Definition of a Plot Bunny
Plot Bunny (n.; plural, Plot Bunnies; see also Plot Bunny Army,PBA)—A creature similar in appearance to the killer rabbit of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, except with red eyes, unkept and dirty gray fur, and standing at about the same height as a beagle. They love to torment authors by sneaking about their stories and making things happen that the author's don't want to or shouldn't happen, and take great pride in many acts of mischief. This includes: messing up or forming romances where there shouldn't be ones; making increasingly ridiculous creatures attack the heroes; or having the heroes do increasingly unrealistic things, including such as feats as amazing rescues of cliche damsels-in-distress through tower windows on the back of equally-cliche creatures, including—but not limited to—gryphons/griffons, dragons, or pegasi. Their main diet consists of well-written plots/plot outlines pilfered from the binders and electronic folders of well-meaning, well-to-do, hard-working authors—hence their name. An overabundance of these creatures (known as an Army) can easily be diagnosed by inferior writing, littering of cliches about a story, and overall degeneration into random happenings, pairings, rescues, triumphs, deaths, defeats, and overall displeasing, incoherent nonsense.
~Submitted by Gladius
Plot Bunny (n.; plural, Plot Bunnies; see also Plot Bunny Army,PBA)—A creature similar in appearance to the killer rabbit of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, except with red eyes, unkept and dirty gray fur, and standing at about the same height as a beagle. They love to torment authors by sneaking about their stories and making things happen that the author's don't want to or shouldn't happen, and take great pride in many acts of mischief. This includes: messing up or forming romances where there shouldn't be ones; making increasingly ridiculous creatures attack the heroes; or having the heroes do increasingly unrealistic things, including such as feats as amazing rescues of cliche damsels-in-distress through tower windows on the back of equally-cliche creatures, including—but not limited to—gryphons/griffons, dragons, or pegasi. Their main diet consists of well-written plots/plot outlines pilfered from the binders and electronic folders of well-meaning, well-to-do, hard-working authors—hence their name. An overabundance of these creatures (known as an Army) can easily be diagnosed by inferior writing, littering of cliches about a story, and overall degeneration into random happenings, pairings, rescues, triumphs, deaths, defeats, and overall displeasing, incoherent nonsense.
~Submitted by Gladius
Birds of the sky can fly; animals of the ground can walk; and fish of the sea can swim. People, I guess, know all these things, and as they must to get along. But none of them can really fly.Except writers.
Writing is like oxygen; we need it to get along, to live, to breathe. But writing, like air, comes in many forms. And so, you see, we can swim in the sea like the without the need to worry about suffocating.
Writing is like a comforting friend; we need them to get up, to survive, to walk. And writing, like a friend, comes in many forms. And so, you see, we can be held up by our writing like a backbone without the need to worry about falling.
Writing is like wings; we need them to dream, to fly, to wish. And wings, like the birds they keep aloft, come in many forms. And so, you see, we can fly with our writing without the need to worry about touching the ground.
And we writers, unlike most others, can dream.
Thank you Nate for creating YWS, with which we can really fly.
Durriedog
Dear Nate,
I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I’ll begin with a thank you. You’ve helped me become a better, happier person; here’s a story for you.
Samiksha held the notebook in her hands, mildly stroking its striped-pink wrapper. Her short fingernails were painted deep purple. The notebook belonged in her memory box – a small brown cardboard box nestled between various items in her scrap box, along with notes passed around in class and a diary.
This was once upon a time, she thought, when we were young and naïve. When all we cared about was going to school in time and whether our two high ponytails were tied with white ribbons. When we weren’t split apart by peer pressure.
She opened the book. The first page was heavily decorated in red and black. The childish cursive lettering read:
The Murder Mystery.
By Ranjini, Samiksha & Sumanna.
This will be read only by the three of us. No one else is permitted to.
The declaration was followed by three signatures. All ending with large flourishes.
She felt nostalgic. She smoothed the long, dirty white skirt she was wearing and sat on the red Kashmiri rug. She flipped over to the next page and began reading it.
There were times when she loved to write mysteries. Wow, this sounds awful. I can’t believe we thought this was good. The grammarian inside her wanted to scream.
The plot was very obvious and the story drew inspiration from all the books that they read during those years. She could see traces of Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, Sherlock Holmes and the Five Find-Outers.
*Her fingers itched for something. She felt the need to write. She felt the need to escape from this world, her parents and her friends. To go to a place where only she would enjoy it in its true sense. She would welcome a few others into this world of hers but she wouldn’t be their guide; they had to find their way around.
*She gripped the pen in her hands feeling a sudden outburst of creative juices. An hour later, she held a white sheet with rows of neat, blue writing and some lines crossed out. This was the first piece she ever wrote. She felt proud of it.
She needed to share it with someone, who would help her improve. She wanted to find people who could help her grow as a writer.
Google helped her find one such site. She instantly fell in love with the monkey on the screen, Bartimaeus. She was welcomed by all, despised by none. She was glad to find a new group of friends.
*
It is now almost two years since she joined the site. She reflects on all the events that made an impact on her life. This site was one of the biggest ever. There is a bubble that’s bursting with gratitude.
She begins writing a letter.
Dear Nate,
I’m not sure how to tell you this, but...
~ Lava
Writing is like oxygen; we need it to get along, to live, to breathe. But writing, like air, comes in many forms. And so, you see, we can swim in the sea like the without the need to worry about suffocating.
Writing is like a comforting friend; we need them to get up, to survive, to walk. And writing, like a friend, comes in many forms. And so, you see, we can be held up by our writing like a backbone without the need to worry about falling.
Writing is like wings; we need them to dream, to fly, to wish. And wings, like the birds they keep aloft, come in many forms. And so, you see, we can fly with our writing without the need to worry about touching the ground.
And we writers, unlike most others, can dream.
Thank you Nate for creating YWS, with which we can really fly.
Durriedog
Dear Nate,
I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I’ll begin with a thank you. You’ve helped me become a better, happier person; here’s a story for you.
Samiksha held the notebook in her hands, mildly stroking its striped-pink wrapper. Her short fingernails were painted deep purple. The notebook belonged in her memory box – a small brown cardboard box nestled between various items in her scrap box, along with notes passed around in class and a diary.
This was once upon a time, she thought, when we were young and naïve. When all we cared about was going to school in time and whether our two high ponytails were tied with white ribbons. When we weren’t split apart by peer pressure.
She opened the book. The first page was heavily decorated in red and black. The childish cursive lettering read:
The Murder Mystery.
By Ranjini, Samiksha & Sumanna.
This will be read only by the three of us. No one else is permitted to.
The declaration was followed by three signatures. All ending with large flourishes.
She felt nostalgic. She smoothed the long, dirty white skirt she was wearing and sat on the red Kashmiri rug. She flipped over to the next page and began reading it.
There were times when she loved to write mysteries. Wow, this sounds awful. I can’t believe we thought this was good. The grammarian inside her wanted to scream.
The plot was very obvious and the story drew inspiration from all the books that they read during those years. She could see traces of Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, Sherlock Holmes and the Five Find-Outers.
*Her fingers itched for something. She felt the need to write. She felt the need to escape from this world, her parents and her friends. To go to a place where only she would enjoy it in its true sense. She would welcome a few others into this world of hers but she wouldn’t be their guide; they had to find their way around.
*She gripped the pen in her hands feeling a sudden outburst of creative juices. An hour later, she held a white sheet with rows of neat, blue writing and some lines crossed out. This was the first piece she ever wrote. She felt proud of it.
She needed to share it with someone, who would help her improve. She wanted to find people who could help her grow as a writer.
Google helped her find one such site. She instantly fell in love with the monkey on the screen, Bartimaeus. She was welcomed by all, despised by none. She was glad to find a new group of friends.
*
It is now almost two years since she joined the site. She reflects on all the events that made an impact on her life. This site was one of the biggest ever. There is a bubble that’s bursting with gratitude.
She begins writing a letter.
Dear Nate,
I’m not sure how to tell you this, but...
~ Lava
Snow, I thought, is the most beautiful thing ever. It drifted in clusters, specks of white against the black sky. The ground sparkled when lamplight hit it; a thousand crystals on a field of white.
No Man’s Land
By: Big_Cheesy_Grin
Based on a true story
Christmas Eve, and I sat shivering in the trenches, my body covered in frozen mud. Gunshots and explosions rang out around me, and the pain as the reverberating soundwaves all but tore through my eardrums was excruciating.
Ducked down in the bottom of the trench to avoid the blast from a nearby shell, I took the opportunity to remember Christmases gone by, wonderful times spent with my family. The poor children would have no Father Christmas this year, I realised, and the thought grieved me. I had written to them, and to their mother, wishing them all a merrier Christmas than I imagined I would have; but to be home with them once more – it was my greatest wish.
Ellen would be ten in the next month. Almost too old to believe in Father Christmas, really, but when I looked at her I would always remember the miracle baby I had held while her supposedly barren mother slept, that broken, perfect day we spent together in the hospital. And little Michael – my son would have been four, playing with toy soldiers - one British soldier, known to him only as “Papa”, should have defeated the entire German army in a matter of minutes.
My dear boy, I hope you will never have to experience the truth of war in that hard, cold reality. The winter was cruel; the Germans were merciless. We all suffered; clothes fresh three or four weeks ago, boots barely removed since we enlisted. The mud was frozen harder than concrete, and there was not even snow to lighten the mood.
How wonderful it was, to be able to imagine myself with my family at home then, even while I was so cold and dirty. It was so far from beautiful – so unlike my native England, my home.
It was late and I was weary, so I ducked down to the bottom of the trench to sleep. My ears were still ringing torturously, but somehow they caught the soft, far-off sound of the old German carol.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh
The gentle lullaby was distant, but it silenced the restless men around me. As the hymn drew to a close, the British troops were suddenly singing back, and deep as my hatred for the Germans and their ideas was, I could not help but to join my comrades in singing Good King Wenceslas back.
And then I dropped back into the bottom of the trench, the true Christmas spirit warming my soul, and I tried not to think that tomorrow’s supposed peace would bring death once more.
Christmas Day, and when I woke it was no different to the day before. I stumbled to my feet, and nodded at the new lad, Jimmy, who grinned in response.
“Morning, Sarge,” he said. He was more excited than I'd ever seen him before, and the kid knew excited better than a puppy. “And a good one it is, too.”
“Is it?” I asked wearily, but Jimmy only laughed. My thoughts, of course, were focused not on the war, but on my family. I had dreamed the night before of being warm and happy at home, watching Ellen and Michael squeal in delight as they opened presents; rather than here, shooting at men – the ruthless Hun, but men nevertheless - with whom we sang songs of peace the night before.
As I retrieved my weapon and prepared it for combat, I heard shouting, in French – one side with an English accent, the other German. I looked over the trench and some of the younger German soldiers had actually dared to climb up into No Man's Land.
I glanced at the Lieutenant behind me. He kept his expression stoic as he glanced over the ledge himself, deliberately not letting on that he had any opinion about it at all. The men around me were grinning, but French always was my worst subject at school, and I couldn't imagine what they were so happy about, in the trenches on Christmas Day instead of with their families.
Three or four men jumped out to join the Germans. I flinched, expecting to hear the poor lads die, and considered with sorrow that not one of them was above twenty-three years old, but instead of suffering I heard delighted laughter.
I never did remember the next few moments, but I can imagine them clearly – raising weary arms tentatively to the surface of the trench, filled with fear and excitement, anticipating the best and expecting the worst, the sheer thrill of doing something insane without being warned repeatedly of the ramifications. The first thing I can recall is that suddenly we were out – up in the open on that hellish No Man's Land.
A football had appeared, although nobody seemed to know where from. The scene was a wonder above all wonders. All around me, the British soldiers laughed and joked with German soldiers, the Hun, the hated enemy. There was no hostility today, only freedom; and while normally my soul reeked with hatred for Germany and its army, I could not help but laugh and join in, tackling the football off of a lad far younger than any of our own battalion. I glanced at him, shocked to see that he could be barely more than fifteen. He put me in mind of Aaron, my youngest brother, and I tousled his hair involuntarily with what I hoped was a friendly smile. He grinned back amiably, and with one swift kick took the ball from in front of my right foot and sent it flying to another of his men, laughing.
I called with an identical laugh to the nearest Fusilier, but that happened to be Davis, and while he was one of the best soldiers there ever was, and by far the greatest friend, when it came to football his skills were limited, to say the least. I gave a mocking groan, and ran to help. The young German boy ran alongside me.
“Merry Christmas, Tommy,” he panted with a grin aimed in my direction.
“Gute Weinachten, Fritz.”
There was not a gun, or a shell, or a sign of suffering that morning. There was no snow, which the night before had me, but then, I'd wager there was no snow in England either. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the Major striding towards us. He looks furious, but I didn't care, because here there was hope. Within the hour, by the look on his face, we would be warring again, but for now, just for that last half-hour, one among thousands...
We had peace.
Shoe of the Clown
by GryphonFledgling
The tip is scuffed and battered from colliding with striped backsides and being dragged across three rings of sand. The leather is cracked and flaking along the creases. The long toe support is bent and wobbles dangerously sometimes, threatening to fall off during particularly elaborate pratfalls. The royal blue is now turning robin's egg, the school bus yellow is now more of an aged cream, and the deep cherry red is fading to pink. There is a stain where the heel was introduced to an elephant's pile, but it is just a shadow of its former dark glory. The smell faded long ago, hidden by the scent of unwashed socks and the sweat of hours in an enclosed space with thousands of people. The laces have been replaced countless times and even now are reinforced with bright red duct tape, trying to eke the last bit of integrity out of the fraying cords before having to be completely redone. But when the lights go down and the slapstick begins, it becomes magical. Children watch, some silent, some doubled over in laughter and as the show goes on, the battered leather becomes supple and smooth, the faded colors seem to brighten and shine, and the abused footwear becomes a fearsome weapon for the dealing out of karmic justice. It cavorts, pirouettes, trips and somersaults, bringing smiles and gales of laughter, the very best at what it does.
Carbonation and Katies
by Evi
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess named Katie.”
I groaned at the sound of the little girl’s voice, high and clear over the rush of takeoff. She had already scrambled over my lap to reach the window seat, stabbing me with Fairytale Barbie’s pin-straight plastic legs in the process, and pulled the window’s shade all the way up so that any small reprieve of shade was eliminated. So much for sleeping during the flight. She had also produced two small pillows from a purple backpack and sat on top of them, elevating herself so that she had a better view out the window.
I opened one eye experimentally, only to be greeted by the girl’s curious expression inches away from my face. I could smell the nauseatingly fruity scent of gummy bears on her breath. “Is your name Katie?” I asked politely, hoping she’d resume a reasonable distance.
“No. My name’s Alexandra Isabelle Felicity Sapphire.” She blinked once while saying this, long dark lashes over cerulean eyes.
“Really?”
“No. I wish, though. It’s Katie.”
“Oh,” I said, something nagging at the back of my mind. She stared at me expectantly, and I squirmed under her gaze. It was more invasive than it should have been, for a six- or seven-year-old. “What’s your Barbie’s name?”
“Barbie,” she said, giggling, and I made some kind of indistinguishable grunting noise which adequately displayed my emotions. Katie cocked her head to the side and suddenly sprang up from her seat, readjusting so that her tiny, freckled legs folded neatly underneath her. I was almost worried they’d snap like toothpicks under her weight, but she just cast me a brilliant smile and laughed, again—the noise was startlingly loud and uninhibited. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name, mister?”
“My—oh. My name’s Randy.”
She nodded knowingly, like this was as she had expected. “I know a Randy,” she admitted, “but he’s short and mean and he pulls my Barbies’ heads off— ‘cause he’s the dragon in the fairytale, you see—so I don’t like him very much. Do you know any Katies?”
Yes, my mind said, I know a Katie very, very well. But I clenched my jaw and pressed the little button that leans the airplane seat backwards, letting it go as far as it would, and replied, “No, I don’t.”
She scrutinized my expression. For a moment an irrational fear passed through me, that maybe—just maybe—this little princess could see the lie in my eyes. But then, why did I care if she called my bluff?
“Okay,” she said, finally, and sat back in her seat. She didn’t speak again, but pranced her Barbie across the tray table in front of her, having the doll erupt into elaborate leaps and twirls. I let my eyes close, yellow light still bleeding in through the open window. It painted the insides of my eyelids a distracting crimson.
I sighed—it had been a long week.
*
“Mr. Randy?”
I grunted. “Uhmf.”
“Mr. Randy, the lady’s got your Dr. Pepper.”
I grunted again, this time dismissively. “I didn’t order a Dr. Pepper.”
“I know,” said Katie patiently. I felt her prod me. “I ordered it for you.”
My eyes eased open, reluctant to waste even a moment of potential sleeping time; I had gotten so little rest the past few days. Everything was darker in the cabin now; it seemed like most people had pulled their windows' shades down because of the sunlight. I squinted.
I turned to the flight attendant, who was looking apologetic with the soda in her hand, and hastily wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry, sir, she just said—you were asleep, and I thought maybe—I can go back and get you something else, if you like?” She sputtered the words like a frightened animal, eyes darting from Katie to me.
I looked at the drink—Dr. Pepper, Katie had said—and felt my mouth go a little dry. “Ah, no. It’s okay. You can leave it.”
She set the plastic cup down in the little indention in the tray table and quickly tossed some napkins onto Katie’s and my tray before proceeding down the aisle.
I stared into the dark liquid for a moment, watching as the bubbles rose from under the ice to the top, popping and fizzing. I felt as if they should have been some great metaphor for my life—or maybe that was just me being theatrical?—but the longer I stared at them, the less they seemed like enlightening signs from above, and the more they seemed like carbonation in a plastic cup of soda.
“Don’t you like Dr. Pepper, Mr. Randy?” Katie asked worriedly, Barbie frozen in the splits.
I bit my lip and took a sip, letting the overly-sweet taste wash around my mouth. “I do like Dr. Pepper,” I lied. She seemed to sense that something was wrong, because she kept staring at me, soft pink lips deepening into a frown.
“Why are you making that face, then?” she challenged.
“What face? I’m not making any face.”
“You are. It makes you look sad.”
I brought the cup to my lips again, about to take another sip, but set it down again. “It does make me a little sad, Katie. I used to know someone who liked Dr. Pepper very much, and I miss her.” Liar, I told myself. How can you miss someone you spend every day with? Someone you live with? But I found that the words seemed appropriate. Fitting. I did miss that woman, the one who downed three cans of Dr. Pepper a day. I wished I knew where she went, and who it was she had left in her place.
Again, the girl nodded understandingly. Her little fingers rose to her head, and she started twirling her hair. “My Daddy likes Dr. Pepper. I miss him, too.”
“Where are they, Katie? Your parents?”
She looked at her Barbie for a minute, then out the window. “Daddy’s back there, in his kingdom, the sunny one,” she said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder, behind her. “And Mommy’s up there, in her kingdom with the mountains, where the plane stops.” She pointed out the window, although all that was out there was a blanket of gentle white.
I frowned. “And you’re flying alone, all the way up to see Mommy?”
Her nod was hesitant, reserved. “I’ve done it before. Daddy doesn’t want to see her.”
I stared at Katie for a moment, feeling goose-bumps rise on my arms. “I’m sorry,” I said mechanically. But my mind was miles back, in the kitchen. She was in her pajamas—so beautiful, as always, her hair splayed across her shoulders and mascara smears dripping down to her cheekbones—but there were tears in her eyes. Tears that I had brought her. There was a vase of wilting flowers I had gotten her a week ago, next to a milk glass that was far too close to the edge; one wrong move and it would topple, crash, spill. She wouldn't notice, though. She'd keep on yelling, and pointing—long, gentle fingers, fingers that used to lace through my hair and trace the shape of my lips—pointing out the open door. I could see the stars outside, against a backdrop of black sky. They mocked me. They were an audience to my misery. “Get out now, Randall. I watch her lips move, but I don't want to hear the words. I'm not dealing with this right now. I don’t want to see you.”
I don’t want to see you.
Just like Katie’s Daddy didn’t want to see Katie’s Mommy.
Closing my eyes, I grabbed the plastic cup again and brought it to my lips violently, the rim crashing into my teeth as I gulped. Supposedly the soda had twenty-three secret flavors, but I couldn’t taste any of them—it tasted like regret, and something else too far in the back of my memories to be so easily placed. It had the bittersweet tang of something good that you had somehow let expire. I drank until it was gone, and then crumpled the plastic cup and stuffed it into the back pocket of the seat in front of me, exhaling jaggedly.
Katie looked at me with big, sad eyes that understood too well, and I wished I knew the magic words to give us both a happy ending. “Go back to sleep, Mr. Randy,” she instructed me gently, and pulled the window’s shade down halfway so that streaks of light still danced through, slicing the cabin into shards of snoring businessmen and old ladies going home.
*
The other Katie, my Katie, had wild strawberry hair and hazel-green eyes that smiled far more often than just when her lips turned up at the corners. In the dream she was running down the aisle, but her white dress had stains on it—big, ugly red stains like exploded ketchup packets—and she wasn’t smiling.
“Katie—“
“Mr. Randy? You do know a Katie, Mr. Randy. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I moaned at the altar and felt the scene spin, flipping me upside-down and depositing me onto the park bench where I’d proposed. Katie—my Katie, eyes wide and green and venomous—writhed on the bench, clutching her finger. I saw something glint in the darkness—the ring was shrinking, diamonds cutting into her skin like knives.
“Was it a pretty ring, Mr. Randy?” Katie said from the bench. The voice was different than what I knew—younger, higher, clearer. Still familiar, but not my Katie anymore. Now it wasn’t a park bench anymore; it was an airplane window seat, and Katie was shrinking, falling on top of two pillows and peering down at me anxiously and there wasn’t a ring or a white dress and—
—and the little girl was in my face. I gasped.
“Mr. Randy,” she said softly, “is Katie very important to you?”
I could only clench my fists. My eyes scanned the tray in front of me, but then I remembered that I had already drained the vile Dr. Pepper. I wanted more. I wanted to force a barrel of the stuff down my throat, so that my Katie didn’t disappear behind me and her bubbles didn’t pop.
The little girl had sandwiched her Barbie in the seat pocket in front of her—plastic arms up and reaching, an eerily pleasant smile plastered on unnaturally red lips, torso tilted slightly forward—so that the doll looked as she had just stuck the landing and was about to get the trophy. The pose looked wrong. Too perfect. Too happy.
Katie handed me a packet of peanuts. “The lady didn’t give you any because you were yelling in your sleep,” she informed me. “I think she’s kinda afraid of sleeping people.”
Munch, munch. One peanut after another. They were too salty.
“You never answered my question, Mr. Randy.”
Munch. “Oh?” Munch.
“About the ring. You were talking about it in your sleep. Was it pretty?”
“Oh.” Munch, munch. I set the crinkled plastic bag down, still half full, and looked at the head-rest of the seat in front of me. “Yes, I thought it was pretty. So did she. My Katie, that is.”
The girl seemed the consider this, and then popped another peanut in her mouth. She chewed slowly and thoughtfully. “Right before Daddy signed the split-up papers, Mommy threw her ring into the pond outside our house.”
I felt something sharp and dark inside of me. “Oh,” I muttered again, inadequately.
“Has your Katie thrown her ring into a pond yet, Mr. Randy?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think so. We don’t have any ponds around our house.”
“But you’ve got sink drains, I bet. And trash cans.”
“We do,” I acknowledged. Outside the window, I watched as the plane was engulfed into a cloud of gray; for a couple of moments everything shook, and then we emerged back into the daylight. We did have trash cans. In fact, the trash can was where I had tossed one of our wedding pictures during our first big fight. It had cracked in the corner, but when we fished it out the next day, the glass hadn’t completely shattered.
Katie had insisted that we put it back on display on our nightstand. A badge of courage, she had called it. We survived another battle. She told me to look at the crack every morning when I woke up, and it would give me the strength to go on another day.
I tried to remember. That last morning, before the screaming, had I noticed it?
*
When the plane landed and everyone but Katie and I had exited the cabin, I asked the flight attendant if she could give me a can of Dr. Pepper instead of the little plastic cup, and I slipped it into my backpack.
Katie watched me and smiled. “Are you going to give the Dr. Pepper to the lady you miss?”
“I’m going to try, when I go back and see her.”
“That’s nice,” she approved. She clutched Barbie and climbed out of the window seat, into the aisle. “I grabbed one of Daddy’s ties from his closet to give to Mommy, in case she wants to see it again. It’s his favorite. A blue one. He always wears it.”
I tipped my head to the pilot and exited the plane onto the long, cool walkway that lead back to the terminal. Katie shouldered her purple backpack, and as we walked, I frowned. “You grabbed one of the ties he wears a lot? Won’t he notice that it’s gone?”
“I hope so. Maybe he’ll decide that he wants it back so bad, he has to come up to Mommy’s kingdom and get it himself.”
God, I thought, any man bitter enough not to fly with his daughter across the country because he doesn’t want to see his ex-wife would never come for a tie. But I just smiled and nodded, a bit sadly, saying, “I hope so too, Katie.” And then I followed her gaze around the crowd of waving and smiling people that congregated outside of baggage claim. The girl’s eyes lit up and settled somewhere off to the left, on a short woman with a pea-green sweater and rectangular glasses. She looked tired.
“Mr. Randy, that’s my Mommy,” she announced. “I’m going to go now, okay?” Without further warning, she darted in between people picking up baggage and melted into the throng waiting on the other side. I watched her as she flew, a flash of purple plastic and wispy yellow hair against a lot of denim.
Part of me wanted her to turn back. Tell me what to do next, how long to wait before going back, whether to call first or just show up on the doorstep. Should I bring her back a gift? Or would that seem like bribery?
A voice sounded over the loudspeaker, reminding us to report any suspicious looking characters or unclaimed suitcases. I probably qualified as a suspicious character right now, standing statuesque at the revolving luggage dispenser, frozen and empty-handed, staring off into the distance. But no one had reported my unusual behavior. Maybe they saw that I wasn’t hostile, I was just lost. Or maybe no one paid enough attention to the rest of the world anymore. Maybe no one had noticed.
I pulled out my cell phone. She was, of course, on speed dial, and she answered on the first ring. I could hear the tears in her voice.
“Once upon a time,” I whispered into the receiver, “there was a beautiful princess named Katie.”
by GryphonFledgling
The tip is scuffed and battered from colliding with striped backsides and being dragged across three rings of sand. The leather is cracked and flaking along the creases. The long toe support is bent and wobbles dangerously sometimes, threatening to fall off during particularly elaborate pratfalls. The royal blue is now turning robin's egg, the school bus yellow is now more of an aged cream, and the deep cherry red is fading to pink. There is a stain where the heel was introduced to an elephant's pile, but it is just a shadow of its former dark glory. The smell faded long ago, hidden by the scent of unwashed socks and the sweat of hours in an enclosed space with thousands of people. The laces have been replaced countless times and even now are reinforced with bright red duct tape, trying to eke the last bit of integrity out of the fraying cords before having to be completely redone. But when the lights go down and the slapstick begins, it becomes magical. Children watch, some silent, some doubled over in laughter and as the show goes on, the battered leather becomes supple and smooth, the faded colors seem to brighten and shine, and the abused footwear becomes a fearsome weapon for the dealing out of karmic justice. It cavorts, pirouettes, trips and somersaults, bringing smiles and gales of laughter, the very best at what it does.
Carbonation and Katies
by Evi
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess named Katie.”
I groaned at the sound of the little girl’s voice, high and clear over the rush of takeoff. She had already scrambled over my lap to reach the window seat, stabbing me with Fairytale Barbie’s pin-straight plastic legs in the process, and pulled the window’s shade all the way up so that any small reprieve of shade was eliminated. So much for sleeping during the flight. She had also produced two small pillows from a purple backpack and sat on top of them, elevating herself so that she had a better view out the window.
I opened one eye experimentally, only to be greeted by the girl’s curious expression inches away from my face. I could smell the nauseatingly fruity scent of gummy bears on her breath. “Is your name Katie?” I asked politely, hoping she’d resume a reasonable distance.
“No. My name’s Alexandra Isabelle Felicity Sapphire.” She blinked once while saying this, long dark lashes over cerulean eyes.
“Really?”
“No. I wish, though. It’s Katie.”
“Oh,” I said, something nagging at the back of my mind. She stared at me expectantly, and I squirmed under her gaze. It was more invasive than it should have been, for a six- or seven-year-old. “What’s your Barbie’s name?”
“Barbie,” she said, giggling, and I made some kind of indistinguishable grunting noise which adequately displayed my emotions. Katie cocked her head to the side and suddenly sprang up from her seat, readjusting so that her tiny, freckled legs folded neatly underneath her. I was almost worried they’d snap like toothpicks under her weight, but she just cast me a brilliant smile and laughed, again—the noise was startlingly loud and uninhibited. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name, mister?”
“My—oh. My name’s Randy.”
She nodded knowingly, like this was as she had expected. “I know a Randy,” she admitted, “but he’s short and mean and he pulls my Barbies’ heads off— ‘cause he’s the dragon in the fairytale, you see—so I don’t like him very much. Do you know any Katies?”
Yes, my mind said, I know a Katie very, very well. But I clenched my jaw and pressed the little button that leans the airplane seat backwards, letting it go as far as it would, and replied, “No, I don’t.”
She scrutinized my expression. For a moment an irrational fear passed through me, that maybe—just maybe—this little princess could see the lie in my eyes. But then, why did I care if she called my bluff?
“Okay,” she said, finally, and sat back in her seat. She didn’t speak again, but pranced her Barbie across the tray table in front of her, having the doll erupt into elaborate leaps and twirls. I let my eyes close, yellow light still bleeding in through the open window. It painted the insides of my eyelids a distracting crimson.
I sighed—it had been a long week.
*
“Mr. Randy?”
I grunted. “Uhmf.”
“Mr. Randy, the lady’s got your Dr. Pepper.”
I grunted again, this time dismissively. “I didn’t order a Dr. Pepper.”
“I know,” said Katie patiently. I felt her prod me. “I ordered it for you.”
My eyes eased open, reluctant to waste even a moment of potential sleeping time; I had gotten so little rest the past few days. Everything was darker in the cabin now; it seemed like most people had pulled their windows' shades down because of the sunlight. I squinted.
I turned to the flight attendant, who was looking apologetic with the soda in her hand, and hastily wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry, sir, she just said—you were asleep, and I thought maybe—I can go back and get you something else, if you like?” She sputtered the words like a frightened animal, eyes darting from Katie to me.
I looked at the drink—Dr. Pepper, Katie had said—and felt my mouth go a little dry. “Ah, no. It’s okay. You can leave it.”
She set the plastic cup down in the little indention in the tray table and quickly tossed some napkins onto Katie’s and my tray before proceeding down the aisle.
I stared into the dark liquid for a moment, watching as the bubbles rose from under the ice to the top, popping and fizzing. I felt as if they should have been some great metaphor for my life—or maybe that was just me being theatrical?—but the longer I stared at them, the less they seemed like enlightening signs from above, and the more they seemed like carbonation in a plastic cup of soda.
“Don’t you like Dr. Pepper, Mr. Randy?” Katie asked worriedly, Barbie frozen in the splits.
I bit my lip and took a sip, letting the overly-sweet taste wash around my mouth. “I do like Dr. Pepper,” I lied. She seemed to sense that something was wrong, because she kept staring at me, soft pink lips deepening into a frown.
“Why are you making that face, then?” she challenged.
“What face? I’m not making any face.”
“You are. It makes you look sad.”
I brought the cup to my lips again, about to take another sip, but set it down again. “It does make me a little sad, Katie. I used to know someone who liked Dr. Pepper very much, and I miss her.” Liar, I told myself. How can you miss someone you spend every day with? Someone you live with? But I found that the words seemed appropriate. Fitting. I did miss that woman, the one who downed three cans of Dr. Pepper a day. I wished I knew where she went, and who it was she had left in her place.
Again, the girl nodded understandingly. Her little fingers rose to her head, and she started twirling her hair. “My Daddy likes Dr. Pepper. I miss him, too.”
“Where are they, Katie? Your parents?”
She looked at her Barbie for a minute, then out the window. “Daddy’s back there, in his kingdom, the sunny one,” she said, pointing her thumb over her shoulder, behind her. “And Mommy’s up there, in her kingdom with the mountains, where the plane stops.” She pointed out the window, although all that was out there was a blanket of gentle white.
I frowned. “And you’re flying alone, all the way up to see Mommy?”
Her nod was hesitant, reserved. “I’ve done it before. Daddy doesn’t want to see her.”
I stared at Katie for a moment, feeling goose-bumps rise on my arms. “I’m sorry,” I said mechanically. But my mind was miles back, in the kitchen. She was in her pajamas—so beautiful, as always, her hair splayed across her shoulders and mascara smears dripping down to her cheekbones—but there were tears in her eyes. Tears that I had brought her. There was a vase of wilting flowers I had gotten her a week ago, next to a milk glass that was far too close to the edge; one wrong move and it would topple, crash, spill. She wouldn't notice, though. She'd keep on yelling, and pointing—long, gentle fingers, fingers that used to lace through my hair and trace the shape of my lips—pointing out the open door. I could see the stars outside, against a backdrop of black sky. They mocked me. They were an audience to my misery. “Get out now, Randall. I watch her lips move, but I don't want to hear the words. I'm not dealing with this right now. I don’t want to see you.”
I don’t want to see you.
Just like Katie’s Daddy didn’t want to see Katie’s Mommy.
Closing my eyes, I grabbed the plastic cup again and brought it to my lips violently, the rim crashing into my teeth as I gulped. Supposedly the soda had twenty-three secret flavors, but I couldn’t taste any of them—it tasted like regret, and something else too far in the back of my memories to be so easily placed. It had the bittersweet tang of something good that you had somehow let expire. I drank until it was gone, and then crumpled the plastic cup and stuffed it into the back pocket of the seat in front of me, exhaling jaggedly.
Katie looked at me with big, sad eyes that understood too well, and I wished I knew the magic words to give us both a happy ending. “Go back to sleep, Mr. Randy,” she instructed me gently, and pulled the window’s shade down halfway so that streaks of light still danced through, slicing the cabin into shards of snoring businessmen and old ladies going home.
*
The other Katie, my Katie, had wild strawberry hair and hazel-green eyes that smiled far more often than just when her lips turned up at the corners. In the dream she was running down the aisle, but her white dress had stains on it—big, ugly red stains like exploded ketchup packets—and she wasn’t smiling.
“Katie—“
“Mr. Randy? You do know a Katie, Mr. Randy. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I moaned at the altar and felt the scene spin, flipping me upside-down and depositing me onto the park bench where I’d proposed. Katie—my Katie, eyes wide and green and venomous—writhed on the bench, clutching her finger. I saw something glint in the darkness—the ring was shrinking, diamonds cutting into her skin like knives.
“Was it a pretty ring, Mr. Randy?” Katie said from the bench. The voice was different than what I knew—younger, higher, clearer. Still familiar, but not my Katie anymore. Now it wasn’t a park bench anymore; it was an airplane window seat, and Katie was shrinking, falling on top of two pillows and peering down at me anxiously and there wasn’t a ring or a white dress and—
—and the little girl was in my face. I gasped.
“Mr. Randy,” she said softly, “is Katie very important to you?”
I could only clench my fists. My eyes scanned the tray in front of me, but then I remembered that I had already drained the vile Dr. Pepper. I wanted more. I wanted to force a barrel of the stuff down my throat, so that my Katie didn’t disappear behind me and her bubbles didn’t pop.
The little girl had sandwiched her Barbie in the seat pocket in front of her—plastic arms up and reaching, an eerily pleasant smile plastered on unnaturally red lips, torso tilted slightly forward—so that the doll looked as she had just stuck the landing and was about to get the trophy. The pose looked wrong. Too perfect. Too happy.
Katie handed me a packet of peanuts. “The lady didn’t give you any because you were yelling in your sleep,” she informed me. “I think she’s kinda afraid of sleeping people.”
Munch, munch. One peanut after another. They were too salty.
“You never answered my question, Mr. Randy.”
Munch. “Oh?” Munch.
“About the ring. You were talking about it in your sleep. Was it pretty?”
“Oh.” Munch, munch. I set the crinkled plastic bag down, still half full, and looked at the head-rest of the seat in front of me. “Yes, I thought it was pretty. So did she. My Katie, that is.”
The girl seemed the consider this, and then popped another peanut in her mouth. She chewed slowly and thoughtfully. “Right before Daddy signed the split-up papers, Mommy threw her ring into the pond outside our house.”
I felt something sharp and dark inside of me. “Oh,” I muttered again, inadequately.
“Has your Katie thrown her ring into a pond yet, Mr. Randy?”
“Uh, no. I don’t think so. We don’t have any ponds around our house.”
“But you’ve got sink drains, I bet. And trash cans.”
“We do,” I acknowledged. Outside the window, I watched as the plane was engulfed into a cloud of gray; for a couple of moments everything shook, and then we emerged back into the daylight. We did have trash cans. In fact, the trash can was where I had tossed one of our wedding pictures during our first big fight. It had cracked in the corner, but when we fished it out the next day, the glass hadn’t completely shattered.
Katie had insisted that we put it back on display on our nightstand. A badge of courage, she had called it. We survived another battle. She told me to look at the crack every morning when I woke up, and it would give me the strength to go on another day.
I tried to remember. That last morning, before the screaming, had I noticed it?
*
When the plane landed and everyone but Katie and I had exited the cabin, I asked the flight attendant if she could give me a can of Dr. Pepper instead of the little plastic cup, and I slipped it into my backpack.
Katie watched me and smiled. “Are you going to give the Dr. Pepper to the lady you miss?”
“I’m going to try, when I go back and see her.”
“That’s nice,” she approved. She clutched Barbie and climbed out of the window seat, into the aisle. “I grabbed one of Daddy’s ties from his closet to give to Mommy, in case she wants to see it again. It’s his favorite. A blue one. He always wears it.”
I tipped my head to the pilot and exited the plane onto the long, cool walkway that lead back to the terminal. Katie shouldered her purple backpack, and as we walked, I frowned. “You grabbed one of the ties he wears a lot? Won’t he notice that it’s gone?”
“I hope so. Maybe he’ll decide that he wants it back so bad, he has to come up to Mommy’s kingdom and get it himself.”
God, I thought, any man bitter enough not to fly with his daughter across the country because he doesn’t want to see his ex-wife would never come for a tie. But I just smiled and nodded, a bit sadly, saying, “I hope so too, Katie.” And then I followed her gaze around the crowd of waving and smiling people that congregated outside of baggage claim. The girl’s eyes lit up and settled somewhere off to the left, on a short woman with a pea-green sweater and rectangular glasses. She looked tired.
“Mr. Randy, that’s my Mommy,” she announced. “I’m going to go now, okay?” Without further warning, she darted in between people picking up baggage and melted into the throng waiting on the other side. I watched her as she flew, a flash of purple plastic and wispy yellow hair against a lot of denim.
Part of me wanted her to turn back. Tell me what to do next, how long to wait before going back, whether to call first or just show up on the doorstep. Should I bring her back a gift? Or would that seem like bribery?
A voice sounded over the loudspeaker, reminding us to report any suspicious looking characters or unclaimed suitcases. I probably qualified as a suspicious character right now, standing statuesque at the revolving luggage dispenser, frozen and empty-handed, staring off into the distance. But no one had reported my unusual behavior. Maybe they saw that I wasn’t hostile, I was just lost. Or maybe no one paid enough attention to the rest of the world anymore. Maybe no one had noticed.
I pulled out my cell phone. She was, of course, on speed dial, and she answered on the first ring. I could hear the tears in her voice.
“Once upon a time,” I whispered into the receiver, “there was a beautiful princess named Katie.”
