Emma Baker
Bio
Hi, I'm Emma! I'm currently a Sophomore in college majoring in English, and I'm on here to share some of the stories I create. I love constructive criticism and hearing how I can improve my work, so please, criticize! And - I hope - enjoy!
Stories (2/0)
It's Just Wanderlust
Me: Hey, weird question, but do you believe in soulmates? I didn’t think I did but now I do. We’re soulmates y’know. Platonic, we’re both too free to ever be together, but we’re soulmates. How could we not be? You, me, the world, my mother, it’s all pulled us apart and still we come back together. Do you still listen to Lana Del Rey? I’m listening to her new album now. She has this new song called “Not All Who Wander Are Lost”. Listen to it for me? Okay but now let me set the scene. We’re driving on Blue Ridge Parkway and we’ve been in the mountains for days. We’re both dirty and tired but the freedom keeps us high – and the weed. Anyways, it’s early and we’re driving along, watching the sunrise over the mountains and through the trees. I light a joint and take a pull, passing it to you. You take a drag and your arm lingers out the window following the lines of the wind. Her song plays and we croon along, freedom and young love and pure life coursing from our calves to the tips of our ears. We’re not lost, we’re finally found – finally alive. We keep driving, waving at some bikers who pass until we start setting with the sun. We find a campground and start a roaring fire, then we sit thigh to thigh by it, hypnotized by the flames. The tension of the long car day starts unrolling from our necks and shoulders. You lean away and are back just as quickly with a magic bottle of gin from your bag. We drink, our mouths crashing with the opening, spilling onto our throats and chests and smiling drunkenly. Something grunts in the night and we laugh and scream, scaring whatever beast away, not realizing how close to death we may have been. It’s just wanderlust. We kiss the mess of gin off each other, and then crash into an intoxicated sleep, uncaring of the world around us. What a dream it would be, to be so carefree with you. I miss you. Do you miss me? With so many people in your world, could you? Should I miss you at all? My sisters say no, so does my mind. But the heart and soul are much easier to listen to, and they miss you. “It’s hard to be lonely but it’s the right thing to do”. Liar. Being this lonely can’t be healthy. Are you lonely? With all the people all around, do you still feel alone? Does anyone ease your pain, or are you just like me? Maybe we should meet. We could go to that one place downtown and drink some gin, stumbling home after with a joint split between us. An alternate reality, but is there any less fiction to it than the first? No, because you’re there and I’m here and neither of us will give up our dreams for the other, so apart we stay, stubbornly sad. Each counting the seconds until the other texts, then leaving them on read, for the sake of not showing any real emotion. At least, that’s what I do. Do you? Or are you truly that carefree? What I would give to not care. A bottle of gin and a joint? Perhaps. We should get some Thai food and then drive fast and then make love. I feel like that would be good for both of us, closure. Closure? No, you’re right, it would just make things hurt more. But we could pretend we don’t know that. Nothing new to either of us, pretending.
By Emma Baker3 years ago in Humans
Little Red Finch
She sat cross-legged on the grass, her brush caught in the air, eyeing her canvas. Something was wrong. She was trying to paint the scene in front of her, a large grass field with people sprawled like cats, enjoying the warm sun and fragrant spring air. So far she had been focusing on the lovers, capturing the moments they whispered sweet nothings into each other’s ears, or when one would share a joke and then both would laugh quietly - as if in a cathedral. She was also trying to snatch the dancing of the trees that moved on the perimeter. They swayed and creaked and smelled of earth and growth and life. She watched as one seemingly bent and whispered to the other, much as the lovers beneath were doing. Yes, this had all been captured and released onto her canvas, yet still, something was wrong. While thinking a dart of color caught her eye. A child in a red shirt, whizzing across the field after a soccer ball. The moment he caught the ball he would kick it again in another direction, using all the force his little body could muster. And then he'd run. No, not run, fly. He reminded her of an excitable red finch, stretching its crunched-up wings in the first warm days of spring. He was so lovingly wild, so chaotic. He ran through the lovers and under the trees, all of them chasing him with a disapproving gaze. But he kept flying, the soccer ball leading him. Even when he stumbled and fell – which was multiple times – he never seemed to touch the ground. As the Artist watched, little did she notice that the flowers and the bees and the spiders and the birds and blooms all watched too. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the flying boy, and if you could somehow see him amidst all his dashing you would realize that he knew he was being watched, and a little grin pulled at the apples of his cheeks. But being watched was only a small part of his job, his bigger purpose was much more important. So, on and on and on he went, kicking and smiling and flying and enjoying the sunshine and the dewdrops and the eyes of creatures all around. He would never admit it to Fall or Summer, but he quite liked the attention. He noted the Artist, and how she seemed to be watching him the closest. He knew he had come just in time to ruin her picture and was surprised to see no anger in her eyes, feel no animosity in her chest. No, she felt the most joyful of all, besides the bees. She felt spring. Felt such joy at seeing this little finch stretch his wings, at seeing the exuberance of life. She knew he was who she had been waiting for, and that the painting would always be wrong without this little ball of life. Recklessly, childishly, she dipped her fingers into the brightest red on her pallet and mimicked the boy’s movements on the field with her fingers, tracing as he went this way and that. Around the lovers, between the trees, into the sky, and on the sun. Yes look, he was flying away, another little red finch at his side. Her fingers trailed off the canvas as she realized the little finch was gone. But as she looked around the sun shined a little warmer, the flowers stood a little taller, and the trees breathed a little deeper. Spring had truly sprung, thanks to the little boy who stretched his wings.
By Emma Baker3 years ago in Wander
