pip's original fiction

Johnny-

I've labeled this envelope for you to open on your 16th birthday, so if you're not 16 yet, then put this letter right back in the envelope, young man!

But if you really are 16 - or older; I hate to think what that father of yours might do - then it's actually quite important that you read this. See, there are some things I didn't tell you before I left, though I doubt you would have remembered them had I told you. You were entirely too young. Although, now that I mention that, I suppose I owe you an explanation for leaving you with your father. It comes down, quite simply, to a choice between love and duty. Would you do what you love or what you've been told to do, what you'd like to do or what you feel obligated to do?

I chose what I'd like to do. I wish I could have brought you back here with me, but you wouldn't have been allowed until you started showing signs. Meanwhile, if I'd stayed with you, I would probably be deemed insane by now. I fell in love with your father while he lived on the farm, but the apartment he took for his new job was in the city. I ... well, I'm not a city person, and I'd wager you aren't, either. My family's genes are far too strong for that.

Unfortunately, I can't explain much of anything in a letter, so I'll just say this: when you find that city life isn't for you, when the lights and the bustle are too much, you get out of there and find a place where it's raining. You'll know, then, if you should come find me, and you'll be able to find me.

I look forward to meeting you.

Your mother,
Charlene Graves

What To Do When Your Parents Have Another Baby And You're Already Nine Years Old
by Alexander Johnson III

1. Do not tell your baby sister she smells like rotten potatoes when your parents are in the room. Not even if it's true.
   
   
2. Diapers are not hats, and wearing a diaper on your head makes you look stupid instead of like a superhero.
   
   
3. One-month-olds are not ready to play Mario Party. They'll just throw up on the controller. And then you'll only have one controller, and your mom will refuse to buy you another one because it doesn't matter that you were spending time with the baby like she always wants you to, you still should have known better.
   
   
4. Old Hag Coker down the road will probably believe you if you say you're Emma's daddy. But next time, tell her it's a sensitive subject for your parents, that they're raising their grandchild as their own daughter, and tell her not to say anything to them.
   
   
5. Just because Dad can't spank you while he's holding the baby doesn't mean he won't spank you later when he puts her down. And anyway, he'll still stand you in the corner. He might even forget you're in the corner for an hour while he feeds and changes Emma.
   
   
6. It is too soon to try to make her do your homework for you.

I don't usually do author's notes, but I thought I ought to for this one. This is the first time I've written with these characters, but I do plan to continue using them for the next few contests. Too much to explore for one entry, unless I want to spend hours writing it only for it to be too long for anyone to read!
I'd planned to start with them last week, but I didn't have the time to write at all. Still, "clouds" is the topic that gave birth to these characters, a connection that will become clear in later installments.

---

He drags himself out of bed at what has to be a horribly un-Godly hour, but instead of checking the clock, he keeps his eyes wedged shut to block out the sliver of light in the hall. Goddamn streetlamps. Goddamn law that says he can't put a blackout curtain on the window in his front door. (Goddamn police who fined him three times and threatened to throw him in jail if he so much as thought about putting it up one more time.)

The door nearly rattles in its frame as his unwelcome visitor pounds on it again. "Jonathan William Anderson, I know you're in there! Let me in out of the snow!"

He rests his head against the frame and fumbles with the lock, not bothering to take off the chain. As he eases the door open, he pries his eyelids up the tiniest bit and groans at the light. "What."

"Take that ridiculous chain off your door and let me in."

He forces his eyes open even further and makes out the blurry shape of an old woman on his stoop. "What do you want?" he asks as his lids slide shut again.

She sighs loudly. "To come in. Out of the snow."

"Why should I let you in?"

She sighs even more loudly. "Because you're causing a scene."

"You're the one causing a scene, beating down my door at god-knows-when, god-knows-why."

"Does family mean nothing to you anymore?"

He cracked his eyes again. "You're not my father. Last I checked, that was all the family I have."

"Johnny--"

He groans and shoves himself upright. "It's Jonathan, thank you. Now give me one reason not to close this door and go back to bed."

She sighs yet again at his impassive face. "Because I'm your grandmother?"

Jonathan opens his eyes as wide they'll go, not altogether an impressive showing. "You look nothing like Gramma Helen, and she died ten years ago, anyway."

"Mercy, I'm not Helen Anderson, and I never would like to be. That old stick-in-the-mud. No, I'm your mother's mother, and you'd do well to let me in before that headache of yours develops into a full migraine. The Graves family is not meant for city life, and I'm going to just wring your mother's neck for not leaving you at least some sort of hint about what you are before she left. If my own head doesn't explode first, that is."

He shuts the door, smirks to himself at her indignant squawk, and unfastens the latch. "Bedroom's dark," he offers.

"Fabulous," she says, sweeping into his house as though it were her own. He latches the door behind her and follows her bemusedly down the hall and into his refuge.

Dear God,

Hello! How are you today? My teacher says that we should always ask that in a letter. I think it's kinda silly because when I say "today" I mean the day I write the letter. When my gramma reads "today" it is the day she gets the letter. And that's not the same today! But I guess when I write to you, God, it is the same today, because you can just read it over my shoulder as I write.

My mommy says I should always say thank you for something. I can thank you for lots of things! Thank you for my mommy, and thank you for my bunny Katrina, and thank you for my friend Daniel, and thank you for not letting the lights be off very long when the scary storms came last week.

The reason I am writing you is because I have a question. Preacher James came to our Sunday School class yesterday and said something that confuzed me. He was telling us about the comoonyun we had at Big Church. He said that we drink bread and wine (only not real wine, because we're little and that's not allowed) because it is the body and blud of Jesus. He told us how you magically change it into the bread and the grape juice. Only it's not magic because you're God and God does miracles not magic. But I don't think miracly is a word.

But my question is this: is Jesus really small like Mr. Phillips at my school? I was looking at the bread we had on the table and it didn't look like enough for Him to have been any bigger when he was a person. And Daniel said when his church does the comoonyun, their bread is smaller.

I heard a fifth grader call Mr. Phillips a midget, but I never heard anyone call Jesus a midget. Please tell me if there is a different word you use when you talk about Jesus so I can tell my friends all about Him right.

Sinserely,
Anna-Beth Lockheed

P.S. I love you God! And I love Jesus too even when I have questions about Him.

content note: abuse


Elia picked herself up off the immaculate floor of the kitchen, noting disconnectedly that her blood was ruining the blue and white color scheme of the room. She crossed the room on autopilot to fetch the sponge from under the sink and wet it. The linoleum was hard beneath her knees as she sank beside the small puddle, and she frowned at the floor as the blood reappeared just as soon as she had finished wiping it up. Her hand rose slowly to her face, wrist pressing under her nose, but it came away clean. Not broken, then. Not this time. The blood must be coming from somewhere else, perhaps her split eyebrow.

Anthea thundered back into the kitchen, fists clenched at her sides this time. "Have you at least got my fucking dinner ready?" she demanded, and Elia watched as another drop of blood slide from her face into the tiny pool beneath her.

"We have one apple and a case of Ramen in this pantry," she replied slowly, certain of the response her words would bring. "Even I can't make dinner magically appear in the absence of food."

Anthea did not disappoint: one fist slammed into the wall next to her before a foot connected with her gut from below. "I left the car with you today so you could go buy some fucking food."

"Cars tend to require petrol, and petrol requires money - as does food."

"Some homemaker you are, if you can't even balance a goddamn checkbook before you run out of money. Why don't you just make the food appear on the table, or at least make the car run without gas?" No punches landed, and Elia stared transfixed at the minuscule ripples as another drop of blood joined the others on the floor.

She sighed heavily and dragged her eyes from the morbid art to her wife's face. "I have a job in Canton."

Anthea didn't move for a long moment, apparently assimilating this new information. "No," she said finally.

"I start Monday."

"No."

"Billy Reynolds took me on as an accountant for--"

"I said no!"

Elia looked at the sponge still in her hand, contemplated wiping her forehead with it, and thought better of it. "I'll be able to buy the food, and it's only part time, so I'll still cook and everything." She dropped the sponge and watched it tumble to the floor in slow motion, imagining she could hear the dull thwack as it hit, somewhat wet on the corner that landed in her blood. "Anth...."

"You swore to me you'd never work outside of the home. You swore it on your wedding ring."

Elia curled her legs under her body and took a deep breath. "You swore I would never have to."

"And you don't. It's summer again. Business always picks up once school's out. Call Billy Reynolds right now and tell him--"

"No."

Anthea drew herself up, even as Elia slowly dragged herself to feet.

"This is my decision, Anth. Look at us. No savings. Twelve dollars to our collective names, with twelve thousand of debt. Living in your parents' house. My parents would help us if you'd just--"

"I'm not turning to the likes of them for help."

Elia smiled slowly. "And it comes out. You do remember that I'm also--"

"You're nothing like them."

"Because you think I gave it up to live with you?"

Anthea froze.

"Only when you're home. And you were quick enough a minute ago to suggest I use it to feed you."

"You promised."

Elia shrugged and stuffed her hands into her pockets. "I promised to uphold your reputation and never let anyone know about my magic. To do the first, I've had to heal myself more times than I can count, this past month."

"You can't work in Canton without letting your secret out."

"As an accountant, I can."

Anthea let out a deep growl. "I hunt wizards for a living, El! You can't fucking work for one and expect me to keep my job!"

"The job that doesn't put food on the table that isn't even ours?" Elia reached for her wife, but the other woman jerked away from her. "You're always taking on the pro bono cases, baby. If I'm working, you can keep doing that without worrying about us."

"If you're using magic, I don't want you in my house anyway."

She nodded slowly and snapped her fingers once. Two suitcases floated casually down the hall, and Anthea stared at them in horror. "In that case, you'll want to move out in the next couple of months, because your own brother is about to manifest." She strode easily around the other woman and out into the sunshine, already planning how best to take the boy under her wing now that she didn't have the family connection anymore. Someone would have to help him control magical outburst on school holidays, or his well-meaning sister would hunt him just as ruthlessly as she had Elia.