Elesea in Dreams?

I hurl the entire can against the canvas out of frustration, splashing blood red paint against the floor and walls, crime scene style. This isn’t going the way I want. I need to check myself, so stop to roll a joint. No one smokes joints anymore, which is a shame. There’s something to the ritual of rolling a joint that’s as relaxing as the joint itself. I haven’t been able to paint anything in weeks and I’m getting irritated. I switch out my Cocteau Twins Pink Opaque for The Damned’s Neat Neat Neat. I need something more aggro. I briefly consider going next door to see if my neighbor has any blow, but decide to pop open another energy drink instead. Funny, all the sugar and additives in this gut rotting beverage are arguably worse for my body than a bump of coke. But nevermind that. How do I shake this creative block?

I abandon the project and take my joint down to the waterfront. That always calms me. It’s a gorgeous day, despite yesterday’s thunderstorms. Or maybe because of them. I normally produce my best work in the wake of turmoil, so I get it, I tell the universe. I find a place on the seawall to sit, extracting my earbuds so I can hear the ocean’s song. My Piscean nature compels me to the water when I need to self-soothe. I spark my joint and sit there smoking, watching the sun glistening on the water. I’m hushed by the collision of waves as the ocean exhales them onto the shore before inhaling them back into her depths once more. Slowly, the frustration begins to ebb.

I inhale deeply, filling my lungs and holding my breath at the top. I count to seven before fully exhaling through my mouth. I need to carry this feeling with me back to the art loft. That’s the problem. It’s easy to get zen while I’m sitting here, near the ocean. Then I go back into the city and something inevitably fucks me up again. I suspect that’s how life is in the Olde Towne for most of us. We’re all scouring the city for these precious, borrowed moments of tranquility. The OT is feral. I never expected to stay here after my mother and brother were killed in a partisan rebellion. But then I found my chosen family, joined the underground resistance, opened the diner, and. Well, here I remain. I suppose it’s as close to home as anything else I’ve ever known.

Why can’t I just live in this moment forever? Why is serenity so difficult to hold on to? I sigh deeply as I look at my watch. I’m sure Owen is fine at the diner alone, but he always gets nervous if I don’t make an appearance by late afternoon. It’s understandable. Sweepers lurk in every gangway; beasts of prey. You never know when they’ll strike, and I’m mouthy enough to get pinched. Especially if I encounter a Sweeper who’s feeling particularly self-righteous. Technically, the diner is on neutral ground, at least in tacit terms. Even so, as female-presenting, I can’t be too careful. One could argue that women get it worse than non-white men. The black and brown men are simply shot or thrown over the wall. Women, well. I can’t contemplate that right now. Nothing will push me from my zen place faster.

I perform seven final rounds of breathwork, scanning each chakra along the way. My third eye chakra and pineal gland are ablaze. This baffles me. My third eye chakra is my creative center. If it’s so damned active, why can’t I paint? I scan again. My root and sacral chakras feel slightly misaligned. This gives me pause. The root chakra is connected to security, safety; feeling grounded. Am I blocked because I suspect something sinister is about to go down? Of course, there's another plausible interpretation: the sacral chakra is tied to sexual desire. I hate to admit it, but I’ve been feeling pretty ungrounded since Naddy unexpectedly cut ties.

Whatever, doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I stand and stretch. I thought we were clicking, even though we only dated for a couple months. We had tons of mind blowing sex, but we didn’t spend all of our time in bed. We spent many nights talking until dawn. If I’m honest, I thought we were both catching feels. Admittedly, I have the tendency to over-romanticize things, and Naddy is an unapologetic cad. Still. Her absence underscores how special, how seen I felt in her presence. I honestly don’t think I had expectations or an attachment to any particular outcome. I think I’m just annoyed at being so abruptly and summarily ghosted. I feel like I deserved at least a Well, that was swell, but the swelling’s gone down, so I’m gonna bounce. Or something.

I try to shake it off. I take a few more grounding breaths before I leave. I hope like hell everyone will Namaste the fuck away on my walk through the Olde Towne to the diner. Crap, I need to hustle. It’s nearly quitting time Uptown. Within the hour, the OT will be flooded with Uptown sex tourists and pleasure seekers galore. Especially considering it’s Friday. Owen’s a fine cook, but his neurodivergence doesn't lend itself to people skills. Plus, this misaligned root chakra business has notched up my spidey senses. Better to be in the safety of the diner if things do go sideways.

I stick to the waterfront as long as possible, but I’m eventually forced to move through the more densely populated area of the OT. Three early bird Uptowners are walking in front of me, talking loudly and occupying too much space. I roll my eyes and inhale deeply. I’m trying to stay zen here - can everyone fuck off a little? I’m hoping the Uptowners get distracted, allowing me a moment to circumvent them unmolested. I’m still wearing my paint splattered coveralls, which aren’t very flattering. That should work to my advantage. Out of nowhere, a man on the docks with a wide, entirely unsettling, shark-toothy grin waves, calling out to the Uptowners in front of me, encouraging them to join him. The three men excitedly trot off. I hope they don’t make their way to the diner later, but realize it’s an unfortunately grim possibility. Can’t worry about that now. I seize my opportunity to make it to the diner instead.

I don’t know if I’ve spooked myself, or if there’s legit evil afoot, but I shift into hypervigilance mode. Better safe than sorry. I arrive at the diner just in time. It’s busier than usual, and Owen is on the brink of a meltdown. The moment he sees me, he darts from the kitchen, grabs me by the shoulders, and pulls me in for a hug. He’s not big on physical touch, so I know something is way off kilter. Damnit. I hate being right about the wrong things. When I ask him what’s up, he has some difficulty articulating, but nods to the table in the far left corner. Sweepers. It’s clear by their Sears suits and sense of entitlement; so turgid it permeates the diner.

I look around and note that my regulars are stubbornly planted and ready to throw down. Stonewall style if need be. These are my people. And they’ve got my six, whatever may come. My heart swells with pride. I love my chosen family. It’s times like this when all uncertainty fades away. I know that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. Whatever that means, for whatever it’s worth. It must be worth something.

The Sweepers immediately start barking orders at me from across the room. I already want to punch the loudest of the three in the face. Namaste, motherfuckers. I motion at my coveralls and hitch my thumb toward the back of the diner, indicating I need to change, but will return in a jiffy. One of them grunts in disapproval, another grumbles something about the help, and the last makes a particularly inflammatory remark about needing to keep my kind in check. They’re just trying to rattle us, I remind myself; to keep us living in fear. Fuck. That. I think defiantly as I head to the back to change. I’ll choose dying on my feet over living on my knees. Every time.

I pop a xanax and a weed gummy before I head back to deal with the shit show. One of the Sweepers tells me I clean up real nice for an older broad. Un. Believe. Able. So we’re playing it like that, straight out the gate? Smiling with dead eyes, I ask what I can get them to eat. I try to choose my words carefully, to avoid invitations, but they find a way to work in Are you on the menu? nonetheless. I vomit in my mouth a little.

Miraculously, I’m able to maintain my plastic smile and reply, “I’m not on the menu, I create the menu. I’m the owner.”

But they already know that. They’re Sweepers. It’s their business to know who owns what in the OT. I tell them I’ll give them a minute longer to decide, then turn to leave.

The guy amongst them most bloated with privilege isn’t having it, “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you. Bitch.”

There’s an audible intake of breath, followed by tomblike silence from the other patrons. Snap, one of my most fiercely protective regulars, looks at me, raising an eyebrow. He’s ready to cut a bitch, even at his own expense. But that’s too high a price. I won’t allow it. I nod slightly, letting him know he can stand down. For now.

The tension in the dinner is palpable.

I turn, widening my plastic smile and reply, “I’m sorry. I think you misread my name tag. It’s Elle. You know, like the letter,” I trace an L in the air with my finger. The guy looks like he’s about to burst at his bloated seams when I add, “It’s ok, no worries. Words are hard. I understand.” My saccharine sweet tone confuses him. While he tries to work out whether or not he’s being mocked, I turn and walk away, calling over my shoulder, “Be right back with that coffee.” It takes every ounce of self control I have to stifle a quip about how there are pictures on the menu in case the words are too big. I’m already treading a thin line, I remind myself. Except.

Except I’m not certain I care anymore. I’m fucking tired of their intimidation tactics. I walk into the kitchen to get the coffee and notice that Owen has switched from meltdown mode to ranger mode. He was a ranger in the special forces, some lifetime ago. He lifts the back of his apron so I can see he’s packing. If the Sweepers so much as lay a finger on me, they're dead men. That won’t be the end of it, though. It will only be the beginning. But that’s where we are.

I focus on my breathing while waiting on other customers. I reassure them that everything is going to be fine. I also want the Sweepers to know I’m not intimidated. And I’m sure as hell not responding to Bitch. They can suck my dick. The Sweepers are growing agitated. They’re talking loudly about how a woman’s only purpose is to serve her husband and raise his children. Typical inflammatory Sweeper rhetoric. I want to pour steaming hot coffee on their crotches. If I do that, they’ll attempt to haul me off. Here and now.

Owen will get his gun, Snap his knife and, if any of us make it out alive, our days will be seriously numbered. The Sweepers will launch a full scale raid, hitting not only the diner, but the docks, the underground, even the art loft. It’s too many potential casualties to contemplate. I can’t have that much blood on my hands. I realize that I’m standing there motionless, coffee carafe in hand. The bloated Sweeper is talking, but his words are muffled by the sound of blood rushing to my head. I want to eviscerate this sack of filth. I try to focus on my breath. I can’t ground myself. My hands are trembling.

“Hey! Are you stupid too? You’ve got one fucking job to do. You forget how to pour coffee?

I can feel the diners holding their breath.

I pour the coffee onto his crotch and, as he shrieks like an absolute girl in agony and disbelief, I smash the carafe into the second guy's skull, then use the broken glass to slit the third guy’s throat.

I shake the fantasy from my head.

“Hello? I said pour me a cup of coffee. Now, Bitch.”

I am barely able to steady my hand as I pour his coffee.

“There you go. Was that so hard?” He asks, before leaning over and smacking my ass.

Owen jumps over the kitchen counter and is halfway across the diner when, like a hero from one of those old Marvel movies, in walks Sydney. I almost visibly sigh with relief, but I can’t blow his cover. He’s been working his way through the Uptown ranks as our covert for months, and we need him to stay embedded. Fortunately, Sydney is a quick study. He reads the room, and calls to the Sweepers excitedly.

“Hey, guys what’s up?” He doesn’t give them a chance to answer. If one of these morons so much as looks at me sideways, Sydney might not be able to hold it down, “You gotta come see this. There’s a pop-up sex show on the docks. They’re picking guys from the audience and taking requests. Shit’s getting real!”

The Sweepers are all in. As they gather their cheap suit jackets to leave, the most cantankerous of the bunch makes eye contact with me and says, “Let’s go have some fun, guys. Service here is shit anyway.”

When the door shuts behind them, the diner heaves a collective sigh of relief. Owen approaches and asks if I’m ok. He was ready to kill them all, I can see it in his eyes. He would have eliminated all three before the first guy’s body hit the floor.

Snap lays a gentle hand on my shoulder in support. “Elesea, them fools are getting bold with the wrong bunch. I promise you that!”

I can feel it now with certitude: we’re on the precipice of a bloody revolution. Do or die.

A few hours later, Sydney returns and tells me it’s all been taken care of. I don’t ask questions. He insists on escorting me to the loft. Once there, Sydney leaves to catch up with a couple friends. He offers to walk me home after I finish painting, if he’s still around. I don’t decline, but forewarn him it could be a while. He copies that and takes off to do his own thing. I am immensely grateful for him, for all of my people. My tribe.

I rip a couple bong tokes and put on Love’s Secret Domain by Coil as I mix my paints. I work furiously, completely losing track of time. After I’ve filled two canvases, I stop to survey my work. The first canvas is a depiction of the diner. Owen is bopping around the kitchen in his headphones, cooking. Snap is sitting at the bar with three of his ladies, laughing joyfully. A few other regulars litter the background, everyone eating and talking amiably. Comfortably. As if they aren’t anticipating a scene like the one that played out today to erupt into bedlam at any given moment.

The second canvas is a depiction of Tangos, the underground French bistro that hangs my art. Pierre, the owner, is there, his kind, round face smiling widely; like it’s Paris in spring. That’s the thing about people who have everything taken from them and nothing to lose: they find bliss in the unlikeliest of places. If they don’t, if they allow the enemy to crush their spirits, then the enemy truly wins. Once upon a time, a night like this at Tangos would have been taken for granted. People in the OT don’t take anything for granted anymore. Moments like these, with friends, with family, are all we have left.

The diner, Tangos; the places are inconsequential. These places aren’t my home. These people are my home. I look down. One empty canvas remains. I pick it up and place it on the easel. I start painting with abandon, surrendering to the vision. It’s come to me in dreams. I know why I have resisted it, but I no longer can.

Right on cue, the titular track of Love’s Secret Domain begins playing.

In dreams, I’ll walk with you. In dreams, I’ll talk with you. In dreams you are mine. All of the time.

I finish, breathless, spent, and stand back to admire her likeness. The severe black bob that frames her exquisite, strong jawline. Her long, delicate neck and jutting clavicles. The mischievous glint in her dark, green-gray eyes. Her Mona Lisa smirk that always makes me feel like the secrets of the universe will spill through her full lips right into the depths of me. I can’t deny it; it wasn’t a fling. We didn’t meet by accident. Naddy is part of my tribe. That’s how the story ends. Or, more importantly, that’s how it begins.

“Come back Naddy,” I whisper to her likeness, to the universe, to her. I know she can feel me.

“Whenever you’re ready. I’m here. Come home.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TITLE: Elesea in Dreams?

GENRE: Literary Fiction

AGE RANGE: Adult

WORD COUNT: 2956

AUTHOR’S NAME: Ane R Key

WHY IT'S A GOOD FIT: I've written a trilogy of shorts, each providing insight into one of three protagonists of my untitled novel. Each short stands alone, so can be marketed separately, or as a collection promoting the novel.

THE HOOK: Sweepers from Uptown scour the OT for women and non-whites, eager to imprison, shoot them. Or worse. What they don't realize is that Elesea’s tribe is ready to throw down, Stonewall style. The resistance is drawing near, but it is anything but futile.

SYNOPSIS: Elesea runs a diner that operates as headquarters for an underground resistance in the OT. She's formed a tacit agreement with the self righteous, morally upright Uptowners that their secret police, the Sweepers, will leave her diner in peace so long as they are able to carouse on the docks of the OT with sex-workers. As tensions mount, Elle rallies her tribe. Yet, one key player is absent: Naddy, a woman with whom Elle had a brief but intense affair. Realizing that Naddy plays a crucial role, both in her life, and in the revolution about to transpire, Elesea sends out a psychic SOS, calling Naddy home. Will Naddy answer her call in time?

TARGET AUDIENCE: Fans of both the Marvel and DC universes, as well as Neil Gaiman, Margaret Atwood, and John Burnside fans. People who enjoy stories of vigilante justice, revenge, and antiheroes. People who identify as non-binary, queer, or are otherwise disenfranchised. People who enjoy twists and creative, non-traditional literary fiction.

AUTHOR’S BIO: I am a queer, female-identified, feminist, anarchist, and creator. I am an educator, agitator, and fierce advocate of bodily autonomy and critical thinking. I am an avid reader, a polyglot; a lover of languages, literature, and learning. I have my BA in Philosophy and World Religion, and my MA in Education and TESOL. I am US born and lived most of my life in Seattle, Washington. I have also lived in Japan, Germany, and currently reside in Portugal, where I teach part time, and perform energy work, guided meditation and tarot readings part time. My free time is spent traveling, reading, writing, watching films, or at music venues. I am dedicated to the practice of yoga, and spend my time between embodied, meditative states of consciousness and liminal, disembodied spaces. I'm also the proud owner of the world's best travel companion, my dog, Chopper.

LITERARY STYLE: I create characters who challenge readers by defying traditional archetypes. I enjoy complex, interpersonal relationships, exploring, and subverting, concepts such as linear time, imposed paradigms, the patriarchy, and hetronormative assumptions. My favorite schools of philosophy are ontology and epistemology, and I find it interesting to weave threads of these philosophies into my work. I counterbalance these philosophical musings and reflections with rapid bursts of forward motion. I hesitate to refer to my work as plot driven as my first consideration is to the development of unconventional characters whom the reader finds inexplicably relatable. There is a fair amount of drug use and small measures of violence in my work, albeit none too graphic. Regarding drug use: there are far greater evils than drug use and, let's face it, big pharma and for-profit prisons are making a killing from the war against drugs. Rather than being gratuitous, I submit it as social commentary.

*Note: I am submitting the other two shorts, Samantha in the Red Dress? and The Devil in Disguise