Author: Andrew Jaromin

Teacher by day, Writer by night

A Story About A Boy Who Wished To Be In A Story

This is a story about a boy who wished to be in a story. So it starts as stories so often do. The boy made a choice.

Realizing his town had nothing more for him, he left. He did not tell his mother or father because they would have wished to join him. However, the boy knew that adventure seldom came around under the watchful gaze of parents.

The boy had other plans. So one evening he hopped out the small, first floor window of his bedroom, grabbed his bike, and rode. He had decided that his town of New Brunswick was no town for adventure. New Brunswick, he assumed, was not so different from Old Brunswick before it. New trappings for the same old lifestyles. The grind of a small town.

The boy was looking for a new town, one in which he could start a new life, a town in which a story might just find him.

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The boy had a name. He did not care for it, but he had one. His name was Eli.

Eli arrived in a town one evening after many a train ride and night under the stars. This town felt different. This town felt of stories. It was different from New Brunswick. It was smaller but vast, tamer but wild. Newer Brunswick, as he called it in his head, was different because he did not know what could be. He only knew he wished to find out.

He rode to the middle of the small, wooded town and dropped his bike at the center fountain. He was hot, so he stepped into the fountain, letting his feet soak and splashing some water on his face.

There was a girl sitting on the ledge of the fountain. She was about his age, feet dangling in the water. She looked up at him.

“Hello,” she said, scrunching her face, “I’m not sure you’re supposed to actually be in the fountain.”

“Oh,” said Eli, “I didn’t realize. I’m new to town.”

Of course, he said this because it seemed the sort of thing the hero might say. At least, in his story.

Catching Feelings

He knew the pursuit was trivial but he liked the game all the same. The evening was settling into it’s ethreal glow. This was the visage that Arthur Mist liked the earth the most in. Street lamps were only just beginning  to wink awake like meerkats, surveying the people that ambled by with caution. The New Orleans boardwalk was coming to life below, and Art could barely contain his excitement. It was how he always felt before a hunt, and tonight he thought he felt success in the air. If he could see himself through his tracking goggles he bet he would be as luminescent as he’d been in years.

He was looking to make a big catch today. He’d had a rough winter, with hardly any vagabond passions to speak of. But it was finally beginning to warm, and with that, passions would be more transient . The biggest passions wandered a bit more freely during the summer months, or so Art had come to learn.

He slid his tracking googles over his eyes, watching as the world became dark, but with it, a transposed glow emanated from each body on the street below him. Children shone the brightest, while adults appeared muted. The youngest proved the most habitable vessels, so only the strongest passions occupied there.

A laugh rang out from below, lacking any social hindrance. It had no other purpose but pure, unassailable purity. Art knew that he would have to be swift. Such a call would be sure to attract any vagabond passions wishing to find a new host. He reached for the gun at his hip, pulling it from it’s holster. He clicked off the safety on his third attempt. Even his experienced fingers wriggled with anticipation, making this usually routine act difficult. Keeping his eyes fixated on the couple below did not help make it any easier.

That was the source of the laugh, of course. A young lady in her twenties, walking arm and arm with a young man about her age. Or at least, Art assumed as much based on the glow they both gave off. That might change.

And then he saw it. A fat, purple glow gliding around the telephone wires. It was even bigger than Art had imagined it might be. The source of it’s prey was obvious, and it shot towards the girl who swung in the arms of her man. But unfortunately for her, tonight would perhaps not be the night where she found love. Not if Art had his way.  Vagabond passions of love such as this sold too well on the market.

Art aimed at the purple swirling hue, steadying his hands as it circled the girl twice, examining to make sure it had found its intended target.

But just as it was about to latch itself to its new body, Art Mist pulled the trigger. The weapon went off silently, but that did not make it any less devastating.

The vagabond twisted and convulsed in the air like a salted slug, before falling to the ground.

Art leapt from the top of the bar he’d been sitting on, scaring a few girls who’d just ordered a drink. He grabbed at his backpack, pulling a clear jar without acknowledging the girls. He would have heard one of the girls call him an asshole had he been listening. He wasn’t of course. He was only focused on the task at hand.

Most people thought anger was the vagabond to be worried about. Art had captured one on a few occasions. He’d even successfully wrangled a psychosis passion before. But to think these were to be feared the most was a common misconception.

Of all the feelings, love was the hardest to kill, and certainly the most dangerous. Art Mist would not underestimate the squirming purple in front of him.

Not this time.

Untitled

They were surprised, all of them, when God showed up for dinner. They were less surprised at his appearance, which was, more or less, what they’d expected. He walked in, tipped his hat with a smile, and sat down between brother and sister.

The food had been served, and the conversation had already begun to be passed between the family.

“Would you like anything to eat, God?” said the father, wishing nothing more than to be polite to their unexpected guest.

“I don’t really eat” replied God with a wistful smile, “But thank you. No, I’ve just come to listen.”

I Wasn’t Talking

 

The line between collaborative learning and chaos is a fine one and I was pretty sure I had crossed into chaos about fifteen minutes ago. As a teacher, one of the first acts of balance you learn to tackle is recognizing when to scrap an activity and move on. The volume of the room mixed with the squeaking chairs seemed to be whispering that now was that time.

 

“Let’s wrap up what we are doing. You have two minutes to put all your supplies away; starting now!”

 

I watch as all my fourth graders go into a mad dash, frantic to complete the task at hand. I contemplate for the umpteenth time how endearing it is that any task can be cranked up to the highest level of importance as soon as a stopwatch gets involved. The scene unfolds before me; Samiyah stuffing an array of broken colored pencils into a pencil box so broken it can hardly be considered a box at all, Jaylen tucking all chairs in at his table with jarring authority, Shayla struggling to zipper her backpack, each tick of the timer adding pressure to the usually menial task. I begin to count down from 10, as my mind ponders whether adult household chores would be more effective with the presence of a timer.

 

“Three”

 

Jaylen tucks his last chair in. He realizes this is the chair he must sit in and rips it back out, falling hard into the plastic before hastily folding his hands. He shoots a serious look in my direction just to hammer home the point.

 

“Two”

 

Shayla tosses the bookbag on the rack, half-zippered. She will deal with that later. She scrambles to find her chair.

 

“One”

 

Samiyah drops the pencil box impersonating chunk of plastic into her bookbag and swings her head around so fast I worry for her safety.

 

“And zero!”

 

I look out at a fourth-grade class silent, anticipating a compliment.

 

 Well, not quite the whole class. I look to the back and see Rakeem talking to his neighbor. He is laughing, oblivious to the rest of the class ready to learn.

 

“Rakeem,” I say, doing my best to voice conviction without confrontation, “we should be at a zero-voice volume now as a class.”

 

Rakeem ceases to talk, and looks at me in bewilderment.

 

“I wasn’t talking” he says.

 

I begin to wonder whether I left the confrontation in my voice. It seems I must have.

 

“I was watching your lips move, and I could hear you. So yes you were”

 

“No,” he says, with more bravado now, “I wasn’t. That wasn’t me”

 

“So you were just moving your lips for fun?”

 

“I wasn’t moving my lips”

 

There is a voice in my head telling me to give up on the argument. It takes every inch of restraint and all the lectures and teaching books I’ve ever read up to this point to get me to stop.

 

“Alright,” I say, switching my attention to the rest of my class, “I want everyone to get their ELA notebooks out and begin to answer the questions on page 83. We have talked about main idea the last few days so nothing should be new. This is a silent, independent activity. You will have 10 minutes and then we will go over the answers as a class. You may begin.”

 

They all snap into action. It’s a race against the clock once again.

 

“Rakeem, can I talk to you by the door please?”

 

Rakeem gives a sigh, looks for to his friend for help. His friend flashes him a defeated look. Lifting himself from the table as if he has a vest of rocks on, he ambles over to me.

 

“I don’t appreciate you lying to me” I say.

 

He tries to insert himself in before I’m finished but I stop him by raising a hand, letting him know I plan on continuing.

 

“In our classroom we respect all speakers. I respect if you’re talking and I expect the same from you.”

 

“But I wasn’t talking” Rakeem says again.

 

For a moment I feel myself getting angry. He is boldly lying to my face, not even the decency to realize he has been caught. And yet, as I wait, gathering my words so that I phrase them the way I want, I consider something. How strange it is, to be young and believe you can speak things into existence. Say it enough and it becomes reality.

 

“I watched you talking, and next time, coming out and being honest will save you a whole lot of trouble. But for now, you have work to do.”

 

 I can tell he wants to argue more but I flash him my newly acquired “don’t-try-me” teacher look, and he heads back to his seat.

 

It’s Thursday but I tell myself it’s Friday in my head; trying on the idea just to see how it feels. I think it a few more times.

 

I walk over to Jaylen who has his hand raised for help. Teaching on a Friday always feels a little better. I answer his question all smiles.

 

Telepatree

The axe dragged through the fallen pine needles, carving an apathetic path in its wake. Xavier had the strength to lift it, but currently he didn’t feel like supporting anything except his own weight. Not this evening.

The fingers of his free hand twiddled nervously within his thick coat pocket, toasty in its furry interior despite the chill December air. Xavier was at home in the forest more so than in most situations, and this evening was no different. His foul mood had nothing to do with his surroundings and everything to do with the holidays.

The holidays had truly crept up on Xavier this year, and he knew everyone always said that, and thus he’d become even more angry upon thinking it. But despite his pompous petulance, he couldn’t shake it. The image of the holidays slowly draining him like a winter cold, leaving him congested and irritable until it eventually moved on seemed too spot on to be cast aside because of cliché.

He was three years removed from college, and therefore, one year removed from a time when living at home was easily explained away. For the first two years, coming back home after his ivy league education had been satisfying. Yes, most of his friends from school were off working big-time jobs, in big-time cities with long, big-time titles like “Administrative Finance Executive” and “Director of Business Acquisition and Sustainability” but at first that hadn’t mattered to Xavier. Not at first. He’d been fine working in the local law-firm with his elderly father who could not have been happier to have his only son working with him in the mundane litigation that came with small towns. Mostly the two worked on paperwork for divorcee’s and business settlements. Nothing to inspire the mind, but it was work that needed doing, so Xavier showed up in suit and tie every morning to do it.

Xavier’s friends, who still gave him shit for insisting his nickname, which was pronounced “Zay”, be spelled with an X, had been so excited the first year to have their “cultured, intellect” of a friend once again gracing their presence. They loved telling him as much, simultaneously talking up his accomplishments and sarcastically belittling them all in the same breath. It came from somewhere insecure Xavier reasoned but it still sometimes hurt. On especially drunken nights they still called him Professor X, and Xavier had learned to begrudgingly laugh off the name. He knew it was meant as a loving jab, but like his namesake, it only seemed to make him feel separate from the group.

He had been out with them the previous night. They’d stayed at the local bar into the early morning, and he’d stumbled into the kitchen as his father and step-mother had been making eggs. He’d tried to escape to his bedroom in the fewest words possible, but his step-mother had still insisted on telling him that such antics were losing their endearing quality with every passing month. He had never tried to endear himself to anyone, so he didn’t mind this. What he did mind though was the headache that persisted, a reminder of his overindulgence. This dulled pang was simply the icing on the shit cake that was this walk that he now found himself on.

Normally, Xavier would have been happy for an excuse to leave the annual Christmas party, but with the wind chill that the weatherman was fond of referring to as “biting like a polar bear” this escape was not so enviable. But the party had run out of fire wood, and Xavier had volunteered, if only to stop talking with his Aunt Irene, who insisted on whispering so close that he could feel the flecks of spit hit his ear as she gabbed. He’d jumped at the opportunity at escape, but now he thought maybe Irene was the better option.

“Damn it,” cursed Xavier, into the evening air.

Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t notice the rotting stump protruding from beneath the rotting leaves and sprinkle of snow and therefore jabbed his foot hard into its wooden carcass.

He fought back the pain with a grimace and a few more choice words that sent a chipmunk scrambling for cover.

Eventually the pain dulled, his big toe only throbbing slightly within his boot. He tested it gingerly before reaching to pick up the axe he’d dropped. Xavier examined his surroundings.

The forest, if you could even call it a forest when there were clearly car headlights visible through the bare winter trees and the soft, distant thrum of fires and drunken frivolity, was oddly quiet. All the animals were nestled in the ground or the trees, and the people were in heated homes. The world was still.

Xavier picked up the axe, feeling the weight of its head hang powerfully. In the quiet, it felt strange to hold an instrument with such destructive potential.

He spotted the tree perfect for fire wood. It appeared alive, but barely. Like a lion surrounding an injured gazelle, Xavier approached it. It was old. Xavier knew this because of it’s size, but also the weathered bark that peeled from it’s side like a molting python. It was ready to move on, thought Xavier; it’s crooked positioning a clue that it might not make it through the winter with or without his axe.

Xavier swung the axe, hefting its weight up and letting gravity assist his muscles in bringing the mallet down hard upon the base of the tree.

Immediately upon contact Xavier’s headache intensified. He stumbled backwards. Was someone screaming? No, it wasn’t screaming. What was it? Whatever it was, it dug into his temples and rested in his body like someone drilling near the root of a tooth and the novacane hadn’t quite taken effect yet.

And just as quickly as it had come on, it was over. So quickly that Xavier sat for a moment wondering if it had even happened at all. Had he experienced a migraine? A brain aneurism? But how could it have been that sudden?

He pulled the axe from it’s wooden wound, careful in case the physical exertion was what had brought on the sudden episode. His mind remained clear, save the echoing of the “scream” (Xavier didn’t know what else to call it).

Xavier approached the tree, cautiously. Pulling out his phone he quickly swiped the flashlight mode on so he could examine further. For whatever reason, he thought maybe the axed area would shed some light on what had happened. It did nothing of the sort. Xavier only saw the usual damage of an axe; splintered wood, broken bark, and a rolly-polly scuttling from the debris.

Putting his hand into the carved section, he pulled some wood shavings.

The scream returned, but this time with a low intensity. The lesser pain gave Xavier a chance to reflect on the sensation, consider it for a moment. He realized it wasn’t a scream so much as it was like something invisible knocking upon his brain. His brain, not used to guests of any sort, didn’t know how to handle the pressure of the rapping, and began to pain him once again. He dropped the wood back into the depths of the tree.
The thought came to him too quickly for rationale thought to block it out.

Was it the tree that was screaming? No, it couldn’t be. That made no sense. Trees were living, but trees were not sentient. Trees did not feel, they didn’t scream, and they certainly didn’t tap on the minds of lumberjacks.

Xavier knew all this beyond any level of certainty. He knew this just as he knew his own name, his shoe size, and that his father would be drunk at any super bowl party he attended. It was fact; universally accepted knowledge.

And yet here he was, contemplating a screaming tree.

Before he knew it, Xavier had yanked himself to his full height, grabbed the axe and swung it at the tree again.

Why?

Upon contact the screaming returned, this time so manic that it caused Xavier to drop his axe and fall backwards to the ground. He barely caught himself as his hands reflexive shot to his temples. It was excruciating. The knocking and yelling persisted somewhere inside his head, demanding attention.

And then, silence.

Xavier pulled himself forward, through the pine needles and the snow. His whole body was shaking. He didn’t trust he had the strength to get to his feet. He placed a trembling hand into the wooden remains, churning into the guts. There was no push-back, no retaliation. Just silence. He swirled harder. Nothing.

He was crying as he took the axe to the tree. Chopping and chopping. It was quiet besides the chopping. Nothing but the occasional sniffle, the sound of metal against wood, and human exertion.

Xavier wasn’t sure what time it was when all the fire wood lay at his feet. The tears had long since frozen to his face.

There was a silence in the forest, so silent it was almost unbearable. The type of silence that made you want to scream.

So he did.