A Few Abstractions

Fear: A Red SUV on 9th Street

The drive down 9th Street is a risky venture. It runs along the bottom of a hill and intersects multiple two-way stops. It is risky because cars tend to speed down these steep side roads and blaze right through the stop signs. Driving down 9th Street used to remind me of one of my favorite computer games called Frogger. This game involved me pounding furiously at the keyboard in order to help a bright green frog dodge the onslaught of speeding traffic. My palms would sweat and my shoulders tense. However, it was inevitable that my limited gaming skills would bring the tiny amphibian to a gory, pixelated doom.

For me, that is what driving used to be like. A game. But this past summer I was driving my nine-year-old brother, Henry, home from soccer practice in my dad's forest green Honda Civic. Looking back, it seems to me that before I even registered any sort of danger, my body reacted. Before I saw the red SUV barreling down the hill towards my brother and me, my palms became saturated with sweat and my shoulders braced for the impact. The sunlight crystallized the scene. The blue of the sky, the green of the grass, the white of the houses, and the red of the SUV were lit up, like the parts of a magnificent stained glass window. A fragile world about to shatter. It was too late for me to react, no time to lay on the horn or to slam on the brakes or jerk the wheel.

The SUV swerved, I gasped. There was a silent moment and then my brother laughed in relief. He hadn't seen what I had seen in that moment, in that moment, which for me was the moment of what could have been. Twisted green metal, broken glass reflecting the sky, spilled oil mixed with blood, and my life without him.

Love: The Smell of Chlorine

Sitting on this couch, we are so close, my sister, my cousins, and me. As we have done many times before, we are looking through old photo albums. My stomach aches from laughter, and my sister, Audrey, can't stop her hiccups. Emily and Allison have tears in their eyes, while Daniel continues to chuckle, at his own joke. The next photo is several years old and features all of us at the pool. Each of us is dressed in matching polka-dotted swimsuits, Christmas presents from Grandma. Everyone is sporting toothy grins. This alone is enough to get us started again.

Although times have changed, it used to be that over Christmas break we would travel to our grandparent's house in St. Louis. Almost everyday, we would swim for hours at the local indoor swimming pool. We were a family of otters, always wet and playful. Our second home was filled with laughter, laughter echoing off high walls, blue tile, and rippling water.

Nature: The Stillness of the Night

It is unnatural. The computer lab is a sterile prison lit by fluorescents. My fingers reach and bend across gray keys. Their jittery clicking urges me to type faster and faster. My gaze is locked on the sick glow of the screen. I push my mind to calculate faster and faster, so that I can be done with this ridiculous Computer Science lab assignment. I look at the problem from as many angles as I can think of, and as a last resort, I do multiple trial and error tests. The solution is so close I can smell it. I am the frantic rat in its maze, running in circles, going mad from the smell of the cheese. The TA comes up and tells me the lab is closing for the night. I pack up my things. Habit takes over, so that my mind can continue without interruption to scramble about in the maze.

As I step out into the night, I look up. The moon illuminates gauzy clouds with sliver frost. I feel the ground beneath my feet and the weight of my backpack on my shoulders. I feel the stiffness in my legs and the tension in my neck. The cold air has stilled my fevered mind, and the light of the moon has brought me back to who I am.

A Short Introduction

The family room curtains were completely gone. In front of the window where gauzy, rose-colored curtains had once hung there was now nothing, not even a plane of glass. At least traces of other furnishings were still there: the burnt frame of the couch, the wiring of a lampshade, and scattered plastic globules, which before being melted had been Jake’s action figures. Everything smelled of smoke. Although my mother said to think of it as a fresh start, I couldn’t look at the destruction of my home with her level of optimism. The night of the fire wouldn't stop replaying in my head.

The Cat Collector

She looked over the selection with practiced eye. Ever since the recent depletion of her collection Nancy had spent her afternoons at dozens of various suppliers searching for a suitable replacement, and so far with no luck. Wandering the aisles of the Humane Society, she reminisced. There had been Frito, Neville, Suzuka, Hawk, Bailey, Grace, Spartacus, and Gizmo. So many cats had come and gone. Now only two remained of her feline menagerie: Denny and Bella.

In her minds eye she saw Denny stalking some hapless creature, either rabbit, mouse, or bird. His sage green eyes locked on the target and his muscles rippling under tawny fur as he creeped ever closer. Whenever plucked up and cuddled Denny, the proud warrior, would twist and yowl until freed of such undignified displays of affection. Nancy respected his autonomy, as well as his rather devious hobby. In return Denny brought her the fruits of his labors. Oddly enough, these slain rodents and slaughtered songbirds were always beheaded. Nancy wondered what Denny did with all those heads. She imagined a pagan shrine hidden deep in the woods, dedicated to savage hunting gods, and lined with tiny skulls.

In contrast to Denny’s domain was Bella’s bower. Most of the prim feline’s days were spent in the attic. Bella was an artist, as passionate, as mad, as depressed, and as brilliant as they come. When hit with writer’s block or when frustrated by the hem and haw of life, Nancy climbed the spiral stairway to Bella’s ethereal world. More oft than naught, Nancy found the long haired calico seated on the window seat, silhouetted by hazy beams of sunlight. In traditional greeting Nancy nodded and Bella blinked. On the golden wood of the floor yarn would be strewn about in a dizzy pattern of reds, purples, and greens. For hours Nancy would trace the tangled weave. When her mind finally cleared Nancy re-rolled the balls of yarn and left Bella to her work.

Denny and Bella were attractive and intriguing specimens in her cat menagerie, but this time Nancy wanted to acquire something more than another beautiful and polished addition. For one last time Nancy surveyed the room and that's when she spotted the cage tucked into the corner. Peering inside Nancy met the feral glare of a scrappy black cat. She catalogued its features: one torn ear, patchy fur, a kinked tail, and a pearly white fang overlapping the bottom lip. As she leaned in closer, the frightened feline hissed and spit. A clipboard beside the cage read: Cosmic Creepers, older male, abused, and in need of a loving, patient owner.

“Purrr-fect,” the cat collector whispered under her breath.

Morning Meeting at Ye Olde Bookshoppe

Nancy pushed and squeezed her way through the crowd. Claustrophobia overwhelmed her. To free herself from the press of humanity she took a turn and ran onto the pedestrian crosswalk. Tires screeched and horns blared. From on high, death cast its shadow, but did not strike the quarry. Oblivious or perhaps just indifferent, Nancy continued her brisk jog across the street. She gave the irate drivers a big grin and a cheery wave, while the mantra of Alice and Wonderland's white rabbit danced through her head, “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date! No time to say hello, goodbye, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!”

They had planned to meet at the bookstore that morning at nine. It was already a quarter past the hour. “There’s nothing like making a good first impression,” thought Nancy, as she rounded the corner and arrived at her destination, Ye Olde Bookshoppe. An ironic name because as she pushed open the door she was engulfed by the smell of new books; the smell of freshly cut paper, of printing ink, and of binding glue; and the smell of distant worlds crystallized into tangible, reachable conduits.

The familiar thrill of finding and of knowing filled Nancy and she went to the closest display, picking up the first book that caught her eye. It was The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas; she had been meaning to read it ever since she had read The Three Musketeers in junior high, but there had always been other books pleading for attention. Her desire for just a small taste of The Count overcame the urgency of her situation, so she opened the book to a random page, “His mind was filled with a single thought: that of his happiness destroyed for no apparent reason,” and with that the book consumed her.

Lab Mice

Scanning, scanning, and there it was: 32081, her student ID number, and printed beside it, her recent AP Biology test grade. Usually, Courtney resented the anonymity forced upon her by 32081. Usually, Courtney wanted to throw aside the veil of modesty, so that she could, for once, see envy in the eyes of her classmates. Today was different. Beside 32081 was a blemish. It read 64%, a failing grade. She was ashamed, but she was grateful that 32081 hid her nakedness, her filth.

“Damn.”

Courtney turned to see who had spoken. It was Katie Perilli. That was a surprise. Katie was smart. Her ability to absorb large amounts of pointless trivia had earned her the nickname “The Sponge”. Katie should have aced the biology test. Their eyes met.

Despite her customary reluctance to speak to Katie, Courtney asked,

“You too?”

Although merely implied, Courtney had just admitted failure. Katie's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. Yet seeing no hint of mockery, she replied,

“Well, what did you expect? It is Thormund. You know, it’s a bit much asking an ape like him to actually teach.”

As she walked into the biology lab with Katie, Courtney chuckled. Katie was known to be a teacher’s pet and to hear her badmouthing their biology teacher was amusing. Katie continued in her rant even going so far as to abandon the habitual seating arrangement, in order to sit by Courtney in the back.

“I mean, seriously, Thormund isn’t a real teacher. He’s a gym teacher and he isn’t even fit for that.” Katie jiggled an imaginary gut.

Courtney was forced to muffle her laughter as Thormund waddled into the room and began his typical lecture, complete with monotone droning and a poorly constructed powerpoint. After opening her biology textbook, a 1,274 pg. monster weighing 5.5 lbs., Courtney didn’t bother to pay attention.

She had never seen this side of Katie. Of course, if they had followed the typical high school clique rules they should have been fast friends. Thanks to their high grades and lack of fashion sense, they both fell strictly under the nerd category. However, their personalities were in opposition. Courtney was rather blunt and unwilling to put up with anybody’s shit. She found Katie’s demure damsel act nauseating.

Courtney was suddenly jerked from her reverie when a hysterical cheerleader in the front row began to shriek. One of the laboratory mice had escaped. Courtney watched in horror as the white mouse came running up the aisle. Oh god, what if it ran up her leg?

“Oh, it’s all right little mousey,” Katie cooed as she bent down to intercept the mouse’s mad dash for freedom.

Courtney’s fear was trampled by her anger. She was supposed to be the brave one, not Katie, the wussy bookworm. The moment the mouse reached the side of Courtney's desk, and before Katie could save the day by capturing it, Courtney elbowed her biology textbook. 1,274 pages weighing 5.5 lbs. went plummeting to the tile floor. The mouse didn’t stand a chance.

“Whoops,” Courtney said and her laughter was swallowed by Katie’s scream.

Pontifex Maximus

"Do you freely accept your election?"

The Latin tongue is a familiar comfort even if the question is not. The slight shuddering of those passing sound waves belies the words’ terrible weight. Yet, lingering vibrations mingle with a swift counter.

"I accept."

Despite bracing for the new burden, his tenuous grasp on reality is strained. Set adrift, Joseph Ratzinger casts about for an anchor and latches onto the beauty looming over the altar of the Sistine Chapel. It is "The Last Judgment" of Michelangelo. His vision skims over the fleshy and muscular Christ figure. In contrast, fully clothed with even her head covered the Virgin Mother is a familiar comfort by his side.

Yet her dark eyes disturb Joseph and in that moment he sees Mary as he has never seen her before. Time quiets as he absorbs this disconcerting revelation. Mary is not supporting the radiant Christ, rather she is cowering beneath him. Hands are crossed to shield her heart and her face is turned away in fear. Or is it shame? Grief, perhaps.

His daydream arouses Mary from her harsh repose. She stirs and from her lips pours a chiming Hebrew supplication. You are an old man, so maybe they will listen to you. They touch the beads of my rosary. They kneel before my statues. For Christ’s sake, they worship me! I do not know why they have stopped listening to me. Will you bear my message to them? But the man is old and his heart is deaf. His ears can only pick out the quivering vibrations, which pull him from this shallow contemplation.

"What name do you take?"

"I take the name Benedict."

Later, standing on the balcony overlooking St. Peter’s Basilica, Pope Benedict XVI addresses his brothers and sisters in amicable Italian. Speaking of his mission for the future, he says to them, "The Lord will aid us and Mary, his Most Holy Mother, will be by our side."

As the Pope begins the Latin blessing, the dark skies release their tears.

(Writer's Note: Although mostly fabrication, there exists some fact. Such as the location for papal election, the dialogue for the pope's acquiescence, and the weather at Pope Benedict XVI's first Urbi et Orbi. Check out Michelangelo's portrait of Mary that inspired the story: HERE.)

Marvin Winslow

Number 46. Down. A trim stack of six squares destined to contain a “Magic word”. And only a couple minutes are left of Marvin Winslow’s lunch break. He has already wolfed down the Mu Shu Pork and egg roll from the China Star across the street and is now sitting on a park bench near the law offices of Swenson & Hart. It is a chilled and overcast Thursday. In accordance with his routine Marvin is puzzling through the daily New York Times crossword.

His mind conjures up images of withholding mothers and demanding children. What’s the magic word? PLEASE, he thinks with a slight twitch of his lips.

Yet, the “R” of ORNERY blocks him on the second box. Pleased that it wasn’t that easy, Marvin grins. The clear clicking of female footsteps interrupts his thought.

“How’s the riddling, Sherlock?”

Without looking up, he asks her, “A six-letter for ‘Magic word’.”

His associate, Sharon chuckles and says “Sorry, Marv. I’m partial to Sudoku.”

“Uh, huh.” His attention already lost.

However, time is up. Suppressing a sigh, Marvin gathers the empty Styrofoam take-out container and his briefcase. As he stands to join Sharon, he thinks to himself. It really is unfair. If I were Detective Holmes I’d have a nice supply of coke at hand to speed up my thinking.

Then for the first time that day the sun breaks through the clouds. The light is dazzling. Marvin pauses with a sudden thrill.

PRESTO

(Writer's Note: The inspiration for Marvin: “You like to debate intellectual issues and often enjoy riddles, puzzles and brain teasers.” Was revealed by his personality test results at pulseware.com)

Marvin's Pesonality