GENRE: YA Magical Realism
One hundred and fifty years ago, a man walked across a large open field on a moonlit night. Instead of watching where he was going, the man could not keep his eyes off the sky. There was nothing he found quite so beautiful as a low-slung summer moon surrounded by hundreds of twinkling stars. As a result, the man often tripped over unseen clumps of dirt and stray rocks. As a secondary result, the man was unsurprised when he fell face down into the grass and felt something strike him somewhat forcefully in the back of the head.
When the man awoke from his slumber, he found that his best top hat had been ruined. He also found a milky, pale blue stone shimmering in the dust a mere foot from the tip of his nose. He reached out, picked up the stone, and immediately dropped it. The stone was burning hot. He drew his handkerchief from his pocket. Bending down, he engulfed the small stone in the soft cotton cloth. Collecting the bundle in his fist, he stood up, folded back the cloth, and inspected the stone. Still emitting a soft glow of warmth, the stone appeared to be swirled with traces of opal.
The man smiled and tucked the gem into his pants pocket for safe keeping. He resumed his walk and his sky gazing. Upon turning his eyes upwards once more, he was treated to the sight of a shooting star racing across the midnight sky. As he watched the star's tail flare and die, he rubbed the small lump forming on the back of his head, thinking more of his pain than his valuable discovery.
I always loved stories, except for my own; I wish it wasn't this one.
At the heart of it, I always felt that my trouble with my mother stemmed from a difference of temperaments. My mother was a busybody. Well, not in the traditional sense of the word. While not given over to gossip, Mom was perpetually in motion. She moved almost hurriedly from task to task from dawn till dusk. She seemed to believe, in action if not in so many words, that idle hands were the devil's playground. She became bored and restless when all the work was finished and no more could be found. In dire straits she had been known to fabricate activities for her own amusement.
I was not the same by nature. When I took a moment to be still, Mom thought I was lazy. When I was quiet, Mom felt I was sullen. Where I reveled in solitude, Mom saw antisocial behavior. While I gloried in the imaginative escape of books, Mom lacked a true appreciation for literary treasure. From the moment I learned to read, I was never without a volume at hand. To my mother, I'm sure it seemed that I spent too many hours in idleness, my face mere inches from the printed page.