I made a list of synonyms for "things" and then...

The same old colorless and lumpy porridge was served for breakfast. Nur swore that some days they also had raisins, or toast with blackberry jam, but Shadrack had yet to see any type of fruit in the mansion. He pushed the lumps in the mush around with his spoon disdainfully. Next to him, Warren wolfed down his second bowl like he hadn’t had third helpings at all his meals the day before. The Catherrams were further down the table, and Nur pushed her half-eaten bowl away from herself, quietly excuse herself from her family and walked around the table to sit across from them.
“Morning,” she said. Her napkin was still tucked into her shirt front. Warren paused his attack on the porridge bowl to nod in greeting.
“Morning,” Shadrack answered sourly. He couldn’t fathom how the other man could find the food palatable.
Since Shadrack seemed not to be much of a morning person, Nur ignored his mood and asked, “What will you be doing today? Warren and I are going to keep marking the wall.”
“Oh, you know, stuff.” Shadrack waved off an invisible fly. “And things.”
Warren’s spoon stopped halfway to his face and he glanced over at Shadrack with his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Items and objects?”
Nur beamed, excited for this new game. “Materials and paraphernalia!”
Warren lowered his spoon back into his bowl. “Odds and ends.”
“Entities and nonentities.”
“Miscellanea and–”
“Stop it!” Shadrack finally snapped. “You two are ridiculous.”
They both exchanged bewildered glances, as if it never occurred to them a prose-spewing bald girl and a wandering demon exorcist could be ridiculous.

AWKWARD STOPPING PLACE FTW 8D

Norr-ish thing. (WARNING: LONG AND UNPROOFED) (VERY UNPROOFED)

I restarted with more of an idea of where I'm going. Some bits need to seriously be reworked, it is riddled with typos, a few sentences were lifted directly from old version, but there you go.

--

Prologue

Once upon a time, there was a most excellent forest. It had beautiful, ancient trees that towered majestically over its crooked little rivers and good, fertile soil, and it was the only place in the country where one could find the tiny blood-red flowers used in Clarissa Cirisa’s Everlasting Self-Adjusting Blush for Fair to Medium Smiles. Thus, when Sylvester Catherram I beat the king in a game of biting checkers (best two out of three), he asked for a plot of land within this excellent forest, which was at the time called the Forest of Midnight Kisses, after its famous flowers. The king, of course, denied this request, because it was just a game of biting checkers, which everyone knew was not a real game, so of course his majesty was no good at it and of course it didn’t count.
A few generations later, Sylvester Catherram I’s grandson saved the crown prince from a very angry troll, and the present king was forced to acquiesce the request for a land in the most excellent forest.
The grandson was a bit greedier than Sylvester Catherram I and saw to find a group of people to whom he could rent his land and set himself up as the lord of the town, which he called Norr after his favorite conjunction. After hiring a few wizards to blast away a good sized clearing right in the middle of the forest, and after bribing the king with a new set of biting checkers to let them use illegal building spells to set up their town, and after employing a famous sorcerer to create an irrigation system that would bring water up hill just to prove he could, the grandson of Sylvester Catherram I realized that about a quarter of the people he had brought with him to settle this most excellent forest had been carried off and devoured by demons.
Hideously in debt and having lost all popularity with his subjects, the grandson issued an apology and organized the few who stayed into a wall-building party, which he claimed would help unify the town and insure a sense of neighborliness among them. Historians argue over whether this actually worked, and why anyone stayed at all (most point to the dragon that recently burned down a large sector of the capital city from which many of the new settlers came, others presume they simply fell for catchy wall-building slogans), but the wall was eventually built with heavy stones dragged up from the quarry.
By then a pathetic number of subjects remained, many having been killed by demons, and the rest having left shaking their heads at the whole disaster. The grandson quickly set up taxes on everything he could think of (including crying in private, which could not be done legally without first filling out a form and paying a small fare, an extra penny for doing it in the dark) and set about hiring a town wizard. This proved quite difficult, for the forest had recently been renamed the Forest of Festering Nightmares, and no one seemed to want to come live there. But the grandson eventually found a young magicking school drop out, Wizard Mestopheles, who only had the title wizard because it happened to be his first name. Wizard Mestopheles identified several human habits and general objects and ideas that seemed to attract demons, the most notable being color, which was quickly banded along with hair ribbons exceeding twelve inches in length, kittens and raining too hard.
Several more anti-demon laws and fertility incentives later, Norr had managed to build itself into a respectable, if not a bit dully colored, trading town. That was, until, Lord Sylvester Catherram II’s granddaughter had the gall to be born with a head of the most violently red hair.

Chapter 1 – The Wizard Shadrack and the Spoon

“Let me braid your hair,” Nur demanded, tapping her foot primly. Josephine was very patiently running her comb through her dark locks for the one hundred and third second time.
Nur knew this because Josephine droned out, “One hundred thirty twooooo,” as she did it
“You picked out my hat, so I get to do your hair,” Nur insisted. “You’ll look pretty in braids.”
“I can braid hair better,” Josephine snapped back. “One hundred thirty threeeeee.”
Josephine was seated in front of Lady Catherram’s vanity, which had the only mirror in the town. Nur stood behind her, restlessly tilting her hat to one side and then the other and glaring at her reflection. Sneaking up to her grandparents’ bedroom before the party had been fun at first as she and Josephine had giddily poked at their faces and rearranged their clothes in silly ways, but then Josephine had picked up the ivory comb and announced that her neighbor with the amazing wavy hair always said a woman should brush her hair three hundred times before styling it.
“I can comb hair better, so my hair will look even nicer,” Josephine had explained. “Oooooone.”
Nur thought that Josephine’s hair was too straight and flat, and that combing it would just make it fall limply out of clips and pins even more than it already did. But Josephine looked so pleased with the fancy comb and mirror that she had kept her comments to herself.
“What do you think Gran and Grandpa got me this year?” Nur asked, twisting her hat to the side to see if it showed off the little white bow better. It didn’t.
“One hundred thirty niiiiine,” answered Josephine. “I hope it’s licorice. I haven’t even seen any in ages.”
“It’s unnecessary, expensive, and comes from too far away,” Nur said factually, summarizing a lecture she had received when she’d complained about the lack of sweets to her father a few days previously. “Trade’s slowed down lately, so, you know, no importing frivolous things.”
Josephine groaned and forgot to count her next stroke out loud. “Maybe Catherram will make an exception for his poor little bald granddaughter.”
Nur snorted in a most unladylike way that her mother would surely scold her for. “Maybe he’ll go all out and get me a wig. Don’t girls get ridiculous things on their eighteenth birthdays?”
“Mm,” Josephine said, staring down at the comb in her hand. “I think sixteen is more fashionable now-a-days. Do you remember what stroke I’m on?” She turned the comb over in her palm as if scrutinizing it would tell her.
“No, and it doesn’t matter,” said Nur. “I’m going to braid it now.”
Josephine sighed. “I’m better at braiding hair. Here, I brought a new ribbon for you.”
Nur giggled. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?” Josephine asked, holding the broad white ribbon up against her face and examining the way it went with her hair in the mirror. It was, of course, less than twelve inches. “I’m better at picking ribbons than you,” she added decisively.
“That,” Nur stressed, shaking her head in bemusement as she began running her pasty fingers through Josephine’s hair. She had always been extremely envious of Josephine and her hair. Ever since she was a baby, Nur had frequently had to shave her head bald, as was the custom of Norrans with brightly colored hair. She supposed she was lucky her eyes were brown, unlike her blind aunt who had been born with blue eyes. She had had a wig when she was younger and her family had had more money, but it had worn out years ago. Now she had to placate herself with cheaper (but hopefully stylish) hats.
“This is too short to actually go into the braid,” Nur observed, taking the ribbon from Josephine’s outstretched hand.
“Yeah, I’ve been having that problem as of late,” Josephine agreed. “I really hate that ribbon length rule. I guess I’ll just have to cut my hair.”
“No!” Nur protested automatically, yanking the coveted hair in her hands. Josephine winced. “You have to have enough hair for the both of us, so that you may lift the burden of forbidden fire-hewn locks from my aching heart.”
Josephine laughed. “You’re always so dramatic, my little bald friend.”
“I speak the language of poems and epics and ye olde songs,” Nur said, grinning as she separated Josephine’s hair into three sections. “’Dramatic’ is part of the syntax.”
“My syntax is better,” Josephine muttered.
“And that’s part of your syntax,” Nur answered, still grinning down at the back of her friend’s head.
She plaited one of the sections and then braid them all together, tying it off with the white ribbon. She tried to make the bow as poofy as possible so that it would stand out more against Josephine’s charcoal dress. Josephine flipped the braid over her shoulder so she could examine it.
“Lovely, m’dear,” she said, running her finger down its length.
“They shall be singing your beauty from the high arcs of the dining hall,” Nur announced. “Shall be go and grace them with your wonderfulness?”
“Well, I think we’re nice and fashionably late now,” Josephine said, standing and brushing invisible dust from her skirt. “I think I’ll announce your presence, dear guest of honor.” She gestured grandly in Nur’s direction, who curtseyed with much bravado. “‘And here we have the charming Nur of Norr, heir of Lord Sylvester Catherram II’s spectacular township, sporting a most exquisite ebony evening gown, imported direct from–’” she stopped abruptly and blinked at Nur. “Where did you get that?”
Nur blushed. “Gran’s closet.”
Josephine laughed all the way down to the dining hall.

After a wonderfully bland and colorless dinner, followed by a surprisingly tasty vanilla cake with cream cheese icing and (to Josephine’s glee) licorice trimming, Nur opened her birthday gifts. She received little trinkets from friends, a pretty hand-woven basket full of dried cloves (for good luck) from Josephine, and a new handwriting book form her parents, who always bought her practical things. It was her grandparents’ gift she always looked forward to most, as they always gave indulgent gifts, like chocolate or glass figurines.
The soft gray box with a white satin bow was quite attractive, and Nur’s fingers trembled with anticipation as she opened it. Almost all her favorite possessions had been gifts from her grandparents Lord and Lady Catherram, who sat to her right, beaming at her.
“Oh,” she said when she finally got the box open. As wonderful as her grandparents were, she supposed disappointment was bound to happen eventually. Realizing the smile of her grandmother’s face looked like it was about to slide off at any moment, she attempted to fix her unintentionally unenthusiastic response. “Oh,” she repeated, happier this time. “What a gorgeous hat!”
She lifted it up for the entire company to see. The adults smiled and nodded in approval. The faces of the younger guests were plastered on the way that polite faces are when you realize a well-meaning gift is absolutely horrendous. Wizard Mestopheles began to applaud, as he was quite old and prone to applauding at occasions that usually did not warrant applauses.
“Here, here!” he cried. Josephine coughed awkwardly.
It was the most hideous, garish thing she had ever seen: ridiculous wide gray brim, a zebra striped ribbon tied in six bulbous and terrifyingly frilly bows, and an assortment of drab feathers stuck out seemingly at random. Inspecting it further, Nur realized that a miniscule floral pattern had been stitched into the entirety of the hat with delicate white thread.
“It cost a pretty penny,” Lord Catherram chuckled. “I expect to see you wearing it quite often.” He patted her hand expectantly.
Nur smiled weakly at him. “Of course, Grandfather.”
The hall was silent for a few moments, save Mestopheles clapping irregularly, and then Lady Catherram cleared her throat. “Nur, dear, why don’t you try it on?”
“Um,” said Nur, mind reeling for an excuse not to wear it. “But, it. Uh.”
Luckily, circumstance saved her from having to complete that sentence. Unluckily, the circumstance was Wizard Mestopheles, seated at the other end of the table, collapsing face first into his half-eaten slice of cake. The woman across from him screamed, and the man sitting to his left pulled him back into a sitting position.
“Are you alright?” asked the man, whose name was Leon and who was three years older than Nur. He had pushed her into a mud puddle at her sixth birthday party, stolen her lunch at a picnic celebrating a national holiday last spring, and she was unsure why he was invited back every year.
Wizard Mestopheles’s head lolled as Leon shook him.
“I’ll go get the doctor,” Nur’s father announced and ran out of the room. A woman got up to help Leon lay the unmoving man down on the stone floor, and the rest of the company sat around the table dumbly, wondering what on earth was going on.
As it turned out, the doctor was unneeded because Wizard Mestopheles was dead.
“Unsurprising,” said the doctor to Lord Catherram. “He was well over a hundred years old.”
“Hmm,” said the lord thoughtfully.
“You should probably get a knew one,” the doctor said, and helped his assistant carry the body away.
Most of the guests left quickly after the wizard had keeled over, but Josephine and her father had stayed, standing off to the side with Nur and her parents. Lady Catherram and gone up to her room to hide from the terror of death.
“We live the in Forest of Festering Nightmares,” Josephine had muttered in Nur’s ear. “You’d think she’d expect it.”
“I suppose her nightmares fester with something besides dead wizards,” was Nur’s answer.
In the aftermath of the disaster of Nur’s eighteenth birthday, Lord Catherram spent all his spare time writing to find a new wizard, making general complaints about everyone and everything around him as he did so, and Nur quietly slipped her new and quite odious hat into the back of her wardrobe. It stayed there for four months, until June arrived and brought with it a fantastic heat spell and a new wizard.

Wizard Shadrack was, like Wizard Mestopheles at the beginning of his career, fairly young. Unlike Wizard Mestopheles, however, he had finished school, completed an apprenticeship with a modestly famous warlock, and came highly recommended. Phrases like “an expert in the fineries of magic,” “competent, clever and highly skilled,” and “exceptional understanding of charms and counter-spells” littered the replies to Lord Catherram’s letters of inquiries. Lord Catherram’s verbose insistence that “Forest of Festering Nightmares” was a misnomer and that Norr was a quaint, bustling town full of specialty shops and delicious cafes had perhaps helped him hire someone competent. Whether or not his claims were complete lies was simply a matter of perspective.
Shadrack had managing to get a ride with a man intending to trade his hometown’s famous wheat for Norr’s famous baskets, and arrived at the town’s stone walls late one afternoon, cranky and dripping with sweat.
“First time here?” the tradesmen asked as a teenaged guard inspected his cart.
“Yes,” said Shadrack, fanning himself with his letter of employment. “I’m the new wizard.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the guard, looking up from squinting at the bags of grain. “That’s great. We’ve been looking forward to you. Too bad you’ll have to change.”
“Excuse me?” Shadrack asked as the tradesman hauled his trunk out of the back of the cart. The wizard climbed off shakily, stuffing his letter in his inside breast pocket.
“Yeah, no color in town,” the guard said, gesturing at Shadrack’s attire. He had chosen emerald robes for his grand entrance, accented with several gold rings and a turquoise necklace. He knew it wasn’t practical to dress up to travel, but he was narcissistic enough to want to show off when first meeting his new employers and did so anyway. There had been several moments sitting in the blistering sun, nostrils filled with the stench of the tradesman’s mule, that Shadrack had regretted his decision, but once they had entered the forest it had been shady enough to be bearable.
“Sam, can you mention the wizard’s here when you get in?” the guard said as he dragged the heavy gates open.
“Sure,” the tradesman answered and drove his cart through, his mule looking exceptionally bored. Shadrack was left standing with his trunk, feeling very confused. Sweat trickled down his back.
“What do you mean, ‘no color in town’?” he asked. The guard blinked back at him like he was of particularly low intellect. Shadrack noted an oozing blemish on his chin.
“Color attracts demons,” the guard explained slowly, as if to a small child. “There are lots of demons in the forest. We don’t want them in town, so no color.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Shadrack. “Who told you that?”
“Our old wizard, of course,” replied the guard, leaning casually against his spear. “It’s a shame he died. He was much less colorful than you. You’re going to have to shave, by the way.”
Shadrack ran his hand over his chin. He was sure he didn’t have any stubble. The guard must have caught on to what the other man was doing, because he said, “No, your hair.”
“My hair?” Shadrack’s hand wondered up to his scalp.
“Yeah,” said the guard. “It has to go.”
“What!” squawked Shadrack, protectively slapping both hands over the top of his head and taking several steps away from the teenager, as if he might pounce on him with a razor blade at any second.
“Yeah, it’s all… yellow-y,” said the teenager, picking at his pimple.
“It’s gold,” Shadrack protested. “Gold. Like the sun. Like… like gold.” The guard picked at the wax in his ear. “It’s not yellow.”
The guard rolled his eyes and hefted his spear over his shoulder. Shadrack wasn’t sure if this was meant to intimidate him or not. “Whatever you want to call it, I can’t let you in with yellow hair.
“Goo-oo-oold,” Shadrack annunciated. “And I’m not chopping off my hair. I’d look awful.”
The guard shrugged. “Well then I guess I can’t let you in.”
“You realize how insane you sound, right?” Shadrack said, crossing his arms. “Next thing you know, you’ll be saying I have to gouge out my eyes because they’re green!”
“Oh, are they?” asked the guard, squinting at him. “I hadn’t noticed. Well, that’s okay. We have a spoon for that.”
“What,” Shadrack deadpanned.
“A spoon. Here, I’ll go get it,” the guard turn back to the gate, which was still partially opened.
“You have a spoon,” Shadrack repeated, mind slack. “For eyes.”
“Yes,” the guard said in exasperation.
“For green eyes.”
“And blue eyes.”
Shadrack gawked.
“Wait here while I fetch it,” said the guard, and jogged into the village. Shadrack continued gawking at his back as he disappeared.
After a few moments of ogling with his mouth open, Shadrack remembered he was standing alone in the middle of a forest with the phrase “Festering Nightmares” in its name. “What have a gotten myself into?” he moaned to the sky. It was cheerfully blue in response. Muttering foul things about the guard’s facial hygiene, Shadrack grabbed his trunk and lugged it along with him into the strange town of Norr.

Nur was staring out the window, wondering what she should do to avoid doing chores that day, when she heard a knock at the door. She gazed longingly at the horizon, where she could see the town’s wall and green trees poking up behind it. The knocking persisted, and she realized the maid was not going to get. Nur shuffled down the hall and dragged the front door open.
“Hello,” said a burly man who smelled vaguely of mule. Nur couldn’t quite recognize him and guessed that he was some sort of trader, as they were the only out of towners who ever visited. She readied herself to slam the door in his face if he tried to sell her anything, but he surprised her by saying, “I’m here to tell the lord and lady their new wizard is here.”
“Oh goody!” exclaimed Nur, pleased something exciting had fallen into her lap. “I’ll go tell them– a thousand thank yous!” And she slammed the door in his face.
Skipping down the hall, she took a corner sharply and ran into the round stomach of Chef Melvin.
“My most grievous apologies,” she said staggering back from him and smiling up at him from around the brim of her hat.
He guffawed and patted her shoulder lightly with one of his massive hands. “Nur, m’dear!” he greeted in a naturally booming voice. “Do your parents know you’re running wild instead of studying music?”
“Oh, pish,” Nur said dismissively, flicking her hand as if to bat the idea away. “All I do is stare at useless little notes that no one in town can recognize by ear anymore. What are you up to, Melvin?”
“Collecting dust to thicken up the soup with,” the man replied, rubbing a meaty hand against the stone wall and then inspecting his fingertips.
Nur blanched. Melvin burst into laughter.
“It’s a joke, of course,” he said. Nur scowled playfully and he snorted. “But really, I’d like some better vegetables to actually thicken up the soup.”
“I like your soup,” Nur said. Melvin sighed.
“That’s only because you’ve never had anything else.” Melvin sighed again and looked toward a window in much the same way Nur had earlier.
“No, Melvin,” Nur protested, taking a large step to the view in attempt to block his view. The maneuver failed, as she was several heads shorter than he. She continued anyway. “Flinch not away from colorless flora which graces our humble kitchen! Take what we have and make with it its best, and draw forth its delicious juices, and cook with all the splendor of your heart.”
Melvin stared down at her, nonplussed. “I have no idea what you just said.”
Nur stared pointedly at his shoulder, cheeks tinged pink. “Yes, well. I thought it sounded nice.”
Melvin grinned and patted her shoulder again. “Thanks, kid. I’ll tell your folks you were studying hard.” And he lumbered away.
Shrugging, Nur skipped the rest of the way to the study and proudly announced Shadrack’s arrival.
“Most joyous day!” she cried, throwing her arms into the air as she leapt into the room. Her grandparents and mother did not bother to look up from their various tasks. Nur continued, arms still above her head as if she expected someone to come along and string a medal around her neck. “The sun has shone upon of most beauteous town, for we are here, and we are living, and our fortunes have converged upon this day, which brims forward, sweeping us up with it and deliver in its a tide a new wizard.”
At the word wizard, the three addresses looked up and exchanged a few confused glances as their mind processed that. Nur’s mother Florence, who had heard more of Nur’s speeches than anyone else in the manor, translated it first and smiled gently at her knitting. “That’s great, sweetie. Where is he?”
“Here,” Nur said proudly.
Lord Catherram removed his reading glasses and stood regally. “Where, exactly?” he asked.
The happiness melted from Nur’s face. “Oh, but I am a fool! I have no idea– that man just said he was here and I didn’t listen to him, or I did, but I didn’t let him finish–”
“Nur,” said Lord Catherram sternly. “Stop rambling.”
She did, looking sheepish.
“Florence,” he said to his daughter. “Go find out where he is.” Nodding, Florence got up and began packing away her knitting supplies.
“Catalina,” Lord Catherram said to his wife. She looked up at him. “Go find Nur presentable clothes.”
“I am perfectly presentable as I am!” Nur said, puffing out her chest. Lady Catherram sighed.
“You spilled your lunch all over your front,” she said. Nur deflated.
Lady Catherram ushered Nur upstairs to her bedroom and threw open her wardrobe. After a one-over of its contents, she picked out a white sundress and offered it to her granddaughter. “Here,” she said. “Nice and light.”
“I’ll need another hat then,” Nur sulked, and tossed her current one, which was gray with a little felt bird on it, to the floor. Lady Catherram tsked at Nur’s rather lumpy and blotchy bald head.
“Just because you were clumsy early doesn’t mean you can whine about it,” the woman chided. Nur pulled her current dress over her head and relished standing in the warm air in nothing but a slip for a few seconds.
“The new wizard’s going to see me with food all over myself eventually,” she said, pouting as she let her grandmother pull the new dress over her head. The older woman laced up the back and tied it tight. Nur winced.
“You rarely spill food on yourself anymore,” Lady Catherram observed. “You’re gradually learning poise, I do believe.”
“Maybe,” said Nur, twisting back and forth so that her skirt swished about her knees. “Pick me out a hat?” she asked, looking at her grandmother through her eyelashes the way she used to when she was a child and wanted to be cute. Lady Catherram smiled and leaned into the wardrobe.
“Oh!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I’d almost forgotten about the this.” She brought out a gray box with white bows, looking as if she had just found lost treasure. Nur paled.
“Oh… that…” said Nur, inching away from the box and what she knew lay inside. “I was. Uh. Saving it. For a special occasion. Yeah.”
“Well, I think a new wizard is as special as anything,” Lady Catherram said and set the box on Nur’s desk and lifted the lid. “I still haven’t seen you wear it!” Lady Catherram sounded almost giddy as she held the hat before her. Defeated, Nur stepped forward and bent her neck so her grandmother could arrange it neatly on top of her head.
“Oh, I could just paint a picture!”
Before Lady Catherram could continue with that thought, a maid appeared at the door.
“Lady Catherram!” she called. “A guard just came asking for the spoon. I thought you should know.”
Lady Catherram’s expression turned very grave. “The spoon? What for?”
The maid bit her lip. “The wizard.”

Shadrack got about ten feet into town before a woman started screaming at him. He ignored her, but it was a bit harder to ignore a small child flinging rocks at him.
“Hey!” he yelled at the boy, who scrambled away when Shadrack advanced toward him, a terrified look upon his face.
“Leaf-man!” the boy cried and disappeared into a dust-colored house.
Shadrack gritted his teeth and staggered further down the road, the weight of his trunk making him feel uneven. The town was made up of square little houses made of stone and wood painted the most unattractive gray Shadrack had ever seen. Most homeowners and tried to spruce up their barren little yards with rock mosaics, but this did little for the aesthetics of the town. There were no plants in site– no grass, no trees, no flowers. Everything was gray and unremarkable, and the only eye catching thing in sight was a large building in the distance, a sort of dreary mansion. Shadrack headed toward it.
The further in he got into town, the more people he saw. Upon seeing him, most fled down the nearest side street. An elderly man, however, decided to confront him, waving a cane angrily at his nose.
“Forty seven years I was a guard,” the man sneered. “And I never let scum like you in. You’re probably crawling with demon-mites and lice.”
Shadrack put up his hands defensively in a rather annoyed attempt to calm the man down.
“Sir, there’s no such thing as demon-lice,” Shadrack said.
“I meant the normal kind,” answer the man, and smacked him in the shoulder.
“Hey!” said Shadrack, rubbing his injured appendage.
“I’ll do it again if you don’t get out! Now!”
Shadrack huffed. “You people… you people!” He snarled, unable to articulate the horribleness of Norrans. The old man glared steely back at him. Huffing a second time, Shadrack turned back to the wall and staggered away.
“That’s what I thought!” the man yelled after him.
Turning into an alley, Shadrack dropped his trunk and kicked it open. Kneeling, he rummaged around inside until he found his silky black magicking robes, which he had been given when he had graduated school and been officially recognized as a wizard. He only wore them on very formal and somber occasions, but if he wanted to get to the dreary mansion and find his employer before the town hacked out his eyes or whatnot, he’d have to at least change clothes. He removed his jewelry and tucked them into an inside pocket. Then, peering around and seeing no one in sight, Shadrack stripped off his robes. He stuffed them into the trunk immediately, slamming it shut. Although the trunk was shiny black leather and blended in with the town’s monochromatic scheme well enough, its contents were a near explosion of color, as Shadrack owned almost nothing that wouldn’t draw attention to himself. For once in his life, however, he didn’t to be grabbing anyone’s attention. Unfortunately, there are few things in the world less attention-grabbing than a man standing in broad daylight in his underwear.
“Mama! A naked man!” a little girl called, pointing. Shadrack was so startled by the girl, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, that he squeaked and literally jumped back, only to trip over his trunk and fall into a pile of partial nudity and black silk.
“Oh my god!”
“Why isn’t he wearing anything?”
“Why is there a freckle there?”
Shadrack untangled himself and sat up to see a small crowd of people gathered at the end of the alley, watching him with wary fascination. Even with their crippling fear of color, the people of Norr could not resist a proper public spectacle. Shadrack let out his breath in relief; they were no longer running like rabbits all over the place.
Shadrack had never been one for modesty, so he stood, tossing his magicking robes over his shoulder like a towel, and baring his peachy flesh for all to see.
“I am your new wizard,” he proclaimed. “Take me to your leader.”
The Norrans ignored him.
“Wasn’t he the man wearing green earlier?”
“The demons must have taken his clothes!”
“He must be possessed!”
All at once Shadrack found himself the target of a screaming group of Norrans, rushing at him and shouting things about possession and poorly pronounce demon-be-gone chants. A woman beat him with her shopping basket, and children kicked at his shins. Fearing bruising of his precious skin, Shadrack flipped the robes in his hand over his head, as if it might protect him from blows from angry townsfolk, and ran. The crowd followed him, stumbling over his abandoned trunk, and getting noisier and noisier.
Shadrack scampered down to the opposite end of the alley, pausing briefly to get his bearings, and then sprinted down the open road toward the dreary mansion. A man with a large basket of fish yelled something about public decency as he passed, but made no move to stop him. He did, however, snatch his two sons by the collars of their shirts as they flooded by in the mob.
More people joined in the pursuit, but they were mostly children mistaking it for a town-wide game of tag, and for some reason only half-naked people got to be chased. One boy had even removed his shirt.
As they neared the mansion, houses turned into shops and the streets became more crowded. Shadrack dodged around several shoppers, a woman selling rolls of black cloth, and a man who tried to drag him into his restaurant. The older and bigger members of the mob were forced to slow down and separate as they now faced an obstacle course of pedestrians to maneuver around, and the children were distracted by the tiny and poorly stocked shops, which seemed like a carnival compared to the even more drab residential area.
Shadrack finally arrived at the doorstep of the dreary mansion, dust on his legs clumping with sweat, wearing only his shoes, underwear, and formal robes over his head. When he knocked on the door, the entire Catherram family was there to greet him.
“Oh,” said Florence. “I heard you were making your way here, but. Hmmm.” It wasn’t quite a disapproving noise, but it certainly wasn’t pleased. Lady Catherram made a funny little gasping noise and simply walked away. Lord Catherram was stoic. Nur’s father, Edgar, attempted to cover her eyes, but she waved him away.
“I’m not a child any more,” she said. “I am young only compared to the old, and I will not hold to have my eyes shielding from the world.”
Shadrack would have commented on that rather grand statement, but he was distracted by her hat.
Nur’s family ignored her. Lord Catherram held out his hand to Shadrack, and they shook, making brief introductions. Lord Catherram made a point of keeping eye contact with the wizard through out the entire exchange.
“I shall give you a tour,” Lord Catherram said, and led Shadrack into the mansion as if he were properly dressed. Shadrack played along. Nur’s parents drifted away, but she followed the pair of men, openly staring at Shadrack. If he noticed, he didn’t show it.
“Our old wizard had a room in the historical wing of the house,” Lord Catherram drawled, leading them down the hallway. “That’s the first floor except for the kitchen and cook’s quarters.” He continued rambling about the layout of the house as he led them along. Shadrack turned his head this way and that, memorizing doors leading to the dining hall, the sitting room and a bathroom as Lord Catherram gestured to them.
“You have plumbing?” Shadrack asked, stunned. That was still a big deal even in larger cities. Catherram stopped with his hand on another door.
“We have a system set up for bathing, which you will be in charge of maintaining, since it is very magic-dependent. Other than that, there is a very nice chamber pot in the closet, and also one under your bed.” Shadrack looked rather disappointed. “This is your room,” said Lord Catherram as he pushed open the door.
The room was spacious enough, though without many homely features. There was a lumpy looking bed tucked into the corner, a small desk with some writing supplies, a chest of drawers, and a work bench covered in a mess of vials, bottles, and packets of strange smelling powders. There was a tiny window with a pleasant enough view of the sky, but other than that there wasn’t so much as a rug. Shadrack moved over to the work bench.
“We weren’t sure what to do with that,” Nur explained as he poked at a plate full of slimy gray goop nested in the middle of it all. Lord Catherram seemed disenchanted with the whole thing.
“Are there any questions before we look at the rest of the house?” he asked, giving the impression he would be quite pleased if there weren’t.
“I have a question,” said Nur, raising her hand like a school child. She gestured at Shadrack’s entire figure, since she couldn’t exactly gesture at his clothes. She then very plainly asked, “What?”
“Oh right,” said Shadrack, looking down with himself in surprise, as if just noticing he wasn’t wearing pants. “I was wearing green earlier.”
Lord Catherram involuntarily hissed. “Yes, we heard about that, that and your eyes. We have regrettably and momentarily misplaced the spoon.”
Shadrack felt his nerves twist in his stomach, or perhaps it belated cramps from his impromptu jog through town. “You can’t possibly be serious about that,” he said. Lord Catherram fixed him with very serious eyes.
“Dead serious.”
“Um,” said Nur, shifting from foot to foot. “I was wondering if it is entirely just and righteous to do that to him?” Lord Catherram arched one regal white eyebrow at her. “Well, I mean, we only ever do that to babies…”
Shadrack wanted to feel horrified that this girl saw something “just and righteous” in the removal of babies’ eyeballs with a spoon, but he was again distracted by her hat. He couldn’t quite figure out its concept or what exact combination of characteristics made it so appalling.
“Nur,” Lord Catherram replied quietly, turning to her in such a private manner Shadrack almost felt he had been forgotten. “I realize doing this to an adult may seem despicable to some, but if he is to live here then he has to obey our laws. It is for the safety of Norr.”
Shadrack was not one to be forgotten, so he banged his fist on the work bench and said, “Look, I don’t know what crackpot maniac told you banning green eyes–”
“And blue,” Lord Catherram interjected.
“We legalized hazel two years ago,” Nur added helpfully. “It has to be brownish-hazel though; don’t want to be to risky.” She had more to say on legalizing pigments, but Shadrack decided to talk over her.
“There is absolutely no reason to believe color attracts demons,” he said more loudly than necessary. The Catherrams looked as if he had just spoken gnomish to them. “Look, I’ve had a few classes on demonology,” he said, and they looked more pleased and less puzzled. “And there’s nothing in the literature to suggest demon go after color. That doesn’t even make sense; there’s color everywhere in that forest! I rode through the whole thing in green and didn’t see anything even remotely threatening.”
Lord Catherram furrowed his regal brow and deepened his voice. “Now see here, our Wizard Mestopheles,” he began, but Shadrack countered by pitching his voice higher and continuing to speak anyway.
“Did your old wizard have any background in demonology?” the almost naked man asked.
Lord Catherram fell into a peeved silence, as Mestopheles had not. Nur piped up.
“Well, he lived in the Forest of Festering Nightmares for over a hundred years,” she said brightly. “Does that count?”
“No,” said Shadrack flatly. Nur resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. She was learning poise, after all.
“I’m just saying he’s probably seen more festering, nightmarish demons than most,” she mumbled. She was ignored. Lord Catherram seemed to be mulling over what Shadrack had said.
“You want us to overrule a tradition as old as Norr itself?” he finally asked.
“No, I just want you to make an exception for me,” Shadrack clarified. “I don’t care what the rest of the town has to do.”
Lord Catherram narrowed his eyes. “You can keep your eyes, then. But otherwise I want you to follow the laws of my town.”
Shadrack rolled his eyes. It would have to do for now. He was confident that given time, he could convince the town that a no-color policy was outrageous. “What about my hair?” he asked, and pulled his robes off his head. Lord Catherram winced as blonde tufts glinted in the light at him, and Nur seemed transfixed.
“Alright,” Lord Catherram finally said. “I will let you keep your hair. But,” he pointed severely at Shadrack’s face, “if I hear even rumors of demons in this town… well, I’m going to find the spoon just in case.” He exited the room, footsteps somewhere between irked and angry. As he stomped away, he called over his shoulder to Nur to finish showing Shadrack around the mansion.
Nur pretended to be interested in some ceiling cracks while Shadrack examined his new room. After testing the bed and examining every drawer and box he could find, he realized that his robes were in his hands and not on his body. He quickly shrugged them on and turned to the very distracting girl.
“Hey,” he said, and she looked over at him. She had wondered over to a corner was staring at the nondescript wall. “Your hat,” he said. She touched its floppy brim. “It’s very ugly.”
Her politely smooth and mildly pleased-with-the-world face cracked, did the equivalent of a facial somersault, and she gazed at him with a very wide and pained expression, forehead and cheeks twisted in a way that distorted her eyes.
“I knoooow,” she groaned, holding out her words with the obnoxious annunciation teenagers excelled at. “I thought I hid it, but I must have moved it when I was rearranging things, and then Gran found it and she thinks it’s nice, so she was all ‘this will make you look pretty for the wizard’ and she looked so pleased and happy and joyfully glee that I couldn’t say no.”
Shadrack did not pay much attention to her babbling, but instead examined her hair line. It did not exist.
“You’re bald,” he observed. “Are you blonde too?”
Nur puffed her cheeks and tried to pat the top of her head. Some feathers got in the way. “No,” she said. “It’s more like… I’m not sure. Chef Melvin said it was like carrots.”
Shadrack frowned back at her, the corners of his mouth drifting downwards. “You mean you’ve never even seen your own hair?”
“No,” Nur said with the lightness of completely normalcy. Shadrack opened his mouth to comment on that, but remembered her earlier statement about baby eyes.
Instead, he said, “Show me your indoor water system.”
She led him into the bathroom, which was dominated by a white porcelain tub. It was not fancy; no dragon claw legs like Shadrack was used to seeing on baths. It had two dull metal taps and a dull metal faucet. Nur beckoned him over to a little closet and showed him the mess of pipes it contained. He also spied the chamber pot Lord Catherram had mentioned.
“These take water from the normal irrigation pipes,” Nur said explained. “And some sort of magic heats the water here,” she continued, pointing to a particular pipe, “but this one stays cold.” She point to another one. “The water in the tub gets recycled in the servants bathroom, and we have another one just like it upstairs. They all pretty much look the same, except the servants’ one has a, um… holding thingy.” She traced a box in the air as she struggling for the right word.
“What type of magic heats the water?” Shadrack asked, examining the hot water pipe. There was nothing particularly magical about it.
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Nur. “But Mestopheles had to fix it almost everyday. We still have all his notes, so it’s probably in there somewhere.”
Nur went on to show him the rest of the mansion, and Shadrack tried very hard to pay attention to what she was saying and not the way the feathers in her hat bobbed fiendishly as she walked. After taking him around the tops floors, she took him back downstairs and out into a dusty lot in the back.
“This is our dungeon,” she said, nodding toward a dark, dilapidated building that seemed to be leaning again the town wall. Its foundation seemed to be crumbling, and the roof sagged. “It used to be the kitchen before we remodeled. Now we lock disastrous people up in it, for they endanger us with their lackadaisical ways.” She said this is a very serious tone, but her eyes seemed rather eager.
Shadrack wrinkled his nose at the filthy building and decided to never go near it.
“Are you going to show me around town too?” He asked.
She frowned, confused. “Why would you want to go out there?”
“I left some of my belongings closer to the gate,” Shadrack explained. Nur made a sound in the back of her throat that signified understanding.
“We’ll just send a servant to fetch it,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “I think it’s almost time for dinner, and I want to change my hat.”
“Yes,” Shadrack agreed, “and I’d like to change my clothes. Just a tick.”
Nur watched him in curiosity as he turned toward the mansion and stared intently at it, except that he seemed to not be looking at it at all, as if the walls were made of glass and there was something interesting on the other side. Then there was a crackling noise like a particularly noisy fire, and a leather trunk appeared behind the wizard and slightly to the left. He turned to it and muttered, “I always get the aim wrong with silent spells.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Nur. “Wizard Mestopheles couldn’t do anything like that!”
Shadrack continued, “Now, Nur– that’s your name, right?”
She nodded and he kneeled in front of the trunk. She peered over his shoulder as he pried it open. “What do you think I should wear?” he asked, and all she could do was stare dumbly down at the trunk’s contents.
It was not as if Norrans knew nothing of color. They had yet to manage to ban it completely. They knew shades of brown from the bark of the trees they could see over their wall, from hair that had been legalized decades before, from the soil of the earth they couldn’t just shovel away. They knew the blue of the sky, the green of leaves, the reds and oranges of autumn, and the pinks and purples of the setting sun. And yet here in this one little trunk, Nur had found more colors than she could put names to. There was a handkerchief that was a blue that was almost green, a shirt that was red but milky, a bracelet with little stones that were either purple or blue.
“I’m not sure what your grandfather would approve of,” Shadrack went on, not noticing the awe on Nur’s face. “See, these slacks are slate, but that’s not quite gray, is it?” He pulled out a pair of pants that were the bluish gray of a an early afternoon rain shower.
Nur gaped at the pants.
“Well?” asked Shadrack impatiently. “Are they acceptable or not?”
Nur swallowed. “Um, no. They’re… they’re blue.”
Shadrack sighed. “What horrible place have I stranded myself in?” he whined, and Nur scuttled away from him, looking over her shoulder for anyone watching them.
“I should really be terrified of you right now,” she said, a hint of a hysteric laughed breaking the end of her sentence. “Just wear what you’ve got on now.” And she ran into the dreary mansion, hat flapping in the wind.
Shadrack, of course, would not stand for that. Since his trunk was now in a somewhat secure location, he walked back to his room without it and then summoned it. Going through it, he pulled out everything he thought might be colorless enough for Lord Catherram. He eventually changed into a ruffled white shirt that his mother had told him was too girly (he did not care) and his slate colored slacks. A few dulling spells later and they were a pleasant shade of gray. He went down to dinner feeling quite good about himself.
Dinner was a spicy white piece of pork and a rather bland potato soup. The Catherrams were already there, along with a man who was introduced as Francis, the head basket weaver. Basket weaving was very important in Norr, apparently. A rather startled looking maid served the wizard, gawking at his hair. She was blonde, too, but it was an almost white color that must have been permissible.
“What, no vegetables?” Shadrack joked.
“Potatoes are a vegetable,” Florence explained matter-of-factly.
Shadrack distracted himself from the idea that he might be having potatoes for vegetables for years to come by grinding an absurd amount of pepper into his soup. The Catherrams engaged in pleasant chatting.
“Did you ever find the spoon?” Francis asked and Shadrack nearly choked on his soup. He had decided to save the small sliver of meat he was allowed for last.
“Chef Melvin had it,” Lord Catherram explained.
Edgar added, “He likes to use it for soups.”
Shadrack decided to skip the soup all together and start on the pork. As such, despite arriving late, he managed to finish before everyone else. He studied the room as they ate, and noted Nur was wearing a much more sensible hat. Since she was sitting next to him and merely picking at her soup, he decided to start a conversation.
“Are you ashamed?” he asked.
“What?” He head snapped up and she stared at him. “Ashamed of what?”
“Of having no hair,” Shadrack answered. She blinked at him.
“Of course not,” she answered. “This is perfectly normal.”
Shadrack shook his head, nonplussed. “You’re not even curious?”
She put down her spoon and watch him cautiously from the corners of her eyes. “What would I have to be curious about? There aren’t many curious things in Norr.”
Shadrack reached over and tapped the side of her head lightly with his index finger. “About your hair. What does it look like?”
Florence, who was sitting across from them, had apparently been eavesdropping because she rapped the table sharply and glared viscously at him.
“I’m only asking,” he said, but she stood anyway and called for her daughter to leave with her. Nur shrugged at him before following her out of the hall.

Shadrack was poking at his bed and trying to think of a spell to make it less uncomfortable when there was a knock at his door. “Come in,” he called without turning around and cast a pulverizing charm used for making powders on the innards of the bed. Nur entered the room just in time to see the mattress puff up and then deflate with a wheezing sound. Shadrack sat on it and looked at her expectantly. The mattress was thinner, but still soft and devoid of lumps.
“I will admit I am,” she said.
“You’re what?” Shadrack asked.
“Ashamed,” she replied. “And also curious.” Shadrack raised his eyebrows, and she took that as an invitation to continue. “For I see other girls of my youth attending their locks, and I see them laugh and their hair wave in the wind, and I think that I too would enjoy this, this flippant luxury of women, and I feel a great sense of envy, which I attempt to conceal ” She paused as Shadrack digested that. “Also, my head is lumpy.”
“Can I see?” Shadrack asked eagerly.
“No!” Nur immediately protested and clamped her hands down over her hat. “My scalp’s all mottled too.”
“Now I really want to see,” said Shadrack standing and walking toward her.
“Don’t you dare,” she warned, taking several steps back and glowering threateningly. Shadrack sighed.
“I’m only teasing,” he said, and she warily removed her hands from her hat. “Look, I can help.” He went over to his trunk, which he hadn’t been able to fully unpack yet, and pulled out a small case full of little glass bottles. “This is a hair care kit,” he said as he set it on the desk and opened it. “Clarissa Cirisa. Top quality.”
“Sounds silly,” Nur sniffed.
“You sound silly,” Shadrack countered and selected a bottle that still had its wax sealant lining the stopper. “I’ve never had to use this one– it’s mostly for girls who do irreversible things to their hair and then regret it, I think. It’s Quick-Grow for hair.”
Nur unconsciously drifted over to Shadrack, unable to take her eyes away from the little bottle. “How quick?” she asked.
Shadrack shrugged. “Depends on the state of your follicles. Probably a decent length over night.”
Nur hesitantly held out her hands and Shadrack dropped the bottle into them. She brought her hands up to her face and stared. Shadrack blabbered on about instructions: just rub it into your scalp, just a little bit, it can cause mild skin irritation in some. She only half paid attention as she ran her fingers over the bottle. The liquid inside was the palest shade of purple.
Remembering something, she looked up at Shadrack and frowned. “Won’t I be attacked? By vengeful, venomous and vindictive demons?”
“Oh, not that again.” Shadrack half-sneered, as if he was trying to censor his disgust with the whole attitude and failing. “Nothing will happen. That old wizard was a fool.”
Nur mulled this over, turning the bottle in her palm with the reverence one might have for a holy object. The lavender liquid sloshed about. Shadrack certainly seemed more wizard-like than Mestopheles ever was, what with the trunk-summoning and whatever that was with his mattress. He had gone through the whole forest dressed in green, too, and nothing had happened. And the key to what she had always wanted was right here, right in her hands, no strings attached.
Reasoning that she could always chop her hair off again if anything bad happened, Nur thanked Shadrack with a gushing speech and hurried up to her room.
Sitting at her own desk and tossing her hat to the side, Nur picked the wax off the top of the bottle with her finger nails and pulled the glass stopper out. The liquid inside smelled sweet and what Nur supposed a bouquet of flowers might smell like. She has only smelled wild flowers on the wind a few times in her life, though, and Lady Catherram hadn’t kept a proper floral perfume in the house for years, so she wasn’t sure. She stuck her finger in the bottle. The liquid was oily.
She rubbed it onto a small piece of scalp just above her right ear, using gentle circular motions they way Lady Catherram had taught her to rub in lotion when it was still common in Norr. When she was satisfied it had soaked into her skin, she sat and waited, wishing she had her own mirror. After a few minutes, the little spot began to feel itchy, the way her head did when she neglected shaving for too long. She supposed this meant it was working, so she poured a decent amount of the liquid straight onto the top of her head and rubbed it in.
When her whole head itched an unbearable amount, she grinned to herself and changed into her nightgown. Too happy to be bothered too much by the torment her scalp was becoming, she crawled into bed and feel asleep with a smile on her face. She awoke in the morning to screaming.

This is Bliss.

There’s always group of people outside the restaurant because the band plays so loud you can hear it from the street and it sounds like the sweetest crème and tastes like rumba squirming in your stomach.

Once I went there, and a boy asked me to dance.

I said, “Why?”

And he told me, “Because the night is dark and you are pretty.”

And his voice ran like silk sheets and the curve of his nose in the backlight of the warm windows swept so softly that I believed him and said yes.

Another time, when the street lights were working properly, another boy asked me to dance.

I said, “Why?”

And he told me, “Because you’re even more beautiful than the music.”

But he was short and had big, floppy ears so I called him a liar, even though he liked me in the light.

Some things written while waiting for science to happen.

1.

Sometime during eleventh grade, I woke up and thought that I could never sleep in my bed again.

It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable, or the room too stuffy, or that I had nightmares. I simply could not sleep there anymore. So I gathered my blankets and curled up on the floor for the hour I had before the alarm went off. I never fell back asleep.

My mother was surprised when she went into my room Saturday morning to wake me up before I slept the day away and I wasn’t there. She found me in the guest room, happily dozing between the starchy sheets no one else would put on their beds.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed. After I’d woken up properly and come enough to my senses, she repeated herself.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I explained. “So I thought I’d try moving beds, and it worked.”

She accepted this well enough, but scolded me when she found me on the couch the next day.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked several mornings later, when I had curled up in an armchair for the night. “Why can’t you sleep like a normal child? You’re hurting your back!”

In truth, the chair had done terrible things for my neck. “My back feels fine. I just can’t sleep when I’m in my room.” It wasn’t a lie.

Months passed and I began sleeping anywhere that looked even remotely soft. I camped out on carpets and every couch in the house. The guest room was practically my second bedroom. On weekends when I could sleep in, I would wake up early with the rest of the family and fall back asleep, stealing my parents’ and brother’s beds when they’d vacated it. I even tried padding the bathtub with blankets and sleeping there, but the faucet dripped onto my feet. My brother and father would tease me, and my mother would complain, but my grades in school were still good and I still practiced piano daily and improved my rank in tennis. The jokes became banal and the complaints withered into grudging nods of approval.

Around midterms my friend Judith developed terrible insomnia. Her parents sent her to a psychiatrist so she could handle stress and still make good grades in all her advanced classes and volunteer twelve hours a week at the hospital and get into a good college.

I told this to my mother. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “You should volunteer too.”

Judith’s sessions continued into winter break. For Christmas, my parents bought me a mattress pad I could sleep on wherever I wanted in the house. I started walking dogs on the weekends for an animal shelter. My mother looked into sending me to Mexico for spring break so I could build houses or teach English or assist doctors.

I still used my room like a normal person, aside from the sleeping part. I used my computer for essays and an online SAT class, and sat at my desk to study textbooks and notes. I relaxed in the rocking chair my mother used to read me bedtime stories from and read classic novels, making annotations in the margins for class discussions later. Each night I laid out my school uniform and, when appropriate, my tennis uniform on the unused bed.

Spring came, and I tried sleeping outside. I imagined myself lying out in the grass with the stars above my head and making up my own constellations. But the sky was a dull, nameless color, and all I could see were so many streetlights, the neighbors’ flood lights, and the somber glow of downtown on the horizon. A tiny unwanted shaving of the moon, like the wax discarded from cheese, was all I had.

I didn’t go to Mexico for spring break, but I visited three in-state colleges.

I did forty points better than the goal my mother had set for me on the SAT, and she bought better sheets for the guest room.

Summer came, and I kept myself busy with a psychology course at a community college. Before class I would explore the library, and after class, I would take practice essays for college applications to the college’s writing lab. In the evenings when it cooled off, I kept up practicing tennis and took practice SAT subject tests with my window open. I slacked off piano practice, and my mother chastised me.

“You don’t practice, so your brother won’t practice,” she whined.

“He wants to play the guitar, anyway,” I replied.

She said, “He can do that is his spare time.”

“Like my tennis?” I asked.

“Exactly.” I didn’t like tennis.

I made an A in psychology and my mother complained less about piano, although she would periodically buy sheet music and leave it on my desk. I did my summer reading on plane rides to visit more colleges. I made sure to ask thoughtful questions and make a good impression at all of them. I realized our country is beautiful. I wrote an essay about it, including cameos from a three legged dog I walked and my wise grandmother who never bothered to learn English. I had never met her.

School started again, and I bought all-new supplies on sale. I dumped them on my bed and left them there for days because I still wasn’t using it. My favorite sleeping spot had become a corner of the living room, with the guest bed in a close second. I never slept in the same place twice in a row.

On the second day of class, a teacher caught me with my head on the desk.

“Isn’t it a little early in the year to be falling asleep?” she teased. I sat up to show her I had still been taking notes.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I would never sleep in class.”



2.

Robert was a tree, and it baffled him that he could not see.

It started one day as he was reaching his branches up toward the sun, toward warm and pleasant, and he remembered that the sky was blue. The sky was blue, and so were the rain and the violets. Yet how could that be, if he had never seen them? And for that matter, how did he know the sky was there at all?

Robert called to the grass, “What color is the sky?”

The grass called back, “Blue like clear water, of course.”

“How do you know?” asked Robert.

The grass answered, “Because that is what blue is. It is the sky and water and birds and flowers. Everyone knows that.”

A crow had overheard them, and it cackled the way crows do. “You silly green things!” it said, landing on Robert. “You don’t know anything. Water is only blue sometimes, and only some birds are blue.”

The grass quivered in anger. “How could you say this!” it demanded. “Everyone knows that this is what blue is. This is why we have the word blue.”

The crow’s eyes glinted wickedly down at the grass. “Then what color do you think I am, you fool?” it asked.

The grass did not answer. Robert said, “Some birds are blue, but you are not. You are a crow, and so you are black.”

“This is why we have the word black,” muttered the grass. “It is crows and spiders and the centers of eyes.”

“Ha!” cackled the crow. “What do you know of eyes?”

Again, the grass did not answer. Robert said, “Crow, is your beak yellow?”

“No, you silly tree,” answered the crow. “Did you not hear what the silly grass said? I am black. Your blindness makes you so stupid!” And he flew away, cackling the way crows do.

“Yellow is the sun,” whispered the grass.

After a while, Robert wondered, “What if the crow is lying?”

The grass answered sulkily, “Why would he? He can see and we cannot. It is crueler to tell the truth, and he is a cruel creature.”

“Have you ever felt the sky?” asked Robert.

The grass fluttered about helplessly in the wind and said, “Who has ever felt the sky? But it must be there, because we have the word ‘sky,’ and if it was not, there would be nothing and no word.”

That night it stormed. The wind howled, the thunder crashed, and rain spilled down on Robert. He wailed, “Grass! Where does the storm come from?”

The grass screamed back, “From black clouds! Black like the crow and spiders and centers of eyes!”

Robert called back, “Then what is the color of the storm?”

If the grass answered, he could not hear it over the moaning and gnashing of the gale.

In the morning, the sun’s warmth found its way down to earth again, and Robert stretched in its heat. Morning birds were singing the way mornings bird do, and Robert heard a soft weeping.

“Grass, whatever is wrong?” he asked.

The grass was wilting in shame. “I know so many words, but I know not to what they belong.”

Robert said, “Yes you do. You know that blue is the sky, yellow is the sun, black is spiders–”

“That is all useless!” cried the grass. “How can I know what these are if I have never seen them? What is a song that I have never heard? What is a mountain that I have never climbed? What is the sky that I have never flown across? We live in a pool of ignorance.”

Robert did not answer, but the sun felt cool on his leaves.

When the sun was straight above and at its strongest, the crow returned to take refuge from its blaze in Robert’s branches. As it was picking at its wings, Robert suddenly announced, “I know sadness must be real for I can feel it.”

The crow cackled the way crows do. “You fool! Things do not exist simply because you can feel them. The horizon can never be touched, yet it is always there. Even if you felt joy, someone else will always feel sadness.”

“Surely some days everyone is happy,” muttered the grass.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” crackled the crow the way crows do. “This will never happen, because I will always be here to make you miserable!” And it dove from Robert the grass, and began tearing it from the earth. “Ha! Ha! Ha!”

The grass cried, for it was grass, and it could do nothing.

“Crow! Stop!” wailed Robert, but he was a tree and he too could do nothing. And as his friend was mauled before him, he felt his sorrow grow and spread throughout all of him, through his roots so that it seemed to seep out into the ground, and up through branches into his leafs, where it oozed out into the sun. He felt all of himself at once, and every miniscule piece ached.

When there were almost no blades of grass left around Robert, the crow guffawed and flew away. The grass whimpered pathetically. It would grow, and it would be torn to pieces again.

The days passed, and the grass was silent and withered away. Robert thought about how brown is the color of dead grass and tree trunks so riddled with misery that beetles would not burrow into it and even fallen leaves seemed to hurt.

He cried, for his friend was dead, and he could at last see himself.

(I don't get it either.)