Clementines

I wrote this story based on a dream I had. Up until this point, I've written mostly poetry, so I figured I'd step out of my comfort zone and try something new.

Summertide, Central Park, 2015.

One hour stands between sunfall and madness. Insanity is assured by dusk at the latest. Something about the dark, something about the dark...

I find myself behind my footsteps, treading a sea of grass blade melancholy. A half moon of lush oaks, maples, and London Planes line the field’s perimeter, inviting adventure, but I politely decline. Still, tonight’s destination retains obscurity, and I’d like to keep it that way. However, thoughts grow unrelenting- birds trapped in the attic. Distractions. I need distractions. My hands are suddenly sovereign from my mind; they tear down the zipper of my backpack violently, eager for what lies inside. Within seconds, I notice a reliable fragrance, piquant in nature; it greets me with a smile. Clementines. These are better than anything in the world. A nearby bench offers up a seat. I oblige, looking down at the elven oranges. Next to them lies a tupperware containing discarded peels. Another is happily added to the collection. I can tell they’re just ripe enough before I even have my first taste, and with every bite thereafter I feel the love in the fruit, permeating, emanating joy in its purest form. But as much as I’d love to enjoy this brief moment of nirvana, my citrus haze is interrupted- cut off, severed at the head, ruined by all means- by a familiar riff, originating from the shade of a maple tree about 100 yards left of me.

Coursing through a forest strange, I happen upon three people gathered by a pond, The Doors blaring from the loudest record player I’ve ever heard. They seem to be watching something, but I’m not sure what. Or rather someone, actually. I begin to make out the figure of a girl. Under the beach blonde waves that crash down her back she wears a sole baja sweatshirt, earth tone. Kashmir shorts stop just above midthigh. And she dances in a way I’ve never seen before.

She dances without restriction, entirely divorced from inhibition. Crudely intimidating to witness such carnal artistry. Her slender frame slices tension from the air; it tumbles. In its place runs a current of energy, infiltrating the space surrounding in search for sustenance. Others are drawn in, our numbers grow larger by the minute. Not a single set of eyes dare break their gaze. But she’s deep into the sounds of an era long gone, embracing a loneliness one can only find in a crowd full of people. Passion and beauty and a connection to nothing at all, yet everything at once. Everyone is spellbound, hexed by the display. All souls locked in for the ride. It is clear to me that this girl has a cause. A cause to live for, a cause to fight for:

She is a warrior of love. And she takes no prisoners.

The song fades, and she is left exhausted by the applause. Check the time: exactly one hour after sunset. When I look up,

I see her searching for something. Her stare scans the mass of happy faces. Left. Right. Our eyes catch, a split second worth a million years. I guess she found what she was looking for.

She approaches with caution, wide-eyed and wild-smiled, letting out a playful, “Hey!”

“Ummm. Hi there. That was...really awesome, y’know?”

I throw my hands into the depths of my pockets.

Fear.

“Gee thanks. You should come by more often, I do this every weekend.”

Her eyes are fixed and unmoving. Celeste and serene.

This is too much, turn back now. Run. Leave. Flee.

“I...I, yeah I definitely will. I’d stick around for a bit tonight, but I’ve gotta finish some work back home. See you here tomorrow night, though?”

Good s**t, go home and do a whole lot of that nothing you were planning on getting done.

“I’ll be here. Hey, dude, what’s your name?”

I’m bewildered. The question is so simple it’s alarming. I had forgotten about names.

“It’s uh, it’s Adrian. What’s yours?”

“Before I say anything, promise me you won’t laugh. Seriously, you have to pinky promise me!” she says with a golden smile across her face.

“Well, alright.”

We carry out the ritual. Pinky in pinky, we kiss our fists. Signed and sealed. It’s a deal for real.

“Okay, now what’s your name?”

“I’ll say it, but remember you can’t laugh! You pinky promised, man, you better not break that s**t. I’m not joking, I’ll hit you. Everyone always laughs.”

“I might laugh.”

“D****t, whatever.”

“I’m kidding! Jeez! I won’t laugh, c’mon, just tell me your name!”

“Okay good. My name is Clementine.”

Author's Note

Any input, advice, or comments are certainly appreciated. I'm here to share and grow.

Reviews

[Karen Redburn]

Oh this is very sweet, almost too poetic to be just a short story. Not that there is anything wrong with short stories. I would love to have read this piece sitting in a park somewhere, the words are easy breezy and yet have meaning. First love, perhaps? Great job!