The first in, “The Series of True Short Stories”.
My first creative piece on this blog, and it’s about living with something dangerous. Hmmm…
— Mary Hawkins.
Before my alarm buzzed me awake with a soft melody I learned to hate, I dreamed of a wizard who lived inside of a rock formation in the middle of a never-ending ocean with still waters. The sun never moved from its almost twilight position low in the sky. It cast sunset shadows and lightly sparkling stars on the mirror surface.
When I woke up, I tried to go back to sleep to recapture that dream, but it was already fading away faster than my waking mind could reach to remember. I hit snooze. A few minutes later, the ever insistent alarm sounded again. I wasn’t able to recapture the dream, but I wondered about the wizard as I rolled over mismatched mattresses to start my day.
My steps were dainty as I used well-worn shirts as stepping stones to navigate the laundry sea on my way to the bathroom.
With the light switch it was revealed that, along with a headache blooming behind my eyes, there was a wasp on the floor. It buzzed at me and did not appear interested in flying around at the moment. My immediate thought was to kill it before it could hurt me, but my sleepy mind could not quite calculate the necessary motivation to find a shoe or similar object to do away with it.
I remembered through my sleep haze that wasps had an important role in the environment. I couldn’t remember what that role was, but I recalled someone somewhere being upset that others are always demonizing the insect because of the physical harm they cause, and perhaps rightfully so. Before I could delve too deeply into public perception of bugs and the environment so early in the morning, I grabbed an empty cup near the sink. Before the wasp could think twice about a counter attack, I had it trapped under the cup.
I then proceeded with my day, quickly getting through a shower and hoping that the steam would help to dissuade my headache from developing further.
It didn’t.
I only ever gave myself the exact time that I needed in the morning, always trying to claim as much sleep as I could, and each morning I thought that maybe I should wake up earlier knowing that my days tended to be better when I did.
I never do.
All the while I rushed through my morning routine, the wasp remained under the cup. It made no noise, and I couldn’t see its shadow through the white semi-opaque plastic when I stepped out of my 15 minute shower. I wondered if there was even a wasp at all as I ran out of the house to my work. I thought of telling someone about the wasp under the cup in between moments on a day of deadlines, headaches, and nine to fives.
I didn’t.
When I got home, the wasp was still under the cup, I assumed. I was too exhausted to deal with it, however, so I distracted myself in an attempt to regain some of that energy lost during the day.
That afternoon, I slept away the pain of a headache.
That night, I dreamed of the wizard again. This time, instead of me a formless observer of this mind-conjured environment, I was a child with a different name falling from the sky with streaks of atmosphere trailing behind me.
I could feel the wizard trying to help me slow my descent because in this world it was thought that ruled reality. I tried very hard to think about slowing down.
I didn’t.
But, I could see the wizard running from his home along the water’s calm surface, sending sky tinged ripples out as he ran. It was beautiful.
I woke before I fell to my alarm telling me I had to rush. I remembered the wasp.
Bramble Ramble 