THE ALIEN NAMED FRED

Elly Smith

Fred is an exuberant alien with slimy, green skin. He has six antennas with eyeballs
bulging out of each one. Fred talks in a piercing, high pitched voice that is very hard to
understand. His skin is surrounded with little holes that help him breathe. At first glance, Fred
can come off as unwelcoming, but the more I’ve gotten to know him, I’ve realized he just wants
the best for me. He is roughly ten years old, but who’s really counting up on Mars? Fred is very
stingy when it comes to sharing his ideas about writing, and I have to catch him on a good day to
get my English assignments done.

EMMA
Elly Smith
 Her hair is thick and fiery red, looking as though it could burn you to the touch. Her
sparkling bright eyes are a shade of light green that change with the sunlight. Her complexion is
almost see-through, resembling a porcelain doll. Her perfectly proportioned lips are the doorway
to her sparkling white teeth. She has thick eyelashes, the kind that people pay for. Her angelic
voice has perfect pitch and could send goosebumps down anyone's spine. She has a habit of
explaining herself to everyone so that they know her intentions are good.
The innocence of her personality is in stark contrast to the electric aura that she exudes.
She unknowingly has the ability to attract the gaze and attention from men of all ages, yet she is
unfazed by this attention. As she stands, her perfectly turned-out feet and upright posture give
clues as to her many hard years of ballet training. She walks with her heels and is easily heard
from miles away. Her wardrobe consists of mostly floral prints, along with old ballet costumes
that she has collected throughout the years. Her long limbs and bright red hair give her the
nickname “gentle giraffe.”
It’s three o’clock on an April afternoon. Clouds are covering the entirety of the sky, and
the humidity causes all of the neighborhood windows to fog. A young boy wearing a bright
yellow raincoat runs around the block, searching for the perfect puddle to play in. This is
Emma’s idea of a perfect day. She is lounging on a thirty-year-old pottery barn sofa with the first
edition of the Harry Potter series close at hand. Her hair is still in a damp bun from the previous
night, and she is wearing her thrifted fleece pajamas. Suddenly such a calm afternoon turns
upside down. Unwanted thoughts of failure consume her mind. She tries to ignore the irrational
commands, but finally gives in. She reaches her finger in her hair, swirls it around for a while,
and eventually finds the perfect strand of hair. It’s coarse, wavy, and has a smooth finish. She
frantically plucks the strand of hair from her scalp, and just like that, feels instant relief. This
compulsive habit is a repetitive cycle.

ANGER
Elly Smith
 Anger lives in one of the most rural parts of east Mississippi. He is a sixty-five-year-old
widow who spends his time shooting deer and crows with his crossbow. Anger reeks of animal
carcasses and hasn’t showered since his wife died. His hair is usually in a scraggly disarray, and
it travels all the way down to his lower back. Anger weighs one hundred and fifteen pounds and
sometimes less when he forgets to eat. He owns one outfit, a cotton flannel and oversized jeans
that he tightens with a Carhartt belt. The entrance of Anger’s house is led by rickety stairs that
are slowly falling apart. His beige walls are surrounded with deer trophies along with pictures of
his dead wife. Anger has one friend that he met from an online game, but they only talk over the
phone. He drives a rusted 1985 Subaru wagon. Anger walks with a limp due to a hunting
accident. He has two daughters but hasn’t been in contact with them since the passing of his
wife. Anger is in denial about his alcoholism and blames the world for all of his sorrow.

RED
Elly Smith

The petals of a freshly bloomed rose,

Easily bruised to the touch.
Sharp prickles arm its stem,
Shielding its everlasting beauty.
As the wind picks up,
The rose slowly dances,
Asking to be picked.

An ambulance weaves through traffic on the Mokulele.

Its deafening sirens clear a path for the precious cargo it holds.
As it passes, the highway turns silent,
And everyone takes a deep breath.

A hole-in-the-wall smokehouse holds its annual chicken wing competition.

The aromatic scent of fresh poblano peppers swarms the entire restaurant.
An overweight man shoves the wings in his mouth two at a time,
And reaches for another.

Spicy,
The taste of Atomic Fireball hard candies creates a firework show in my mouth.
The potent cinnamon tickles my taste buds,
And stains my tongue.

Waves of uncontrollable heat surround my body,

Maybe I should have worn sunscreen.
My new layer of skin is painfully revealing itself,
Like a python going through ecdysis.
 MY NAME
Elly Smith

In Greek, my name means “shining light.” It’s not short for Elinor, or Ellen, or Elizabeth.
I have no nickname; It’s just short, sweet, simple, Elly. It is a baby’s name. A light pink color,
always written in cursive. It is the sound of a three-year-old’s laughter when she plays with her
toy dolls. It tastes like strawberry sorbet from the Kahului swap meet.
My mom debated on what she would name me throughout her entire pregnancy. She
always had a set name for my twin sister Erin, but never for me. My mom is a realtor and worked
up until the day she gave birth to my sister and I. As my mom was sitting at her office at The
Shops at Wailea, about to pop I might add, a woman and her husband who were interested in
buying property stopped by. This woman had thick, blonde hair that looked completely fake. Her
perfectly polished smile and iridescent blue eyes captured my mom’s full attention. My mom had
never seen such an elegant woman and was mesmerized by every inch of her. The woman
introduced herself as “Elly with a y.” The name immediately stuck with my mom, and here I am.
People have had a tough time pronouncing and spelling my name throughout my entire
life. That’s another reason why I like my name; It’s like a cold case that will never be solved. My
name is short, snappy, and simple, just like my personality. It’s ironic that such a simple name
could confuse so many people, but that’s why I like it.

THINGS TO DO BEFORE A DANCE RECITAL

Elly Smith

Type out a frantic to-do list on google docs.

Spend hundreds of dollars on blush-colored capezio tights,
russian pointe shoes, leotards, and tan fishnets.
Write cheesy thank you letters to all of my dance teachers.
Chug an entire box of tangerine flavored Emergen-C packets.
Gather every black bobby pin I can find.
Beg my mom to sew satin ribbons on my russian pointe shoes.
Buy the cherry-scented hair gel from Target.
Fish for a pair of fuzzy socks in my broken drawer.
Have a mental breakdown because none of my costumes fit.
Practice downstairs for hours on the snagged carpet that my Tabby calls home.
Watch pointless videos on how to apply false lashes.
Pack a floral wrap dress for the after show pictures.
Dig in my moms makeup bag for the aged, beet-red lipstick.
Set my boisterous alarm for six A.M. sharp.
Put on my fuzzy sweatpants and mustard-colored sweatshirt at the crack of dawn.
Eat a chocolate oat Clif Bar.
Act like I care about my dads annual show-day pep talk.
Put my hair in a ponytail so tight I feel like my head might explode.
Race out the door.
Harp at my mom because she’s going 40 mph on the highway.
Mark my favorite backstage office chair with four of my costumes.
Do the middle splits in a circle with all of the other dancers.
Nervously watch the other dancers from the wings.
Rush on stage and get into place.