Zoe’s Throne

Zoe’s Throne

by | Nov 12, 2024 | Writing

Zoe’s Throne

Zoe sat quietly by the side of the road, she sat upon her throne—a rock large enough to be that throne. It was larger than a chair, but not as big as a mountain. 

The rock had been there for generations, but only there for Zoe. The throne was her best secret, one of many, we’ll come to find out. She wouldn’t tell you about the time she crawled under the road or the time she kissed Billy Joe on the cheek because he made her laugh. That was a rare, spontaneous moment; usually, she planned things more carefully.

She first found the throne while hiding from her older brother. It had a sort of seat carved by time on itself. It was not soft, as you would imagine with a rock. She spoke to it, listening for its story. 

She guessed its story began long before humans, maybe even before the dinosaurs. Rocks came first, after all. Rocks come in all shapes and sizes, just like people, and they evolve, too, over time, yet always keeping their personality from their inception. 

Zoe thought it was silly that people didn’t see how similar rocks and humans were. Or maybe they did, and she just hadn’t learned it in school yet. “Stupid school,” she told her rock. “They never teach the interesting stuff.” Zoe saved her best thoughts for her rock instead. That’s why she always stopped at her throne, lost in the woods for all to find—but only Zoe did, because others were too busy to notice.

Zoe didn’t mind keeping the rock to herself, a place to meditate in the quiet woods when the noises became too loud. She slept on the floor at home. She likes hard surfaces, yet she is not hard herself, but rather, she is gentle and kind. Kind, like the time she sang to a bird that landed on her throne. Every spring, she waited for the bird, but one year it didn’t return. She shouted her song, “Three Little Birds Upon My Doorstep,” hoping it would hear, but the bird never came. The throne and Zoe sat there crying together. After that, Zoe brought her sketchbook and sketched whatever she saw, like the bear she never finished drawing. We aren’t sure if that’s where the story ended.

Zoe shared her stories with her throne: a princess who saved herself, a dinosaur who only slept on Sundays, a frog who wore goggles because he hated getting water in his eyes. She offered snacks to the rock. It was passive, receptive, and reserved, yet it listened in a way only a throne sharing the DNA of a little girl could. Sometimes, Zoe yelled, “Why won’t you listen to me? You never listen!” But all the throne did was listen. She threw pebbles at it when she got mad, and the rock stood silent, accepting.

Zoe wondered if she could ever be as wise as her throne, feeling sorry for herself. 

She sat beside it, dejected. She wondered if she could ever have a best friend like her throne.“But you don’t even have a name, do you?” she whispered. The throne, as per usual, didn’t reply.

“If you won’t tell me your name, I’ll name you myself. You’re…you’re…you’re… stupid. No, I’m sorry. That was mean. You didn’t deserve that. I’m the stupid one.” She slapped herself in the face. “I want to call you…” She paused, a frown creeping over her face as she noticed the fresh spray-painted letters: Kilroy was here.

“Kilroy? Who’s Kilroy? Do you have other visitors? Aren’t you loyal to me?” she demanded. “Fine. I’ll call you Traitor!” And she crossed her arms across her body and pouted.

Then she looked at her rock with sympathy, “Oh, you didn’t invite Kilroy.”

 “Oh, I shouldn’t have gotten jealous. I’ve known you for years and yet don’t know anything about you…your name. Why won’t you tell me your name?” She admired its soft shades of gray and how the sunlight danced on its surface, speckled through the trees. She rubbed her hand across its surface.

Zoe turned to look at her throne, “I know! I’ll call you Dusty.”

Dusty sat there pondering its new name as a breeze swirled leaves around them, brushing dust into Zoe’s eye.

“Oh, you don’t like the name? How about Felicia?” She giggled as a downpour began, soaking them both. They laughed together, Zoe and her rock. She leaned down, gave it a kiss, and said, “See you tomorrow, Amon, the hidden one.” And Zoe skipped away.

The Cast Iron Pan

The Cast Iron Pan

by | Nov 10, 2024 | Writing

The Cast Iron Pan

Lindsay picks up the cast iron frying pan with both hands, surprised by its weight. Nevertheless, she perseveres.
“Take one step closer, and I’ll hit you!”

The bear stands there on its two hind feet, its brow furrowed (as much as a bear can furrow its brow) at Lindsay’s threat. It opens its mouth wide, revealing sharp, sparkly white teeth.

“Rar?” it replies, its breathing amplified through the kitchen.

Lindsay looks up at the towering bear. I never thought I’d look up to a bear, she thinks to herself. Its claws are sharp like the knife in the sink. The bear’s scent overpowers the room—a mix of wet dog, skunk, damp earth, and fish. Lindsay plugs her nose. She cautiously steps back, practically tiptoeing, yet her heels touch the ground. I really wish I was wearing shoes. Practical shoes, like sneakers.

The bear continues to look at her, then goes down on all fours. Lindsay realizes she’s backed herself up against the counter. Can I reach the knife? Could I stab it without it mauling me first? No, the frying pan has more power. I have more of a chance.

She says aloud, “I am going to sidle slowly to the side here,” then mutters quietly, then if I can just get to the edge… I think I can make a run for the door.

The frying pan is heavy, tiring her arm, but Lindsay doesn’t notice. The bear takes a step toward her, huffs, and Lindsay gasps. She scrunches up her face and takes a deep breath—two, three, four, hold, two, three, four—and releases, blowing out a forest fire. The bear cocks its head curiously, then sits on its haunches.

Why does that bear look so freaking relaxed? Lindsay wonders. She lifts the frying pan again, first over her left shoulder, then switches to the right. That’s better. Her cell phone vibrates loudly on the counter, like an infestation of cicadas trapped in a metal chimney pipe. Lindsay jumps and lets out a small scream.

The bear says, annoyed, “Rar.”

Lindsay suddenly makes herself big and towering. She’ll stare the bear down—she read that’s what you’re supposed to do with a wild animal. The bear stands up on all fours again. Lindsay shrinks down, cowering. The bear looks at her; she bites her lip. It turns around, and she watches it closely, tightening her grip. The bear walks over to the door. Lindsay suddenly drops the cast iron pan on the floor with a crash!

The bear turns to look at the disturbance. Lindsay looks on in horror and quickly picks the pan up. The bear scratches at the door to go out.

How can I let the bear out?

The bear looks at her, sits down again to wait, and says, “Rar,” then lies down and falls asleep.

This is Lindsay’s lucky day. She snatches her cell phone and runs out the door with the phone and cast iron pan in hand. She dashes outside and, once safely away, collapses on the ground, holding the pan tightly.

She shouts, “Thank god for cast iron pans!” She gives the pan a big, loud kiss and holds it tight. Shaking, she says, “That’s it, I’m selling the house and moving to the city.” She takes a big breath and says, “Siri, call 911.”

No Hope at the DMV

No Hope at the DMV

by | Nov 7, 2024 | Writing

No Hope at the DMV

Hope walks down the stark hallway. The building was unusually quiet. She finds the sign for the DMV, opens the door, and walks up to the teller. There are no lines.

She says “Hi, my name is Hope and I lost my ID. Can I get a new one?”

The teller looks at the woman named Hope and says, “Sorry, we don’t have any IDs with that name. We have ‘Despair,’ ‘Devastated,’ or ‘We’re All Fucked.’ You pick.”

The woman previously named Hope says, “Are those the only names you have? They are all kind of ugly and gloomy.”

The teller looks at the woman known as Hope on November 4th and says, “Well, We got ‘Misogyny,’ ‘Racist,’ ‘Homophobe,’ ‘Transphobe,’ and here’s a good one. It starts with X but not like the Twitter X, it’s ‘Xenophobe.’ You could call yourself Xena for short.”

The former Hope says, “God, Those are all awful. What else do you have?” she asks, hopefully.

The teller looks at her. The teller’s expression is stoic. “Sure, we got ‘Government Ruling Women’s Bodies,’ ‘White Supremacy,’ or ‘Christian Nationalism.’ You could go by Body, Whitey, Christian, or Chrissy. But that’s all I got. Oh wait, there’s ‘Stripping the Country of its Safety Net.’ You could go by Netty.”

The previously known woman named Hope says “Those are just awful names. Don’t you have something like Sue or Bev or Jennifer?” The teller looks at the woman, sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, honey, All the good names shattered into 70 million pieces all over the floor. I have shard sticking in my feet still, like painful memories of what once was.”

The woman without a name leans her elbows on the counter. “Gee, did it really happen that fast? All gone in 70 million pieces?”

The teller shrugs their shoulders, “Give or take.”

The nameless woman says, “Gee, is there really no Hope?”

The teller shakes their head, “Nah.”

The woman with no ID replies, “Gosh, Those aren’t good names to choose from. Is that all I have to choose from?”

The teller raises an eyebrow. “Lady, you better pick one before the government issues you one. You won’t have a choice soon. Women lose all their rights. They will be controlled by men whether they like it or not. I suggest the name ‘Racist.’ You could call yourself Race. That sounds like a strong man’s name. Strong, manly men with insecurities have all the power now. So just deepen your voice a bit; maybe cut your hair short because the new ruling class has short hair—if you ask me, they really lack flare—and depending on your penmanship, You could try to Macho up your handwriting.”

The woman with no good choices for a name, or anything else for that matter, drops her head into her hands, shaking her head. She says, “How can this be? I had so much Hope in me. These choices are awful. This world you’re describing is horrible.”

The teller shrugs, “Yeah, you’re telling me. Dreams are gone now, too.”

The woman mourning the loss of her name says, “No! Really? Oh, this is terrible, simply terrible.”

The teller says, “Yeah. Well, the people voted, so that’s it. Look, I’m sure this is shocking for you, but I got to get out of here before the passport window closes. So, can you pick a name?”

The unnamed woman replies, “No, No, I can’t. I’ll have to keep looking for my ID. Thank you for your help, and good luck.”

The unnamed woman turns to leave. The teller calls back to her, “They confiscated all Hope IDs. You won’t find it anywhere!”

The woman continues to leave, and the teller shouts, “There is no Hope!”