(c) Grace 2013
Her hands were intertwined in the gnarled, dark green grass. Her feet the same; she could barely make out the ten bright blue nails staring back at her. The breeze danced around her hair, playing with it and twirling it in many different directions. The waves rushed to the shore and then retreated once more to dwell in the ferocious ocean before her. The sand was wet and cold, like soggy cereal on a Monday morning. The girl peered up at the cottage, now, from where she was the size of a life-size dollhouse. The large rock loomed in the distance, and the fog strolled along the beach, as if the ghost of a couple were having a conversation alongside the murky tide that rolled in. The chills of the morning sprang upon the girl’s bare shoulders, marching down her arms and sitting finally on her fingers. Trees rustled, shimmying right along with the breeze that tried to bring life to the cold place. And especially to the girl.
Oh how she despised this place! Her hatred for it was a hundred times hotter than the temperature that day. Summer vacation used to be one of the girl’s most anticipated times of the year. That ended when her mother took her to the cottage this year for “fun.”
“She has no idea what the definition of ‘fun’ is,” the girl thought harshly. Her phone, with its sleek case and thin screen staring up at the sky (a sky that did not provide cellular wifi) was untouched for the first time in a long time. No Twitter. No Facebook. And in the girl’s case, no life. “Oh yeah, ‘nature will do you just fine, too,’” the girl mimicked. She knew she should have appreciated her mother, who was in a difficult financial time to begin with, but did the girl not have authority over decisions either? The fog’s humidity stuck to the girl’s face, its sticky substance enraging the girl.
“Don’t you know this is expensive makeup?” she cried at it, but the fog didn’t care. It just ambled right along. “I hope this fog leaves and takes me with it!” she muttered.
Just then the wind picked up, its dance number transitioning to a final finish. It rushed past the girl, but the fog would not leave. Amidst the fog, though, was a beautiful young girl. The angry teenager stared at her some more. Ten bright blue toenails glittered back, to her surprise.
It was her.
Her hair, which was already being played with, was pulled upward. To the teen’s dismay, the blond locks began to dissolve like wet paper. The particles began to whirl around and around, and then disappeared. The fog was beginning to disperse. The young teenager began to feel herself being pulled up as well, like a marionette. As she was pulled, she saw a more middle-aged woman with a Nikon in her hand in a clearing. Camera in hand, she was trying to take the perfect photo for her nature blog.
The girl could not scream. Her voice had probably already disintegrated. In her mind, she tried to scream, “Wait, I take back that wish! I take it back. Please, don’t take me away!” Fear was pushing through her veins; her eyelids were pulled back to where she couldn’t blink. The cottage wasn’t a life-size dollhouse anymore to her. It was a white speck on a small, green island, in the middle of nowhere. And now the teenager was nothing.
Nothing at all.