The Wishing Well

It is truly incredible that I have been this slack - four months (and a whole lot of changes). For the next few days, I'll be updating the blog with pieces of short stories that I have been working on over the years and then in the next weeks I'll be blogging about the process of change.

This first short story has appeared in sections of Our Savoir's newsletter, Crosstalk, the last two months. On Tuesday, I'll be adding the last segment (which hasn't appeared yet in the Crosstalk - so those who want to finish the story first will have to read it hear on the blog.)


The Wishing Well

Amanda, or Anda, as she was called by most of her friends, stood beside the gentle lapping water of the wishing well. The cool night brought goosebumps to her arms, but she took no notice. As she stood by the water’s edge, she looked up at graying statue of the angel which was the source of the water trickling into the pool. The angel held a sword in one hand holding it high as if protecting the world from any number of tragedies. The hardened look on its face gave the stone angel a determined look – a look that said, I will allow nothing to get between you and me.
Anda stared at the molding statue seeking desperately for some sort of acknowledgment by the angel that it recognized her presence.

Why don’t you help me? She pleaded with the unmoving presence. The only response was the whispering water as it cascaded softly over the hem of the angel’s robe and dropped into the pool.

A stark, white moon cast it’s glow over the ripples in the pool. Anda knew in her mind that the sun cast the light to the moon and was reflected, that somewhere – just somewhere – it was warm, comfortable and pain free. Anda stepped to the edge of the pool to view all the other dreams that had been casually flipped into the wishing well. She could almost hear the wishes embedded in the glowing coins.

“I wish I was prettier.”

“Let my mom and dad get along.”

“Please don’t let him touch me again.”

“Why am I like this? Make me a better person.”

One by one Anda could sense the needy. All wanted answers but the wishing well was silent. Anda was one of the needy – needing some sort of newness of life. Leaning over the pool she attempted to see her reflection but knowing that she really didn’t want to experience the recent attempts by her father to ‘help her understand how discipline will help her in life.’
Looking at her distorted image, her face wrinkled and moving, she unwillingly recollected the last nights, in a series of too many ‘discipline’ nights, rocking herself to sleep waiting for her bruises to turn color.

Straightening up, Anda reached into her pocket for the quarter. Turning it over in her hand, she noticed the similarities in color of the angel and the stern face of the first President of the United States. If only…

There are no rules for wishing at the wishing well. There are only hopes and rituals. Anda’s ritual was to take a coin from her piggy bank and press her wish into the coin hopefully ironing her deepest desires into the offering for the angel. Anda brought a quarter this night, normally it was a penny or a dime, hoping that the greater the worth of the coin the greater acknowledgment of the angel to grant her wish.

Please let my father stop hitting me. Let him see me as a precious gift. Let him treat me as his princess and not his disgrace.

A tear trickled down her cheek and dropped onto the coin. Anda’s face was like the angelic statue in the middle – always leaking water. Not wasting another moment, Anda drew her arm back, hesitating only a moment, and threw the coin into the wishing well. She watched the quarter arc over the water, the moonlight sparkling across it’s spinning surface. With great hope she listened for the brief plip as the coin entered the water and presumably settled to the bottom of the pool near the angel’s foot.

With something like reserved faith, Anda bowed to the angel and turned to make her way back home. The recent rains had made the path slightly muddy but Anda’s thoughts were far from the quality of the path. Nearing her house, she slowed noticing that even at this late hour, the living room light was on. Trying not to make a sound, Anda placed her hand on the door knob and opened the door. Entering without looking, she closed the door behind her.

As she turned around, her father greeted her with a closed fist.

“It’s past your bedtime,” he said. “I was worried about you. Next time, you’ll learn.”