Praise for

A Stain in the Sea of Beauty

"deFreese captures voice similarly to the way she captures her characters: with a precision. You don't want to miss these stories."

–Tyler Michael Jacobs, 5th year SHP Creative Writing Instructor

~For My Parents~

~Thanks for Everything~

Table of Contents

My Grave Belongs to Nature

A Panoramic Murder

Her Climb

A Stain in the Sea of Beauty

Acknowledgements

My Grave Belongs to Nature

Do me a favor and hang my grave in a tree. When the world is dead and dying, sprinkle my ashes in a maple or a pine, whichever is closer. Or, if you would prefer, place a whole coffin in the branches, tying the leaves around the grave. In fact, if it’s more convenient, build a coffin into the tree, making both me and the grave one with the bark. But, perhaps that wouldn’t work, as the tree, durable as they are, would begin to grow around me. That wouldn’t do, no, I must be the center of the piece. So, instead, take my ashes and mold them into leaves. Then, hide them in the branches as just more foliage. Oh, but when autumn comes and the rest of the leaves fall, the fake ones will be seen, still growing upon the dying tree.

Alright, this isn’t working. Perhaps below a tree would work better, amongst the roots and dirt. Yes, bury my body right under the tree, intertwined with roots so I may grow again. But, like before, no one would ever see me. The meaning would be lost and the good I’m doing would be pointless. The good I’m doing being, of course, that my grave can be returned to nature and with it, myself. So, maybe it would be best if we place the grave on top of the tree, where everyone can see. Surely, such a durable thing can handle that much pressure, built up from the constant stress of my life, finally put to rest. Don’t worry if a couple branches snap or if the leaves fall too soon or if the bark begins to crack. I like to think it’s nature’s way of saying thank you for me. For my life, as I’ve given up to nature, deserves to be honored.

A Panoramic Murder

I am, as the law would say, a murderer. I sit in the duke’s garden, in the dark. He comes out here often at night. I should know: I’ve been watching. Watching. Waiting. Watching. Waiting. All for a very long time. I don’t know how much longer I can wait. But I’m patient. I can bear it.

I step into my lovely garden, the one I’ve had precisely manicured by the most expensive landscaper around. It really is quite lovely, hence why I’m here. Despite my exhaustion, I seem to be plagued with insomnia. So I came out to the gardens, and I sat down on an exquisitely designed bench with such meticulous patterns. However, I frown, looking at the poorly cut bushes and half-maimed flowers. Servants really have no sense of grace, do they? Sitting there, I take notice of something lurking in the dark, but, before I can react, something is around my neck. Panic surges through my body, and I attempt to call for help. I cannot speak. My hands pull against the rope, but it doesn’t budge. I cannot move. My vision blurs, and my throat smolders. I cannot see. I cannot scream. I cannot brea-

Let’s get this over with. I am so so tired. Because, of course, after a whole night of working on cases, the agency just had to give me another one. One that is also over eight hours away! But, apparently, this case is extremely important and needs immediate attention. So, I’ll only be a half hour late this time. I’m sure whatever fancy-xxx duke died this time can wait.

“He’s gone…” I whisper to myself. Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it. But I can still see his sweet face, feel his soft hand on mine as he tells me just how perfect I am. I will never hear his admiration again. I choke out the words in my mind, trying to beat the tears, “Father, who did this to you?”

“I can’t believe this! What did my father, a man of prestige, ever do to deserve this!?” I shout, anger sparking and igniting my every word. Good. Someone deserves to burn for this. “What rat thinks they can do this?! To my father!?”

“He deserved it.” I say. What a pitiful man. What a pathetic husband.

“Well… that goes without saying.” We laugh, snickering over that fool of a man.

I stand beside the others at the crime scene, my gardening tools still in hand. The body has (thankfully) already been removed, with only an outline remaining. Still, I can’t wipe the image from my mind: him, lying there, face blue with a rope wrapped around his throat. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of it. I should not be here, I know that. They just need me to say what I saw is all. I fiddle with my shears and glance at the people around me: the butler, the master’s children, and the master’s wife. If all they need from me is to say what I saw, then why are they here?

As far as I’m concerned, the master’s death shouldn’t change anything. The lady of the house was the one who actually employed us anyway, so it really shouldn’t have mattered. Instead, I’d been told to come to the crime scene to be interrogated. Well, they didn’t word it that way, but it’s what they meant. So, here I wait for this foolish detective to show up. I just wish the poor master’s daughter would stop crying.

I wipe the tears from my face and swallow my sobs. I can’t have my eyes get too red; that would be quite unflattering. My brother holds me gently in his arms, allowing me to rest my head on his shoulder. I do so and calm my breathing. As I do, my other brother shoots me a look of annoyance. Will you get over yourself? I frown and narrow my eyes. Oh, shut up.

The detective finally comes. Disappointing. I was hoping this would be simple.

Before entering the garden, I quickly toss my coffee cup into the trash can. Lord knows those people would tear me apart if they knew I went to get coffee first. Walking into the gardens, I am met with a screaming child. And by child, I mean an almost thirty-something man who is yelling more curses at me than I knew existed. This is clearly the duke’s son. After he finishes with that, I take in the rest of the suspects. A gardener stands to the left of the body’s outline, avoiding eye contact and fiddling aggressively with her tools. A butler stands next to her, almost as tired as me and watching the crying woman with concern. Speaking of which, the duke’s children all stand in line across from the servants, doing as rich folks do and treating poor folk like rats. Two hold each other close, one the crying woman and the other probably a younger brother. The eldest, the child from before, stays far away from his siblings. Then, the wife who stands arms crossed in a fancy dress to the left of her children, paying them no mind. Oh boy, this is gonna be interesting.

“Alright,” The detective says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s start simple, shall we? What do all of you know about the murder?”

“Nothing. I was sleeping the whole time.”

“So was I.” I say as I pull out of my brother’s warm embrace.

“I wasn’t even here.” I grumble. “I was at my own house in Boston.”

“I was awake when he got out of bed.” I declare. The statement clearly piques the detective’s interest. “But I heard nothing after that and went back to sleep.”

“What about you two?” I ask the servants, hoping they have more information. I would really rather not be here all day. I turn to the gardener. “You were the one who found the body, right?”

I nod, fiddling with my shears. “Yes, yes… I was. Um…” My voice wavers as I remember the body and I look down at my feet. The detective gestures for me to keep going. “Right, um, I found the body here in the garden at around seven in the morning, when I always do my gardening. He had a rope wrapped around… uh, his neck and… I don’t remember much else.”

The detective is understandably disheartened by this answer and rubs her eyes in frustration. Gingerly, I place my hand on the gardener’s shoulder in an attempt to soothe her a little. It works and her nervous movements lessen somewhat. I think for a bit, rolling information around on my tongue. The lady makes eye contact with me, and I stop considering it.

I glare at the detective. What right did this agency have to send such a foolish detective? My father’s death deserves more than this. Hell, even a commoner would deserve more than this. My worthless sister steps forward, finally breaking contact with our younger brother. What? Has she finally grown a spine?

“Detective,” I start, but I stop when everyone’s eyes turn to me. I’m quite used to an audience, but not one like this. Still, I revel in it a little. “There’s something else you should know.”

I turn to the woman and wait for her to continue. But, as drama queens do, she prolongs her pause as much as possible. Internally groaning, I say, “Yes, what is it?”

I have a feeling what the master’s child is going to say, but I still hope I’m wrong. My leg begins to subconsciously shake, and I bite my lip. It’ll be alright. The lady narrows her eyes at her daughter, and I shake more.

“My mother.” My feeble sister says. “She had been planning something. I don’t know much, just that she was.”

I glare daggers into my daughter. Such a baby, always crying. I push her back. “How dare you. I did no such thing!”

“Yes, you did.” I say, stepping up. She turns her icy gaze to me, but I keep going, directing my words toward the detective. “She had told us servants to acquire a special poisonous plant.”

The butler gives me a small push. “Yes, uh…” I swallow my anxiety. “She had told me it was for the garden, but then…”

“I found out the truth.” The butler says. This couldn’t be true. My mother would never do this. Never! As much as they hated each other, my parents weren’t heartless! “I saw her moving it near this bench here, the one the master had always sat at, and she threatened me for silence.”

“Quiet!” The duke’s wife yells and she goes to attack the butler. Before she can make it, I grab her by the wrists and pull her arms behind her back. She is actually pretty strong for a rich snob.

I sigh. This is slow. But they’ll come to the conclusion I need them to.

“Well, this is all fine and good, but what about the rope?” The detective asks, looking around at us. “Clearly he was choked to death, not poisoned.”

“Yes!” I yell, making that cowardly gardener jump. “Why would the rope be there if he was poisoned? It doesn’t make sense and therefore…” I run over to my mother and attempt to pull the detective from her. She is frustratingly strong. “My mother is innocent!”

I frown. This is getting exhausting. Can’t I just cuff this lady and leave already? I shove the man-child off of me, who is surprisingly pretty weak. He does have a point though. I can’t arrest someone under such obviously false pretenses, no matter how many testify against them.

“Wait,” I say, bringing the attention back to me again. I glance back at my younger brother, and he nods in return. I take a deep breath. Good-bye, mother. “The rope could be a trick; a way to mislead you.”

The detective considers this. Idiot. That’s such loose evidence. This fool is going to arrest me over this?

“That would actually, uh, make a lot of sense.” I add as eyes turn to me. Oh, I shouldn’t have said anything. Their eyes make me squirm. The butler gives my shoulder a squeeze. Keep going, keep going. “The rope was wrapped around him… in a, uh, not normal way. Almost… purposefully placed.”

This is enough for the detective. She pulls the cuffs off her belt and hooks them onto the lady, who begins to struggle against her in vain. The master’s eldest causes a fit as well, again trying and failing to fight against the detective.

“No! What kind of evidence is this!?” I shout at the detective. Something is wrong. Why the rope? I grab her wrist and try to pull her off. “This isn’t viable!”

I shove the man-child off. I’m ready to be done with this. So, I take the duke’s wife back to my car and lock her in the back. She is, as I expected, throwing a tantrum and trying to escape. I sigh and rub my eyes. Something still bothers me. How did the daughter know about her mother’s plans in the first place? It doesn’t track.

Watching the detective, I see her contemplating something. But she shakes her head and moves on. As she drives off, I turn back to my younger brother. “Thank you for telling me all that. Father’s murderer could have walked out of here, without any justice! But… how did you know what Mother was planning?”

I look down at my sister. I smile. “Simple. I’ve been watching.”

Her Climb

The castle walls stood over the little girl, crushing her in their sheer intimidation. The girl lived outside these walls, in a small cottage deep in the forest. But every few days, the girl would take a ball and play underneath the walls. She would bounce the ball off the side of the wall or play soccer with the wall as the goal. However, one day, she bounced the ball too high and it went over the wall. The girl had nothing, and so she had lost her only ball. That was the day she decided she would climb the wall. 

She stuck her feet into the loose stone and created footholds. She reached up and grasped onto small cracks, creating handholds. So, she began to climb, digging her hands and feet into the wall and creating places for her to hold. Years and years passed, and she became more ragged. Her skin had been scraped and scratched by stone and her clothes had become ripped and torn. Her hands and feet quietly bled, but she kept climbing the wall. Her parents had told her, when she was younger, that climbing the wall is impossible, that it’s much better to stay down here and take the wall's crushing presence. But the girl decided she would climb it and so she continued. 

More years passed and the girl could barely breathe anymore without ash filling her lungs. Her arms and legs like sticks and her hair long from the years. However, she could see the edge. It was so close, only a few years away. She struck her feet into the stone and tore at it with her hands. The girl did not notice the damage she had been doing to the walls, from all those years of creating holds for herself. She did not notice the new shaking feeling of the walls or that many stones were now missing. She did not notice the lessening presence of the walls or that she was no longer the only climber. She did notice, however, when she reached the top. 

The girl, now a woman, breathed in the shallow air, and, gently, fell down to the other side. The grass was so soft, and trees grew higher than the walls. Then, as she took in the life-filled air, the walls behind her collapsed. Their presence was destroyed, all by a little girl, who decided she could climb it.

A Stain in the Sea of Beauty

I once knew a girl who would swim all day, from when her sagging eyes first began their silent cry to when her hands were too scratched and dripping with blood to continue.

She would go out onto the beach each morning, her feet sinking into the sand. She’d take a step, and then another. Breaching its surface was easy. The sand would make room for her foot, allowing it to sink deep within. However, the sand clung to her skin, pulling her deeper and deeper. She could feel the rocks coil around her toes, linking and twisting together. She had said this was the hardest part every morning. She’d take a deep breath and wrench against the sand. Its grip would never ease on the first try.

She spent hours there in the morning, heaving and dragging against the sand's clutches. She’d dig into the sand, trying to undo the chains of sand twisted around her. I remember hearing her. Muffled sobs followed by the sound of sand being hurled across the beach. It hit me once, but she didn’t stop. After so long, she’d wiggle it free, only to place it back into the sand again. It sunk, and she began again. Sometimes, she’d collapse on the shoreline, too exhausted to continue, and she’d lay there as her heart strangled her breath. She’d fall asleep there and no one ever came to get her. So, she would wake up tomorrow and begin again.

Finally, she would make it to the beach, and she would heave her foot out one last time to feel it hit the water. There, where she lived, the water was always cool and light. It was crystalline, made of the purest aquamarine. The waves were serene, gently pushing against the shore. Sunlight shone off them, turning the bright blue water translucent. At some times of day, the ocean’s horizon would blend into the sky, creating a gradient waterfall of blues between above and below. It was worth it (I had thought) for her to come so far for this ethereal paradise, but that was not the reason for her trek.

Slowly, she would wade into the water, warily stepping through the calm currents. The water was always refreshing, never too hot or too cold. She would walk til the water submerged her shoulders and take a long breath, tensing her muscles as she inhaled and relaxing as she exhaled. Then, she began her swim.

But her swim wasn’t how most would swim. She did not play or float, and she never stopped to ponder how she got here. Instead, she searched. She would swim in straight patterns, back and forth, while examining the ocean floor. The objects below would be blurry but still visible enough. When she saw what she was looking for (or at least something close enough), she would dive below. 

She kept her eyes firmly shut in the water, closing them off from the sting of salt. Then, with reckless abandon, she would reach out and run her hands along the floor til she found the object. Once she did, a smile carved into her face, and she would begin to investigate it. Moving her hands through every crevice of the object, she would scrutinize every detail. She must (as she had told me) find the genuine thing, for the mock ones cut her deep. Their points and spikes would find her hands and scratch at her. Sometimes, the cuts were small, mimicking the kind a cat would give you. These ones meant no real harm, as she had said. But others, ones I had seen on her myself, slashed into her hand mercilessly, staining the wonderfully divine water with a sickly red. Once she realized the object’s lack of authenticity, she would abandon it, pushing off the floor and rising to the surface. Despite her wounds, she would continue her search. She would keep diving, investigating, hurting, and returning until she couldn’t handle it anymore. But she could handle an awful lot, and so the sun would often fade away before she finished. She did not care, though, because what she was looking for was her everything.

What she was looking for is, as she had always put it, that feeling of being something. It could be a gorgeous, colorful shell, adorned with shared smiles and dreams. It could be a small, dirty snail with a shell long broken that still holds a forgotten embrace. Perhaps it's a piece of coral, produced by the awes of a cheering crowd. Or maybe it’s a slimy strand of seaweed, built by the success praised by a parent. She had speculated and theorized and begged over that feeling for so long. I don’t remember when she wasn’t looking for it.

Once, I went to visit her while she swam. I sat on the edge of the beach, atop the sand, with my feet in the water when the tide swelled. I watched her, appearing and disappearing with her search. I simply sat there while she bled.

Long after the sun had fallen, she finished her search and approached me. Emerging from the water, she looked perfect to me. Brown hair curled messily around her head, flowing down in wild currents. Her acne scars were designed in elegant swirls on her cheeks. Even the bags, formed from the longer days of swimming, had a strange beauty to them, darkening her eyes to a deep ocean blue. Those same eyes were downcast, watching the sand with an impenetrable glare. She held something, cupped gingerly in her hands.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” I asked her.

She held it out to me. It was a pearl, smoothed from years of comfort and coated in thanks. I frowned.

“What you were looking for.” I repeated.

She dropped her hands, the pearl falling with them. The sand consumed it.

“I could find it,” I reached out for her and held one of her hands. The blood covered my hand, but I could bear it for her. “Just let me.”

She refused (as she always did), and we went back home. That was the last time I spoke to her.

It happened during a storm, in the middle of the night. She had come out to the shore, tears rolling down her face and movements unsteady. She swayed back and forth as she staggered across the beach. The sand still pulled her in, but she did not pull back.

I grabbed her around the torso, and, with one quick move, hauled her out. She screamed and pushed away from me, twisting out of my hold. I had heard the creaks in the floor when she left and knew what she was doing. I grabbed her by the wrist, the movement of which was enough to stop her. She looked up at me, into my eyes, for just a moment. I remember her eyes so vividly. Their usual determination was clouded by a violent desperation. Her pupils had widened to smother the ocean blue, leaving her eyes a hell-bent black. She was lost. Jerking from my grasp, she went for the ocean, and dove in without a last glance.

The ocean consumed her, swallowing her fully in its raging waves. The water, made of the darkest sapphire, fought against the black sky, rising to scrape and tear into it. Consequently, the waves fell onto the shore with unbridled brutality, gouging out the land. Lightning slashed across the sky, encouraging the merciless fight. Storm clouds had plunged the ocean into a dark abyss of water, opaque to even the fish below.

I saw her break through the surface, amid the thrashing currents. She was searching, as she always did in the ocean, but with a new panic instilled in her. With every rampaging wave, she would dive into the water and reappear shaking with intensifying anxiety. Her face changed with every dive. Sometimes, she would surface laughing with a crazed smile plastered on her mouth. Other times, she would emerge spitting curses and raging as fiercely as the ocean. This went on until she reappeared with a new look, one that was different from the rest. This one was defeat, written plainly in her vacant eyes and supported by her falling tears. That was when the wave came.

 Unlike the previous waves, this one came with a ferocity so intense, built up from years of failure and self-hatred, that it could not be beared. She turned to it and, as her breath finally relaxed, she accepted it. I watched the wave devour her in a suffocating feeling of being nothing. I screamed for her, and dove into the ocean.

I searched for so long. I searched until the sun rose high above and the storm had long died out. Despite the stinging, I kept my eyes wide open in the water, examining everything for her.  I ignored most of the objects on the ocean floor, none of them were what I was looking for. I went far into the ocean, passing egotistical sharks and depressed whales, coming up for air when needed. I swam until my muscles burned from the ache and I couldn’t handle it anymore.

So, I came back to the shore and collapsed into the sand as grief wrenched at my chest. I layed there, tempted to let myself sink into the sand. But I got up and kept on going, as she had always said. I looked out at the water, which had returned to its divine state. The tide reached for me and brushed my legs in condolence.

And there, at the edge of my vision, right before the ocean blended into the sky, was a stain of blood red, imprinted into the sea. She had told me about those. She had said they were reminders of what never to be. A girl that was lost in the depths of her own self. A girl that (as she had always put it) was nothing at all.

Acknowledgements

   Thank you to my family for always being chill and loving me. Seriously, I wouldn’t be able to write this stuff without you all.

Thank you to my friends for always making me happy when I’m feeling down and listening to me ramble about my story ideas.

Thank you to the creative writing class of 2024! You guys are awesome and super supportive! You all have helped me be way more confident in my writing!

Thank you to Tyler, the instructor for this class. You’ve been a huge help in learning about writing, and I wish you the best!

Thank you for reading this! You’re a huge reason as to why I enjoy writing! Thank you so much!