Spark a Story

by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  “That’s my lucky Penny!” The man in the bleachers was waving manically, breaking into a poorly choreographed victory dance, thrusting his hips forward and back in time with his arms.

  I managed a weak smile before the never-ending heat bore down on me and I felt like I was suffocating in a sweltering blanket of sun rays. Black spots dotted my vision and I began spiraling into a nebulous haze.

  Awakening this time was different. The shock of the blaring sun’s radiance commanded me back into the world of light. The red balloon twinkled at me and I heard the soulful caws of crows serenading the afternoon outside my window.

  The door creaked open once more, and a faint smell of cinnamon wafted into the room. The smiling woman from the beach manifests in front of me, her delicate feminine hand tightly clasped into a much larger, stronger one. A boyish smile gleams at me, and the beautiful couple seem to glow in the sunbeams that merengue upon the walls. The room is once more alive, I breathe in time with it as I take in the vision in front of me.

  “Mom? Dad?” I say. My voice is barely audible, scratching the surface of a whisper.

  Smiling eyes swim with tears as I am swallowed up in a bear hug that hinders my next breath.

  “It will be okay, lucky Penny. Everything will be okay.”

  It was four o’clock.

  BETHANY HALL

  Noli Me Tangere

  SHE TURNS THE KNOB to release hot water for a shower. As she undresses, the memory returns. Guilt embraces her like a loving friend’s hug. Maybe it would be a friend if she had explained what happened.

  She steps into the foggy atmosphere and lets the water burn away her secret. It lingers in the pores of her skin and cracks on her lips. She reaches for the rag and begins to scrub at the secret. It burns. The memory of his hands on her returns, flashing through her mind and touching her skin. Tears like razor blades run down her face. The hot water adds to the burning. She begins to scrub harder.

  Her skin turns red and blotchy, but she ignores the signs her body is pleading for her to notice. Scrubbing and scrubbing, she attempts to wash away the feelings he left on her skin and in her memory. Then she remembers that he not only touched her body but also kissed her face and ran his fingers through her hair.

  No. No. No!

  She pours shampoo in her hand, then reaches up, digging her nails into her skull, trying to get his hands to stop stroking her hair soothingly. Once, twice, three times she pours the shampoo. Once, twice, three times she drags her hands through her hair. The memory of his lips on her face returns to her mind, and it’s almost as if it’s all happening again. She turns around and stuffs her face under the water.

  She reaches for the rag again. She begins to scrub her face. Her acne aches, but it is scrubbed off before the trace of kisses is. She begins wishing she were depressed again. She doesn’t want to feel the guilt and pain. Most of all, she doesn’t want to feel his memory.

  Shh, it’s just me. Don’t you trust me? She covers her ears and collapses out of the shower. The air is stuffy, her skin burning, her face has strings of blood running down it, but she doesn’t notice. She grabs her headphones from the top of her school bag. Quickly, she taps the screen and drags the dot to drown out his pleasant voice.

  I’m not going to hurt you . . . His taunting eyes appear in her head. It’s alright . . . His smile. She tries to focus on the spinning fan and pounding music.

  Hey, look at me . . . His deep blue eyes dance on the ceiling.

  She squeezes her eyes and covers her face. Come on . . . He whispers through his perfect lips.

  “No . . .”

  You aren’t afraid, are you? His hand wraps around hers. His hair too real to just be a memory projecting on the ceiling.

  “Don’t.”

  Movement surrounds them.

  “Stop.”

  He turns her, pressing her back against the wall.

  “No.”

  He comes in closer.

  “No!”

  She kicks and screams, trying to hit him, but his hold on her is too strong.

  “Get off!”

  She screams, but the music is too loud.

  He’s getting closer and closer. He pushes her harder and harder.

  She feels herself stumble out of her mind as if waking up.

  She opens her eyes. The fan is spinning wildly; the lights shake with it. She sits up, expecting to see him in front of her again. She tries to focus on details in the room. The white bookshelf, the gray walls, and the black bedsheets . . . the room is empty. What else was there? Where are the friends in front of her, shaking her, telling her it was all just a dream? And if they weren’t telling her it was a dream, why weren’t they replacing guilt’s embrace with theirs? If they said nothing and did nothing, that would’ve been better than what was actually there. No one.

  AAMNA HAQ

  Only a Fool Would

  MY SOFA WAS IN SHREDS, dining ware was scattered all over the floor, and, wait a minute, were there holes in my backyard?

  Wading through the destruction, I reached the screen door to the backyard, which was ripped to shreds, and stared in dumbfoundedness at the eight flawless holes in my grass. They were arranged to form a box-like shape with two holes on each side, as if encasing something in the middle. Stifling an exasperated sigh, I heard a creak. I looked up, not knowing what I would see, but what the hell?! A sword hung from my ceiling, with its hilt swinging precariously in the air. Even though it was suspended above me I could see the dent that it created in my ceiling, wedged in between the bright white paint. Thunk! It fell to the floor, bringing down pieces of crumbling ceiling as well.

  Shrieking, I brought my hands up to cover my hair, my beautiful blond hair, while wondering why everything awful was happening to me. I leaned closer, peering at the instrument. It was dangerous and sharp, as if just looking at it could cut a person right through their eyes. The hilt was weathered and worn, covered with thick leather. Words were etched onto the blade, written in some sort of foreign, ancient language. As I stepped closer, I felt an otherworldly pull, the object itself wanted me to come closer, as if it was an entity. Curiosity overcame my fear, and I leaned over to put my forefinger on the silvery gray blade.

  “Who dares?” yelled an inanimate voice, filling my destroyed room with sonorous sound.

  “Aagh!” I yelled, falling on my butt. The thing spoke! “W-Who are you?” I asked, frightened beyond my wits.

  What was it doing here? What . . . what was going on? If it was the cause of the destruction in my home, I should call the police, or look for the owner of the threatening weapon. If the police were involved, however, they would find out that I was squatting in this house. The only reason I was never found out was because the house was immaculate on the inside, but demolished on the outside. Therefore, I was determined to find the answers myself; I touched the sword again. This time I pressed my forefinger into the tip of the blade, drawing some blood, which I looked at with fascination. It really was that sharp.

  “Tell me who you are,” I said with more authority.

  “Oh . . . Oh, I apologize, my fair lady, I would never have yelled if I knew you were a woman,” it said with an audible smirk in its voice. If it were a person, I could see the smug little smile painted on its face. Nonetheless, I blushed; no one had spoken to me like that before.

  “Please, sit, I have a story to tell you.”

  I frowned, tilting my head to the side, and sunk into the shreds of my sofa, prepared to listen to what this sword had to say.

  “My lady, when I was a simple young man, my grandmother had gifted me this sword, and I became a happy lad. My days were filled with childlike innocence as I learned the skill of swordsmanship. I spent my time in practice, and as I turned the ripe age of eighteen, it was my turn to become a soldier. As a soldier, I rose through the ranks of the military, and I knew that it was the sword that helped me! It was the sword that bolstered my ranks. When it was in my hands, I felt like the king, I felt
like I was the one to be worshipped! I began to overly cherish it—you could have said that I may have revered it. If any other man’s eyes were on my sword, I would raise hell. My sword was mine; it was mine!”

  I flinched at the raised voice. The hairs on my arms stood on end. It continued talking. “It drove me crazy, but it was the key to my success. The narcissism began to eat at my insides. I was the best because of this cursed sword. It made me into who I was, who I had become. Alas, the day came for me to fight against the wicked army of Trunsia. That was the day that my sword failed me. I did not die, no, but as the killing blow was delivered to my unprotected scalp, the sword glowed blue, and in the next second, I found myself trapped within a dimly lit room. My lady, I was trapped within this desolate prison for eons! The sword, in its evil glory, told me that my only hope was a beautiful woman with flowing blond hair. It told me that she would be the one to finally take me away from this terrible predicament, that she would be my savior, if only she completed three tasks. My lady, you would do it, wouldn’t you?”

  My heart softened as I listened to the swordsman tell me of his struggles, but of what benefit was it to me if I helped him? As if he could hear what I was thinking, the swordsman said, “It offers a reward, one wish of your choice. Please, my lady, please, save me.”

  My eyes widened—a wish! Any wish, anything I wanted! This could be a dream come true! I mean, if the sword could trap someone inside of it, then of course it could grant my wish.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll do it! But first, tell me why you destroyed my home!” I yelled with a little bit of insanity. I had a right to be angry, my place was in shreds!

  “My lady, you are surely one of the most generous.” I smiled at that. Of course I was. “And it was this cursed sword that damaged your living quarters. I have no power over it, it just transported me here and proceeded to make havoc of your home. My deepest apologies, my lady.”

  “What about those holes in my yard? What are those for?”

  “That is what I am just about to tell you,” the swordsman said in a somewhat condescending tone. I dismissed it, my eyes on the prize. Of course, his explanation sort of made no sense, but it was the last thing I was thinking about, with a wish on the line.

  “First, you must place your hand on the hilt of this cursed sword and repeat the oath of the swordbearer after me, then you must take this sword and chop off pieces of your beautiful blond hair and place them into the holes in your yard (which were the only things I made with my own intention), and lastly, you must find a living object to switch roles with me. This life will be switched with mine, and I will finally receive the freedom for which I have pined away for years and years. I will finally be free as a result of your generosity and your virtue, my lady,” he stated with pure conviction. I could see his dark eyes, full of sincerity, staring deeply into my own, expressing such thankfulness that I could feel the gratitude in my bones. (Not literally, of course, he was in a sword.) I guess I’m his Princess Charming, I thought to myself.

  “Let’s begin,” I said, only thinking of my reward.

  Without hesitation, he stated, “I vow to relieve the burden of the trapped entity within, and to protect it with my own generosity, by relieving the burden of the sword.”

  This oath I repeated, with my hand pressed onto the flat part of the blade. I could feel the cool metal and the words etched onto the surface. I wondered what they meant. I hesitated when I had to cut my beautiful blond hair, then just snipped off the tiny bits at the bottom, which fell into my palm like feathers that a fleeing bird would shed. I took a deep breath and pinched a bit of the pieces into the eight holes that had been made in the pristine grass of my backyard. Looking curiously at them, I noticed that there was a systematic order to their appearance, as if the swordsman had known that I would comply with his request. Shrugging it off, I finished placing bits of my hair into the holes, and grabbed the sword by its hilt.

  “How am I supposed to find a living object?” I asked. “I’m not evil enough to trap something in here.” There should be another option; why fix one life at the expense of another?

  “Do not fear, my lady, I said that you may use any other living thing.”

  Ohhh, I get it! I could use a plant! That was living, right? Yes, yes it was. I grinned and ran into the house to grab one of my cacti. It was a young one, so I wouldn’t notice its absence. After all, everything would be worth it when I got my wish. I could have everything that I desired with one wish. A delirious smile covered my face.

  “Yes, yes, my lady! That is perfect, now please, stand in the middle of these potholes, put your hand on this sword while holding your plant, and say, ‘Switch,’ ” the swordsman said a bit impatiently, but I didn’t catch it in his voice, I was too busy daydreaming.

  I took a deep breath, and thinking of my wish, I yelled with fervent passion, “Switch!”

  Immediately I felt movement, and the ground crumbled beneath my feet. I fell into a deep pit, and there was darkness all around me. Where was my wish!? I looked up in panic, and looking down above me, with a sword in his hand, was a thin, withered old man with a wicked grin and braided black hair. He smirked, “Fell for it, didn’t ya, my sweet? Ya fell for it, ya loony!” He grinned, showcasing a row of damaged teeth, yellowing and rotten. “Only a fool would fall for that, only a fool, oh, you fool, you fool! Didn’t ya read the words on the sword? Didn’t ya? Now it’s your turn to suffer for a thousand years, you absolute fool!”

  Tears filled my eyes as he banished me into the deep prison of the sword, where I would reside for a thousand years. Only a fool like me would fall for a dirty trick like that.

  ANNIE HOANG

  Of Metaphors, Monsters, and Wild Thoughts

  People are made of glass. We are fragile and beautiful and when we break, our jagged edges spill blood on those who try to gather the pieces. We are born with hearts so thin, they shatter at the hand of others, and over time we find ourselves mending cracks and building walls. Our chests are two-way mirrors. People only make an effort to look because they see their own reflections staring back. The demons inside are invisible to the selfish human eye. No one knew that I carried a militia of monstrosities inside me. Not until they shattered me into a thousand incandescent shards.

  Pain did not seem to be pain when you were empty. It was a whitewashed creature, really, a forgotten myth that stood on the line between the things I wanted and the things I dreaded. Never did Pain do much to harm me, rather it just held a presence. A presence that drove fear into the hearts of all kids. Big kids. Little kids. Kids who wore masks labeled ADULT to hide the person beneath. I was a kid in the middle, and though there were a million things about myself that were mysteries, I knew one thing for sure. Metaphors made up my world. Stories were a part of my world too, they were wild thoughts built on a foundation of metaphors. The Greeks were a metaphor for the creature called Pain in my Trojan Horse of Emptiness. Except in this story, the hatch to release them was undoubtedly glued shut, and the Greeks inside were stuck inside the wooden horse for all of eternity. While the Greeks played card games in their Trojan Horse of Emptiness, left on the outside world was my soul, unsure whether to celebrate the absence of Pain or prepare for battle. I wonder how many games of BS you could play in an eternity before you knew another person’s lies as well as your own. I didn’t even understand my own lies. The Greeks were a part of me and so was the Trojan Horse, and I had convinced myself that it was a harmless statue, maybe even a gift. Lying to myself was a bad habit, but it was how I hoped to survive. I told myself that the Trojan Horse was better than being hurt. I convinced myself that maybe feeling empty was better than feeling horrible. Being numb meant you didn’t feel pain, and I lived in a world thriving on anesthetics. Everyone lied to avoid hurting, but I knew lies couldn’t save me when the Trojan Horse provided a battle far worse than the Greeks ever could have. The Empty made everything with a point dull. It became the center of my universe and muted the colors of my existen
ce. It coated memories in film, making them hard to see and impossible to feel. Life seemed to go by with me watching through a dirty windshield. Pain had been a birthright given to every human being. I could deal with pain. The Empty was different; it came to most but only stayed for some. The Empty was the first of the Monsters to haunt me, and I had thought it would be the only one. But I soon learned that this wasn’t that simple. This was an army of Monsters, all lined up to take a shot at my mind. I fought hard enough. I kept them at bay, and maybe my efforts were about as successful as Sisyphus’s, but here I was, undefeated. It was only when more started appearing that I knew I was in for trouble.

  A group of crows is called a murder, and the Crows in my mind had plenty to kill. There was never a first day with them. It occurred more gradually. I had no memory without them, just as I had no memory of them coming. One by one they arrived, at first a silent whisper and growing to become a roaring wave. I had become their chosen target and it seemed like they never went to rest. I was followed everywhere by their loud presence, and I was the only one who could hear it. The Crows had feathers weaved in dark thoughts, slick and pitch-black, blending in with the shadows of nighttime. When they beat their wings, it brought down flurries of negativity to bitter my mind. Their beady black eyes stared back at me in the mirror, running judgmental looks across my body. You’re a waste of space, they said. I shouldn’t have listened, but if dark thoughts were the element of their feathers, then their claws were made of lies. They lacerated my outer skin and infused my blood with their lies. I chose to believe them. Not entirely, but for the most part, and that was what wounded me. The Crows were Monsters, but they were also wake-up calls and they seemed to call me out on every action I made. Why would you do that? Why would you say that? You’re so stupid. It seemed like they were a part of me, like I had taken a piece of my mind and buried it a long time ago and it had come to return home. But at the same time the Crows felt wrong. Like someone had changed that part of me before allowing it to return. I had become an experiment, and the people who had concocted this change continued to do so with others. Wow, procrastinating again. I really am not surprised. My Crows were different than the ones that haunted my neighbor, and we both bore the weight of them alone. What’s the point of getting up, anyway? It’s not like today will be different from tomorrow. I wanted them to be quiet, to be gone in a way that I felt done with them but not vanquished from a part of myself. Similar to the rest of the world, I had no idea how to achieve this. Do you really think anyone cares what you think? Yeah, didn’t think so. We were all aware that there were unwanted Crows flapping around each other. The problem was that we never attempted to silence them with shared conversations. I never made an attempt to quiet my Crows, even when I knew I had the capability to do so. It was too difficult to trust people with my problems in a world that treated others’ problems like it did global warming. With practiced ignorance.