Young Writers Society

Hello everyone! I was experimenting and came up with something kind of weird. (There's not really a point to it, hence no strong plot). If you can come up with a name for it, let me know!

Everything feels dark when you can’t walk away from storm clouds.

If rain has started to pour down on you and the sun is only a mile away, why do you seem stuck? Why do you feel like a hog that’s been trapped in mud? Why do you feel like a slob intoxicated by the swamp? Why does cleanliness not feel like an option?

I remember watching you wade through the swamp like an eagle that had lost its wings. You were too proud to ask for help. It was easier to just let yourself sink in. Maybe it was easier for all of us to stop breathing and start sinking. The mud was kind, after all. It didn’t speak, it didn’t judge. It only wanted us wrapped up in it. All it wanted was to be our friend. Even if it was a horrible one.

I had reached out my hand to your broken body on that boiling hot afternoon. You were already knee-deep, and you bent down to use your hands to push yourself out. I had never seen a creature like you- one that was its own demise. It felt wrong to call you a person when I could clearly tell you wanted to be much less than that. So, I pulled you out of the slow death you had carved yourself and watched quietly as you let out a groan. Your legs were covered in leeches. Your clothes looked years older than they probably were. And your green eyes suddenly became dull when you realized that this wasn’t the end of it all.

I didn’t want to ask questions to someone with a story like you. That would lead to more pity. And frankly, I had a theory that that was what got you into this mess. Someone was too kind. Maybe kindness was what you feared. I sat in silence and watched as you pulled off the leeches. With how much blood they had taken, your legs had to be numb by then.

You finally spoke.

“What are you?” you asked.

I tried not to cackle at such a question. It was one that people like you often asked me. As if I didn’t have a name. Most people assumed I was nameless, like the deer or the alligators that prowled the shores at night. You never named them unless they attacked you. All of them seemed the same unless they did something horrible.

“My name is Sage,” I replied, hoping you would realize I was more than a creature. Most people never expected me to talk. They had probably watched too many films involving a horrendous monster that just stared at them until it finally gained the sense to reach out its long claws and fight. But I never attacked people like you. You usually managed to run away on your own.

“I’m-I’m-”

“You don’t have to tell me your name.” I plucked off the very last leech on you, which seemed to engulf your big toe. “Just tell me where you’re from.”

You stared at me for a moment while fear slowly took you over.

“Relax,” I chuckled. “It’s not like I’m going to track you down. Maybe I want you to go home.”

“Why would you want that?”

“Because humans are terrible at being quiet.” I held out my hand. Slowly, you placed your own worn, pale hand in mine and I lifted you up. You jerked it away once you realized you could stand, but that wasn’t anything shocking to me. Most of you were rude. I wasn’t about to be the one to change that.

I pointed to an old oak tree that had been hollowed out by years of weather. A large, metal vehicle hid inside, and it glinted in the afternoon sun. I never drove it, since I could never manage to scrap up enough money to buy gasoline. But I thought I had just enough money to get you back to the town up the road. If I could find the road. It was probably flooded.

I dragged you by your arm and opened up the peeling black passenger door. You slipped in quietly, trying not to frown at the feeling of worn leather rubbing back and forth on your legs. I just smiled as I sat in my own seat, turned the keys, and bounced a little as the engine began to purr.

“Lookout,” you said. I cocked my head in your direction as I scanned for a dry enough trail to drive.

“I’m from Lookout.”

I just nodded as I began to pull out from the tree. To the left of the mudhole you had tried to drown in, there was a strip of dry land covered in dying grass. It led south. I knew that Lookout was somewhere northeast, where the weather was cooler and snow was able to fall, but if we even wanted to try and get out of the swamp we would have to head in the opposite direction.

I drove around twenty miles an hour when you grumbled at me to go a little faster. I never really appreciated when people complained to me about my lackluster driving skills, but I was just glad that you seemed to get a bit more personality into your voice. I pressed on the gas as I went up a hill.

Your fingers drummed on the dashboard as we emerged through the last of the willow trees. Any angst you held in yourself before seemed to melt away. I couldn’t help but grow curious as we finally left the swamp and turned onto a beaten dirt road.

“Why were you doing that?”

You didn’t stop drumming your fingers. In fact, you shrugged, as if my question was trivial. I never considered someone’s dying trivial.

“I was hoping someone would find me,” you said with a flat voice. You began to hum as the sounds of the wilderness faded to black. I turned onto a paved road and began looking for signs of the interstate. It was the only way we could get to Lookout.

“Who were you hoping would find you?” I asked, trying to dig a little deeper into your story. Your eyes flitted to me as you studied my face. Your brown hair stuck to your sweaty skin. I turned up the air.

“It’s not important,” you finally managed, your voice becoming a croak as you seemed to lose air. “You found me. And that’s good enough.”

“Hmm.” I tapped my thumb on the steering wheel as we narrowly avoided hitting a truck. I thought our mirrors would touch. You grabbed onto the steering wheel and jerked us a bit to the right, the truck swerving behind us.

“Do you have a license?” you asked, your voice on the verge of a panicked yell.

“What’s that?”

Your face suddenly drained of color as you demanded we switch seats. I huffed and pulled over by a pine tree, scowling as the branches scratched my face and needles fell in my hair as I sat in the passenger seat. You put on your seatbelt and looked at me curiously before getting back onto the road.

“You must have been out there for a while.”

“Out where?”

“The swamp,” you said, putting on your blinker as we exited the road. “If you didn’t even know what a license was…”

“I haven’t been out there that long,” I snapped at you. You just rolled your eyes. “The town I come from is just a bit…set in its ways.”

“By eighty-eight years?” you asked, your voice becoming a bit higher pitched as the shock settled in. “That can’t be right.”

“Look, I didn’t judge you when you said you were from that prissy little northern town.” I leaned my head against my fist. “What’s so wrong about my town being a little… vintage?”

“I think vintage is the wrong word,” you said in a low tone. “Maybe you need to get out and see the real world a little bit more.”

“I don’t need to see anything.” I pointed to a worn-down gas station on the right of us. “Pull in. This thing’s almost out of gas.”

You pulled into a gas tank and told me to step out of the car. I pulled out a few dollars and hooked up the tank to the car, taking in a deep breath of gasoline air as the machine pumped it in. I looked at you with big eyes. I really hoped you would help me pay.

You just scowled and pulled a few more dollars out of your pocket. It was just enough to fill the tank. I walked into the gas station and right up to the cashier, my chin held high, acting as if my dress wasn’t soaked in the elements. An old woman looked up and stared. I ignored her.

“Ten gallons,” I told the man at the storefront, handing him the wrinkled cash I’d crumpled up in my fist. His hair nearly turned gray when he saw me, but instead of the bitter hatred the old woman held in her gaze when she saw me, he held worry. Maybe a bit of sympathy. My least favorite emotion.

“Ten gallons,” I repeated, pointing a jagged finger at the money that rested in his palm. He cleared his throat and nodded, putting the money into a little box.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “There’s a doctor I can call if-”

“Not needed,” I told him, waving the comment away with my hand. “I look like this naturally.”

“Ah.” His face seemed to blush as embarrassment hit him in a merciless wave. “Sorry.”

“That’s OK.”

“Have a good day, then.”

I ignored his last words as I walked out and sat back in the car again. The car started up with a sputter as you pulled onto the road.

“I never got your name,” I told you. I had told you- this strange person with unnaturally green eyes nearly everything about myself- or at least the interesting parts, anyway- and you hadn’t even told me your name. That seemed wrong to me. Especially when I had saved you. You might as well have been groveling at my feet in thanks that I didn’t eat you.

“Mark.”

“Mark,” I repeated. That name didn’t seem to fit you. Mark was the name of a strong man who fought battles out at sea. Mark was the name of someone I would look up to. But you weren’t any of those things. You were small, a bit timid, like a branch about to break under the wind. Your clothes didn’t display the pride of a captain and his tidy ship, but a worn and miserable life that you didn’t seem willing to fight for. But I had figured that part out a long time ago.

“What are you going to do when you get home, Mark?” I asked, enunciating the name as if it were some foreign language. I didn’t like the feel of it on my tongue. To me, you looked more like a Kai. It was simple, and it sounded like it came out of a story, and I knew you had a long story to tell.

“Shower,” you told me. “Probably get a change of clothes. Maybe I’ll take you back to the swamp.”

“It’s not like I have anything to do there,” I told you, leaning my head against the car seat. “All I do is hunt, eat, sleep.”

“What about that town you said you were from?”

“They don’t like me. It’s too small for anything interesting to happen.”

“So what are you going to do?” you asked. I looked up at you and smiled.

“With my luck, I’ll find somewhere to stay in Lookout. Maybe I’ll just stay there for the day.”

You looked me up and down with a hint of disdain in your eyes. I knew I wasn’t exactly ready for city life in terms of looks, with my tattered dress and scraggly hair, not to mention the green skin. I was surprised you hadn’t mentioned it already. My ears were also extremely pointy at the end, but I had promptly kept my hair down to keep them hidden from you.

“Right,” you said slowly. “Maybe you could do a bit of shopping.”

“Shopping?” I laughed. “With what money?”

“Okay. No shopping.” You exited the road and went onto a back road, where we were greeted with a ‘Welcome to Lookout!’ sign. The trees quickly dispersed and were replaced with rows of identical white houses. I glared at the houses before looking back at you.

“I may have something for you,” you said. “It’s the least I can do after you saved my life.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “It is the least you can do.”

You just sighed and turned a sharp right onto another block of cookie-cutter houses. A few times the houses were interrupted with cute little shops with windows filled with cookies or pretty dresses. I eyed one dress covered in pink lilies and little puff sleeves. It would look hideous on my green skin, but I couldn’t help but imagine myself in it. I could be a pretty monster. One people like you didn’t fear.

We pulled into the driveway of a different colored house- a pale, baby blue one, with two floors and a white wrap-around porch. It was the closest thing to luxury I had ever stepped on. I almost felt like an aristocrat myself, even if this house was still pretty small. You turned off the car and handed me the keys before you opened the door and slipped inside. No one was home.

The inside was filled with white couches, white rugs, and white daisies in vases. The smell of flowers encompassed the air, and I felt like I could stain anything by merely looking at it. Beside the living room was a wooden staircase, which you walked up and motioned for me to as well. I grabbed the handrail and delicately stepped on the stairs, making sure not to press any weight on the stairs. I heard you chuckle as you walked through the hallway and opened up a dark, oak door.

Your room was what I would have expected after seeing the living room. The walls were a dark blue, one that seemed to scream expensive, and every single book or figurine on the shelf was organized. Even your bed had looked like it had been made by a maid.

I picked up a book from your shelf and ran my finger along the spine. It was a boring, informational book on the cultures present in France. I sat on the end of your bed and began to flip through the pages as you sifted through a drawer in your dresser. You tossed me a plain gray t-shirt and nodded at it.

“I don’t think any of my shorts will fit you,” you told me. I just smiled.

“That’s okay. Thanks for the shirt.”

Before I could put it on over my dress, you snatched it away and put it back in my lap.

“I’ll be right back,” you told me. I just huffed as you shuffled out the door and went back to badly attempting to pronounce the names of French food.

You came back a little while later with a pair of pink jean shorts that looked about my size. You threw them to me, slipped out the door, and slammed it shut.

I shut the blinds of your window before I pulled off my dress. Unsurprisingly, taking it off gave me a surprise whiff of the horrible swamp scent I had forced myself to forget. It reeked of rotting fruit, crocodile meat, and a bit of animal dung that I couldn’t quite place my finger on. I there my dress in the trash can by your desk before slipping on the T-shirt and jeans, which fit quite nicely.

When I opened the door I found you shoving a pair of bottles into my hands. They smelled like tangerines and honey, which I couldn’t complain about, but I wasn’t sure why you were giving them to me. I turned the bottle over to find the name of the strange product.

“Shame-poooh,” I said, trying to pronounce the name. “Con-ditch-ee-nor.”

“Hair products, to wash with,” you told me flatly. You pointed to the end of the hall where a white door sat. “Go wash up in the bathroom sink. I’ll meet you on the bottom floor.”

I cocked my head at you, and for once, you smiled. I didn’t think I would live to see it.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. You shrugged.

“Maybe if you get yourself cleaned up enough, you can get a future beyond the swamp. Like school. Better clothes.”

I frowned. I had seen the school in my own town before. All of the little girls wore pretty pink ribbons and giggled all throughout the day as if they never had anything worth their time except looking perfect. Meanwhile, I had learned the real skills of life, becoming feared by the animals and gaining infamy in my own home for my ruthlessness to even apex predators. None of them looked like me anyway, so I never considered it a home.

I shook my head. “You can’t make me go into that prison.”

“It’s not a prison,” you told me angrily. “I thought you said your old town was boring, anyways. You could at least try.”

“Why do you want me to?”

“Maybe it’s a good opportunity to learn the secrets of the swamp monster.”

No one had ever actually called me a monster. You had even said it with some sort of awe as if I was more of a fairy than a monster. But I had never liked that name. I had never truly known what I was. All I knew was that I wasn’t a monster. Just a person. A person that you couldn’t see like yourself.

I couldn’t resist your kindness, but I made you promise me something.

“Never call me a monster,” I told you. “Only call me Sage.”

“What? Does it hurt you?” you asked, seemingly becoming concerned.

“Well, let’s see how you like it when I start to call you ‘human’.”

I rushed inside the bathroom door and slammed it shut.