Throughout the Millenium, the Ishatucknee Lakes have been a haven for writers, poets, and creatives of all time have been know to flock to- inspired by the sense of wonder in the varying weather there or the utter loneliness of the place. The lake was amazing beautiful because of the way the water reflected the light of the sun towards the flowers and tree that grew in its wake. They couldn’t quite say the exact reason, but it was.
On a particular winter, on a particular day, at a particular hour, a man brought himself to the lakes. He was a poet of twenty, barely passing the cusp of adulthood yet he had known great pain in his life - that it simply bled into his words. He knew the impact that his words had inside himself and his youth allowed him to be brutally honestly beyond limits of society.
Many artists appreciate the nature when walking and so did this young man. He was an anxious pacer - not a mop-able stroller. So this walks around the area were never quiet - his tramping footfalls causing the snaps of twigs. He had never feared that his un muffled steps would be his demised. Til a day of his travels. He looked in the lake staring at himself, seeing the curve of his pupils and the way his hair matted against his scalp - a snap, a scream and he was no more. No one ever saw him again. This same place continues to attract creatives and is often the last where they are seen.
Authors note - I’ve always wondered why the great artists always died young wether suicide or other reasons I think I need a way to explain the toll that reflection takes on people through a place.
Ever since the ecoism movement, cities were so quiet. The bustle of cars halted to the fainter footfalls of pedestrians. The hum of generators and crashes of cranes non-existing. And in the sounds that did exist the calls of pedestrians, the melodies leaking out from doors - the stream of trees and brush atop the buildings and through streets absorbed this noise, creating a damp loom over the world.
Quint strolled down his usual commute: stepping out of his apartment, down the staircase, and out the door. He walked along Fenarray Avenue, noticing the wafting aroma of pastries. He turned. He began down Montpellier Boulevard, trotting his feet along between employees scurrying to work. He turned. Now in an alley, he continued forward with his chin straight up. The alley was not completely dark - the green ensured the city must be well lit. He went to a building at the end - small, but nothing else partially notable about the structure.
Creakkkk, he pulled the door handled towards himself and stepped inside.
“Hullo! How are ya?” announced the old man.
Nodding Quint responded “Mighty fine, Mr. Monty.”
The old man’s skin looked after it might crumble, sagging and discoloring around his face and arms. Yet, Monty knew a different reality - one that Quint came every Sunday to hear a story. Sitting in the shed heading a voice for a decade: the ebbs and flows of his voice roughening with age.
Work in Progress - want to make it sort of dystopian but I’ll see where it goes
Giggling in excitement I rip open the brown wrapping paper in anticipation of the surprise. I assumed the gift was from my uncle - a mysterious man who now lived in the Alaska wilderness. Although I hadn’t seen him for a decade, he sent me a present every year - last year a book of drawing I’m still trying to decode the year before a crossword that I haven’t worked through completely. But alas, I always enjoyed the curiously that enveloped with the newness of every gift and gained with the business of life. I didn’t know exactly when box had arrived on my doorstep perfectly wrapped in brown paper - my favorite birthday tradition was opening the door as soon as I woke up to his gifts. When I was younger, I tried catching the deliver- surely someone could not sneak through the busking city streets that turned silent when night fell. That might, I waited and waited. And, I waited eyes locked on the door my eyes begging to dropped, my pose on my belly hands holding my head began to drag me to the floor. But, nothing ever came that year. So I hadn’t tried again.
Rippppp … the paper tore completely open leaving a simple box with curly letters en-scribing:
For Adeline - here you’ll find me.
My excitement dipped when the box opened to a - single slip of paper. The paper was a blank coffee-colored rectangle. I picked the slip up in bewilderment. Could this be all? Usually his puzzles were more obvious, so this seemed like a joke.
As I held the same paper the ridges tickled my fingers, wait - was the paper not flat? I felt bumps to the right side and left of them a dip that abruptly became level. As I slid my finger above the rises, ouch - something picked my finger. I yanked my hand back and slipped the tip into my mouth, tasting the tang of blood. Maybe, this page was not blank after all. But what was on it?
For weeks, I memorized the page - the dips and rises, the parts that almost pricked my fingers. Thinking, thinking, thinking…what could it be?
April was now upon us the peculiar present an afterthought. My favorite month - the flowers blissed creating an engraving aroma - my sister and I began to hike in the mountains west of our home. Proclaiming ourselves explorers and endlessly wandering through the mazes and trees, running home with the sun chasing us, golden braids dancing behind our heads. And - while standing on top these very mountains on a random Wednesday - I noticed something. The mountains overlooked a deep river that curved in a strangely familiar shape - the ground deeming diving into the earth before abruptly jumping up.
A map - it was a map!!!
The chatter of feeble conversations soothed her ears and the familiar aroma of freshly brewed coffee comforted her. The window poured light onto her table - warming her hands and allowing her to watch the golden glow open the buildings. She was sitting in the corner of her favorite cafe from high school - college loomed over her years and she hadn't been here since freshman year. Old friendships fanning away with time overflowing with newness and conformity of campus life. But now - in the familiar unfamiliarity her brain turned to her childlike state, begging for her friend since pre-school.
She had first met Marianna in first grade in the chaos of moving across the country right before Christmas. She had etched into the classroom puzzled in awe and shyness. But she felt a tug on her hand, pulling her to reality. The first words they ever spoke were: dat
"Did you know that they make the toilets green on St. Patrick's Day?"
At that attempt of the hilarity of showing her around, they had become best friends: Marrianna and Ellie forever against the world. Elementary school, then middle school, and finally, high school passed in a flurry of school assignments, morning coffee runs, and the finality of throwing up their caps on graduation. And though they had hugged promising to still talk in college, their once strong friendship faded with distance and an argument the the weck after. It had been stupid over something that she had no recollection of, but shouting and insults and blaming were the part that tore them apart - right in this very cafe.
So, she pulled her phone from her pocket. She typed the few words - shoving her finger on the blue button and thrIndergardenhone. Her hands trembled and her heart pulsed in her ears like she was running a marathon. She had wanted to say these words for a long time - Im sorry - but on the cusp of adulthood, she was prideful which stole the words from her mind.
Expecting maybe forgiveness, maybe a question of what took you so long, maybe just some kind of reply - she waited maybe five minutes or maybe twenty before hearing the chime that would answer her thoughts. Number blocked was the faint text that displayed on her screen.
Tears streamed down her face - second chances aren't a given it seems. At twenty-two, she still had a lot of growing up to do all the same as the finality that ended her childhood at eighteen. She was presently stuck in that corner of the restaurant for hours and hours until closing. She came back day after day. The booth formed around her, physically leaving her back on the place. Cups of coffee piled on her table, but she never said a word Some still say you can still see her fifteen years later you can see her shadow lurking in the far right corner.
"Really, mama?" her daughter echoed.
"Yes, my love" responded Marrianna as she tried to comfort her daughter on the daughter of elementary school friendships, and she never did Ellianna again after she left that cafe weeks later. But her daughter carried her name - a desperate cry of forgiveness that marked the apology she longed to give from her seventeen year old self and the girl she til carried to twenty two.
“Aaron”, they told me. “Aaron,” the nurses reminded as they wrote the letters on a whiteboard in front of my bed. “Aaron,” the woman who came to visit lovingly called as she walked into the room.
I took the name in my mouth, moved my lips and my tounge to echo the sounds. But, my voice always tripped at the harsh cadence of the word, finding no familiarity in the sound. The writing on the board remained unfamiliar- despite months and months of inspecting the curve of letters and looking at the empty spaces in the name. The more I repeated the name, the more I studied the shape of the letters, the more frustrated I became.
Was I really Aaron? How could I not remember?
After the accident, I couldn’t remember. As the months went by, memories slowly began to seep into my mind - inklings of fear, heart racing, sweating palms, spiders crawling down the inside of my spine, and the constant need to run. I closed my eyes as hard as I could and clenched my fists in trying. Yet, “Aaron was never a slight memory.
I think maybe I began to stop trusting myself as the people who surrounded me - doctors, nurses, friends - were so convinced I would remember. I began making up memories, nodding to the memories of playing baseball in the park and fondly looking at the woman who came. Yet none of this was true, but my desperation transformed my mind.
As the days went by, the turned into weeks. And eventually 3 months later, I loaded into a wheelchair pushed by the lady who always visited, waved doctors away. I was now Aaron. But - who was I really?
Walking, strolling, moving, He stalks in the night, Not a scream to be heard Nor a sound to fright. One foot in front of the other, Night after night.
Sleeting, snowing, pouring, He treks through the streets, Droplets dance in the sky, Surrounding his umbrella they spurred. Yet they never touch him, Night after night.
Weeping, sobbing, begging, He carries the dead in his arms, Tears seep through his coat, Bouncing off his skin, He remains eerily dry, Night after night.
I’ve never been good at packing. Piles of clothes and accessories are strewn about the floor surrounding an overflowing suitcase and my kneeling posture. I fumble around before I pick out a few last minute things from the haystacks of items: my father’s old camera and a leather bound journal. I shove the items into the suitcase and fight to smother the top closed.
“Mama,” my daughter joyfully calls out to me as she skips into the room, “ Are we really going to fly today?!?”
“Yes, Vivi,” The light she brings into the room morphs the haste of packing into anticipation of our adventure. Although she carries my middle name, Viviana Camille looks nothing like me. Her eyes green to my deep brown her straight blond hair to my curly brown hair. She is a spitting image of him. He was the better of us - more organized, the one who could walk into any room and make a friend, and the one who always knew the right answer our daughter’s incessant questions.
My thoughts are abruptly stopped as my daughter’s curiosity cuts in, “Where are we going , Mama?”
“Well, my love,” I welcome the girl into my lap, quelling her unknown curiosities and hidden fears. “We are going to see clouds of all shapes and sizes. We are going to become like birds.”
I don’t know where we are actually going.
The mysterious letter that appeared on my doorstep a month ago - an elegant pearl envelope with a delicate wax seal of a bluebird. The inside revealing a single line of messy - somewhat familiar- scrawl:
Come fly! 800 Maple Way
I couldn’t quite pick out the reason for recognizing the handwriting. And in my grief, I followed the cryptic instructions written on the crumpled coffee-stained paper despite the fact that no one had every flown before.
So that early that spring morning with the winter air nipping our shoulders and the buildings creating a looming darkness, we head out to the eeirley quiet streets of London. I load my daughter and the bags into a the nearest carriage and politely smile as I instruct to head to the address. We were quite the pair as we ordered the carriage - her stuffed bear Mosley dangling from her hands and me lugging a suitcase. Yet, I grab Vivi’s hand to help her in the seats and we were on our way.
Hours give way to warming light that fades away the cool air. Looming buildings give way to smaller homes, to little townships, and eventually nothing but herds of sheep and endless fields is left.
The carriage screeches to a halt, “Your stop, Ma’am.” The driver grumbles. I step off the carriage and let my daughter sling herself into my arms dragging out luggage behind us. I eye the red mailbox’s inscription 800 Maple Way. We are at the right place.
“Let’s go on adventure, love!” I whisper excitedly in Viviana’s ear. The sound or the birds gets louder as my daughter excitedly drags me down a converging dirt driveway leading into a cluster of oak trees. Just in front of the trees the buzzing is unbearable, leaving us fighting to cover our ears.
The trees arch into an empty field. Then it appears. My daughter is un - characteristically still, her head turned up to the clear celestial sky.
A strange vehicle - cloth covering wood beams spread out lengthwise and the buzzing emulating from a barely visible shape on the front. Hovering in the air, making circles and loops in a strange dance flying like a bird. Puffy white clouds do nothing to hold this flight back; they simply allow the bird to disappear and reappear. This strange bird was utterly free of the weight that pulls me down: my grief for my lost husband, the fear that holds me from writing, the social routines of London life.
I scoop Viviana up and we begin running towards the strange bird. Her braids bounce as the grasses scratch my legs; the suitcase lays abbandoned at the tree line. Yet I cease to care. We will fly today.
