THE PURSUED MEMORY
Luke Garcia, 17, Santa Fe
I don’t remember my past, or anything about my childhood. It’s ... strange, emotions overtake me when I try to conjure up memories: a faint image will form and quickly fizzle out, leaving only an array of color. I’ll laugh, other times, I’ll cry. Then even the color fades. It’s always the same.
I. Can’t. Remember.
Every time I’d try to recollect, I’d dig myself further into a hole. My muscles would tense, and my hair would stand on edge until I couldn’t take it anymore and screamed in the middle of the night. Why can’t I remember? I had to take a flight to my hometown, which I only knew from the secondhand account of my parents, in the hopes some sort of memory would trigger. As I went, I couldn’t sleep; this gnawing anxiety had to end.
When I arrived, it was mid-fall. I left my bags in my room and walked through the eastern countryside. The stars were out, and the moon glowed with ageless beauty. I couldn’t help but admire it. And soon after came the western wind; it continued all throughout the night.
For now, it was cold and comforting, and I felt the need to take a rest, so I did. My breath quickened, and I felt dizzy. Like a giant tide, a wave rushed over me and left me speechless. The scenery was the same; had I ever seen this view before? I had to believe so, but could not be sure. So I continued on as the wind grew more intense. Nevertheless, I had to continue forward.
Along the path I met a strange man. He wore a fine suit and carried himself with pride. He kept his distance for quite some time, and I didn’t know why. Yet, he decided (or did he desire?) to talk after some time. He spoke in a quiet voice that was hard to pick up when the wind blew. The man treated me like a friend, and I did the same. He talked to me about many things: the sciences, literature, and history. Eventually, it came time to talk about ourselves. Although he was reserved about himself, he wouldn’t shy away from asking about me.
“Where do you come from, sir?” he asked.
“Here,” I said.
“That seems correct.” He adjusted his tie (which looked as if it was choking him) and looked at the time on his plain watch. He wouldn’t say why, nor would he say where he was from, and the conversation continued on. He asked what brought me back (how he knew I left I did not know). “Something must have guided you here.”
I could not answer. I felt that same anxiety I get when I try to remember. There was a hill just in view, and past it I knew there was a vast meadow. How I knew, I did not know; but a spiritual force told me to go forth. How could I deny it?
My pace quickened, as did the man’s. I sensed he shared my same eagerness. The wind pelted our faces and pushed us back; the ground grew uneven, and although it was a relatively small hill, we were out of breath. We trudged on, we had to see what lay beyond.
“What have we found on this silent night?” the man asked as we reached the top.
I couldn’t answer him just yet.
The moon encompassed everything around us: the flowers sparkled in its rays, and the few birds that soared through the sky gave off an air of majesty. I felt the urge to reach my hand out and grab the white orb; I believed I could grab it. Then my head throbbed and felt as if it would split. My legs gave out, and I fell on my head. A kaleidoscope of colors clouded my vision as I became entranced in the confusion.
I fell through a void and never reached an end. Somewhere, I flailed around and caught hold of something: a memory.
I was a child playing in the hills, but they were different back then; just miles and miles of an empty expanse. The sight was enticing; from the wastes I thought I could build an entire city. I wondered what else I’d find, and who I would become. That day, I promised myself that I’d go out and see the world.
But that’s not what happened. I left my home, found a place, and quietly settled. My spirit was snuffed out by my own circumstances, and I forgot. My memories slipped away from my grasp as everything changed into a never-ending day. I was a prisoner kept in a cold cell, begging to see the light. The throbbing pain stopped, and I looked around; the man was standing over me. I forgot he had even existed.
He helped me to my feet. “Did you find your answers?”
I nodded, “I found myself.”
He smiled and shook my hand, “The moon is beautiful tonight, its dim rays illuminate but a speck of what’s hidden in the dark: beautiful and horrifying secrets. We will always be drawn to them, you and I; we have nowhere to hide and can only hope to find ourselves through whatever we grasp.”
Just then, the wind screeched and the flowers were almost ripped from the ground; little creatures I could not see scattered as if threatened by something. Time stood still, and the Earth felt as if it would open right then and there. That didn’t happen. I stood triumphantly in the dim light. My prize was humble for sure, but it was all I cared for.
The man walked away soon after his final speech, adjusting his tie closer to his neck as he vanished from sight. I never saw him again, but his presence left an impression on me, one which I can’t shake away. I thought about him as I walked home, the wind now hastened rather than hindered me as I exited the countryside. I looked upon the moon for the final time that night, its beauty only amplified now.
Luke Garcia is a senior at St. Michael’s High School and is a lifelong resident of Santa Fe, with a heritage of more than 12 generations living in New Mexico. He plans to pursue a degree in biomedical engineering at New Mexico Tech. He is also a recipient of the College Board National Hispanic Recognition Award. In his free time, he is either training in the martial arts, writing, reading, hiking, or spending time with his beloved family (mother, father, brother, and two dogs).
The Shattering
Stella S. Counsell, 13, Santa Fe
The deathly silence of the sala almost made me shiver. It was so empty and lifeless without my mama’s mix of spices that she would always simmer in a pot, over low heat.
The day she was sent to the ER I was devastated and eagerly tried to invigorate the sala by copying her spice mix using my sense of smell. A few cinnamon sticks, clove and apples from the Trees of Life that grew near Calabria, my family’s homeland. They were sacred, golden apples that would only be picked by the humble farmers, like my brother Nino, who birthed and raised them. People who stole from the stock would get punished, even the ones who were greedy and didn’t want to change their demeanor.
There is a myth that says you will get turned into a pest like a raccoon that eats among the corn and maize, living your life as a thief or a trout eating the precious kelp of the river that the river didn’t grant permission for the trout to eat.
I found out I had skipped a few ingredients because the smell was very faint and dull, so I eagerly went to see Mama to complete my quest and restore the sala’s joy for her return after recovery.
When I reached the hospital, I asked a lady who worked at the front desk, “Is Mama still in the ER?” She told me Mama had improved enough to move to her own room in the hospital. My heart filled with satisfaction, and I found room 108 where Mama sat up in bed drinking a glass of water, looking up temporarily and seeming to be in deep thought before taking another sip. I knocked on the door after coming in to get her attention and crouched at the side of her bed.
“Hey,” I breathed softly. Mama turned to me and her face wrinkled when she smiled; she still had her beautiful dimples as before when she was full of youth.
“Ahh, Elena!” Mama rasped with joy. Her eyes were dark slits of happiness, a star in each one, her soft, heart-shaped lips rose with her large grin, with cheeks that lit up rosy red; her breath smelled redolent. Her cheeks where usually pale and concealed with a colorless shade of tan, but they sure came to life when she smiled!
“So? Why do you come to see Mama here, Cara?” Her sanguinity seemed to drop as she asked her question.
“I’ve been curious to know what else you use in your Pots of Life.” I felt needy asking but remembered I was making the pot for her, and even after her time, I would keep the tradition going in memory of Mama. “You promise not to tell?” I nodded soulfully. “I’ve already gotten the apples, cinnamon, and clove down so, what else am I missing?” Mama’s smile returned. “ All that’s missing is anise seed.” My eyes widened with curiosity.
“Grazie,” I reached for Mama’s forehead and kissed it. She looked in my eyes, and my heart felt tender with conviviality.
Nino was currently on a business trip in Paris, so I decided to give him a call to say goodbye to Mama because she was so delighted when I mentioned his name. “Sorella! How are you?” Nino greeted me warmly. “I’m doing just fine,” I answered. “Mama misses you!” Then I turned the phone over to her and left the room to give them some quality time to talk, just the two of them.
I fumbled with my fingernails and twirled my curly black hair. I worried for Mama but knew I also had to give her back independence. And so I waited and waited until I looked at the time and decided it was time to go.
“Mama,” I whispered in her ear. She turned to me, slightly. “I have to go, I will visit again soon.” Mama’s nod was solemn, but I just told myself she was due for some rest, and I took my phone from her weathered and veiny hands she had used tenderly in all her years of knowledge. I rubbed her hand in mine to warm it up and gave her one last kiss on the forehead. She gave me a wide smile that reminded me of newborns when they are so jubilant to be given life and a chance to learn the difference between good and evil and distinguish the two from each other.
“Carry on, young one, please fill yourself with understanding so you don’t become a thief of learning.” I smiled at her wisdom and pride about my future. I didn’t know what was in store for me, though. I thought an artista of the land who etched out the silhouettes of the shrubs? Or maybe a potter? I furrowed my brow but kept it mostly to myself; this visit wasn’t for my sake or future, it was for Mama. So I smiled at her one last time and headed for the door. My smile stayed with me as I felt her presence right here flowing through my living body. It pumped through my veins like liquid gold, and I even looked over my shoulder once.
That evening when I got home, I decided to write a letter to Mama to thank her for everything she has done to make me into a better person. It started with a few do overs but I eventually got into the flow and imagined sprouts unfolding into heroic trees that subsided over the dirt road. They would never stop growing as long as I was writing and one day, they would be too strong for any sinner to cut down Mother Nature’s babies that allowed us to breathe. So I wrote until my pen got burned into my skin and put my writing to the side with a whole heart. “Tomorrow,” I gasped. “Tomorrow I will give Mama her gift ...”
The horizon lit up the clouds making them a spontaneous orange hue that tickled all the animals with pureness that was richer than bread made by the hands of beautiful people.
I raised my eyelids and found myself sleeping on the sala’s ancient hand-carved table. It smelled of holy juniper that didn’t dare make a soul in the world sick, and so I had no hesitation to rest on the blessing that had held me all night. I reached for the ceiling, though, as I stretched out the cramping in my arms. Just then I remembered: Mama’s gift! I snatched my full letter and started up the car, forgetting all about breakfast or harvesting the rest of the apples before the winter demolished them. I ran content fully through the hospital and wouldn’t stop when someone asked me to. I dodged corners and vases, halting at Mama’s room. The room was a mix of rosewater and sanitizer and that started to worry me. I went over to her tranquil body and cupped her plump cheeks in my hands. I shed a tear. “No, no, Mama, you are not dead, nature is just cradling you longer ...”
Stella S. Counsell is a young writer and aspiring artist growing up in Santa Fe. In her early days, around the age of 3, she would raid her mom’s office for paper and a stapler to assemble her own mini-books to subsequently have stories written into them. She “published” her first book, Overcoming the Wingless, at the age of 8.
A Life Made from Almost Nothing
Seth Abes, 12, Santa Fe
Day 0: I wake up in a white room. Everything around me feels like a blank slate, or something someone gave up on. The room is not that large, and the only thing in this room is a bed that sits in the very middle. I get out of the bed and realize there is nothing else here. Suddenly, the abrupt realization comes to me. I wish there were more. More for me to do, more for me to see, more for me to comprehend. I think and think, if there is something else beyond this room, but I come to the conclusion that there isn’t, because I search the entire room, but I find nothing besides the one bed that I woke up in.
I learn a new feeling, frustration. I become mad, and grab one of the two sheets on my bed, and tear one apart. I learn that I can destroy things. I start kicking one of the walls. I kick and kick and kick. I start kicking the second wall, then the third, and then the fourth, yet the walls don’t break. I sit in despair, wondering why I’m the only one in this world, in this one little room, with nothing but a bed. At that point I am tired, so I lie down. I slowly drift away into sleep, pondering what will happen to me in this small world.
Day 1: I open my eyes once again, only I remember what happened last time, but something is different. There is a set of blocks, sitting in one corner of the room. I gaze at them for a second, only to become more and more curious. I walk over, and pick one up. It’s not that heavy, but it’s rough, something I’ve never felt before. There are many blocks, and they are all built, or stacked, to make the shape of a cube. I take another one off the cube and stack them in a new way. I smile, as there is something new for me to do. The first day I built a similar shape to a cube, but four of the side lengths are longer than the original cube.
Day 2: The second day I built layers, each layer smaller than its predecessor, all the way to having only one block on top. This took several tries, because I didn’t have enough blocks, and sometimes I had too many, and I wanted to use them all.
Day 3: The third day I mostly sat and thought. Thought of all the things I had created in the past. I realized that, if I can make different shapes with the blocks, then why not make different shapes with just one block. I knew I could destroy things, but maybe I wasn’t really destroying. I was creating something new! I bang this one block against the wall, over and over. Small pieces start breaking off, and it starts to form a new shape. It starts to be rather pointy, and a sudden sting shocks me in the hand. Something red starts to run down it, but eventually stops.
Day 4, 5, and 6: In these three days I learn I can get hurt from several things in this room. Sharp objects, and falls from certain heights. I also learn that I can heal from these injuries. I also gain instinct. I can feel when it’s not a good idea to do something that is dangerous, or if I think an action could prove helpful.
Day 7: I learn to describe if something is like me or not. I am living, because I can move by myself, and think. These blocks are not alive from what I can tell. Nothing else in this room is alive, so who or what put the blocks there?
Day 8: I experienced boredom for the first time. I long for someone else like me. I come up with an idea, but it will take time. I go to bed to get extra rest.
Day 9: I grab a block, and start pounding it against the wall. I eventually break off a piece, and start banging that against the wall. I create several more chunks, and then one sharp chunk. I create my first tool.
1 Month: After a while, I crave something else like me. There’s a fairly large chunk of wood on the ground so I use that. I grab one of my sharp tools, and start shaping something that I think looks somewhat like me.
2 Months: My figures start out rather boxy looking. But over time, they start to look better and better. I reckon it’s because of my practice every day.
4 Months: I make more and more characters, but I haven’t actually done anything with them yet. So I decide to create a story. Here I am, with more than just me. There is someone else, and we become friends.
1 Year: My stories have become more and more elaborate. There is more than just my friend, but a whole group of people. We all live together in this room, and we are happy.
2 Years: I give everyone names, but not just my figures, but my tools as well.
1 Decade: I start to speak out loud, not everything is in my mind. But my figures can talk, I can talk.
2 Decades: I’m coming to the point where I have done so much. I can’t remember everything anymore, but I feel more in the present, more in the now. I’ve learned to contain my emotions.
2 More Decades: The more I do, the more I learn. I realize that I have never made a figure of myself. What do I look like? I’ll never know fully who I am. I can’t see myself. I start touching my face, trying to get a sense of my facial features, but I can’t think of anything. I sit down in despair, like so many years ago. I look at the room I’m in, and it looks the same. It’s still four white walls, and a bed in the middle. I look around, and see all of my memories. One day after another, and I never escaped this room, because this room is all there is. The room didn’t change, time never passed, and I wouldn’t have died. But I’m smarter, and though time may not pass in this world, I have become happy.
I point one of my long sharp tools at my chest, when suddenly a small rectangle opens in the wall and people run through at top speed yelling something at me but I can’t understand what they’re saying. They try grabbing my sharp tool away from me but I hold on. They continue yelling, but they lose grip and stumble backward.
I close my eyes again as I drive my tool into my chest. Their yelling becomes more and more faint. But no matter, they cannot save me, and that’s ok, for I am at peace.
Seth Abes is a seventh grader at Santa Fe School for the Arts and Sciences. He has a love of guitar and playing tennis. His inspiration to write this story was because he recently became more interested in science fiction. He loves reading other people’s ideas on what they think the future could be like. Seth also started creating dioramas. He has wanted to become a writer, or an architect, and loves to learn new things everyday.
Lifeless Love
Lola Wetzel, 12, Santa Fe
Camila J. Alves. I looked up from the document and over at the plastic bag; I could see the outline of her facial features and the curves on her body covered in layers of white.
“I’ll leave it to you then, Miller,” says my colleague.
I wave goodbye, keeping my eyes on the bag. The heavy door closes behind him. I set my clipboard down on the desk and gently approach the client. Carefully, I unzip the bag to reveal a beautiful woman with smooth skin, dark freckles, and a sharp jawline. Her neck is painted in spots of pastel crimson and purple like frozen blueberries. Her eyes, although sunken in, still contained a lingering chestnut gaze. The sight of her immediately lifts my cheekbones into a smile that will never fade. I haven’t felt this deep admiration for anybody since I was in high school, hundreds of years ago.
I begin the embalming process. After washing her, I sit drying her hair with a towel. Her long strands of black silk between my fingers makes me feel warm and giggly inside. I admire her facial features, I use two fingers to open her eyes again, and for once, I don’t mind a client staring at me.
“Miller?” I hear the metal door open with a swing.
I yank my fingers away from her face. “What do you want?! Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“It’s almost time to go home, you can continue this tomorrow.”
“Please, I just have to finish drying her hair.”
“Finish up and put her back, quickly.”
“Just leave,” I demand. “You’re taking up my time!”
Flustered, he twirls around and pushes through the doors. I roll my eyes and continue scrunching Camila’s hair with a towel. I must work diligently on such an alluring client. Once her hair is completely dry, I prep her to get a long night’s rest. I push her into the cold drawer, but before doing so, I get one last look at her eyes. I reach my fingers out to close them, but then I hear a faint sound.
The mutter of a girl, “No.”
I turn around and stay very still while my eyes dart frantically. It’s getting late, must be my head. I run my hands through my hair and look back at the client.
“Don’t go, Silus.” She speaks again, “Please.”
I look over at the client with her head now turned towards her shoulder, her gaze pouring into mine. My chair hits the ground with a loud thud as I back up quickly.
“No, don’t be scared.” Her mouth moves up and down, her neck vibrating with every vowel.
Mind games. As much as I wish this beautiful lady was speaking to me, I know it can’t be possible. I know.
“You’re scaring me!” she giggles. “Now help me up, my legs feel cold.”
I slowly reach my hand out and she takes it, her grasp is warm and evident. I watch as she brings her feet to the floor, her bones fragile like a vase.
“Camila,” her brittle voice chimes.
“Silus.”
“I haven’t heard a name like that before.”
“Oh?” I mumble, still a bit dazed, but I realize she means no harm at all.
She looks around the room for a second, notices the radio, and walks over to it. Her eyes study the dials. “I’m just a bit slow, sorry.”
My gaze softens.
She turns a dial and a slow song plays. “This one will do!” She approaches me and lays her hands around my neck. At first I am startled, but then I place my arms on her waist, careful not to add too much pressure. A minute or two go by and then the radio scratches, sending us both confused.
“That was fun, what else should we do?” Camila asks.
I awkwardly laugh and look over to the clock, 11:36.
“Oh, no, I have to get home.”
“Why are you in a rush?”
I frantically usher her onto the tray, “Please just close your eyes.”
She looks at me confused and worried, then frowns. Her eyes close and I push the tray into the drawer. I quickly grab my bag, turn off the lights, and jog to my car.
***
I jingle my keys into the lock.
“Good morning, Miller. Are you OK?”
“What? I’m fine. Leave me be.” I shoo my hands up, still struggling with my keys.
The door finally opens and I set my stuff on the small table. My assistant follows me with a tablet in his hands. He places it down, then starts to play a video. I squint to try and see, and then I realize.
“Is that me?” I ask.
He nods slowly, biting his lip. I watch as my body dances across the screen, my hands around nothing but the air.
“This was last night around 10:30, you continued to slow dance with yourself for about an hour.”
“That’s weird.”
“It is.” He looks down. “The funeral starts later today, I would finish your client up.”
Quickly, I open the drawer and see my darling, Camila. Her face is lifeless (as it should be). I take out my tools and finish her makeup in two hours. I dress her in the outfit her family requested. Four hours till the funeral, now I have to give her up so she can be placed in a casket for the rest of her afterlife. I brush my fingers along her face and frown.
“Camila, you are so beautiful,” I say, knowing she’s listening somehow.
An idea hits me, one I know I shouldn’t do. I just can’t be separated from her. I get up from my seat and grab a new cadaver bag from the cabinet and eagerly fit her legs, torso, arms, and head into the bag. I zip it up and place her body on the transport cart. Slowly, Camila and I leave our room and make our way to the exit.
“Miller?” I hear my assistant stammer from the front office.
I shoot him a nasty glare. “What?! What could you possibly want now?”
I quickly push her to my beat-up car. I look around to make sure no one is watching before I unzip the bag and lay her into the backseat where my daughter usually sits. I jump into the front seat and pull out of the parking lot.
“Where are we?”
I immediately light up. “Camila?” I look in the rearview mirror to see Camila sitting upright, smiling. My phone rings, of course, it’s my assistant. I decline and set my phone in the passenger seat.
“Oh I see,” she says. “We’re going to be together, yes?”
“What do you mean?”
“Be with me.”
I pull over on the side of the road and look back at Camila, her prepossessing smile and her eager eyes.
“I think I love you.” I mutter.
“Do it,” she whispers. “You can’t just leave me.”
I look at the beautiful view over the mountain side and how the sunset reminds me of Camila. I press my foot to the accelerator for her.