Perfect Stories
Perfection is boring.
What ridiculous person would think it was
what they wanted?
It isn’t anything but the thought.
Perfection is one of those words that don’t
really make sense because it can be defined in so many different ways to so
many different people. It’s an ambiguous word. Nothing is also another
ambiguous word. So is normal.
What makes it ambiguous? The thoughts of
philosophers is what. They say that the world could be completely in our head
and not one bit real. If that is the case, why don’t I succeed all the time?
Why am I afraid of things? Why do I seem to be defined by other people? Why do
I care so much about other people’s opinions? It seems pointless. Philosophers,
they have interesting ideas but that’s all they are. Ideas. What does it matter
if it’s all in our own head? It affects me more than I want it to. Does that
reflect on how much our brains affect us? I’m sure psychologists could find
many different reasons as to why I am afraid of things even if it’s all inside
my head. Or why I am so affected by my own mind’s creations. Is it possible
that I could right now, be in my head and the real world is monitoring my subconscious
brain wondering what was going on. It would be ultra confusing. But what’s real
(there’s another ambiguous word) is that I’m here and this is what I’m making
of it right now. It doesn’t matter what happened or what’s going to happen
because they all were or going to be right now at one stage and that was the decision.
You could examine why you’d done those things then at that time in that mindset
but in reality it doesn’t matter. Maybe it might make you feel better but
really the only thing that’s happening now is you.
I have a story, but it’s not the one I’m
going to tell you about, I have another more interesting idea that’s going to
take place here and it’s going to be exciting, new, interesting, maybe even
funny. You may end up with a moral; you may not understand it at all. What you
make of it is really none of my business. What I aim to do is to keep you
interested by devices such as characterisation and magic. I like to use
pictures as narration and quotes that feel meaningful, but are really empty.
***
Life was an interesting notion to Emma. Her
celebration of it every year was joyous and all that but it didn’t change
anything really except the number which indicated her age. She was only one day
older than yesterday but somehow it was more significant than the rest of the
days. It gave her a definitive point of reference when it came to the laws of
drinking, and having sex.
She was in the library most of the day
enjoying the latest book in her collections. It contained action, adventure
romance, all the typical things she loved in a book. It transported her to a
new world that always finished with happy endings and it didn’t matter what
happened afterwards because they were happy just then and there in that moment.
That’s what Emma wanted. She wanted something in a book to become real. There
was a book where that happened. She had read it recently.
A knock on the door caused her to look up
disappointed. Her mother poked her head around and the rest of her body
followed. Emma silently remembered the page she was on and closed the book with
a firm gentleness.
“Emma darling, we were hoping you would
come out and enjoy your birthday cake and open presents with us.”
“Okay mum, just a moment.”
Her mother disappeared as quickly as she
appeared and Emma sighed. She checked she still knew which page she was on and
carried the book with her how a little kid would a favourite toy: hugged close
to her chest, safe in her arms.
She was old enough now not to have the
excited feeling you get when you open presents. She would miss that but that’s
how life goes.
She walked slowly scuffing her feet with
her fluffy monster slippers. The big furry craziness of them comforted her as
she walked to a bright white kitchen with smiling adult faces and the big round
birthday cake. The cake was royal purple and there was edible gold outlining
the edges of the cake and shouting to her “happy birthday!” in capital letters.
It was extravagant and expensive and it was beautiful. She secretly loved it
and that excited feeling crept into her for a moment that didn’t last very
long. Ruptures of out of tune singing (happy birthday to you, happy birthday to
you, happy birthday to Emma! Happy birthday to you) forced a smile out of her,
which she couldn’t stop. The out of tune slightly slurred voices were worse
than an out of tune piano and she was quite relieved when the sound stopped
even though it had made her involuntarily smile. She blew out the candles. Two
of the flames remained and her parents kissed her on both cheeks at the same
time. She rolled her eyes and everyone laughed. She blew again pretending she
was the big bad wolf in the three little pigs story. The flickering yellow
flame blew away in her breath and everyone clapped enthusiastically while the
loud chattering of adults started up again. Her mother handed her a big silver
knife that dully gleamed and she and her mother’s hands guided the sharp end
into the royal purple icing and through the fluffy yellow insides. It touched
the bottom and they slid it out. Emma tried to help with the next slice but her
mother told her it might be easier if she did the rest.
A piece of cake sat in her lap and a spoon
in her hand and she examined the lines that the cake contained. She thought it
was like cutting a tree to count the rings that told its age. This cake had
only three obvious lines and a few more once examined closely. Emma squinted
making the cake blurry finding more lines. There was a line on the outside of
the cake where it was holding the fluffy inside of the cake together (like skin,
Emma thought), which appeared four times in the two layers. There was the icing,
which had two layers, the purple and the gold which didn’t appear evenly
throughout. Then there was the cream and jam in between the two layers of cake.
That gave a total of ten lines. She frowned, she had hoped her analogy with the
tree would be correct but it was only pretending to be like a tree. It was just
something pretty to eat on a day where she coincidentally turned twelve. She
sunk her spoon into the thinner end of the cake and let it sit in her mouth for
a few seconds before she chewed and swallowed. It tasted delicious and perfect.
It was the opposite of how she felt, how she always felt.
Back in the library she sipped a glass of
lemonade and read her book. She had advanced twelve pages, and already the main
character was venturing into the depths of mystery discovering things that Emma
would never have discovered in real life. She knew what was in the main
character’s head, where they were and why they were there. It was exciting to
know the character’s own feelings and feeling them herself even though she
couldn’t possibly feel anyone else’s emotions besides her own.
The developing relationship between
prisoner and captor was building and Emma was turning the pages more eagerly.
Her mouth couldn’t help smiling when captor and prisoner finally understood
they were on the same side after a physical fight where one ended up on top of
the other. Love followed and Emma’s smile widened.
It disappeared as soon as the library door
was opened again. Her mother stood there making her presence known.
“What are you doing you silly girl? Come
out and thank the guests for coming right now.”
“Yes mum.”
Emma’s eyes looked down sullenly and she
memorised the page she was on. She closed the book, and left it on the chair
and walked slowly out the door with her mother behind her. She decided that it
might go faster if she quickened her pace and fast-walked to the door and
fake-smiled with her mind still thinking about the adventures of her book and
wondered what was going to happen next. All the while, she thanked the adults
and smiled and accepted awkward hugs from a few of them. She reached out to
shake hands with some person and instead bumped them causing them to drop their
clutch. Emma jumped in surprise. Everyone stared at her amused, a few chuckling
at her reaction. She quickly looked at her mother whose fake smile was still
shiny and perfect. She picked up the bag and handed it back to the person and
waved goodbye.
Once they were gone, she turned and faced
her mother whose smile slowly faded.
“Mum, do you need any help cleaning up?”
“No darling, it’s alright.”
Emma left and her mother yawned. Her mother
climbed the stairs to her bedroom to fall into her own fantastical dreams where
the misinterpretation of a situation eventuated in the interesting events that
led up to her meeting the man that she would fall uncontrollably in love with,
Emma’s dad.
