Musings of a Part-Time Platypus

Here's the third installment of TBTC. Warning: This one's a bit long. Happy reading! xoxo Xila was a little taller than Emma Morris - possibly because of the older woman's slouch and curved posture from limping. Her eyes, upon closer inspection, were a deep blue, flickering into hues of purple. They were completely unlike the bright green eyes Emma Morris had seen so many times in her dreams, her nightmares, her memories. How could she ever forget the eyes of the child that had stared at her with so much conviction, with so much helplessness? But the girl - Xila's - other features were uncannily like Emma's. Her stark raven hair, hanging, wavy to her shoulders, reminded Emma of looking in a mirror ten years ago. Her nose was sharp, but the rest of her face was soft, with smooth cheeks and high eyebrows.  Emma stood on her side of the threshold staring blankly, as though nothing had happened in the past minute. She stepped back after a moment of silence, ...

And now...for the part where things begin to happen... It had been another long day. Emma Morris had just sunk into her spot on her couch when the a faint chime echoed through the house.  The doorbell, much like the rest of the house, had been left unused for far longer than intended. As Emma Morris had continued to descend into half-madness, so had her home and her life. It was impeccably tidy, preserved in an idyllic manner that could have been mistaken for cleanliness rather than disuse. She had no one to call upon her, and no need for the doorbell. Within a few moments, the bell had rung again, this time louder and clearer.  She sprang to her feet with more enthusiasm than she had done anything else with for months. The doorbell rang a third time, singing it's melody sharper than it had the two times prior.  "Coming!" she called, her voice tired. But the faint glow of once-present youthfulness crept back into it. She limped to the door, pausing for a ...

Welcome to the first bit of official writing on "Musings!"  The house was brown, with a shingled roof and a clean, painted door. A single potted plant stood guard on either side. It was small - nothing impressive, not remotely - but tidy. And to Emma Morris, it was home.  She limped to the door, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of the world. A strand of gray zipped through her dark hair. She inhaled sharply each time she stepped forward with her left leg. It was a scar she had tried incessantly to get rid of, but never seemed to be able to. One that, at long last, she had accepted. The limp was her only connection to a past she had left in a tall, wooden - ironically flammable - firehouse fifteen years ago.  Emma Morris reached into the deep pocket of her well-worn coat. After a moment of fumbling, she slipped out a small steel key, and inserted it into the lock of the doorknob. Within the clean silver knob was the rusted metalwork of a lock that had given ...

I don't think it's possible to believe in goodness when you're drowning in the bad. And I don't think it's fair for anyone to drown, especially not people who have barely know what water is, much less how to swim. Every generation, expectations are shifted. Up or down, is up to time and chance to decide. In my parents' generation, school was for learning. Today, it's career-prep. It's college, but earlier. We are expected to know who we are, what we want to do, where we want to go. Oftentimes, we see ourselves following our passion. But passion should be about the highs and lows, about challenging yourself when you are ready. About tying it to the rest of your life if you so choose. It shouldn't be about turning profit. Fortunately, this system works. In literality. We need the profit to survive. Not a smile. And frankly, I don't have a better suggestion; I just can't help but notice where we are today. And that is not where I dream...

"The most vast paradise we can lose ourselves in is that of time." Confession: That's not a real quote. (But I suppose if someone says it, it becomes one....right?) But it's true. This morning, I spent some time flashing back to the good old days of cinnamon applesauce and carrot sticks and string cheese and -- I'm hungry now. To the memories of playing with the stuffed white bear that still perches on my bed. I haven't said a word to Buttercup in...weeks? Months? Perhaps even years. I flash back all the time, and most of us do. We hold onto grudges, childhood friendships (See BFFs. Love, a Cynic), the homes we grew up in. We clutch these memories to our hearts when we long for something to reassure us, something to reminisce about. I wonder about time capsules. About whether they exist--tangibly--or whether their existence is founded upon the intangible. Would they mean anything if we didn't remember the value of everything we put in? ...

It was unheard of.  A little girl who didn't believe in BFFs? But I had my reasons. I knew forever wasn't real. I learned it at school, when they told me infinity wasn't a number. My best friend's birthday was earlier this week. I always joked that I didn't believe in best friends, but lately, I've realized that I do. Or, at least, that I did. Sometimes I worry about whether we're still as close as we once were. Whether we would have the same relationship, had circumstances not brought us together. But then again, aren't we all brought together by circumstances? So I thought of her as a sister instead. Because there is, after all, no such thing as a single "best friend."  (I doubt one can truly have multiple "best friends," simply because the words "best" itself implies singularity.) We texted back and forth on her birthday, but both of us were busy, and we couldn't talk over the phone. I was readin...

I used to be a writer. I was a writer. I am a writer. I have always been a writer. The magic of tenses is everlasting. The magic of words is infinite. When I was young,  I didn't know what I wanted to do. I don't mean a career. I mean a passion. My affection was family of fireflies. Here one moment, there the next. I danced, I swam, I drew, I skied, I even sang for a bit. And let us not forget the summer after fifth grade - I professionally watched television. That counts for something. But there was something I had always been good with. And frankly, it was because I had been exposed to a lot of it. Words. I remember fourth grade fondly. I tested into the highest reading level. I got 100% on every single spelling test (well, except for one...but that's a story for another day). I was some sort of Class Word Monitor. I wrote the spelling words on a poster at the back of the room, and the only word I ever spelled wrong was "professional." To this da...