riku's rambles

[rikubean]

I keep getting muse for these random shorts. Each post is its own little short thing. Probably all unrelated to each other.

[rikubean]

I creatively called this THING

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Shifting and flying and falling and spinning and freezing and burning.

All at once. All the time. Exhausting, confusing, and exciting rolled into one.

And that is only the half of it.

Sometimes the world shines too brightly to see, and others the darkness eats away at the night until nothing remains. Still others more, the pieces fall into place. Lucidity replaces insanity. Consciousness replaces restlessness.

The remaining humanity fades, stops resisting, and her true self stops itching to crawl out of the binding and constricting flesh of a mortal and the mortal bonds yield. The thin luminescent wings she constantly feels trapped beneath layers of muscle and clothing burst through.

She resembles a butterfly, if one’s depth perception skews enough to mistake proportions of distance verses size. But then she shifts, and no longer does she flit back-and-forth, back-and-forth but instead rises powerfully up and up and up and glides easily on patches of warm air on the wings of a hawk, an eagle, a falcon. The colors fade and glow, dark then light, spotted then striped, or perhaps the refraction of the sun causes the confusion.

But then she folds those glorious, magnificent, ever-changing feathered wings and drops through the sky. Peals of laughter bounce against the terrain. Her form twists and spins in descent, growing larger far faster than it should if it were only the change in depth.

The wings open, displaying a mixed array of patterns before scales ripple over her skin and the wings turn leathery. Her face contorts, grows a snout. Teeth sharpen too long to fit within her jaws. A long tail extends from her spine.

The dragon angles out of the dive and glides a horsehead above the ground. Shining first green, then blue, then indigo, she rears her head and opens those mighty jaws. Out spews a jet of blue flames, rippling the air with waves of heat.

A roar and she drops from the skies. The scales fall away to fur, the snout shortens and flattens, the ears widen, and the eyes blink brightly in the black face, one violet and one green. The panther now sprints faster than any land beast should be able, streaking between trees with ease and grace, whipping through tall grasses with barely a sound or print to signify passage.

She knows no other sensations except run run run and faster faster faster, and she frantically jumps to the air once more, arms growing feathers and legs growing claws, and the oversized raven shoots over the range of mountains.

---

[rikubean]

EVOLUTION is not autobiographical in the slightest. I'm not being sarcastic.

---

You’re young, and you’re small. The world is a big, big place with big, big people living their big, big lives. And you want to be a part of that. You’re innocent. Nothing in the world can stop you until finally it’s bedtime, but then you close your eyes and dream of the big, big person you’ll be in a million, million years when you’re old enough to make your own decisions.

Then you get older. You boast about nearing your parents’ height. You boast about outgrowing friends, family members. And suddenly things become just a little darker, the shine on the world gone a little duller. Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy cease to exist. Magic stops being an acceptable explanation for the unknown. Fairies and elves and mysterious beasts no longer cause mischief in the middle of the night.

You grow sullen, now, as you age. Your sarcastic attitudes are written off as “being a teenager,” and this infuriates you further. You can see the cracks in the tarnished façade you used to view with reverence, and it fuels your loss of faith in humanity. You read news stories of hurricanes and earthquakes with no one going to their assistance. You stop smiling all the time.

In protest, you’ve taken to wearing darker colored clothing. The pastel frills your mother attempts to coax you into wearing fill you with disgust and loathing. You paint your nails black. You start experimenting with makeup, outlining thick black lines around your eyes and painting your lips the same color. People stare at you, now, when you walk down the street, but you don’t care. Your pigtails bounce merrily as you run away from the land of torment and confusion called High School you are legally obligated to visit daily.

Still, nothing could possibly last forever. You graduate. You’ve gotten high enough marks compared to your classmates that you have been required to give a speech. It is quite possibly the most anyone has heard you speak at one time. You shake hands with the principal, nod at him, and return to your seat. You toss your cap and smile as it falls. You silently rejoice in the end of an age.

From this point, you feel as if you know how the world works. You have seen its harsh underbelly and turn away from it. If your realism has jaded you, you are learning to overcome it. You start wearing colors again, curious as to why you ever shied away from them in the first place.

Suddenly you realize you’ve absolutely no idea what runs the world, what causes the earth to spin and the stars to shine so brightly. You know the science behind life, but for once it leaves you dissatisfied. You must know what goes on. You want to see it for yourself.

You enter university much as you entered grade school, with your head held high and your pigtails whipping around your face from the wind. Here, like then, no one stares or questions your motives or your objective behind what you are wearing. You smile again, enjoying the private joke. The girl you sit next to waves her fingers. Neither of you sees the point in spoiling the moment with meaningless words.

This time, you find yourself having to work harder to apply yourself to achieve the marks you once gained with ease. The challenge excites you. You throw yourself full-force into the work and excel even farther than before.

Only now, you don’t stand alone, back against the wall, while those before you joke and play and mock you for your serious nature. The qualities that used to set you apart now bring you closer to others. You form a strong bond with the others also pursuing the same degree you are. Together, you feel as if you could attack the dark sides of yourselves and conquer.

Once again you stand at graduation ceremonies. This time you feel as if you actually earned and worked for the certificate you are awarded. You stand at the front of the crowd, proudly holding your head high to represent your classmates. You deliver a speech, just like the last time, only this time you are the only one to do so. You draw on the reserves of sarcasm left over from your younger years and have the crowd laughing and then the students in tears.

Your voice never wavers as you speak of the times of torment and ridicule and how grateful you were when they ended. None of your childhood classmates remain around you. You’ve run from your hometown, from the pain of the past. Now you relive it for a learning experience. You end your speech and step to the side. You courtesy at the rumbling roaring applause.

You continued to age, this time with little care to the innocence you’ve left behind. You rejoice in your experiences instead of scorning them. You fall in love. You get married. You name your first child after your childhood hero, the one who inspired your career choice. Your second child’s name honors your first friend, the shy girl who sat next to you the first day of university.

Now, as you lay dying, a withered great-grandmother, you gaze at the circle of family and friends surrounding you. You remember the days when you stood alone and marvel at your own strength. You smile one last time at the man who dared break through your walls and wonder which of you was correct about the afterlife, him the Christian and you the cynical realist.

You let your eyes slip closed.

You exhale.

---

[rikubean]

IRIDESCENT was originally written for a school assignment. Don't hold that against it.

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They say Pride always knows more than she speaks.

Or Humility, instead, smiles and quietly accepts praise.

Of course, she is neither, though her soft nature prevents her from openly announcing her name or nature.

She smiles because she is, clearly not something to be understood without first knowing her.

In her world, where friends and family each embodies an emotion, sin, or virtue, they meet to discuss positive and negative impacts on the universe they influence.

But she feels she has more important things to focus her attentions on.

Quietly she slips out the door to once more go about her business. The dying flowers woven through her hair strengthen and live for one more day, brightly contrasting with the wild mane of dark hair. She laughs, twirling past mortals who do not and cannot see her, only hear the whispering of the wind and the twinkling of soft, delicate bells as she passes.

She does not quite walk, nor does she fly, through the bustling streets. She moves fluidly, as if a construct of water and not of bone and flesh. She pulls strength from the world itself, the place she cannot even hold a physical body.

She spins around without warning, a wild look in her dark eyes, and flings herself forward, gripping tightly the clasped hands of a mother and her young child.

Once she and Imagination crossed paths. Together the pair became so powerful they were forced into separation. Separately, she and he work their brand of influence over the mortal world, though not entirely without a degree of overlap.

It is this overlap in their power she exploits now, showing her wavering image to all those with the strongest of imaginations: children, in other words.

The child looks at her quizzically and stands still, shocked at her sudden appearance. She shakes her head, warning written over her face. She cannot speak, not to this plane, not in a clearly defined method a child could easily comprehend. Instead she resorts to other methods.

Her lips press tightly together – it would do no good for the child to verbalize the thoughts she can clearly feel in his dormant mind – she slowly loosens her hands around his. She pulls one hand away, leaving the other resting on top of theirs. She points, and the world slows. Rarely does she abuse this strength; as a result she still holds onto it even with the continued restrictions of their influences.

She blurs his vision, still cluing him to hold fast to his mother even with the slowed time, and shows him what she sees in his future. She shows him the terror his mother will feel when he breaks from the safety of her arms and runs blindly across the street. She shows him the heartbreak she will feel when he is lost to her.

Thoroughly shaken though he is, he nods vigorously at her, and she gently pulls time back into a linear perspective.

She waits for a moment to allow the child to adjust to the return of reality, and then pulls her hands away.

She remains translucently visible for several more seconds, basking in the heat from the sun she can almost feel. One price her people are forced to pay is the denial of this world’s nature – they cannot feel the rays of its sun, the softness of its earth, or the gentle assault of a rainstorm. Neither do they feel the harsh offerings the world had for them – their skin never burns from too much exposure, mud never sucks their feet into the depths, nor does lightning rattle their innards.

While she takes the time to imagine she feels warmth and security, a little girl spots her and waves enthusiastically. A more distinct warmth spreads from her chest. She smiles widely, waves jauntily, and slowly fades back into her own plane.

She feels the pull of another situation requiring her intervention. Her eyes slip closed as she allows her power to guide her through space to her destination.

She opens her eyes.

No time has passed.

For her at least.

In front of her eyes lies a crowded ballroom, filled to capacity with dancing couples. Whatever the celebration, the air is festive. A small collection of musicians serve as an orchestra. She hears and sees the distinct patterns of a quadrille and claps her hands in delight.

Momentarily she forgets, as she is wont to do, about the pull to this place and instead twirls into the dance herself, her simple, earthen toned tunic ripples outward as she spins. The fabric multiplies and weaves into an elegant gown to match what the ladies in attendance wear. Thees and thous float past her ears, mixed in with other archaic speech patterns that she pays little mind to.

Time is an imposed construct. For her, in order to properly do her job, she must shake off the mantles of a linear timeline. Instead, she wades or dives or floats through years impassively, going in whatever direction she pleases. Perhaps this should be a lonely existence, but she has known no other. She could not say in what year she was “born” or “created”; she has seen all years, known all times, and known all manners of dress. Were she to continually be visible to all parties, she would be able to blend perfectly.

Soon the dance ends and the musicians begin playing a cotillion. Her whimsy indulged, she moves out of the middle of the floor and returns to the search of the call. She finds the distraught couple, dancing with separate partners but looking longingly at each other. Pain clearly shows in their eyes, their movements.

She does not like it. She goes to the male first; in this era he is bound to be the bolder of the pair. To her surprise, she detects a strong fear, jealousy, and hopelessness that his situation is lost. She whispers soothing words into his ear, thoughts that would itch at the back of his mind.

Go to her. Dance with her. Make her yours.

Once she feels his fires ignite once more, she glides to the would-be companion.

Within her is a strong resolve, hardened after years of unfortunate occurrences that have continually worked against her favor. This woman knows Love, yet does not welcome her. It is not up to her, however, to see which being from the Other Land comes to visit.

You deserve him. Let him come. Don’t push him away.

She whispers again and again and again, her endless patience keeping her there for the cotillion and another song. The waltz is next; they must dance together if they are to have their chance.

She returns to the man, who continually has been mulling over the suggestions she has placed in his mind, and now places her palms flat against his shoulder blades and pushes him forward. She has no physical strength, but the force of her will compels him forward nonetheless.

After that, she can interfere no further.

She has influence over thoughts – to an extent – and emotions. She cannot infringe upon Free Will, nor would she wish to. Her power is that much stronger for each success based upon the participants’ genuinely wanting to comply with her magic.

She sees the connection between the man and the woman, could touch the tendrils tying their hearts forever as one, but instead feels the pull of a meeting between the virtues and sins.

Reluctantly, she stands stubbornly against the insistent summons to see the man put his arm around the woman, and see her tension immediately fade away. Smiling, she fades through dimensions and shrugs off the nagging sensation that she has already made this same trek. Long ago she abandoned the attempt to make sense of time travel.

She twirls into the very meeting she left when she ran off to help the boy – although she supposes now she is back into past times, before she will warn the boy of the destruction in his mother should he run in front of the car, but after – much, much after – the ball she just vacated.

She knows they whisper about her. She can feel their thoughts, just as clearly as they can feel her indifference to them. She is dangerous. She is fickle. She should not be allowed to roam as freely as she does. Moderate her. Temperance, go after her. They believe she is a drug, a powerfully addictive, completely irresistible narcotic who should have no right to impose herself on those who clearly have no business craving her.

She ignores their sentiments, as always; after all, there are several of them who she feels complicate matters rather than alleviate them.

Imagination is here, and she smiles at him, secure in the knowledge that she has changed – saved, really – four lives already, before the meeting has even occurred, and she will continue to go wherever the pull takes her, no matter how unfairly the others feel she treats the mortals.

Once again she fades into the background of the group, the private smile ever-present on her face, as she observes those around her until once again something tugs at her heart and she vanishes.

This time she finds herself staring out an enormous window, a beautiful view of a nighttime city skyline lies before her. Three separate firework shows ignite the sky; she would call it breathtaking if she had any breath to leave her lungs. She turns, and sees a loudly arguing pair. Though she understands the rapid-fire French they spew at each other, she cares little for the actual meaning itself. The underlying emotion is what matters.

Beneath the hostility lies her embodiment. All hope is not lost.

This time she holds her hands up to both their minds at once, absorbing and returning their positive thoughts and coloring the negative with them. Before long the passion in the argument has altered slightly, enough to change the atmosphere entirely.

Satisfied with the way things would continue from this point, she allows herself to float through the ceiling, roof, and clouds until she reclines on the highest layer of the atmosphere. Endless stars stretch above her in sharp contrast to the explosions of the celebratory city below.

The warmth in her chest expands as Imagination joins her. He twists the clouds into clever shapes for young children to delight in, not quite close enough to her that their skin touches, but close enough that she feels the heat radiating from his body.

This is nice, she thinks, and he hears and agrees.

You did well today.

He pauses, and she senses the emotion she empowers. Her heartbeat quickens.

I think you know what I want to say, Love.

I do, she answers, and reaches for his hand.

No more would she deny her own force in the name of an organization that did not accept her regardless. Love was in love, blissfully, hopefully, and eternally.

She knew, better than most, the futility of trying to fight it.

---

[rikubean]

this is really short, written after my great-grandmother died. I think I had intended to speak it at the service, but I didn't have the guts. This is called DELLA, since that was her name.

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A man made of tin once said he knew he had a heart because he could feel it breaking. A scientist once pointed out that the heart is a muscle. As such, it cannot be broken; it can only be crushed.

Today of all days we must remember that. Our hearts may be crushed now, but they have not weakened. Valentine’s Day is a day devoted to the expression of just how strong our hearts can be. Our hearts still pound deep in our chest cavities, while Grandma Della’s has finally gone still.

As we remember the strong woman who has now left our midst, we must know in our minds that she will never leave our hearts.
Our family’s hardheaded Polish stubbornness does not stop just because grief has poisoned our lives. Grandma was the strongest of all of us. She set the standard for just what could and could not be done. When we ran out of ways to style a Barbie doll’s hair, she showed us how to curl ribbon.

Well, we’ve run out of hairstyles for our Barbies, and Grandma has no other lessons to teach us. We have to rely on the things she left behind.

---

[rikubean]

I dunno what this is about, just that I wrote it. CRYSTAL PALACES.

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You sit amidst the remains of the crystal palace and wonder what went wrong.

The explosion had come so suddenly – the cracks in the foundation had been so minuscule! – there had been no way to brace for the impact.

You wonder if it’s your fault.

You think if you had just stopped for one moment, paid attention to your surroundings for just long enough, you could have seen the impending shatter and prevented it.

You curse and berate yourself for allowing yourself to view the world through rose-tinted glasses, to never think to remove the blinders blocking the harder paths to follow.

You fall to your knees in the wreckage, staring hopelessly at the bits of glass surrounding you. One of your fists pounds against small piece of standing spire. The pain of the resulting gash slices through the dull haze clouding your mind.

It occurs to you that that was a really stupid thing to do, and you are angry with yourself.

Not even just angry suffices. You are furious. Your vision fades red for a moment.

You jump to your feet, determined to do something, not just sit around and cry and harm yourself – unintentional or not – over it.

Your mind wrestles with the glass shards surrounding you. Wind picks up, then a spark.

You’re seeing red and sweating with the effort now, but the palace regrows around you.

The cracks are still there, as is the evidence of the site of the explosion, but it stands, and you are responsible. No one else.

And no one could ever take that from you.

---

[rikubean]

CHAPTER ONE is a teal deer, I am aware. This was an assignment with a minimum page requirement (I went over by four pages). "Write about an event from your childhood that greatly impacted the person you are today." Had to be in a distinct style. So I wrote about my parents' divorce. Not like the teacher's actually going to read it.

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Sometimes it was really easy to tell when something was wrong.

You know the moment when you walk into the room when they had just been fighting, when things are tense and silent but you’re not even eight years old yet, so what do you know? You stand there and gnaw on the silken lining of your boon bankie and ask for a glass of water. You don’t want to go to bed while they’re fighting. You can hear it even though they try their hardest to hide it.

You learn tricks to keep things quiet. You start staying up later and later, demanding an endless stream of glasses of water and “midnight snacks” that really only occur at nine or ten at night. You develop a sudden taste for a cartoon that will only air from eleven to eleven-thirty at night, and you insist on watching it no matter what.

When the sleep timer shuts your television off, you turn it back on and reset the timer for the next half hour.

You think you may find the sound comforting when you fall asleep, the shifting lights chasing away your nightmares and the white noise lulling you into your dreams.

Even now, you cannot sleep unless you have music playing through the night, barring the exceptions of when you’ve exhausted yourself beyond caring.

Despite your best attempts to either avoid or ignore the subject, eventually your parents sit you and your sister down and announce they can no longer live in the same house. That’s it. End of discussion. You stare wide-eyed. This kind of thing doesn’t happen. Your world consists of children with two parents and varying numbers of siblings. Not varying numbers of parents. They may have attempted to cheer you up by saying now you’d have two bedrooms when all your friends only have one, but you block the conversation from your mind the moment it ends.

You don’t want to be different.

Your father moves out of the house and into a townhouse. He tells you there’s a pool there he’ll take you and your sister to in the summer and a big hill in the back you can sled down in the winter.

For a time everything seems like it’s okay. You block the fighting from your mind. Your dad teaches you how to play softball and you cry when you have to wear glasses. You claim you won’t wear them even if they get them and will stubbornly wear them on your head instead.

But then you get your glasses and suddenly things are so much clearer.

You wonder if things would have made more sense when you got sat down and told your parents weren’t going to live together anymore if you could have seen their expressions more clearly. In some corner of your mind, not even your imagination lets you dwell on this.

You drown in imagination. Your dreams have you falling and flying and soaring and gliding up and up and up and up above everything and everywhere where things cannot hurt you anymore. You believed in a Heaven and a Hell but you know that was a Bad Word and you weren’t to say it even if you didn’t mean it as a Bad Word and you meant it as That Place.

Capital letters signify Important Business. When your mother and your father have to meet to settle their problems – you know later that it was money and finances, but then you were barely aware your parents could stand to speak to one another – when your mother and your father had to meet it was Very Important Business that they sometimes had to Go Downtown to Settle and that made it Very Really Important Business, but you never said that out loud to them because you thought they would stop meeting with each other.

If they stopped meeting with each other, they would never resolve their differences and you would never have a Mommy and a Daddy instead of a Mommy who was separated from a Daddy. You would never have a Mommy’s House and a Daddy’s House instead of just a House.

But then the first time you see your parents in the same room together was on September 11, 2001, and that wasn’t very nice.

You didn’t know what was going on. You’re taking a test – maybe it’s math or maybe it’s reading or spelling, you will never be able to remember clearly – and suddenly the kids around you are being pulled out of class by white-faced parents who move very stiffly and look really skittish, like the time you went when they had to give Byron his shots and the cat wouldn’t sit still when he was home, jumping at the slightest noise and slinking away from anyone’s touch but yours because you are Byron’s favorite.

Kids are being taken from your class and you think, that’s so dumb and lame. Why are they being so stupid? but then you are pulled from your test and you walk down the hallway with your mother for the first time when it isn’t Open House and then you see your father with your sister, and you smile.

You smile, and you look at your mother’s face, but she’s got the same white-faced skittish-like-Byron look and your smile fades. You look at your sister instead and the two of you grab hands because you don’t know what’s going on.

You don’t know what’s going on, but your parents are in the same room with each other.

But they have separate cars.

Your hope falls.

You get in your car with your father and your sister gets in the car with your mother. Both cars go to Daddy’s House and you wonder what your mother must think at the size of the townhouse compared to the actual house that is Mommy’s House, but then you realize you can show your mother the bunk bed you have since you and your sister have to share a room here.

You go to run upstairs since you know either Mommy or Daddy will follow you, but they grab you around the middle and you’re little so you can’t get away even by wiggling. They put you on the couch and you pull your knees up to your chest but you don’t pout because pouting gets you in trouble and you want to watch X-Men: Evolution tonight even though it airs from eleven until eleven-thirty at night when you’re supposed to go to bed at ten.

Your mother tells you your shorts are too short. They’re bright blue and the exact same shade as the tank top you are wearing. The tank top has a rainbow-striped heart on it that you really liked and the shirt still fits even if the shorts are too tight, but they had to match. You remember arguing about this that morning.

Your father tells your mother he told you the exact comment that morning but you had insisted it was okay. Your mother looks ready to argue, but she doesn’t.

She doesn’t argue, and you think maybe things will go back to the way they used to be.

But instead of saying they want to go back to living in one house again, your parents tell you some very bad men took over some airplanes and crashed them into something called the Twin Towers.

It doesn’t make sense. Why would airplanes get taken over? You thought you know how airplanes worked, since your mom works for USAirways and you get to visit the hanger on Bring Your Child to Work Day before going with Daddy to Armstrong’s to help servers clear their tables and end the day with two or three dollars in your pocket.

Airplanes don’t work like people taking over for the pilot when the pilot is still okay to do his job and not sick or dying or unable to do his job. No, you board the plane and sit in your assigned seat, but when you don’t like your assigned seat, you start crying until your sister gives up the window seat and trades with you. You get up when you really really really have to go to the bathroom, but there’s no reason to go say hi to the pilot while he’s trying to fly the plane for you to get to California or Florida or Disneyland for the yearly family vacation.

So you ask why the bad men would do that, and your parents can’t answer you. They can’t possibly explain to you what the Twin Towers are when you don’t understand the concept of a government beyond your class election last year, when you voted for Al Gore because you thought he had a funny name but your friend voted for George W. Bush because her family liked him and then George W. Bush won the class election and your friend laughed at you for picking Al Gore even though the teacher said that George W. Bush winning our class election didn’t mean he’d win the country’s election and become the next president. But then he did win the election, and for a day or two you wondered if you could run a class election to make yourself president until you decide you’d rather learn how to hang upside-down on the playground fire truck.

Your parents tell you that bad men do bad things, and crashing airplanes into the Twin Towers was a Very Bad Thing Indeed, so you say you hate the bad men and want to go fight them. Your parents get the same weird funny look on their faces, as if it’s odd for you to want to lock bad men up the way the PowerPuff Girls do, so you say you want to be like Blossom and fight crime and the forces of evil, or be like Sailor Moon and become Sailor Nebula and fight against the Bad Men of Afghanistan.

But then since it’s Tuesday and you’re supposed to be with your father that night anyway, your mother leaves without staying for dinner. She hugs you really tightly and she sniffles a little bit the way you did when you were sick or when you fell and got the really big cut on your knee and tried not to cry.

You think for a moment that your mother is crying, but when you look back at her, her face isn’t wet and you think that was a stupid thing to think.

It doesn’t take long for things to go back to the established not-normal it had been in since the day your parents sat you down on the couch and said they couldn’t stay together anymore. You get a shirt from your mother’s boyfriend Denny that says “Lost but Not Forgotten” and it has the Twin Towers on it but all cracked and ready to break with a huge yellow ribbon tied around them. The shirt is huge on you and hangs to your knees, so you pretend you’re wearing it to sleep in but really you change into the t-shirt you’ve stolen from your father that week. You grabbed it right from the top of his drawer but right after he got ready for work, so it still smells like his cologne and aftershave because he puts too much on.

You always sleep with Byron curled up next to your chest, too. When it’s cold you wrap your arms around him and he purrs and tucks his face next to your hand and his nose is always wet and really cold and it makes you giggle so you pet him and he purrs louder. But when it’s hot you can’t stand to have the kitty so close to you so you put him on your feet and he’s always still there when you wake up.

But you thrash around in your sleep. You know that because your hair is always crazy in the morning – Daddy calls you the Wildwoman from Borneo and you wonder where Borneo is but it doesn’t sound like a nice place – and since you thrash around in your sleep, you wonder how Byron manages to stay on your feet the whole time without you kicking him, but you just think it’s some kind of Cat Magic and don’t think to question it out loud.

Then your mother meets someone who moves into the house with you and you wonder if you’re supposed to treat him like your father and you don’t want to. You and he don’t get along very well a lot of the time because you’re both stubborn, but you try to at least not tell him when you’re getting annoyed for your mother’s sake.

Then your father meets someone but she has two kids of her own, but you like them and her. She’s got really long red hair that she loves it when you play with it. The only problem is she lives somewhere called Carnegie and your father wants to move in with her. They find a house on Borland to live in, but it’s in a place called Scott Township and that’s half an hour away. The ceiling of your new room there doesn’t fit your bunk bed, but your father’s girlfriend has extra twin sized beds she’s kept in storage at her parents’ house.

But then your father moves from the Borland house to the one he lives in now, and you still can’t tell people the way to get there because you honestly don’t know. You can drive now but you can’t go visit your own father since you don’t know how to get to his house and you don’t know his work schedule.

And even though they don’t see each other ever in person, your parents still fight loudly and explosively enough that you get trapped eavesdropping on things you don’t want to hear.

People ask you why you’re bitter and have turned from religion and to science.

Religion gave you sleepless nights praying for things to stop happening the way they were happening with no resolution that you could accept.

Science gives you resolution. Two plus two equals four. You put sugar in your coffee and it tastes sweet. The sun comes up because the world turns. These kinds of things are beautiful to you. There are mysteries you will never understand, but everywhere you look you see proof that for every effect there is a corresponding cause. Even If you can’t see it, you find that reassuring.

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