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Anchor

Every story has two sides, and sometimes a song does too.

His work schedule is sporadic, and most days he leaves for work before I open my eyes. This morning is one in which I wake up to find his side of the bed empty, except for the toaster waffle he's left for me on a plate. I pick up the plate, fold the waffle taco-style, and inhale it. I turn on the TV, and start to watch one of the many romantic comedies I recorded during the past week. The couples are usually pretty, and their relationship troubles all work out in a time span of two hours. I cry at the ending of this particular film, and not because I'm so glad for the celluloid couple. These lonely mornings, and these rom-coms remind me of how unhappy I've become.

I laze away the rest of the morning on the couch with my notebook. I've been trying to write this song - about him - and one word always surfaces when I think about him: anchor. The only lyrics I seem to be able to write mirror the monotony of our relationship.

My anchor weighs me down
(He weighs me down)
Dragging, pulling and I drown

I scratch the lyrics out with my pen, knowing how harsh they are. Just seeing them on the page makes me sick. I could never say anything like this to him, let alone leave it lying around for him to find scribbled in my notes. I close the notebook, and leave it on the couch, so I can forget about that song for a bit. I vacuum the carpet, wash dishes, and as I'm sweeping the kitchen floor, I start to think about the song. I didn't see myself as a housewife, especially at such a young age, but here I am cleaning, waiting around for him to come home. I imagine what my life would be like, if I had gone to college. Writing, dancing, and painting are my passions, and it seems as if there isn't any room for those things in this relationship. Had I not met him, would my life be more exciting and spontaneous right now?

The house is clean. I've got no other responsibilities standing in the way of my working on the song, and thinking about all the difficult relationship questions I don't want to answer. Naps were made for putting off situations like this. I crawl back into my - our - queen-sized bed, and throw a huge quilt over my head. As I drift off, I begin missing him, and how it feels to have him lay right next to me. He loves to works his fingers through my hair, and sometimes he tells me wonderful stories as I fall asleep. I dream about his stories, filled with pirates and mermaids, and other fantastical elements meant for someone half my age. The dream turns from stories, to memories of us meeting, and our first anniversary. All these sentimental moments swirl around, behind my eyelids.

I awake, and immediately retrieve my notebook. I turn to a fresh page, and uncap my pen, waiting for some other lyrics to flow to my fingertips. The word anchor still hangs there, but the meaning has changed. I scrawl these lyrics, just as he walks through the front door.

Be my anchor
Hold my place
Keep me close
So I won't drift away

He veers toward the couch, slides next to me, and pulls me close to him. He tells me he loves me, and missed me so much. I close my eyes, and listen to his voice as he tells me about his day at work. I laugh at how many times he curses at the memory of inconsiderate customers. Realizing we're both tired, we head to the bedroom, and tuck ourselves into bed. He moves close to my side, hands in my hair. As he begins to snore, I look at his face, and think about the song. I don't know how, but I think both sets of lyrics can fit together. I also realize that the little annoyances in life, and the boredom, are worth it if you can find someone who gives you a place to rest your head at the end of the day. My eyelids start to feel heavy, and I remember how stupid I had been earlier, questioning my relationship. I think I'll chalk it up to the fact that I'm not a morning person.

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This is fanfiction of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It depicts the relationship between a modern Alice, and a much younger Mad Hatter.

The Letter

Chai tea was Alice's favorite. She'd been handed a saucer and cup containing it once when she was very little. Since then, drinking it had become like religion for her. No one in Alice's immediate family was able to stand any sort of tea that didn't come from an instant package and involve ice. The one relative to bestow the love of chai and other teas upon her was Great Aunt Alice, after whom she was named. Aunt Alice habitually hosted tea parties on her front lawn, which little Alice was always cordially invited to attend. She always sent small note cards with gold text proclaiming the event. It was a wonderful excuse to put on an old-fashioned dress and eat jam all day. The real reason to stop by one of Aunt Alice's tea parties, however, was for the entertainment. She was quite the fan of Lewis Caroll, and would tell bits and pieces from Looking Glass and Wonderland, as if she had lived them. It seemed hers was the life on a magical, wonderful person, and Alice wanted that.

Alice was to attend one last tea party before she left for an art high school she'd been accepted to. On a Tuesday in August, she waited out front by her gate for an hour, hoping the invitation would come in the post. The truck came by and the post man delivered all he had. There was no sign of an invitation. For about a week, Alice would stand outside, obsessively waiting for the post man. He was always there, but never with the invitation. She finally gave up receiving it and chalked it up to her aunt getting older and possibly even forgetful. Though as soon as she thought it, she knew she didn't believe it. Aunt Alice would never forget to invite her.

Alice handed the stack of bills and envelopes to her mother and sat down to watch her open them. She sipped at her cup of chai tea she'd fixed before heading outside. Her mom rifled through the stiff white envelopes and glossy magazines. Then suddenly she stopped at a particular letter, and set everything else on the table to allow her some freedom to read it. She ripped open the top of the small white envelope and slipped out a piece of salmon colored paper. Her hand shook as she read it and she drew in a deep breath. She handed the paper to Alice, then retreated upstairs to her room.

Liza,

It's a sad thing for our only contact in years to involve something as devastating as what I'm about to write. Alice was having some health problems, ones your were evidently unaware of. She was suffering from Leukemia, but refused to let on to you or to your Alice. She did not undergo any sort of treatment, because the cancer had been caught so late. She thought it pointless to spend her last few years so miserable. Not 48 hours ago, she passed on. I'm sorry this is the way you had to hear it, and from me of all people. Perhaps our next letter will be about something a litt less morose. Tell my grand daughter I love and miss her.

Mom

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Packing

Alice set the letter on the table alongside her cup of tea. It did not seem possible that Great Aunt Alice could be dead. She inhaled a draft of air-conditioned kitchen atmosphere, causing her bones to rattle. The chill passed through her muscles and ribs and pierced her broken heart. Somehow, she sensed this chill would become a familiar presence in her life. Hoping to ease the cold that was now settling into her chest, Alice sipped at her tea. It did well enough to stop her shivering, but it was not enough to subside the chill seeped into her bones.

Alice was in her room, deciding which items to shove in her luggage. She now only had two days until she headed off to school. Packing suitcases was something Alice hated with a passion. It took a lot out of you. Deciding what to bring, what to leave. Rifling through clothes and items as well as memories. And now as she sorted through her wardrobe, all her clothes began to remind her of great aunt Alice. The pink chiffon blouse with the brass buttons was given to her at the last tea party she attended. In many ways, she found the blouse hideous, but secretly, she liked it a little. It was very Victorian and made her feel like a girl, a feeling that did not strike her often. But that blouse couldn't go with her to school. There'd be no room for it in the suitcase, or her new "artsy" lifestyle. She carefully laid it aside and resumed rummaging through her closet. Eventually, it became obvious that Alice was sick of her clothes. As colorful and eclectic as her wardrobe was, she'd worn each piece so many times, it was becoming dull. The African print skirt, the sequined tanks, the bright yellow hoodie, all looked so unappealing. This is why I find packing ridiculous, she thought. Now she had even more bull to deal with, and this was just the trivial stuff. Alice pulled down all her clothes and shoved them into her suitcase. She was going to put off packing until tomorrow. Today, she would drink tea.

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Going Out

Alice finished sipping her cup of chai as she reached the end of the hall. Just as she was about to head downstairs to fix herself another cup, Alice heard crying. The sound was rare in her house, more so considering the source. Alice's mom was like the Wonder Woman of hiding emotions, and it might embarrass her if she knew her daughter heard her private breakdown. So, unsure of what to say, Alice turned away from her mother's bedroom door and headed for the kitchen.

The salmon colored letter sat on the table, like an emotional paperweight. Alice wanted to throw it in the trash can and pretend everything was peachy, but she knew it wouldn't bring her Great Aunt Alice back. Instead, Alice fixed that second cup of tea she promised herself, then sat down to read more of the brochure for her prestigious, new art school.

Not one of the buildings looked free-spirited and artsy like the description promised. They were constructed from rust colored bricks and had very few windows to speak of. Alice tried not to let herself make excuses to skip out on what could be the best opportunity of her life so far. Yet, somehow, it didn't feel right to leave with things falling apart the way they were.

Her mom was upstairs, crying for the first time since Alice's father left when she was three. Her Great Aunt Alice was gone for good, and Alice would be nearly a thousand miles away. Suddenly, a sense of panic came over Alice, and she recognized it as one of her anxiety attacks. She hadn't had one since eighth grade, and here she was about to spend her senior year with kindred spirits studying and creating beautiful works of art. What a splendid time to start hyperventilating and spiraling out of control again.

Alice stood up quickly, sending her chair sliding into the cabinet beneath the sink. She grabbed the keys to her dad's old VW Rabbit, and ran out the front door. She wanted to leave the house and her sinking thoughts behind so badly that she forgot to yell up to her mom that she was going out for a drive. The only thing that mattered to her was getting rid of this sour mood, and getting ready to be happy for the first time in her life.
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You Really Oughta Know

Alice turned the dial on the vintage radio searching for music that would calm her down. The retro rock station was in the middle of a Led Zeppelin music marathon. "Stairway to Heaven" had just ended, and a jingle for a local car dealer came on. Alice smacked the dashboard out of frustration. Whenever something amazing was on, be it a television show or block of incredibly beautiful classic rock, commercials interrupted. Advertisements are what's wrong with this country, she thought. If only there was a place where all this crap just didn't exist. Alice wasn't just referring to commercials, but death, sadness, anger, panic attacks. Being human has its fair share of hard knocks, and just getting out of bed can become a hassle when nothing goes right.

Eventually the haze of pizza place ads and the car jingle had subsided, and Alice recognized the melodic thrum of the opening to Led Zeppelin's "Over the Hills and Far Away." This was by far her favorite Led Zeppelin song, and had undoubtedly opened the doorway to her obsession with their music. Alice thought about the lyrics "many times I've gazed along the open road…" Sometimes life worked out like that. A lyric perfectly timed with a mood and the moment. Here she was on the open road, literally, contemplating the more metaphorical road she'd been staring down for some time now. Then she began to feel guilty about her unwillingness to change and travel down a new path. "…many, many men can't see the open road."

Her fingers tensed up on the steering wheel as the music that usually helped her relax, made her feel even worse. It was much darker than when Alice had left the house, and now she wasn't entirely sure where she was. Cars in the other lane seemed to be speeding past, their headlights blinding her. The music felt like it was getting louder, and the lights coming at her as she was surrounded by suffocating blackness caught her off guard. Alice wanted to get off the road and find somewhere she felt safer, so she hit the gas and sped ahead. The road was a straight stretch. There were no exits or turn-offs, and Alice did not trust herself to be on the road any more. Where was she going? Was the music even louder still? "…you really ought to know…" Alice swerved out of sheer panic, and saw bright lights heading for her. She threw her hands in front of her face, anticipating the pain that was about to come. "..I really ought to know…"

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Waking Up

A hissing noise made its way into Alice's ears, causing her to lurch backward and thud her head against something hard. She opened her eyes and found she was sitting up against a strange, giant tree. The first thing she thought to do was feel the back of her head. Skull and brains still intact and no bleeding meant she was fine. However, Alice felt other pains spring to life as she struggled to open her eyes wider and stand up.

She lifted he hand to her face and felt that both her eyes were swollen, and her face was wet with blood and tears. Her right leg began shaking as she pulled herself into a standing position, balancing with the help of the tree trunk. Alice's legs buckled, and she collapsed back onto the ground in a heap. Once again, her brain focused on the hissing sound that had roused her.

Alice craned her neck all around, trying desperately to see through her half-slit eyes. To her right was a car, completely totaled. She barely recognized it as an old VW Rabbit with a chipped white paint job. The hissing seemed to be emanating from the car wreck. Have I seen that before? What's a car doing in the middle of a wood? What the hell am I doing here? A pain shot through Alice's head as she recalled a blinding light. She tried once more to stand, succeeded, and clung to the tree for dear life. Now, from this angle, Alice could see an old tunnel not ten feet away from her. The road running through it was cracked, with roots and grass growing up through the asphalt.

From the car, back to the tunnel, Alice traced an invisible line with her eyes. Two and two together… Did I come through that tunnel, in that car? I don't remember a tunnel. Actually, I don't remember anything. "I don't remember anything!" she shouted toward the tunnel, mostly out of confusion. Her voice echoed back at her, causing her to cringe. How strange it seemed to hear a voice out here, where it all felt abandoned. Yet, perhaps someone else could be nearby. She'd try to find someone, as soon as she investigated that wreck.

Alice slowly made her way from tree to tree until she reached the car. The back end was completely crushed in, and sparkled with glass shards. However, the front passenger's side almost seemed unfazed. Alice jimmied open the car door and sat down, grateful for how soft the seat was. The glovebox had been thrown open, and several papers were scattered about. Alice reached into the glovebox, feeling around for anything that might be left inside. Her finger slipped into a small, metallic hole. Alice pulled out a key necklace. That's beautiful. It doesn't look like a working key, though. Nevertheless, Alice secured the shining silver jewelry around her neck.

Having decided there was nothing more to find in the car, Alice propelled herself from the seat, back into the wooded area. She steadied herself, the headed for the tunnel, which was much closer to her than before. Yet, it didn't look any less dark or menacing. In fact, the tunnel was pitch black, blacker than the asphalt spewing from it's mouth. Alice hated tunnels, and coming through one only to wreck did not help the situation. There is absolutely no way I can go in there, so onto plan B. If I can think of a plan B. Maybe, I'll just pick a direction and go straight. Soon as she said it, Alice felt horribly lost. Yet, what else was there to do? She faced away from the tunnel and a little to the left, and began to slowly drag her feet forward.

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Scavenged

A few summers back, I spent an afternoon on this park bench. A little black dog was playing with a dead bird. Watching felt cruel. Like a cat, with yarn twisted between its paws, the dog batted the bird.

Quite suddenly, a boy in a long trench coat surfaced from behind a tree and moved toward the dog, picked up the bird, and pocketed it. He knelt down in the dirt and grass, stroking the mutt. I looked on, feeling like a voyeur. Eventually the boy grabbed the dog, cradling it against his chest like a football, and he walked away. Without knowing what I was really doing, I followed the boy and the dog. I kept a safe distance away. I knew my behavior was bordering on stalker. Being discovered would only add tension to this already awkward situation. Every so often, this boy would stoop down, dog still in tow, and examine the ground. Scavenged little flowers, coins, fallen buttons and zippers were pocketed, just as he had done with the bird.

A library seemed to be the final destination for mysterious trench coat boy. Fourth grade was the last time I was anywhere near this library. Reading was instant popularity Kryptonite in fourth grade. Avoiding the library at all costs was my only solution. Popularity means something when you are a 10-year-old girl in a private Catholic school. Reminiscing distracted my quest to trail this boy. It became apparent that he'd made his way into the library while my focus was elsewhere.

My mind had been made up without any real contemplation. Tomorrow, I would see this boy again. Noon, I was on that bench going through the motions of studying the daily newspaper, waiting on the boy. No one else was in the park. I asked myself, 'Why would he be here? Does he not have a life, prior engagements?' I stopped when I realized I was alone, talking to myself on a park bench. Not the most appealing light for a potential friend and/or love interest to see me in.

I began to feel as though I imagined this boy. Seeing him would validate my sanity, but he was nowhere. Rustling noises ensued, and just as phantasmically as the previous afternoon, the boy appeared. He flung himself from the lowest branches of the tree. What a beautiful sight it was. Black trench, hair, he could easily blend in with the night. A sliver of blue, his irises, broke up the dark wash. I then wondered if the bird was still in the trench pocket. Rather than ask him, I decided another round of stalking was best.

The boy hurled himself away from the tree, walking drunkenly in the same direction as the day before. I nearly flat tired myself, tripping on my ballet flats, desperately trying to catch up to the boy.

The Library. We meet again. I saw him enter, then exit, within minutes, a tower of various books crowding his arms. He set them down at the foot of the library stairs, then made his way to the side alley. I craned my neck to see a Radio Flyer filled with bags of toys. 'Ah, Santa. It is all clear now,' I thought to myself. I felt like diving, right into those toys. To be four again, without the worry of popularity, and mysterious boys with mesmerizing eyes... I thought about traipsing up to this boy, and asking if he would have a tea party with me. That of course would not help my case since I was already stalking him. Waved the thought away. The boy began pulling the wagon along the sidewalk, with the books now added to the toy heap. I saw a book about dogs on the top. Where was his dog?

Brownstone, towering, decrepit described the red wagon's delivery point. Windows boarded up here and there, broken beer bottles scattered around. He rolled that wagon up a ramp, knocked on the big rusty door, and disappeared inside the brownstone. An elderly woman, blue hair pearls and all, let him in. I crept to the side of the building, finding a window to peak into.

Rows of children, various ages, sizes, races, clothing preferences, sat cross-legged on a threadbare beige carpet. They faced the boy, seated in a small yellow chair, children's book in hand. Eager faces peered up at him. I found myself whispering along to the books he read aloud. Once again, it felt like before, when life wasn't complicated by peer pressure and the need to fit in. Every ounce of my strength was required to keep me from storming the building and joining them.

When the boy left, I decided to do some recon. I knocked on the rusted door. The old woman appeared.

"Yes?"
"Who was that boy?"
"Colin. Friend of our dear, Colin?"
"No. Why was he here?"
"He reads to the children. Little angel."
"Is this a school?"
"School? No, no! Orphanage, yes. Colin lived here."
"Oh. I see. Thank you."
"Oh,Yes. Right then."

I craved more. Puzzle pieces were appearing, fashioning themselves into a whole. I knew more about him. Not enough, but more.

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Untitled Sci-Fi

What we did is horrible. They just sit there, trying to remember where they come from, who their parents are, hunched over, or staring at their fingers.

I cry every night, wondering why we were allowed to do something like this. I guess we just wanted someone to share in our pain and misery, of not knowing why we're here.

Perhaps, creating artificial life, and playing mechanical-God to these non-human beings gives back some power to helpess humans all over the world.

Whatever the reason, I'm sickened by the whole of it. Knowing how painful this life is, someone wanted to bring a new, confused race into this world.

I guess the same can be said for new parents, and the joy the find ins having children. It's both a selfless and selfish act.