiums.

This fear has been useful to me before. Once, my friend asked me to come to the gymnasium with her, but I refused because I was afraid that I would be hit by a falling basketball. She was hit in the face by a basketball and broke her tooth.

(Told you so.)

And plus, basketballs are red-orange. This isn’t a reason I’m afraid of them, it’s just a fact that they are red-orange.

To clarify, I am not afraid of basketballs when they stay still, only when someone throws one and I happen to be standing directly in the line of the parabola. Then I am afraid on my teeth’s behalf.

Spices

In the household of my parental units, spices are commonly used. Or should I say, almost in everything— on rice, salads, soups, pizza, hotdogs, staining fingernails, smelling up clothes, my breath, my parent’s breath and the stinky shoes of my cousin’s. The relatively not so spicy manager of a certain inn that my parents own, actually complained about my cousin’s stank he oh-so awfully spewed across the halls. Not many people like it, the smell of spices radiating from a random spicy person.

Along with the smell of sulfur, smoke, vanilla, and Arachnid’s hair in some cases, I love the wondrous scent of spices. Each time my parental units cook, my stomach grumbles like a humpback whale um…uh… groaning (Please tell me a better word for this. I don’t research whales). Eating them (spices in food not humpback whales) is better, since it adds a bit of a flavor that cannot be found in the food that was spiced.

An example would be scrambled eggs: I literally put a whole bottle of black pepper on those otherwise tasteless blobs! They are called scrambled for a reason, so I think they should taste scrambled.

Sadly, everything has a dark side, especially spices.

Everyday, for the meal of nighttime, my female parental unit puts these “seeds” within the dishes. They add a scent, but once I bite them I get a taste so bitter, so ughh, so much like a bad aftertaste of something, that I have to gag. Sometimes I don’t chew my parental unit’s cooking and just swallow so I don’t accidentally bite on a seed, releasing the monster within.

When I was a mini human of small portions, I used to throw out the seeds from my food, resulting in more time organizing the food rather than eating it. If it’s really filled to the brim with large seeds (the ones that ensure plants growing in ze stomach) I will not hesitate to put the troops in order.

In soups, seeds are the worst. Once I eat all the beautiful soupy parts of the soup, little black seeds are left on the bottom. Of course, since I don’t like disorder (of food) I will throw out the seeds, but I have to do it secretly so my parental units don’t catch me.

I have to be like a ninja.

One moment, I’m here, the other moment, I’m not.

(Was that a good ending?)

 

Revenge

I poke Spinette’s body in the side, making sure she is actually asleep in case her chainsaw-snores are actually a ruse. A rare smile blooms over my face as I contemplate the revenge I am about to take.

Spinette has recently dragged me to a party, as she does every so often.

It was not pretty.

I crouch down and let a beautiful spider climb onto my palm. I whisper to it, telling it what I want it to do. The spider descends on a silken thread from my hand to the floor to gather my other friends.

I slip out the front door and head to my house to wait for the scream…

My Irrational Fears #3

I am very afraid of getting hit by opening doors.

Whenever I walk in hallways, I am always very alert, listening hard for the sound of a turning knob or shuffling feet on the other side of the door.

If a knob ever turns, I flinch away. This has saved me multiple times from potential death-by-door.

Recently, I have been visiting a new facility that has discovered a way to avoid death-by-door. Their doors are all set in alcoves so they wouldn’t hit people in the hallway. The same cannot be said of people in the alcove.

But I still flinch when the knob turns.

The Catastrophe

It has been pointed out to me by Spinette that I’ve never written a post about her, so I will oblige to her request and write a post about her.

Once, a very long time ago, I was a child, and as I was a child, Spinette was a child as well. But when Spinette was a child she had electric cars that would move themselves, not the plastic cars that you had to walk that I had (Spinette is a year or so younger than me).

So we were out riding her super awesome car one day in her neighborhood, having a ton of fun, but we were too close and the car was too small and too slow and I had to get out, so I got out and walked alongside the car on the way back to her house (at that point we were not neighbors).

And then Spinette ran over my foot.

It was a catastrophe.

Weird Things I used to Think

When I was a child, like most children, I didn’t understand every single aspect of the world I was in. So, to solve this predicament, I created some theories about the world I was in that I was fully invested in.

What is the Universe?

Before I start answering this question, I would like to remind you, dear nonexistent reader, that I completely believed all of this.

So what is the universe? Why does it exist? Why does space exist? Why does anything exist? Why can’t it not exist? What is existence?

There is nothing but imagination. We are actually a world inside of a world. We are the figment of the imagination of some other being we cannot see or interact with.

We are inside a crayon-drawing on a sheet of lined notebook paper, and if one were to take a spaceship to the end of the universe, the spaceship would hit the edge of the paper and stop. It would not be able to go any further because the paper had ended.

Where do Clouds Come from?

The clouds are actually made by planes. Every morning, before I wake up, planes fly through the sky, creating the fluffy wonders we call clouds.

When pilots take the day off, we have cloudless days.

This is also how meteorologists know what the weather is going to be.

 

Meteorologist: “Hey Pilot, what’s the weather today?”

Pilot: “I made some storm clouds earlier. It should rain.”

Meteorologist: “Great. Thanks. I’ll call you back later. Want to go out for some coffee?”

Pilot: “Nah. I’m good. I don’t drink caffeine.”

Meteorologist: “What about cake? Brownies?”

Pilot: “I actually do drink coffee. I was just trying to politely refuse your offer because I don’t like you and would rather do anything else than spend more time with you than I have to.”

Meteorologist:

Pilot:

Meteorologist: So cookies?

Pilot: ——

Where does Fog Come From?

When the clouds are too heavy are for the sky, they descend to Earth as fog.

Duplication

You know how when your eyes unfocus you can see double? I thought that things would actually duplicate themselves for the longest time and once, I spent the entire day thinking that I had switched my feet around.

Driving

You know how when it’s dark and you squint at lights the lights kind of spread out? I thought that the light actually got brighter for the longest time. Whenever it was dark and we were driving, I would squint to make the lights brighter and help my father drive.

Characters on TV

We had this large, boxy TV, not a flatscreen, and I used to think that the television characters lived in the TV. Read more about this here.

Magical Car

Small people today have electric cars that can move by themselves when you press the gas pedal. When I was a kid, we had these plastic cars which were like bubbles on wheels with a hole in the floor. So you were to sit in the car and stick your feet through the hole and walk. So basically, it was just walking, but less efficiently because you had to lug a plastic car around you.

Well, this was the type of car the other kids had. My car was powered by magic and moved by itself.

But this “magic” was actually my parents pushing from behind.

 

What crazy stuff did you believe in as a kid?

Nightmareish Dental Care

I went to the dentist today.

It was a generally uncomfortable experience. As you probably already know, I despise it when people touch me. Even if one brushes against me in passing, it takes a great amount of restraint on my part to not scream. So, understandably, it is a nightmare when a stranger is scheduled to put her hands in my mouth. Especially when that hand is holding sharp instruments that could potentially gouge my eyes out.

But, generally, the dentist doesn’t go too horribly for me as I take care of my teeth. I haven’t had a cavity in quite a few years.

And then I go to the dentist today.

And then I go to the dentist today.

I have ELEVEN major cavities.

For which my mouth will need to become devoid of feeling, which means that the dentist will not only have to shove sharp instruments in my mouth, she will have to puncture my gums with an even sharper instrument.

As you probably don’t know, we are working on a series of our irrational fears. My greatest irrational fear is needles.

To fix my cavities, I have to spend two entire days at the dentist (obviously I’ll be sleeping in my house, not at the dentist’s) and I cannot eat before either. I am very cranky when I am hungry. I’d assume I’d be even more cranky when my gums are being punctured with sharp instruments and dentists are stuffing things in my mouth and drilling into my teeth. The dentist will have to watch that I don’t bite her fingers off.

They have to sedate me.

So, dear nonexistent readers, floss your nonexistent teeth.