Falling, frozen, dancing sugar
Sweetly licks my trembling lips
Coldly tickling anxious tastebuds
Frosting fractal-feathered trees
It usually does, of course, but I’m focused on specific vacuum-like attributes this morning.
Two nights ago, I was finally enlightened as to the funeral program for my recently-deceased grandmother. I’ve been saddened about her passing, to say the least, and now feel somewhat like I’ve been punched by a random, vindictive leprechaun as I walked innocently down the street.
A certain relation of mine took over (stole, drove away with, picked up any ends -loose or otherwise- and tied them in neat little braids that she thought looked pretty, etc.) the funeral plans. I realize I’m a grandchild. Though, really, that’s only in name. A few legal and medical sources confirm I am hardly classified as a child anymore.
After typing up a rather satisfying, flaming, exactly-accurate-but-angry writing vomit session; I still feel upset. At least I didn’t actually publish it though, so we’re making progress.
To top the icing on the cake of the day that had already been filled with “normal” Mom Life stresses, I learned that my writing entry to a contest had not made it past the first cut.
Now, I’m never over-confident about my skills. I’m very good at self-deprecation and an extreme sort of humility and poor self-esteem and whatnot. What really got my yoga exercise pants in a twist was reading through the snippets that did make the final cut. I don’t mind losing (much), if the winners are worth losing to.
I like to think I’m collecting data on what might make my story accepted the next time I enter when I bitterly read through the competition. However, in this case I’m left scratching my head. In fact, this is the third time I’ve submitted to this blogger, so it’s more like I’m smacking my head with the keyboard.
What can I do differently? Suck more?
This is the part where we remind the audience that I’ve been trying to be a good little girl and eat healthy and exercise. So, I haven’t had fall-back options like binge-eating Valentine’s chocolate and staying up all night staring blankly at a computer screen as I type angry words about a certain in-law and a certain contest.
Chocolate was 70% off at Walgreen’s. It’s not like I overspent, at least.
In truth, the smile was still not the sort Nathan was accustomed to seeing in his mirror at home. Another man’s high cheekbones lifted slightly, a stranger’s ears shifted, and someone’s symmetrical features were the ones expressing pleasure.
It was his eyes, he realized. Despite the effects of his eye drops, a sort of relaxed, inner light shone through. He’d assumed there was nothing left inside, nothing he would describe with words like light, anyway.
He looked down, unnecessarily adjusting his antique wristwatch.
Merely seconds after closing, the lift sang its pleasant tone again. Nathan watched his reflection shimmer and pull to one side, to be replaced by the reception area of whatever level he’d been ferried to. This one also held plants, swaying and contributing to the delectable taste of unpolluted air.
The artistically arranged plants stood a balanced sentry against a paneled, daylight-glowing wall. Exiting and turning to look around, Nathan noted a vacant podium of sorts to his right. It stood near two large, closed doors. Accordingly, he approached. He withdrew his comm and ran it along the top and sides, but nothing activated.
He frowned, and walked to its backside. Still nothing. He looked, instead, to the wall-sized entryway. How would he get in?
Nathan paused for a few seconds, indecisively. Then, he recalled his morning-long mantra of confidence. He walked forward, and pushed at the doors. They moved inward, without any resistance. If he’d been in his own, lightweight skin, he would have fallen forward onto his ugly, imperfect face.
He would have landed right at the feet of a small audience, as well.
Three well-dressed, well-shod, and handsome business executives stood waiting. They seemed completely unsurprised to see him, a sentiment Nathan did not share. Suspecting surveillance equipment of some sort, he chanced a careful half-turn to look behind. The doors he had moved so easily were nearly transparent.
He looked back to the waiting party; attempted a level expression. The woman stepped forward slightly. “N. Reed.” Her cool voice said. It was a statement. “Welcome.” Nathan returned her greeting with a barely-perceptible nod. She smiled an executive smile, the sort that lifts one’s mouth but never reaches above that point.
One of the men straightened and clasped his hands together. “Well,” he began in a deep tone, “Shall we?” In eerie accord, he and the other two turned and began walking down the hall and away from Nathan.
This was it. I will do this, Nathan reminded himself. Squaring his shoulders and suit, he followed the crushed carpet footprints of his potential employers.
Continued from Skinwalkers, V.
Is anyone else here lazy?
No, no… you don’t have to raise your hand.
“The first four months of writing the book, my mental image is scratching with my hands through granite. My other image is pushing a train up the mountain, and it’s icy, and I’m in bare feet.”
-Mary Higgins Clark
Wil walked slowly, her soft brown hair framing a small, pensive face. Her dark eyes, so full of the depth of life, scanned the crowd. Her slim yet graceful body moved ever forward as her peers stared in awe.
Boys watched and wanted from the corners of their eyes, as girls shot looks of envy. That purple cloak was stunning. Those boots were the height of fashion. The scarf was an expensive weave of black on black. The young woman who wore them was so naturally beautiful.
Although she tried to ignore them, Wil was conscious of the attention. Anyone would have to be. She pretended she wasn’t, however. She needed to reach her ride, and couldn’t afford distractions.
“I purchased these flowers for you,” spoke a timid young man with black, wavy hair. He offered them in a shaking hand. Wil brushed them aside, dusting petals to the floor.
A confident boy with blond hair and smoldering eyes tried to block her path. “Let’s catch a movie tonight, Wil.” He was sure to be accepted, but she dodged around his Letterman-jacketed arm.
“You’re coming to my birthday, right?” The Class President begged Wil. She approached with an anxious, artificially white smile; and left with a spoiled frown.
They sought her like hypnotized moths to a tempting flame. But, Wil’s heart-shaped face turned only one way. Her deep glance rested on only one person. Her body was drawn to only one other body.
He would be waiting, she knew, with more than flowers. He would take her somewhere better than a theater. He didn’t have birthday parties filled with fake people.
Wil whispered his name. “Derek.”
She reached the doors to outside, and pushed through them. A disappointed trail of admirers was behind her and the afternoon was before her. The shy sun illuminated her path to the idling minivan at the curb.
Even her neighbors stared as she approached, every other distraction forgotten in Wil’s presence. They shifted to give her the best seat as Wil ducked and entered the vehicle.
“How are you today, Wil?” Mrs. Crandall attempted. Wil didn’t respond, but no one expected she would.
Mrs. Crandall faced forward, appeared to watch surrounding traffic, and pulled into the familiar queue of cars heading home.
Reagan, pulling an earbud from her right ear, turned to Wil and whispered, “So, you’re part of our group now, right?”
Wil didn’t hear at first, as she slid in her seat at the sudden movement of Mrs. Crandall braking and honking.
She realized Reagan had spoken to her, and brilliantly responded, “Huh?”
“Our group,” Reagan persisted. “You got the notes. Derek said you’d find out about it after school today.” She looked at Wil’s face and raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“Oh,” Wil replied. “Um. Yeah.”
“So,” Reagan said, “Welcome.” She sat back, pushing her ear bud back in place and looking at her phone again. She had been reading it since first climbing in the van.
Wil blinked in the reality of the small cabin around her, and realized she ought to actually read what Derek had given her.
Continued from Thirty-Four.
Streaming scarring crystal paintings
Bleed along the frosted panes.
Heartbeat pulsing, teary starings
Watch while wishing for his gaze.
Fingers stroking screen-glow pulses
Numbly never touching flesh.
Ice lines painting outside crying;
Inside: freezing living hearts.
If you expect the worst from a person you can never be disappointed.
-Anthony Burgess, The Wanting Seed
A mick, a muck
A garbage truck.
Why change to come so soon?
You used to come ’round two o’clock
But now you come before the sun is even up!
Nathan walked forward, gawking in the wonder of expensive surroundings. He sensed the door slide quickly and silently closed behind him. The expanse in front was more interesting, by far.
His basic-slipshod feet sank slightly into an opulently clean path of carpet. A solid, reflective flooring ran to either side of the path. Both led past a spacious, plant-furnished foyer to an impressive, raised reception desk of dark wood.
Daylight-simulation glowed from the walls, floor, and ceiling. He didn’t know how it could or how anyone could afford the affect.
In fact, any small corner of the area cost more than Nathan expected to earn in a lifetime. He couldn’t imagine, even, the price of actual plants; the price of keeping them living was another phenomenal consideration.
“N. Reed?” a polite voice called from the desk. Her voice echoed pleasantly around the room to reach him, despite the foyer’s polished appearance.
Nathan swallowed; closed his slightly-agape mouth. He realized he’d been standing much like a castaway first waking on a beautiful island. The air felt so fresh, he could almost hear waves and taste airborne sea salt.
Straightening, he tried to regain some dignity as he walked toward the receptionist. The floor caving at each step distracted his feet. Green fronds swaying in the delicious currents whispered to his ears. Everything fought for his visual attention.
He reached the desk at last, and found that the young woman sitting there was yet another distraction. She smiled, making things worse. Mentally blessing the horrible Suspension Drops, he attempted to keep the rest of his face composed.
“Yes,” he answered. “I am Nathan Reed.” He tried to look collected, yet casual. All this must be normal. No, he wasn’t surprised by these settings. He couldn’t be; not someone as important as he.
“Wonderful!” she said, and appeared to mean it. Either she had the best skin money could buy -highly likely, considering what surrounded him- or she was very good at acting. “If you’ll scan your comm, here,” she tapped an unobtrusive panel at the top of the desk, “You’ll be able to proceed to the level you need through the lifts.”
At mention of her last statement, the receptionist brought her manicured hand from the panel to wave behind and to her right, at the wall. Squinting slightly, Nathan could see the outline of a door in the paneled wall.
His hand still held his comm. Nodding, he drew it to scan where she had indicated. A green bar briefly glowed, then faded. The lift, as it truly was, chimed a pleasant sound and its panel slid open. He pocketed his comm.
“Good luck,” the receptionist said, again seeming sincere. She also smiled again, which was unfair for someone with such flawless teeth and vivid eyes.
“Thanks,” he couldn’t help responding. He smiled, and wondered at the naturalness of it. Turning, he walked to and into the waiting lift. Its panel slid shut; his side was reflective, as he had hoped this morning.
Nathan was surprised at what he saw, though not for the reason he’d assumed while dressing. Yes, his appearance was strange for many reasons; however, it was the expression of lingering happiness that caught him the most off-guard.
When was the last time, he thought, that I smiled?
Continued from Skinwalkers, IV.