Day One: I've forgotten how good it feels writing something other than fanfiction

In a moth ridden, flee bitten, washed out and watery suburban neighborhood, there stood a tree that wasn’t really a tree but the Whole Wide Universe.  

It was unremarkable in looks, fray at the edges like an old picture, and the color of peeling paint, with a mess of brittle branches clustering at the very top of the tree. The authorities would not glance at the tree because it was unremarkable, and the children swarming the blistering street would not climb it because they were preoccupied with their ipads and androids, updating instagram and whatever social network that swept the nation.

Parents would always glare at the tree and shake their heads, mumbling to themselves, “what a waste of space- why, a nice fountain would be twice as interesting as the tree and three times more elegant.”

And their friends would bob their heads in agreement and sip their coffees, because that is what adults usually do when they don’t have something insightful to add to the conversation.

Every Friday evening, when the adults and their children crammed themselves in their suburban living rooms, watching Australia’s next top model, chewing nearly expired canned sausage and gulping cans of zero calorie cola, a boy who was not really a boy but an Old Soul would take a flagon of tap water and sprinkle the tree that was not really a tree but the whole wide universe in three sittings, till there was not a drop of water left in the can. Then he would sit at the base of the tree trunk and rub his small hands on the bark, which would always protest in response and turn various shades of brown, because it was not a flamboyant tree, and highly appreciated its privacy.

At an unremarkable night, when the planets have not in fact aligned themselves nor has God given His daily blessing, when even the stars were reduced to dull bolts in the black velvet, shining without sheen, when orphaned children die without love and widowed men live without grace, El’an was sent outside by her parents to drop recycled trash in its appropriate compartment.

And because the weather was not humid and the temperature was not boiling, El’an decided that she ought to make use of her time and spend the night sorting her dreams, because she was a very practical child like that.

She walked by herself, eyes roving over the sky and frowning at the lack of stars burning in her eyesight, and bumped into the boy who carried a flagon of tap water, the liquid sloshing over the edge of the can and spilling into the dust minted street like a lone waterfall.

“Hey, watch it,” he said sharply, glaring at her with eyes that might have looked like the dregs soaking in a cup of unfinished tea.

El’an narrowed her own eyes, pointedly shaking her wetted pant leg with the hopes that the boy might apologies at the sight of her soaking pants.

The boy, much to El’an’s disappointment, ignored her, dropping his shoulders and shaking his head like an old man (who’s to say he wasn’t? For all El’an knew, he could have been a deranged cowboy who stalked the streets at night, hoping to catch a sliver of that enlightenment her parents would usually drone on and on about). “You know what that was? That was a whole flagon of water. A whole flagon. Wasted.” He heaved a great sigh, shaking his head some more.

Though she aught to have demanded that he apologize to her, El’an felt a trickle of guilt tainting her stubborn reasoning. Maybe if she wasn’t too preoccupied dream-sorting then the boy would still have his water, and he wouldn’t look so disappointed.

“It’s not really wasted, you know,” she piped, feeling that she owed him at least some sort of explanation as to why hope was not yet completely lost, “the water’ll evaporate into the atmosphere, and then it’ll condense into rain droplets, and when the clouds are heavy enough, it’ll start raining,” she recited dutifully, remembering the answers she’d written in her science test last Tuesday. At the crestfallen look he gave her, she hurriedly added, “and then you’ll have your water back.”

The boy shook his head. “No,” he said, “it’s not like that. That stuff you’re learnin’ at school? ’S all messed up.”

El’an didn’t know how respond to this, given that she was a firm believer of her school’s education system and was certain that her teacher would never lie to her, but after putting extra thought into her response, she adopted the attitude of a reasonable diplomat and squared her shoulders to fit the personality.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” she said in a no-nonsense tone (the one that her mother would often use on her older brother).

“That’s complete bullshit, but fine. We’ll just have to use the water from the fountain to feed the tree,” the boy said, lifting his knobby shoulders in consent, and then he turned on his heel and walked the opposite direction of El’an’s house.

She stared at his slight figure, uncertain on whether she should resume her walk or run back to her house, but when the boy turned his head to her, the shadows clinging to the hallows of his cheeks, illuminating his vast, quick-to-judge eyes, she decided for a fact that she wouldn’t be doing either of those things, but follow the boy to the tree.

“Well,” he demanded, foot hammering impatiently on the moon kissed asphalt, “you comin’ or what?”

“Er.” She tutted, turning her back to him so that he wouldn’t see her contemplate a rash decision.

The moon peered at El’an from behind a thicket of bruised clouds and nudged her in the right direction, for the moon was wise in her ancient, moony way.

A flood of warm moonlight coated El’an in a heap of ice and silver shadow, and her mind clicked with resolve.

Yes.

Settled and shining with a burst of ill-kept excitement, El’an said, “Yeah,” - and remembering her English teacher shuddering at her tendency to use slang, she cringed and quickly replaced her words as pragmatically as possible– “I-I mean, yes. I will be right with you ..?”

The boy frowned. “You want my name?”

She nodded mutely.

He considered her request for a moment before shaking his small head. “Nope. You’re not ready. Not even a little bit ready. Sure, I’ll tell you my name, eventually, but you’re gunna have to earn it.”

It was El’an’s turn to frown. “And what makes you so special?” She tried to not huff, but it came out of her anyway.

The boy smiled, revealing small, milky teeth that indicated that he was not yet older than seven, but because the planets did not, in reality, align themselves and because God has not given His daily blessing, because the stars were reduced to dull bolts in the black velvet, shining without sheen, because orphaned children die without love and widowed men live without grace, El’an did not believe that he was seven, or even younger than seven.

His eyes that looked like tealeaves in the dregs of an unfinished teacup looked no less than a billion years old.