Xena

Growing up, I loved Xena: Warrior Princess.  I would play it in the backyard with my sister and cousin.  Of course, I was always Xena.  Always.  Sister was usually Gabrielle and cousin was Callisto, once they were done arguing over it, but I was always Xena.  We would run around the backyard trying to imitate that famous banshee cry and shooting homemade bows and arrows.  Yes, I realize Xena never used a bow and arrow, but Dad wasn’t real keen on the idea of us using wooden swords.  Looking back, he should probably have been a little more worried about the arrow shooting too, but hey, it was the 90’s.  Xena was such an important part of my childhood.  It gave me a strong female role model.  It inspired my imagination.  It introduced me to the world of pop culture cults and camp.  It was my first introduction to Bruce Campbell, Lucy Lawless, Sam Rami. 

Now fast forward to 2016…  THEY ARE BRINGING XENA BACK!  When I heard the news, I was so excited.  I still am, but the excitement has kind of faded as I realized what this really meant for my beloved, leather-clad warrior princess.  You see, the new Xena won’t be my Xena. 

My Xena lives in the treasured memories of sitting with my sister watching the original series on TV.  Of jumping off the rock wall in our backyard or swinging on the jungle gym pretending to catch an imaginary chakra.  Even re-watching the original series on Netflix strained this personal connection.  I never realized just how campy the show really was!  And the sexual tension between Xena and Gabrielle – yeah, didn’t get that at all as a child.  Now they will be completely remaking the series with a whole new cast.  Can Xena be anyone by Lucy Lawless?  So part of me is exited that young girls will have an opportunity for a strong female role model and part of me is thrilled to get a chance for more of Xena’s story, but part of me is sad for what seems like the death of my childhood hero.  

I have been struggling with this loss of innocence a lot lately.  You would think 30 would be a little late for innocence, but I found I still have a surprising amount.  And what is worse, the loss is way more painful when you actually understand it.  I have reached the time in my life where things from my childhood are starting to fall apart.  Actors, musicians, and other celebrities that shaped who I am are dying.  Franchises that brought me the settings and characters for my make-believe games are being rebooted in fantastic and startling ways.  Wolverine doesn’t wear gaudy blue and yellow anymore.  Gollum isn’t quite so scary when he isn’t animated.  In a way the loss of innocence has allowed me to appreciate more of the nuance behind these things – like when you finally get all the dirty jokes in Animaniacs – but I am also aware of the cost of these revelations.  

Disappear

Friday, March 12, 2012, Jessica disappeared.

At 12:34 she parked in front of the bank. She made a deposit of $1,356.47 to the joint account she shared with her husband, Anthony. Fron there, she walked to the library to drop off some books and checked out the newest Larry McMrutry novel. The librarian had been holding it for her since Wednesday. Then she stopped by the grocery. Amy, the high school clerk, tried to help her find gorgonzola; she wanted it for a recipe. The store didn't have any, but Amy put it on the list for their next order. Jessica headed back to her car. The security camera at the bank watched her pull away. It was the last anyone saw of her.

In cities, these things happened all the time. But in the small, tight-knit community of Jackson, Jessica's disappearance was sensational. People in Jackson had no secrets. When everyone knew more about your business than you did, it was impossible to have any. So how could someone just disappear? 

Stumble

“I – that’s not – It came out wrong,” Josh called after her.  But it was too late. 

The martini slowly soaking into his Doctor Who shirt was cold.  He shivered as a bead dripped onto the front of his jeans.  At least it hadn’t been in his eyes.  She had been kind enough to throw the drink at his chest, not his face.

He rung the hem of his shirt, wrinkling it.

“Dude, what did you say?” Zane asked, handing him a wad of cocktail napkins. 

Josh dabbed at himself with the useless pieces of unabsorbent paper.  “Nothing.  I mean nothing to deserve that.  We were just talking about series seven and I might have said something about Rory getting killed all the time.  But it just happened so fast.”

“Did she even watch Doctor Who?”

“Yeah, that’s why we started talking.”

“Maybe she finds Rory’s immortality strangely romantic.  I mean, it is all about Ami.  Girls did that shit.”

“Maybe,” Josh said, slapping the sodden wad of napkins back into Zane’s empty hand.  “I need a drink.”

“I’ll buy, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Next time you are going to make a complete ass of yourself, warn me so I can get my phone out.  I mean it’s not every day the amazing Josh Wellman falls flat on his face with a girl.”

Western

Only a few days more and they would travel further than anyone had gone before.  What would they find on the western edge of the world?  More ocean, eventually leading around until they appeared again on the eastern horizon?  Admiral Donavan sent a silent prayer to the gods watching from Olympus Monds – anything but that, please.  He would take slow painful death in the stomach of a leviathan over the ‘I told you so’ looks of the other captains.

Donavan collapsed the looking glass and slipped it into the pocket of his huge dress coat.  He had not changed his uniform for two days and it was beginning to smell a bit of sweat an burned whale oil.

Onions

When I was in first grade I had a show and tell assignment.  Each week a different student in Mrs. Puckett’s class had to take home a shoe box, fill it with something they loved, something they hated, and things that represented their family and interests.  At the time, I loved horses – guess I still do, but I digress.  I loved horses, so I had a My Little Pony in the box.  I also had pictures of my family – Mom, Dad, sisters, brother, grandparents.  I was taking dance lessons at the time, so I threw in a ballet shoe.  I liked tap better, but my ballet shoes didn’t smell quite as bad.  I remember that when it came down to picking the thing I hated, I had trouble.

“Daddy says ‘Hate is a strong word,’ and I’m not supposed to hate anything.”

“Well, what about something you don’t like,” Mom suggested.  It was the day before my presentation and we had scattered my items over the kitchen table to rehearse. 

“I guess I don’t like cats.”

“Did you want to put a picture of a cat in here?”

“But I don’t not like them that much.”

In the end, after several suggestions of things that I didn’t not like enough, we came up with an onion.  I really did hate onions – to the point where hate might not have been a strong enough word, but it was all my first grade vocabulary could come up with as the ultimate dislike.  Mom had to pretty much mince them to keep me from picking them out of my food.

The fateful day came, I gave my presentation, everyone agreed that onions were the worst, and then it was Jackson Knight’s turn for show and tell the next week.  My last sacred duty was to take the show and tell shoe box home, empty it out, and then return it the next Monday so Jackson could fill it.  Not going to lie, I was a little nervous about this last part.  So the first thing I did when I got home was to start unpacking the box on the kitchen table.  I left the onion for last, but finally, it was the only thing left in the box.

It was just a regular white onion.  About the size of a baseball.  To this day, I am not sure what possessed me, but as I pulled the onion from the box, I had the overwhelming desire to peel it.  So I did.  Sitting at the kitchen table, I rubbed off the papery beige skin on the outside.  Then I used my nails to claw away the first layer of white.  The smell was overwhelming and soon I was crying.  Mom came over by layer three.

“What are you doing?”

By this point, I was confused myself.  Tears streamed down my face and I just started bawling. 

Fast forward thirty years.  My opinion on onions has changed.  After spending some time abroad, I have even been known to enjoy them raw on salads and such.  My mother cursed me to have a child just like me.  I have two – neither of my boys can stand to be in the same house as an onion.  I have to mince them even finer than she did.  Thanks, Mom. 

I have this theory, why I now like onions.  Yes, they taste good, but I also think I like onions because they make it okay to cry.  When I was in first grade, I hated crying.  I did it a lot, as all children do, but I hated it.  Now, as an adult with children of my own, I find it very hard to let myself cry.  Not because I don’t want to, but because it will upset, scare, or otherwise scar my boys.  Onions are my salvation.  It isn’t the good cathartic cry that we all need – the ugly, sobbing, disgusting cry that is freeing and terrifying at the same time – but it is a form of crying that is socially acceptable and does not cause other adults to ask the dreaded “is everything okay?” It is safe crying.

I think back to my show and tell for Mrs. Puckett’s class.  Now, my box would have pictures of a very different family – much older and much larger.  Ballet shoes would be replaced with mementos from my boys’ various sports and my drafting tools.  I still love horses, but that My Little Pony is long gone.  I would need a much bigger box! 

Of course, there would be no onions in my adult show and tell box.  I think I am finally able to use the word hate correctly, but the things I hate aren’t really things you can put in a box.  Things like self-doubt, deadlines, bills, and the evil that humans are capable of.  

Space

Outside the small, round porthole was nothing. And everything. Jeremey stared out at the great black expanse of space studded with the bright white pinpricks of far away stars.

Space travel was so different from earth travel. He knew they were moving 500 kilometers a second, yet the view from his cabin window never changed. Humans really were so insignificant.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up from the desk. Although the action itself took much less effort in the ships diminished gravity, it the emotional weight of it somehow tripled.

It wasn’t that he hated his job. He loved being a long distance space freight captain. Or, rather, he loved the destinations. Each new port was a whole new world. He often imagined himself as an ancient explorer, like Columbus, stepping off a creaking wooden ship onto alien soil for the first time.

Each time he sought out every adventure he could cram into his short stop over. He gorged himself on local delicacies, wore through his boots hot footing it to all the regular tourist traps, and tried to soak up the atmosphere of each station, asteroid, or planet through every pore.  

It was a life of whirlwind excitement punctuating long periods of hibernation as he traveled the bleak expanses of space.

Had Columbus ever given up hope, as one day bled into another with nothing to see but more ocean? At least Jeremey knew where he was going and how long it would take to get there. Barring any breakdowns or unforeseen obstacles, of course.

He shrugged on his flight jacket and took one last look out the dark porthole. Still two more weeks before they reached Xerces Station, famous for their spicy cuisine.

Snow

At first, she liked the snow. The way it covered the barren courtyard in a pristine layer of white. It was beautiful. On very cold days, when it was especially sparkly, she could even imagine it was her own field of diamonds.

Sometimes there were tracks, though she never saw a soul. She spent hours making up stories to go with the billowy trails. This one was a lord, sneaking through the dark of night to see his lady. This one was that same lady off on a midnight shopping spree. This one, the one that only made it half way to her window, was a kindly guard stopped on the verge of rescuing her.

But as winter wore on and on and the snow piled higher and higher, she began to hate the stark white courtyard. She longed for just a peep of green. Something to break up the bleak landscape.

Then one day she spotted it. Along the north wall, the one with the most sun, a tiny green shoot. It took her several days to realize it was actually there. But it was.

Each day the shoot peeked a little higher out of the snow. Leaves fell away from the main stalk. The tip swelled as the bloom matured. Each day she stared for hours, hoping and praying for the little bud to open.

A hard knock on the door woke her from a light, cold sleep. Two guards pushed into the room and pulled her from her bed. Their hands were rough and firm through the thin material of her nightgown as they took hold of her arms and started to drag her toward the door.

“Wait, please,” she begged. “The little flower in the courtyard. Please, let me look one last time. It is open. I prayed it would open. I must be open.”

“It’s dark,” the smaller guard mumbled.

“Please. Just a moment. Then I will go with you.”

But the larger guard just pulled her forward.

“No,” she cried. Wrenching her neck, she looked back at the night-dark window.

In the crisp February morning, the smaller guard crunched through the snow of the small courtyard. He found the solitary flower, standing tall against the north wall. A perfect yellow daffodil. It had bloomed. Just not in time.

With a quick tug, he beheaded the flower. He would place it on her grave when no one was looking.