What Goes Around Comes Around

Mirela sat happy and humming in the thick, rich grass. She observed beetles and ants, while lacing clover necklaces together. She rolled on her back, admiring the pillowy shapes in the sky. That’s when she saw it.
Out in the distance a blob of blackness turned on the horizon. As it spun, it sucked the living juice and color from every corner of nature. The blueness of the sky quickly transformed into a blank, unnatural white. The very pigment was sucked from the blades of grass beneath and around Mirela. Next, the roots and plants were ripped out of the earth, and then the soil and ground itself were swallowed by the ghastly cyclone. Mirela sat in the middle of all of this, bewildered and unscathed. The black tornado of destruction evaporated before her eyes, leaving her naked and alone in the blindingly white nothingness.

Mirela gasped, as her eyes flashed open. She lay in bed panting with a cold sweat. The cat curled up at her feet let out a mew and began to purr. A wave of relief flooded Mirela’s body. The sound of Moon Pie’s purr calmed her rapidly pulsating heart. However, her thoughts were on fire.
She knew what the dream had meant.
Feelings she had long since ignored, escaped in her sleep, when her guard was down. She was content when she concerned herself with the lives of the beetles, ants, and clients, but the big black cyclone of fear chasing her had finally caught up. Instead of some freckly, snaggle-toothed third grader breaking the news by yelling, “You’re It,” a memory she had managed to forget for a few months, ran up, tagged her and whispered, “You’re Alone-“
The empty ache she had suppressed (for the most part) since moving to this new town was unmistakable as ever, as she lay in her dark, chilly room. It was the same indescribable feeling that had consumed her on the day he left for good. No matter how much Mirela traveled or tried to lose herself, the same hollow thirst always returned. Her thoughts and seclusion swallowed her whole. She often found comfort in nature, but now she knew she needed someone else. She could go to the theater, the diner, or even the tavern? It was necessary to her well-being. She needed another human’s affection; She could give no more.

Before Mirela could leave her apartment, she heard a knock on the door. She slowly turned the knob, not knowing who to expect. The same young girl that was crumpled on the floor in front of her door shaking and exhausted a few days earliar, stood tall with a friendly, open smile. She had been up on an early morning run and had decided to stop by to thank Mirela for her helpful advice. Miranda offered Mirela a warm, well-needed hug. Her heart lightened a bit at this kind-hearted gesture. Miranda left, abandoning Mirela with her afflictions. Mirela locked up her room, ventured down to the end of the hall, and pressed the down button.

Mirela Meets Pokey

It is early evening and Mirela treads around the room, pulling the lamp chains and blowing the candles out. It has been a long interesting day at work. She travels down the steep set of stairs, using the splintery railing as her guide. After bidding Mrs. Ryan and Harold goodbye, she pulls the thick wooden door shut behind her and sets out for #725 of the Thallow Flats ( a small space she likes to call "home")

On her last stretch of block Mirela notices a figure across the street nervously fiddling with a head set and player. The young man then approaches the cross walk and presses the orange button three times; the WALK sign blinks on. The boyish man studies his possessions and surroundings, while uttering underneath his breath and nodding his head, possibly making a mental checklist. He looks both ways, steps out between the thick, faded lines of the crosswalk, and begins to cross with his head in a down-turned position.

Mirela stands motionless, just feet from the dull bronze doors of the Thallow Flats. She is absorbed in observation, processing every minute detail of this man's being, while writing his story in her mind the entire time. Realizing that she is staring, though she doubts the man notices, Mirela turns toward the entrance of the flats. She takes half a step and then glances over her shoulder to get one last glimpse of this odd stranger. At that very second, his bag rips open and the contents spill onto the dusty, gray concrete. Wool socks, flannel shirts, galoshes, and thermal wear all fall into a messy unorganized pile of winter clothing. The man begins to frantically collect his clothes with a clenched jaw and reddened cheeks. He could not pick up his belongings fast enough. Mirela was already standing over him with kind eyes. She bends down and picks up a pair of wooly socks and holds them out to him like an offering. He quietly accepts the socks, only making a few seconds of shifty eye contact.



"Hi, I'm Mirela. Do you need a hand? I have an extra bag you can borrow."


Mirela began to pull a cloth grocery bag out of her gigantic purse.


"Um, No. I'm fine."


He begins to pick up each item and stuffs them underneath his arm. It is obvious that he isn't going to be able to carry everything, so Mirela stands her ground.


"Here, just use the bag. I can come pick it up later. Are you in a hurry?"


"No, it's just that I can't let these clothes out of my hands until I get to my room and it's getting dark and mom doesn't like me to-"


He stopped his fast paced stream of words mid statement as Mirela unfolded his hand, placing the bag onto his palm.


"It's no big deal. I live in room #725. Oh, and I never asked you your name."


He gazed into Mirela's gentle eyes with astonishment.


"I'm Pokey. Um, thank you."


And with that, Mirela was off to enjoy the nearing sunset.

Between Day Break And Night Fall

On a particularly warm day, a woman of 32 years carelessly tosses her sandals off and sinks her amber feet into the cool, wet soil of the community garden. She smiles silently, perhaps noticing that her shiny toe nails look like the little lavender shells of the animals that burrow deep in the sand at the beach back home.

Mirela has been living on the top floor of the Thallow Flats for a little over three months and has made very few friends. Her dark, untamed beauty and private lifestyle leave the town dwellers to their highly judgmental imaginations. Every morning she rises with the sun and the birds. At dusk, she drinks a single glass of red wine, while watching the sun set from the roof of the flats. What takes place in between, in her private meetings above the rare book store, is unknown to the public.

Preparing for the upcoming winter season, Mirela, using her strong, feminine arms, prudently uproots natural herbs to bring indoors and save from the cold. While humming a soothing tune, she mends the dirt in the places where the wonderful plants used to reside. She gently pats the soil to leave the remaining perennial plants undisturbed in the bed they no longer share. A cool breeze causes a wind chime that is hanging quaintly in a tree to sound its eerie song. In an instant, the tiny hairs on the back of Mirela's neck prickle up. She cautiously scans the grounds with her glorious green and golden flecked eyes to check for any unexpected visitors. Though she strongly senses a presence, she physically sees no one. She listens carefully to what the wind and trees murmur and feels safe once again. After collecting the herbs in a hand-woven basket, she walks to the rare book store and pulls open the majestic, heavy door.

A woman with silver hair and readers sits in the corner absorbed in a book. She doesn't appear to hear or even notice Mirela's entrance.

"Good Morning," Mirela cheerfully speaks.

"Didn't see you there, my dear. Good morning to you too," replies the shop keeper.

With that simple exchange of greetings, Mirela makes her way through the shelves and stacks of age-old books. At the foot of the dangerously steep and skinny set of stairs, Mirela clears her mind and prepares to assume her daily role as Madame Fouquois. She proceeds onward.

Come Together

SO, the first blog post that I wrote at school was a total failure. Seconds after completing my entry..."the spinning wheel of death" took over my computer. Now, I will begin to write my first post (a short one) from my faithful and trustworthy computer at home.
English has always been my favorite subject. When students at Decatur ask me about my schedule, I get a variety of responses at the mention of APWorldLit. Most people (not the folks reading this) think I'm insane for actually wanting to take a challenging course taught by the infamous Ms. Williams. I see this class as an opportunity to learn and grow, or as something that allows me to be creative or to express myself (which is always exciting!).
Our first major assignment (creating a story of a town and characters) sounds like a lot of fun. Since there will be a plethora of ideas being tossed about from student to student, I think it will be very interesting to see what the class puts together. I can't possibly imagine what masterpiece will be created when everyone is playing/working off of each other.

It's about time for me to go to choir practice. Thanks for reading!


-Alex