Preview of "Is it Crazy to Believe" (working title)

Is it crazy to believe anymore? Is it crazy to follow a sign in black and yellow walking towards your hand, flying away? Outside there are blues and greens, people sitting, laughing, talking under crimson umbrellas. Birds swarm, chirp, look at each other. I stub my toe on the leg of the chair. I feel the throbbing shock run up my leg, the rest of my body, and finally to my brain.

A little wasp, not a sixteenth my size, looks up at me with complex eyes. Its wings rub together. It licks its jowls. “I’m not afraid,” I tell myself, “I’ll stand my ground.” It looks puzzled struggling for a way back outside. But confusion turns to anger, frustrated misguided unhindered. I pull my hand away from its madness, stand up and push in my seat.

My left foot moves rhythmically, next beat, the right, left hand, relax, right hand, relax, shoulders, straight, chest out, arms to the side. I hold my hips in place. Knees rise, my eyes focused on the destination. I keep my head up for dramatics. I haven’t reached the counter but the music is there. It hums gently in my gut, plucking and picking.

 “So what do you think?”

“I think it’s crazy.”

“Of course it is! But can you explain it?”

“No, but you have to be doing something?”

“Like what? I’m just flipping cards.”

“You’re strange.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Let’s go outside.”

Large rocks are scattered around the lawn. Grass, dried and golden, withering, lines the edges of the gravel pathway. I look at my friend. She looks down at the ground in apathy, views the wall of stone by the river instead. It speaks in hymns and poetry. Laughing, we try to reply. I falter and pick a grass stem to chew. It tastes like warmth and sunshine. The crunch reminds me of grasshoppers, what I imagine they’d sound like if I were to eat them.

If I had raven hair like my friend maybe I’d know more. Maybe I’d be able to see things more clearly. I’d be a messenger who opens up the letter before handing it over. I’d know and smile. They wouldn’t suspect a thing because I’d look at them with kindness in my eyes. Her hair flies up and down with the kiss of the wind. I decide to call her Bluebird because the wind chose her but her heart is always sad.

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Let Let me know what you think! I'd appreciate any feedback. -Stefan Pena