One Quirk Later #11~ In Which We Get Two Quirks For the Price Of One(?) And There Is Jam…Of Some Sort

Greetings, merry friends!

So it’s another Quirk! Huzzah! (Maybe this time I will take it easier with the angst, but I make no promises.)

Jem Jones created this truly exquisite flash fiction series, and you should all join in on this madness, you really should.

Behold, the prompt currently under consideration:

The result of this prompt+my brain somehow amounted to two vastly different Quirks. And I’m going to share both of them with you, because I am feeling generous…or something like that.

Quirk response the first:

Strawberry Jam

I.

Essie pushes open the heavy glass door, dragging me after her into the chilly morning air. The grass brushes dew onto our bare feet, and I shiver involuntarily, goose bumps erupting on my arms. I try not to feel grumpy.

She pulls me down in front of the strawberry beds, her face practically glowing with excitement, and I feel the dew soaking into my jeans where my knees press into the ground. Grinning, Essie lifts up a leaf. A little green strawberry has just begun to form. I wonder at how much pleasure she takes in something so small.

I catch myself thinking that it’s not something she learned from you.

II.

Leanne reads out loud to us almost every night before bed. Right now we are making our way through David Copperfield. Essie likes Tommy Traddles. I can tell from the way she smiles every time it mentions him. I want to be Betsy Trotwood when I grow up, but I know that’s not a very realistic goal—Essie would never help me chase donkeys off of our lawn, and I wouldn’t have the heart to do it myself if I knew it would make her unhappy.

III.

Summer sun beats down on our necks. It makes the world smell like it’s burning, but it’s a good kind of burning—like barbecues and wood-smoke and toasted marshmallows. Essie and I are shaking down the strawberry plants one last time, making absolutely sure that we’ve gotten every last strawberry. There is earth under our fingernails. When we are satisfied, we carry our brimming baskets in to Leanne.

I call her Leanne still, even though she told us we can call her mom.

I never want to think of that word as belonging to her.

She makes us sit down and eat chicken salad sandwiches with lemonade before we start, but Essie is squirming with impatience. I guess I am too, on the inside. But the sandwiches are good.

Caterpillar rubs against our ankles, silently begging for a taste. Essie drops part of her sandwich for him, and pretends it’s an accident. But we all know better—including Caterpillar.

IV.

When we first came here, Essie wouldn’t let Caterpillar out of her sight. She would lie on the carpet for hours, running her fingers through his thick gray fur. Sometimes he would wander off after she’d fallen asleep like that, and when she woke to find him missing she would panic.

I got really good at finding Caterpillar fast.

V.

I hate it when Essie is unhappy.

VI.

When Leanne began to read Charlotte’s Web to us, Essie got really upset. She started sobbing and she wouldn’t stop, no matter how many times we tried to tell her that Wilbur wasn’t going to die.

I couldn’t calm her down. I just hugged her close to me and wished that I wasn’t so full of hate. I wished I wasn’t thinking about you. But I was.

Leanne sat with us for a long time, her hand resting on my shoulder. It’s bizarre how comforting something so small can be.

Then she went and made us hot chocolate.

I don’t understand her. She is quiet and steady. She is like a deep well where the waters are still and peaceful.

I am not like her. My insides are turbulent like an ocean.

I am afraid that I am like you.

Sometimes I wonder if Essie could feel all that hate burning inside of me and that’s why I couldn’t calm her down.

VII.

The same stupid scenes play over and over in my head: Essie, offering a little green berry to you, only to have you grab her wrist and scold her for picking it too soon; you, shouting at Essie for giving a bite of her meatloaf to the cat; smacking her for breaking a glass on the tile floor, for every little mistake; yelling at her for not answering you, for never answering you, for never opening her mouth; you and me, yelling, screaming at each other while Essie cries.

Why can’t you understand?

I hear myself, and I sound just like you.

Angry.

VIII.

She isn’t stupid.

She isn’t stupid.

She isn’t stupid.

IX.

Leanne doesn’t try to make Essie talk. She says she’ll talk when she’s ready. And that’s what I love about Leanne.

That’s why I can never think of her as “mom”.

X.

Essie gets super focused on mashing the strawberries. It’s somehow relaxing to watch her. There is sticky juice on her hands and arms and on the counter, but nobody minds the mess we are making. I help Leanne with the boiling and pouring into jars.

The jam is so bright and vibrant. It’s magical, really, seeing all the jars lined up along the counter, full of fresh strawberry jam that we made from our very own strawberries that we grew in our backyard.

Essie lets Caterpillar lick the sugar off her fingers.

Her smile is everything.

I don’t want to let you ruin the tranquility of this moment, but I catch myself wondering if you would be surprised by all these beautiful, brimming jars. I wonder if any part of you regrets not waiting to see what might happen.

I hope that you do. I hope that you regret giving up on us.

And I feel nasty for thinking that.

XI.

I feel Leanne’s arms wrap around me from behind, and she tells me I did a good job.

I don’t know why that makes me cry. But it does.

Essie drops off her stool and hugs me.

The three of us are locked together, just breathing, as silent tears run down my face. The ocean heaving inside me stops.

I want to stay in this stillness forever.

Quirk Response the second:

Concerning the Phonetics of Jam

“I can’t believe we are doing this!”

“That’s because we’re not doing this.”

“You don’t have to be so negative, you know.”

“I’m being realistic.”

Three cats sat on the edge of the ping-pong table. They were brothers. Their names were Jam[1], Jam[2] and Jam[3].

“First of all,” said Jam[4], “I don’t see how we are going to hold the paddles.”

The three of them looked down at the ping-pong paddles strewn over the table.

“We’ll figure something out,” Jam[5], assured his brother. “Right now we shouldn’t let ourselves get bogged down with little details like that.”

“I can’t wait to become the first feline professional ping-pong players!” exclaimed Jam[6] gleefully, flicking his tail. He leaped up suddenly and pounced on an unsuspecting ping-pong ball, which hastily made a run for it across the table and onto the floor. Jam[7] bounded after it.

“Focus, Jam[8], focus,” chided Jam[9], standing and walking over to one of the paddles. “I was about to explain the rules of the game.” He sniffed the paddle. “Let’s see now…”

Jam[10] sighed and leaped off the table.

“Where are you going?” cried Jam[11].

“To tear up the cardboard in the study,” Jam[12] replied. “This whole ping-pong idea is a lost cause.” He sauntered out, tail in the air.

“Well…if that’s your attitude!” blustered Jam[13]. “You’re going to regret giving up on us! We’re going to become the best ping-pong players anyone has ever seen!”

Jam[14], meanwhile, had succeeded in lodging his ping-pong ball under a filing cabinet.

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[1] Pronounced Jam

[2] Pronounced Ham

[3] Pronounced Yam

[4] Pronounced Jam

[5] Pronounced Ham

[6] Pronounced Yam

[7] Pronounced Yam

[8] Pronounced Yam

[9] Pronounced Ham

[10] Pronounced Jam

[11] Pronounced Ham

[12] Pronounced Jam

[13] Pronounced Ham

[14] Pronounced Yam

Epilogue

Well, I hope you can forgive me for that second one. I just couldn’t resist.

Many thanks to Jem for the prompt! Now, all of you go forth and write your own quirks if you have not yet done so!