I was wondering if you could tell me what I did that made you hate me so much. Maybe I could fix it.

Timeline/World: Through the Looking Glass – Atheria 2nd Generation
Current Date: August 11, 2058

Character: Dayna Jones
Race: Human
Age: 73, physically about 26
Current residence: Atheria City, Eresiel
 

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There was a point in my life when I was sure my parents hated me. I’m sure that every kid goes through a phase when they do everything in their power to piss their parents off because that’s the point they’ve reached in their lives. That phase might be short-lived or longer lived or, in some cases, it might just never end.

I know that my parents never resented me for joining the army. They weren’t exactly pleased with the idea, but my grades weren’t great, and it seemed like a good opportunity. Do the army thing for the required time and you get to study into the field you were wanting. It seemed like a win-win situation to me.

It was not a win-win situation for me. Especially not since, not long before I left, I had another hard dip into that my-parents-hate-me phase. I’d been through it briefly when I’d been something like twelve or thirteen. The rebellious teen stage and I had done quite a few things that I would probably consider fairly out there by the standards of being a kid at that age.

The thing is, though, that particular point in my life is not when I thought my parents—my dad, especially—hated me. There were plenty of times when he was unhappy with me—they both were—but I think I was possibly no more than eight or nine when I really thought that Dad hated me with a passion. I was a kid, I saw things with my kid-eyes and even mom couldn’t really talk me out of this belief that Dad hated me.

He was rough on me when it came to my grade, something I didn’t associate with the fact that he was a teacher himself. A teacher I personally never had to have, myself, but a teacher, nonetheless. I guess he thought that I could do better, but his methods just weren’t the greatest, not when it came to me. I’m not dissing how he did while he was teaching others but there’s a difference between teaching the children of strangers and teaching your own.

That’s how I see it, in any case.

I know that at one point—fuzzy as that memory now is, of course—I went to Mom to ask her if she knew what I’d done for Dad to hate me so much. Remember, I was still fairly young, I was struggling somewhat in school though I was doing my best, and while Dad wasn’t the strictest one around, he still was fairly strict and to me, it equated something that was close to hatred for me.

I thought that if I knew what I’d done, I could fix it. Sounds simple enough, right?

Man, Mom’s face got so sad when I asked her that question, fuzzy as that whole time in my life is, that part is just so clear, and I don’t even remember what she might have told me about Dad or not. My focus shifted so rapidly to her and the fact that I’d made her sad. I don’t think you’d ever seen a kid do a one-eighty so fast in a mood.

I remember that I spent the next however-long just apologizing to her, not really hearing what she was saying, and trying to tell her that I hadn’t meant to make her sad and that I was sorry and that I’d do better next time.

In case you couldn’t tell, I had a favourite. Don’t tell Dad, though. I don’t play favourites anymore, not at the age I’m at, but I was young, I felt that Dad hated me and was being unjustly rough with me and my school grades and there was Mom just being the best mom she could be. So yeah, I had a favourite and that’s all there is to it.

That memory in itself feels somewhat clear but the rest of the few days around it is fuzzy. I know she sat me down at the table and we waited for Dad to come home so we could all talk. I faintly recall just how much dread I was feeling because I didn’t want Dad to know I knew he hated me—he didn’t but you know, kid brain and all. I don’t really remember the discussion we had on that day, but I suppose that this is moot too.

My grades didn’t get any better after that, but I do know he tried to be a little less pushy about my grades. He still did what he could for me to make sure I had passing grades, at the very least, but he wasn’t pushing for better than I clearly could manage. I was doing what I could, and it got me where I am now, so that’s not so terrible, is it?

Final Word Count: 809

There are some things we don’t question, like this.

 
Timeline/World: Through the Looking Glass – Atheria 2nd Generation
Characters: Dayna Jones
Race: Human
Age: 72, physically about 26
Current residence: Atheria City, Eresiel
Final Word Count: 754 words
 

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I am not in my place in the kitchen. That’s not to say I believe Joanie belongs in the kitchen either, I’m not that kind of person. I’m just saying that I’m not great when it comes to putting meals together that require more than some base attention. I can sear and cook steaks to perfection. I do a mean potato mash and most salads are great salads.

More complicated things like cakes, pasta—I’ve yet to manage to not overcook any pasta dish—or anything that is layered or requires several steps to perform, are things that I have to stay away from because I ruin pretty much everything I try. Not that it is inedible, but the taste will either be off, it will possibly be too cooked or still raw somehow; the possibilities of my failure with these things are countless and, you know what, I’m perfectly fine with that. I’ve made my peace.

Now, making my peace doesn’t mean I don’t try every now and again to see if I can’t overcome the issue. I don’t know what the exact issue is. Give me a complex piece of furniture to put together and that’ll be done without an issue. Give me something that is time sensitive, and it won’t be an issue. It really is down to dealing with the kitchen side of things that I still can’t do but it’s just one of those things.

A few days ago, I decided to put a trifle together. It was a big endeavour, as far as I was concerned but I wanted to give it my best. So, I read the recipe twice. I transcribed it down to paper, actually splitting things into groups that I needed to do in a certain order. Things that needed to be done before I could even put the trifle together. The pound cake and the cognac cream, for two things.

The cake ended up being a little overcooked, but it wasn’t to the point that it was inedible. Paired with the recipe, I figured that it was worth a try. The cream was mostly a study in whipping the cream—to keep the story short—and I managed that almost to perfection. A moment of inattention, however, led me to nearly making butter out of it but thankfully my wonderful other half was there to keep that from happening.

Little things like these are why I struggle with recipes, though I do still try my best.

After that, well, it was mostly a case of layering things up, putting them together and presenting it out to the judge and jury and, well, she was as surprised as I was when it turned out to be really good. I think we shared a look, something that just screamed don’t ask any questions, just take in the fact that this is actually a success, and we did.

I’m not about to let it get to my head, though. I think that’d be counterproductive to the fact that I’ve managed to put together something that tasted good. It wasn’t perfect, the cream was a little too thick but for the general sense of things that it was a good cake, and I went for seconds, it was a great success. That’s all I can really say about it.

It’ll be another while yet before I try my hand at anything else. Give me simple things to put together and I’m happy to help but preparing these bigger things, especially when I know that my chances of not failing at them are really low, takes a lot out of me. I’m glad to help out anywhere else around the house or the yard as might be. I’m happy to put anything on the grill you might be willing to throw my way, but I’ll need my break from the kitchen’s more delicate discoveries.

I want to believe that since I am willing to try and I’m willing to discover if I can push myself a little more in figuring out why I have so many issues with these things, that it’s worth something. I could have gone the easy way out. I could have crossed the kitchen off of my list altogether, just not bothering at all with making any efforts that could have led me to an understanding of things, but I’d rather give it my all; even if giving it my all only happens every so often.

It’s better than nothing, right? Right. That’s what matters.

Remind me why I’m here? I don’t even like you and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

 
Timeline/World: Through the Looking Glass – Atheria 2nd Generation
Characters: Dayna Jones
Race: Human
Age: 71, physically about 26
Final Word Count: 741 words
 

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I don’t know why so many of us opted for the army when the puppeteer took over. I suppose it’s just one of those things. I know I went for that option before everything went to hell, though. I needed to focus on my studies, I wasn’t all that far off; at least, I wasn’t far off until they shipped us off and the rest is mostly history.

Or, well.

The rest is mostly history, but I was looking up newspaper articles from around the time I’d been shipped off. I don’t know what I was really looking for other than potential information on where the hell I had ended up being shipped off. That part of my life is still something of a mystery. I just remember a lot of sand, being overheated in the day time and nearly freezing at night. I don’t know why I don’t remember where we were.

Through my research, I didn’t find much more about where I potentially had landed but I did find one particular picture of my unit and there I was, off to the side. Next to me, there was this one guy whose name I only now remember because it was attached to the picture, but I’d more or less completely forgotten about him since then. Can you blame me? It’s been some fifty years. I’m not even sure I can wrap my mind around how long it’s been. It doesn’t feel like that long.

Harry was his name. Harry Richard Wood. He acted like he was royalty, and he turned his nose up at most of us whenever we tried to help him with something because, let me tell you, he struggled a fair bit at first. I don’t really know what changed but by the time we were out there in the sands, he wasn’t half as bad, but he still wasn’t great.

I didn’t like Harry and Harry didn’t like me. He constantly was making fun of my name as though it was the weird thing out here and I only half-heartedly reminded him that most people shortened his name to ‘Dick Wood’, that tended to shut him up pretty quickly.

Over the first few months, he was constantly whining and complaining about not knowing why he was there, there being where we were stationed and learning everything we had to learn. He complained almost every single time we had to head out to train—which, you know, pretty much every day—and then huffed that he didn’t like any of us and he was sure the feeling was mutual and yet, you know, we still tried to be nice to him.

I really don’t know when it all changed or why anything might have changed in the long run.

When I look back to that photo, we almost look chummy. We’re a small group just half-huddled together, arms over shoulders and laughing possibly at something and well, it was possibly the only time when any of us might have been caught that close to anyone else, let alone Dick Wood there whose only purpose around us was to complain and bitch and be a princess.

He didn’t come back from our trip out there, that much I remember. We lost half of our unit and I know I’m not the one who was with him when he died. I only noticed him missing when we finally landed back home. I’d head-counted our unit, noticed we were down by close to half and hadn’t focused on who had or hadn’t been there. I’d had two of them die in my arms at that point and it had been enough.

I figure that I must have signed my paperwork because I don’t recall being discharged because of my leg injury, though for most, I think that this would have been more than enough. Not that it really matters.

I mean, as I vaguely remember it, several were called back because they hadn’t filled their paperwork in properly, but I don’t think anyone could blame them. So much happened as we all just started coming back home, there was so much to think about and so many things to figure out.

I wish I had never left this place but, you know, it did shape me a bit into the person I am now, so I think I’m just going to have to let it be.

We should cuddle… for warmth.

 
Timeline/World: Atheria – 2nd Generation
Characters: Dayna Jones
Race: Human
Age: 69, physically about 26
Final Word Count: 608 words
 

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I would have been blind to not see how much the women seemed to be flirting with the men, though I guess they were doing much the same in return. If they flirted with me, I didn’t see it. I was just so focused on surviving and all. I also had Joanie on the brain because having her on the brain is what kept me going, most of the time.

I know I first left for the fact that doing this would help me pay for my studying. I wasn’t the greatest student around, I had issues with school and I know that didn’t please my father much but I still was doing my best, back then. It’s all I could offer. Then, in the middle of the studying and everything, we get swept off to the middle of who knows where—even now I’m not sure as to where we were—and there’s a war going, there’s shooting, and people dying, and blood, and sand, so much, much sand. It was hot during the day and a freezer at night.

How any of them could manage to flirt during the night-time was beyond me. I was so stressed about being out there that I just wanted to go home, back to Joanie and I wanted to update her on everything. I wanted her back in my life and I needed her to know I was all right, just as I needed to know she was all right.

Why can’t things ever be straightforward? I suppose there’s no answering that, really not.

I lost track of how often I heard that one murmured phrase about someone asking if they could cuddle… for warmth. There was always that little pause between both halves of the sentence as though to let something else slip in between. We were in the middle of a war zone and they wanted to flirt, ‘cuddle’, make out and who knew what else. I felt like I was surrounded by people who didn’t take the threat we were under seriously.

We also lost a lot of people.

I try not to think about it much.

We came back with about only half the people we’d gone with, that’s how bad it was. I consider myself lucky that all I came home with, was a leg wound. Not that I’ll downplay the fact that if I’d been any closer when it happened, I likely would have lost my leg altogether. Instead, I just was on the receiving end of bad burns and shrapnel. I’m lucky. Luckier than a lot of others.

Luckier yet is how easy it was to find Joanie when I came home. I never expected to just sort of stumble onto my beautiful one when I got back. I also never expected to spend my first night back with her either. Not that we did anything though we did kiss a little. It took… well I think it took a couple of weeks and Mei partially sharing some of her sex-adventures with Aeol for us to finally cross that threshold ourselves. It was my words, stupid words now that I think of it but I think we needed them.

What were they again?

Right. I told her that maybe we could outdo them. That’s what got us started but I think that the day cemented everything in place. I would have been fine waiting on sex until we were further in on our relationship but it happened when it did and I’m glad for it, I really am.

I love her. I love our daughter. I’d do anything for them.

Did you not think about how this would affect everyone else?

Timeline/World: Atheria 2nd Generation
Characters: Dayna Jones
Race: Human
Age: 68, physically about 26
Final Word Count: 530 words

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These words should have been in a dictionary somewhere, marked as someone’s famous last words. I’m pretty sure they’d have been on the tip of a lot of peoples’ tongues if they hadn’t been vaporized by the nuclear death that destroyed the whole world while we were bubbled up into safety. At least, all of us minus a small handful were safe from that big bang that reduced the world to smithereens.

Unlike most of the kids from the latest generation, I’ve had time to discover the world, to wander and get lost, to do stupid ass things I do regret but not to the point of keeping me awake at night. When the big break happened, I said things I do very badly regret but I know that wasn’t really me saying those things, it was the puppeteer just teasing all of his strings to perfection until there was nothing left of the peace we’d known for so many years prior.

I wish the guy was still alive so I could rearrange his face into something else entirely but I suppose that wouldn’t quite be like me at all. I’ve turned into something of a pacifist and I like it that way just fine. I never was much of a fighter unless I absolutely needed to and there hasn’t been much of a need for that since we were reunited. Sure, there was the lockdown but that had nothing to do with me, not in a personal way so it wasn’t my fight and I stayed out of it.

Raising Clara has been the one thing that taught me more about life than any of my trips out there before the world ended. I would never have learned all I know now if it weren’t for this tiny bundle of joy when she came into our lives and while she no longer is a tiny little bundle of joy, she’ll always be my little girl. I love reminding her of that, her reactions are always precious and I get a kick out of it. The words are as much a tease as they are a gentle reminder that I love her, no matter her choices in life, no matter what she does or what she might not do.

I know that each action I take, no matter how small, has a repercussion on the world as a whole. I throw out a plastic bag? I could have recycled it, given it a second life. Now it might be out there, some animal might find it in our landfill (not that we have a landfill, we recycle everything but this is just an example, really), try to eat it and choke on it or get stuck in it. One less animal. Multiply that by however many other bags and just, yeah.

I’m not very good with words. I never was. I’m better at the ‘show’ part of show and tell than the ‘tell’ part. I’ve always been. It got me in trouble a little while I was growing up but I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore. Those who need to understand me do and that’s the important bit.

It Can’t Be Helped

Timeline/World: Atheria 2nd Generation
Characters: Dayna Jones
Race: Human
Age: 67, physically about 26
Final Word Count: 540 words

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Some things can’t be helped, for others, there’s always a slim chance that there might be something done. Turning back time isn’t happening, though I suppose it could be a possibility I know it’s just not and I’m not about to start asking for it. I just have to accept that some things, once gone, are gone and that’s it.

Like, I suppose one way to look at it is this: you might have a flower garden, your flowers will follow the season if your yard does so. They will grow, bud, flower and then wilt and fade back to nothing. This is one of those things that cannot be helped and cannot be changed, that is unless you’re a cheater and keep your yard to a particular season year round, then your flowers might just round and round all over again without any real visible effects. Not that I have issues with people who keep their yards to a particular season year round, I just like all four seasons equally.

Until I slip on the ice outside while shovelling, scrape something on an unseen rock while pulling out weeks, inhale paint fumes while repainting the shed or pull a muscle while raking the leaves. Then I can see about being mad about each season in turn.

Really, each season has its up and down and to me they’re all equal part wonderful and frustrating and that’s just the way things are.

Now, when it comes to broken pottery or age old vases, I’m on the fence. I’ve heard and read about how the Japanese would fix up breaks in pottery, plates and other things with gold filament, giving it a new sort of life, giving it more oomph, making it more precious.

Not everyone has the necessary equipment for that kind of fix-up and going out to someone who does, just because one old plate had slipped and cracked, no matter how fond I am of it, for that plate to be fixed up with gold or something else, it seems like that’s going a bit far.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t really want to throw that old plate away, I still remember when it was given to me, during the great break apart and I do have a few good memories linked to it, but perhaps not to the point of wanting to get it fixed.

I’ve never used it for food, so I suppose it wouldn’t even be for the sake of making it useful again. Like the others in this particular small collection of well, collectible plates, it sits on a shelf, on little wooden plate holders, just looking pretty and gathering dust. I’m not big on trinkets but I suppose I was sentimental enough for these to stay out here.

Tasteful decoration is one thing, but trinkets set out to just gather dust is something else altogether and I think I’m going to believe that this one cracking happened for a reason. I think it’s time I pack these up and put them away, or drop them off at the recycle center, the shop side, to see if someone else might not want them.

As some say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.