Ripple of Flowing Crystal

She was roaming the woods, leaves crackled and broke beneath her feet. There was not a single tinkle of laughter like the ones she used to hear years ago. She guessed even the people who once went there changed. Just like the birds who no longer homed and chirped in the trees and even the snakes that hissed and slithered around.

Amidst the silence was where she heard the slow trickling and flowing. It started faintly and then grew louder, beckoning her, waiting to be found.

Run, she did, her head turning around like a cat with perked up ears. She looked through the leaves, atop the fallen logs, and in between branches her eyes could take sight of.

But there was nothing.

And then, just like that, the sun poured in. Beckoning. Waiting. Leading. Then she got there. Where she sat at a dislodged branch and watched the ripple of the cool water smile at her. She smiled at it, too.

Photo by: Nessa Kessinger

In Twenty Years

Twenty years from now, that light will vanish. Replaced with more flickering ones, the kind that you see in parties. But those branches around, they will still be there. Not them, exactly. Not the ones in there are at present, but their sons and daughters and probably a few grandkids.

And that girl, who never ceases to look up to the light every time she passes by it, she'll be older. Twenty years from now, she'll go from the young girl who chased her shadow around to a lady in heels coming home from work.

And that boy, who always bask under the light's glow, he'll grow, too. He'll no longer be the boy who swatted fireflies winging around the post. Instead, he'll be a man coming home from a mean day's job.

Who knows, maybe they'll end up walking under it together.

Photo by: Oblivious Dude

The Robot

Its existence was not something it would wish for everybody else. It wanted to be something more than what kids could dismantle when they had tantrums. It wanted friends and a future that extended to an almost infinity.

At the toy store, everything else envied its family. All the young boys wanted them, more than guns and bows and arrows. But nobody knew what happened to its brothers when they were bought. It did not know, too, before. And always, it envied its elders when kids chose them.

Until a young boy walked into the store one day and went for it directly. It was delighted. Finally!

The following days were fun. The boy never let it go. It even got to sleep beside the boy. It was given a seat by the boy's meal plate. It took a bath with the boy.

But one day, a car was brought in by the boy's father. And suddenly, the car was everywhere too. Then one day, the boy just played with the car.

The robot was forgotten. The dog came in and munched on one of the robots legs but the boy didn't mind. There were days when the robot spent hours under the bed or the sofa. But the boy never looked for it.

And that day, when the robot was mourning its existence, the trash truck was being emptied into the dump site. The robot was capped with a banana peel.

Photo by: Adam Dorman

Autumn

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fences at school, rushing home without a bicycle because I love the crackling sound of leaves I step on.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at home, calling for Mother to come out and see her cluttered yard. She hates raking in leaves that many. Maybe this year, she'll have Father do it.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at Bessy's house, squealing with glee and playing with her under their own leafless maple.

The first day of fall is when I jump over the fence at Granny's house, running into her back door that leads to the kitchen where she makes the best of autumn rolls.

But today, the first day of fall, there is no more jumping over fences. There are only tears and goodbyes. There are huggings and kissings on the cheek. There are luggages around me, ready to be boarded onto the carriage.

Today, on the first day of fall, I am going to the city. Where fences become brick walls too high for jumping. Where leaves and maples do not grow and fall. Where tea and bread Bessy and Granny would be too far.

Today, on the first day of fall, I am what they call a growing lady. Who needs to lose all the playfulness and the naughtiness. Who needs less weight. Who needs more dreams.

How do I tell them that I am content with jumping over fences and the maple leaves?

Or do I even tell them?

Photo by: Swan Corner

Together

"The sea is not at all calm," he said as he walked by me, hands in his pockets and feet trudging sand.

"So is the wind," I breathed in as much as I could, letting the air fill my pollution-accustomed lungs.

"Are you not cold?" he eyed my less than thick, frilly dress, and equally bare feet.

"Maybe." I was not paying attention to my body temperature, to be honest.

"What will your father say if you don't come home tonight?" he couldn't keep the nervousness in his voice. I almost laughed at that not-so-manly question.

"I wouldn't have a way to know, given that I wouldn't be there. Right?" I glimpsed a sparkling on the sand not far from us. I hurried to it.

I picked it up and realized it was just some shard of a broken mirror. I turned to throw it out to the sea. As soon as the glinting piece got lost into the waves, he had come nearer. We were standing side by side, looking at the thrashing waves. There could be a storm, or maybe the wind was just having a bad day. I wondered if he was thinking about where the glass shard landed, too.

"Maybe we should just get you back home," he said after a while. He had his head hung; he always did that when he disliked what he was saying.

"No. Come, run."

I began to run, and soon he was after me. He caught up with me and held my hand. Then we ran, together. Just like what we would always do from then on.


Photo by: Aimée

Long Way Ahead

He was sleeping when she woke up. They had been on the tracks for roughly an hour. She could feel her head starting to whirl; she was never in for long roads. And so she had to lug back to sleep.

She was already asleep, for the second time, when he woke up. Her head was lolling about and he feared she'd hit the window. He collected her bobbing body and had her lean against him. He put his arm around her, to keep  her quite steady. He knew she was not in for long roads. And then he went back to sleep.

She woke again, certain she would throw up any minute. She could not move immediately and she wondered why. That's when she felt his arm around her. Silly man, she thought. His arm could just as easily sleep because of that. She gently lifted it off and went up, careful not to rouse him. She half-felt her way to the coffee cart.

He felt she was not around, so he had to wake up again--alert. Maybe she got real sick, he thought. He massaged his arm for a while, feeling the growing numbness ease. Then he got up and went to the bathroom, where he thought she could be throwing up.

She returned with two covered mugs of instant coffee. He wasn't around. She looked around and decided he might have went to the bathroom. So she sat down, looked out the window, and waited. They were along acres of trees already. She was not familiar with the place, but she sort of felt they were still far.

A few seconds more and he returned. He smiled and sighed loudly at the sight of her, a covered mug in either hand. She looked up at him, smiled, and offered one of the mugs. He took it and sat beside her. He put his arm around her again and she leaned against him. They both looked out the window, basking in the sight of green, and relaxed.

The ride was still a long way ahead.

Photo by: Agnisharman

'Til She Stops Waiting

Independence Day always finds her by the train station. She is standing, fidgeting, taking deep breaths. She is not certain what to wait for. Every surge of new passengers make her look up, half-expectant, half-hoping.

She does that even without news, maybe it comes up when she leaves the house. She does that even when rain falls, the subway has lots of covered area anyhow. And she does that even when she always goes home alone.

For how long she can wait, she does not know. But she's sure she'll be doing so for a very long time. Until, probably, she gets a letter like Suzan's got.

It came on Independence Day, too. Right before they stepped out to go to the station. Suzan used to go with her and wait all day. She waited for Suzan to finish reading. But Suzan folded the letter and said she wouldn't be coming along anymore. Suzan never went with her again.

She waits for that letter, somehow. She would until the time comes when the military head would write and make her stop waiting, too. For that day, though, and for the next Independence Days, she would be there.

Waiting for that uniform-clad man who's stopped writing to her when news has broke out that a new set of rebels are brought into the mountains. That man who's told her he'd be back. Even when, even if she stops waiting.

Photo by: Thomas Lieser