Flipping Coins in August

Here's a short story I wrote today.

~

There it was, leaning towards the blaring afternoon sky. Stretching out itself to the calm passing of the depressing yet cool August wind. With much persistence, the turtle continued with its stretching pursuits.

Three, two, one, counted the boy with a feather for a hat. Three, two, one, he repeated. With no luck, the boy with a feather for a hat was left dismayed and bemused by the strange August sky and the strange turtle living under it. The boy with a feather for a hat left the park, with hands buried deep in his own pockets, secretly squeezing a stone he had found swimming in a pond where the persistent turtle lived.

Left alone, the turtle continued to rise above its introverted shell. Gently pushing itself upward, trying to catch the fading rays of the melting sun. Finally, it reached its own zenith. Head out, legs numbed, eyes squinted, the turtle smiled at the world as the sun began to hide itself from both the mundane and the bizarre showers of the Earth.

The turtle held its head up above the glistening blades of freshly trimmed grass, as the neighborhood ants marched and watched in awe, carrying bits of cheese and muffins with them. The subtle resplendence of this strange August afternoon greeted the resting twigs and falling leaves with a shy hello – just like how a young girl would hesitantly smile at a new friend in class.

“That’s my turtle. Her name is Merry. It’s Merry, not M-A-R-Y. It’s spelled like Merry Christmas. Merry the turtle,” the boy said to the curly-haired girl.

“So who is the boy with a feather for a hat? And why are you telling me this story?”  The curly-haired girl furrowed her brows as she waited for the boy’s answer.

The boy stared at the curly-haired girl. He has always been amused with the girl’s playful curls, her bizarrely thin upper lip, her inconspicuous scar hidden somewhere along the dark circles under her narrow eyes. The girl was wearing a bright yellow turtleneck top, matched with an old pair of jeans, and a faded pair of yellow sneakers.

“The boy with a feather for a hat was me. I sometimes put feathers on my hair. Anyway, that’s how I found Merry. I found her in this park, she was trying to stick her head out, but she couldn’t do it. So I left the park, but came back a few minutes later and I saw her with her head finally sticking out. Then I took her home.”

The curly-haired girl gave a listless sigh. “So you placed a single feather on your hair and called it a hat? You’re quite strange. The world needs more of your strangeness.”

The boy smiled.  “Do you want to see Merry?”

“Sure. But maybe some other time, your house is thirty minutes away from here, right?”

“Okay. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Or the day after that. Or next month. Or when we’re both old and grey,” said the curly-haired girl.

“You’re like a drought taking place in a happy June, a typhoon happening on someone’s birthday, you’re like a plant attracting caterpillars. Caterpillars you’d poison with your dangerous leaves.”

The girl half-smiled. “I don’t really understand what you’re saying. You can be so weird sometimes. And didn't you know that too much similes and metaphors can make you seem corny? Yes, it can.”

The boy buried his hands deep in his own pockets, furtively squeezing the stone he had taken from Merry’s pond.

Clouds huddled above the girl’s playful curls and the boy’s featherless hair. The orange sky was slowly turning into a dark mesh of odd-shaped clouds and a group of insidious fireflies.

“Fireflies. Don’t you just love them?” the boy asked with such a gentle voice.

“Hell no.  Up-close, they look weird. And whenever they’re all together, giving off this bright light, it scares me. It reminds me of death or something close to that. I just don’t like them too much.”

“Death? How can you associate them with death? They give life to the dark abysses of the night. They’re the fireworks of the night!”

“There you go again with the lame metaphors. They just remind of me dying. Not total suffering or pain or anything morbid. Just the concept of death, of passing away, of leaving everything there is in life. Fireflies remind me of the feeling you get when you’re saying good bye to your seatmate, knowing that you may never be in the same class ever again. It’s similar to the feeling you get when you finally meet somebody you’ve been very curious about for a long time, then when you’re in the same room, you’re only a few inches apart, but you can’t seem to talk to each other.  It’s that awkward shyness, the elusive eye contact. You’re breathing, but you’re actually dying. I don’t know, that’s how fireflies make me feel.”

The boy removed his hands from his pockets. He touched the bridge of his nose with his left hand, he only does this for three reasons – either he’s shy, he’s nervous, or he’s trying to hide his happiness.

“And you said you hated metaphors. Tell me more about this breathing and dying feeling. What do you mean?” The boy sat down and felt the blades of the grass running across his frail fingers.  

The girl frowned as she sat down next to a thick group of untrimmed grass. “I can’t explain it well. I’m not very expressive. It’s just the way you feel when you know you made the wrong decision, when you were asked if you wanted to do something and then you said no even though you really wanted to say yes. It’s the feeling you get when you have so much hesitations in life, or when you have so much things to hide from everyone. It’s as if you’re constantly lying to everyone. And even to yourself. And everyday, you’re afraid that they’ll find out your secret, but at the same time, you actually want them to find out. It’s the feeling you get when you’re really confused, sad, and happy at the same time. It’s a mixture of bafflement, excitement, and uncertainty rolled into one huge mess. I'm not sure why, but fireflies really make me feel this say. Okay, I’ll stop talking now.”

The boy was staring at the curly-haired girl’s face as she talked, but when their eyes met, he quickly turned his attention to the dim and passive August sky.

“Wow. I don’t know, but I actually felt what you’re trying to say. I felt uncomfortable just thinking about what you’re saying, but then I also felt a smile gently creasing on my face. I don’t know. But all you said is true. I hate it when I have secrets, secrets I want to share, but I just can’t.”

The girl stood up and shook off the dried grass hugging her knees. “Why are we having this conversation anyway? Throw me a coin.”

“What? A coin?”

“Yes, a coin. Quick!”

The boy took a coin from his pocket and gave it to the curly-haired girl. “Here. Why? Do you need to go and buy a piece of candy or something?

“Look, here. A coin can only have two sides, yes? But if we spin it like this. It creates a sort of illusion, right? Now it appears that there are more than two sides. And you can’t clearly catch the image of these new sides, right? They remain unclear, too fast, too vague. But it still appears that there are many sides, right?”

The boy took the coin and gave it another spin.

“Look. Multiple sides, illusions or not, we see them. It’s like life. It’s like a person’s life, a person’s trove of secrets. The fluidity of characters. The vast expanse of one's personality. The many horizons of life,” the girl said as she ran after her straw hat. The cool August wind has kept her straw hat flying across the deceiving green fields of the old park.

“Wow. I, I don’t know what to say. You…,” the boy wanted to say more but felt his own tongue becoming numb.

“I have to go home now. Looks like it’s going to rain, I didn’t bring an umbrella. You better go home as well. I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait! Can we meet again tomorrow?”

The curly-haired girl left the old park. The previously orange August sky has turned grey. Daffodils were covered by mud as the rain fell over this strange August afternoon. Fireflies moved out of the wet park, as the boy stood under a hollow tree.

~