Tag: family

Today I am Consult

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“Hello my paranormal pals! Welcome back to Dead Talk – I’m your host River Morgan and you’re listening to the only podcast with interviews that are truly a blast from the past. This is the first episode of season two, so if you’re just joining us, we are happy to have you and be sure to hit that Subscribe button in whichever app you’re listening through, as well as pop on back to season 1 because there are some real gems there, folks.

“I hope everyone had a great summer, I sure did. My partner Nell, you all know Nell, and I did a roadtrip across eleven states to hit some of her bucket list foodie spots! We were eating good, y’all. I had my favorites- shout out Mickie’s Truffle Emporium in Portland. Mickie, you and your truffle fries are SO fine. My other worth-it spot was when Nell made ya boy dress up all nice and we hit the bar of Swan, a swanky lounge in Chicago’s diamond district and let me tell you, it’s a real jewel itself. Cocktails that brought me back to life after all that driving and made us feel like we belonged among the famous and fabulous, ya know?

“Now my very favorite spot was Loretta’s Bayou Bar, and I know what y’all are thinking- River, get to the goods! And that’s where I’m headed, I promise. Loretta’s had fried alligator that would make you walk on water – and that’s just how we met our first interview of the season. That’s right, y’all, Nell told me to go on and pack the recording equipment for our trip so y’all wouldn’t miss a thing.

“So let me set the scene for you- we’re sitting fat and happy on Loretta’s patio watching the sun go down, finishing a couple plates of alligator, a pound of deeeelicious crawfish, and had just ordered a couple bags of pralines to go when I said to Nell that I got to walk a bit to settle my stomach and lick the grease off my fingers before we head back to the hotel, and she, being the perfect woman she is, adds two lagers to the bill and our lovely waitress brought them to us in koozies and points to a little path by the river warning us not to get too close to the water. I said- ‘River ain’t afraid of no river!’ And the waitress gave me a look and says ‘Where do you think we get the gator from?’ so I doubled the tip and we wandered on outta there.

“We get down to the river and I’m talking all romantical to my lady ’cause the stars are out and there’s a sweet breeze coming off that water when Nell just freezes. I start to ask what’s up and she shushes me and points out to the water. I’m thinking I’m about to have to be a hero and tackle a freaking gator to save my wife! But no- there’s a mist rolling over the river and it starts to move upwards, shifting into the form of a woman in what I thought was a fancy dress with frills all around her neck and wrists, but what we later learned at a local museum was probably a ‘work’ dress- similar to what upper and middle class ladies of the time wore on their day-to-day running around. So the mist keeps moving around her, defining her features a bit and we see she looks pretty young, got some long wavy hair flying free and an almost serene look on her face- and is staring right at Nell. I tell y’all I just about dropped the recorder in the water getting it out of my pack as fast as I could, and well- y’all excuse a bit of fumbling in this one- maybe shouldn’t of had that last beer but oh well, here we go-“

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“cshhhrt csht“

“Ope- you got it? Is it on?”

“Yeah there goes the light- hello madam!”

Wind blows, a chorus of frogs begins.

“Ma’am, we don’t mean to disturb your evening. I’m River Morgan, and this is my lovely wife Nell.”

The wind blows again, then a soft distant voice can be heard, “Is he a good man?”

“Yes,” Nell’s voice is slightly louder but gentle, “yes, he’s a good man. You can trust him. I trust him.”

“Are you? Are you a good man?”

“Well I do my best, ma’am.”

“Then why bring her here, into the night?”

“We like taking walks after dinner. A little promenade, you might say, heh heh. I’m being careful to keep her toes far from the water, I promise. They told us about the gators.”

“The caimans will have their way with you, should they like.”

“They won’t have my Nell, no ma’am. I was wondering if I might interview you? I’m a host for a podca- for a newspaper of sorts and I would just love to ask you a couple questions. You’re just the kind of lady my readers would want to know- who you are and how you came to be here, if you don’t mind.”

“You do not fear my visage?”

“No ma’am, River has spoken with many people in your circumstances. We have met many who are gone but still here.”

The chorus of frogs abruptly stops.

“Gone?”

“She doesn’t mean offense, ma’am. Simply that we have spoken to several wonderful people who wander similar places. And we’d just like to know more about you.”

“…My story is a common one. A woman trusted a man and it was her downfall.”

“I’m awfully sorry to hear that, ma’am. May I ask your name?”

“I am Louisa Fontenot. And I will tell you my story. And then I will let the caimans have you.”

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“How about that folks! We found ourselves a real lady of the lake! Or river, I suppose. We’ll have her story after these short messages!”

-Nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea, waking nightmares, adult acne, depressed eyelids, trouble walking! Prepto-Scav is something Nell and I always make sure is packed for a road trip- you never know with today’s climate whether your adventures will bring heartburn or third-degree sunburns, so be ready for anything- with Prepto-Scav!-

-Bunker bedsores got you down? Don’t go to bed with a frown! Get Remi’s Cots- made from recycled memory foam and layered with rat-proof copper inserts to keep you comfortable and rodent-free all night long!-

-Choose BetterHealth. Mental Health assistance for anywhere, anytime. I use BetterHealth when an interview has left me feeling as wispy as my guests, and my certified assigned professional helps set me back on solid ground. Now available on most JETDS communication devices.-

“Thanks folks, now let’s dive back in with Miss Louisa Fontenot.”

The loud gong rings again, with wind chimes slowly fading away.

“Well Mrs. Fontenot-“

“Miss Fontenot. My father was of the Marseille Fontenots.”

“Miss Fontenot, I apologize. Before we get to the goods and the gators, how about you fill us in on life in your world?”

“What is it you wish to know? My family is not so different from the others.”

“How about- we just had an amazing dinner up the ways a bit, how was the food during your time?”

“Terrible’. It is not ladylike to eat the pretty sweets at dinners and parties, we are to pretend we are more interested in conversation or dance. At home, it was bland stews or plain bread and cheese as Papa believed food was for nourishment, not entertainment. Only when Papa was gone for business would Mama let Hettie cook from her own recipes. Then dinner was incroyable! Hettie could make little critters taste like spiced gold…”

Silence stretches. A lone brave toad croaks.

“I have not thought about Hettie in quite some time. She was good to me. Always kind. Tried to tell me to marry high and become the lady of my own home, stop chasing after dreams.”

“Was Hettie a sla- ow, Nell! Was she, uh, a local?”

“Yes. Our family moved here when Mama was pregnant with me, and brought on Hettie when I was born, as she was too tired to run the house on her own. I did not know life without Hettie.”

“Do you miss Hettie?”

“I do. She passed from this world a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Her daughters left magnolia blossoms on the river for me when they told me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Miss Fontenot, I don’t understand, when they told you what?”

“That Hettie had died. They came to this river after her funeral and laid magnolias from her grave in the water so I would know. Kind girls, like their mother. Mr. River, I understand well that you, your lady, and I are of the same world yet not the same veil.”

“I didn’t realize you understood your… status. Not everyone does.”

“We all do, Mr. River. It is simply a matter of denial or acceptance.”

“And are you in denial?”

“Occasionally.”

“I see. So you mentioned Hettie tried to get you to marry a highborn gentleman? Did she have anyone in particular in mind?”

“She and my mother were in agreement that any of the local financiers or well-do merchants moving in would be practical choices, as the world was changing.”

“What was changing?”

“The war was starting, Mr. River. A smart girl married a man too wealthy to serve, but not so wealthy his land could be conscripted for the military.”

“That… does sound smart.”

“It did not keep my sisters and I from dancing with the officers at every ball. I wish it had.”

“Please, tell us why.”

“It did not take many rounds of the ballroom before I fell in love with Officer Hebert. He had steel eyes and a wide smile that made me breathless. But he did not fall in love with me.”

Another silence stretches across the lapping of the river.

“Miss Fon-“

“You see, Mr. River. Men can have what women cannot- and that is everything. A man can choose his wife yet not be limited to her. Should a woman do so, her reputation would become unsalvageable. Officer Hebert led many a lady to believe we were his choice. One hot evening, he led me out of the boiling ballroom of the Bordeaux manner, into the gardens for fresh air. Once among the topiaries, he kissed me until my heart thundered. I spent all night regaling my sisters with the taste of him and his promises of our future. The next morning he announced his engagement to Clara LeBlanc, whose father owned fifteen hundred acres.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nell’s voice cooed softly on the recording, “that must have been heartbreaking.”

“Oh I was young, so heartbreak came with more anger than my body could hold. I asked him to meet me here that very evening.”

“Here? Sorry ma’am, if you back away like that we won’t be able to record your voice so well, let me just-“

“Yes, sweet cheri. Come and hear me. I told him to meet me along this river, so I may taste his lips once more before he forever belonged to Clara. And he met me, because men are fools. He did not know I had arrived here earlier to throw chicken bones in the river, drawing the creatures near. He kissed me and I kissed him, and for just a moment I thought about simply staying there in his embrace. But I remembered his engagement and with all my fury and might, I rocked us both into the water! Oh how the caimans rushed on us, desperate for our fresh flesh! He screamed but I only laughed as they tore us apart, just as he had my heart! He wanted everything so I TOOK. EVERYTHING!”

“River- you’re too close to- RIVER!”

A splash, then several loud boney snaps resound as wicked laughter booms.

“Nell get away from the- Nell, go!”

“River, take my hand!”

“Grab the recorder!”

“RIVER! MOVE!”

The laughter fades as heavy breathing echoes over crunching leaves.

A loud gong rings out followed by wind chimes.

“Phew, how about that one, folks? I kept the last bit in so y’all remember- don’t try this at home! Not every subject is uh, polite, shall we say? Lucky for me, Nell was fast whipping that beer bottle at the first gator, stunned him enough for us to get back up the embankment. We hadn’t even realized we’d gotten so close to the water! Tricky little lady, that Louisa Fontenot. Once we got to the car, we ate the whole bag of pralines and a second one we’d meant to bring my in-laws, to settle the jitters.

“I do wish the interview hadn’t been cut short, we rarely get to talk to someone from so far back. Nell chided me for taking the bait about the officers when we could have asked about the start of the war, eased into her perspective on slavery from a French-leaning household, just gotten a bit more out of her maybe, before she set her water dogs on us! There are lot of potential interviewees in that area but not all of them want to relive what they already dealt with. We may travel there again but we may just leave them in peace.

“Still, I thought it was a good one to start the season with- get our heartbeats going! Join us next time where we talk with a gentleman who lived, or rather didn’t, through the Galveston hurricane and has some seriously stormy thoughts on it.

“Is there a spooky someone near you that you’d like us to interview? Remember to send in suggestions to deadtalkwithriver@podmail.com and we might just come see what they have to say! Thanks for listening, this has been Dead Talk! Goodnight!”

The Word

Consult: (verb) Seek information or advice from, generally someone with expertise in a particular area. (noun) An act of consulting a professional; a consultation.

After Today I am Devotion, I thought it would be interesting to see what other forms of media I could use for storytelling. Podcasts are a natural choice, as I think at this point we’ve all heard a couple or are regular subscribers. It’s also a good way for me to practice dialogue, as anyone who has been here a hot minute knows that’s something I’m working on. But it was a little difficult to decide how to write out the background sounds. I peeked around at a few other stories, in which authors had radio shows or podcasts or phone calls that made up the entirety to see how they did those little sounds. It seems there isn’t necessarily a standard but I do like some more than others. Do you have a favorite style? I think River Morgan and his Dead Talk will be a good one to come back to occasionally, find other subjects to chat with, and find out what best suits for me.

I also really like the word consult for this. It’s one I’ve had in my word-bank for a while and while there were other stories I thought maybe it would work for, I kept going back to an ancestral idea. What if we could consult someone who has already seen it all? What if we could have a therapist who has already lived their entire life and could give advice from that perspective? Pulling that thread led me to Dead Talk, where consults/interviews don’t always go as planned!

Hope you enjoyed our step into the spooky, happy reading!

–

P.S. Did you catch the easter egg from one of our other characters? 😉

Today I am Devotion

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized1 Comment

The Story

Dear Liza,

First I want to apologize that it has taken me so long to get your bowl returned to you! It somehow got packed in one of our kitchen boxes and I found it this morning (yes that does mean it’s taken me two full months to finish unpacking, but you know- setting up the kids for school took priority). I’ve filled it with pecan sandies (my mother’s recipe!) as an apology.

Second I want to thank you for attending my going-away party! Michelle was so sweet to throw it, and told me that it would not have happened at all if she had not roped in her “most reliable friend Liza.” So I’m sorry our first meeting was our last, as I trust Michelle’s good taste!

Thanks again,

Olivia

–

Olivia,

No need to thank me! I would do anything for Michelle, as she’s not only fantastic but also is the one who got my daughter into Lilling Academy- but also because it’s not my bowl.

I asked Michelle and she swears it is yours but that moving has you confused. I would never accuse a fellow woman of being confused, more like responsible for too many thoughts at once, right? But since we both trust her judgement, I’m sending it back. Also full, because my god were those pecan sandies delicious. You’ll have to give me the recipe, if your mother will allow. My return offering is apple turnovers, as I just recently graduated from apple strudel to the other folded bake with apples.

Hope you enjoy,

Liza

–

Dear Liza,

We are indeed in a battle of wills. Or a bowl of wills. I am certain THIS is the bowl those delicious apple strudels were presented in at the party! Though it is understandable that Michelle would think I have things mixed up. I do have a bowl similar, slightly smaller though and the edging is green. Also I have yet to pick my children up from school on time, so maybe I do have a few things still unsettled (who wouldn’t- it’s so cold here! Perhaps my thoughts have frozen). Why aren’t school hours a standard thing?

Your apple turnovers were a hit in this house- I barely scarfed down my own before the boys lit on them! I cannot fold anything so neatly, so please enjoy these cinnamon muffins that accompany the sandies recipe (my mother was always big on sharing- not one of those ‘it’s a family recipe’ types).

Hoping to bowl you over,

Olivia

–

Oliva,

I’m not sure you should challenge me to a battle of wills- I was born up in that cold! My late husband, who I don’t think you got the chance to meet, and I vowed to move to south together despite how sad/furious our moms were because we were talking about kids and I couldn’t imagine being pregnant and freezing. The Fall is hard, there’s no denying that, but you will see that the Winter is so beautiful and fun that it really makes up for it. Buy the boys some good parkas before the seasonal price-bump and schedule ski lessons for everyone, or ice skating if that’s your vibe- I never got the hang of it.

I asked around at Michelle’s card night- she says it is the first of a new monthly tradition for the ladies because we all should be bonding like our grandmothers did. I’m not completely bought on it yet but I’ll keep showing up if she keeps making me a gin fizz worthy of the babysitter cash. None of the girls there claimed the bowl when I mentioned it and I think it was a pretty similar invitee list as your party, though I don’t know everyone that well. There are few new ladies since my hiatus. So, obvious to you now, I am sending it back with hopes you’ll adopt it or realize there’s an unexpectedly empty spot in your cabinet.

My girl Pepper- and just to cut you off before you start no I will not be having a son named Salt, it’s a family name- was so happy with your muffins that it inspired me to ease my way into things without apples. Just a toe-dip though. These are no bake Energy Balls. I’ve included the recipe as I don’t know if your boys have any allergies. I discovered the secret to not adding any sugar and not too much honey is the coconut. It adds flavor and some good fats while preserving the idea that these might be good for you. Pepper enjoyed the very sticky experimentation and I hope you enjoy these even half as much.

Just unbelieva-bowl,

Liza

–

Dear Liza,

Happy Halloween! Or, almost Thanksgiving I guess. Should I take down the cobwebs or just stick the turkeys in them for a pilgrim-macabre effect? I remember my mother saying time flew for her during the school year and I always thought- you’re not the one with homework (but we are in a way, aren’t we?!). You’re an actual guardian angel about the parkas- I made Tom get all the boys fitted and set (a size up for James, he’s growing an inch a day I think) when they were almost sweating in them, but just this morning I checked the prices for fun and my God! It’s as bad as gas prices on a holiday!

Speaking of the boys- your Energy Bites (as I cannot call them Balls because James is at… THAT age where everything is a joke) are a life saver for lunch boxes. It is now officially part of the food prep on Sundays.

So I did something a little silly and went back and checked the pictures of the party but no one took one of the snacks table! I’m shocked- there were so many good things and cute (Jessica really needs to open a shop, her moving truck cake was amazing) and not one damn picture! We are bad Instagram millennials and I expect better of us. But I did remember that someone made caramels from scratch for that day- so I’ve had the boys try to help me recreate them (Tommy is going to be a chef one day, I know it but the other two I fear I’m going to be cooking for until they marry). The kitchen is a mess but I think we had some success, let me know what you think.

Now the part I have re-written three times (you’re worth the stationary): I never did get to meet your Peter formally, no. But I feel like I have because all of the couples in your neighborhood spoke so highly of him. That he was so fun, very reliable, and that the two of you were a sunny addition to the street. I fear that Tom and I became active in that group after Peter’s passing when you were still in mourning and moved away just as you were emerging. For every single reason out there I wish that had not been the case. Tom says that the husbands would brag about taking turns sneaking a sip of good bourbon into Peter’s tea at chemo sessions (and while I do not approve of them messing with medications) I do hope that brought some joy to Peter and to you. I pray that you and Pepper are doing well and that these sweet exchanges are as much as a balm to your day as they are to mine.

Thinking of you,

Olivia

–

Olivia,

My turkey decorations are now all wearing Santa hats, so there’s no judgment here whatever you decide.

And you’re right about Instagram- I will post a picture of Pep with a Maya Angelo quote about motherhood as penance. I am with you in the shock that there are no pictures of the snack table- this group is usually too good at taking food pictures, as I swear the one brunch I made it to my eggs went cold just so we could get the shot. Perhaps everyone was simply too distressed by your departure?

To comfort you though, Jessica has indeed started a cake business- her call sign is JessJustBakes. She made a firework cake this past summer with a sparkler on the end and that was that- everyone had to have a Jessica Original. If she has time, I’m hoping to commission a unicorn for Pep’s birthday party, as cakes are far from my speciality.

I did not know about the bourbon! Oh that makes me laugh, thank you for telling me. You didn’t need to worry about drafting, I love talking about Peter. It keeps him here. He would be helping you pack to get back to warmer climates! I too wish many things had been different, but I cannot get lost in that world. I’m just thankful that an actually rather ugly bowl has brought us together now. Speaking of which- caramels were great! One actually got a baby tooth out of Pep and so she’s off building a contraption to catch the Tooth Fairy. Pray for me.

I am not nearly so adventurous- but all the gals have started trying to make bread and it is hard not to get a little FOMO. Another toe-dip though- these are chive biscuits, as I thought it would be easier to watch smaller bits rise than one big thing. If you approve I will make them again for Cards Night, which I accidentally volunteered to host while Michelle has her dining room remodeled.

Yours,

Liza

–

Dear Liza,

I have the craziest news! (No, not moving back south, maybe one day!) Sandra Turnblow- do you still chat with her? Your seat in heaven is secured if you do, I have always found conversations with her very… trying. Anyway! So after not hearing a peep from her in God knows how many months, she calls me up and says “You have my mother in law’s bowl!” VERY accusatory! And I blanked on what she could possibly be talking about, as I was halfway out the door (it was a Tuesday, when Tom and I are playing clown car chauffeur to get the boys to choir and then James to football and Luke to piano and Tommy’s carpool to soccer and then find them all again in enough time to feed them before homework). So I say “What? Whose mother?” and she says “My mother in law’s BOWL, Liv. You have it!” (I hate when people call me Liv) I freeze when I realize what she’s talking about. THE bowl! But there I am with shinguards in one hand and a nasty protein bar in the other and I just clam up. She goes on about how she borrowed her mother in law’s bowl for my going away party and it had her onion-raisin mini muffins in it (an item I thought I had made up in a nightmare but apparently was indeed real). And now her mother in law is furious that the bowl has not been returned to her in over a year! Well is that on me? Sandra Turnblow seems to think so! I just couldn’t respond, I was fit to be tied at her attitude as I know I’d asked her at the beginning if it was hers and she ignored my text! I asked everyone and so did you! So I just couldn’t say anything because I was not going to be kind- I told her I was busy and would call her back later (which I have not done). Am I a terrible person? I’m so sad that this will be our last exchange. At least it ends on a good note- these lemon bars are double from a batch that finally got the other PTA moms to speak to me. Sugar really does unite us all. Tell Sandra I’m sorry. Or don’t (because I’m not).

Love,

Olivia

–

Olivia,

Saw Sandra at Michelle’s the other night, nose in air as usual, even when she lost Cribbage for the third time. Maybe she’s trying to sniff out her mother in law’s bowl. Shame we haven’t seen it.

Lemon squares were to die for. And also to put up with PTA moms for- you just show them who the hell you are and you’ll be the lead hen in no time. Enjoy these chocolate chunk cookies, Pep helped make them to get her Baking badge. Just a quick note as we are late for Girl Scouts but dropping this at the mail on the way. Might get us matching taxi hats until our kids can drive. Heard a rumor you might be visiting Tom’s parents in Greenville for New Years- let me know because we’re just half an hour away and have plenty of room!

Love,

Liza

The Word

Devotion (noun): 1. Love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity, or cause. 2. Prayers or religious observances.

I could go on and on with Liza and Olivia chatting with each other (and might add on to this as I do my random re-reads and re-edits). In my “reading to write” research, I recently read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and loved it*. So I wanted to get a little practice in- not just with letters, but because authors Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows do such a wonderful job of creating the characters solely through the characters’ own voices. In letters there’s no “I look like this” unless weirdly asked (which does happen in the book by one eccentric character). The character has to LITERALLY speak for themself and I thought that would be good exercise.

And on the word itself, I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship the past couple weeks and what it means for those of us in our thirties and in this very “unprecedented times” laden world. Finding a person or people you can be devoted to is a precious gift. I’m very thankful for those friendships I am devoted to but also wouldn’t mind another popping up with a mysterious missing bowl.

Also, we haven’t heard from Liza in a while and I wanted to check in 😉

Happy reading!

*you may have already known I read this if you saw my poem about the movie on Micro blog!

Today I am Solastalgia

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Poem

Her arrival is proclaimed on the wind!

And each time I rush to the door

To see her beauty appear

And her accompanying champions roar.

I have thrown off all promises to others

And dedicate myself to her joy,

I shower the homestead in her colors

and her songs my tongue jumps to employ.

Her herald is up on the mountains!

Her steps glisten across the plain,

And my heart swells at the sight of her,

My love, my life does she rein.

But she wearies herself at my hearth,

Like shadows she moves through the home,

And I find myself hoping she’d leave here

Release me and off should she roam.

Take everything with her and quit me,

Take it all and quickly depart!

How much longer will I last in her presence?

How weary and wounded my heart.

She lingers and hatred builds in me

She must go! She must leave here at once!

But she denies me my freedom for longer,

Bent to her own final performance.

Finally she bows and deserts me,

Back onto her weary world travel

And I am left alone in the doorway,

Begging myself not to unravel.

Yet I hear on the breeze a glad tiding!

Her sister is nearby and coming!

My heart warms at the thought of her presence,

And the very earth begins humming.

The Word

Solastalgia (noun): a form of emotional or existential distress caused by negatively perceived environmental change

I believe this is the youngest word seen on Quilled Sister thus far. Wikipedia tells us that it was first coined in 2003. Its maker, Glenn Albrect, says it is “the homesickness you have when you are still at home” often brought on by a change in the climate (How many of you just thought “oh, yeaaaah I know that feeling”? Same.).

If you have been with me for a while, you know that these occasional hibernations of mine happen. I disappear for quite some time without a warning or even backwards wave. And they most often happen during winter. I’m just not a winter gal, I don’t LIKE being cold. And I am sorry I’m like this. It’s just, when I’m hunkering down under a blanket with a scalding cup of tea, the last thing I want to do is risk my fingers turning blue running them across a keyboard.* BUT my notes app is flooded with words and mini-thoughts that could not be suppressed by the freezing temperatures. Now that the East Coast’s first false-spring has brought me a little out of my dark cave, I return to you with renewed vigor. Like the daffodils, I appreciate your patience while I huddled under the earth and am now determined to blossom once more for your reading pleasure!

Happy New (warm time of) Year! And Happy Reading!

P.S. If this poem reminded you of a haughty version of that Trace Adkin’s “hate to see her go, but love to watch her leave!” song, then I’m pleased.

*This does make my day job difficult. Emerging from a fort of blankets and hot water bottles to take a zoom call is hellish.

Today I am Gifted

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

I can see.

This is one of those first not-thoughts a baby probably has. You spend nine (coughTENANDAHALF) months cooped up in a dark safe space and then AHHHH AHHHH shluuuurk there’s light and sound and some weirdo counting your offshoots. It’s no wonder we enter this world screaming.

It’s so damn bright.

The mammal eyeball is arguable among scientists to be the most complex evolved organ. There are some biologists, whose papers are still under review, who would like to argue that the jellyfish rhopalia is even more complex, and its mysteries are still hidden within the divine.

To this I resolutely say: So? That’s still an eye. Dang, why are we arguing about eyeballs? Or, excuse me, visual-interpretive physiology.

It’s all very complicated. Pupils and ocellis and gook. Yet not a single one of us: human, jellyfish, bat, butterfly, bird, even those mantis shrimp who can perceive all those extra colors, can adjust to see as fast as a light can shine.

We are all weak to the bursting illumination. It is so damn bright.

Conclusion being, I should not have felt too embarrassed to find out the deafening scream shaking my soul was coming from my own throat.

Because oh my actual God that was an angel.

“Be not afraid.”

“HOLY FUCK!”

“Be not afraid, Steven Winters, for we come with-“

“HOLY. FUCK. WHAT THE HELL.”

There was a long, silent pause. Perhaps they were trying to give me a moment. I needed far more than a moment.

“Steven Winters, we come to you with a-“

“OH MY GOD. SWEET JESUS.”

Perhaps it was the painfully intense rouge of the sunset, but in a short moment of awareness, it seemed that the hundreds of eyes squinted in irritation.

A hum moved through the air.

“Steven Winters, we come to you with a path-“

“OH. MY. GOD. ARE YOU FUCKING ANGELS?”

I was apparently still alive and in a timeline that had some sort of relevance to my own, because I did have a millisecond to recognize this was a stupid question.

Because if not angels, what else were they? Everything I’d heard or seen (admittedly, in amateur horror films) about demons were dark and/or red, and these… Beings? Were, well, I’m not entire sure what color pure light is. I’d like to say white, but it’s more so such a brightness that color bows out of the equation.

I swear I heard a sigh.

“Be not afraid, Steven Winters, we come with good news.”

Oh damn, maybe I was dead.

Because let me tell you- I am no shepherd. I mean, I shepherd a couple technical deployments for government branches who are planning on launching missiles before all the other government branches I also work for do, but I don’t feel like that’s the same as sheep, despite what some politicians say.

The only alive people I could think of that angels spoke to were shepherds and virgins. And thanks to Charlene Carol sophomore year, I wasn’t that either.

“AM I DEAD?”

I could not stop shouting. Honestly, I wished I could. I felt rude. But you see a being made from God’s first drafts and keep a level tone, then you can judge.

“Steven Winters, you shall live. You shall live on the path chosen for you alone, which we bring to you this day and-“

“HOW MANY LANGUAGES CAN YOU SPEAK?”

Where this question came from, I do not know. But I’d been working with our AI agent on understanding foreign characters so I could suggest turn it off and back on again to international spies researchers, so perhaps it was just on the brain.

There was the not-squint again. I was perhaps testing eternal patience.

“We can speak to all His Children, despite their language. You may hear us in your tongue.”

I nodded back as if this was normal. As if my backyard frequently hosted the divine. I glanced towards the grill, abandoned when a great thundering announced the presence of my current guests. Should I offer them a tuna steak? My mother had instilled host priorities deep into my bones, surely that applied to the other worldly. Or this worldly. Next worldly. Whatever.

Plus it would make an okay excuse to get take a second, get my heartbeat under control. I gestured with my tongs at the grill in a (what I hoped was) universal want some? conveyance.

The many eyes opened wider, and an orange shimmer skipped over the many encircling rings hovering a few feet above my bird feeder.

“Yes, Steven Winters. We would love a tuna steak.”

“Faaaaaantastic. Sauce?” Food was a language I understood.

The warm hum filtered through the air again. Then, “We will receive the offering spiced only.”

I pulled the fish from the grill. Despite the unique interlude, it was a perfect medium rare. I plucked a piece of cilantro from my scraggly herb garden and placed it atop the best looking slice.

Hesitantly, I placed the plate at the mossy ground before sticking a fork in the piece I prepared for myself. It had a little char, but I liked it that way.

I opened my mouth to ask how to better serve the angelic being (do they need cutlery?), but before I could, I saw the plate was already empty.

“Thou art kind and artful with the meat given of the waters, Steven Winters.”

“I, uh, thank you,” I said, navigating a large piece into my mouth with my shaking fingers to stop talking. It was indeed the best tuna I had ever cooked. I unashamedly moaned. Must remember to re-up my subscription to Penny’s Spices.

There were several moments of silence passed between us. The evening cooled, the dusk overturned to dark. A few bats soared out from the house I had set up for them, but spotting the bright being, scattered to the trees for shelter. My neighbor loudly strolled his garbage bin to the end of his driveway, waved casually at me, and returned inside.

“Steven Winters.”

“Yes. So sorry. Never had literal divine intervention before.”

“Mmm. Mmhmm. Be not afraid.”

“You very much hesitated that time,” I pointed at it with my fork, because I was clearly insane and apparently manners were the first thing to go, “so I feel like afraid is maybe something I should consider.”

“No, Steven Winters. Thou wilt receive a gift.”

“But is this like a genie gift? Where it seems like a gift but it’s really a curse?”

I knew I was pushing it. My soul ricocheted inside me from the tip of my forehead to my slippered toes, as if pacing itself through my horrible decisions. I couldn’t help myself. I had been a good kid in Sunday school! I knew Abraham had to psychologically torture his own kid. Mary had to leave her home and straight up had to watch her son get killed! Moses gets blocked from paradise, Hagar got lost in the desert, Jacob? maybe Job, it’s been a while, had to freaking wrestle divinity itself! I was not in comfortable angel-witnessing company. Yet I pushed.

“I’m just saying, y’all’s track record-“

“Steven. Winters.”

Oh yeah, I had upset them. Too bad shutting-up was not among my talents: “You have to be at the wrong place.”

Because I was a nobody. Not in the way Mary was a Nobody, quietly descended from King David and righteous in all her actions. No no- I was born a white, dirty blond, 5’9″ Presbyterian, barely baptized by unenthusiastic parents, drank too much and had not made it past a situationship with a reputable woman. These shiny things had landed in the wrong backyard. Or! Or. Or I was having a very hallucinative seizure. I hadn’t quite ruled that out yet.

“The Lord Your God does not lead astray.”

Oh okay, then explain Charlene Carol, but whatever. At least I had almost recovered control of my vocal cords.

“What can I… do for his… His. Lordship?”

The being seemed to shimmer with satisfaction. Cool cool cool.

“Steven Winters. You are shown a path into the wilderness. Your Lord God chooses you to lead His children into a place of safety until the storm hath passed you by.”

Oh good. A Noah-level task. I could barely put my Ikea furniture together with an automatic screwdriver and a six pack. I should really not be trusted with an ark.

Before I could object- and I was going to object- there was a noisy rustling around me. Cinnamon, a deer I had so named due to her gorgeous dusky copper fur, stepped out from my hydrangeas with her spotted twins and several unfamiliar siblings. A raccoon family pulled themselves from under my shed while two possums loaded with their litter skittered down from my half-dead oak trees. The few bats I had thought ran off settled next to the wrens on my fence, as multiple hummingbirds buzzed by my ears. I looked down at my leg to inspect a new sensation, seeing the mainecoon-ish stray cat I’d been calling Booger curling around my feet.

“These… children?”

I turned to set my plate down, but it was gone and my hands were free. Fine.

“Steven Winters.” I swear the voice that made my bones buzz sounded happily tempered now, “Much is to come. You are to go into the mountains. You are to lead His Children up the path. At the peak, where His sun rises and sets, you will find a home where you will remain until you are Called.”

I looked at all the creatures peeking nervously back at me. There were hooves and fangs and wings. I had placed feeders to lure them, traps to dissuade them, and now I was to lead them?

“Well. Alright then,” I felt suddenly solid, decision made, “can I… can I get a stick? A stick seems good.” All the best guys in stories had a stick.

A staff appeared in my right hand. It was twisted gray driftwood, yet sturdy in the soft ground.

“God be with you, Steven Winters.”

The Beings, the light, the tuna steak, were gone.

Just me and my new stick and a bunch of wide-eyed forest creatures.

Cool cool cool.

“Alright gang,” I said, feeling two of the bats settle on the hood of my sweatshirt, “let’s get going.”

The Word

Gifted (adj): having exceptional talent or natural ability.

How many of us were in the “gifted” program in Elementary/Middle/High school? How many of us thought that would do literally anything for us in the adult world?

Me. I did.

It’s several years too late to talk to Gen-X and Millennials about the trauma we accrued from Gifted Programs. But settling into the other side of young-adulthood, it’s really sinking in that no one is coming to deliver us from the regular class to play mathematical board games.

For me, this lesson came HARD in my first job- where my naturally bubbly personality was viewed as ignorant and flirtatious. It wasn’t enough to be right, I had to be right in the right way. I had to dull my gift to be seen as the correct kind of shiny. I hated it, I still hate it, and I feel deeply for a world we could have where we were actually ourselves and the work got done.

Today was a particularly hard day for “gifted doesn’t mean everything is a gift to you” lessons. I stared it in the face, and crumbled. I had to call for backup, I had to rally the reinforcements, I had to drink some wine and cry.

And from that turmoil came Steven Winters. Who is nobody. Who just happened to be exceptionally good at math in his younger years, and although it got him a scholarship, all it’s done since then is make his life monotony. Until he finds a much greater Gift than Gifted is upon him whether he likes it or not.

I hope the same for all us formally-Gifted kids. That, if we haven’t already, we might find that bearing of purpose in a tumultuous sea of expectations. Wouldn’t it be pleasant if someone just told us which way to go? Alas, we are not all Steven Winters.

Just a note- I am totally plugging Penzy’s Spice. Or I tried. But autocorrect kept making it “Penny’s” so I gave up and decided it was a sign about copywright or something. Anyway, Penzy’s Spices is awesome.

Happy reading, my dears. And may a compass always be nearby when you feel lost.

Today I am Mislaid

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

Her cheek is cool to the touch, just as it was the last time I spoke to her. My fingers run across the smoothness of it. Where my index should hitch slightly on a dense scar left from an unlucky training day, it slides unhindered.

Disappointing.

She would have preferred they captured all her truths in the stone. It’s some sort of marble or quartz, I imagine, based on the regal flashes of white and sparkling gray shooting through her unseeing eyes. Though the unruly sea of her hazels are lost, they did manage to capture the feeling that she was always looking beyond the here. I silently commend the artists for this ability. Even now I’m tempted to turn to see what has caught her attention. To catch a glimpse of the world through her eyes.

I resist and quickly walk away before the urge to throw my weight against the object overtakes- before realizing the satisfying crash of precious artwork turned scattered rock across the pathway.

Her cheek should not be smooth.

It should be worn over by sun and wind. Cracked open again and again, scarred over with a larger map of her adventures. It should be wrinkled, crumpled into so many laugh lines as children and grandchildren illuminate her with pride. It should be warm and smiling, paling as her explosive youth fades into relaxed retirement. Not smooth. Not cold. Not gone.

They never mention this part in the prophesies. I suppose it would give too many would-be heroes pause. My first captain had warned us long ago: “The old write, and the young die for the words written.”

And now, the old mourn.

“Why did it have to be you?” I whisper to the garden and then again to the stars. I ask not for the first time, not for the last.

My cheek is wrinkled. Damp now with a few tears I’ll claim are just these old eyes if someone spots me. My name is in history books. History it’s called, already. Though one would not find me in the archives nearly as often as her. For many of the reports and legends, I am just “and her companions.“ No drinking songs tell of those beside her, exult us like the popular “Fair her, our champion, gaze upon her waves! We fight for her, we love for her, she who bears no knaves!” Which no one would believe, but it was I that wrote most of those verses; on a night of deep sorrow and even deeper drinks, and I had just wanted to make her laugh with a rhyme. Like I had when we were children.

There is a painting in one of Levliants’ Great Halls, of our entire company where I am beside her. A carving somewhere in the Alden Library as well, I have been told, with she and I at the front.

Thankfully, most people do not recognize me anymore. For just like her, that version of me has remained unchanged. The song still shouts of a crew strong and sure. The etchings boost of a people with bright eyes and steady souls. Yet I have had the great privilege and punishment to survive beyond such things.

I knew she was The Chosen One from the moment she opened her eyes. She was crying, our mother was crying, hell the nurse was crying from how many hours we had been stuck in that hot room together trying to wrestle my sister into this world.

I swaddled her as the nurse tended my mother, counted her fingers and toes and odd freckles. That baby felt heavy in a strange way. Not in that she was a large one, though she was and my mother never let her forget it. But that I felt I was holding both my baby sister and the weight of the whole world. I feared if I set her down, she would have to carry it all herself. In the months to come, my mother accused me of not letting her learn to walk for saddling her on my hip! So from the moment I set her down, I barely left her side. If the fate of the world was her burden to carry, then she would be mine.

Our people were made from the very first dust. Our stories some of the first spoken. In all of the many tales, there was always a Chosen One, a Special Champion, a Someone that came and saved us all from evil doing. I never imagined I would know one, let alone love one. Never dreamed I would lose one.

The great battles came. The war cries were called. The charges charged. And all happened as it was meant to, according to the lines covered in dust. Even though I stepped in front of her. Even though I watched every move, tried to guard every angle. Still, she stood before everything, and bled.

There will come one, born into a great wailing. Marked with the second moon and evening stars. Only to impart peace upon the grounds with the rain of their very life.

Saving our world, and plunging mine into darkness.

When she last closed her eyes and they took her from my arms to the pyre, it was the lightest she’d ever been.

I follow now the path of the garden to a stand of trees, ducking beneath cobwebs and owls’ nests. Through the darkness, my feet know the way. To the solid stone, cool and dead as she. I pull the vines from its crevasses, my fingers lingering across the rough granite. This is where her memorial should be- where she truly last stood, and from her very self closed the door against the evil that tried to overtake us all.

I press against it, as if it might give way. I swear on the moon I can hear their voices. The voices of the rest of our company, calling and mourning her as they did that first night.

But I am alone. And have to remain.

The Word

Mislaid (noun, past tense): Unintentionally put (an object) where it cannot readily be found and so lose it temporarily.

After a YouTube spiral into cleaning grave markers, I kept coming back to the statues of those lost, and the effect that must have had on those who survived them. What part of a person’s likeness do you honor? The best moment, their most recent, their bravest? And once we’ve chosen- how do we know we are honoring the dead instead of placating the living?

.

.

.

So… who remembers The Called?

***spoiler warning!***

While it remains my constant effort to make each story stand on its own, I do also try to make them part of a whole; I want them to fit together less like puzzle pieces, and more like the rounding hedges of a maze. And if you’ve been here a while, you know the members of The Called pop up in many, MANY of my stories, sometimes obviously, sometimes not so much. I’ve decided to go back and give their solo tales the much needed attention that such dedicated warriors deserve, bringing their stories up to par and ensuring their effects on the series as a whole. But for so long, I have wanted to tell their start. Where did the Door come from? Who locked it, and why? Now we get a glimpse from the other side of the mysterious Door, and a little hint for why it was sealed.

I promise to mark any updated story with some sort of signal, and leave an original somewhere on this blog (for we must honor our mistakes originals).

Happy reading!

P.S. Liked this story? There’s now a Companion Story!

Today I am Furor

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

“Storm.”

“Absolutely not,” she strode across the room to stand just a few feet from me, her long navy jacket flowing behind her like a cape, “you need to take this seriously.”

“I am taking this seriously.”

“No, you’re not. If you were, you’d know we have already had a hundred Storms, and a hundred more variations on Storm: Storm Bringer, Storm Shaker, Storm Leader, Hailstorm, Hailstrum, Tempest, Cyclone, even Icy The Storm- and yes in every language. Squall, Thunder, Thunderstorm, Lightening, Cloudburst-“

“Cloudburst?”

“Yes, it’s when clouds… burst… into a storm.” She was rubbing her temples now. It made the silver streaks she often pushed behind her ears fall forward.

“How about Stratus? Strat-miss?”

“Al’s family tree is clouds, as you well know.”

“Oh, right. How about Gale?”

“Just… no.”

This is not how I imagined this moment going. I thought there would be a little fanfare, some well-mannered celebrating. At least a glass of champagne.

Instead I was in my aunt’s basement, with her friend Tidal, spending more time on my code name than acknowledging that I had passed every single test to get into the Guild of Underground Atmospheric Guardians for Earth, or GUAGE.

I started training when I was eleven years old, after accidentally calling a lightening strike to the neighborhood pool. It was a perfectly sunny summer day, the sky as blue as a berry and clear as glass. A teenage boy wouldn’t stop dunking my little brother and I in the deep end, holding one of us in the water until the other was able to tackle his arm, and then he’d switch victims. My fury and distress manifested as I saw the bubbles rising above my brother again, and the next moment the teen is screaming, lifeguards are whistling like an off key orchestra, and my mother is pulling me from the water, already on the phone with her sister.

“She’s done it,” my mother whispered into the mouthpiece, wrapping towels around my brother and me, “Yes! Lightening. No no, no one’s hurt. Yes, we’re on the way the home- meet us there.” She smiled down at me while the other parents’ faces were creased with worry and shouting for their children.

And then it started. Weekends out in the mountains to practice, tudors for every science class, a full ride to Cornell in Meteorology. While my roommates gallivanted off in search of the next house party, I stayed behind to monitor the tiny cyclone I’d stirred up in my tea mug.

With graduation, came the tests. I had withstood hurricanes, conjured hail, recoiled tornadoes, was even given the Rainbow Ribbon for passing all the trials with literally flying colors. But no, I was disappointing Aunt Lynda because I couldn’t come up with a unique code name.

“Do I have to decide this now?”

“You will be a part of GUAGE for the rest of your life, my dear. You will hopefully have a legacy. And most importantly, everyone in the guild knows you’re my niece. So I cannot have the family name ruined with a bad… family name.”

Her green eyes glinted behind her thick glasses. I think I did sense some pride in there, almost doused by the seriousness she was trying to express to me with her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

“Well, if you’re Disdo-Ma’ameter, maybe I should be an instrument too.”

Her forefinger stopped digging into her right temple so she could place her hand on my shoulder instead, “It’s got to feel right. I appreciate the sentiment, but we don’t need a Baro-Ma’meter and so on. Because then they all start to sound stupid.”

I sat back down in the brown, practically wilting, lazyboy. I watched Tidal watch me for a minute. Then I turned my gaze to the arm of the chair, and began picking at a loose thread.

I’d wanted to be part of GUAGE since the very beginning. When Aunt Lynda burst into our foyer, hair wet with rain and eyes on fire, she scooped me up and held me tightly. “It’s a downpour out there! Well done! We’ve got one, Lacy!” she called to my mother as she twirled me. Then she set me down, pulled a wrinkled and torn journal from her bag, and told me about GUAGE. She held my hand from that moment to when I took my vows, just an hour ago.

“We are the weathermen, the weatherwomen, the weather people of the world. We are the wind in the hurricane, the ice in the blizzard. We are the gauge of the world, for the world. I take these vows to monitor, interpret, and engage with the atmosphere of our world for the betterment of all peoples, everywhere.”

I’d known the lines for a decade. Hell I could say them in Latin.

Next I would get my assignment: Once assimilated into GUAGE, I would be either put onto a search team, or made into a small TV personality to guard my assigned region. I secretly was hoping for the search team. How amazing would it be to scope out the very ends of the earth and even outside of it- to see the real forces we were interacting, and occasionally fighting, with.

But alas, I’d inherited by mother’s cherry curls and my father’s wide mouth, so I was destined to entice the elderly and the morning people with my winning personality on Channel 4. And you know, occasionally keep them alive by taking on the arrant tsunami while making it look like I’d just misread a rain watch. The usual.

“Surge…” I watched her eyebrow rise with suspicion, “…ess? Surgess?”

The eyebrow froze, then softened. Then she turned completely towards Tidal.

He nodded, grumbling, “The last Surgess passed away over 30 years ago, it’s up for grabs and doesn’t have much of its own legacy yet.”

“Then it’s perfect.” Aunt Lynda, the Disdo-Ma’ameter beamed at me finally, “Tidal, let everyone know, Surgess will take her place in Fort Myers by dawn.”

She hugged me tightly, then held me at arms length to stare right at me.

“Fort Myers? Storm central.” I whispered in awe.

“You’ve earned it. So now the real work begins.”

The Word

Furor (noun): An outbreak of public anger or excitement; a wave of enthusiastic admiration, a crazy.

This was directly inspired by the snow predicted for my city being over 4 hours late. And then I got the silly idea that weathermen/women/people predict things wrong on purpose sometimes, for of course superhero reasons- like they’re battling a large ice monster, they need to get an old lady safely back in her house before a hurricane, or they want to get their milk and bread from the store before everyone else.

Sometimes, stories don’t have to have a deeper meaning or magical inspiration. Sometimes, stories and prompts can just be fun. Like a snowday 😉