The Sensible History of Desmond and Genevieve-a short story
Desmond liked many things. He liked straight lines and when he walked, he would carefully turn corners in perfect 90 degree turns. He liked vanilla ice cream, if it wasn’t too sweet, and his favorite meal of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, cut into triangles. He liked to make sense. His favorite words were logic, careful and build. He liked his best friend, Genevieve, who would tell him stories that made him knit his brow and pucker his lips.
Genevieve told stories of places he’d never heard of, and can’t be found on any map. He knows. He checked his map and the globe that sits on the table in his playroom, right next to his encyclopedias and dictionary. When she’d tell her stories, she’d bounce and giggle around the room. It made him happy. Her smiles would take over and twist her whole face, and when she giggled, her color would change from pink to purple to lavender and back to pink again.
She told him the story of the girl who loved colors so much that she turned into a crayon.
“Genevieve, that just doesn’t make sense. I can’t believe it.”
Genevieve looked him straight in his eyes.
“Use your IMAGINATION!”
Then she giggled her giggle, and flew across the room. Genevieve could fly. That made sense. She had wings. Genevieve was a fairy.
“One of these days, Desmond,” Genevieve would say, “You’re going to want to use your imagination.”
“I don’t like imagination. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s easy, close your eyes and look.”
Desmond didn’t like things, too. He didn’t like imagination. He didn’t like surprises. He didn’t like problems he couldn’t solve.
When a boy at school told him that fairies existed in imagination, he didn’t like that, either. It didn’t make sense. His best friend was Genevieve.
That night, as Genevieve giggled about a puppy that turned into a prince, she noticed that Desmond didn’t say anything.
“Desmond,” she asked, “is something the matter?”
Desmond looked away.
“Desmond, do you want to hear about Marshmallow Palace? I lived there for a while, but I didn’t find a marshmallow ANYWHERE. Years before, and evil tyrant had come in and stole the recipe”
Desmond opened his dictionary.
“Desmond, can you hear me?”
He turned a page.
Genevieve turned a color he had never seen. She turned dark blue.
Genevieve fell upon his shoulder and said, “What’s wrong?”
Desmond read from his dictionary,
“Fairy; a tiny imaginary being in human form.”
Genevieve’s color returned to pink. “Yes! “ she giggled,
Desmond sternly shut his book, closed his eyes, and said, “But that doesn’t make sense.”
Genevieve giggled in lavender and pink and flew to his other shoulder.
“But don’t you see? This is why you’re my best friend, am I’m yours! You teach me to understand your world, and I teach you to understand mine! It’s simple! Use your imagination”
Desmond opened his eyes and said, “But I don’t believe in you.”
That night, Genevieve flew to his sleeping ear and whispered, “I’ll miss you, my friend.”
When Desmond woke the next morning, Genevieve was gone. He felt sad.
“That makes sense.” He thought as he ate his breakfast and walked carefully to school, stepping over cracks and turning in his favorite 90 degree angles. His lunch was his favorite meal, but wasn’t hungry. He hoped Genevieve would be waiting for him when he got home. She wasn’t.
Weeks passed, but the sadness didn’t. He missed his friend.
He made a choice to find her. He closed his eyes. Nothing but darkness. He closed them again, tighter. He saw sparks and smelled molasses. He tried one more time, squeezing his eyes, concentrating on her stories. Colors began to stream quickly. He felt like he was flying. He saw the girl who became a crayon, drawing beautiful pictures, and the citizens of marshmallow palace, finding their recipe and defeating the tyrant who melted away in the morning sun. He heard songs and stories, and saw lights flash where no lights had been. He searched for his friend.
“Genevieve?!” he shouted, to no one in particular, and landed with a thwump at the feet of giant flies making peanut butter pie.
“Genevieve?” he asked.
The flies said, “Buzzzzzzzz.” Which made sense, then gave him a pie. He flew again and landed with a splat in a lily pad made of chocolate pudding.
“Genevieve?”
A frog croaked, “Mrrrraaaahhh”
Then he heard a giggle he knew like his own. He turned and saw his friend flying and changing colors.
She smiled the smile that twisted her face.
“I’m glad that you finally got here.”
“I brought a pie. It’s peanut butter. Made by flies.”
Genevieve giggled and Desmond laughed.
“Imagination makes sense.”
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