Dear Readers,

I hope, at some point, you find that one book that defines you.  That one where you can pull it off the shelf and you're once again reminded of who you are and what matters to you.  I have two books like this:  JD Salinger's "Franny & Zooey" and Tom Stoppard's "Arcadia."  I picked up "Arcadia" this evening and remembered so much... 

Since we're taking a few days respite (so that you can read your books and I can read mine), I'm going to include one of my very own short stories below.  It's titled "MAGGIE" and I hope you enjoy it.

Please also check out the charity that this blog is sponsoring.  It's charity:water and all you have to do is answer a question and money is donated by Google for clean water around the world.

And, as always, keep reading!
 

MAGGIE


She sat with her chin in her hand, hypnotically twirling a pencil on her desk.  The fluorescent lights that watched over the cubicle were in a daze themselves—rarely changing.  Maggie continued to spin the pencil, lightly fingering the eraser as the point spun slowly.  Maggie’s light blue button up shirt and navy blue skirt seemed exciting compared to her brown loafers.  People buzzed by her— pretending to be busy.  Her straw colored hair fell over her palm as she continued to watch the pencil slowly pirouette…

Coworkers typed with that distinct hum of tapping…  Sent illicit e-mails… Browsed online shopping sites… 

And Maggie began to dream. 

The pencil twirled and twirled…  And there was a dainty pink skirted ballerina in its place…she twirled and twirled with her chestnut hair tied firmly in an elegant bun.  Then the ballerina threw her head back and cackled—a sweet, infectious giggle—and the room began to hum…

Then there was the round ringmaster with his twirled moustache.  His baton marching and bouncing in time with the music of big drums…  His black top hat erect on his head, he bowed to the fair ballerina and kissed her cherry red fingernails.  She blushed and the ballerina smiled as the ringmaster took her in his arms and began to spin…  The room continued to hum as Maggie watched the little figures below her… Her big eyes a light grey blue, she watched and studied the life beneath her.  There was the music she wanted to hear, the dream world was pulling her—and she began to lose all contact…

Outside her cubicle the office went about its business…  But the slow drip of the coffee machine was keeping in time with the drums…  And then…

Maggie looked up at the giant pencil and smiled at the ballerina next to her…  A majestic red carpet rolled by—dignified and strong…vibrantly unrolling as it bounced… The ringmaster marched by with a magical band following his lead…Maggie was encircled…

There was wind and leaves and when the crowd cleared— there was Venice with its gondolas and striped shirt mimes, with their painted faces and their sinister and beautiful masks.  On her right, a window pane gleamed, beckoning her.  In reply, Maggie stuck her nose against the warm glass of the meringue-selling bakery.  Her breath forming small circles as she exhaled… The meringues slowly glowed white, yellow, and pink.  Inside, the robust baker with her hairy upper lip and her sausage fingers, wiped beads of sweat from her olive forehead…her rolling pin keeping time with the drums…

And in the reflection… as the meringues began to float and sing… was a tall stranger, straw-haired and gentle.  His square fingertips touched the glass and Maggie’s clothes turned to red, maroon, and crimson, then stark white— flowing and soft, her slip clung to her calves as the wind whispered around her shoulders and across her button nose…

Maggie reached for the fingertips— and the glass disappeared and so did the man.

And everything began to spin...

The mimes reappeared and offered her strawberries and blown-glass rings of every color, but she couldn’t stop twirling and the man was gone and the ballerina was watching as the ringmaster pulled Maggie up and up and up…

And there lay Maggie.  Exhausted and twirled.  A sigh of relief danced from her lips.  Her breath kept time with the clicking of laptops and the ringing of obnoxious cell phones.  Her legs that once felt light as meringues began to feel the pull of the earth and she clung sleepily to the tufts of cloud, so soft and comforting.  But the cloud would not hold. 

Maggie’s pencil skidded off the desk.  Her straw-colored hair held a distant scent of strawberries.  She palmed around for the missing pencil, fighting the urge to open her eyes and see that nothing had changed. 

Fearful to let go of the little ballerina with the chestnut hair.  Fearful that the ringmaster might haunt her dreams. 

And she was still enjoying that small, minute moment with the man with the straw-colored hair.  His long, spindly fingers pressed lightly against the baker’s window.  She could somehow taste the kiss that she had never even dreamed— and she could imagine the comfort of the spindly arms that were so tastefully covered in a coat and tails…

Outside the sun was setting and the fluorescent lights were ready for their evening siesta. 

Office workers packed up their things and groaned about the morning that would come too soon, or soon enough.  Quick to not be left behind in the darkness, Maggie pulled open her eyelids, reached down for her spinning pencil, retrieved it, and tucked it in her satchel along with her day’s work and stained coffee cup. 

Then Maggie left her cubicle.  She said goodbye to Joe, Daryl, and Steve, and Diane the mother of three.  Maggie and her loafers made it slowly for the exit, 6 pm hanging on the clock, and as she reached for the exit door— ready to push with her whole body— a limp fling of energy that would propel her back into routine— she stopped.  Her fingers tenderly grasped the silly pencil from her satchel.  And as she began to lift her arms, Joe and Diane eyed her curiously.  With their four eyes watching, Maggie twisted her hair up into a chignon and secured it with the dancing pencil.

Hair up, she softly pushed herself into the exit door, leaving the fluorescent world behind for tomorrow.

And went home to paint her nails red.
 


WRITTEN BY:  DANIELLE VAN BEEST


 

"There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it.  It is like falling in love."
                                                          -Christopher Morley