An Evening in June

  Though the day had been a hot, drowsy one, the falling of the sun brought a completely different world to life. The empty streets were periodically lit up by dull orange lamps. A leaf rested on the cooling pavement, having been still all day but now reanimated by a soft breeze. The birds were all silent, and no cars drove by.

  A slim cloud was forming around the pal, sickly crescent moon. Slowly but steadily, it grew and morphed into many different shapes. Then it separated and became two clouds, a birthing and a spreading of coming change.

 The breeze was a spirit, a growing, restless spirit, trapped by the heavy sun all day but now free to roam. Stronger as it went, it tore through the leaves of the trees, and they fluttered in terror, shaking madly. The breeze turned into a wind, howling loudly as it explored the pavement, then the rooftops, and then the gardens. Every animal knew to remain hidden and out of sight, having heard the wind’s warnings.

 The taste of the air was cool, a strange shift from day time. The scent of long grass, unformed apples and warm earth mingled in the wind, a joining of separate things.

 A single crow sat on a rooftop, dark form blending perfectly into the night. One warning caw and then silence, waiting with unblinking eyes.

 A storm was brewing.  

Stomach vs. Me

(Warning: This story is not for the faint of stomach. It involves puking.)

  When I was a child, I often got the flu or a bad cold, and was at the mercy of my overly delicate internal system. My record of puking in one day is sixteen times, and that’s a fact. My body was more of a spoiled brat than I was, throwing tantrums at every possible moment.

  However, those days are in the past, because now I am a mature and in-control seventeen year old. I have carefully learned the art of ignoring my stomach’s complaints, and can put off having a cold for weeks. It’s really all in the power of the mind, I have discovered. That, or I’m just lazy.

  Once such example of this new found power happened during spring break. We were visiting my aunt and uncle for a few days. My aunt is a wonderful cook and I took every opportunity to stuff myself silly with croissants, potatoes and sausages of all kinds. It felt like my days were full of meal after meal, and I really don’t remember actually feeling hungry at all during those few days.

  All was well, right until the evening before we were going to drive home. Before going to bed, I watched a TV show with my parents, snacking on leftovers from supper. And of course, I had to wash the food down with a glass of juice.

  Feeling quite satisfied, I said goodnight to my parents and wandered off to my room. Being a writer, I like to stay up late, working on stories and chatting with people on Facebook. At around eleven o’clock, I was feeling rather tired, and knew I should go to sleep, because I’d be getting up early the next day. I closed the laptop, wrote in my journal for a few minutes, and then turned off the light.

  The darkness was so warm and cozy and I felt quite content as I burrowed under the covers. My bed was just a mattress on the floor, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t comfortable. I was so excited to sleep. Already, I could feel my brain shutting down, and knew that I would fall asleep in no time.

  Until my stomach suddenly started to complain. Usually, my stomach only complains quietly and I can easily ignore it. Tonight though, it was super loud, annoying me greatly.

  “Hey! Hey you! Yeah, you, stop ignoring me!” It said, and I rolled my eyes. “Go away, Stomach, I’m trying to sleep.”

  It was silent for a few moments, and I closed my eyes. Then it yelled, “No, I don’t want to let you sleep! I hate you!”

  I wasn’t too upset by this, seeing as the feeling was mutual. I was already half in dreamland, and was too tired to do anything but sleep. My stomach would just have to deal with it.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you!!” It shrieked, and for a moment, I wondered if my stomach was actually really serious today. I curled onto my side and growled angrily. “Go die, stomach.”

 This made my stomach really mad, and then it asked my imagination for reinforcements. Suddenly, the only things I could think of were gross things, like dead animals, and eyeballs, and axe murderers. I realized what my stomach’s plan of attack was, and shook my head stubbornly.

  “Really, Stomach, this is quite childish of you, resorting to such low tricks. I don’t feel like getting up to puke, and that’s that.”

 

  My stomach whined at me. “I told you over and over to never eat food again! But do you listen to me? Noooo. You just think you know best, and so you eat, causing me such awful distress.”

  “Oh, cry me a river and shut up.” I grumbled, now trying to ignore both my stomach and my imagination. However, my imagination was far more powerful than my stomach, and once it had decided to turn against me (the traitorous wretch), I knew it was a lost cause. Still, I wasn’t going to give my stomach the satisfaction of rushing to the bathroom and puking, like it had won or something.

   “Really now, go puke. I don’t really have a reason, but I just want you to puke.” My stomach said, and I’m pretty sure it chuckled evilly.

  “Stomach, I don’t want to get up, and I’m already half asleep. Do you know how far the bathroom is from here?”

 “GO NOW!!” It screamed, and then followed with several terrible swear words that I wouldn’t dream of repeating.

    Just to spite my stomach, I lay there for ten more minutes, and then sat up slowly, taking my time and thinking to myself, “Hm…maybe I should puke. Maybe that’s something I should do.” As though my stomach wasn’t the one with the idea.

   I shuffled as slowly as possible to the bathroom, and I felt like I was taking a lovely stroll in a park. My mind had already fallen asleep, and I couldn’t be bothered to rush around in a panic. It took too much of an effort.

 

  Slowly, I turned on the light, slowly closed the door, and then slowly knelt down by the toilet, rather lopsidedly, because I was so tired. My stomach had its moment of fury, and the mental image that came to mind was of those sewage tunnels that spew waste out into the ocean. It made me start giggling, even though I had just puked my guts out.

  This defeated my stomach completely and it gave up, calling off my imagination as it retreated. I flushed the toilet and then sat on the floor. Getting up felt like too much work, so I sat there for a good twenty minutes, contemplating my existence.

 

  “Well, that was an interesting adventure.” I finally thought, and shuffled back to bed, tripping over the carpet in the process.

“I’ll be back.” My stomach whispered, but by then, I had already fallen asleep.

 End

Boudicca Reflects

  History can be so boring sometimes, so I decided to write a little something from the perspective of one of my favorite historical people, Boudicca, a Celtic warrior in AD 60 or so. Enjoy!

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Those of my people who are still alive call me a hero. A martyr. Someone to be remembered for ages to come, even after our lands are long destroyed. They have written songs about me, praising my courage and strength, and how I stood firm in the face of destruction.

   I don’t think I deserve any of these praises. And if they knew that I was still alive, then perhaps they wouldn’t praise me so. The truth is, I only wanted revenge, and in the end, it killed hundreds of our people, leaving me to run away like a coward. They call me a great leader, the Warrior Queen. I never wanted to lead my people. I never wanted to command an army. Yet in the end, I did, and now I am immortalized forever.

  The bards tell stories of how intimidating I was and how strong. All this was fueled by my anger. My hatred. The Romans had always pushed at us, causing us to hate them, but what they did to my daughters…that was unforgivable, and I wanted to see their blood spilled for it.

  The first injustice, of course, was how the Romans had ignored my husband’s last wishes. The land that he owned was to go to me, and my daughters. Ah, the Romans and their foolish notions of women being weak, of not being allowed to own land or lead their own lives after the husband has died. My daughters and I survived their brutality, despite what they thought.

  They should not have let me lived. While the flogging I received was painful, the only real pain I felt was when I heard the screams of my two daughters. My daughters, both so sweet and trusting. Those Roman soldiers had no right to them, and yet they took them. Raped them while I was tied to the flogging post, unable to do anything.

   Once the soldiers had left us, taking our land and money away from us, it was then that the anger inside me grew. It festered like an unattended wound and revenge was never far from my mind. The Roman soldiers, each and every one, were to blame. They took our lands. They took our children. They did what they pleased because none of us dared to strike back.

  Finally, I had had enough. Because my husband had been leader of our tribe, the Iceni, I led them in a revolt. We joined forces with several other tribes and destroyed some settlements. We attacked a legion and defeated them. Revenge tasted sweet and my people were willing to go further. What had started as a personal battle quickly turned into a full scale revolt my people against the Romans.

  We destroyed Londinium and continued on to other settlements. The Roman governor Suetonius fled before us, realizing he was too weak to stand against us. At least, he was until his new forces arrived and he prepared for battle.

  My people would have followed me to the ends of the earth. Anything I told them, they would have believed. With revenge comes a great sense of power, and I relished in it. For once, our oppressors had become the oppressed. We were finally going to rid our lands of the Romans, for once and for all.

  I do not think that I could have stopped the battle, even if I had wanted to. Even if I had refused to go into that last, fateful battle, my people would have continued on, drunk on the wine of promised victory. At the time, retreating simply did not make sense. Though the Romans had new forces and were ready to fight, we still outnumbered them.

  Perhaps the gods did not want the Romans to leave our lands yet. Perhaps it was not the right time. Perhaps the revenge in my heart had turned me into something awful, and I was being punished, and with me, the rest of my people who fought that day.

  There may not be an answer as to why we lost the battle. We fought well and I am so proud of my people. We were united, and for a time, it seemed we would win. I can still hear the battle cries, and can still feel the energy of everyone around me. That was a good battle and everyone fought well.

  Yet that was not enough. In the end, we were the ones who lost and everyone was killed, save myself. I lay there among the fallen bodies, recognizing friends and their families. My vision was blurring, from a head wound. I could hear the Roman soldiers getting closer now, to count the dead and kill anyone who still lived. Crawling away, like a snake, I made my escape to a nearby forest. Before I reached the trees, however, I saw two bodies that broke my heart.

  My two daughters died that day. With all the revenge in my heart, it had blinded my eyes from the real issue. I wanted to protect my daughters, reclaim their honor. But in the end, they too fell dead like the others, and now only I was left.

  I've lived alone in a forest cave ever since. Almost overnight, after that battle, my red hair turned grey. The revenge that had so long dwelled in my heart is now gone, leaving me empty inside. I hear the songs about me and shudder.

  Becoming a hero of my people was never my intent, and the older I become, the more I wonder at all of it. Yet…my people were brought together for a time. They nearly dispelled the Romans from our precious lands.

   If a hero I must be, then so be it. If me being called a hero gives the people hope, something to remember, then let me be called a hero. Let me inspire generations to come to be strong, to unite, and not sway under oppression. Only then will all of this have had any meaning.

Supper Time-The Distressing Ordeal

   Sometimes, I think adults forget how truly difficult life is when you're only five years old. Oh, sure, it's all fun and games, that is, until it's supper time...then begins the distressing ordeal.

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  I always ran to the table when it was supper time, so that I could eat and go back to my play time. About two minutes in, it already became apparent that while I could eat as quickly as a ravenous wolf, the rest of my family had become a herd of turtles, intent on eating as slowly as possible. After looking up from the remains of my meal, it was painfully obvious that play time would just have to wait.

  The adults really enjoyed their talking while they ate, but as a five year old, all I could think about was the toys that were calling out to me. They were begging, pleading that I return to them as quickly as possible. How could they understand that I was chained to my chair by the "we don't get up until everyone is done eating" rule? Would they think that I had abandoned them? The more these dreadful thoughts filled my mind, the more I wriggled in my chair, mentally urging my family to eat faster.

   Finally, my family was nearly done and I was ready to bolt from my chair. However, my mother finally looked at my plate and said, "Oh, you haven't touched your bean-spinach puree. You have to finish that before you can get up."

  Utter despair filled my heart. Tears began to well up in my eyes. "Mom, I'm too full."

She smiled and I felt hopeful. But then she said, "Well then, you can sit here until you're hungry again."

  I started to panic, seeing that everyone was going to get up soon. Glancing at the loathsome green mush, I wished that it would just grow legs and walk back to whatever vile place it had come from. This was just so unfair. I hadn't asked for this puree, so why should it keep me from my valuable play time?

  Desperately, I began to come up with ways of getting rid of the dreadful substance. I poked at it with my spoon, spreading it around the plate so that it looked eaten. Then I managed to "accidently" drop some on the floor. I put some in my mouth and then asked to go to the washroom, where I disposed of it in the toilet. Still, when I came back, there was a noticeable amount left on my plate and I had run out of ways to get rid of it.

  Everyone else was done and had started to leave the table, off to better things. I watched my older cousins leave to go play, and a longing pulled at my heart. They simply couldn't understand the torment I was going through.

  My mother began to clear the table and I started to plead with her. "Mom, I can't eat this. I'm allergic."

 She shook her head. "You're not."

  I tried a different tactic. "Well, it's not cooked enough. So I can't eat it."

  Looking at the puree, she sighed and said, "Yes, it is. Now hurry up and eat it so you can go play."

 She was about to leave and I knew that I had to take drastic measures. "Mom, if you let me not eat this, then I'll clean my room, I promise."

  My last hope left the room, not even dignifying my bribery attempt with an answer. I was lost.

  At this point, I wasn't poor five year old girl anymore, no, I was a captive princess who was an orphan and was being tortured in a dark dungeon by evil trolls who liked to make food out of snail vomit. They were forcing me to eat it because they knew it would make me fatally ill and I wouldn't live to see tomorrow.

  I had to stay strong! I would never give in! I would sit in that chair till the end of the world, if I had to, but there was no way I was going to eat the puree!

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  Two hours later, my resolve finally began to crumble. Not only was I hungry again, but I was also bored out of my mind. My imagination could only last for so long at a time.

  Feeling terribly noble, I picked up the spoon. Though in all likelihood this green stuff would kill me, I had to eat it, or die of boredom. Grabbing onto one last scrap of imagination, I became the brave princess who would suffer through this to save her people. Everything depended on me eating the bean-spinach puree and I would willingly suffer for my people.

  A few bites and then three cups of water later, I was done. I had come through the valley of darkness. As I got up from the table, legs wobbling a little bit, I thought I could hear a choir of angels singing. I had completed my trial and could now reap my reward of play time.

  As I put my plate in the sink, my mother came into the kitchen. "Oh good, you're finally done."

  I nodded proudly. She began to wash my plate. "Well, go brush your teeth and put your pajamas on. It's time for bed."

  Needless to say, that night, the orphaned princess had escaped from one dungeon, only to find herself in another one, left alone to plot her revenge.