Without a Name (Another Short Story)

As the sun set they first awoke. Looking around, the two girls began to realize there was no way out. What had happened?

Flashback 20 hours ago. Sitting inside a big house (at least the biggest they'd ever been in) they'd just been taken from their hiding place.

Flashback a week. One little girl had just been spoken for by a 52-year-old man. Not as bad as it could have been economically speaking; he had paid very well. This little Indian girl was only nine.

Flashback three days. Terrified the nine-year-old and her twelve-year-old sister decided to run away. Not wanting to leave the family destitute they took nothing. And in order to stay hidden from the imminent search parties, they only walked and wandered at night. But with no destination or food, they couldn't be expected to make it far. And they didn't. A day and a half later the twelve-year-old crawls down from a tree, their secret sleeping place, and begins to dig through the nearest garbage bin for food. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, she found some old . . . well, it was something edible and takes her prize back up the tree to her nine-year-old fugitive. But soon the stomach cramps start. Next rolls in overwhelming nausea and soon neither have enough strength to remain in the tree. Slowly they crawl, almost falling, into a nearby bush, but they've been noticed. The man had sent out a search party to collect his prize, after all, he had already paid, and the wedding was in two days. Unfortunately, they were sicker than he'd hoped but on the side of fortune, he had acquired two for the price of one.

Flash forward. Just opening her eyes, the nine-year-old felt exhausted and disoriented. On first seeing her sister she feels like all must have been a dream. She's not been sold into an arranged marriage fetching a high price for her . . . virginity? "Is that what they call it again?" But then she sees the man's silhouette. Her heart sinks but not much before it's traded for panic. Soon strange smelling women scoop her and her still unconscious sister off of the ground. They replace her tattered shawls with colorful veils, slippers, and a Kurti. They paint her in the foul-smelling mud until she's nothing but a mesh of alluring designs. But the worst part was when the hot needles and chains began to pierce her nose and ears. By this time her sister had awoken but they had quickly taken her away, so the nine-year-old was left alone, simply waiting for the night to arrive. Surrounded by brass statues and carpets she suddenly felt very alone. But she had no tears left, so instead, she begins to speak, what we would call praying. She'd heard of a God once and thought maybe he or she (she didn't really know which) would listen. Maybe he would even know her name . . . nobody else seemed to or didn't care to use it. But maybe he or she would. She sat very still and looked up at the ceiling, trying to see up to where God was. Playing with her hands she didn't know what to say, so in a little voice she said the only thing she could think of, "Please, God . . . sir, just don't let it hurt."

-Natalie Cherie

Looking in a Mirror

Today I went shopping for a wedding dress . . . okay, that's a lie. I started this post a couple weeks ago so as of now I went shopping a while ago. Now that that's all cleared up, back to my story.

So imagine that you're with me we're walking into a store. You're being followed by your roommate and two friends who are immensely and overwhelmingly more excited than you are, and to top it all off you feel almost sick and quite ignorant as a cheery young woman singles you out with a "Who's getting married?" (high-pitched voice) and a "What type of dress are you looking for?" In short: I almost ran away. Good thing I was surrounded by overly-enthusiastic women.

Next, I dumbly point at dresses that "have potential" and am led to a dressing room. Then my assistant lady/girl (who was super nice by the way) starts asking about my fiance and I suddenly feel right at home. So, let's be real, the next hour was actually rather enjoyable. I'll totally admit it. The dresses were lovely, I felt great cause they all fit well, and my moral support and three-person strong cheering section were doing a capital job. But the moment I'll remember most vividly was the moment I first saw myself in a wedding dress.

I walk out of the dressing room, the girls all gasp, I blush, yadda yadda, and then I step up to the mirrors . . . At first glance, I didn't recognize myself . . . really. And then I thought I looked terribly young and quite out of place in my new found garb. But then, something clicked and I felt like a bride. Maybe it was the veil. Maybe it was picturing Spencer next to me. Maybe it was a million things, but regardless of the reason, it was one of my most favorite feelings to date.

Now for the sad part of the story . . . I'm poor. The end. No, actually the dress is just ridiculously expensive (over $1,000), but life goes on and more shopping trips will follow. So even though I didn't get a dress what I did leave with was an changed attitude. I can be a bride, it's okay to be excited about dress shopping (never thought I'd say that one), and something I already knew, Spencer's and my wedding day is going to be quite possibly the most marvelous day ever!

-Natalie Cherie

The Emptiness of the Conveyor Belt

Here's a name for you: Andy Warhol. 

Here's a quote for you: "Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?" 

So why bring up a Campbell's soup can, Marilyn Monroe, and the man behind the art?

Because of the emptiness of the conveyor belt.

In the 1960's a movement exploring pop art was raging, and at the forefront was Andy Warhol, busily redefining what we define as art. In 1968 he painted the Campbell's soup can. And suddenly a soup can became art. Products off of a conveyor belt were sold for $6.00 a can with an autograph, and suddenly the emptiness and practicality of mass production became meaningful. What changed?

Another famous painting was Warhol's "Marilyn Monroe Series." Each painting is reproduced in a different color scheme, and even more interesting is the fact that only Marilyn's face is shown. And this is where I find the meaning. In his strange and seemingly "meaningless" (well at least it looks cool I guess) art we're subtly taught to look at, not just Marilyn but, the empty conveyor belt differently. 

For some reason, we have adopted very set categories that award "those deserving" a measured value. Physical beauty, monetary benefit, rarity, or even abnormality (being interesting) are some of these categories. Our lives seem empty if adventures aren't abounding, progression isn't pulling at our fingertips, or our time is not entirely used up in busy pursuits. Yet somehow Warhol broke away. He literally took a soup can and made an intriguing and perhaps even touching piece of art. Beauty in the ordinary, rather Romantic don't you think? Warhol took Marilyn Monroe, one of the most prominent sex symbols of her day, and gave us only her face. A woman with as many different aspects in her life as the colors he gave her, and perhaps she's more than a picture or a beautiful figure, maybe something behind her face . . .

So perhaps we can take a lesson from Andy Warhol. He took a system, an empty conveyor belt of culture, perception, and self-interest and found meaning. As he said, "Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?" Everyone, whether linked to the belt of busy-ness or monotony, feels stuck at one point or another. But I suppose the best thing to do is enjoy the small moments, don't focus so much on an envied situation because I can promise that you're simply looking at a different person on a different conveyor belt, and happily ignoring the conveyor-belt part. So regardless of where are you right now, enjoy the ride, find meaning in what you feel is empty, and as Andy Warhol did, give a new color to each new scene. 

-Natalie Cherie