The Persistence of Memory
His love, outside of time, beyond the illusion of forever, was immemorial as it was eternal.
Long before the human genome had been discovered and deciphered in cold, impersonal laboratories, his epigenetics had been warmly at work, laying down inheritable sentiments for his progeny. He built up a latticework of devotion to her where natural selection had no relevance.
His love would persist through the ages. It always had, hadn't it? Some certainties persist beyond memory.
His was just a trick with amino acids, bonding junk DNA to the otherwise silent portions of his genetic helices. But there she straddled, fresh and alive; lovely and kind; and generously giving.
And inheritable.
Alas, he never taught her how to do likewise. He couldn't. It was a process so private and inherently esoteric that he didn't quite understand it himself. How could he translate such mindful machinations into words of instruction? He might just as easily deconstruct love, grief, or loneliness, all of which ensued upon her death.
But love and grief and loneliness are constructs of a genetically derived mindfulness, apart from his epigenetic love letter, and ne'er the twain would meet: his completeness by her was immune to the instructions of mere proteins or hormones.
Each time he visited her grave, the tighter his epigenetic bonds became. They stood out--little bombs easily packaged for sorties to his offspring to come.
Each time he visited her grave, he would sink to his knees, crying, "I love you eternally. My love is still here now, and will so remain, until it becomes the stuff of stars themselves!"
Hundreds of years later, great-great-great-grandchildren, now unrecognizable to each other on their family tree, visit her grave driven via a powerful, mysterious compulsion. Chance had summated perfectly: three strangers--two men and a boy--know they must be there but don't know why.
Prudence Planchard
My Forever Love
May 25, 1757 — September 5, 1785
The older man said, "I love you forever."
The younger man, added, "My love is still here now..."
And the boy added, in a sentiment well beyond his years, "...and will so remain until becoming the stuff of stars themselves."
They departed, but would certainly, in love, cross paths again.
Fifteen seconds to violet
Victor regarded the electronic card around his neck thoughtfully, the numbers rising the tiniest fraction by the second. The bar almost looked like it wasn’t moving at all, if he didn’t look long enough.
It wouldn’t be long until his number reached critical levels, according to the radiation card, but he’s been resetting his numbers illegally for months now, so the numbers at this point hold little meaning. So far, he has felt fine. Energized, even. Every single cell in his body felt electric, and he was beginning to like the feeling.
To keep up appearances, he still wore his protective vest dutifully as he worked, making small marks in his small black notebook. It was only a formality; he has taken to committing his observations to memory. Today, the prism was changing colors again, from blue to green to red, before transforming to his favorite: a rich, deep violet. It went through this rotation every day, like clockwork, and by this point he could predict the change down to the second. He wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but he had theories, oh did he have his theories.
He glanced at the second hand of his watch.
Fifteen seconds to violet. Fourteen... thirteen... twelve... eleven...
"Victor?" Natalia's voice called through the speakers, from beyond the glass partition. "What are you doing?"
Victor chewed his lower lip in annoyance. He did not have time to humor Natalia right now. He was fond of her, truly he was, but today was not the day. She had what he would describe as a "relentlessly positive" disposition. A half smile permanently fixed on her heart-shaped face, paired with a soft, lilting voice. She both fascinated and irritated him simultaneously, and today his feelings were closer to the latter.
Five...four...three...
"Have you lost your mind? You need to get out of there!" Natalia's tinny voice crinkled through the speakers. A bright white light started flashing through the room, like a strobe, signaling the emergency alarm had been triggered.
Two...
"Victor!"
One.
---
Dying took exactly forty-five seconds.
Blood was the color of freshly bloomed violets, the searing skin smelled of burnt lavender and agar.
Throughout the process Victor had seemingly random thoughts flit through his brain, with one recurring character: Natalia. She always smelled of lavender, didn't she? It was her shampoo, or that bottle she kept at her desk, was it hand cream? She had chronically dry hands, Victor suddenly remembered, from working with radium, of course. The cream helped.
He coughed up a mist of purple dust.
No, no. It was peonies. The cream's scent was peonies.
The transformation was painful. Then again, that was to be expected. That was what Victor's advisor always told him, back in the day, when he was a young doctoral student, full of hopeful idealism and shameless ambition. To truly change one must destroy the old self, the esteemed Dr. Keehma preached. One must die.
Natalia always thought that was a bit extreme. Victor didn't. It was one of their recurring arguments. It became a sort of ritual, their friendly debates, late night diatribes over boxes of old Chinese food, Natalia illustrating her points with a wave of a chopstick.
It was this particular memory that brought Victor back into the sea of violet, hazy images of spring peonies and wonton noodles at the edges of his vision, a half-smile forming on his bluish lips.
He did it. He finally did it. He was now the purest form of energy. A burning, glowing, radiating ball of light. A successful metamorphosis.
It was sad, really, that as he passed he didn't notice the small humanoid shadow clinging to the remnants of his white coat. The figure of a woman with a heart shaped face, who once smelled of peonies.
The Garden Gnome Gambit
It was a Tuesday when I found myself inadvertently embroiled in a sequence of events that would later form the cornerstone of my memoirs - assuming, of course, that anyone would be absurd enough to publish them. The day began innocuously enough; I was merely an average person with a penchant for minor acts of rebellion and an unrivaled talent for making poor life decisions.
The incident that transformed my ordinary existence into a spectacle worthy of public exhibition commenced with a seemingly harmless endeavor: I aimed to set a record for the most garden gnomes repositioned in a single night. It was an act motivated not by malice but by a thirst for adventure and perhaps a subtle disdain for the gaudy ceramic figures that had colonized the neighborhood lawns.
Armed with nothing more than a flashlight, a misguided sense of purpose, and sneakers that had seen better days, I embarked on my nocturnal mission. Success was within my grasp until the silence of the night was shattered by the unmistakable sound of a siren. It appeared that in my enthusiasm for gnome relocation, I had inadvertently trespassed on the property of a retired police officer who fancied himself a vigilante of suburban peace.
Faced with the immediate threat of apprehension for a crime as ignoble as gnome displacement, I did what any self-respecting fugitive of garden decor crimes would do: I ran. The chase was less a testament to my athleticism and more an ad hoc obstacle course involving shrubbery, garden hoses, and the occasional startled cat.
My breaths were heavy, my heart pounded against my chest like a drum solo from a rock concert, and sweat coated my brow like a glaze on a holiday ham. The officers, undoubtedly bemused yet unyielding, were hot on my heels, their determination fueled by the prospect of apprehending a gnome bandit.
In a stroke of luck that seemed almost scripted by the fates, an open door appeared on the sidewalk, as if the universe itself had conspired to afford me a sliver of hope. With the police mere whispers behind me, I darted through the doorway, tumbling into salvation’s embrace. The heavy door swung shut with a thud that echoed my racing heart.
I remained still, crouched beneath the window, daring not to breathe as the sound of footsteps and radio chatter passed by, growing fainter with each passing moment. The relief that washed over me was a tidal wave of euphoria; I had escaped the clutches of the law with nothing more than my wits and an uncanny ability to spot an open door.
As my breathing steadied and the adrenaline that had fueled my frenetic escape ebbed away, I let myself bask in the fleeting illusion of triumph. Triumph, however, as I was soon to discover, is often a prelude to tribulation. Slowly, with the cautious curiosity of a cat nearing a suspiciously unattended bowl of cream, I rose from my sanctuary under the window, my heart still performing an erratic symphony within my chest.
I turned, expecting to face a room as ordinary as any other, perhaps cluttered with the mundane artifacts of domestic life. Instead, I found myself in a space that defied all conventional expectations, a room that would have made Salvador Dali raise his eyebrows in both confusion and admiration.
The walls were adorned with paintings that seemed to pulse and writhe in their frames, depicting scenes that oscillated between the fantastical and the macabre. Books were strewn about, their pages filled with indecipherable script that shimmered under the flickering light of a chandelier festooned with what appeared to be crystals, but upon closer inspection, were actually intricately carved bones.
In the center of the room stood a table, upon which was arrayed a curious collection of objects: a compass that spun in endless circles, a clock with thirteen hours, and a crystal ball that clouded and cleared intermittently, revealing fleeting glimpses of unknown places. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something else, something cloyingly sweet yet unmistakably metallic - the smell of blood.
But it was not the bizarre furnishings or the unsettling artwork that sent a shiver down my spine; it was the occupants of the room. Gathered around the table were figures cloaked in shadows, their features obscured, save for the glint of their eyes in the dim light. Each pair of eyes fixed on me with an intensity that rooted me to the spot, a rabbit caught in the gaze of serpents.
The silence was oppressive, a tangible force that seemed to squeeze the very air from my lungs. A voice, smooth as silk and cold as ice, broke the stillness. “Welcome,” it said, each syllable weaving through the shadows like a chill wind. “We’ve been expecting you.”
My mouth felt as dry as a desert, my tongue a useless slab of meat in my mouth. Questions pounded against the forefront of my mind with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Who were these people? What was this place? And, perhaps most pressingly, how had they been expecting me?
Before I had the chance to voice any of these questions, the figure who had spoken stepped forward, emerging from the shadows into the wavering light. The sight that greeted me was so startling, so absurdly out of place with the gravity of the situation, that I nearly laughed.
The figure was garbed in a robe that seemed stitched together from the night sky itself, stars twinkling within the fabric with a light that seemed both impossible and mesmerizing. But it was the face that captured my attention: it was covered by a mask that was nothing less than a giant rubber duck.
“Now,” the figure said, the duck’s beak moving comically with each word, “let’s discuss why you’re here.”
The rational part of my brain, the part that had been meticulously cultivated through years of dull college lectures and an unshakably pragmatic upbringing, screamed that none of this could possibly be happening. The world did not operate on the principles of surrealism and absurdity painted before my very eyes. Yet here I was, conversing with an entity that could only have leaped from the fevered dream of a deranged novelist, its countenance obscured by a façade that sparked an odd juxtaposition of fear and amusement within me.
“Discuss?” I echoed, my voice laced with incredulity, betraying the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. “I don’t even know how I ended up here, let alone why.”
The figures around the table shifted, a symphony of whispers filling the space between us, their words indecipherable, yet laden with expectation. The duck-masked figure raised a hand, and silence returned as swiftly as it had been broken.
“You are here because fate has woven you into the tapestry of events far greater than the sum of your misdemeanors with garden ornaments,” the figure intoned, the absurdity of the statement doing nothing to diminish its gravity. “Though, admittedly, your choice of pastime is… unconventional.”
A snort escaped me despite the gravity of the situation. Unconventional indeed. Never had I imagined my nocturnal activities would lead me down a rabbit hole that made Wonderland seem like a guided tour of a suburban shopping mall.
“You stand at a crossroads,” the duck continued, its tone somber. “One path leads to redemption, the other to ruination. The choice is yours, but choose wisely. The consequences will ripple through the eons.”
I blinked. Redemption? Ruination? Eons? The words painted a picture so vastly different from my expectations of post-escape hiding that I couldn’t help but feel as if I had stumbled into someone else’s story, a protagonist by accident rather than design.
“And how exactly am I supposed to make this choice?” I asked, skepticism threading my words. “I mean, no offense, but this is all coming on a bit strong. Last I checked, I was just avoiding a trespassing charge, not meddling in the affairs of cosmic importance.”
Laughter, light and lilting, filled the room, emanating from the shrouded figures. It was not mocking but seemed imbued with genuine amusement.
“The bravery you displayed tonight, the willingness to defy the odds, it was merely a precursor,” the figure clarified, its tone warmer now, more inviting. “Your true test lies within this room. Choose an object from the table. It will determine your path.”
I studied the table, the bizarre items now taking on a new light of significance. The compass spun with wild abandon, the clock ticked irregularly, and the crystal ball… I stepped closer, drawn to its mysterious depths. Without fully understanding why, I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cool surface.
The room held its breath.
Then, without warning, reality bent. The walls, the figures, the entire room stretched and twisted, colors bleeding into one another as time and space contorted. I was falling, plummeting through a vortex that defied all laws of physics, the last thing I saw before darkness took me was the duck-masked figure, its eyes gleaming with a light that spoke of untold secrets and imminent adventure.
When consciousness returned, it tiptoed back, hesitant, as if unsure it was returning to the right person. My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a canopy of stars strewn across a sky so vast, so infinitely deep, that I felt I could drown in it. I lay on my back, the ground beneath me neither hard nor soft, but oddly insubstantial, as if I were resting on the concept of ground rather than the thing itself.
Sitting up, I found the world around me had rearranged its features once more, now resembling neither the peculiar room nor the familiar streets I had known. Instead, I was in a place that defied straightforward description. It was as if the universe had taken a handful of landscapes from a dozen different planets and woven them together into a tapestry of bewildering diversity. Mountains that shimmered with an iridescent sheen towered next to forests where the leaves sang in the wind, a melody both haunting and beautiful.
In the distance, a river flowed, its waters a swirling miasma of colors that no earthly palette could contain. The air was thick with a fragrance that was simultaneously new and ancient, filled with notes of jasmine, ozone, and something indefinably otherworldly.
As I stood, a sense of vertigo momentarily overtook me, not from a fear of falling, but from the sudden realization that I had profoundly underestimated the gravity of my situation. The words of the duck-masked figure echoed in my mind: a choice between redemption and ruination, with consequences rippling through eons.
I took a tentative step forward, half expecting the ground to give way beneath me. Instead, it held firm, the surreal landscape beckoning me to explore. As I walked, the reality of my circumstance began to settle in; I was no mere fugitive of a mundane justice system. I had become an unwitting participant in a trial that spanned the cosmos, my fate entwined with forces beyond my comprehension.
The river drew me nearer, its waters calling to me with a voice that was felt rather than heard. As I approached, an object caught my eye, half-submerged in the kaleidoscopic flow. It was a mirror, its frame adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift and change under my gaze.
Tentatively, I reached out, my fingers grazing the cool metal of the frame before grasping it firmly. Drawing the mirror from the river, I held it before me, taking in my reflection. But what stared back was not my face, or rather, not just my face. It was a visage that morphed and flowed, reflecting myriad possibilities of who I was, who I could be, and who I might yet become.
Each reflection was me, yet not me—different paths I could take, lives I could live. Each choice I had ever made, or might yet make, played out in an infinite dance of consequences, a reminder of the weight of choice and the power of action.
It was then that realization dawned upon me, as bright and blinding as the stars overhead. This was not a trial of cosmic jesters or a test by extraterrestrial beings. It was a journey of self-discovery, a trial by fire designed to reveal the essence of my being, to challenge me to confront my fears, my hopes, my very identity.
With a deep breath, I looked once more into the mirror, my gaze steady. The reflections slowed, coalescing into a single image, a vision of myself not as I was but as I could be. A version of me unbound by past regrets or future anxieties, free to forge my destiny with the raw materials of choice and will.
Armed with this newfound understanding, I turned from the river, the mirror in hand, and stepped forward into the unknown land that sprawled before me. For the first time, I felt a sense of purpose, a conviction that, regardless of the path I chose, the journey itself was the destination.
And though I could not have known it then, my adventures had only just begun. For in the realms of the infinite, every ending is but a new beginning, every choice a doorway to endless possibilities.
unexpected gifts
the most scary things
are usually the most ordinary
being left behind
is one of my most treasured monsters
- Eleonore
I stand there for a longer while, my body so stiff and tight that it resembles a bizarre granite sculpture, my eyes staring at the setting sun until the sky outside the window turns completely dark, heavy clouds bringing rain that falls down to the hectic, busy streets, while my mind wanders around two unexpected conversations I had. My eyebrows furrow tightly together at the fact that I could still be stunned by the things happening in my life. It seemed I had seen it all, stepping on the shaky grounds of grief and supernatural elements blending so deeply into my existence. And yet the ordinary events tended to still catch me off guard. I think as Charlie's voice still echoes in my head, his gentle stare on me as he shared the news with me just the day before. I have been so occupied with all the craziness that the mundane facts and situations started to acquire a magical ability to blur out from my mind. I gaze at the street below, my eyes following the reckless people who decided to engage the chill of the evening that has become way too eager to earn the Winter title before the calendar could - and groan slightly as my brain replays the conversations I had never planned to have.
With everything going on, I forgot to tell you before. You will be pleased to hear that Mrs. Wilson is doing better, and her doctor officially signed her out yesterday. With her age and physical state, she will still need help getting around, but I also know the daughter already made arrangements for a part-time home nurse who will be checking up on her, assisting her with anything she needs, and making sure she regularly eats and gets stronger.
I remember blinking several times before I could utter any reasonable response, watching his hands gesture with enthusiasm by the cafeteria table as he reported the hospital newsletter to me.
She left?
My question seemed a bit hollow as something tightened in my chest, invisible weights making me sink deeper into the red plastic chair I was sitting on.
She was signed out because she's doing better.
Charlie corrected me - slowly, patiently, and then frowned, hearing the tones in my voice.
I thought you would be happy for her.
I felt bad for my reaction. I felt bad for still having traces of abandoned issues even after all these years; feeling as if once again I was somehow left behind. It didn't make any sense to react like that, but it was stronger than me. I got so used to Clair being around, safely in the same room and the same bed that her sudden absence caused a small gap in my body, locating itself like several sharp splinters between my ribs, and causing me to shift uncomfortably in the chair. Once again, you got attached, silly girl. I sighed and trambled a bit, frustrated, feeling like a spoiled child - a child who was over-sensitive to the world around her in so, so many ways. I swallowed nervously but managed to put myself together, my embarrassment perspiring through my skin like unwanted sweat.
No, I am happy. Trust me, I am.
Your face seems to contradict your words.
I grimaced slightly, hoping he didn't notice.
Charlie, I'm a complicated paradox, no point in looking too deeply into that pit of despair.
Nora.
Just one word and I heard all the questions he had in his head, and it had nothing to do with my random abilities that appeared whenever they wanted to - besides, my questionable "powers" didn't seem to penetrate his serious-minded, thick skull. Not that it actually worked on command at any time, it was more a case of someone wanting to share thoughts or feelings with me. Well, I didn't think anyone really realized that they left an open door for me; it usually just felt like tuning into a piracy radio station when my antenna hit the right wavelength, most times by pure accident. I remember getting lost in all those speculations until being abruptly brought back when I finally noticed Charlie's stare losing its tolerance for the extended silence.
You just caught me off guard. I expected her to still be in her room, in her bed.
He looked at me as if scanning me from top to bottom, his expression turning surprised at first, and then softening a bit.
It's because she didn't say goodbye.
It wasn't really a question, more of a statement, and my face very quickly turned into unflattering shades of crimson. I didn't say anything in response. What was there really to say?
It's okay to miss someone. But the important thing is that she's doing better and that Connie and Clair's granddaughter could take her home.
I nodded, knowing that he was right.
She left you something before they left.
He said unexpectedly and pulled something from the front pocket of his beige scrubs. He put a small, yellowed envelope with my name elegantly handwritten on it on the table between us. I thought of Clair's shaky hands and felt that her daughter must have written it for her. With some hesitation, I reached for the envelope, sliding it slowly towards me, feeling a certain weight to it that I was not expecting. I eyed Charlie suspiciously for a moment and then sighed, opening the little rectangle, feeling it was time to finally act like an adult. My eyes grew wider as I fished out a delicate round shape; it was gold and marked with tiny vines and roses on the outside, while the inside held a miniature sign on its surface that took up the entire space of the ring. I narrowed my eyebrows and brought the ring closer to my face until the words came into focus. "May we always bloom for each other under the Autumn sun.". I stared in disbelief at the object in my hand, as if it could burn a hole in my skin.
Her wedding ring??
Even though my voice was barely a croaked whisper, it seemed to bounce off all the walls as if I had screamed the question. Charlie pursed his lips as if holding back a grin and then pointed to the envelope. I watched him without understanding what he meant, until he made a circle gesture, prompting me to turn it around. I did what I was told and gazed at an old-fashioned, more messy, and slightly uneven handwriting.
"Too wide now for my bony fingers anyhow. It will have better use on your hand."
I played around with the ring, shifting it in every direction and watching as the light cascaded beautifully against its surface, staring at it with growing disbelief.
I don't understand. Why would she give this to me, Charlie? Even if the ring was too loose for her fingers, and for some bizarre reason she no longer felt the need to wear it it was her daughter that should be wearing it. Or her grandaughter, or anyone from the family... anyone but me.
He looked at me as if searching for something.
But it's you that she wanted to gifted to.
I shook my head repeatedly gazing at the ring. And then my stare shifted to my name on the envelope making me even more confused as a realization hit me over the head.
And Conne accepted the idea. They both did.
Slowly, I looked up at Charlie, and he nodded calmly.
It's what they decided, and that's that. "No returns, I'm afraid." Connie's words, not mine.
He smiled at me gently, and I caved in, slouching against the chair and feeling that there was no more reason to fight against the current. I opened my hand carefully and slid it on the second finger of the left hand; it fitted perfectly. I inhaled deeper, knowing exactly and painfully what the golden band represented, and quickly moved it to my other hand.
Why would she do it, though?
My eyes met Charlie, and he shrugged.
Sometimes, there is no reason to dig too deeply, Nora. Just like you said before.
His eyes stayed on me for a while, and then he reached for my hand and took it, his thumb sliding against the ring.
You opened your heart to her, and so did she. And this is her stating it.
I felt emotions well up in me, feelings like slushing waves moving against my stormy core, my gaze fogging up as tears quickly filled my eyes. I took away my hand from his and stared at the golden band as if it held all the answers I was searching for.
You really think so?
I don't think it. I know it. And because they predicted your responses, Connie left their home phone number. Would you like it?
He unblocked his phone and after a few seconds, showed me the number on the screen. I grabbed his phone without asking and quickly stood up.
I need a moment.
He nodded, not surprised, and returned to his meal, leaving me to my own doings. I walked away to the big windows that occupied the entire south wall of the cafeteria and stared outside at nature's grey, ugly weather manifest while the ringing sounds filled my ears - tapping my foot as the waiting time seemed to outstretch mercilessly.
The current Wilson and O'Reley residence. How can I help?
An amused, young voice answered, and even though I never met her personally, I knew exactly who it was.
Ah yes... yes. Is Connie around? I mean, Mrs. O'Reley. Sorry.
May I ask who this is?
Eleonore. She knows me from the hospital.
Oh, so you're the tribute volunteer who brought my grandmother back to the land of living, huh?
It seems so. Yes.
I said in my standard awkward way, a tone that usually appeared when I didn't have an actual idea what my game plan was. Cheers to being hot-headed and irrational.
Well, in that case, she just might be around for you. We give miracle workers extra points in this family.
She stated in a still amused tone, but I could tell there were additional emotions and unconcealed gratitude in her voice. I could almost feel the warm energy flowing from her and into my body. It was both a comforting and a surreal feeling to experience. After a moment of silence on the line, I heard a muffled cacophony of shouted questions and answers that led to a low clicking sound.
Eleonore, dear. It's good to hear from you.
Connie sounded slightly out of breath as if she was rushing through many flights of stairs and it made me wonder how big their house actually was.
Same here.
I might not have time today for pleasantries as I'm busy in the kitchen, so let's cut to the chase.
A smile formed on my lips as I heard her tones, making me realize how she and her daughter were more alike than they cared to admit.
Yes, ma'am.
I answered shortly with a smile, saluting her in my mind.
I'm guessing it's about the ring and possible arguments about where it belongs. No need, it's right where it's supposed to be. On your surprisingly pale yet very pretty hand. End of discussion.
I figured as much. But Connie... are you sure? I mean, it's an important family heirloom. Wouldn't it be better for one of you?
First of all, I already have my father's ring.
She started, and suddenly, out of nowhere a memory of her in the hospital struck me, an image of her playing around with a delicate golden necklace with a round, thick band and a tiny cross filling my mind.
But...
And eventually, it will be my daughter's as well. There, problem solved. Am I making myself clear enough?
Her tone was strict and not to be disputed with. I took a deeper breath and said with a resigned tone, knowing I would be beaten and disarmed whatever argument I would use.
Crystal.
Good, perfection. Now, I'm guessing that the other reason for your call is that you missed my mother, the terrorist. A retired one, but still active in her position.
Yes, that as well.
Well, I'm happy to report that for a woman her age she is doing a bit better every single day. We still have our ups and downs but she is definitely more vocal about her needs and demands. I think it's what keeps her going: her well-equipped military qualities. Thankfully, you were never fooled by her delicate exterior and know that our family has their personal general to our display. Not that we have any choice in the matter.
Connie's gentle chuckles carried to my ears, and I was stunned at how much she had changed since I met her, never before being a witness to such a flow of words from her.
But she's a good general to be around.
I could feel softness fill me up as the words left my mouth, love, and care moving around under my skin and reaching the deepest part of my being. And I knew that Connie heard it too.
She loves you, Eleonore. I do not doubt it.
I could hear her taking a bigger breath, her strong emotions mixing with mine into one combined organism, making me lean my forehead against the cafeteria window for some support, my fingertips leaving prints on the glass, my hand trembling as the cool surface seemed to penetrate my skin right to the bone.
And you have saved her in more ways than one. You saved our family when we needed it the most.
I didn't do much. I just read to her and... listened to the silent grief when she couldn't find words.
I couldn't tell her that I listened to her mother's memories as if they were scenes in a movie. I couldn't tell her that I took her pain in the best way that I could and cradled it until its weight was smaller, and the edges of her sorrow less sharp before I placed it delicately back into her frail arms, repeating it every time I set by her bedside or held her hand. I didn't even realize I was doing it until the ache I felt from her became less heavy, less suffocating. I think that cradling her sorrow and pain helped me deal a bit with my own, healing things in me that I never dared to touch myself. We helped each other in more ways than I could count. And I knew deep down that she brought me strength too. It never ceased to amaze me how two bruised and broken souls could bring light into each other's lives that they lacked on their own.
That was enough. That was enough for her to come back and let us in again after being closed off for so long. We finally got her back.
Connie said in a hushed, slightly muffled voice, and I felt all the unspoken words and feelings that hid underneath, random tiny flashes of visions filling my mind as if delicate butterflies with golden fluttering wings. Memories. Most of them appeared and quickly vanished before I could even fully register them but one lingered long enough for me to hold it gently in my hands. A little girl with fair hair holding her mother's hand as a tall man came back home from work - the soft light of the golden hour surrounding him in amber hues of the setting sun as he walked towards them... I only saw the outlines of his silhouette but I knew him. I knew them all. At that moment waves of love cascaded down my entire body, circulating in my bloodstream and nestled in my chest, filling it with a kind of warmth that every one of us yearns for. I wrapped my free arm around my waist getting lost in the comfort of the memory, and feeling teardrops fall down my cheeks and mark the cool glass.
I know how much you missed her when she closed up on everyone. And I know that for a while it felt like you lost them both. But you didn't.
I said softly, barely stopping myself from speaking the words that filled my heart, blooming like rich luscious vines between my ribs. She loves you, and so does he, I see it in the way he looked at you when he saw your face every time he came back home. That kind of love, it swells up in you, the kind of love that makes you feel safe, so safe that nothing could ever harm you. I felt the words waiting to flow out of me like a rushing river but I held it all in. Almost.
I feel how much Clair loved your father, and there were times when I felt it so strongly that I could nearly touch the love that came from him even though I never had the privilege to meet him in person. But that love... I feel it around you too as if it never left. As if he's still keeping you safe.
A heavy silence fell down between us and instantly I felt angry with myself for not shutting up in time.
I'm sorry, Connie. I shouldn't have said that. Sometimes I just seem to sense more than I should. I can't explain it. Just ignore me and blame it on temporary insanity.
No...
Connie choked out and I shrunk a bit inside of myself feeling all of her emotions ran over me like stampeding wild horses, dust settling everywhere, covering my hair, my clothes, my lungs. Digging me deep into the ground beneath me.
No... no. Thank you. I don't know how you could have possibly known all of that, FELT all of that but... But thank you, Eleonore. Just... thank you.
She broke off and I could hear her cry, sobbing softly into the receiver, holding back the sound of it as much as she could as if not wanting to worry her daughter or anyone else in the house. I felt the blend of pain and relief cascade out of her, washing over the wounds that were left there after her father was gone. It felt almost as if my words brought him closer to her again, as if at that moment he had joined her for one more warm embrace. And I saw it in my mind. I saw her surrendering into that embrace, I watched her come back home after a very long time. And it wasn't until I felt Charlie's gentle and supporting hand on my shoulder and gazed at my own reflection in the window that I realized it wasn't just Connie's sobs on the other side of the line that I was hearing. No, they were mine as well, streaking down my face in a rushing, overwhelmed way. I didn't turn back to him, just watched his eyes in the glass, as he listened patiently to both my cries and Connie's in my ear, letting us both decompress whatever it was that we had to go through. And we did. Eventually, we said our gentle goodbyes, smiling at the incredible relief that we both felt afterward.
I leaned into Charlie and he let myself sink into him until I found my footing again, until I was once again made of one body and one beating heart, and not two.
_ _ _ _ _
Suddenly, something catches my attention, causing me to return to the present. I stir a bit as the noises of the rain mix with new sounds; a faint vibration of a child's soft snores. I look back at Emily's little body bundled up in a few blankets on a big, comfy sofa, a ridiculous amount of stuffed animals guarding her safety as she sleeps; the blue lights of the TV coloring her delicate, relaxed features. Mmm, babysitting duties while her mother is at a local art gallery, showcasing her newest paintings - rich and wild in color, luscious as one was touching and sinking into a rain forest. Hypnotizing in its power. I was never too aware of how to pursue and take in art in the "right way" but her's spoke to me, it always has and that hasn't changed. My admiration for my best friend and her talents has only grown over the years that I've known her.
I smile and sit down on the sofa next to Emily's petit form, my fingers moving gently through her blond, messy locks that remind me so much of Cara's hair, and gaze at her with wonder. If only I was allowed such rest, such peace - I think and yawn loudly, rubbing my eyes and trying to remember when was the last time I slept more than two hours in a row. The answer doesn't come, too difficult to drag out of the exhausted, dark corners of my mind. Slowly, I shift and roll into a ball next to the little warm body that seemed to always have a soothing effect on me. My own dosage of morphine that did not require stealing or lies. Pure, not yet stained energy that promised to hold back the demons, to restrict the monsters from under the bed even if just for now.
___________________________
This story has proven to be a much longer journey than I have ever anticipated but I still love it every step of the way. Even if often the ride is bumpy and frustrating, it is also extremely rewarding and has let me grow alongside with it. Every time one of my characters evolves and heals, so do I, and I am very grateful for that - even when those characters don't listen to me the way I would like, instead just leave me to follow them and write down their many hilarious, deeply moving and often very bizarre conversations.
So for everyone who still sticks around and checks up on Nora and Charlie, from time to time, THANK YOU, it drives me forward and guides me closer to the finish line, making sure that everything they have to say will be put on paper, and one day will physically earn a place on bookshelves in your homes *the power of manifestation intensifies* :)
The Bitter Taste of Freedom
I did it.
I finally did it.
I killed the bastard, using the same hunting knife he had used on me many times before. My only regret is his wife found me with his blood-emptied body and called the cops.
Now I am running for my life; a life I finally got back. I'll be damned if anyone will ever put me in a cage again.
My lungs are on fire as I harshly inhale the humid morning air, the fresh air almost makes me queasy, I am so accustomed to the rotting musk from the basement, that my body doesn't know how to handle the clean air. The muscles in my legs are protesting, but I push my body, running as fast as I can down the stirring street.
The town I haven't seen in... well I have no idea how long... blurs past me. I want to stop and see if the small cafe my mother used to bring me to every Friday before hockey practice is still there. The buttery chocolate croissant is damn near melting in my mouth from the thought. My stomach lets out a roar and I curse under my breath; when was the last time that bastard fed me? The days I spent in the cage blurred together with no window in sight, and my captor didn't bother to ensure I maintained a healthy diet. I can’t stop, not for nostalgia, not for anything.
The sirens are getting louder. Shop owners begin stumbling onto the sidewalk to see what could be causing such a disturbance in their quaint little town. A wave of desperation comes crashing into me, like a sickly chill, the feeling of premature agony.
I need an escape.
As if I manifested it, a red door appears on the side of a crumbling brick building. I have lived in this town my entire young adult life, and I know before the kidnapping, that door hadn't existed. A large sign on the building's front, "condemned", draws my eyes. The door is out of place. But I don't have the time to stop and ponder its existence as tires screech on the pavement at the curve of the road only a few meters away.
I am panting like a dog in heat. I know my gelatinous leg muscles will give out if I dare try to run again, so I do what any sane person would do in my situation... I yank open the red door, surprised to find it unlocked and slam it behind me.
I move to the side, ducking under a window I know, sure as hell, wasn't there a minute ago.
I hold my breath as the sirens race past me, the police oblivious to my escape. Once it quiets outside, and the only sound is my heart thundering inside my chest, I dare peek out the window. The street is filled with nosey onlookers, but nothing more. I have graced the townspeople with something new to gossip about for weeks.
I let out a deep breath, the window fogging around my lips. I decide to turn away from the window, if someone spots me looking all ominous and creepy they may call the cops back.
The area around me is dark, darker than normal dark if that’s even possible. It's as if the shadows are alive as they morph their onyx forms around the three men staring at me.
Oh shit.
Three beady red eyes meet mine. A look of shock is all I can make out on their faces before the shadows swallow their faces, leaving the metal table they are gathered around visible. Another man is strapped to the table with cuffs around his ankles and wrists, his golden skin is marred with gouges and blood dripping into crimson pools on the cement floor beneath him. Six sets of latex-gloved hands hold instruments of doom above the man, whose impossibly purple eyes meet mine.
What in the actual fuck.
I clear my throat, reaching behind me, feeling the wall for the door so I can escape, but the cold rigid stone bricks are all I can feel. I turn my head in a flash, weary about facing away from the horror-movie-worth-scene in front of me.
The door is gone. The window is gone. There is nothing but a solid wall without any indication of how I got here.
“You are not going anywhere,” a gravelly voice comes from one of the men.
I whip my head back in their direction. The shadows are lining them like a demonic aura, their faces clearer, and their Cheshire-worthy smirks have my gut sinking low in my stomach.
Jail.
Jail is looking much better than this.
Meagan Verstraten.
My Sister
I noticed the swell or her stomach, so gently sloping before I even took in the features on her face. Her round belly was wrapped in a pretty floral top that mom had worn years ago when she was pregnant. My sister had told me she was pregnant a few months ago. I saw her post photos of the baby bump on all her social medias with her typical artistic flair. She and her husband live across the country in sunny California. I don’t know why they’d waste a week of California spring to spend that time in New England. We can boast of frost and rain until mid-May some years. Longer if you’re one of the brave souls who lives up in Maine.
Mom reached her first, enveloping her in an overly cautious embrace. Mom has had five children, yet she treats my sister as if childbearing is the most dangerous condition ever. I don’t mean to insult pregnant women, really, I don’t. I’ve never been pregnant, and I’m not sure I ever will. But our mom acts like even a too-firm hug could injure her daughter or the granddaughter within her womb. She fell down the stairs with her second child and was in a car accident with me, the baby of the family. Every single one of us was fine. I think women are more resilient than we’re given credit for, that’s all.
We exchanged hugs and hellos and retired to the living rooms when their suitcases were brought in. My dad immediately made sure my sister could put her feet up and had a glass of water in her hand. I guess she should be pampered. She’s growing a human being after all. She’s seven months pregnant. Every time she glances at her belly or brushes a hand against it, she smiles. Maybe they’re being cautious because they’ve had trouble keeping babies. Two confirmed miscarriages and a few more that my sister claims were certainly pregnancies but were gone too early to test.
Her husband sat proudly beside her. He doesn’t talk much at first, you really have to let him get comfortable before he joins in the conversation. I wasn’t sure he was going to say anything at all. His eyes hadn’t left his wife and the baby hidden inside of her.
I love my sister, I do. But nobody was even half this excited when two of our brothers announced they were having kids with their spouses the last few years. My sister was always the golden child, though, so maybe we brought this on ourselves, anyway. Growing up she was the first one to answer when mom or dad called. She had all As and did her chores without being asked. She competed at the state level in high school in cross country and won scholarships for athletics, her artwork, and her academics. If she were my kid, I’d have a hard time not favoring her, too. But I could tell, even if nobody else could, that my brothers were hurt about how excited mom and dad were for her baby rather than theirs.
I love my sister a lot. She’s never once done anything to make me dislike her even a little; She had a big heart and was a great big sister growing up. She taught me how to put on makeup, style my hair, and even shave my legs. Maybe I do resent her a little. It’s just because I know mom taught her all of those things. I just wish that rather than my wonderful sister teaching me, it would have been mom. I wish mom had taken a moment and spent it with just me, teaching me what it means to be a woman. I don’t even know how to complain about it without sounding whiny or ungrateful.
She went into preterm labor near the end of her visit. And now I feel like a real jerk for being jealous of her the whole time.
No Jury in the Jester’s Court
The only thing more annoying than the wet bullets of sweat running down my face were the real bullets of lead whirring past my face. As I blinked the salty stinging from my eyes again, it flashed on me that it was an overwhelmingly foolish thing to try and pull off an armed robbery at the mannequin store, in the middle of July, and in broad daylight. At the time of planning, I thought it stood to reason that no one would suspect such a rash move, thus granting me the strategic advantage of pure, distilled surprise. The mannequin store being directly next to the police station was another element of reverse-psychology that had backfired. So when one of the patrons lucidly dialed the authorities, I had to bolt with empty hands. I had actually wanted one of the mannequin hands that was posed holding a very large and sumptuous diamond, but I felt I had to stuff something in my pockets.
I was also starting to wonder why I didn’t rush immediately to my car when it was clear the situation ran awry. I even left the engine running for a seamless getaway. I suppose panic makes fools of us all. I dodged another speeding capsule of death. I didn’t think it was quite fair for the police to use real guns when mine was only a squirt gun. I couldn’t even use it as threatened as it was jammed from the time I tried loading it with strawberry jam. I suppose hunger makes fools of us all. I knew there was a dark and dingy ally up ahead I could dip through, sandwiched between two competing delicious sandwich shops. I thought the cops wouldn’t dare thread their multi-ton hunks of metal on wheels through this narrow urban needle.
The bastards did it. The potency of the headlights grew stronger as they ravenously gobbled the distance between us. My first saving grace was that the alley was too thin for them to comfortably aim their pistols out of their windows. The second was the large and over-stuffed dumpster further restricting the clearance of the strip; there was enough for my lactic-acid-logged body but not so much a police car body. I heard a cacophonous crunch as the metals collided behind me. It was enough of a stall to escape the alley alone.
Returning to the sunlight, I knew reinforcements would soon circle the block by more legitimate means of traffic. I didn’t have much time. I did, though, have enough time to pause and flip a coin to determine the next course of my route: heads I head right; tails I tail left. Everyone knows any excellent plan bears the element of surprise, doubly so if the planner is also surprised. I flicked my quarter into the air with my thumb and watched it perform an amount of frantic rotations that would give any Olympic diver tens across the board, maybe with the exception of one nine depending on how it stuck the landing. I caught it and sighted the reverse of the coin. Left it was. So I took off running west down the avenue, only to glimpse a “one-way” sign directing south. I would be running straight into the police’s open, lethal, or optimistically, judicial arms. I suppose random chance makes fools of us all. Still, I sprinted onward. It occurred to me that perhaps instead of running myself into heatstroke, I could try hiding in a nearby building. I could now make out the pitch of sirens around the bend wailing louder.
With urgency, I tried barging into the closest building to me. The door was locked. I ran farther down, trying the next door. It was locked even harder somehow. Why were all of these businesses closed at such a prime, auspicious time of day? I suppose economics makes fools of us all. Now panting like a Siberian husky in a sauna, I reached my third and final option as the city block selfishly terminated after this building. I heaved my shoulder into the glass door as I had figured it was the quickest entrance if the door indeed allowed entry, forgetting to factor in how much pain would occur if it didn’t. Fortunately, it swung in with butterlike smoothness. I toppled down and slammed onto the flooring, undoubtedly bruising a substantial portion of the left side of my body. It couldn’t have been a tighter timing; I saw the nosy nose of a patrol vehicle crowning around the corner as I dove. I made a hasty crawl underneath the windows which were painted with backwards words in vivid, audacious colors that I had neither the patience nor desire to decipher. Tense with a grueling cocktail of anticipation, horror, and prayer to some anonymous god, I listened to the engines and sirens doppler past. I didn’t stop listening until the preying orchestra diminished beyond the horizon of audible perception. Then I sunk and melted onto the floor, plastered with a grin boasting the girth of relief.
“Was that part of the routine?” a voice startled me and my smile dissipated. I looked around the room, the cones in my eyes slowly interpreting the light diffusing into them.
“Huh?”
“Was that part of your routine? I guess if the rest of it maintains the same level of theatrics we can forgive you for being two hours late.”
The room was diagnosably depressed. Matte grey cement comprised every surface, which may have explained why the damn floor was so hard. There was a circle of metal folding chairs entrapping a white plastic folding table. The table was populated with red cups and a rectangular cake with white frosting while the chairs were populated with a range of adults and children. The back wall sported a banner spelling “Happy Birthday Remy!” with a unique hue for each rounded sans-serif letter. Ebbing from my confusion, I was able to process what the crotchety old woman had said. It then flashed on me that I had made a horrible decision in wearing a clown costume as my robbery disguise. I suppose fashion makes fools of us all.
“You are the clown we hired, right? Or were those real police cars that you were running from?” Her words rang with a slight but perceptible echo from the near-unfurnished room. Her eyes narrowed at me in sharp suspicion.
“Uh, no! I am the real clown you paid money for as you can tell by my costume. I am Chauncy the Clown!”
“I thought your advertisement said you were Glimbo the Clown.”
“Oh, that’s just a matter of pronunciation. I hear that all the time.”
“Okay. You best get on with the rest of the show since you took your sweet-ass time getting here.”
This was a sallow, soren destiny to befall me. I abhor the art of improv. I’m a staunch believer that a firm, reliable structure is the key to comedy. I had taken one improv workshop before but that was only because it thought it was going to be be an “improve” workshop centered around self-improvement, the misspelling being an example of something they could improve on. The things presented there were an affront to jokes and good humor everywhere. It was an upsetting experience. I don’t wish to think about it anymore. And now I must improvise a comedy show of the utmost prestige or otherwise risk my painted, colorful hide on the streets. I would probably be captured and hauled away within minutes with my abundantly visible visage. I then considered that a jail cell may be a more favorable outcome. However, I didn’t want to stain my shiny clean criminal record, so I decided to let loose and live in the moment.
“Alright, then. Hello, children! I’m Clancy, or whatever. Are you ready for some good and wacky fun?”
The audience returned quiet, empty stares sterile as a shrink-wrapped operating room doused in rubbing alcohol. One of the children let out a tiny cough, I interpreted as a slight pity to me so the room wouldn’t be completely silent. I appreciated that. I knew I was going to have to tap deep within the rancid, sweaty pits of my one-day improv training to satisfy this crowd.
“Somebody shout out an occupation. It can be any occupation! This is sure to be a very entertaining activity for you all to watch and enjoy.”
“Comedian!” a child wearing a sort of ugly blue shirt on the outside right of the ring shouted. I felt a stab of insult at this, as if they didn’t expect me to be of a comedic persuasion already. I mean, I wasn’t, but the costume I thought was fairly convincing when I bought it.
“Now, someone give me an adjective. Remember, it can be any adjective!”
“Funny!” a child near the middle yelled. Another irrational pang of offense rolled through me. I was really banking on the costume’s inherent context of hilarity to really carry me through this ordeal, but obviously that wasn’t going to work. However, this did give me a shining opportunity to pull some of the finest one-liners out of my bag of jokes, which I imagine is Versace and crafted with black, luxurious leather. With expert pantomime skills (which I learned during the improv workshop), I feigned lifting a microphone and leaned on an invisible microphone stand.
“What do you call a deer with no eyes?” I paused for effect, “No eye deer!”
Confident I stuck the landing, I anticipated the assured wave of laughter. I received nothing of the sort.
“Did you get that joke from a Laffy Taffy wrapper?” heckled a small voice from the left. I did, but that’s beside the point.
“My ex-husband used to tell that joke all the time,” whispered another, more adult sounding voice to another adult. It then flashed on me why the name Remy was so familiar: that was the name of my son’s best friend! Then it flashed on me why the kid with the ugly shirt looked so familiar: that was my son Emit! Then it flashed on me as to why the sound of that aside whisper was so familiar: that was the voice of my ex-wife Melinda!
Damn me straight to Hell right now, I thought, struggling to keep my composure in check upon this soul-hammering epiphany. Our divorce was messy, and not only because she served me the papers while I was at my landfill job. In the end, she won custody of the kid, the dog, the house, the car, and, worst of all, my favorite set of salt and pepper shakers. She left me more ruined than the great lost city of Atlantis. Our marriage had been faring fairly well, or so I thought. At least up until I became fixated on stealing that diamond from the mannequin store, that crystalline fruit plump and bodacious, acutely ripened for my harvest. Five years later, here I am, craving the sweet sensation of the universe subducting me through its fabric and into indescribable oblivion. One solace I had was that it was clear she didn’t recognize me through my expertly applied mug of clown make-up. I learned such a skill as it was a part of the one-day improv workshop.
“Is this the best you got? Your $2,000 deposit is why we had to book this shithole venue. Give me a refund or I’m calling the police,” said Mrs. Crotchety, which had just flashed on me that she was Remy’s curmudgeonly grandmother and guardian, Doreen, with whom I arranged several playdates with. Not between us, but for our children, of course. I wouldn’t want to play with her anyway, the curmudgeon she is. She also denied me the one time I asked.
In a stroke of improvisational genius, I realized I had a wealth of information residing within these people. These people that possessed no suspicion or clue as to who I truly was. Information I could exploit for a stellar psychic act, the likes of which had never been witnessed. I kicked into a high, divination oriented gear.
“Hang on, just wait a dandy moment here! Let me segue into the next part of the show. Now, it is a well kept secret that I, Glimby, in addition to a hilarious clown, am also a gifted psychic.”
“Your website did mention that.”
“Oh. At any rate, I will need a volunteer. I will let the ether guide my gaze.”
I closed my eyes and slowly and gingerly waved my arms in the air, thumbs pinched to my index finger. I also hummed for an added dash of mysticism, pretending that I was a microwave to really sell the character. After a few seconds, I spouted my predetermined target.
“I’m sensing a name that starts with the letter M. I also sense that it ends in an A. There seems to be an I in the middle, flanked by an L and an N. Then I sense that there is perhaps an E and a D, two more complimenting condiments for this delicious letter sandwich. Is it Melinda? Is there a Melinda here that wishes to join me up front?”
Melinda stood up from her seat, a look of genuine surprise on her face. Dare I say attraction? Perhaps subliminally the decontextualized timbre of my voice reawakened buried feelings, warm and fluttering. Does she pine for me as I have pined for her alone, cold and weeping every night on my lumpy mattress, listening to old Taylor Swift CDs? In my wildest dreams I had never imagined to be this close to her again and now the weight of reality was almost too heavy to bear. I had to stifle the welling tears and emerging lump in my throat; the show must go on, unimpeded by petty, personal drama.
“Me- Melinda. I hear a whisper from the ether. It is telling me that it has been five years, three months, and sixteen days since you and your husband have been divorced.”
“Wow, impressive! Scarily accurate,” she said in her tone that I could never recognize if it was earnest or sardonic. I choose to believe it was earnest.
“The ether is now whispering to me that there is a rift in your heart that has never been sealed since. It howls yearning melancholy when the bitter winds of your sundered spirit blow through, only to be hushed and reconciled if you are reunited with your former lover and father of your child, Emit.”
“Uh, I don’t know about that. I actually feel pretty good since the divorce. Great, even. I’ve made great strides in my career and I’ve never felt freer. He would always go on about stealing this stupid plastic diamond from the mannequin store. I thought he was joking until one night I found him hunched over his desk red-eyed, secretly making plans to do so. ‘It will make us rich, I tell you! We shall want for nothing!’ that idiot would tell me. That’s when I knew our marriage was a mistake. And also our child is named Ethan.”
It flashed on me then when I eyed the diamond as I was robbing the store, it did have a distinct plastic-looking quality. Another devastating blow to my already fragile mind. It was a fake; I just didn’t want to believe it. It felt like my tender heart was imploding all over again.
“Okay. Return to your chair.”
Melissa returned to her chair. I was crestfallen. This was the worst birthday ever.
“Could you maybe include the birthday boy in this? It is his special day after all?” barked Doreen.
Any enthusiasm for the show had deflated from me. It was all colluding to be a resounding lost cause. My ex-wife felt nothing for me, the police were probably going to lock me away, and, on top of everything, Glunky the Clown was going to have to refund the $2,000 deposit. Just another reason to despise the wretched art of improv.
“Yeah, sure. The mysterious ether tells me that Remy, the very special birthday boy whom everyone loves, should come and join me up here.”
Remy waddled up to the front, saturated with a mixed expression of excitement and embarrassment. This poor kid. All he wanted was an exceptional appearance from what is presumably his favorite clown. All he got was this unqualified, renegade, bumbling imbecile of an impostor. I’m sure this is all my ex-wife’s fault somehow.
“So, pal. Is there anything you want to ask the mysterious ether?”
“Uh, does it have any cool presents for me?”
Of course I didn’t come prepared with a present, an absence that would be just another brown, insoluble splotch on this catastrophic failure of a day. To humor Remy, I plunged my hands into my deep and billowy pockets; perhaps there would be some spare lint to bequeath. My fingers felt around and identified the unmistakable smooth, hard plastic of other fingers. Interlocked in my own hands, they reminded me of the gentle, meek grasp of Melinda. My trophies from the mannequin store excursion. The only product of my miserable heist. I would be torn to depart from this meager haul, but I sensed the boy would be even more torn without a consolatory birthday prize. In the spirit of jovial childhood wonder, I presented him the mannequin hands.
“No way! God is real!” Remy exclaimed shrilly upon sight.
A buried memory then crawled through the topsoil of my memory like a zombie in a zombie movie; Remy was obsessed with rings. Every time I picked up Ewan- I mean Ethan, I would see Remy outside decked with a shiny ring on each of his short, chubby digits. I recall his adorned jewelry would be different each time I saw him. Even now his fingers were spangled in gold and silver bands. Of course he would want a set of false hands to proudly display his rings when the alternates are not in use.
“Yes, yes! The ether has known of your love of rings and has bestowed to you these hands. Take them in merry peace.”
Remy walked back to his grandmother, babbling on about his new precious plastic hands. Then I heard the front door swing open and I saw a clown crash to the floor, undoubtedly bruising his entire left side.
“I’m so sorry! I got here as fast as I could and I assumed battering myself through the door was the quickest way to get in,” the clown huffed out while getting up and dusting himself off, “I tried my best to be here on time, but I realized I had mixed up my days. When I noticed, I scrambled over but then I was shot at and then arrested by the police. Apparently they were looking for a clown that robbed a mannequin store? No self-respecting clown I know of would do that. Once I was able to prove my identity and that they had the wrong clown, they let me go. I know my website says ‘no refunds,’ but I will fully return your $2,000 for this misunderstanding.”
He then took notice of me and his painted frown turned even more sour.
“Oh, what the hell? So I’m a little bit late and you decide to replace me with whatever old clown that happens to be on the street? You didn’t even call to make sure I was okay! I’m Glimbo the Clown, for Christ’s sake! What happened to community? What happened to kindness?”
The crowd stared at us in silent shock. I stared at Glimbo the Clown, unsure of how to assess my next order of operations. Only Doreen was able to retain some wits about her.
“I’m calling the police,” she announced.
“After all I have done for you? After I single-handedly saved this party? What happened to community? What happened to kindness?”
“Yes, hello? I need an officer, please,” Doreen spoke into her cellular telephone.
So I bolted out the door, turning left, but only after flipping a coin before deciding to do so. I kept running without a set destination in mind. I am still running to this day. Last week I saw my name and face in the paper with a headline dubbing me “The Outlaw Clown” and then in smaller print it said “who loves improv.” What a horrible combination of words, words that were supposed to be describing me. Was this some sort of karmic punishment? Had I transgressed in enough severity to warrant this? I suppose life makes fools of us all.
Into the fire
I didn't do anything wrong, I thought as I hopped over old Mr. Hunt's fence and ran down Pine Street. I could hear Officer Stone's heavy breathing. I didn't turn around to see how close he was.
"Stop!" I heard as his partner, Officer Pitt, landed with a thud on the sidewalk.
I kept my head down and my feet flying toward Main Street.
If I was so innocent, why was I running, you ask?
Easy: I live in one of those places where you're guilty until proven innocent. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but no one was ever going to believe me. I know the deal. So, I ran.
As soon as I turned onto Main, I ran into the first alley on the left. A door was ajar so I slipped in. Pitt and Stone thundered by and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Welcome, my child."
The voice came from behind me. I turned slowly and froze. At the same time the door behind me clicked shut and locked. The room before me was dark, lit only by candles on the wall. And a fire pit in the middle of room above which was...I rubbed my eyes, sure I could not be seeing what I thought. Above the fire there was something...someone, turning like a pig on a spit. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the face and screamed.
It was me.
"We've been expecting you," the voice continued from next to me.
I turned and white eyes glowed beside me.
"Uh, I th- think I made a wrong turn," I stuttered, trying to surreptitiously twist the knob behind me.
"No, it was fate," the voice said as a clawed hand dug into my shoulder. "You've been expected."
"No, really, I have to go," I said, desperately trying to open the locked door."
"We insist you stay," glowing eyes said.
"We?" I whispered.
"Mmmhmmmm," the voice murmured as dozens of glowing eyes blinked around me.
Georgie taught me dogspeak – as dog is my witness...
ruffly recalled bark during powdered milk biscuit days of yore
when one shy boy's best friend played peaceably at war
now long since me four legged furry fried deceased
we will united when I embark on mine post life tour
an indigent (a bipedal hominid) woebegone creature
never knowing true tangible riches but never feeling poor
indulging, warbling, yipping and/or knowing
cathartic, holistic and therapeutic benefits
exercising the vocal cords, cuz “Music has charms
to soothe a savage breast” and emotionaldeck koor
so as not to resemble in temperament Eeyore
mutely, passively, and submissively
stand outside Winnie the Pooh door.
Georgie and I grew up like figuratively entwined Siamese brothers. We adored each other with unbridled, unconditional, and undeniable love. Similar to myself, he comprised being mixed breed laughingstock (read runt) among large litter. Unlike yours truly, his lineage bespoke Boxer and Dalmation. This then newborn author, and four legged puppy adopted when only scant days old forged an immediate and inseparable omnipotent bond. At first parents reluctant to allow, enable, and provide even monitored quasi playtime together.
Rather than interact (with who would quickly become best buddy's regarding four footed friend), I initially screamed till blue in face. Said anecdote shared years later by animal loving parents. Such ear (and air) piercing shrieking did not phase acute hearing inherited as part Dalmation with snout and dukes resembling his famous father, professional boxer. Constant regular exposure nudged close proximity between us from getgo (thank mom and dad) unsurprisingly bred affinity. Even without canine/infant translator, our obvious distinct species identification, differentiation, and attenuation wrought ability to understand each other. Keen discernment involving non verbal communication (predominantly interpreting facial features) in short order developed.
Blissful early babyhood (the happiest days of my life) engendered dynamic camaraderie.
Already evident as solitary (mere weeks, most definitely months after exiting wonderful whirled wide webbed womb), the sole select company of said pooch most necessary, no less than twenty four hours morning till night. House broken way before this gangly skinny bundle of arms and legs got potty trained, our mutual friend (without great expectations) would access pseudo activated trap flap door (custom designed by innovative father) leading Georgie into fenced in backyard. Upon his prompt return namedly into shared bedroom at Cincinnati, Ohio abode, his docked tail stump would wag a mile a minute. Weeks clipped fast into months as greased lightning. All the while, thee rapport between totally tubular innocent naive me counted Georgie (since prima facie encounter) to comprise purpose driven life. No doubt if ways and means existed to ask Georgie, he too would have ruffly vouchsafed similar sentiment toward a docile, happy as a lark pipsqueak.
Despite stark species disparity, a basic animal bond coalesced most likely because each of us agog at novelty to regale every moment pregnant with sensational discoveries about our respective selves and ideal fine companion. Gestures became modus operandi to relay emotions. Entry into toddlerhood inaugurated stepped up range expressing expansive realm increasing by leaps and bounds. Impossible mission to acquire rambunctiousness on par with a frenzied puppy, whose countenance bespoke cavorting, delighting, gamboling... at pace prescribed by crawling as modality regarding locomotion regarding ordinary development linkedin with protracted teetering and tottering before padding along in an upright posture. Four paws offered great advantage to prance around, whereby two little feet affixed at terminus of skinny spindle legs that remained unchanged to this day scores fast forward since obviously reveling as one quiet natured following initial few orbitz around sun with inconsolable screaming. Soon after acquiring means to verbalize, a proportional venting full force decreased. Tone of voice (versus actual enunciated vocabulary) determined reaction elicited by Georgie. All intents and purposes, nonsense syllables may as well passed thru mine lips given the truth courtesy genetics severe
nasality rendered uttering completed garbled. This speech impediment (submucous malady mutation unknown to me till enrolled in sixth grade at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School) witnessed absolutely zero less unconditional acceptance from Georgie. No aberration, flaw, imperfection... deterred rejection. Such painful reality (subjection to vilification), patiently awaited me upon setting foot inside the hallowed halls since grade one. Unbeknownst to this garden variety sensitive son, his rude awakening would undermine treasured revered poignant nurturance. Aside from congenital speech impairment (clearly discerned), I evinced painful shyness, and unlikely the two anomalies through invisibly interconnected linkedin signals, both contributed to savage unfair treatment as de facto scapegoat affecting psychological state regarding one adorable kid.
Unanimous exception made courtesy school board to allow, enable, and provide Georgie to accompany as "therapy pet," this decades before progressive idea how Canis lupus familiaris could ease emotionally, physically, or spiritually afflicted individual. Keen prescient parent's insight how their prodigal son (the second of three offspring, and only male) exhibited aversion, i.e. obvious withdrawal amidst group of people, (particularly those approximately the same age group) prophesied psychological sucker punches. They materialized much more seriously detrimental. A signal troubling attribute (namely marked introvertedness) would become significantly more accentuated, pronounced, under_scored... with each subsequent circuit around mister sun. Inherent difficulty to integrate among mixed company analogously witnesed oppressed, tethered, yoked... palpable weight of world upon my scrawny, puny, nerdy... body. Animal companionship alleviated isolation. A portion USDA approved portion of each school day included attending private classes facilitated by petsmart thuggish bruising canine, who stood up on on hind legs while basic teaching basic bow wow tenets. Distinct bonafide accentuation (unfamiliar to unpracticed ear) necessitated exercised practiced barking, while I imagined
myself as garden variety mutt comfortably assuming stance upon faw paws, which unwittingly unleashed unintentional faux pas, especially when this then novitiate, initiate as eager cleaver associate learning to distinguish various and sundry yelping, barking as sole classmate. Oft times, I sought out fearsome GoDaddy, who resorted to AskJeeves. I needed practice to improve convincing unassuming listener, who could only ascertain whether grueling (growling) utterance the real McCoy. Donot even ask about when embarrassment arose honing skill. This self consciousness exceptionally ever present when yours truly momentarily oblivious to any inquisitive listener. Hence simultaneous minor to learn rigorous regarding ventriloquism. I thank thee sock puppet Matt Scott, the inanimate handy "dummy." "He" represented apropos fallback excuse, which conveniently allowed, enabled, and provided explanation this astute diehard, young man (kin) strove to become renown ventriloquist. The more difficult reedsy challenge constituted communicating the reason four legged friend also donned similar accouterment trumpeting inchoate progression hounding pooch attempting to impersonate me. When free and clear of intrusive eavesdroppers, the damn incredibly orating vested yawping yipper presented
quite the comedic performer. Aside from attempting to master voicing another species, (myself progressing improvement perfecting nuances linkedin with kickstaring lingual barking species doggerel), or vice versa (thee adorable creature emulating germane interlocutor (shepherding his fur row shuss bravado), I forced myself to acquire a taste for milk bone biscuits. Likewise, thine endearing, furry, gregarious helpmate till death did he part.
Unbeknownst to this student of the phonetic language what an untrained listener might identify as Ruff fudge gees, Woof flush, Yap pen ease... The major drawback to becoming fluent with countless localisms, nuances, pedigrees,... comprising the thus far non tabulated gamut of sounds emitted by Fido, Lady, Teddy,... (and of course Georgie) requires rigorous oral musculature usage very different versus acquiring speaking Lingua Franca, where one got born. Additionally no written symbols (analogous to same as pertains to indigenous tongues) exist. This imposes, forces (dint of necessity) compels,... dedicated avid dog owner literally br all "ears." Unfortunate for hearing impaired and/or totally deaf, who can only assess non verbal (most likely accurately) purported Pavlovian behavior. The
acute audiological sense plays another role (over Beethoven) significant benefit, when fluency between two disparate species progresses, whereby segwaying between native tongue and secondary (divergent) modus operandi attains natural interchange. Yes, this scenario would be similar to multilinguist amazingly gracefully flip flopping with smooth continuity between one or more established dialects, languages, "talking",... The inherent predilection to revel reading (think bookworm), when just yay high (imagine average height for tender little boy) proffered added boon. Even at young age, yours truly evinced an unbridled affinity toward oral communication in general, and English in particular.
Despite the absence of grammar, punctuation, spelling,... lacking among non Homo sapiens. Please do not quote me on this, cuz there might animal experts deciphering symbolic illogic representations with tangible proof, whereby anatomical gesticulations constitute even rudimentary alphanumeric characters. That esoteric (not so trivial) pursuit, would be inapplicable asper (in) this lad, who exhibited wolfish appetite to comprehend his best nutty buddy. Such avid enrichment found loneliness quite tolerable, née preferable than commingling among mean peers. If absolute zero recourse unavailable, thus necessitating, relying, warranting,.. upon killer instincts, a free and clear would be issued. This barked and spoken utterance, would transform former happy go lucky gentle dogged demeanor into fearsome threatening beast. Never would mine endearing ("puppy" loving - pet name i.e. appellation even when Georgie got older) pal mortally would "bullies." They (he/she) would hoop fully think twice (or even once) to cease calling me unprintable insults.
Me thought, and eventually discovered why I experienced zealous, yipping, vestigial tail (coccyx) chasing, overpowering... predilection toward entire realm encompassing dogdom. Believe me you, I too felt extremely skeptical recently discovering canine lineage scant generations ago. Old tabloids yellowing pages, would make National Enquirer pulp fiction writers blush in their respective dog houses of publications! They could never get within bajillion miles to rival sensational stranger than truth eye popping, jaw dropping, ear flopping... fact whereby two quite disparate species mated, (how never got revealed, but anyone with overactive imagination) could speculate. Perhaps the bitch in heat sired courtesy anonymous human male stud deed bipedal Homo sapien animal, or fertile human female impregnated, (whether thru physical intercourse versus artificial insemination) considered top secrete. Nonetheless the main crux regarding this divulgence plainly frolics, nuzzles, scampers... with faux pas. Matter of fact outstanding, prominent, quintessential... physical characteristics (disguised courtesy casual head in Toto, Sounder coats ideally stitched as laddie/ Lassie unisexual clothing) allows, enables, and provides countless heart warming opportunities to make debut and/or guest appearances across gamut of multimedia with scant undue pup parazzi chasing me. Actually, the plethora of folks with windblown, wriggling, thick snake dreadlocks, rainbow spectrum dyed hair resembling swollen Jiffy Popcorn able, eager, ready and willing to burst with pouf, heavily tattooed and pierced across every inch of their body, would cause nary an eye to bat. Whenever queried, I nonchalantly inform an inquisitive overly Snoopy mind that donning myself as man' best friend strongly resembling chowhound, and drooling, salivating, and trumpeting (rather lip syncing) favorite (bark a roll) barcarolle just bonafide par for the course.
Escape Plan
"How did we get here?"
He asks the question rhetorically, and she watches his face carefully. She's grown accustomed to his monologues, but she's never sure if he's seriously asking until she looks at him.
Her eyes dart from him to her fingernails. They've been freshly painted, but she looks for chips and waits for him to continue.
"It seems like only yesterday." He looks down at her and she catches his eye. She grins convincingly, and he leans down to place a hand on her head.
She ignores that it feels so very like when she used to scratch her dog.
"Do you need anything from the store, love?" His voice is soft, but she knows the kindness is only temporary. She is one missed que, one wrong word away from wrath.
Sometimes wrath pays a visit anyway.
"Could you bring me some peanut M & Ms?" She lays on a little charm, but not too thick. Puppy-dogs her eyes but doesn't bat her lashes. Lips set in just the right amount of pout.
"You've never asked for candy before! Certainly. Anything for my best girl."
She's reminded of that dog again, but she pretends to laugh good naturedly. "Thank you," she purrs.
He sighs. "It seems like yesterday when you hid in my little corner shop."
She nods. It was seven hundred and thirty two days ago, you fuck, she thinks, but can never say. "I love you," is a lie that slips past her lips so often that it leaves her mouth feeling oily.
"Be back soon." He leaves, and she sighs when the padlock clicks against the steel door. While not gilded, the cage is comfortable enough.
Buried twenty feet below the man's Brooklyn bodega, she remembers the night she dodged the cops and became a fly stuck in a far worse web. He let her into the store room, gave her a slushy, and she woke up a literal kept woman.
Her escape is imminent, though. For years, she'd studied him. Learned what made him angry, what made him happy. She feigned hope and good cheer, even though both had withered on the vine and rotted away long ago.
What he didn't know was that she nearly died in the sixth grade when she was at a slumber party. The host never considered severe allergies when she served peanut-butter chocolate chip cookies to the kid who didn't pay attention before taking a bite.
She'd never asked him for candy before, and she felt lucky to know she would never need to ask again.