Daisy Miller's Stories

Nighttime

2008-05-25T23:54:10Z

She was walking through the clothing store when she suddenly stopped, fingering a flowery skirt and contemplating her life.

Their friendship had been doomed from the start, she realized, because she had never wanted to be just his friend – or even just his girlfriend or just his wife. She wanted to be someone else, someone more, someone above all that.

Like his sun.

The light, the shining center of his sky.

And yeah, the clouds could hide the sun but everyone needed some shade from time to time. And sometimes, when the clouds were just thin enough, you could look directly at the sun and see its shape, its bones. You could see what it really looked like – a perfect circle, dark but outlined in a brilliant glittering blue.

With her luck, he probably lived at night.

It was a Flook.

2008-04-28T21:40:14Z

She suddenly hoped her cheeks were warm from too much sun and not from the fact that he was sitting next to her. That’s when he turned and stared pensively at her hands.

“I like your hands,” he said. “They’re smart hands, delicate but sure. Like that flower right there. It knows it’s suppose to be there, it has a right to be there, and it holds itself high. But one mislaid step, and I fear it will be crushed.”

“Are you planning on stepping on my hands, sir?”

“I should hope not. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t ever step on your heart.”

Such words from him made the sun beat down harder on her cheeks. “I barely know you, though. In fact, I don’t know you at all.”

He smirked and held out his hand. “I beg your pardon, miss. I suppose I saw the empty seat and felt it was best for me to occupy it. My name is Albert Flook.”

She Leaned Away

2008-03-30T19:11:41Z

She sat still, her eyes downcast. She didn’t want him to see her shining eyes or her pouted lips. He reached out to wrap his arm around her shoulders, but she leaned away from him.

So they sat: her tears splashing her shoes and his hand resting on the ground between them.

It Sits to Reason

2008-03-30T19:10:27Z

When he speaks, Reason doesn’t stand. It sits cross-legged in meditation.

She looks exasperated and sighs. “I don’t . . . but . . . you just . . . I . . . .”

He looks unsympathetic. “Yep.”

Mother Earth

2008-02-27T03:22:06Z

He dropped between her knees – home, home at last, with her arms around his trembling shoulders and his shuddering sigh against her neck. Her scent – rosemary and thyme and smoke from the forest – enveloped him like oxygen and he could finally breathe. Her warm fingers were in his messy hair, brushing away the leaves and thorns. His knees stung with the weight of him, against the wood floors, but he stayed still, clutching her tightly and trying to hide his eyes from her ever-knowing gaze.

He did not want her to see what he had done.

She all ready knew.

The Awakening Smell of Flowers and Grass

2008-02-27T03:20:19Z

There is a window in the wall, a window that is open, allowing the spring wind to fill the room – the awakening smell of flowers and grass, a wide valley with trees of fruit just waiting to be plucked with my pollen dusted fingers – and I am sitting on the window ledge, wishing I could climb through but I haven’t got the necessary equipment: no shoes to protect my feet from fallen twigs, no bucket to carry the fruit in. The walls inch ever-closer to each other, and I’m beginning to worry I might get stuck between them if I don’t find those shoes and a proper bucket.

Burning Lips in Her Hair

2008-02-27T03:18:09Z

Sunsets painted with little streaks of pink were her favorite. She liked the gold in the clouds and the way the sun smiled, saying “I am here for you.” Like a friend, hugging her with warmth, fiery arms around her shoulders, burning lips in her hair. She could almost believe there was really someone else in the room. She could almost believe that he was here. He was here and he was laughing and he was making her dinner and he was smiling. And she was smiling and she was hugging him and she was telling him “I love you.”

Candy From a Stranger

2008-01-29T04:54:32Z

When I first saw him, I knew I wanted him. There was a selfish whimsy in my chest, a soft little sigh of greed. He was standing on the dock, creaking wood beneath his sneakers and the sound of salt in his ears. He probably couldn’t see me where I was, standing beside those fake faces and the flashing lights; I’m fairly certain the ferris wheel spun a perpetual shadow that cowered around my body like a coffin. He turned his head, pulling the sun closer to the ocean, and I wanted to kiss the sunlight from his lips. It would taste sweeter than any candy given to me by a stranger.

Faded Puce

2007-12-31T20:03:08Z

His face was so close to mine that our eyelashes were as tangled as the brambles under our feet, blackberry juice squelching between our toes, and the crow overhead sang our praises.

“It tickles.”

“Does it, sweetheart? Hmm . . . .”

It was that wonderful time of day, when the sun and moon sit at opposite sides of the sky and share a mutual cup of tea. The trees were faded puce and the leaves were torn like lace curtains; the icy chill prickled my bones.

I can only guess what he was thinking, but I reckon it wasn’t what I was thinking.

Sunlight From Your Lips

2007-10-22T20:00:31Z

It is that moment when you stand in front of me and I think: I want to kiss the sunlight from your lips and hug the sky from your shoulders. It that moment when I am Love.

Citrus Hope

2007-10-22T19:50:01Z

The room was dark and smelled faintly of truth, the tired earthy scent of realization with a hint of citrus hope.

He wiped his nose.

The psychic smiled, grabbed his thin fingers, and greedily traced the line across his palm.

“You have a long life line, my dear,” she said in a cheery voice, as if this information would suddenly brighten up his day.

A rain cloud must have opened up over his head, for he simply grimaced, wiped his nose again, and said, “Thank you.”

She Shrugged

2007-10-22T19:39:45Z

“Do we need happiness to live?” she asked.

He shrugged, his green shirt streching across his back. His shoulder blades poked through the fabric, and she almost reached out to feel his invisible wings. He was an angel – a fallen one perhaps, but he could still catch her whenever she took that last step. “Is living in misery really living?”

“What is living?”

“I don’t know . . . .”

“I think I do.”

“Really? What is it?”

She shrugged, stretching her own feathery wings. “It’s a secret.”

White and Pure

2007-09-29T20:09:48Z

Our cloud is white and pure, so you won’t have to bring your umbrella. The sky around it is bright and blue. Our love will not dissipate in the face of the sun, and while it may not extend beyond the mysterious universe, it travels the world a thousand times over.

Float On

2007-09-29T20:07:05Z

Does the duration of an event signify its worth? If love lasted a rain storm or a light summer breeze, would it be any less meaningful than if it lasted the rotation of the earth? Would it be any more important if you knew it could blow away in just a few minutes? Or would you simply thank it for a reprieve from the harsh heat and move on?

Our Cloud

2007-09-29T20:06:11Z

Our love may not be written in the stars, but it’s written in the clouds. Our love may not sparkle and shine, but it floats around the world bringing shade to the sun-burned and water to the parched.