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sunday scribblings: fantasy | Bleeding Espresso Bleeding Espresso

sunday scribblings: fantasy

I first saw Sunday Scribblings at Bella’s and the Bongga Mom’s blogs. Sunday’s always a slow day, so it’s perfect to have a built-in writing prompt–today’s is fantasy. I can’t say how future prompts will go, but this one went in a decidedly fictional direction.
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I sit under my favorite tree everyday now. Mommy told me that it’s a hemlock, and that it’s our state tree. I don’t really understand why a state has to pick one tree when it has so many different kinds. I wonder how the other trees feel, standing around being a part of our great state but not being picked. I think they must feel like the last kid picked for kickball at recess. Thank goodness that’s never me.

I’m not the most athletic girl in my class, but I’m tall and that seems to count for something in kickball-picking. I’m about six inches bigger than most of the boys and a lot of the girls, too. Mommy said the boys will catch up, but to tell the truth, I don’t want them to. I feel powerful when I can look down at the top of someone’s head and know whether they have dandruff.

I didn’t used to spend so much time under this tree. I used to be what everyone would consider a normal kid, I think. Used to play with the neighbor kids, ride our bikes, play school in the basement when it rained. But ever since my tenth birthday, about two months after Mommy died, I just haven’t felt like it. I don’t mean that suddenly I woke up on my tenth birthday an adult or anything, but that morning, I don’t know. It just felt childish to do those things.

I looked over at the bright red numbers on my alarm clock that morning and when I saw that 6:12 staring back at me, I knew it was time. Time to get up and be an adult. I looked out my window and saw that it had rained overnight, but now the sun was making everything sparkle just a little.

I threw my pink comforter decorated with huge lips off of me and put on my most adult outfit: a black skirt with little white flowers and a white button down sleeveless shirt, tucked in. Then I put on white socks that stop at the ankles and an old pair of black sneakers because I couldn’t find anything more adult to wear. Besides, Mommy wore sneakers sometimes too.

I brushed through my long, straight brown hair just like Mommy taught me, from the very top all the way to the very bottom, and all the way around. I decided to not put it in a ponytail today. I think maybe ponytails are for little girls.

I walked downstairs quietly, so I didn’t wake Daddy, just like that old board game I used to play when I was a kid. “Don’t Wake Daddy!” Do you know it? It really was a stupid game, but I guess there are some things you just don’t know until you’re big.

I went into the kitchen where our cat, Hermione, was waiting for her breakfast. No matter what time you get up, that cat’s always waiting for food. I guess you might notice that she’s named after a character in my favorite group of books. The one with the “Goblet of Fire” is the best one, if you ask me, but my best friend Loris would argue to the death about that. She says she likes the original best, but to tell you the truth, I think she’s only read the first one.

I put Hermione’s food in her dish and got down the Frosted Flakes from the cupboard. I don’t even have to use a chair anymore. And I never spill the milk anymore either. I’ll never forget when I learned that saying about not crying over spilled milk. One morning when I woke up first, I had done just that, spilled the milk and stood over it crying like a baby. Mommy must have heard me, because she came in and told me straight out, “Don’t cry over spilled milk,” and then she explained that sayings are sayings for a reason.

After that, she taught me to hold the bottom of the gallon with my other hand a little bit, and just like that, no spilled milk anymore. So really, the whole thing has never come up again, but I still like the saying.

It’s little things like that I think of when I’m under the tree. All the things Mommy used to do that I know no one else could ever do like her. And while I’m there, I like to pull out my drawing paper and colored pencils and pretend I’m a kid again, just sitting under my favorite tree without an adult care in the world.

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[tags]writing, fiction writing, short stories, flash fiction, sunday scribblings, fantasy[/tags]

6 Beans of Wisdom to “sunday scribblings: fantasy”
  1. The Other Girl
    01.22.2007

    That’s a nice piece. Very sad and lovely.

  2. Anonymous
    01.22.2007

    Woah, Sognatrice, I’m fighting back the tears and, at the same time, wondering if this is something taken from one of your larger pieces? Nice…really very nice.

  3. Becslifeonline
    01.22.2007

    This is an awesome piece! Very moving! Wow you sure can write! 😀 Did you create this just as you were writing the blog or was it one you had written previously?

  4. sognatrice
    01.22.2007

    Wow, thanks for the compliments 🙂

    I started writing about this little girl (who in my mind I called Beth) years ago, but never got past the first few (not so good) paragraphs. At the time, it was one of those “just sit down and write what comes to mind” days. When I saw the “fantasy” topic this week, I remembered Beth fantasizing about being a child underneath her tree and the rest of it wrote itself. Then I edited of course 😉

    Now that it’s written though, it’s occurred to me that it could be part of something bigger…like an old journal entry of a now adult? I certainly wouldn’t be up to the challenge of writing as a pre-teen for chapters!

    Thanks again for the feedback.

  5. bella
    01.23.2007

    It’s really good! I loved reading this.
    Now, I’m going to read about the evil eye.

  6. Inconsequential
    01.23.2007

    poignant.

    well written, smooth and emotive.
    A very good short, or an excellent start to something bigger.

    Go with it some more 🙂

Michelle FabioMichelle Fabio is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer living in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy and savoring simplicity one sip at a time. 

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