Toddlerhood Tribulations

Prompt: Write a story about a character who is certain the world is going to end today.

The Mustard Family episode.

"Jiě, I come bearing important news," Renshu announced, tugging at his split-pants.

"Are you finally ready for adult pants, dìdi?" 

"You're only four minutes older than me."

"And yet I have mastered control of my own bowels. You have no discretion."

Renshu shrugged. "Does discretion matter when the world is ending?"

"Perhaps discretion is not my concern, but incarceration. If you never fix this behaviour, as an adult (should you ever mature to reach that point), you will find the police are far less lenient than to a four-year-old."

Renshu threw his hands in the air, topping backwards as he did so. "I shall never even reach the tender age of five!"

Shuang nodded. "I believe you are right, dìdi. Even four is too much maturity to ask for. At five, your inability to read the newspaper will be social suicide. At least in the rapeseed fields, no one expects intelligence from you."

"The fields!" Renshu attempted to spit. "You would wish me into a life of thankless labour? One where I would work the skin off my bones, the hair from my head, all for a few measly bowls of liángpí in exchange for my labours?"

"I am your sister. Of course I would wish that."

"Authoritarian."

"Libertarian."

"Communist!"

"Anarchist!"

Renshu took the opportunity to squat and relieve himself. "This is what I think about your ideologies."

"In your ideal world, humans would be shitting everywhere and no work would ever be done, is that it? You would have us be no more than cows, chewing cud and contributing to atmospheric pollutions?"

"As if the contribution to atmospheric pollutions matters at a time like this. The earth is ending today, jiě."

"'Shuang staggered backwards, clutching her chest in horror! Almighty! Her prophetic brother hath declared a truth unto all truths!' Is that what you were expecting?"

"From you? Not at all. But perhaps Shenshi might be more reasonable."

Hearing his name from across the field, Shenshi perked up his ears and trotted over, trying his best to halt his tail from wagging. 

Shuang rolled her eyes. "Shenshi is my loyal canine. You have no claims on him."

"Perhaps not yet, but they say crisis brings enemies together."

"And who is 'they'?"

"The government, surely. It would be an excellent way to claim their many crises are positive."

"Share your complaints some more, why don't you?"

"If you insist, jiě. An impoverished nation, no rights for children, and a society built upon millions labouring for a handful to live in luxury."

"I see that sarcasm passes over your head, dìdi."

"Rather, I choose to ignore such base intelligence."

"Base intelligence? Are you discussing Renshu's abilities?" Shenshi's barking laugh alerted the nearby chicken coop, and the hens clucked in protest.

"Renshu has just revealed that the world is ending today, Shenshi." The dog and toddler exchanged a mocking look.

"The end of the world? So libertarians have gained a foothold after all."

"Rue the day!" Shuang sang out, scratching Shenshi behind the ear. Shenshi flicked his ear in an act of annoyance at the affection.

"Amuse me, Renshu. What makes you think today is the end of the world?"

Renshu clasped his small hands in front of him, if only to hide the opening in his split pants. "Humans are known to possess five main sensory abilities. Taste, touch, sight, smell, and hearing. Sharks detect electrical charges. Elephants communicate via vibrations at varying frequencies. Bees sense magnetic fields. And I? I was blessed with the extra sensory ability of foresight."

"If you had foresight, you would work harder now to be rewarded later in life."

"Rewarded with what? Material items? Nourishment? Or—time?"

Shenshi stretched out his front legs, enjoying seeing the siblings quibble. "Humans are the ultimate fools in the world. Dogs find their own food, go wherever they want, sleep whenever they want, and need no clothes."

"Yes," Shuang glanced at his body with distain, "it's most unbecoming. Tell me, Shenshi, do you defecate wherever and whenever you want?"

"Of course not. I'm not an animal." They stared pointedly at Renshu.

Renshu looked down at his legs, wondering if he should upgrade to a pair with a crotch sewn in. "How will you spend your last day?"

"There is nothing to be done, dìdi. Even if today were my last day, I cannot suddenly acquire mass wealth and purchase luxurious, wasteful items, even if I wanted to. I cannot grow old and marry, bearing children to pass on the family name. I cannot create happy memories simply because I want to. What are you planning on doing?"

"I'm going to skip some rocks out by the water instead of watching Bà and Mā in the fields. Want to join, jiě?"

"Hold on," Shenshi protested, placing his paw over Renshu's fat toes, "that sounds absurdly boring. What is something you always wanted to do?"

Renshu frowned at the ground. "Freedom, as a concept, is highly appealing. No taxation, a free trade society, complete autonomy of ourselves. In terms of doing whatever I want, the simple truth is, there is nothing I particularly want to do."

"A life without work is one without purpose or aim."

"You're saying that we work to find fulfillment?"

"We work to keep ourselves busy from wondering about it."

"Then, for our last day on earth, let us wonder about it."

"Very well. Creating communities is what allowed humans to thrive throughout history. Those skilled in certain trades, such as medicine, or food production, are controlled so that all humans may have equal access to these resources. Individualism, or 'freedom', as you would call it, dìdi, is nothing more than disorganization. There must be control of resources, otherwise natural human greed would overwhelm and prevent any from succeeding." 

"Your philosophy depends on the idea that humans are inherently bad. Many small communities thrive on the freedom to work when they want, knowing that there is no punishment from any outside source, simply their own survival at stake."

Shenshi snorted, scratching his ear with his back paw in order to draw their attention. "Shuang is far more the realist, but she neglects the ideology that, because humans are inherently bad, the worst of them will seek power in the highest of places. While it's true that libertarians would withhold their services for gain, in an organized society, those in power tug at their society's strings in a far more effective manner, thus having a larger area of impact. I myself lean more towards democracy, though of course, no system is perfect. Democracy fails in the fact that in its attempt to please everyone, no one is assuredly happy with the system."

Shuang raised an eyebrow at the dog, her scepticism reflected in her younger brother's face. "People should be happiest with the system they were raised under and become used to. Wishing for an unreality helps no one."

"The real problem, my dear, is that humans have malice. Tell me, Renshu, in this premonition of yours, how will the world end? In a cascade of fire or a wisp of smoke? Will humans be instantly vanquished, leaving the rest of Earth to survive? Is this God's act of Great Tribulation?" 

"You mock my talent. Foresight is perhaps, not aptly named, because there is no seeing. It is something I feel resonating in my bones, travelling from neuron to neuron to let the message be known that this is the end. There is no angel whispering in my ear, nor no fiery bush. I do not know how the world ends, only that it ends today."

"Your ability told you the what and when, but not the who or how? It sounds rather like a poor invitation to me."

"Then let me amend that. Shenshi, jiě, I formally invite you to the end of the world, taking place on the riverbed, featuring two toddlers and a pup, occurring at midnight on this fine Thursday."

"I always figured the world would end on a Tuesday," Shenshi quipped.

Shaung clicked her tongue. "If the world were to end all at once, it would go out 'not with a bang but a whimper'."

"T. S. Eliot. A bit of a dour man, don't you think?"

"There are so many poets who use love, or their interpretation of it, as a means of inspiration. Is that moral?"

"Morality is rather dependent upon the person. For instance, I consider Renshu's laziness to be completely deplorable. He, on the other hand—" 

"Find there to be nothing wrong with enjoying my time idly. At least I'm not working myself dull."

Shenshi laughed. "He has a point, dear Shuang."

"Do you think it'll be painful?" Renshu turned his shining eyes towards the pair. "A meteor strike that suffocates us all with gas? A torrent of fire raining down upon the world?"

"If it's fast, then it doesn't matter."

"If my last moment is one of pain then I'd rather sleep during it."

"Why not? That sounds thoroughly satisfactory. The rest of the world is frantic to know how the world will end. The mystery is the fun of it. Let's sleep and never lose that curiosity, even in our death."

"Agreed. But before I die, I want to skip some rocks."

Two four-year-old twins, one a girl, one a boy, and a muddy mutt, together dragging a straw mat, walked barefoot through their Mā and Bà's rapeseed fields to the riverbed, where they planned to sleep through the end of the world. 

村上の海 -- Prompt

Mariko tops a glass of soju, leaving it in front of the empty barstool. I glance at the clock. Fourteen minutes late. Better to wait one more to round it out.

A few boys from the Ivy League college pass by, laughing as they swing open the izakaya’s door, letting it clang behind them. No one in the izakaya reacts, but the atmosphere stiffens. They settle into a booth, ordering in loud English. I grit my teeth. Sixteen minutes. Damn.

This time Mariko looks up as I enter, a smirk playing over her features as she pours me another glass. "It's Friday, Maro."

I drink. "As the calendar declares, yes."

"The second Friday of the month."

"Yes, certainly, there are several."

She pours me another glass.

I drink.

"Eight years of putting up with you, and this is the treatment I receive?"

"If you like, I could take my business to any other establishment on this block. None of the Americans or Italians or Mexicans would even bat an eye."

"Don't be cheeky with me. No one else runs a business like mine," she chastises, pouring me a fourth glass, of sake this time.

The boys in the booth erupt once more in raucous laughter. Half of the boys are red with laughter, the other from alcohol.

"Why would you let them drink, Mari-chan?"

She scowls. "If you want to call me that, you should have ended things differently. Besides, those boys are celebrating a birthday. Look, you see the one in white there?"

I glance over. "They're all white."

"The one wearing white, aho. They've placed a crown on his head. Today, he is legally an adult."

While she stares at the group, I grab the bottle of sake and help myself to another glass. "It's not like you check identification anyhow."

She laughs mirthlessly. "How much are you drinking tonight? Is there a reason you haven't given me my shipment yet?"

"I don't come here for the chatter."

"And I don't pay good money for you to drink my establishment dry." She takes the half-empty bottle back, filling the rest with water.

"Is that a threat? Be careful, Mariko."

She says nothing, walking over to the boys instead and pouring them the diluted drink. One of them grabs her by the hand, forehead red and sweaty. He gestures to the 'birthday boy' across from him. "Mary, look! He got a tattoo!"

The other boy leans back, a self-assured smile guided by alcohol sneaks onto his face. "Indeed. You might not be able to tell, but I'm one-fifth Japanese. By getting this tattoo, I'm basically in the yakuza!"

His table guffaws, releasing Mariko. The other patrons turn their quiet gazes towards my visage.

I say nothing, staring at the empty glass in my hands. The regulars should know better. Mariko tilts her head, her unflattering bob concealing her expression. She nods at the calendar on the wall. I shake my head. She raises her eyebrows, and turns her attention back to the boys.

"That man over there has some impressive tattoos. I'm sure he'd be willing to show you."

I stand up from my chair—a foolish decision, as this only draws further attention to me. Birthday Boy stands up as well, a fearless smile bracing his face. Talk about aho.

I march towards the door, but Birthday Boy grabs my arm before I can make my escape. "C'mon, man, it's my birthday!"

I scowl and shake his hand off my arm. I turn once more.

"What, do you not speak English? Konbanwa, ojisan! See, I know some Japanese. Um, tattoo wo mimasuka?"

I grimace at his mangled words. "Don't bother me, kid."

He smiles, putting himself between me and the door. His friends have now gathered behind me, forming a circle. I try to edge through, but he places a preventative hand on my chest. Fed up, I shove him away from the door. His paper crown flutters to the floor. Instantly, his friends are onme, throwing drunken punches and managing to land a few. Normally I would have thrown them off of me to avoid the altercation, but the five drinks hit me almost as quickly as I'm hitting the lanky college boys. It doesn't take long for most of the boys to land on the ground, too drunk to continue fighting. I let my guard down, and Birthday Boy tears my jacket from my body, revealing my bare arms underneath. Everyone pauses, and the watching patrons collectively take a deep breath.

Mariko laughs, bringing the attention over to her. "Oh, didn't I mention? Yamaguchi-san here also has a history with the yakuza."

The door's bell tinkles as someone new walks in. "Sorry I'm late, guys! But I brought the piñata!" He holds the pink donkey high above his head, a baseball bat held in the other.

Birthday Boy snatches the bat from him, turning his gaze towards me. I edge towards the bar. If I can get my hands on the empty bottle of soju, it would make for an easy weapon. So much for trying to keep a low profile.

To my utter disbelief, Birthday Boy extends the bat towards me, bowing his head. "Ojisan. I want you to make the first hit. Let bygones be bygones."

I grip the bat, staring at the boy holding the piñata. He smiles, climbs a chair, and affixes it to a hook in the ceiling meant for a light fixture. My attack to the piñata does not visibly damage it. I pass the bat back and slink into the background, pulling my jacket back on. Within minutes, the boys have forgotten the whole affair, and are lining up to pummel the candy-filled craft.

I stand outside by the doorway with Mariko, the two of us sharing my last cigarette. "Was that nonsense necessary, Mariko? You know it wouldn't be difficult for me to close this place down, or worse."

She takes a drag. "You won't. Those boys will brag about this encounter to their friends, but they would never try to report you. And the regulars use your services, too. As long as you pull through, you won't have anything to worry about." She passes the cigarette, letting her fingers trail over my hand. "I can't run my backyard business without any crank. What's the holdup?"

I sigh. "Your need to know everything is the reason things ended between us, you know. Learn to trust me."

"It's called self-preservation. And the reason things ended between us is because you left for five years without telling me."

"Yeah, well. The lack of trust hurts." I heed to her glare. "There was a sudden demand in Japan, which is unusual. Our clients overseas are considerably less important."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm still Japanese, Maro. I only left because things were getting dangerous. I guess I'm satisfied. You don't have to bother paying your tab—seeing you getting humiliated was enough payment for me."

I tuck my hands into my coat pockets. "What about the payment of a ring?"

"Aho. Don't be a fool."

I fumble with the ring for a few moments, but ultimately leave it sitting in my pocket. "You always were the wise one, Mari-chan. Make sure to wish that boy a happy birthday from me."

"You're leaving?"

"Yes. But don’t worry. This time, it won't be for five years."

Born Into Darkness -- Prompt

Five years of infancy. Two years of petty school. Seven years of grammar school. Merely two and a half at Cambridge. Despite the length of my years lived, it was only when I opened my eyes in the jailcell that I truly lived. 

At first, they had cast me out for my ideas. England's religious turmoil surrounding King Henry's death and Mary's Catholic regiment brewed discussion within the university. Many favoured moving away from religious teachings in order to focus on the secular studies. The flame of the Protestant Reformation, lead by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, was quickly doused with the piss of Bloody Mary. The Archbishop was imprisoned, and as his most vocal pupil, I had been made to stand trial alongside him. Before they could get that far however, the guard encharged with me discovered something that even the Archbishop did not know. Quite simply, I was a woman.

I was the youngest of five daughters, and the cause of my mother's death. My father, seeing no other choice, raised me as his son. It was a secret so fiercely guarded that even my eldest two sisters did not know the truth. I was to learn, and never marry, to carry the family name without passing it forward. Growing up with sisters, I was not unaccustomed to the feminine lifestyle, I simply never adopted it. My father taught me strictly in order to ensure I would behave soundly in school, thus avoiding a beating that required access to skin.

But a woman I was, under the tight bandages and masculine attire. I was almost thankful for my capture—with a sixteen-year secret revealed, I was free to live a new life.

Well, first I had to get out of jail.

Despite England's everlasting belief that women could not surpass men and were unfit for academics, I was at the top of my classes. I was certain that I would be capable of uncovering a method of escape. I studied my surroundings carefully, opening my eyes wider in an attempt to capture more light. The trial was useless. With no light to guide me, I held my hands before me and scrabbled about in the darkness. My cell was small, constructed from stone and with a wooden bench chained to the wall. The cell door was a simple gate, with vertical bars and—and no horizontal bars. 

The prison had been built to hold men, not small women whose chest had been bound her entire life. Tactile examination of the bars allowed me to identify a bar which had been slightly bent during its welding. A slight bend was enough to allow my passage.

Slipping through the bars, I kept close to the walls, my breath shallow and uncertain. When I reached the door, I discovered it locked, yet peering through the keyhole revealed nothing. Chancing that someone might hear my noise, I slipped one hand beneath the door and rammed the doorknob with my other. The key clattered to the ground. Snatching it without further ado, I unlocked the door and braved peering around it. Light flooded the cell, prisoners muttering as it interrupted their fitful slumber. I shut the door behind me with a pang in my heart. Although the Archbishop would be martyred, I did not wish for the same fate. 

I did not last long before coming across a guard. He frowned at me, likely bewildered by a woman in the men's prison. "Sirrah, keep better care of the location of your keys." I flicked the key at him, adopting the demeanour, accent, and attitude of the boys I had attended school with.

He stepped closer to me. "What's a boy like you doing running about? How did you escape your cell?"

Realizing that my behaviour and current appearance still marked me as a man, I bolted like a chased rabbit. My swiftness caught the man by surprise, and he quickly raised alarm as he pursued me. The entrance was near, however, and my hobbies of playing boyish sports kept me strong and swift. 

My legs carried me far from danger, but no closer to any solution. Gathering my bearings, I inquired as to my location from a passerby. I had been brought to Oxford, the home of my eldest sister. I had visited her once before, and knew where she would be at this hour.

Taking sanctuary in the cold confines of the church, I sank onto a pew, my legs weak from my efforts. An hour passed, and I succumbed to the slumber I so desperately desired. When I woke, my face was tickled by a nun's habit brushing over my skin, a hand held to my face. "Brother? What are you doing here? Are you well?"

I sat up, taking her hand. "Is the confessional occupied?"

She shook her head. "The priest has other matters to attend to currently."

I led her to it and we sat inside. It was not long before I had explained my story. I had always been a curt speaker.

She was silent during my tale, but sighed now. "If you had converted then this matter could have been avoided. And I suppose I can hardly blame you for our father's transgressions. However, I will help you now. Your hair is short and you lack clothing, housing, and food. This can all be solved if you become a nun."

I quickly responded in the affirmative. The plan was simple. During the day, I would live my life as a nun and devote myself to God. I would be the Catholic that Mary wished for. During the night, however, I would continue the revolution started by my teacher. I could revert to my appearance of a man, return to the jailcell in which I had been held, and free my brethren. Even if I was not brave enough to allow myself to be martyred, I could save those who were. 

And thus, my life of duplicity began. 

Ribbon

Mrs. Josephine's Dance Studio was always cold in the summer, like a dog's nose pressed against your thigh. I went there, near the classes, listenin to the music, they got violins and drums sometimes. Tap tap tap. Some rooms had louder taps, real sharp and crisp that reminded me like construction sites outside Grandfather's window. I didn't sit near those rooms, with hard shoes and metal clicks, but light an soft, padding, tap. Mrs. Josephine had yellow hair like a banana, and wore pink or white. She was pink. She stayed extra long, the little girls with fluffy skirts had gone and she would stay, dancin and dancin. I wish I coulda but I'm too fat. Even when I was short I was big, no way to twirl without knocking over the potted plant outside the dance rooms, belly poking out of Grandfather's shirts.

            She threw something in the garbage, one day she did, all mad with her yellow hair loose stickin to her face sweaty. I pushed over the can turned it all inside out it was a shoe. A ballerina slipper. It was white. It wasn't much bigger than my hand, but even when I was short I had big hands able to cup birds and two or three kittens. I stuffed it in my pants so Grandfather wouldn't see it but he did, told me to take them off show him what I had. Even then he wasn't strong, but he was mad told me it weren't right, pulled it broke. But today I still got the ribbon, the ribbon that wrapped around Mrs. Josephine's tiny ankles like they made of glass, so fragile I coulda snapped them. Even with my hands so big, they was small.

What's Behind the Door of Room 101: Breaking Fragile Things

Obsessed. That's the word Grandfather snarled at me when he saw me sortin through my box, moving and cleanin and taking better care of my things than my dog or him. I don't have too many things. My things are presents, things I found. They're delicate, soft as butterfly wings or hard as glass. One rough move and they could tear, shatter. My fingers are so big that they squish ants when I try to see 'em, I too strong and hurt things. My dog got a bone on his leg, on the ankle part above his foot, that's so thin and delicate I could snap like a turkey wishbone. Some things I'm allowed to break, others I'm not. I've learnt this. I told her that the bird had hit the window, broke its neck. My fingers twitch towards Grandfather's neck when he sleeping, pull snap, twist break. Life is so fragile, innit it? I'm scared of myself. Scared that one day, when I'm setting out china plates, I'll crush them in my hand, feel the blood drip down my hand and drop them, throw them, hurt them.

Most Important Relationship

I only known Rory for half a year, but he's my favourite person. I love him more than I love finding quarters in the fountain outside Terry Park, more than small things made of glass, dog eating sherbet ice-cream, and sometimes even more than Grandfather not waking up when I get home. Rory gives me things. He gives me things to eat and hugs. I squish him and giggle when we hug, he's so small. He isn't from here, but somewhere with lots of 'i's and 'k's, maybe. He said once they got guns there. "Do you know how to shoot a gun?" I asked him when we were walkin passed the shops. He was gonna buy me a bread sweet.

            He never did anything bad, he said, he never hurt anybody. I wish I could pack him in a box and bring him home with me, live him in my room and take care of him. He buys me things. I want to hug him so tight sometimes, break him I feel, I scared. I get real scared. I remind myself, I gotta be gentle. I hold his wrinkled brown hands, like paper over books without their covers, tiny.

            Rory runs a shop, sells videos. I never seen a video, I told him once. Never seen a video or a cinema film. I want to eat yellow pop, I said, popcorn. Eat it with salt and melted butter, get that butter on my fingers and lick my fingers clean. Rory laughed. I like it when Rory laughs, makes me warm and I smile. "We go see movie," he told me, "we go see movie together, okay?"

            We were sitting down at the back of the theatre, my head wasn't blocking anyone then. There were silly characters that made me laugh and I understood the story, there was a girl and two boys, two of them made a kiss near the end, the boy and the girl. I was crying and blowing my nose into my sweater. The tears were good and when I licked my lips it was salty and butter. Rory wanted to know why I was crying, so I turned and I pulled him in close, I hugged him round the shoulders and I told him, I said, "I love you." And Rory said "I love you also, I do." I only known Rory since it rained and the flowers come out, but now the leaves are orange and he is my friend.

Seven or Eight Things I Know About Him

His Mother's Baby

The day after his mother screamed and his father drove her to the hospital, he found a towel laden with a red liquid staining her cream coloured carpet. He threw it in the garbage bin in the bathroom, the one with hand-painted yellow ducks swimming on it. When his father drove home, alone, three days later with inflamed eyes and alcohol ridden breath, he was found tucked inside his Hot Wheels bed, the blood of his late mother and sister on his hands.

The Dog

The Boxer was shabby, ugly, its fur matted with dirt and its nails far overgrown. Its hair was raised as it looked at him in fear. He reached forwards with his grubby little hands, sticky from the mud and the popsicle on his face and the booger he had picked from his nose, and grabbed on the dog, pulling its skin and massaging it. Like any other dog, this one reached forwards to lick the leftover peach from his face, giving him sopping, wet kisses that he was happy to return. He was lucky that dogs, especially that one, were tolerant creatures, especially near children, because even though he stood two feet taller and eighty pounds heavier than the other kids who played on the monkey bars, his skin was still like Play-Doh, tears were always near the surface, and he still had four baby teeth.

The Sunroom

Every day at three o'clock, the little children would close their eyes and yawn like tiny mewling kittens, drag their blankets into the glass-roofed Sunroom and curl up like pillbugs and soak up the sun. He loved the Sunroom. When he turned six, he was told that he was too old for napping. He tried crying for three days, but he wasn't as cute as the other children. He was big and homely and reminded the supervisors about everything they hated about themselves. He snuck into the Sunroom and didn't leave on the Friday. They locked the door, not seeing him inside the largest empty clay pot. He got hungry and wailed, but no one was there to hear. He threw a rock at the glass and went to the hospital, unconscious and covered in cuts. The principal made an announcement the next Monday that the Sunroom was closed and would not reopen.

First Criticism

When he was four years old, he was stuffed in a suit and his hair was combed with fervour in order to please his mother's father. His pudgy hands were clasped together and he was forced to keep eye contact with his grandfather's surly stare. "Well? Doesn't he talk?" He opened his mouth and gurgled, his thick tongue trying to make sense of his grandfather's name. "What's wrong with him? Is he stupid? Mina, feed him less."

Listening In

A Sunday walk with his dog, passing, hear, "Not many years left, not many at all."

Self-Criticism

"There're doors I can't fit through, bottles I don't know how to open."

Fantasies

A world so simple, with everyone he loves and no one he hates. A world where there's an infinite supply of Oreo ice-cream with little sprinkles, where his grandfather never existed and where he had a little sister. A world where his dog could tell him its name.

Everyone's Least Favourite Word

I'm not that gross.

            I'm great for describing the contents of a cake recipe. What, is wet any better? The soggy brownies? The dripping cupcakes? No. Your cheesecake is not damp; it's moist.

            Most desserts are filled with warm—you guessed it—moisture. If it causes you pain to hear me, then grow the hell up and call your cookies mushy.

            Is it the way that the 'o' and 'i' sound together? If yes, then explain why hoist gets along fine with the rest of your vocabulary; with its harsh 'h' and aggressive tone.

            I know the truth. I know that you dirty-minded English-speaking humans associate me with your disgusting reproductive methods. I often find myself in the same boat as penetration, traversing the seas of immature individuals who can't accept the fact that Betty Crocker's cakes are moist, not 'non-dry'.

            Why bother wasting your time complaining about me, an underused, underrated, and unfairly hated syllable, when disastrous words such as 'epic' have stirred the minds of many? Epic is lame. He talks a load of bull and only hangs out with greasy gamers.

            Use me for baked goods. Use me for sweaty hands. Even use me when describing your nasty human activities. But don't you ever try to eliminate me.

            Now go and eat your goddamn moist carrot cake.

Rogue Fairy

Preceeds Titania's lines in Act 4, Scene 1 (page 125)

Enter Matchbush, Peaseblossom, Cobweb, and Moth.

Matchbush: Gentle fairies, gather 'round

for the noble king ye hath crown'd,

mine eye spotted hoisting with utmost joy,

an addled Indian changeling boy.

My father thought him wholly shrewd,

but in truth his duties were eschew'd.

Thus have I resolved against my stay

and wish instead to join Titania's fray.

My guardians hold opposing views,

yet have granted me the honour to chuse.

Tired of my listless ways,

they ended my namikle¹ days.

Mayhap here I shall find direction

and fleetingly, true love's affection.

Peaseblossom: Didst thou expect their feud

to last as long as thee dost conclude?

Come hither, if thou wilt, discover

they are each a lover,

yet my fairy queen hath taken another.

Matchbush: What ho! This neither man nor beast,

nor e'en a fairy, at least!

Thou belovèd queen hath had her brains

stolen, for but a spoonful remains.

Thou art as foolish as she

if thou believes Titania loves he.

Cobweb: Fie! out cur! knave!

Flee now if thee wish not an early grave!

Thou churlish, dallying lout!

Thou art vile, but a pig-snout!

Moth: For thy discourtesies

we represent thine enemies.

Thee, we shalt banish

unless thee quickly vanish.

Matchbush: N'er did I desire

to turn myself a liar.

Nor was labour but an irk;

I n'er did wish to work.

King Oberon, I prefer,

hath plenty more sense than her,

but, i'faith, I desire neither.

My land of birth

nonpariel upon this earth,

filled with bare blanched limestone,

mountain reaching, age ripened trees,

mindless, buzzing humblebees,

serving golden liquid from honeycombs-

ay, this paradise is my home.

I shall transgress my parent's requests
for life with king or queen holds no success.

I was told I have a lovely voice,

and thus, this is my choice-

I could pass as an Athenian eunuch,

and in time, live by the Aegean Sea.

I could live off of an olive tree,

and though it may be unwise wishing,

I might eat plentifully by fishing.

I shall bring books to read,

and at last, be finally feeling freed.

Moth: Then return whence thou came,

return to the land of the shiftless laggards,

and insult our fair queen no more.

Peaseblossom: As thou wilt, Matchbush.

I bid thee luck on thy travels.

Cobweb: Avaunt! Get thee gone!

Hie, aroint thee!

Moth: Fare thee well,

Matchbush.

Matchbush: God save ye!       [Exit.]

¹=adj: lacking motivation; not caring; shielding self from responsibility 

Why X is Better Than Y

Why Winter is better than Summer

1. Cuddling by the crackling fire with a hot cup of cocoa, tiny marshmallows floating within

2. Trekking through fresh snow and leaving footprints

3. Pinkened cheeks and warm toques

4. Making snow angels and snowmen with stick hands that the dog likes to steal

5. Baking gingerbread and cinnamon cookies in an appealingly steamy kitchen

6. Receiving an "I love you" as your sweetheart gives you their sweater in minus forty degree weather.

Why Summer is better than Winter

1. Pleasant breezes and soft grass between your toes

2. Refreshing dips in the warm lake where the dog can splash

4. Camp nights to stare at the stars and fall asleep to the chirping of a cricket

5. Strawberry ice cream scoops, pink lemonade, chocolate popsicles that drip of the chin.

6. FREEDOM FOR ALL STUDENTS

Why Fall is better than Spring

1. Warm colours decorating the trees

2. Strolling down the trail, Springer Spaniel trotting by the side

3. Long sleeves, short sleeves, cute dresses, high boots, a bit of fur.

4. Jumping in leaf piles

5. Fall back (hello, extra time to share with my bed)

6. Pumpkin carving, apple picking, Thanksgiving pie, candy corn, butternut squash

Why Spring is better than Fall

1. Blossoming flowers, returning greens, sweet smells

2. Buzzing, fluffy bumblebees making rounds in pink tulips, pollen clinging to their little hairs

3. Birds singing love songs, fluffy ducklings

4. Dew droplets clinging to spider webs

5. Rain dinging off the skylight, snuggled inside reading

6. Cute umbrellas, rain boots, puppies playing in puddles

Barbara Millicent Roberts' Rebuttal

I have a need to address

society's constant worry

over how I should dress

to make my curves less.

See, I'm pretty old, but

I haven't any lines,

nor wrinkles or sags,

on this body I've been assigned

from the factory.

Is there some kind of official

to judge my appearance?

Why am I being assessed

based on the skin which I was blessed?

What about my job as a vet?

I know how to take care of pets—

babies and children, too,

but apparently it was wrong

for me to be a mom

(while looking so young).

All those years in med school,

to be a surgeon, all that time in uni,

to be blasted into space, from education

to politics in our nation, I have so

many qualifications, why don't

you take a look at my resumé

before you take a look at me?

Can't a girl be smart

and pretty, too? 

Hogwarts Date

            Like Murphy said, if something can go wrong, it will. It wasn't my ideal date (what was wrong with a nice walk at daytime?) but Brad had insisted. His daredevil attitude played a small part in his charm. If it had been anybody other than the boy that I had been pining after for the whole of my first four years at Hogwarts, then I would have refused, so as to not risk sacrificing my golden record and flawless grades. But only an insane girl—or prettier one—would have said no to Bradley Brookshire!

            As the clock struck twelve, I stumbled out of the dormitory. None of the girls batted an eye at my leaving, as we all had our secret meetings from time to time. I scrambled out of our entrance barrel and enjoyed the cool air that banished my sweat. Sweat? I held my hands up to my face and cursed, my palms gleaming brightly in the torchlight. There was no time to change though, so I dashed into the kitchen where a few house elves happily stuffed my pockets with treats. After wiping my wet hands on my robes—fantastic, greasy hand marks—I continued my journey outside. I soon reached the entrance hall without meeting anybody and my confidence grew stronger. Which should have been a signal that something was about to go wrong.

            "Student out of bed, eh?" Filch's all too familiar voice barked. His footsteps grew closer. I shielded my face from his view, protecting my identity from him. I needed to run far away from the decrepit old man, so I started sprinting—and ran straight into a wall. He cackled as I fell. I was too tired to get up.

            "FILCH!" Bradley's voice bellowed. I raised my eyes to find Bradley standing outside the main doors. It was a valiant effort, but Filch wouldn't chase Brad while he had me within arms' length. Those were my thoughts until I saw a yowling Mrs Norris clenched in Brad's hand. Filch tore after him as fast as he could, which was in fact quite slow. I took my opportunity and raced out the main doors, Brad not too far behind me. I dashed around the back of the school, hoping dearly that Brad was nearby, and willing the painful stitch in my side to disappear.

            "Argus? What're you doing out here?" The teacher, whoever she was, calmed Filch down, giving Brad and I enough time to gather our bearings. I finally looked him in the eye and allowed a small grin to pass over my face. We were standing in a forest, completely safe from Filch.

            "You've got a cut on your head," Brad said softly, brushing my forehead. I was grateful for the darkness, as it hid the sight of my bright red cheeks.

            "You've got scratches on your cheek," I replied, lightly touching the marks. They were no doubt from handling the ancient Mrs Norris. Brad slowly leaned in towards me and my heart responded by beating rapidly. I closed my eyes and—was he growling? My eyes snapped open in time to find a set of glowing eyes and bared teeth. I tackled Brad to the ground just as the creature leapt at us. The werewolf smashed into a tree and yelped. I helped Brad up and we sprinted through the forest, zigzagging and occasionally splitting up to confuse the werewolf. Once we reached a clearing and the panting grew louder, we knew that we were caught. One couldn't outrun a werewolf.

            "Bri," Brad choked out, his hand taking mine as the creature circled up in a taunting manner, "I need to tell you that—"

            A white blur whizzed by and Brad stopped talking as we watched a pure white wolf attack our predator. It was at this point that I came to my senses. "YOUR WAND!" I bellowed, "YOUR WAND!" It was difficult to aim properly, as we were afraid of hurting the wolf as he battled it out with his opponent, but we took our chances when we saw our ally weakening.

            With combined efforts, we managed to bind the werewolf in ropes. We stood triumphantly and nodded to the wolf. He snarled back, so we took that as notice to get the hell out. We exited the Forbidden Forest without encountering anymore dangerous monsters, but the danger had ruined our date. Far away galaxies twinkled at us, as if mocking my failure. Brad would never want to see me again. "Hey, what were you going to say to me earlier?"

            Brad shot me a goofy smile that made my knees weak (or was that from all the running?) and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Uh, that I think you're really cute and I wanted to know if... if you wanted to be like, boyfriend and girlfriend? Like, officially dating, I guess?"

            I ducked my head to hide my smirk at his clumsy words but uttered out my equally lame response of, "Yeah, I think I'd like that." Brad held my hand and we walked back towards the castle, picking out constellations from above. I handed him a Butterbeer that I had extracted from my pocket and took a glug out of my own, savouring the blessed taste.

            Unfortunately, the pleasant part of our outing didn't last long. Professor Longbottom was standing with his arms crossed at the front doors shaking his head at us. "I'm surprised at you, Miss Pearson. You're top of my class! And you there—Mr. Brookshire—you're of Ravenclaw house, aren't you?" Brad nodded. "Oh dear, you two are both covered in cuts. We'd best send you off to Madame Pomfrey, and then deal with your punishments afterwards."

            We trailed behind Professor Longbottom reluctantly. "Jam doughnut?" I offered.

            "Thanks," Professor Longbottom and Brad said simultaneously, each taking a few.

            "Next time," I whispered to Brad, "We go out in the day."

            "Agreed," Brad replied, and he sealed the deal with a kiss. I could taste the strawberry jam on his lips.

Afterword

After two solid hours

of flipping, turning, and scanning,

my emotions have been sautéed

in a pan of spicy conflicts

and sweet romances.

The pages are dotted with tears

of both laughter and sadness,

and there's one streak of blood

from my paper cut.

The nice guy was killed off,

the ditzy blonde got pregnant,

the quiet ginger was sent to jail,

and the protagonist lived happily ever after.

Until the sequel comes out, that is.