Clearing the Air: The Finale

Earlier on, I mentioned that I finally – finally! – completed a work of allegorical fiction, and I posted the first installment of it here.

Then, I brought you Part 2, in which Flora, our ever-intrepid protagonist, finds herself in the right place at the right time.

Last week, Flora made an appeal to her fellow Floofs.

And now, folks, the conclusion to our drama…

That morning, Flora leapt from her bed, grabbed her camera and ran straight to the marketplace. The Naysayers were bustling about, getting ready for their day. She tried talking to them as they passed by, but no one would pay Flora any mind. 

After several minutes of trying and failing to get anyone’s attention, Flora grew so frustrated she stood atop a packing crate and yelled, “EVERYONE! Everyone, listen to me! You’re making everything terrible, and you don’t even know!”

That got the Naysayers’ attention, and fast. “Little girl,” admonished Nero, “I think you’d best run along to your tent and mind your own business.”

“No!” shouted Flora. “I’m done minding my business. The air is terrible, this town smells stinky, and you are all GROSS.”

Nix shot to the front of the group and got right in Flora’s face. “Listen, missy. There’s nothing happening to any of us but you. So you should go back to your friends, and we’ll go back to being the shiny silver stars that we are.” The crowd responded with nods of agreement.

“But that’s the thing,” persisted Flora. “You’re wrong, and I can prove it.” By this time, the marketplace was even more crowded, this time with Floofs who heard a commotion and came to see what was happening. 

Flora pushed her camera towards Nix and Nero. “Look at my photo here. What do you see?” 

The leaders of the Naysayers leaned in close to examine the camera display. Their faces drained of color as they saw Nix’s image: dirty, musty, surrounded by a pea-green smog, with a hideous-looking Nix in the mirror. 

“Well? Not the shiny silver star you were expecting to see, was it?”

Nix struggled to find her voice, then quavered, “That photo proves nothing. You probably doctored it.” 

“Oh, yeah? Take the camera for yourself, then. Snap a couple photos of you and your friends, and see what happens.”

“I don’t think we need to -” stammered Nix.

“Oh, I think you DO,” ordered Frida, who now stood with the other Floofs behind Flora.

“Fine. But only to prove you wrong.” Nix grabbed the camera and shot a couple of quick photos of the Naysayers gathered in the town square. She looked into the display and gasped.

Nero grabbed the camera to see for himself, then nearly dropped the camera in shock. 

“What is it?” demanded the other Naysayers. Nero passed the camera around. The Naysayers gasped and turned pale as they each saw their image. Almost as if emerging from a trance, they looked at each other with blank expressions. For the first time, the Naysayers saw how they appeared to the Floofs: dirty, scraggly, surrounded by a green-brown haze. 

“It’s…it’s…it’s impossible!” moaned Nero. “It can’t be! What’s all of this smog and nastiness around us? And why are we so grimy?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Flora explained. “You sure started out shining and sparkly, but all the bad things you say and do are making everything else horrible. And your stink keeps getting worse.”

Nix looked at Nero, then turned slowly to look at Flora. “So…what you’re saying is…we’ll have to…”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Flora. “You’ll have to stop with the mean stuff.”

“But you’re all so little and dumb. It’s just too easy to pick on you!” With that comment, a new layer of stench surrounded the Naysayers. And now that they could smell it themselves, they, too, were disgusted. A ripple of complaints spread across the crowd as the Naysayers gagged and choked. 

“This is terrible!” 

“Make it stop!” 

“Nix, enough is enough!”

Nix conferred with Nero. The village square was silent, save for their hushed whispers. After what felt like an eternity, Nix turned to the crowd and announced, in a defeated tone, “Fine.”

Shouts of joy erupted from all. Starting that very morning, the Floofs moved back into town. One by one, they returned to their market stalls, their shops, their homes. 

Fred and Nero surveyed the scene. Worriedly, Nero said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to leave now that you’re back in the village.”

Fred turned to Nero, surprised. “What are you talking about? There’s plenty of space here. Just build your houses right alongside ours!”

And that is exactly what the Naysayers did. Soon, the Naysayers and the Floofs became neighbors. And not long after, the Naysayers and the Floofs became friends. The air was once again fresh and clean, and the dirt and grime lifted away from the Naysayers’ coats.

To celebrate their alliance, the leaders dedicated a flag with the new town colors of Floof blue and Naysayer silver. A beautiful sight, indeed.

Slice of Life Tuesday: Clearing the Air, Part 3

Earlier on, I mentioned that I finally – finally! – completed a work of allegorical fiction, and I posted the first installment of it here.

Last week, I brought you Part 2, in which Flora, our ever-intrepid protagonist, finds herself in the right place at the right time.

And now, Flora makes an appeal to her fellow Floofs. Will she succeed? Read on!

Later that night, the Floofs gathered around a campfire at the edge of town.  “I call this meeting to order,” announced Fred. “This meeting of Floofs is now in session.”

“Thank you, Fred,” replied Frida. “Everyone, we are gathered to discuss -”

“You don’t have to tell us why we’re here!” came a shout. “Those Naysayers have made life unbearable for us!”

“Yes,” responded Frida, “and we’re going to -”

“It’s awful!” interrupted another Floof. “I can’t walk down the road without them saying mean things to me.” 

“And have you smelled them? I can’t breathe. It’s like someone left rotten eggs in some sweaty shoes at the bottom of a trash dumpster. And nobody can see anything with all the smog everywhere.”

“Yeah! The Naysayers are getting us all stuck in their toxic gas cloud, and it’s growing worse. If we don’t do something soon, We’ll have to leave.”

The Floofs erupted in shouts of agreement as their leaders tried to restore order. “I know,” shouted Frida, “that things are difficult, but we have to -”

“Excuse me,” came a small voice.

The Floofs turned to see young Flora. “Flora, did you have something to add?” Fred inquired.

“Um – I mean, yes.” She had to strain her voice to speak over the whispers of astonishment. “Well,” Flora began, “I don’t think the Naysayers see what’s happening.”

“What do you mean, Flora?” asked Frida.

Flora told the group what she saw, and shared the photo of Nix in the mirror. “See?” she said. “They’ve created all of the awfulness around us, but they don’t see any of it.”

“So they’re not just ratty and stinky, they’re blind, too!?” cried a Floof from across the campfire. A wisp of green gas swirled around him as the Floofs next to him held their noses and scooted away.

“Maybe. Or maybe they just need to see things how they really are,” responded Flora. “Maybe…maybe we can help them see what’s happening.”

“Well, you can do what you like, but I don’t think they’ll listen to anybody. Knock yourself out, kid.” The crowd laughed in agreement.

“Fine!” she shouted. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’ll make the Naysayers understand what’s happening. Just wait and see!”

Discouraged but not defeated, Flora returned to her tent, leaving the rest of the Floofs to complain around the campfire. She went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. Flora tossed and turned, knowing there had to be a way to restore her town. Finally, she got an idea. A good one. With a plan in place, Flora slept soundly.

Slice of Life Tuesdsay: Clearing the Air, Part 2

Last week, I mentioned that I finally – finally! – completed a work of allegorical fiction, and I posted the first installment of it here.

This week, I bring you Part 2, in which Flora, our ever-intrepid protagonist, finds herself in the right place at the right time. Enjoy.

During the next few days, the Naysayers made life difficult for the poor Floofs. Over in the school yard, the young Naysayers would trip little Floofs and call them names like “mop brain” and “fluffs.” One Floof, poor Flora, even found herself used as a ball in a game of Ga-ga. 

At the town marketplace, the grown-up Floofs were having no better luck. The Naysayers kicked the merchant Floofs out of their stalls, stealing both their stores and their merchandise. All the fruit, all the bread, the clothes – everything – became the property of the invaders. So did their parks, their homes, their schools. The Naysayers took everything and forced the Floofs to live at the edge of the village. 

As all of this was going on, a strange thing happened. It started as tiny green wisps, a fuzzy, off-smelling mist surrounding the town. As the Naysayers continued their nastiness, the mist developed into a filthy haze, which settled into a thick, reeking fog. And as the air became more rotten and difficult to breathe, the Naysayers’ beautiful silver coats faded to a dingy, matted olive green. 

One smoggy afternoon, Flora made her way through the village square, trying not to cough. She passed by her old house, now inhabited by Nix. She allowed herself one moment of nostalgia to peek in the windows. It was difficult to get a clear view, as the smog had made visibility almost impossible. But she could just make out Nix admiring herself in the mirror.

“Oh, you!” the chief Naysayer said to her reflection. “Aren’t you amazing, you silver star! Here you are with a brand new town, and the world is YOURS!”

As Flora watched Nix, she grew alarmed. It wasn’t Nix’s arrogance that concerned her. No, it was what Nix saw in her mirror – or what she didn’t see. She still thinks she’s beautiful and silver, observed Flora. They don’t see what they’re doing to the air! And they don’t see how the air has changed their coats. They still think they’re perfectly fine!

All at once, Flora got an idea. For the first time in what seemed like ages, things seemed clear. She ran to her family’s tent for her camera, then returned to take a photograph of Nix in all her ugliness. As she snapped the picture, Flora just knew that what she captured would change the course of her town’s history.

Tune in text week for Part 3!

Slice of Life Tuesday: Getting Brave

Well folks, I did it.

I forced (yes, forced) myself to finish another work of fiction, this one an allegory crafted alongside my fifth graders. I may have complained, I may have whined, I may have procrastinated, and tried just about every form of resistance just short of kicking and screaming.

But I did it. And I’m proud of the work I did, proud of the way my students supported me along the way.

So for the next few Tuesdays, I’ll publish my story in installments. Here’s the first one.

Clearing the Air by Mrs. Levin

Once upon a time, there lived a village of Floofs. The Floofs were lovely creatures who stood about a foot high and were covered head to toe with shaggy blue fur. If you looked straight at their shaggy blue faces, you would see two twinkling green eyes and a sparkling smile.  The Floofs were friendly creatures, and they spent their days playing hide-and-seek, Red Rover, and freeze tag. They were a happy bunch, and life was fun.

Until the Naysayers came to town. 

The Naysayers were beautiful: tall and sleek, with a smooth, glossy, silver coat of hair, with crystal blue eyes and toothy grins. 

The Floofs saw the newcomers. The shaggiest, bluest one of all stepped forward  and announced, “Welcome! Welcome to our village! My name is Frida, and I’m the leader of the Floof community. We are so glad you’re here. We love company.”

The Naysayers studied the Floofs up and down (it wasn’t a far trip). Nix, the leader of the Naysayers, raised an eyebrow, elbowed her buddy, and said with a sneer, “Oh, how about this? Looks like someone dropped a bunch of mops.”

Frida giggled and said, “Mops? That’s funny. No, we’re Floofs.”

Nix rolled her eyes and nudged the assistant standing next to her. “Nero, do you believe these mops? Not only are they ugly, but they’re stupid.” The two of them laughed, but it wasn’t a kind, gentle chuckle like Frida’s. This was a low, sinister cackle – which echoed across the crowd of Naysayers.

None of the Floofs knew what an insult was, let alone heard one before. A silence fell among the Floofs, followed by a new, uneasy feeling like rocks in the belly. Nobody knew what this sensation was, and they didn’t know how to name it. They just knew it was a feeling that made them shrink into themselves.

Fred, Frida’s second-in-command, spoke for the rest of the group, who stood dumbstruck behind him. “W-what did you just say?”

“She said,” Nero repeated spitefully, “that you were dumb and ugly. Or is something wrong with your ears, too?”

Fred said, “Nothing’s wrong with our ears, but we don’t know what you’re talking about. Your words make us feel small, and that’s never happened to any of us before.”

Nix stared directly into Fred’s green eyes with her piercing blue ones, pointed a finger at his chest and said, “Well, you’d better get used to it, because we’re here to stay.” She turned to the group of Naysayers behind her. “Come on,” she said, “let’s leave these mops here and explore this dump.”

“Yeah,” added Nero. “Let’s go.” The rest of the Naysayers followed their leaders as they walked around the village, a faint wisp of odor trailing behind them.


Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for weekly Slice of Life. Check ‘em out!

Poetry Month Day 10: Driving the Point Home

Today’s #VerseLove prompt, “Look Closely,” comes from Joanne Emery. Her poem for the day tells the story of the house of her loved ones. As I read her work, a poem I’ve been percolating on the back burner might be ready to come to the surface. So I’ll give it a go.

Driving the Point Home

There
are times
as I drive
through neighborhoods
whiz past the houses
I think of my own home
and all that it holds within:
laughs around the dinner table
the door frame where we measured our height
countless retellings of family lore
hugs of farewell, of grief, of welcome
but my home is one of many,
like these, these houses that I
speed past – every last one
harbors countless worlds,
beyond what I’d
possibly
ever
know.






Poetry Month Day 9: Depending on When You Met Me

Today’s poetry challenge is to compose a “depending on when you met me” poem. It’s a good way to think about all of the “me’s” I’ve been over the years, and to whom. This seems like a tough one to narrow down. I could do my evolution as a mom, as a person, as a teacher, as a hobbyist…my life has gone through a lot of iterations, to say the least.

Have you met me?
is what I say when I mention
that I meal plan for the week, that I
organize my closet by color, that I
tend to be obtuse and random,
bordering on awkward

but

depending on when you met me,
I was a “wise-ask,” which is
what nobody likes, Helaine,
when I mouthed off
to grown-ups from
a tender young age.

Depending on when you met me,
I was the had-to-be-right kid,
the first-hand-up-in-class kid,
the do-what-I-like-and-skip-boring-work kid,
the wander-in-the-forest kid,
the picked-last-for-kickball kid,
the hey!-Earth-to-Lainie kid.

Depending on when you met me,
I was the class clown runner-up,
doing all the activities,
joining all the groups,
trying to be everything
to everyone.

Depending on when you met me,
I was the starry-eyed newbie teacher
with a tote bag full of ideals
and ideas,
ready to change the world
one kid at a time.

Depending on when you met me,
I’m the reluctant grown-up
who might still mouth off
who will definitely still be awkward,
who still loves teaching as much
as thirty years ago,
and is ready to meet
her own evolving,
changing,
growing
self.

Poetry Month Day 8: Birthright

Today’s poem is part of both #VerseLove from Ethical ELA and Slice of Life Tuesdays. The poetry challenge is to explore an inherited gesture, belief, or ritual.

Here’s my go at it:

Birthright

In poker and chess,
It’s called a tell:
Worlds revealed
In a flick, a blink, a twitch

For me,
It’s my father’s response
To frustration, impatience, annoyance:
The double-palmed face rub,
Followed by fingertips
Pressed to the eyes
Subtle, right?

What I’d give to
Deny my patterning:
I’ve tried
Sitting on hands
Taking deep breaths
Folding my arms
But what can be done?

It’s a dubious inheritance,
Just like
Oddly-shaped fingers
The knack for trivia
My wiry, curly hair
The nasty habit of punnery
A tendency to burst into song
The shadow of dementia

Poetry Month Day 5: Scars

A Map of the Outer Lands

We begin the tour
at our northernmost point, with the
oldest of our scars:
a souvenir left from the
Great Door Frame-Forehead Confluence of 1974,
then just a quick drive southeast, til we’re at
Crater Pock, established in 1978
by a prospector looking to
settle an under-eye chicken pox score

There aren’t many roadside attractions in this area, folks,
but as we’re driving the eastern shoulder
keep your eye out for the trio of trenches,
vestiges (two benign) from 2024’s Biopsy Spring.

From there, the roads are clear until we reach
south-of-the-knee country.
There’s no telling what you’ll hit:
trip-and-fall scabs, barbell scrapes,
coffee table collisions.
It’s all wilderness there, folks,
and it’s a rocky end to an otherwise smooth trip.

That’s all for today’s tour,
(don’t forget to tip your guide)
but for those of you looking
for more adventurous territory,
we’ll be giving tours of the heart
on alternate Tuesdays.

Poetry Month Day 4: The Places I’ll Go

Today’s #VerseLove prompt is to take inspiration from travel. I knew which travel I wanted to write about – when I stayed in Sandusky, Ohio while my son was in the hospital there. I remember how otherworldly it felt being out one morning on a kayak. Not gonna lie: this poem WRESTLED me.

Drifting

A crystal morning
on Lake Erie:
I float,
an island unto myself
among islands,

pondering, amid
turtles and eagles and dragonflies,
how this time,
these moments: they are
breath and sustenance,
and I have
left the world behind, save

the kayak time limit
my son’s hospital visiting hours
phone calls,
phone calls,
and the phone calls:
and trappings
of life

I consider
how we are all
archipelago:
islands cultivated
or bridged
or isolated

how the
difference
between being
untethered
and unmoored
is how we feel
about the hand
at the end of our rope.

Poetry Month, Day 3: Ode to False Spring


Wrote this poem for Ethical ELA’s VerseLove. Today’s task was to borrow a rhyme scheme from another poem or song, then “golden shovel” the last words into a new rhyming poem.

I really did want to come up with something deep and pithy. Clever, however, butted in line and stole Pithy’s number at the deli counter. So…here it is:

Ode to False Spring
after Robert Frost

Spring is here, the weather is fair
And many Chicagoans claim
That sandals and shorts are ready to wear
(Though I really could not say the same)

For each April morning, I lazily lay,
The sky through my window still black;
I think, I could better leap into the day
If only the sunlight came back.

Instead I will stretch, I will yawn and will sigh
Pondering the day to come hence;
To dress warm? Dress cold? (Between you and I,
It’s not gonna make any difference.)