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Magic

Posted in Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , , on August 14, 2020| 1 Comment »

The Band-Aids are blue. Four that I can see. One masking each little knee poking from below her skirt’s hem and one on each elbow, like patches covering holes on an old man’s cardigan. The rest are hidden, but I know they’re there. They’re always there.

Back one night as she lay on her firm cot, she whispered into the lamp’s soft glow; “They can change, you know. When I’m happy, they turn purple. It’s like magic.”

I’d stayed very still, blocking the breaths of the nine other girls asleep in the room. Silently willing Evie to share more secrets.

“But they’ve been blue for a really long time.” She said with a sleepy softness before drifting off.

Alone now, we sit facing one another. She scans my expression. I see her brown eyes, upturned and massive through strands of mousy hair. Her lips look dry. Her petite hands are folded in her lap. Her eyes dart from me to Jiffy. He’s trying his best not to squirm.

I’d planned various greetings while waiting for them to arrive today. Even said them aloud while fussing with the fruit bowl. But when the doorbell rang, I’d merely opened it and stood, my gaze dropping from the social worker’s eager eyes to Evie, her backpack and her Band-Aids. She seemed even more fragile out here in the big world and everything I thought I’d say had left me.

My heart thumps. What do I do with this helpless creature? Adopting Jiffy was so different. A single pat had sparked instant love. But this? I suddenly feel like a fraud.

I finally stand and she pulls herself smaller. Shrinks into the chair’s dark corner.

Resisting the urge to scoop her up like a curly new pup, I present Jiffy instead. “Want to hold him? He loves kids.”

She shakes her head. Unfolds her hands. Gathers her skirt into two mid-thigh rosettes.

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “He might want to get to know you first anyway. He’s smart like that.”

I smile and her body seems to grow just a tiny bit.

“You should definitely come see your room though. I think you’ll like it in there. At least, I hope so. I read every decorating magazine out there trying to make it look cool.”

She doesn’t laugh, but gently leans over and picks up her backpack. It’s a small victory.

I walk delicately. Terrified she’ll break along the way. But when I open the door, I hear her draw a quiet breath behind me.

It’s cliché, really. A room much like the ones most girls her age should find themselves in. Shades of lavender. A single bed. A fluffy rug and an old bookshelf I’d bought at a yard sale up the street. I’d been pleased with my efforts but now that she’s here, they seem somehow not enough.

My doubt mounts as she walks in and drops her knapsack. Kneels in front of the crammed bookcase.

“I’ve never owned a book.” She says in a Christmas morning kind of whisper. “We weren’t allowed to take them out of the reading room in foster care.”

“Which one was your favourite?” I ask, hoping I’ve masked the sadness in my voice.

“I don’t know what it was called,” she answers. “The cover was ripped.” She picks up one of the books I’d bought at the same yard sale as the shelves. Runs her hand across the front. Already lost in it.

I set Jiffy down and am amazed when he doesn’t rush at her like he would anyone else. We watch in silence. She takes the book over to the big beanbag and sinks in. It’s like she forgets we’re here. Her body becomes so engulfed in the chair’s violet fabric all I can see are the milky cotton socks spilled around her ankles.

I sneak away to make some lunch. She must be hungry and I’m sure I’ve burned through a thousand calories by now my heart rate is so high.

I smooth jam over bread, but can’t help myself and tiptoe back to Evie’s room for a peek. I find her and Jiff asleep on the beanbag and as I move Evie’s backpack out of the way, a frayed, coverless book falls out onto the floor. Stooping to pick it up, I notice she’s scribbled over her blue Band-Aids with a pink hi-liter, turning them a mottled purple.

“It is magic.” I whisper.

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Contest Critique

Posted in Fiction, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Short Stories, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , , on August 3, 2020| 6 Comments »

I entered a contest a while back. I didn’t win. Or even place this time. Which stings. But it’s okay. It’s okay, because I always pay extra to receive a serving of critique alongside my disappointment. And sometimes. When I’m lucky. It ends up making my disappointment taste like dessert.

Yes, there were words like, uneven and cliche (ouch) but the words that really stood out for me were…wonderful imagery, mind-blowing, my favourite sentence and I would enjoy reading more by this author.

And all of that makes me want to grow. Be better.

What’s not sweet about that?

Anyhow, here’s my story:

Missing Love

He fills with words that will only reach the earth, he’s been warned, should they carry their weight in truth. The sweat of his pudgy finger crimps the creases he’s so carefully folded, and he pulls himself in tight, hurling his most sincere spirit into what he must believe will be an accepting unknown…

It can be hard to remember how something began. Details fuzzy and timing, non-specific. But Elian and Luna are not spared in this way. The moment that first child disappeared is forever cut into their hearts. After all, watching someone fade is not easily forgotten. To see them laughing one minute and evaporating the next like a recalled raindrop, hangs heavy in their atmosphere.

Long before despair scraped its way to the core like a surgeon’s scalpel, this small town had been a home. They’d lived in colourful houses. Slept in cozy beds. Trailed fingertips through the fountain and sacrificed pennies for precious wishes. They’d even believed they could swing high enough for their toes to touch the hopeful stars. 

But as children began to vanish one by one, so did the bliss.

Panic took the place of the light hearts that once filled the streets. Terrified mothers imagined mass murders. Undiscovered bodies. Fathers waited with shotguns at the ready for an evil that would never show its face. Paranoia and mourning became a way of life for this once content little place.

Time passed and slowly the township reached a decision to try and understand rather than fight. And as they deliberated, they became shamefully aware that those who’d faded were solely the ones conceived outside of love. Their beginnings had cultivated from the seed of greed. Selfishness. Or pride. Some spawned from lust. Envy. And some, simply a product of rash disregard. 

Slowly, the town determined that not one of the lost had bloomed from a pure moment of tenderness or a sincere form of love.

And, as is human nature, they were eager to replace what was gone. To fix the broken. Fill the void. And so, no lesson learned, they attempted to conceive through what could only be deemed as despair. But their loveless efforts refused to bear the fruits they once had and their barren souls remained smothered in empty darkness.

Now, as Elian and Luna make their way to the fountain, unearthly quiet fills the creeks and crevices. Swings sway loosely in the intermittent wind, their rusty chains straining against a tongue-tied backdrop. The two maneuver through the littered streets, Luna’s fingers curving around Elian’s palm. Long and loose like the limbs of a weeping willow.

The park feels smaller now, its surrounding fence halting at their hips. And they loom over jungle gym bars they couldn’t even reach at three feet tall. Roots of now massive Oaks have thrust through the dusty earth. Tossed the time-warped slide upside down. A wavy serpent. Vacant face peering upward. And a carousel cocked on its side lies like a forgotten toy on a nursery room floor.

But today is unlike any of the many days they’ve ambled this same path. The waterless fountain urges them on, its surrounding air fused with static. A vibrating hum pulling them to it like the towropes that had once hauled them up to the highest of mountaintops. They carry no pennies. Only wishes. And with no words, they hear what the other is thinking. With one glance, they feel what the other is feeling. One touch and they want what the other is wanting.

They are one.

Elian turns and presses his lips to Luna’s forehead. They stand this way for some time, paused in the moment between what was, what is and what could be. Most gave up. Some moved on. Others simply bided their time. Waiting. Withering. Becoming ash between the sheets. But Luna and Elian had only grown stronger. Looked after one another. 

Flourished. Together.

And now they stand at the fountain’s edge. Luna’s lemon coattails flapping in the wind. Elian’s dark curls shifting freely over his brow. He takes her hand in his once more. Waits as the sky begins to change. Magnificent hues kaleidoscope into shapes and patterns. Azures and indigos fold into amethysts and tangerines. They believe it to be the most beautiful thing they have ever seen.

And for a brief moment, it is.

Until a small white tip, the determined nose of a well-intentioned craft, breaks through a slit in the sky’s colourful curtain and glides gracefully, softly, silently into the hearts of their two accepting souls.

This is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen. 

Luna feels the stir. Almost sees the pudgy finger. Elian reaches down to touch the swell of colours that cascade from the sky and stretch across her belly.

“Welcome, little one.” He whispers. “This is love.”

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Karma’s a Snake

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Heroes, Inspiration, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, Young Adult Literature, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 24, 2012| 2 Comments »

This is the fourth and final instalment.  (the story is below in its entirety)

Destiny’s betrayed me, I think as I slam my breakfast into the sink. The spoon clangs in protest and milk lashes out over the rim of the bowl and onto my hand.

I should’ve been a shoe-in.  No, I was a shoe-in. Heavy rain made angry pangs on the balcony’s cement and I focused on the miniature water bombs.

I’d put in for a new job placement two weeks ago; Head of Displays.

The Box, a large designer store, had employed me for six years and I’d snailed my way up and over the shelves from part-time stock girl to full-time smock girl while slogging through an upper echelon school for which I was still making hefty monthly payments. It had taken me four years to attain my Bachelor’s and I felt I’d more than proven my commitment to fashion.

“And along comes Denise”, I pretty much spit as I paw at the milk dots on the cuff of my blazer with a damp cloth. “Or ‘Denise the piece’ as she’s known amongst the male lunch crew when they think no one sporting alternative equipment is around.

“Piece…my ass!” I chuck the cloth into the sink to join the bowl and spoon. It stares me down while sullenly sucking up the spilled milk.

Denise appeared about a year ago. I’d choked on her perfume before she’d even hit the lunchroom, decked in a low cut blouse, red hot mini and leopard stilettos; complete with ballooning bosom and legs all aglow.

I had to admit I’d known in that instant that I was doomed. If Nigel had gotten any closer she could’ve breast fed him and every other male in the room would’ve stood in line behind him.

My boss is a lady’s man. At least, he tries to be. Nigel is tall and lanky, never having surpassed his high school physique and in his skinny ties he reminds me of a zipper, his tongue, the toggle. His black hair is a little too shiny and his thickly rimmed glasses don’t quite depict a scholar. He’s always been nice enough to me, but I’m not his type and to show my gratitude for that, I try not to step back when his spit bubbles burst onto my face. Nigel’s a bit of a close-talker.

I look around the kitchen. It’s clean and tidy and for ridiculous reasons this brings me some peace and the strength to head into work.

Snatching my satchel from the velour chair in my entry, I check for my phone.  Straightening my slim-cut cargos, I slip my feet into well-worn combat boots and take a deep breath. Grabbing an umbrella, I swing it like a sword and march out the door.

I don’t make my usual stop for a skinny macchiato.   It’s raining too hard and my hands are too full, one gripping my swaying umbrella, and the other, my slippery phone.  Aware that any sensible person would ignore a text under these conditions, I swipe away, trying to access Nikki’s message but my fingers are wet and slide uselessly over the slick screen.

I’d vented to her last night over the phone after she’d told me what Denise had said and she was probably worried I was about to do something crazy.

My attempt futile, I slip the phone back in my pocket and wish I’d made a java stop after all.  Now I’d be forced to drink the ‘coffee’ Troy made every morning.  Bless his little stock boy heart.

The store is quiet and everything, as it always does when The Box is closed, seems surreal.  I know a lot of the staff feel eerie in the big store when it’s not open for business, but not me. My spirits lift the moment that warm whoosh of air escapes the big glass doors and meets my face.  There’s something about the white, high-glossed floors and the atmosphere fused with leather, lavender, lotions and limitless blood, sweat and tears.  It’s home to me.

Taking a moment to right myself, pulling in the calm and pushing out the clutter, I feel my heart rate slow as drops of water meander off my boots and onto the gleaming floor.

“Mornin’ Lenore,” Seth greets me as he places a bold Caution: Wet Floor sign on the tile. “Jeez, yer soakin’ the place.   Dry up, would ya?”

“Very funny,” I reply. “Don’t push my buttons today Seth, cuz I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“Aww, the weather ain’t that bad!  Chin up, doll face.”

“Seth, you’re pushing…” I walk away smiling.  “I’ll see you at lunch.”

The ride up the arced escalator is soothing and the view from half way is simply stunning.  I drift up backwards, taking it in.  The Swarovski handrails glisten and magnificent flecks are scattered throughout the store.  Billowing silk screens, blown by forced air, almost lick me as I glide by and Jalisse, a raven-haired black beauty looks like she’s swooning to the piped-in Musak as she greets me at the top.  Draped in a royal blue Maxi dress, she smiles gracefully, letting me know I made the right choice.  Her new attire pleases her.

I’m almost completely pacified by the time I step off.  My ‘you didn’t get the promotion because I’m in love with Denise’ worries nearly forgotten, I pass Jalisse and notice a dot on her chin, a little white chip marring her beautiful milk chocolate complexion.

Tiny, but enough to drive me right back to crazy town.

Vigor returning, I head to the lunchroom sporting blinders to all around me.

“Nigel, I need to talk to you.”  I look directly at him and head for the coffee pot.

He’s sitting in a fuchsia chair at the lunch table, long fingers wrapped around a cup of sludge.  His dark, thin brows lift when he hears my tone.

“Well, you’re all business bright n’ early, love.  Not even a mornin’ for your crackerjack boss, then eh?”  Nigel’s British lilt, though normally one of his few redeeming qualities, borders on annoying this particular day.

“I’m not kidding, boss.  A serious face to face – when are you free?”

I look down at the dark liquid spilling out of the carafe.  With bits and pieces of brown substance bobbing up and over the spout, I swear I see an entire bean pass through the flow and into my mug, Espresso, stock boy style.

His fingers punctuate his words and as he stands, Nigel’s tie uncurls like a snake’s tongue.  “I may have time post lunch,” he grazes on my attire, tasting his way from my boots up to my shabby but chicly ‘bunned’ hair.  “You do have a way when it comes to assembling”, he observes.  “An eclectic ensemble indeed.

Reluctant to portray self-doubt, I don’t review my outfit in front of him, but resurrect a mental image of my full-length mirror from this morning; Meh, I was good.

“I do like to think outside The Box once in a while, you know Nige…?  There are options beyond…” Small pools of sweat form in my pits as I wonder if my metaphor is over his head, but I continue to doctor my coffee, now morphing into a latte as I add more and more milk.

“As I say,” he sprays, slipping silently up beside me; “I’ll text you after my lunch.  I’m not sure how long I’ll be with Denise,” Was it my imagination or did he hiss the S?  “But it won’t be quick, I’m sure.”

“Actually,” I venture, “I don’t think I can make it ‘til lunch.  I need to talk now.”

My phone buzzes like an angry hornet trapped in my pocket.  The pools of sweat begin trickling down my sides and the waist of my Cargos becomes Martina Navratilova’s headband.

Nigel tries peering at me without turning his head, but the arm of his specs proves too wide to see past.

“Lenore, love.  It wouldn’t be prudent until I’ve taken care of the other business, yeah? Sensitivity’s of the utmost…I wouldn’t like her to be the last to know.”

A snap of his tongue and he slithers away.  I toss his cold mug into the sink and use my still damp cuff to wipe his venom off my forehead.

Unable to ignore it any longer, I swat to squash the mad buzz but when I see I have twenty-two notifications from Nikki, my heart drops.

“Red alert,” most of them begin.  “It was a set-up – promo yours. Abort, abort!”

The urge to slap Denise was fierce, nothing new there, but absolutely foreign to me was wanting to kiss Nigel.  In the blink of a text his snake’s skin had shed and he’d emerged a Superhero, complete with tight blue suit and red cape.

As quickly as the thought came, I let it go.  I’d almost quit a job I loved over a rumor and I wasn’t about to start another.

I’d quietly stroke the snake.  No skin off my back.

 

Okay, so I couldn’t find a Superhero snake…

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