December Story Contest

From the Diary of Sophie Anne Larks

by SNGG & Snow White Glitter Girl   Age 13

 

November 18^th

Dear Diary,

I hate my name. It is the most ordinary-sounding thing I have ever come across. My real name, of course, is Sophia, and inwardly I do contemplate that I have no lack of my namesake, it meaning ‘wisdom’, but I do wish my name was more unique. Special. As for the ‘Anne’, I am not pacified as I was ten years ago when Daddy took me on his lap and told me about the Queen Anne’s Lace, saint Anne, and all the other ‘Anne’s in History.

I have two friends, Calpurnia Lula Bales, who has a very boring surname, but has white highlights in her brown hair and a gold tooth, and Gayle Artnibserhoff, whose grandmother lives in the Norwegian Mountains and sends her a pair of undersized snowshoes for Christmas each year. She has a collection of them, thirteen in all, lined up on her shelf and each two sizes too small for her feet that year.

 

Meanwhile, I have a collection of thirteen cactus plants, sent from up south Arizona from my grandmother Eleanor who lives in what she calls the bush (having met Granddaddy in Australia) with an outdoor bathroom and no proper facilities. I used to be fascinated with their Latin names until Peter Flaminsky (whom I used to hope to marry for then I’d hyphenate my name and become immediately interesting) found out and started calling me ‘Opuntia’ and ‘Arrojadoa’ and ‘Parodia’.

Calpurnia, who usually seems to be the most intuitive among us three, tells me that Peter Flaminsky is madly in love with me.

 

I snort at her and peer inside her ears to see if her brain has somehow managed to ooze away, but it seems to still be rooted in place.

 

Gayle, who has beautiful pond-green eyes, silvery blonde hair, and a tinkling laugh, pokes me and tells me I blush whenever anyone mentions him.

 

I glare at her until Calpurnia tells me I used to stare at him eating cheese sticks when he sat in front of me in second-grade recess, and it goes on this way, first one friend teasing me, me getting distracted with her, and then the other begins.

 

It seems unfair but we still do stick together.

 

As for love, the only thing or person I could ever love is my Baby brother, Samuel, who is nine, intuitive, and dirty rich (he has money hidden all over the house) and my horse, Hephastiiba, whom I curry and spoil and scold, and generally treat like an all-out sister. She is with child (or maybe I should say with foal) and I fear for her, her having already lost two horses in the birthing process.

 

Calpurnia comes over and grooms her horse, (we board Frantastic) all the time railing bitterly against some boy or sister or baseball team or grocery clerk, depending on the season, and her horse nods and stamps and snorts along. They were made for each other.

 

Gayle, meanwhile, tags along. She does not have her own horse, occasionally joins us on trail on Serena’s Falafel (why my sister would christen a horse after an Arabian dish, I cannot fathom, especially since were are not in Arabia), but other than that she chases after the ducks, has long, politically correct conversations with the Shetland, the Cocker Spaniel, or the Persian Black, and dips her hair in the water trough each time we come around, and startling us, for then she narrows her eyes, shows her gums, and with the wet hair we hardly recognize our Scandinavian Angel.

 

I worry and worry every day, and am not able to ride on a different horse, for each afternoon I sit with Hephastiiba and soothe her belly aches.

 

Oh, and yes, it is cold. November always is where I live.

 

November 25^th

Dear Editor:

I am thirteen and one quarter of age, live on a horse farm, and found your last article on ‘How Horses May Nip You’ completely gray, dull, yawn-able, and disgusting.

Whoever let Paul Sherbatt publish that in your Paper was a complete fool.

He highlighted the evils of Horse Teeth, never taking care to inform us of the good these intelligent animals do, and had an overly prejudiced opinion of everything.

If a childhood trauma was the cause of it, he could have written that article and still not have published it.

Sincerely Opinionated,

The Girl with the 13 Cacti

PS: if no one at your disgrace of a Newspaper Press gets it, perennially I receive one spiny, lifeless Cactus plant for each of my interpretable years.

 

November 27^th

Peter Flaminsky (From now on, perhaps I had better not mention his enviable last name) passed me in the hallways and winked at me, calling me ‘Sincerely Opinionated’. Calpurnia dragged me aside and informed me that Paul Sherbatt was Peter’s mother’s brother. Drat (I say this word instead of what Laverne, our cook, hisses in her native tongue when she upsets the batter or slips on a block of butter).

Hephastiiba shied when I tried to stroke her. It appears her neighbour, Falafel, has colic. Some wild Arabian Stallion he is. That is what Serena dreamt he was. Falafel disturbs her (Hephastiiba). That is the reason she is nervous, in case you could not decipher.

 

November 30^th

Hephastiiba is ten and a half months pregnant now! Only one and a half months (maximum) left of waiting, waiting, and worrying!!!

 

November 31^st

I do not pray for it to be either girl or boy, because I shall love it just the same and shall not be disappointed.

 

December 13^th

I have forgotten to give you some details. She is a red Connemara. She walks like a duck. And her mate is High-tops – a white masterpiece with black ankle-length socks and a round path on the side of each – and I shall not further explain his name (my older brother Stephen Geoffrey christened him. I used to admire Stephen’s next name until I read ‘Catherine, called Birdy’ and decided he was just as cruel as his namesake in the book).

 

December 17^th

Bored to death. Have already finished wrapping presents to those who deserve (and still to those that don’t). Worried and bored. Two most deadly concoctions. Hephastiiba has begun to ‘Bag up’.

 

December 21^st

Decided to write since today is the winter solstice. The longest night and shortest day of the year. Peter Flaminsky (Drat! I write in ink and can not remove the offending surname without messing the whole page) offered to carry my books for me yesterday (the last day of school before winter break) but I glared at him and retreated to the top steps of the stairwell. He squinted up at me and asked why I was so high up. I replied that I was simply testing the wind. He called up to me, “How is the weather, then?” and I shouted down, “Raining!” before I spit on him. I rushed past a dazed Peter going down. Not the meanest thing I have done to a person not of my liking. Hephastiiba joined the horses in grazing. I am relieved.

 

December 22^nd

I stared at Myself in the mirror today. A medium-sized nose that looked like half a strawberry (the shape, not the color, except when I have been sledding for approximately 1.75 hours). Gray eyes with amber flecks. Long eyelashes. A very nice pink mouth. And slick red-gold hair – the only kind I have ever encountered that does not frizz in the April weather. A scattering of golden-brown freckles across my nose – to tiresome to count. Perhaps Peter did have reason to offer to carry my books. J

Oh, and I am not so worried now. Hephastiiba is having labour pains, but they are regular for this stage, unlike her last month, when her ailments exceeded regularities.

 

December 24^th

Christmas Eve. Apple Cider. And guess who showed up (along with Calpurnia, of course, and Gayle)? Peter. I still cannot believe his nerve.

He knocked on the door, and I, being careless, flung it open, bracing for the impact of an aunt stretching my cheeks or an uncle slapping my already raw back. But of course, it was him, and I opened my mouth in disgust though nothing came out. Then I shut the door in his face and refused to let him in until Mother had to drag me by my braids away and open the door to a half-frozen Peter, who weakly stepped over the threshold and grinned at me.

In a flash I stood up, my eyes blazing, and stalked away, Calpurnia and Gayle at my heels.

I dragged them into a hall closet to unjumble the situation. But they refused to help me. Peter was here, they said, he was in love with me, and come to woo, until I snapped at told them wooing was a thing of the cursed past.  Then they giggled and bombarded me with comments such as,

“He has nice spring-green eyes!” (“And they look just like newborn caterpillars!”)

“You like his black hair, remember?” (“I also enjoy being eaten alive by locusts!”)

“He’s the perfect height to kiss!” (“He’s the perfect height to push over a 3000-foot ravine!”)

         “Go for him!” (“NO!”)

Until Serena (thank the stars) pulled us out and made us go to the family room (Now the stars have received my DYING gratitude) where everyone smiled pleasantly at us, I sulked in response, and we proceeded with the preparations. I would never meet Peter’s gaze and dropped like a dead weight onto my bed after the evening’s festivities.

 

 

December 25^th

Before I start complaining: a very Merry Christmas! Had three mugs of steaming hot chocolate with twenty mini-marshmallows absorbing the sweet liquid. A new record! Mother gave me a new riding outfit. The coat is chocolate-brown with caramel trimming. The unique breeches (Mother believes in being Frolicsome, for she is much like Amelia Earhart) are Molasses with Vanilla stripes. I press them to my nose and inhale, imagining them with a sky-blue first-prize ribbon. I gave her six home-made potholders.

Daddy gave me a pair of new stirrups – he said I was growing like grass – and a purple snaffle. I treasure them well. I gave him a golden watch chain.

Serena gave me a hankie for I am in constant need of one. It had ‘SAL’ stitched on it in green. I gave her a magic eight-ball – to soothe her worries about Lance, the boy next door, whom she pines for (it is a custom-made ball with only positive replies).

Samuel gave me a hundred dollars – a small amount compared to his stash – and insisted I spend it all on trifles and shopping. He bade my parents not interfere, and I understood he meant by exclaiming I must bank it. I gave him a hug, kiss, and a ‘book’ – wooden, hollowed out, and the perfect place to store money.

Stephen Geoffrey gave me a picture of Peter. I made a curious explosive noise and went to tear it to shreds out by the trash bins, but have decided to tack it to my bedroom door and shoot darts at it whenever I please. Oh, and I gave him a scarf I did not knit. Gayle, who dreams of him, made it. She is a talented knitter.

Calpurnia gave me a kit of do-it-yourself highlights, in twenty-four colours. I gave her plain knee pads (she is adventurous and often on wheels) with a ten-colour sticker set – black, brown, purple, dark blue, light blue, army green, light green, olive green, and navy blue – so she can match them to her pants.

From Gayle I received a box of Norwegian cookies and an owl necklace. Next to horses, I love owls, and Gayle is well informed of that. I gave her, in turn, three pairs of knee-high striped socks, black and green, green and blue, and blue and beige; and also a professional brush set, for she loves to make magic on canvas.

And…

A gift left in the coatroom for me. From Peter. I furiously booted it out into a pile of day-old slush. Thought the better of it three hours later, for perhaps I could sell it at some down-graded garage sale. Was a charm bracelet of Horse shoes, saddles, and Horse-shaped charms. How ever did he know? I like it enough to bury it into the farthest corner of my drawer.

 

December 27^th

Kristen, our common-named barn cat, gave birth to four kits.

 

December 29^th

Bored, bored, bored. Kits still too young for amusement.

 

December 30^th

New year tomorrow. Twelve o’clock. Will I stay up or not?

 

January 1^st

It is two o’clock in the morning.

I stayed up because Stephen dared me. Peter, whose parents are out of town, came to celebrate. I am starting to feel sympathy for him that his parents are not caring enough to be with him on Christmas Eve or New Year’s.

As it was allowed, we had to grab a partner of our choosing and kiss. Gayle and Stephen went for each other. Serena knocked on the Boy Next Door’s door and when he opened it, she kissed him. In a trance, he ran after her and spent the rest of the night with us. Nona (our maid from the far-off Philippines) kissed the cook, who is not fat-belied like you may imagine. In fact, he is twenty-nine, single, and average-looking. Mother and father kissed each other. Samuel kissed his biggest money box and me. When Peter went for me, I shook my head and kissed a close-at-hand cactus, therefore cutting my lips. I grabbed Peter’s shirt and used that, instead of my own, to stop the bleeding. I am well satisfied for now not only does he have a half-bloodied shirt, it was I who accomplished it.

 

January 5^th

School started again today.

 

January 8^th

Poor Hephastiiba! She kicks and whinnies, and not even a Buttermilk sponge bath soothes her!!

 

January 14^th

Today was an adventure!!! A sad one, though.

Of course, since Hephastiiba was ailing, and I could not help, I had to ease myself. So I rode on Lancelot, Mother’s stallion, and headed into the woods. Went for a swim in the creek – I am immune to colds. And stumbled upon a half-dead horse laying on the banks, his head dipping into the water and the stream wash-washing over his half-closed (or half-opened?) eyes. I gasped and tried to coax him up, no ravishing rascal too wild for me. He just groaned and fully closed his eyes. I tried digging him out. My fingernails have wheelbarrows of dirt underneath them.

Still he refused. I sank to my knees in wet muck, defeated. Until I realized that the muddy patch right next to Stubborn (I have named him), right where I was kneeling, was quicksand.

I was up to my neck in the foul stuff when I heard a, “need help?” and looked up to see a grinning Peter Flaminsky. I was so infuriated I screamed, “Get me out of here, you idiot!” and he did.

We were both covered in stinking muck that I am sure we looked identical. I glared at him through muddied eyelashes.

Fortunately, Lancelot was big enough to hold two and was not affected by mud. As soon as we got home, I burst in through the front door, and ignoring Mother’s horrified complaints about the smell and my appearance, yelling about the horse. It took quite a while for the hubbub to quiet down, when finally I was able to tell them of the poor creature. It seems he was dead by the time they got there, but I think it was a cover story for me not to know about putting him down. Peter, now clean and in Stephen’s old clothes, sleeps in the guest bedroom, his dark hair contrasting the beige linen sheets. I watch him sleep as I write this. He sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling…I time my heartbeat to his. And now…I leave. No words spoken save the cruel ones I hollered at him. I feel guilty. And guess what? My solid barrier against disease has crumbled. I have a cold!

PS: Hephastiiba is due any time now!

 

January 15^th

It seems, even though that I am not immune to them anymore; colds come quickly and leave just as fast with me. I am spritely, clean, and healthy. Peter, who was muddified a shorter time than me, is not sick. Thank god, for now he is dear to me Not that I care.

Hephastiiba paces. A good sign.

 

LATER

Hephastiiba attempts to lie down, but no one in sight allows her to. We have watch shifts.

 

January 18^th

I apologize for not writing sooner, for I have been as busy as a rabbit in a garden patch the past few days.

Here is what happened:

I was asleep in the guest bedroom, having dropped nearly fallen dead on the floor as soon as I came to awaken Peter for his shift (yes, he is still staying with us) but was able to drag myself onto the mattress. Suddenly, in the midst of a now-forgotten dream, there was this great commotion. Peter shook me but I was still to groggy to move, so he scooped me up in his arms and rushed to the stables. I tried pushing him away but he was sprinting too fast to notice. Finally, he set me down, and I scowled at him and rubbed my eyes.

But finally, I went towards Hephastiiba’s stall, and saw Lester, the old stable hand, perched like a mother tiger over Hephastiiba, who was now lying down. My breath caught in my throat, my hand caught in Peter’s. I was too nervous to pull out, but instead squeezed it like orange juice (I regret this now). Mother, Father, Stephen, Serena, even Samuel, who was too young last year, everyone was there, from the boy next door to the cook and maid. We watched, breathless.

Hephastiiba strained for twenty minutes, each writhe of her struggling body making me wince, each helpless sound slashing my heart. Finally, though, finally, everyone saw a hoof. I cried out, but Peter clasped a hand over my mouth (I bit it). Still Hephastiiba struggled. For another fifteen minutes. Was this bad? I glanced at Lester, whose brow was furrowed and expression tight. Still another five minutes ticked by. One hoof so far. Then, the hoof wiggled, and was joined by another. I smiled. Then – a snout! A small, wriggling, breathing nose! I grabbed Peter so roughly I fear I pinched him.

I remember the moment the foal’s head came out. Its dark, shiny eyes glanced at me, its mouth turned up and – it snorted gunk out of its nose. I laughed. Peter glared at me. I glared back at him.

Hephastiiba took ten minutes to excrete the shoulders, but finally, here we were staring at half a masterpiece. In another six minutes, the Masterpiece was whole.

Lester cut its umbilical cord (where we found out it was a ‘she’) and rubbed iodine on the wound.

She was whining, struggling to stand up. I knelt down and boosted her stomach. Shakily, warily, she stood on four wobbly legs before crashing down on my lap. I soothed her, stroked her, and finally, let her go.

I looked round. Lester was over by Hephastiiba, finishing up his ‘Doctorly Duties’, which included checking the placenta. Mother, father, everyone was gone, but Peter, who stood quietly behind me.

Not a word was said between us.

Not when he held out his hand and I decided to take it.

Not when he helped me up.

Not when – at the stable door, smiling, looking out to the rising sun – he kissed me.

No. we didn’t speak.

Not even when we held hands all the way back to the house.

And as he held open the door for me, as I entered, I decided, at that moment, her name was Masterpiece. Why not?

Names, I learned, are not as important as the person within. Not as delicate as a being’s soul. Not as sturdy as someone’s character.

Masterpiece – why not? It was a simple, beautiful name.