Chicago 4500, Part One

The helmeted young man piloted his yellow air taxi through the surging sky lanes over Chicago, zipping past the balconies of towering skyscrapers on his relatively low-level 100^th-story route. Someone hailed the cab from the balcony of the historic Sears Tower, a quaint relic from an earlier age—now dwarfed by its 600-or-more-story contemporaries. As the young man maneuvered carefully through the lane separating him from his potential passenger, another air taxi cut him off, blocking his access to the balcony and taking the passenger. The young man honked his horn angrily and punched the radio power button. All seven lanes of traffic were now stopped at the red light suspended from cables stretched between two massive buildings.

Meanwhile, at the tallest building complex in Chicago (which, at a soaring height of 12,384 feet, was now vying for the title of world’s tallest building) a vast space cruiser was docking at an upper-level walkway. The complex’s lakefront setting made it an ideal location for a landing area, as it was one of the only urban-access sites with enough open space to land the enormous tourist cruisers and cargo vessels. The only boats on the lake were those of retirees: a popular retirement option was to buy a large houseboat and live on the lake. With access to Michigan’s wild, forested preserves, beaches, bustling Chicago, or ancient Milwaukee, the houseboat life was ideal for active centenarians. Even the more vigorous sesquicentenarians could sometimes be seen on the lake, leisurely fishing off their front porches.

As the dramatic orange and purple sunset became the backdrop of the space cruiser landing, it silhouetted the huge ship and the twin spires between which it docked. The city began to light up in varying hues, competing with the colorful horizon. As the sky faded from purple to deep blue to black, the stars were surpassed by the bright lights of the city. Even the moon, which now shone full over Chicago, paled in comparison to the radiance of the skyscrapers.

Deep below the rushing sky lanes, in the shady Chicago understory, a sleeping humanoid figure was hunched under a ground level window inside one of the towers. Here, more than two miles below the tips of the soaring buildings, the gritty pavement had fallen out of use centuries ago as the old forms of transportation died out. A potholed, cracked cement surface was all that remained of the once-traffic-filled roadways. Dirt and grime, however, were not the only things that thrived on the understory.

As dusk fell on the skyline, the sleeping figure stirred and woke. An eerie glow from the bright upper levels was the only light that shone on this part of the understory, where electricity was scarce. The man-like creature rose to its feet, shaking the dark, thick blanket from its shoulders. It was short and hunched, at a height of only four-and-a-half feet, and extremely pale, with wide eyes that consisted almost entirely of inky black pupils. Its fingers were long, ending in long, rough, grimy nails. A single short, black garment covered it from throat to thigh. The creature reached underneath the blanket to retrieve a grayish pack and a long black coat from a small trapdoor directly below the spot where it had been sleeping. Donning the coat and pulling up the hood, which covered all of the face but the black eyes, the creature rose once again, pack in hand, and began to make its way out into the dark, canyon-like street.

June 8th, 1863

As I wake from another nightmare, I am blindsided by the realization that reality is little better than the dreadful, shapeless but fear-filled dreams. The shadow cast by the hat rack in the corner of my bedroom becomes the menacing silhouette of a hostile Yankee soldier; every movement outside is the enemy coming to burn our house down. Surrounded by these twisted caricatures of my imagination, I am a prisoner in my own home.

Last night, after waking in the middle of the night soaked in a cold sweat, I reached for the silver pitcher of water sitting on my dark wood bedside table to get a drink to calm my jumpy nerves. I knocked the pitcher onto the hardwood floor, and its earsplitting crash scared me half to death. Our live-in servant, Tethys Jackson, came running to make sure I hadn’t fallen. She quietly called my name as she picked her way carefully across the vine-patterned rug, taking care not to tread on any of the vines. On account of having raised me from infancy, she is always concerned for me, and she was afraid, she told me, that someone had snuck into my room. Her face, lit up by the bright Mississippi moon so that it was almost the same color as mine, was full of anxiety. I could see then that she had the same fears as I do: what if a Yankee sneaks into the house to raid it, or worse, take advantage of one of us? My eight-year-old brother Sterling is now the only male left (aside from the Negro workers, who live in small cabins near the edge of the field) on our little plantation, after my father died and Quincy, my older brother, left to fight in the Confederate Army. What if he doesn’t come back from the war?

Now I hope to write myself to sleep, and try to make myself forget my fears. But what can I write about besides those things that I am dreading? Or perhaps I can keep myself awake till sunrise, if there can be a sunrise during this terrible war. Surely it will be morning soon. The moon is still bright, casting more shadows: my dresser, dark wood like the rest of my furniture, and the mirror attached to the top vaguely resemble a man’s misshapen form. The flowers in my west-facing window look sickly and pale in the colorless moonlight, and their shadow on my thick, quilted bedspread looks like a disembodied hand. I shudder and quickly look away, as if staring at it will make it come to life and begin creeping across my bed. A breeze flutters the light summer curtains that Tethys hung last week, and the shadows remind me of the restless spirits in her ghost stories.

At long last, my eyelids are getting heavy. The blue flowers painted onto my wall near the ceiling are blurring together. Perhaps I will finally sleep.

Cordelia Carmichael

Notes on the story and naming characters:

This is a piece that I wrote for an English class. The assignment was to put ourselves in a different time period and describe our "sleeping quarters." As you can tell, for my setting, I chose somewhere in the South during the Civil War, and had my character describe her surroundings in a nightmarish way, in relation to the way she's been living, with her brother and father away fighting. 

Although writing the piece itself was interesting, one of the most enjoyable parts for me is naming the characters. I am very picky about naming the characters. The name has to fit the character and their personality--for example, you simply cannot call a down-to-earth, humble teenage girl "Vanadia" (which is a name that I am, in fact, using in a story) unless she has a shorter nickname or goes only by her surname (a great example of this is Nymphadora Tonks in Harry Potter, who of course only goes by the name of Tonks). The name "Vanadia" goes with a more grown-up, powerful woman, perhaps an ambitious world leader, or even a maniacal super-villain. The names are also fun if they somehow tie into the setting. I particularly enjoy the way Suzanne Collins names her characters in The Hunger Games trilogy. The Capitol characters tend to have Roman or Romanesque names (i.e. Coriolanus, Flavius, Octavia, Messalla); I have always connected the Capitol with the Roman Empire--the gladiatorial Hunger Games competition and the Bread and Circuses references being the main ties. Some of the characters from the surrounding districts have names that connect to their home district's main industry (Glimmer and Marvel from the district that makes luxury items; Wiress from the technology district). When I am writing a story, I am almost obsessive in my character-naming. The name has to fit. I am a frequenter of baby-name websites, which interest me endlessly due the amount of ridiculous, unique, culturally-varied, and abstract names. Most of them I would never even think of giving to a child; however I take no issue to giving some of them to a character. The names I use in a story almost always have been researched, and I always put a lot of thought into naming my characters. The only time you will ever see a John Q. Public from Anytown, Ohio in my stories is if there is actually a man whose identity is protected or unknown.

Fedora

Happy Thanksgiving to all; I hope you ate lots of turkey, or if you are vegetarian, then...whatever you ate for Thanksgiving, I hope you ate plenty of it. Days like Thanksgiving make me appreciate how hard it would be to give up meat. As for Black Friday...I hope no one was injured/trampled this year. Once again, people amaze me. Not in a good way. Shopping at three in the morning? Who does that? Plenty of people, but that's beside the point. Whether you went shopping or not, I hope your Thanksgiving weekend has been good. Mine was scrumptious. And now for our feature presentation.

Fedora
Country and rock,
guitar tinged with mariachi trumpets
three weeks atop the charts
forever associated with another life--
a yellow room
warm summer breezes
through my west-facing window.
evenings spent at the ballfields
the smell of a leather glove
and Kenny Chesney on the radio,
with the windows down
on the way home.
As these simple recollections pour from my headphones,
for a few minutes
it is easy to believe
that the straw fedora atop my head
is a cowboy hat.

Note:
As I was on my way home from a football game earlier tonight, the song "Beer in Mexico" (great song, I know) came up on my iPod. This song, which did in fact spend three weeks atop the country charts during the spring of 2007, always reminds me of summer evenings in my hometown spent playing baseball or softball and listening to the radio in my bedroom with the widows open. Needless to say, upon hearing this song, I was inspired to write this poem. I really was wearing a fedora. 

Never Forget

Ashes in a cloudless sky

a smoke signal for tragedy.

It started out an average morning

commuters, traffic

moving

working

eating.

No one could guess 

that some would not go through this routine again tomorrow morning.

Panic

flew through the phone lines

across screens

over P.A. systems.

But so did hope and comfort.

Though it was a day of terrible sorrow

fear

and apprehension,

it would become solidarity

patriotism

and loyalty.

The broken towers 

broke our hearts that day, 

and thought it hurts,

we will never forget.

Author's Note:
I was a little kid when the attacks of September 11th, 2001 shook our nation at her roots. I didn't really understand what had happened until much later. The one thing I will never forget is coming home from school and seeing the footage on television: the stark contrast of the billowing smoke, flame and ashes in the bright blue sky. A year later, at 8:46 a.m. on the one-year anniversary of the attacks, the principal came on the P.A. system at school and declared a moment of silence at the time the first plane hit the tower. 9/11/01 was the day many of us realized just how fragile life is, and how much we should value our lives and freedom. It saddens me terribly to remember how much loss of life it took for us to realize that. The victims and heroes of 9/11, especially those in the World Trade Center, American Airlines flights 11 and 77, and United Airlines flights 93 and 175,  will never be forgotten. May they rest in peace  and may God bless all of us.

Assorted Items of a Random Nature

 On the left is a honeybee doing his job at the Pittsburgh Zoo. The photo on the right is the spines of a bedazzled Stegosaurus in Pittsburgh's PPG Place.




Left: a tilted view of some of the Gothic architecture in the Commons Room in the Cathedral of Learning on the University of Pittsburgh campus. Below: a white-cheeked gibbon at the Pittsburgh Zoo.















At left is a chandelier in the French Room of the Cathedral of Learning. Below is a photo from a couple years ago of a raindrop hanging from a Japanese maple in my backyard.

Left: my own interpretation of the haughty Narcissa Malfoy, before we saw her in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.








Below is the main Harry Potter trio as they escape spectacularly from Gringotts Bank on the back of a dragon.

Remember Claire

It is with terrible sorrow that I must write this, but on June 8th, 2011, my friend Claire passed away. Despite her short life of only 15 years, she had many friends and made a huge impact on many people's lives. Even in her sickness and untimely death, she brought so many people closer to each other and to God. On Tuesday and Wednesday night, her friends and family filled the hospital chapel at our local hospital to pray for her and her family. I was touched and inspired that such hardship can bring out such compassion and solidarity in people. We will all miss Claire.

Pray for Claire

Anyone who happens to read this, please pray for my friend Claire. She is currently battling leukemia and is on life support as I type this. The past three days have been extremely bizarre, with ups and downs every so often. We know that whatever happens, God has a plan, but please pray for her recovery, for her family who is with her at this time, and for her friends who are praying that she stays strong and keeps fighting. Thanks, everyone.

In Anticipation

A homemade poster for
Deathly Hallows Part 1
(hence the November date)

This is a short piece I wrote for a fanfiction contest on The Leaky Cauldron, a Harry Potter fansite. The prompt was to describe Albus Potter's (Harry's son) first meeting with Peeves, the school poltergeist, who has a reputation for causing trouble whenever possible. In anticipation of the new (and last) movie coming out in July, I have edited and posted this story. Enjoy.

Albus Meets Peeves

            Al was weaving his way through the maze of corridors in Hogwarts castle, trying to find his way to his next class, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Suddenly, a loud, rude, cackle interrupted the usual hum of students chatting in the halls. He looked up to see none other than Peeves, the school poltergeist that his father had warned him about on Platform Nine and Three Quarters a few days before. Students all around him ducked in mid-step as Peeves swooped at their heads, whooping delightedly at the startled looks on their faces.

            Spotting Al, Peeves dived at his face, causing him to drop his books, quills, parchment, and ink, which splattered all over his books and onto the floor.

            “Hahahaha! First years!!” cackled Peeves, “Ickle firsties…lost on their way to class! Ooooooh, going to be late, you are!” Laughing evilly, he grabbed some of Al’s quills and started throwing them like darts at his back as he stooped to pick up his things. Just then, Professor Binns, the History of Magic teacher, and Hogwarts’ only ghost teacher, came floating down the corridor, looking far from his usual bored appearance.

            “PEEVES!!!” he screeched in his slightly wheezing voice, while the students below marveled at the presence of this new expression on his face. “What is the meaning of this??”

            “The meaning of what, professor?” Peeves said slyly, inflecting the last word with as much scorn as possible.

            “Those--those--things I found on my desk this morning! I suppose you think it’s funny, don’t you, you and your silly little pranks, putting rocks on my desk that start swearing every time I begin talking, in the full knowledge that I, being a ghost, cannot pick them up! Oh hello,” said Professor Binns, noticing Al finally. “and who might you be?”

            “Er--Albus, Albus Potter, sir.” Al said, a bit overwhelmed by the scene.

            “Aaaaahhh…named, I presume, after the late Albus Dumbledore, one of Hogwarts’ greatest headmasters? A most honorable man…” Binns seemed to drift off at this statement, into his long past. Getting ahold of himself, he said suddenly, “And speaking of headmasters, Peeves, I shall be speaking to the headmistress about you! And the Bloody Baron, if I can find him,” and floated away down the corridor muttering to himself.

            As Al bent down once again to retrieve his books, Peeves resumed launching his quills at him. Al was given a moment's respite as Peeves was distracted by one of the prefects, who was rushing along looking anxious. Leaving Al to rummage on the floor for his books, Peeves seized two of his quills and started firing them at his new target. Relieved, Al haphazardly shoved his books into his bag and hurried off to class, hoping that the professor wouldn’t notice him walk in a few minutes late. As he rushed as fast as possible towards the classroom, he began wracking his brains for a valid excuse in case his teacher spotted him. But when he reached the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, it swung open to meet him and he nearly collided with--

            “Al! I wondered when you would get here!” Harry Potter said, smiling down at his youngest son.

Neon Black

Bright black
stands out against the fuchsias, limes, and violent oranges.
What is a violent orange?
Is it a color?
Or an unusually belligerent fruit?
Are zebras white with black stripes--
or black with white stripes?
Tigers
are violent oranges.
But the peaceful satsumas
reside in my refrigerator.
What does the food do when the door closes?
Are oranges violent?
What happens
in the neon blackness?

* * *

Once again, another long gap between posts...writer's block? Scheduling? A little of both, really. A question that haunts me, while on the subject of colors: Does everyone see colors the same way, or do different people call different colors "green," "blue," "yellow," etc.? What if I see strawberries as red, and someone else sees them as purple, but calls them red? We were taught our colors when we were small children....If one person's green is another person's purple, how do we manage to color-coordinate? I take this to mean that we all really do see the same colors--if we didn't, I can guarantee the fashion industry would never have gotten off the ground. If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?

Farewell, Borders

To my readers, I apologize for my monthlong absence from my blog. It's been a busy month. Some of you have probably heard that Borders is closing about 1/3 of its stores since filing for bankruptcy. One of these unfortunate stores is located in my town, and is one of the main places where I bought books. It was also much more convenient than Barnes & Noble, which we had to go all the way across town in order to visit. The one thing about the closing that I do enjoy: liquidation sale! Needless to say, I took advantage of that and bought two interesting-looking books: Mudbound and My Name is Asher Lev. Neither of which I have read, due to my rather lengthy reading list. But now it is time to pay my respects to my local Borders. Hopefully whatever store moves into their space is worth going to.

Oh Borders!
You carpeted, bookshelf-filled store of bliss,
your countless tomes the abode of imagination,
your wooden bookshelves filled with endless curiosities.
To walk in your door was to enter a different world;
I was Lucy and you were my Narnia.
Oh, to get lost in the pages of prose,
paperbacks and hardcovers,
oblivious to everything but the books.
But, like every journey through the magical wardrobe,
it all must end.
No longer shall I wander through your smorgasbord of summer reading,
hunting for that priceless treasure.
Farewell, Borders.

Think Warm Thoughts

"...Harry had no idea where Dumbledore went during his summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full-length wizard's robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose."

--Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Even Dumbledore needs a vacation.

I'm attempting to think warm thoughts as an impending "blizzard" is buffeted our way. Not nearly as harsh as a true northern blizzard, I'm sure, but to us, a foot of snow is a lot. As much of a travel hazard as it is, I do love the sound of sleet coming down against the house. It's almost like rain in the summer....

A Christmas Tale, Part 3

     The next morning dawned brightly through the thickly frosted windows. Clarisse sat up in her booth and looked around. The restaurant was completely empty except for the dozing family in one corner. The businessmen and the choir must have left earlier, she thought. A movement in the kitchen caught her eye. Sheila was fiddling with random appliances in the kitchen. Whether it was just for something to do, or if she was legitimately checking the equipment, Clarisse couldn’t tell, but the longer she watched, she noticed that Sheila seemed distracted. Clarisse got out of the booth and stretched. As she gingerly made her way to the kitchen, Sheila looked up. For once, she didn’t say anything.

     “Did they leave?” Clarisse asked, referring to the choir and businessmen.

     “No one’s come in or out since last night,” Sheila replied.

     “But—“

     “Look.” Sheila handed her a slip of paper folded in half. It shimmered faintly as Clarisse opened it up. Written in elegant cursive in gold ink was one simple sentence: “Thank you and Merry Christmas.”

* * *

It would later be discovered that other residents of the town, who had also lost power, reported similar experiences: carolers knocking at the doors of the dark houses, an entire choir at the nursing home and the hospital. All of the mysterious visitors hailed from Emery Gettings High School. After several curious and grateful citizens attempted to contact the high school, they found that it did not even exist. The only proof that any of the events ever happened was the residents’ word and the identical notes, written in gold ink on shimmering paper, received by all the witnesses.

A note about the story

Once again, I apologize for my procrastination on this story, partially due to writer's block but also due to other distractions. A few details: As some may know, Balthazar was the name of one of the three Magi who visited and gave gifts to Jesus after he was born. The name Natalie (the name of the little girl), fittingly means "Christmas." "Emery Gettings High School, IN" is an anagram of "Come, sing glory in the highest." Draw your own conclusions about the choir: maybe Natalie was right.

A Christmas Tale, Part 2

Before I begin this overly long part two, I would like to apologize for procrastinating on this. I hoped to get it done before Christmas, but obviously I haven't, which kind of defeats the purpose. Anyway, stick with me here. Part three will be very short. Another note: I failed to mention in part one that this is taking place on Christmas Eve. Disclaimer: McDonald's closes early on Christmas Eve, so for those of you who noticed a discrepancy, remember this is a work of fiction. Also the radio station, WTKO is in reality an oldies station in Ithaca, New York. This is completely accidental; those were the first call letters that popped into my mind.

A vivid, yellow school bus bearing the name “Emery Gettings High School, IN” turned the corner sharply, almost losing control on the quickly forming ice. The bus was transporting a high school choir from a Christmas performance, and was nearly halfway back when the winter storm hit.

     “There’s a McDonald’s up here,” the balding choir director said loudly over the shrieks and general buzz as they came out of the intersection. “Let’s stop there and get off this road. We can get something to eat, too.”

     “Sounds good,” the slightly overweight, bearded bus driver replied. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to drive this thing if the weather stays like this.” He carefully maneuvered the cumbersome bus into the small parking lot.

     “McDonalds!”

     “Oh, I knew I’d need my purse…”

     “Yes! Food!” Various gleeful shouts and chatter came from the back of the bus as the doors whooshed open to let the students out. The bus driver waited until the last student had descended the steps, and the last “thank you” had reached his ears. The choir director remained seated behind him.

     “Turn on the radio,” the director said. “Maybe this storm won’t last long.”

     “Maybe, maybe not,” the driver replied as he fiddled with the bus’s rather finicky radio. “Even if it does stop, the roads’ll still be bad enough. We might be stuck here for the night.”

     “The students will need to call their parents.” The director was concentrating on the radio, which was now listing counties included in a winter storm warning.

     “...and White counties, all under a winter storm warning, in effect until midnight tonight. Again, that includes the entire WTKO listening area. For your safety, stay off the roads as much as possible, especially in the dark. And now back to the music—further updates will be broadcasted periodically, and as the situation warrants.” The driver turned the radio down as the opening bars of an oldies song began to play.

     “You might be right about being stuck here.” The driver sighed grimly as he hefted himself out of the vinyl-upholstered driver’s seat. “Well, let’s go get something to eat and hope for the best.”

     As the two men made their way across the snowy parking lot, hunched over against the bitter wind, similar thoughts were running through their heads. Why did this storm have to come up? They could have been safe in their warm homes right now, reading “The Night Before Christmas” to their families, sitting with their respective wives in front of a glowing fireplace, happy to be inside on this arctic night.

     Their cozy thoughts seemed to keep them warm despite the wind and sleet biting their faces as they reached the door of the McDonald’s. They entered to the sound of the twenty-some students ordering their meals and discussing the storm. Some had cell phones glued to their ears, reassuring parents that they were safe and off the roads, but that no one knew when they would arrive back home.

     “Can I have everyone’s attention?” The director shouted. The students quieted; one of them stopped talking mid-order and turned to face the man speaking. “This storm won’t stop for a while,” he said. “There’s a winter storm warning in effect till midnight. I’m sorry to break the news, but we might be stuck here all night. Everyone should start calling their parents, if they haven’t already.” The director’s regretful announcement brought moans to the group of students; a girl dropped miserably into a booth.

     Meanwhile, Clarisse was preparing another batch of fries in the kitchen. When she heard the choir director’s announcement, her gloved hand slipped on the handle of the fry basket and brushed the searing deep-fryer.

     “Ouch!” she exclaimed. She peeled off the plastic glove, which had melted in the spot where it had touched the sizzling fryer, and sucked on her burned knuckle as the fries finished cooking. She immediately took the basket out of the oil, which seemed to be hissing mockingly at her. She hurried across the kitchen and turned on the cold water the moment she reached the sink. As she let the ice-cold water splash over her finger, she removed her other glove in her teeth and ran her now free hand over her forehead. She glanced at one of the cash registers, where Sheila was taking orders.

     “Oh, no!” Sheila moaned. “Are you telling me I gotta be stuck in this place all night? I still got presents to wrap! How you expect me to...” The exasperated manager began muttering to herself, rolling her eyes every once in a while as she fiercely punched in orders.

     At the other cash register, the usually perky Deanna was ringing up an order with an exhausted look on her face.

     “Next,” she sighed dejectedly.

     At a corner booth, a small family was eating their burgers and Happy Meals; a toddler struggled to free herself from her tired-looking mother, who was attempting to wipe ketchup from her chubby face. The little girl’s father and older sister got up and made their way between the conversing students to the table where the choir director and the bus driver sat. The man called Balthazar was standing at the table talking to them, his forehead creased with concern.

     “The students—what will they do?” he asked in his deep, slightly accented voice.

     “They’ll just have to camp out here. They’re all calling their families as we speak.”

     The girl and her father approached the small group at the table.

     “Sir,” the father said to the director, “Did you say we would be stuck here all night?”

     “Unless this storm stops soon, we will be.”

     The girl’s face fell. “Oh no, Daddy! What’ll we do? Santa Claus won’t be able to find us!”

     “It’s all right, sweetie. Santa Claus never fails. We’re going to make the best of this.” Her father patted her comfortingly on the back. “Now, what brings everyone else here?”

     “We’re a high school choir. We’re on our way back from our last concert of the year.” The director was glad to have something else to think about.

     “Really? What high school?”

     “Emery Gettings High. It’s...up north a ways.”

     “Hmmm...” the father thought for a moment. “Never heard of it. What would you say to a little concert right here? I’m sure you’d love it, wouldn’t you, Natalie?”

     “Of course we could do that for you! I’ll get them together,” the director agreed. “Hey everyone!” he shouted over the chatting students. “We have a request for a serenade. We’ll do our songs—concert order.” He paused a moment for the students to get to their feet and shift into their rows. He raised his arms high and began to conduct “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” As the choir started to sing, the family and the businessmen turned around in their seats to watch, and the employees came out of the kitchen. 

     The patrons listened, starry-eyed, as the choir sang its way through most of the concert. The wind howled its frustration in not being able to slip into the restaurant as snow and sleet pelted the windows. As the choir sang “O Holy Night,” there was a great gust of wind, and the lights flickered and went out. Several people gasped in the pitch darkness, and a few, thinking quickly, took out their cell phones and lit up the screens. Everyone in possession of a phone followed suit, lighting the McDonald’s with the dim white glow of their screens. The other two businessmen had joined the table where Balthazar and the father and his daughter sat, near where the director had been conducting his choir. The four men began discussing the situation in low voices.

     “Daddy?” Natalie whispered, her face lit faintly in the light of the phones that lay on the table. “What’s happening?”

     “The power’s out because of the storm. Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “We’re safe here.”

     The choir director rose and addressed his choir in a low voice, inaudible to the rest of the patrons. His intentions were made clear when the choir reorganized themselves and began to sing softly: “Silent night, holy night...” The students had raised their lit cell phones to light their faces, giving them the unearthly look of a celestial chorus, seemingly out of place in this grubby McDonald’s.

     Clarisse leaned against the counter, watching the spectacle. Lost in the music, she didn’t notice Deanna appear beside her. Deanna elbowed her gently, holding her cell phone, which showed the time: 11:37 p.m.

     “It’s almost Christmas,” she whispered, smiling. Not even their bleak situation could dampen the holiday glow. Clarisse felt chills run up her arms as the choir finished singing. A few people clapped, including Deanna, the young girl, and her father. The choir sat down after being dismissed by the director, who resumed his seat at the businessmen’s table. At a nearby booth, Sheila sat resting her chin in her hand, a gloomy look on her face. Deanna and Clarisse walked over and joined her.

     “Go away,” Sheila said sulkily. “And don’t say ‘Merry Christmas’ to me, ‘cause it’s not.” Deanna seemed to be resisting the urge to say exactly that, when one of the businessmen stood up. In a soft yet commanding voice, he said, “Can I have everyone’s attention?” He looked around at everyone’s faces, making sure he had undivided attention. “Considering the circumstances, we think it is a good idea for everyone to try to go to sleep. No one should open the door except in an emergency, since we have no heat as of right now. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.”

     “Some Christmas,” Sheila declared loudly. At this, the little girl, Natalie, came over to the table where the three employees sat.

     “Hey,” she said. “At least it is Christmas. You could’ve been stuck on the road. You could’ve been—“

     “I coulda been home,” Sheila interrupted. “I coulda been in my warm house, with my cat, in front of a fire, with—“

     “Remember Mary and Joseph?” Natalie countered. “They were away from home too. They didn’t have any heat, or electricity. It was cold and dark—not much different from now, right?”

     “I guess, but—“

     “Look, there’s even an angel choir,” she said, pointing at the choir, the nearest of whom smiled at her pep talk. “And three wise men,” she continued, motioning towards the businessmen. “You guys are just like the shepherds—you know, just regular people who—“

     “Who witnessed a miracle,” Deanna finished simply. “Sheila, you can’t just focus on the bad things. It’s Christmas.”

     “All right, all right,” Sheila said, raising her hands in defeat. “Just let me sleep.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, not about to listen to another word. Deanna turned to the Natalie, whose father had appeared behind her.

     “Thanks.” Deanna smiled at her. “She needed that. And don’t worry—she’ll come around. Merry Christmas.”

     “Merry Christmas,” Natalie replied shyly. The boldness from her speech had left her. Her father put a hand on her shoulder.     

     “Thanks for everything,” he said to Deanna and Clarisse. “Merry Christmas.” He led his daughter back the table where his wife and two other children sat.

     “Guess we should try to get some sleep,” Clarisse said to Deanna, glancing at Sheila, who snapped her eyes shut when she saw Clarisse look at her. She stood up and found an empty booth, where she lay down on one of the benches and closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered was the odd smell that had come to her before: the churchlike aroma of incense and candles.

* * *

A Christmas Tale, Part 1

     "...and it looks like this snowstorm is going to keep pounding the area all night, and possibly carry through until tomorrow afternoon, turning to sleet at around nine p.m...."
     Clarisse sighed as she turned down the radio of her secondhand Honda. She'd never make it to her McDonald's shift on time, let alone make it back home, with all the ice and snow starting to build up on the roads. It was a 20-minute drive on a good day, but tonight it would probably be twice that. Clarisse drove as fast as she safely could on the quickly-freezing road. The wind whistled like a boiling teapot through the quarter-inch of space between the glass of the passenger-side window and the frame of the door--the window had never gone all the way up for the entirety of the two years she had had  the car. In the summer, this was no problem; the mild weather from April to September allowed her to roll it down all the way and forget its faultiness until the colder months set in. Now, however, the frigid winter wind forcing its way into the car chilled her bones.
     After ten icy minutes, Clarisse finally pulled into the half-full McDonald's parking lot. The only patrons were those Christmas travelers with the tenacity to brave the icy roads as they made their way to the houses of relatives for the holiday. The bells dangling from the door handle jingled festively as Clarisse pulled the door open. She relished the sudden warmth as she pulled off her gloves, but her brief moment of bliss was interrupted by the exasperated, impatient voice of Sheila, the long-suffering restaurant manager.
     "Clarisse! Do you realize just how late you are?" Sheila's slight southern accent made her scolding seem more admonishing.
     "I'm sorry, the roads were--"
     "Do you know what time your shift starts?" Sheila snapped.
     "Eight," Clarisse mumbled.
     "And what time is it now?"
     "Eight-fifteen."
     "Now stop wasting time and get to work before eight-thirty. This is supposed to be a fast food restaurant, and you are the only fry cook on this shift. Well? What are you standing there for? Get to work!"
     Clarisse trudged to the back of the kitchen  and took her once-black, stained apron from  a hook mounted to the wall, replacing it with her black pea coat and brightly-patterned Vera Bradley purse--a splash of color in the otherwise dull industrial kitchen. As she prepared the deep-fryer for another batch of fries, the bells on the door jingled, heralding the arrival of three rather formidable-looking businessmen in dark suits. An icy gust of wind and snow chased them inside. As they stood in front of the counter examining the menu, Clarisse caught a whiff of something else--something that smelled like the inside of a Christmas Eve church, like incense and candles. But it was gone as quickly as it came. She put the potato strips into the hot oil. They began sizzling the moment they touched the cooking grease, splattering Clarisse a little with burning droplets. She sighed. What she would give to be sitting in front of a merrily crackling fire instead of this spluttering deep-fryer; a mug of steaming hot chocolate in her hands rather than the greasy handle of the fry basket. Well, this would have to do for now, she thought.
     When the fries finished cooking, Clarisse removed them from the fryer and placed the dripping basket over an empty compartment in the stainless-steel countertop. As she let the excess grease drain off, she looked over her shoulder to see the men placing their orders. One of them, a tall, thin man with very dark skin was speaking. His deep voice carried a slight foreign accent; Clarisse guessed it to be from somewhere in Africa.
     "...with a medium soda, and hold the lettuce," he said. Deanna, the newest addition to the eight 'o clock shift, tucked a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear and punched the order into the cash register.
     "A number five meal, hold the lettuce, with a medium fry and medium soda?" Deanna checked.
     "Yes. That's all."
     "And the name on that?" she asked.
     "Balthazar."
                                                                                             * * *

This is only part one...to be continued.

In Memoriam

Phoenix Tears

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

A flash of green light

and it was over.

I suddenly wish

I knew more about you.

What made you who you were?

When we knew you,

we saw your long white beard,

silver as the sword.

Your piercing blue eyes

always seemed to know.

Just know.

They said you were getting old,

that we needed new ideas.

Oh, you had them,

but they were deceived by your snowy hair and wrinkles.

Then one fateful night,

the boy

trapped you at the top of the tower.

You knew he couldn’t,

wouldn’t do it,

when even he himself wasn’t sure.

But then one of your own,

one that you had trusted,

came and finished the job the boy had meant to do.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

A flash of green light,

and it was over.

Even phoenix tears can’t heal this emptiness,

this gaping dark space,

where you used to be.

But life must go on.

After all, you’re not really gone,

not while those loyal still remain.

***

This is a poem I wrote last year for English class. It would have been more appropriate two weeks ago when the Harry Potter movie actually came out, but better late than never. 

Thanksgiving

Since I will most likely be busy on Thanksgiving Day, I would like to share my thanks now. Firstly, I'd like to thank the Academy, and my fans...just kidding. On a serious note: I wish to thank God, for giving me all my opportunities that some aren't fortunate enough to have, especially simple things like a roof over my head and a family and friends that are very close to me. That brings me to my family, who are always supporting me in some way or another; they're my biggest fans at competitions and they will always be there no matter what. This is becoming very cliché, so before it starts to sound like the last page of  some tearjerker novel, I'd like to thank my friends (who accept me for who I am despite my quirks), teachers (especially my English teachers, who have made a huge impact on my writing abilities), and everyone else who's had some sort of influence in my life.

A few other things I'm thankful for:
-a thesaurus
-books
-Harry Potter, of course
-chocolate, cheese, and various other foods that are good for the soul (if not necessarily the body)
-gingersnaps
-my quirks, in spite of which my friends accept me
-and last but not least, Cheetos.

Hoping your Thanksgiving looks as good as the one in the picture~

Welcome/First Post

Hello, hello. Welcome to Small, Dangling Rag-tag, a blog about everything. Hold your applause...thank you. This is by definition my random blog to put my art in, and other unrelated things. Mainly a source for something to do with my drawings, other than have them cluttering up my bedroom constantly. I might post my stories, too. So be looking out for those. Thanks for bothering to read this!