Dissonant Memory

It was an age of innocence, an age of hope. It was an age when I could sit in a tree swing without my feet reaching the ground. Only, there was no ground beneath me now. Instead, a sea of clouds stretched out to the horizon. I perched in my seat, the sun warming my face like a smile. My hair was pulled into pigtails, the legs of my overalls rolled up above my bare feet.

Dad stood atop the clouds. He had an easel and a canvas between us, the sun at his back as he painted my likeness.

“Why’s the sun rise, daddy?”

“That’s so dads can find where little girls hid the remote.” He peeked past his canvas, his eyes smiling. But he didn’t even notice the green paint smeared by his eye.

I grinned. “That’s not what Momma says. She says that’s where the hopes are.”

“In sunrises, sure. That’s when we get to try again.”

“Does it gots mine too?”

“I guess you’ll have to go and see.”

“Ain’t it far?”

“It’s very far. But Grace, that’s how you know when to go. The farthest things, those that are hardest... Sometimes, those things are the most important.”

I tried to imagine all my hard things.

Soon, Dad sighed contentedly.

“Is it finished?” I asked.

He turned the canvas around.

I slipped out of my seat and hurried.

As young-Grace slipped from her seat, present-Grace shook her head as if from a daze. She smiled as she watched the memory play out.

The painting portrayed the tree in its center. Grace dangled from the canopy to one side. To the other, her mom hoisted Grace’s two sisters, each straddling her hips as they looked out from the image. They seemingly melded into a single bundle of cheer; their smile shone brightly.

“But it ain’t even got a bunny,” said then-Grace.

Her dad proffered his brush. “Maybe you should add some.”

“You mean it? Honest?”

Now-Grace smiled, her hands gripping high on the swing’s rope, her head leaning against her hand. She snapped upright and looked about. “Wait, what’s happening?”

Behind her, the red brick of her apartment stared back. Its steps descended but didn’t meet a sidewalk. Instead, the entire environment fanned out like a magician proffering cards to choose from. The fan curved overhead and hung in the air like a wave poised to crash down on her. In the landscape’s place, a layer of clouds stretched out to the horizon as her memory played out atop them.

“You synced with it, didn’t you?” a girl asked.

Grace abruptly looked over her opposite shoulder, her swing torquing. The girl from before was there. But more alarming was how a mountaintop now neighbored her apartment building, her tree growing away from it as if it were but a branch of the mountain.

“You’re in it now,” said the girl. She sat on the underside of the tree as it jutted out over the clouds, her and Grace nearly eye level. In place of her previous mirth was a solemn, hardened gaze. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her feet dangling towards the sky.

“You!” Grace sneered. “You did something, didn’t you?”

“I used to think so. But Grace, all this,” she said, her upturned panning around. “It was never going to last. It had to come to an end. Just don’t forget who decided to take this on alone.”

“Me? You’re blaming me?”

The girl shrugged. “If the shoe fits. Just look how you’re bending things. Making them their dark reflection.”

The previous memory was gone, but a growth sprouted from the setting sun—a ship. It approached rapidly. It plowed across the cloud tops, its prow turning the clouds black as shadow poured out from its sides like toppled oil drums.

“Wait, I know that ship,” Grace said.

The ship was so dark it might have been black. Masts stood above it, one of which flew a black flag. It suddenly bogged down and then pivoted, its broadside turning to display its name.

‘Misqueme’

“That’s not the ship you know,” said the girl.

“Who are you?”

Pa-pa-pa-pa-Pow!—blasted from the ship.

Whizzes and whirs whipped past. Two punched into the mountain, two more punched into her apartment. Her swing settled, her legs submerging in the clouds.

“Call me Harmony.”

Grace oriented on Harmony, who was gone. A hunk of tree trunk was also gone, as if a great beast had taken a bite.

Creak! Crack! Pop!

Grace wanted to complain, wanted to ask for a do-over, wanted things to be fair for once—all of her wants climbing into her throat, yet going no farther. The tree’s canopy broke away and followed her.

Not like this, she thought, then disappeared into the clouds.

Constraints:

Word List:

• Age

• Growth

• Reflection

• Misqueme v. to displease or offend

Sentence Block:

• It had to come to an end

• Their smile shone brightly.

Defining Features:

• Genre: Bildungsroman

• The story should include a tree.

Wordcount:

• 800/800