Vignette: Celia

A pair of slate grey eyes stared at Celia.

            “You really don’t think your eyes are beautiful?”

            The slate grey eyes said, “No.”


            “Because they are what they are—grey. Why can’t they be green or brown or even blue?”

            “What about your hair then. You can’t tell me you don’t like your light brown. It’s almost blonde!”

            “You’re kidding me, right?”

            “What about your cheekbones? They’re nice and high.”

            “But pimples, pimples, pimples…”

            Celia sighed and picked up here backpack to go to class, leaving the mirror behind.


Celia caught Kelsey in the grass beside the gym.

“My uncle’s in town again tonight.”

“Oh no, I can’t believe you’re going to ditch me!”

“I’m sorry! I can’t pick when he comes up here.”

“Why do you always disappear when he comes around? Our project is due tomorrow! You can’t leave!”

“I’m sorry. You don’t understand!”

“He’s your uncle, Celia! Surely you can talk to him!”

“It’s not—I—”

“So what you going to do? Are you going to help me do OUR project tonight, or leave?”


“Ugh!” Kelsey made a frustrated sound and strode from Celia away to the library, blonde curls bouncing.

Celia stood stunned, and the sun behind her beat on her head.


Just an idea I’m playing with, and I hope to continue it.



When I was in seventh grade, my friend Kelsey and I loved Sharpies. Between us, we had every color under the rainbow—and then some! Oh, we had the usual ones like blue, red, and black, but then there were the super-ninja ultra-tastic colors! Kiwi, magenta, rain shower, boysenberry, dandelion, and lilac sent us into giggle fits so profound that we once were asked to leave class and stand in the hallway until we had resolved ourselves to somber schoolwork.

Sharpie covered everything in seventh grade. We scribbled notes to each other, dotted the desks, drew in the flyleaves of our books, and highlighted our neighbors’ hair. Kelsey and I were joint queens of Sharpisia, each color having a different place in the royal court or in society. Whenever we bored of the subject matter, we neglected the teacher’s lecture and gaily proceeded to coat our binders with multiple layers of the stuff. When we got tired of one color, another appeared, still sticky to our hands on the plastic, at the price of another fruitless class period. Sharpie was the all-purpose tool. Notes, letters, illustrations, projects—Sharpies showed their worth in all of them. The mighty Sharpie could even be used as a hammer.

Not that we didn’t learn anything in classes. We learned, as every student does in seventh grade, that Davy Crockett died at the Alamo, pi equals 3.14, and what the word “puberty” really means. As funny as it may sound, getting in trouble with Kelsey for covering each other’s arms with Sharpie in the back of the class is, to this day long after graduation, one of my favorite memories. Getting in trouble that time was actually worth it.

Just a little mucking about with the prompt a prof gave us. I ran out of time when I wrote this; it’s nothing too serious, although it could be. Suggestions?