The Secret

This is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago for a theme contest. While I did not win, I do like this story and have often thought of expanding it into a full length novel involving mermaids. ;p Enjoy!

There he was again. That strange, beautiful boy. He was sitting in his usual corner of the cafeteria, only a bottle of water in front of him. He was tall, at least 6’2. He wasn’t muscular exactly, leaning more towards lanky. But he had strong hands. And now they gripped the bottled water. He leaned his head over the table, his curly, blonde hair hiding his eyes from me. But I didn’t need to see them. I had memorized them long ago. They were the cold gray of stone, and equally hard. And yet, deep within them, I could see the spark of warmth. Some undiscovered secret that I longed to know. But no one could ever get close enough to him to know. That’s just how things were.

            And then he lifted his head. And those stone, cold eyes that I had only ever observed from afar met mine. And I couldn’t breath. The chatter of the cafeteria faded from my ears and all was silent except for the beating of my heart. His eyes danced as they bore into mine and the spark I had always imagined was there, shone brighter than ever. I could see the warm being inside, quietly calculating, calmly observing. His lips quirked up slightly and I could see a refined sense of humor in him as well. So much inside, yet so little exposed to the world.

            My eyes were wide and had begun to dry out when I finally blinked. And in the half second of that blink the voices returned, my breath returned, and his hair covered his face once more, his stony exterior firmly in place. Had I only imagined that? Had I slipped into a daydream or merely a lapse of consciousness? My hands were gripping the table so hard my fingers had turned red at the ends and my knuckles were bone white. 

            “Are you okay?” Olivia, my best friend, leaned close to my ear and whispered. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

            I looked at her quickly before returning my gaze back to him. “I…I don’t know.” I admitted. “I think…I just need some air.” I pushed away from the table, my chair squealing on the tile, before I ran for the exit. I burst through the doors, breathing the crisp November air in gasps. I clutched my arms around myself and fell onto the stone benches that sat by the doors.

            I was trying to regain my composure when the door opened behind me. I tensed immediately. I could sense it. It was him. A strong, tan hand rested on my shoulder and I looked up. I met those grey eyes once more, and this time they hid nothing. I could plainly see the person behind them. He smiled down at me, a teasing, amused smile. One I had no choice but to return. He took the seat beside me, cradling my hand in his and averted his gaze across the busy interstate that ran beside the school, towards the western horizon, and beyond that, the sea.

2011 (c) Evelyn E. Gaerke

Artistic Expression

I've recently been feeling less myself than usual what with my grandfather's illness and some other personal issues, which has led me to feeling restless and irritated. I fidget constantly and sometimes I'll try to say something and forget what I was going to say. This has been especially obvious the past few weeks and I've been taking some personal time to try to center myself. The only effective method so far? Poetry. It never fails that when I'm feeling down or torn about some issue, I find inspiration and relief through poetry. I'm not a particularly good poet, nor am I ga ga over it. I like poetry, I like music, and I have favorite poets, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dorothy Parker, and William Shakespeare, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life composing verses.

Therapists have been seeing success for years in introducing creative outlets to those who suffer from various mental anxieties, including children who have been abused, and with good reason. Creating something from seemingly nothing gives you an amazing feeling. When you are proud of your creation you experience a high you can't get anywhere else. You tap into a part of your brain where your emotions just take over and guide you and only writing, drawing, sculpting, etc can release these feelings. When you see a painting, no matter the skill level, from someone who put their entire self into it, you can't help but be affected. Its a completely right-brained capability that needs to be utilized more often than our math and science centered society allows.

Depression is at an all time high, mental anxiety disorders are being diagnosed everyday and people wonder why. I believe a good deal of them are caused by a stifling of emotions and that artistic side that allows you to expend these feelings in a healthy manner. Going through school, any attempts at artistic expression outside of the zero funded art department was frowned upon, even punishable by in-school suspension. My brother was an artist. He loves to draw, has since before he could write. But teachers were constantly harping on him about drawing in class and completely dismissing that drawing was the way he coped with the bullying he suffered, not only from other students but quite often from the teachers themselves. I understand that teachers have a curriculum they have to adhere to as well as having to bend to the will of the school board, but there was no sympathy to the artistically and emotionally inclined.

I was no math whiz. In fact, I hate math. I understand the need for it. But I am no meant to use math in any future career. At least not the complicated math involved in algebra or calculus. But I loved to read and write. I used free time in class to work on fan fictions or small original stories and to read. But there was no place in school for someone like me. The library was only good for checking out books, but most people used it as a social hub instead of a quiet place to indulge in a delicious novel. I wrote, but there was no place in school to showcase it. At least not available to the entire student body. Really, unless one was considered "gifted and talented" by whoever determines a student's complete capabilities without actually testing each and every student, you were put aside and coasted through school.

I've digressed, but my point is, there are so many people with stories out there, or with paintings or sculptures etched into their minds, songs they hum in secret. But nobody will ever hear or see or read them. And maybe that's how some of these people like it. But as somebody with a story to tell and nobody listening until now, I feel like my 13 years of primary and secondary education could have provided me with some kind of outlet. And maybe, just maybe, if we taught tolerance of the arts in school people would become comfortable expressing themselves and they could learn to be happy. That's all I want.

The "Smart People Wear Glasses" Fallacy

I don't know how many times I've heard, "people who wear glasses are nerds", that they're typically the smartest people in school, yada yada yada. I haven't encountered as much of this at college as I did in middle and high school but it's always bothered me. I'm not saying it's a completely obsolete assumption but it is certainly not true of everyone who wears glasses. I've worn them since the fourth grade when my vision started going down hill. The reason? Part genetics, part Toonami (remember Sailor Moon, Tenchi Muyo, Dragon Ball Z?). Not constant studying.

I was a pretty average kid-intelligence wise-and hardly what one would call a nerd. It wasn't until I got my glasses that that stigma was slapped on me. Of course, later I took a great interest in reading and studying and I gladly accept that I am nerd, much better than "dumb blonde", right? I just wish people would think twice before assuming something about someone based on a superficial contraption.

I remember one time in high school, a teacher had put us into groups for an assignment. I was paired into what was arguably the dumbest group of boys in my grade so of course I wound up doing all the work. As they were copying the assignment, word for word, they were giggling Beavis and Butthead style that they would get a good grade because I was so smart. Now they had no way of knowing I was smart. They had never seen my grades and I was very quiet in all my classes. It was my glasses. Unlucky for them, the subject was not my best and I only half understood the assignment, so really I wrote down a bunch of random nonsense. I don't fully remember the grade I got on that assignment but I'm positive it wasn't anything above a C.

My point is, everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, regardless of what they look like or what you may think they're like based on a stereotype and if you depend solely on these assumptions, you could find you are way off base, as the group of boys did when they received their grades.