It’s the little things



The highly irritable buzzing kept fading in and out. Like it entered through one earhole and exited through the other. Like somebody scrolling through the volume bar back and forth. It’s okay. It’s just a harmless fly. I don’t care. That was a lie.

Eventually, I stood up, quickly closing the door to my room swiftly. I stomped to the kitchen, grabbed the fly swatter and Windex, and marched back to my room. Except, it wasn’t my room anymore. The fly had declared war on me. And I accepted. This was now our battlefield. 

I raised my sword and shield, snickering. The fly wasn’t armed. This was going to be an easy, flawless victory. I struck first. The fly dodged my stab. No worries, this was only just the beginning. I raised my weapon again. I slapped the fly, only to be met with a large puff of air. I kept trying. It just kept flying away. Coward. I needed to devise a better battle plan. One that would leave me victorious. 

I opened the windows as wide as I could, so that the sunlight would fill the room. Blinding brightness. Nature would be on my side this time. The fly slowly flew, landing its little twig legs on the pane. There it was. My chance to strike. I pushed the sliding window as fast as it took the fly to dodge my attacks. A sudden click echoed across the room. Silence. Muffled buzzes. I won, little fly freak.

Of course, I wasn’t entirely done. I had to actually eliminate the enemy first. That part was simple, though, now that it was trapped. I could torture it to starve, or bake in the sun, but I’m no tyrant. Maybe.

And so, I slightly opened the window to where I could reach for the fly, and sprayed it with Windex. It tried to fly away, but ended up falling back down on the window sill. It’s frail body was still twitching. I raised my sword, ready to take the final plunge. Slap.

I made sure it got the burial it deserved. In the toilet.

Image courtesy of Unsplash

Not a Crush

How is a single person able to make the heart thump as fast as a beating drum, as loud as the stomping of shoes during a marathon run? How is a single person able to make the stomach churn like an ice cream machine, twist like a knot, flutter like the leaves on a windy autumn day? How is a single person able to make the throat close to the point where it’s hard to breathe? How is a single person able to make waking up something to look forward to everyday?

The eyes wander around, frantically searching. Just a quick peek would satisfy the soul. An eagerness is bubbling up. A head bobbing up and down within the crowd. Time has stopped. Everything is playing in slow motion. A messy nest of hair bouncing with each step taken. The scent of fresh shampoo. Not the 5-in-1 kind, but the nice coconut kind of soap. A whiff of a somewhat similar scent breezes against the nostrils as his sweater that looked a size too large for him brushed against my hand. And then a collision.

Sorry…are you okay?

The head just nods. The lips move. Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?

Everything that happened next was all fuzz. Suddenly everything felt light. 

I couldn’t help but feel all giddy inside and my heart that was already beating fast enough started going bonkers and myfacewasgettinghotmyhandsaresweatingbutIswear I do not like him.

Image courtesy of Unsplash

Never Again

 A grassy isle stranded in the middle of nowhere. Like we’re separated from the rest of the world. Marshmallow clouds dance across the sky. Lollipop trees sprout from everywhere. Cotton candy bushes containing little berry candies. The grass slowly turning into sour candy strips. My head is spinning.

Are you okay? A man’s voice is yelling across the distance.

Yes honey I’m alright, I respond. Just a bit dizzy is all.

You need to rest. Lay here for a bit while I go fetch us our food from the car.

Okay. Thank you.

I try to rest. Alas, it is no use. My head only aches even further.

I sit up from the itchy grass. The blades had cut across my fair skin.

I scratch my arm. Gummy droplets of blood on the tips of my fingers. Dripping blood. Sweet, red juice. Kool-Aid, is what it is. Fruit punch. Watermelon, strawberry, cherries, all in one. My husband wasn’t returning for a bit. Either way, he wouldn’t mind me snacking just a bit before he returns.

The taste, oh, so sweet. I need more.

I’m back honey!

Sit, sweetie, we must feast. I am starving.

All that lay in front of me was meat. I wanted sugar. No, I needed it. I looked up at my husband. A giant gingerbread man stares back at me. I grab him by the neck. All that was heard was screaming. He needs to shut up. Butcher’s knife…in the basket. 

Chomping on the last bits of popcorn, I hit the large red power button, the man’s screaming cutting out halfway. I just stared at my reflection on the blank screen.

I will never watch horror movies again.

Image courtesy of Unsplash

(We) Miss Maria

Miss Maria and her husband Paul live in the house to the left of ours. Well, it depends how you’re looking at it. If you’re facing the houses, they’re on the left. If you’re facing the street, they’re on the right. Either way, they’re still right next to us, so it doesn’t matter much anyways. Every morning I would walk out to see Miss Maria tending her flowers in her front garden. She often sang to her plants, holding the garden hose in one hand, it was as if she had stolen the birds’ jobs. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember. While I never talked to her one-on-one often, I still felt a weird sensation of comfort around her. Like those television grandmas that are always making chocolate chip cookies for some reason.

One time I climbed on the roof of the shed. It wasn’t as high as the house roof so I deemed it safe enough to go on top of. I was able to see all of the neighbors’ backyards. I’ve never seen Miss Maria’s yard before. 

There she was, tending even more plants. She had on two pink gloves and a bunch of gardening supplies right next to here. She saw me, but she didn’t look startled. She just smiled and waved. I waved back. I wasn’t really sure if I was supposed to say anything. Well, that was a while ago, anyway.

One gray morning, however, I didn’t see Maria in the garden. Days went to weeks. I guess the birds got their jobs back. 

Mom, what happened to Miss Maria?

She’s been taken to the hospital. I’m not sure why, though. Paul hasn’t been looking so good lately. I hope they both get better soon. We’re going to go visit her afterschool.

And there she was, lying on the bed. If I had to be honest, it didn’t look like there was anything wrong with her. I still wasn’t sure what to say to her though. All I could do was wish her a safe recovery.

I didn’t realize it would be the last time I saw her though. I’m not sure how to feel. The mornings would feel strange without her. I couldn’t bring myself to cry though. Not a single tear to shed. But I finally had something I wanted to tell her.

Miss Maria, the flowers are wilting.

Image courtesy of Unsplash

To Connect

I can’t exactly remember when it all started. One day, I didn’t have it, and the next day, I did. A bright blue box that read Rainbow Loom. Colorful elastics often spilled everywhere, rolling off the table and onto the floor, as if it were a tire. The sound of snapping bands on the pegs of the board were always common. 

My trusty green metal hook was always next to me. One time, I tried making a unicorn. Webs of white glow-in-the-dark bands were stretched out across the entire loomboard. Streaks of pink, blue, and yellow decorated around like little pieces of confetti laid right under. I was crocheting a little horn to attach onto the body on the hook, when I accidentally tugged too hard, and the hook slid right under my nail, lodging itself in my finger. I pulled it out as I felt a sharp sensation of blood gushing out. That was the last unicorn I would ever make.

My cousin often came down to make bracelets with me. There were endless designs and colors to choose from. At one point the entire table was decked out with a flurry of rubber bands and bracelets. The best part of making these looms was the final part: ripping off the bands from the board after securing everything in place. Like a musical scale, all of the bands played different notes as they were stripped off the board.

A strange melody, but one I enjoyed. Weaving together. Weaving our hearts together. 

Image courtesy of Unsplash

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