Haven

My characters suck and are so damn boring |

I throw my fingers into the roots of my hair and pull. Hard. The palm of my right hand throbs from the pounding I just put into my desk–in perfect time with the cursor blinking at the end of my latest masterpiece, my truth in fiction. And the truth is that I am losing time, and that nothing I ever do is—

Slurp. Sluuurp. Sluuuuurp.

The final slurp is what gets me from questioning if the sound is in my head to knowing it’s right behind me. I spin in my chair until I’m facing Alex.

I know he’s Alex, because I’ve spent so much damn time putting words to his stupid black hair, pointy nose and chiseled jaw—along with a knack for mounting his legs over furniture in an inconsiderate fashion that’s supposed to somehow be charming.

“What are you doing here?” I feel stupid asking out loud, a confirmation to my own craziness maybe.

Alex slurps from a straw attached to a giant takeout cup, then shrugs. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me?”

His voice is like listening to my own over a video or recording. Vaguely recognizable. He slurps again. Careless. Charming. Irritating.

“What are you drinking?” I ask. It’s the one question that separates itself from all the other ones wrestling each other for importance.

He pulls the cup away and looks at it. “I don’t know. You haven’t decided yet. Black coffee, I guess? Something that’s supposed to have some kind of poetic attachment to my personality? To be revealed later on in the story in an ironic confirmation of…something? You tell me.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

He narrows his eyes, those stunning blue ones. Tidepools at twilight. The prettiest word-paint for something so shallow. “Because you’re supposed to tell me. I’m just playing the role you’ve written, boss.” Another drawn out slurp.

“So you’re just going to sit there sucking at that thing all day?”

He shrugs. “Until you write something different.”

“Fine,” I say, spinning around. I let the lingering feelings of frustration fuel my fingers as they attack the backspace button. “A mysterious, not-boring, totally beautiful girl who’s into me for unknown reasons, swoops in and saves me from all of this.” The words come out of my mouth in an uneven rhythm that matches the speed of my typing.

“Sorry about that,” a voice says. The voice. The voice of the girl of a million daydreams. She’s blonde, but as she turns her head a bit, the color shifts iridescent. She leans forward, placing her chin on her first. “I want to take you away from here. You look like you need it.”

Even if I didn’t, it’d be hard not to follow this girl into the Siberian desert if she asked. But I do. What she said resonates so deeply in my chest that I feel it caressing my stomach. I need to get away from here, away from the failure I feel. Away from the noose of time tightening around my life.

“Who are you?” I ask. Unlike with Alex, I don’t have much certainty about this character.

“I’m Haze,” she says with a wink. Like she knows her name is silly, and she doesn’t feel silly about it. The thought slips in that I wish I could relate in general.

“Where would we go?”

She stands up, and as she reaches forward I catch the color of her fingernails shimmering the gradients of a late summer sunset. “Away From Here,” she says. A proper noun?

The life I’ve led up to this point would have me hesitate at the outstretched offer of her hand. The person I’ve been would probably listen, except I’m not interested in that life anymore. Not interested in that person.

I stand up and take her fingers in mine. “Let’s go.”

And we arrive. Here. No, not Here. There. Wherever There is. In all the fiction I’ve consumed where characters vanish from one place and appear in the next, I believed there’d be a little more to the process. I didn’t even blink. The image of my bedroom slid away from my open eyes, perfectly stitched to and pulling in this new one. A valley it seems. I let go of Haze’s hand to spin around and take it all in.

I think I could spend the rest of forever taking it in. It’s wonderful, in the most original sense of the word.

The shapes are familiar enough. Trees rise up with their trunks and bow with their canopies. Mountains ring the valley with hints of colder weather topping their heads. By far, the sky is the most recognizable, though when does the sky ever not look magical? There’s just something…else. It’s as if these visuals are written in a language my eyes aren’t yet fluent in. Surfaces seem to shimmer, and if I let my focus widen, it seems that traces of glitter are riding on the breeze. Glitter is the wrong word, I think. It sounds too plastic and cheap—but how do you describe these pinpricks of light floating around, tiny enough to find their way into tiny, dark places? I feel cracks inside me that haven’t seen light in a long time begin to glow.

“Did you miss it?”

I almost forgot Haze was right beside me. “Miss it? What do you mean?”

“You created it,” she says patiently, as if I’m not fluent in this spoken language either.

I feel rude for the scoff that comes out of my mouth without permission, but seriously, “There’s no way.”

“Is there not?” Haze answers. “This doesn’t feel even the tiniest bit familiar, Bryce?”

Hearing my name come out of Haze’s mouth surprises me for some reason, but I consider her question as I follow her down a path of well-worn brick.

The onslaught begins on the rest of my senses as we walk. It isn’t just the visuals of this place, but everything that can be processed by my body has flavors of magic to it. I run my hands along a picket fence that we’ve reached, and the wood, with all of its edges and points, might as well be fresh-from-the-dryer blankets. There’s a stand by the edge of the road, where mugs of hot chocolate topped with the fluffiest marshmallows sit (because there’s really no reason to not have a random hot chocolate stand if you think about it). Haze hands me a mug, and the tiny sip I take makes me feel like I just took that warm blanket of a picket fence and wrapped it around myself. We keep on the path, and a nostalgic, cozy-yet-exciting melody from some unknown source joins the sound of our footsteps. A soundtrack to this whimsical movie I’ve found myself in.

Then there’s the smell, growing stronger as we continue on. Sheesh, if I thought I was having trouble describing the sheen of light here…It floods me with images—no, memories, I think. Walking on the sidewalk as a rusty red pickup flies by and throws a bunch of autumn leaves into the air. Me and my siblings pulling our beds into the living room and shoving it underneath the Christmas tree, so we could fall asleep with the coziest nightlight to ever exist. Early mornings where I’d watch the first fingers of dawn stretch out and slip through the branches of the mango tree at my old place.

The scent, I realize, is the scent of everything being okay.

I follow Haze through a tunnel at the foot of a hill. Lanterns flicker orange against the gray rock walls, lighting our way for a short time until we emerge on the other side, coming up to the border of a town square. The kind of town square you see on TV. We walk past a corner diner, where I look inside and see—to my surprise—people. I don’t recognize them, but that doesn’t stop them from waving when they see me and Haze pass.

When I tear myself away from the smiling faces and get myself to stop waving back, I turn to see the decorations. It’s as if Halloween and Christmas are happening at the same time. Hay bales, pumpkins, bats, scarecrows, and everything you’d see in a Halloween flick, tag team with everything you’d see in a Christmas one—string lights, wreaths, piles of presents, and snowmen. A giant pine stands beside the gazebo in the center of the square, and its branches hold both Christmas and Halloween ornaments.

It’s bipolar. It’s tacky. It’s…

“Perfect,” I say. Feeling the calm thrill I’d get in October, and the exhilarating peace I’d get come December all rolled into one.

Haze smirks. “Should I go back to the diner and order an ego check?”

It takes me a second to realize what she means, then I shake my head. “No. There’s no way. I don’t create things like this. I create things like…like Alex.” I finish off my statement with a laugh, but Haze winces.

“Ouch,” says his voice from behind me. Because of course. The raven-haired pretty boy is sitting on a sidewalk bench, legs hanging over the armrests. Of course. He bounces up and comes to my side, throwing an arm around my neck. “It’s okay. No need to apologize. I don’t take any offense. After all, I was just playing the role you gave, boss. Maybe you’ll find me a new one someday.”

Haze walks over to pull Alex’s arm off of me, pretending to punch his stomach. He stumbles back to the bench as if the hit landed.

Haze takes my hand. “Come on. Tour’s not over.”

There’s a theater on the opposite end of the square, playing all of my favorites. As we pass it, Haze points out another brick-laden path leading all the way down to a beach. Through the branches of the trees I can see a sherbet sunset capping the perfect waves rolling in one after another. For a second I think we’re heading towards the water when Haze pulls me off of the path and under the canopy of trees. Here, the dappled light covers our shoulders and backs and suddenly we are leopards, prowling our domain, belonging like royalty to this kingdom. And I’m actually starting to believe it—like I belong here.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

“Why, right here,” Haze says, gesturing to the thickest trunk we’ve come across so far. Wooden two-by-fours are nailed in the bark, the lowest at the height of our knees. Haze grabs onto the makeshift rungs. “I’m introducing you to the valley elder.”

It occurs to me the elder can’t be so old if they’re climbing up this sketchy ladder.

“Don’t look at my butt,” Haze says above me.

“I’m just focused on not dying,” I respond. When did I become so afraid of heights?

Probably the same time I became so afraid of everything.

Haze disappears through a trap door, its hinges squealing a welcome. When I get up to it, I’m embarrassed by how much I have to focus and get my feet set before I feel brave enough to use a hand to push through.

After the hinges squeal for my arrival, I push my head into a place I’ve been before.

It’s the treehouse my dad built for me and my siblings. Really, it’s just a platform suspended in the branches of a giant tamarind tree. There are no walls. Instead, there’s a black net encasing the circumference of the platform. I expect to look through the netting and see the rest of the valley, but I don’t.

I see the front yard of my childhood home. Except it still has the two palm trees that were victims of the last typhoon. The shingles are still painted green instead of the most recent red. The long-gone ivy is still there, crawling up one of the walls. Beyond our rooftop, past all of my grandma’s papaya trees, I see the village basketball court with the hoops still intact. It’s before a time when some idiot got the bright idea to cut them down.

“There you are,” Haze says, giving me what I swear is the kindest smile in the world.

“What?” I ask. Why would I deserve that kind of smile?

She shrugs. “Bryce, this is Haven.”

I’d never know the tiny thing was on the other side of the trunk if Haze didn’t point her out. But there she is, lying prone and sticking a BB gun out of the net, pointing it down towards the road leading into the village.

I give Haze a look that’s clear enough: You’re saying that pipsqueak is the valley elder?

Haze only smirks.

“Shhh!” Haven hisses, never taking her eyes away from the barrel sights.

Haze gestures me forward, widening her eyes for me to do—something. To interact somehow with this strange girl.

I creep forward, the boards beneath me adding creaks for every step. “Um. What are you hunting?” I take a seat cross-legged beside her.

Haven scoffs. “Don’t you see them? They’re everywhere!”

I follow her barrel and scan the road. Empty. Beyond it to the patch of sword grass I can still feel digging its way into my shins—that’s empty, too. I look at Haze, who does nothing but give me another gesture to carry on.

“I hear you’ve become a writer,” Haven says.

“Uh…yes. Sort of.”

Haven finally rips her eyes away from her target. Then her eyes rip into me. There are oceans in them. The brightest galaxies. Places even beyond the universe. “Sort of? Are you, or are you not?”

I recover from her gaze the best I can. All of the shimmering specks of light in this valley—I think they must come from her eyes. I square my shoulders. “I am. But I haven’t written anything that great yet. But yes. I am a writer.”

Haven blinks. Then nods. “That’s more like it. Now, look again. And write. Write with your eyes! They’re already here!”

I launch another look at Haze: Write with my eyes???

Haze offers me another one of those glacier-melting smiles.

“BANG,” Haven says. “Got one! Come on, Bryce! I need your help!”

Okay, screw it, I think, and flatten myself into a prone position, mirroring Haven’s posture and pointing my invisible gun through the netting.

“On your left!” Haven yells.

So I turn. And after a moment, I see it. A shadowy figure steps through the sword grass. The blackness it’s cloaked in seems to suck some of the late-morning sunlight from the day.

“FIRE!” Haven cries. “FIRE FIRE FIRE!”

Suddenly, I’m seeing the shadow through the sight of my gun, and the cold metal of a trigger meets the tip of my finger, and the butt of the rifle digs into my shoulder.

I aim.

I fire.

In the time I spend in the valley, I come to recognize everything. The characters. The places. The music and smells and lights. Haze was right: I did create this. At different points of my life, I’ve added to this wonderland. Laid the bricks with the mortar of my imagination. I “wrote it with my eyes,” as Haven would say. It’s my home. Maybe the only place I truly belong.

So my stomach almost falls out of me when Haven asks me one day,

“How long are you staying?”

We’ve just finished trekking up one of the mountains. Well, we rode up halfway on the backs of dragons, and just discovered the ancient spellbook that will give us the power to make lima beans taste okay.

We’re sitting against a cliffside, overlooking the town square far beneath us.

“Why would I leave?” I ask.

Just like the first day I met her, she levels her eyes at me. This time, though, there are no stars shimmering in those galaxies. “Because you don’t live here.”

I can only shake my head. I do live here. I’ve made a room in the gazebo, so I can have the giant Christmas tree be my nightlight.

Haven blinks. “Do you remember when you told me you were a writer?”

I nod.

“You can't forget why. And you need to be brave. You have to be brave for us.”

I don’t remember how I got down off the mountain. Don’t know where Haven went after she hopped on her dragon and flew away. Don’t know what compelled me to walk out of the town square and through the cave tunnel into the forest. I don’t know how Haze knew I’d be here.

“You can always come back,” she says, then holds out a hand. I take it, and just like before, the image of the valley slides away, stitched to the replacement image of my computer screen rolling in front of me. I’m back in my room.

Then I look around. Haze is gone. Alex isn’t lounging on my couch. No slurping sounds to be heard. No warm smiles to be seen.

The person I was before would’ve rushed to the keys to type a new sentence that would bring me back to the valley. Then again, the person I was before would’ve never left. But I knew Haven was right. Not that I didn’t live in the valley.

But that I wasn’t living there.

So I start typing again, something that I know is true without having to turn around and see it appear, a truth I can go back to whenever fear of this messy life threatens to overcome my resolve to be brave:

There was a girl named Haven, and in her eyes she held hope.