Mermaid Tears

by Kristina Hagman

A stranger came up to me today

With the most peculiar thing

He held a vial in one hand

And in the other, a ring.

He handed me the bottle,

with a smile on his face.

He gave me also the ring

in a gesture full of grace

“These are important for you,

You’ll need them sometime soon.

Drink the liquid and wear the ring,

Be ready for the moon.”

I took the gifts and message too

With questions in my head

But he only winked and turned away,

Leaving me full of dread.

I uncorked the bottle

and took a deep breath.

It was salty as the sea;

smelling just like death.

I hung the ring around my neck

it was a noose of lead.

I prayed that when the moon arrived,

I would not be left for dead.

A week had passed

since the stranger’s warning.

The air was frigid

And filled with mourning

The moon would come tonight, I knew.

It was time to face my fate.

Whatever Destiny had in store,

I wished she would be late.

But as the moon lit up the sky

I knew that it was time

I uncorked the vial of mermaid tears

And in the distance heard a chime

With shaking hands and beating heart,

Upon my finger I placed the ring

I closed my eyes and parted my lips

And with that, began to sing.

A beautiful song erupted

Vibrant, and full of life.

But then the melody quieted

And I could feel the strife.

Cold water drenched my body

And I knew that I was she

who had left the water for the land

who had become, well, me

I had cried these salty tears,

A long, long time ago

And where the ring would lead me now

I most certainly did not know.

But one thing I knew with certainty:

I needed to find the man

Who had given me the ring and vial

Who had lent a helping hand.

He had returned to me my identity

And for that I owed my thanks

There were so many lacking memories

From when I had left my ranks.

The memories flowed back to me,

the life under the ocean.

I remembered crying those mermaid tears

That were used to make this potion.

A tear slipped down my cheek just then

Salty as the sea

It had no magical properties,

because I was still me.

Did I wish for the waves?

The life I had back then?

That person was different from me;

Did I wish for her again?

The answers to these I did not know

I was quite sure of this.

But a little voice had told me:

“It’s alright to reminisce.”

I realized I did not miss my life

Down there under the waves

This life on land was good enough

For one, like me, who behaves

Although I had once been someone else

This was who I was, now

I was content with these memories

And with that, I made a vow

I would be happy with this life

Since I had chosen it

I would live each day completely

And I promised to never quit.

Something strange happened that day,

The most peculiar thing.

A stranger had given me a gift,

And I saw what life could bring. 

One and Only

by Kristina Hagman

A tribute to Madi Flink

We may not know your story, 

The inner workings of your mind

But we know what people called you,

And that was one word: kind.

Your smile, your laugh, your eyes

Your personality so true

How is it you're gone?

The one and only you.

Many tears have been shed

As we lay your soul to rest.

But we send you the best wishes

For eternity and all the rest. 

Pierced

"Pierced"

Kristina Hagman

Graphite; 45 minutes

The Beauty of a Short

There is so much beauty in a short story. People think I'm crazy, but it's true! Just take a moment to think about all the character history the author has in his head and think about how he really wanted the story to end. Of course, you'll never know any of this. But that's the fun: the guessing. Does the dragon slayer live? Does the girl kill the guy who showed up in her house? Did those people really just get into a car crash and die?

Those are the questions I have at the end of amazing short stories. The ones where you want to throw something, anything, at the wall because they end in the most fantastic and frustratingly beautiful spots. People can die in less than three pages. They can fall in love, they can have an epiphany.

A short story with a crazy ending

And you don't have to know anything about the characters to appreciate the writing. You could have an anonymous character and still feel like a part of you dies when the last period is placed. Or maybe the author left off in the middle of a sentence. That's always fun!

Maybe my sense of fun is a little bit skewered.

Reading short stories is entertaining, but so it writing them. There are pros and cons to writing a short story. It's much easier to just come up with scenes of a character's life and highlight that one moment that makes for a good story. For a novel, you have to come up with a whole world and a whole plot, with a beginning, a climax, and an end (or a thrilling cliffhanger). The length of a short story is easy and can be done fairly quickly. Unless you scrap it seventeen times.

However, sometimes a short story feels too short. You want to fall in love with your characters and your world, to make them your best friends and your worst enemies. You can't develop them in a short story, or tell your readers about their strange obsessions with foreign cheeses, especially if your story is about fighting a unicorn.

But at the same time, sometimes you can't get attached to the characters, because they all die. This is tragic, but you can usually learn a lot when this happens.

A short story where everyone dies but you learn a lot (Disclaimer: everyone dies.)

And then, of course, there are the really really weird short stories when you have no idea what happened, and might be a little grossed out. There are probably exponential amounts of stories like these on the internet, but I haven't read any that come to mind. I'm sure you could learn from those too though, if you tried.

That's where the true beauty lies. When you read a short story and discover something about the world, or others, or yourself. When you are the one who falls in love and has an epiphany. That is what really makes a short story beautiful.

Love Like Coffee

artwork by author

by Kristina Hagman

The old man held the mug in both of his old wrinkled hands. Steam swirled up and brushed his face before dissipating into the air. He breathed in deeply but shakily — his lungs were not as they used to be.

The bittersweet smell of coffee rose toward his nose, his brain knowing the scent before it reached his body. Leaning forward, he picked up the small pitcher of cream in the middle of the table. Pouring it in slowly, he watched it swirl with the dark brown of the coffee. He added a packet of cane sugar and stirred gently.

Taking a sip of the hot drink, he smiled. It was good coffee, for sure. But it was not as good as that of his wife. His thoughts brought him to another time.

He walked down the frigid streets of New York, his hands tucked tightly into a gray wool coat. The cold air nipped his skin, teasing the warmth out of his breath. Walking just a bit faster, he turned a corner and saw the coffee shop.

It was small but inviting, with a cheery sign hanging in the window. It was empty; it was almost closing time. A lone barista was wiping down tables, her sleeves pushed up past her elbows.

Not wanting to disrupt the routine, but now yearning for coffee, the young man pushed open the door. A bell jingled as he entered. The barista looked up, a pleasant expression on her face.

“It’s almost closing time,” she announced simply.

He nodded, “I know. But coffee sounded just perfect right now. If it’s an inconvenience, I could…” He gestured toward the door.

“It’s alright. You’re here already. And it wouldn’t be kind to have you wander in search of the second-best coffee in New York!” She smiled up at him and moved to pour hot water into a filter.

The room was silent for a while as the coffee machine whirred. It beeped after a minute or two, and the girl prepared a cup. She let the foam settle on top and gave it a quick stir with a spoon. Carrying it over to the table where the boy sat, she handed it to him.

“No charge,” she said.

He looked into the cup. A heart of foam floated atop the dark liquid. “Why the heart?”

“Everyone can use a little more love. Plus, it’s Valentine’s Day. You looked lonely.”

The young man came to that coffee shop every day for the next week, until he worked up the courage to ask the friendly barista out on a date. The old man sipped at his coffee, a smile crinkling his wrinkled face as he remembered his first date.

It was another cold February day, and they were going ice-skating. Shyly, the boy took her hand, emboldened by the pink that flooded her cheeks.

They skated in circles, laughing and sliding along. The girl’s hair danced behind her, the strands escaping the grip of her hat. The tips of her nose and ears were red from the cold, but she was happy.

When they were finished with skating, the young man tugged her toward a hot chocolate stand, purchasing them both a cup of the steaming liquid.

“Coffee is better,” she teased him.

Coffee was better, the old man thought. It had been such a unique part of their relationship, one that popped up over and over again.

He remembered his proposal to her, with coffee. It had been a year after their first meeting — Valentine’s Day. He corresponded with her coworkers and they allowed him to use the coffee shop where they first met.

He decorated it with Christmas lights, taking her there long after the customers had left. One of her friends acted as their server, taking their orders. She ordered a latte.

With its arrival, she smiled. It had a foam heart on top. “Everyone can use a little more love,” she remarked.

He smiled back at her, nervously sipping his drink as he waited for her to find the ring at the bottom.

The old man looked at his cup fondly, almost to the end of his drink. He would never forget the shine of her eyes as she said yes.

           

He remembered the iced coffee they served at their wedding reception. He remembered the coffee his wife gave him to announce her pregnancy. He remembered the coffee they shared to consol each other after each miscarriage. He remembered giving each foster child, all eight of them, a coffee cup and coffee grinds as they left to go to college. He remembered the solemn eyes of his wife as she gave him a cup of coffee, telling him that she was dying. He remembered sneaking coffee into the hospital as she lay sick. He sat there for a long time, and remembered.

            He glanced around at the coffee shop. It had been many things over the years — a bookstore, a boutique, a small restaurant, and ever so often a coffee shop. This year, it was a coffee shop. He came often, and the young hosts knew his face. They listened eagerly to him as he told them how they shop would change, how the world would change, how people would change, but how memories would always stay the same. 

A Guy Thing: A girl's response to Borderlands 2

photo by Kristina Hagman

By Kristina Hagman

Borderlands 2 just came out! Borderlands 2? I’ve never heard of Borderlands 1! This is the kind of thing I hear about every time my guy friends and I spend time together. Videogames this, videogames that. And maybe a bit about the latest football game.
“Hey, you should come over and play Call of Duty with us sometime,” they invite. Guns? Killing people, however imaginary? No thanks.
As girls, this is not something we enjoy. Most girls would much rather spend their weekends laughing with girlfriends and shopping, not cramped up in a dark basement with simulated guns firing and blood spurting everywhere.
If girls can navigate the streets of Mario Kart with acceptable fluidity, we congratulate ourselves on the feat, and think nothing of the fact that a harder level will knock us out in the first seconds. After this achievement, we will continue onto something worth our time, like our hair.
Boys do not think this way. They have to be the best of the best of the best when it comes to the games they are playing. If they are not on the highest level of Borderlands, which happens to be 69, they are doing something wrong. If they do not have the best weapon that can kill the most people, they are doing something wrong. If they cannot race their car at least three seconds faster than the rest of the group, they are doing something wrong.
Where does this sense of competition come from? It is a well-known fact that men are naturally competitive. The nature of life causes them to show off, in hopes that they will snag a worthy female. But never have you heard, “I’m really into this guy, he has such a profound skill when it comes to gaming!” Never.
And what are the positive aspects of videogames? Hand-eye coordination? How to defend your house in the event of a zombie apocalypse? Unless mutant aliens invade our planet, or some other anomaly happens, these strategies will never help.
Girls don’t see the point of videogames. Recently, my brother decided to go over to his friend’s house, just to play a new one. That is a strange way of hanging out with someone. Laughing and talking and getting to know each other is a much more preferable method.
I’m not say that girls are superior. I’m just saying that you’re not going to find a group of girls yelling at a TV, shooting virtual enemies and killing as many people as possible. We realize that this activity is pointless, and would find a better way to spend time.
Naturally, many guys will argue that they enjoy playing videogames because it’s a way to get their competitiveness out. You could do that playing football, or soccer, or even chess if you’re that kind of person. And, to be honest, men playing sports are about one-hundred times more attractive than someone who sits in front of a screen battling away. What do you have to lose?
So even though the release of a new videogame might be synonymous to the release of a much-anticipated movie, keep the hype to yourselves. Borderlands 2 might be exciting to you, but you might as well be speaking gibberish to me. Is that about the state lines? Maybe it’s about Cuba! The level with the sky falling was really hard, I need to be a 69 to do it well!
I guess it’s just a guy thing.

Silence

Photo Credit: Alec MacLean (See more)

Kristina Hagman

The silence was deafening, and the pain ran thick. She had been in love, flying on a cloud. All the sweet words, the caresses in the night, they had all been for nothing.

            There was no worth in herself. Her mind was corrupted, and her body no longer pure. Now, even life held no meaning.

            Lying there, on the beach, she was torn. Water licked her fingertips, and she thought about how it would be so easy to let it claim her. A few steps into the waves, and everything would be over. The pain, the sorrow, it would all disappear.

            But the brief moments of happiness, and the joy would all be gone as well. Would it be worth it? No bad things, but no good either. It would be another place filled with bland equilibrium, for the rest of eternity. No feelings, and no end. Forever. It was a long time, to be sure.

            The tides came closer, lapping further up her arm. The gentleness reminded her of his touch, and her heart broke further. A single tear leaked out and rolled down her cheek, coming to rest in the crevice by her lip. She tasted it. It was salty, like the sea.

            The sea, the sea, the sea. It called out to her, a silent voice in the night. The waves made no sound, oddly, as they crept up the beach. Come, the cried, Come. Satisfy us. Come. We need you. Come. You need us. Come. We can help you. Come.

            Her hand closed around the moist sand, her fingers digging into her palm. She didn’t want to die, not really. But the thought was so tempting, sweet like sugar. It promised a place without pain.

            She stood up, wading slowly into the waves. Her splashes made no sound, yet still the waves beckoned her to come. Tears fell down her cheeks freely now, falling quietly into the ocean. Single drops, nothing significant at all.

            She felt like one of her tears. No one would notice if she was gone. She was just a single person, just one drop in the vast ocean. No one would care. The waves came up to her hips now, stealing the heat from her body. Goosebumps ran up her arms, and she rubbed them away.

            The water was cold. The waves were full of malice. Still, they called out to her. What are you waiting for? Come. It’s easy. Just let go. Let us take you far, far away. Come.

            Pushing the thoughts away, she shivered. The moon was out. A bright orb in the sky, illuminating her body in a soft light. She could barely see her reflection in the waves, but it was pale, sickly, and white. What was she doing to herself? Nothing good, that could be sure.

            She glanced at the moon again, but stray clouds had covered it. Slowly, painfully, she headed back toward the shore. The water reached out to her, not ready to give up yet. It wrapped around her ankles, reminding her of the promise of silence they gave. A defiant shout tore itself from her throat, the loud noise carrying far across the sea.

            With a final step, she pulled free of the water. Collapsing on the ground, she stared up at the moon. It was perfect and glowing, the opposite of her. She was as far from perfection as possible. However, she was at peace with that.

            Other people might not accept who she was, but that didn’t matter. Time could fix that. Death was still an option, but it no longer held much appeal. She curled up on the ground. And smiling, she fell asleep.