Tag: fiction

Today I am Haze

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

She had stopped painting. It was too dangerous.

She felt crazy. But what else was she to do? There wasn’t exactly a varnish that could keep creatures from crawling out of one’s canvas.

At least, not one Shay was aware of. And she’d done the research. As she stared at her woefully expensive brushes abandoned on various easels through the room, she briefly wondered if there was a painters’ equivalent of holy water.

It was frightening enough when the frogs’ slimy pads pulled them from her stretched tarp to escape a peaceful pond of her realism practice. She had thought the muffins her kind neighbor had brought her were spiked with something! Or perhaps the family inheritance of madness finally arrived. However, the oily prints of dark viridian across her living room the next morning were not to be argued with. Shay attacked the stains with all the cleaning supplies in her possession, while sage burned uselessly in her studio.

She had thought this was a one-off. Perhaps some superhero or warlock or cursed ancestor had accidentally bewitched her tubes of paints when they were aiming for something else? Just to be sure, she threw out all the colors she’d used for the piece, even her precious tube of discontinued Cadmium Green. Burned the canvas in her backyard fire, just in case.

A full day later when she had regained a calm and driven perspective, she broke in a few paints she bought fresh that morning with a simple portrait of the cardinal that frequented her yard. And as the carmine-crested duplicate flew gracefully from underneath her brush sweep to join his twin on the feeder, Shay admitted that she might be the problem.

Trying to do the sensible thing, she made a number of appointments. Her ophthalmologist said she may need readers in a few years, but that all was generally well. The neurologist insisted she passed the cognitive test “with flying colors”. When the phrase sent Shay into a cold sweat, he encouraged her to see a psychologist. Shay nodded shakily and added it to her list. It turned out her psyche was fine too- except a little locker room thing with her high school bully over twenty years ago which she’d apparently repressed. She thanked the kind eyed doctor and took the prescription for an insurance-approved Zoloft variance, stuffing it to the very bottom of her purse. She was pretty sure her anxiety was magical-paint-creatures-in-her-house based, not high school or chemical. But she did use the card he’d given her for a recommended therapist to set up weekly check-ins as a precautionary measure.

She briefly considered making an appointment with a priest or maybe a witch. However, she was concerned the former would consider her the demonic spirit that needed excising and she had no idea how to even find the latter. That left her the only option of just accepting her new reality. After a while, she no longer minded the conceptual frogs that had taken over her rain-soaked patio. Or the abstract lavender mists that now clung to her ceiling. Not even the miniature tigers that were basking in the soft light of her violet’s grow-lamp.

The hulking vermillion being that hid in her guest bathroom was probably an issue. And she didn’t know if it hid there for its own protection or hers.

So she’d stopped painting all together as well as inviting people over. Afraid that the ravenous creativity that woke her in the night or shook her as she paged through her favorite novel would create something a little less contained, so to speak.

Thus far, this unworldly happening had only taken control of her new tub, the living room chandelier, the plant stand, the bird bath, and one bathroom. She still had a functioning kitchen, living room, and most of her upstairs suite. But what if her colors led her towards a phoenix? Her strokes cast out a devil within? She was sure her antique coffee tables wouldn’t survive such an experience and she was not positive of her own chances either.

She doubled her dose of melatonin at night, paired it with chamomile tea, and selected only the most mundane of beach books for her leisure. She even kept the TV strictly on the Hallmark channel, fearing inspiration.

And it was going relatively well. For one, the frogs seemed to respond to commands, despite the language barrier.

“Stay within my yard- from that leaning cypress to the shed. If y’all go any further, I don’t know who will see you or what they’ll do with you. And whoever left half a fly in the tub better finish it!”

The mists responded not to words (“Shoo!” made them vibrate in a way that looked suspiciously like laughter). But they did seem to understand handwaving when they had lowered too far into Shay’s field of view- obstructing windows or her laptop screen. They were apparently especially ladened by rainy days, and in these circumstances Shay found herself flaying so often that her smartwatch prodded her to record the exercise.

The vermillion being, which after her fear had dissipated Shay had begun to affectionately call “Red”, seemed to just want to be alone. It was the most like her, Shay mused, as she’d downed a pint of mint chip ice cream to recover from a particularly rousing therapy session. So after several nights of its wailing, she slid a few chocolate-covered caramels under the door. The creature went quiet, and they had been communicating via junk food ever since.

But as much as she had found a rhythm with her accidental adoptees, she still feared very much bringing a new one to this world.

And of course because that is how life goes, exactly three weeks, one day, and nine hours after she made the decision to never paint again, she was offered her first featured gallery showing.

She stared at the email, heartbroken. There had been a few small galleries in which she’d been a participant. And the Fall Into Arts Festival crowd was always rewarding. But this was from the Upstate Leonard Flats Art Gallery, one of the most respected galleries on the coast. And they wanted not for her to participate, but to be the featured artist of an event and showings through the following week!

Shay paced around her studio. Who had learned of her? That pearled woman at the farmer’s market? A silent devotee? More importantly- were there enough already completed pieces that would suffice? There had not been an instance of canvas-escape after drying, the paint had always been wet. But Shay had no confidence that there were defined rules to this happening. She counted and recounted her boards and frames and even small sketches. There were just enough if she included even the less inspired pieces, but a place like the ULF would expect some sort of theme!

There was the set of mountains from autumn, and the eerie lake she’d done last spring. She unearthed russet scapes of rock sheers and her best charcoal sunset. She began to see a “Nature’s Shadows” title card in her mind; heard soft classical music pared with subtle bird song as the participants wandered. Perhaps a polyptych of a dark forest in some form of lighted concealment could pull it all together-

A soft lavender tendril settled on her shoulder.

Her racing thoughts halted. Then she took a deep, deserving breath. She waved the wisp away with one hand and with the other caught a tear trying to fall down her cheek.

She could not do the gallery. How could she risk all those people? What if the jaguar on her rock ledges decided it too wanted life? Or if she took on the forest panels, what would emerge from them? A simple sapling, or the shadows themselves? It could not be done. To hold off the fear, she dove into the self pity and pulled a chardonnay bottle from her fridge before dragging herself to the tub for scalding sanctuary, a lounging frog leaping out of her way. Perhaps a good soak, inside and out, could steady her to answer the email with a polite, inexplicable “Thank you, but no thank you.”

Some time later, the bottle was gone. She was unsure how much later but the water had begun to run cold. At the same time, growling shook up the stairs and into her hiding place.

“Not NOW, Red!” She shouted.

There was a moment of silence, and then another growl that curled into almost a full roar.

“Oh my god!” Shay pulled herself free of the bath, wrapping her robe on her damp limbs. She stomped down the stairs and into the cupboard, grabbing the entire container of Oreos from the shelf and whipping it under the guest bathroom door.

“Happy?” She cried at the door. “HAPPY?!” she yelled up at the mist. “Are you HAPPY?!” She screeched towards the patio.

Then she fell to her knees in her living room and wept.

A sliding sound finally made her look up. The container of Oreos had been pushed back out the bathroom, without a one missing.

Shay sniffled. “I’m sorry, Red,” she whimpered, as she peeled open the package. She was unsure about Red’s opposable-thumb situation, but had indeed learned it liked things opened before offering.

She snuck two cookies out of the sleeve before pushing the plastic back into the bathroom.

But not a moment later, it came sliding out again.

Shay stared at the Oreos. They were double-stuffed! What junk food lover was going to turn their nose up at that?

But going to the fridge would be an excuse to start on the Pinot Grigio, so she selected a couple slices of leftover pizza as well. She took several swigs as the plate warmed in the microwave and as she walked back to the guest bath, realized the mists were hanging awfully low. In the dim light of a bright moon, she also spotted several frog outlines suckered against the window, peering in.

“I’m sorry for yelling, everyone,” she cooed, “it’s not your fault… I don’t think. I am just sad about the gallery, is all.”

She slid the plate of pizza through a small crack in the door. Another growl and it also returned untouched.

“What the hell, Red? I wasn’t that mean. And you gotta eat- I know you.”

She stared down at the offending pizza. Swallowed another slice herself. Then she knocked on the door, “I knoooow what you want, big guy- girl- …friend. Be right back.”

Returning to the pantry, she moved several boxes and jars until she got to the back where she’d hidden the two boxes of Girl Scout Samoas. For emergencies. She and Red agreed that these were the fastest fix to just about anything: Longing, anxiety, fear, cute guy at the coffee shop didn’t like your hair pin? Coconut covered in chocolate and caramel, sitting heavenly atop a cookie.

She pulled a sleeve from the box, arranged them on a flowered tea plate, and cracked the door just long enough to slide them in.

Thinking the situation dealt with, she grabbed her bottle from the floor and was headed to the couch when she once more heard the sound of a door quickly open and shut.

And there was the plate of cookies. Only one missing.

“Red, what do want?! I can only get those like once a year! Do you know how precious my stock of these is?!”

An authoritative growl responded.

“Well I never.” Shay looked towards the ceiling, “do y’all know anything about this?”

The mists only glistened in response.

The growling began once more, the volume increasing exponentially. She feared her neighbors were about to call complaining she was listening to the Animal Channel too loud, or that they suspected she’d illegally adopted a lion. Neither was as far from the truth as she’d like, but she just could not deal with that right now.

“Red, please-” she pressed herself to the door separating them, “what’s wrong? What can I get you?”

Growls again in response. But this time, slightly higher pitched. Was that… whining? In their, although brief, months together she had never heard Red whine.

She slumped back against the bathroom door, sliding to the floor hopelessly (though careful not to tilt her fresh bottle too far).

“Red… did you hear me venting about the gallery email?”

A melancholy roll of thunder answered.

“But I can’t. As much as we understand each other, no one else would. It would…” Shay took a long swig of the Pinot Grigio, “…it would be a disaster.”

Silence fell on her home.

The frogs did not croak a single toon. The mists stilled. Red refused to respond. It was the first moment in weeks that Shay wondered if all had been imagined.

A sharp trill shot through the air- Shay’s painted cardinal crossed from her patio through the glass door to rest on her left knee.

As she stared at it, her inebriated eyes attempting to settle on its shifting shades, he whistled and trilled again.

In response, the frogs began a low melody. Mists twirled in the space of her ceiling, as if dancing a smart fox trot to the sound.

“And you, Red?” Shay whispered towards the door.

A low, slow purr emitted from the dark space beyond.

“Alright,” she stood, wine bottle still in hand, “Fine. I hear you. We’re doing the gallery!”

There was much celebratory cacophony, and whether it was the sounds or the wine, Shay was determined once again.

… … …

Shay walked up and down the marble floor more confidently than she felt any right to be, as the main lights were dimmed and the illuminating LEDs brought up.

She held a local merlot in her hand, the stemless glass grasped so tightly her knuckles blanched, but none of the gallery associates seemed to notice.

Instead they nonchalantly hastened through what must have been their usual routine- duster in one hand, check list in another. Halfway up the translucent stairs, a woman with a gray streaked asymmetrical haircut barked last orders:

“What is the spacing on Mountains Two and Abbreviated Sunset? From here it’s ungodly- put another quarter of an inch between them! Marline, straighten those pamphlets on reception. Who has the cheese boards? I want the white cheddar thrown right out. Havarti on all the tables to complement the soft shading. No, Camden, a quarter of an inch, not a football field! Fourteen minutes people, I need you to look alive!”

Shay had not realized what a vital part of her artistic growth cheese selections might play, but she was grateful that a professional was weighing in.

What she had very much realized was that this evening may take a turn that the gallery associates had not planned for. How to warn them? There was no sane way to do so. So Shay held her tongue, pleading silently to whoever might listen.

But when the cool, halituous mists began to fill the space, it was clear Shay had not arrived solo. She tried to subtly motion for them to go back home, glaring at the misbehaving vapors. However, as the patrons slowly filtered in, many remarked on the amazing “special effects” the gallery had introduced. Shay worked very hard not to make eye contact with the panicking gray-haired-cheese-queen.

The gallery filled to a comfortable crowded. The “ooh”s and “aah”s and “my, what fabulous strokes!” made Shay’s heart flutter happily. She wanted to hope.

As she was speaking with a lovely couple who were quite proudly, and loudly, the daughter and son-in-law of an Americans for the Arts board member, a short man in the gallery’s full black uniform tapped her elbow, “It’s time, Miss Flairstone.”

Shay nodded, “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course!” Bellowed the gentleman, “That’ll give Miriam a chance to pick who of yours is going home with us!” as the two walked off in laughter.

Shay smiled in return, but was a little bothered by how accurate that phrase might be.

As she strode past each painting, she whispered: “Stay still, stay still, please God stay still.” She did so with a thread of lavender tickling her throat. It had perched on her shoulder like a loyal parrot, and Shay was almost comforted by its presence. But when a growl from the backroom sounded more familiar than it should, Shay practically jogged to the bottom of the staircase to begin her speech.

“Thank you all for coming! I am Shay Flairstone.”

The room filled with polite applause and happy murmurings. Out of the corner of her eye, Shay could see the gallery manager speaking with the curator. The gray eyebrows were raised slightly in curious concern. Shay quieted Red in her heart, but could do no more in the moment. So she continued.

“These works follow my inner travel from brilliant sunrise to encompassing sunset, and all the shadows in between.” Gesturing broadly to the room and up the stairs, as the curator had coached her.

“Light has always been both friend and foe to the artist. In its brilliance and in its hiding, we find moments that can stir hope, fear, joy, and even that tingly feeling you cannot decide if you like or not.”

There was a smattering of soft laughter and knowing nods.

“These paintings can be taken in at any order, though if you would like a path, you may take sunrise at the top of the stairs down into the night, or begin by the drink counter to lift yourself from the evening into the morning. I hope you enjoy, relate, and introspect.”

Another round of polite cheering, then she was swallowed by the embrace of the crowd.

“Well done, dear,” the curator whispered in Shay’s ear, whipping past her to greet a bejeweled older woman, “My lady, how wonderful for you to join us again!”

Shay was quite sure her duties were far from done.

She had her glass refilled and then stuck to the corners. She forced a small smile on her face that she hoped made her look more mysterious artist than nervous wreck.

She listened as hard as she could for another growl. All she heard were the interested conversations of the wanderers.

“I just love her play with blues. Don’t you, dear? One of the ‘Dusk’s would really complement the foyer, maybe both.”

“The change in cloud coverage shows a change in the mind, I think.”

“Have you been up to see ‘Dawn Over a Scandal’? It may be my favorite.”

“I think I’m favoring these- look how they practically jump from the wall!”

“No, I agree. Some of the midday works are very reminiscent of a Mark Voltense. There was clearly a little inspiration there. You know we have one of his at the lake house-“

“The ‘Twilight on a Free River’ almost moved me to tears! We’ll have to at least get a print done, if someone has already nabbed the original.”

Shay dared to relax for a moment. The people were pleased. The mists were pleased! She gazed up at them as they shimmered and shook, happily shifting from one conversation to another as they swept over the hanging globe lights.

But then, in the middle of a sip, she heard it.

Stretching canvas.

She nearly choked, felt the sour ping of wine up the back of her throat into her nostrils. The young associate from earlier appeared at her side, placing a hand at her back.

“Miss, are you alright? Can I get you a water? Do you need to step aside?”

Shay reached out and shook her head. He took her clammy hand and held it until she caught her breath.

“No, thank you. I’m alright.” She half wheezed.

He winked at her, “It happens to new artists at their first show all the time. I’m Daniel, if you need a place to hide for a second, just call for me.”

She squeezed his arm gratefully but knew hiding was the last option she had. With one more encouraging smile, he disappeared back into the throng. Shay followed a moment after him, stopping briefly at each painting.

Not you, not you, not you, good girl Midnight Moonflower, thought it’d be you. Wait, where is-?

Another growl from the backroom. A deep, displeased growl.

It had to be the ‘Eclipsed Company.’ Red had howled and stomped the entire time Shay had spent reworking the darkened figures. It was indeed as she had feared with dream inspiration; woken in the middle of the night and called to her canvas half mad. She’d sketched two strange beings, their shadows gone with the lack of sun, but an unearthly glow about their feet as they gazed at the stars. Shay had meant to speak on the inverse of the soul that can be caused by rare happenings. Instead, it seemed she had again birthed chaos.

Red had practically gone feral when Shay awoke the next morning and began coloring the sketch, determined for it to be a focus point of her gallery.

“It will be fine, Red. We have over a week for it to dry and wreak havoc. If it doesn’t, it’s going. You’re the one who got us into this anyway!” She had slipped a bag of Cheetos under the door as an olive branch.

But she’d been wrong. The Eclipse Figures were turning, moving from their luminous world. She strode up to the painting where it stood center on the front wall, unsure of what she could possibly do.

“No no no,” she whispered at the wall, “please calm back down. I can’t, I can’t do this. You can’t do this!” Several pairs of eyes turned towards her, and she tried to return a weary smile. Maybe they would just think she was insane? That was really the best outcome.

But there was no denying the pale foot that stepped slowly out onto the marble floor, its place on the stippled, mossy field left empty. Then another. And the being stood before her.

Its companion followed soon after, their faces only the bleached wan of a human. Still Shay felt when she looked into their eyeless sockets, she saw wondering turbulence.

They gazed at her for a long moment. She felt frozen, ice inside and out. Why had she kept painting? Why did she put all these people in danger- for her own pride? For money? A drop of sweat pearled at her temple. Why had she made them? Why her?

A loud growl was her only response.

The gallery was silent.

Another growl, louder and closer. When she turned, Shay saw the shadow of something large break the light under the back entry door.

A squawking “What the hell was that?” piped from the back of the room.

The mists crowded around her like a fluid armor.

She turned again to her specters.

“I see you.” She whispered, then slightly louder, steadier, “You are my shadows. Blank and unknowing, like me. But I understand now. I- we, are not trapped by the shades. We are a part of them.”

The first figure tilted its head, looking somehow, at Shay with kindness. The other seemed to smile, though Shay could not describe how she knew.

Then in a moment, they reached out their arms, and the mists flew forward to envelope the figures.

Shay gasped. A sharp, not unpleasant, pain shot through her chest- like sweet lightening. When she opened her eyes, the mists were shimmering along the ceiling again, dancing along the staircase railing and the figures were gone.

The room erupted in applause.

“My god, what a display!”

“I can’t believe it, brilliant!”

“Here, here! Cheers to the performers!”

“I have never seen anything like that!”

“Don’t you just love when they’re interactive?”

Shay was again pulled into the fray.

“That was so authentic!”

“Was this a display of your own mortality or on mortality in general?”

“Voltense could never, we must have you up at the lodge for a showing, simply must!”

Shay glanced to the back entry door, where there was no shadow any longer. She reached out to Red deep within herself, and found the tired creature at home, at rest.

The mists, however, were pleasantly pleased to continue the party. They shook and shimmered for all to see late into the night.

When Shay said her goodbyes, twice apologizing to the distressed gallery manager as well as the charmed curator for no warning on her “impromptu performance,” she called an Uber to take her back to the hotel. She told the driver the strange haze accompanying her was simply her vape pen acting up.

And then she slept. For nearly 14 hours, she slept unceasing.

Bright eyed and bushy tailed, she greeted the rest of the week’s gallery showings with a light heart. Many of those who entered had heard of the remarkable performance and Shay would have to gently chide. “Oh how I wish you could have been here for the opening! It was really exclusive escapade into the theme.” This seemed enough to satisfy most, and they would continue around the space exchanging gossip and placing bids.

On the drive home she took the scenic route, stopping occasionally to take pictures of noon on a mountain or midday on a small town. She made sure to pick up a bag of saltwater taffy from a roadside general store, as well as an atrocity called grape pie that she knew Red would favor.

By the end of her drive, only the stars were awake. Shay hummed quietly to her home, watching the sleepy mists settle back into their space and listening for the whistling snores of her frog-filled backyard. She set the treats by the bathroom door, only hearing a soft drowsy rumble.

“Not a curse, but a blessing,” she said to the fresh, blank canvas, reaching for a brush.

The Word

Haze (noun): 1. A slight obscuration of the lower atmosphere, typically caused by fine suspended particles. 2. A state of mental obscurity or confusion.

First- a quick note: Neither the Upstate Leonard Flats Gallery, nor Mark Voltense, are real. They may echo real things, (enter the Fictional Events disclaimer from films here) but I assure you, I made them up for this story.

Alright, now down to our talk:

This story took me a while. Sometimes inspiration strikes and I get a story out in one evening and 3 glasses- done. This one took several weeks as I wrote and rewrote Shay’s relationship with her art. “Haze” is something I think anyone who has ever even tiptoed on the creative side of the brain can understand.

When trying to achieve something artistic, it can feel a multitude of ways: freeing, elating, bright, heavy, etc. But a very common feeling for those who would like to reach the mountaintop of creativity a second time, is that foggy, drenched feeling. How will I trudge through this? Which way do I go if I cannot see the top through the clouds?

Shay had to embrace her obstructed view. It was the only way to survive. And for many of us, that’s probably true. We cannot wait for perfect clarity. We must move as one with the mists, up to the peak.

It was interesting to be a writing artist talking about a painting artist. I am drawn to the commonalities and differences often, and I suspect we will see Shay again.

Happy reading!

PS: If you caught my red wine joke, extra kudos to you 😉

Today I am Passage

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Strength

The Story

“Finish your drink, it’s time to go.”

He stares at the overly fancy ice block in his glass. It cost him an extra two dollars with its imposed presence, and now it may last longer than he.

“I just ordered this, and I’ll get indigestion if I chug it. Hate to greet the end with a rude belch. How about I buy you one so you’re not just sitting there waiting on me?”

“You’re not the first to try this tactic.”

“Not a tactic, just a pretty good vodka and soda.” He lifted the glass so Death could admire the flower-cut lime sitting on the rim.

Death turned its head slowly, then pulled itself silkily onto the stool beside him. A shadow of a wave to the bartender, who saw only a tall patron she couldn’t quite place.

Two fingers of whiskey were set before the harbinger.

“I always figured you’d be a red wine guy.”

“Stereotypes.” Chuckled Death.

“How’d you land on whiskey, then?”

Death paused for a moment, and the man began to think it’d somehow been a rude question.

“I was in Ireland for too long, long ago. Many of them greeted me kindly, despite the suffering of their last. I suppose I caught the habit there.”

The man nodded solemnly, “My mother was Irish actually, came here to act but fell in love with my dad.”

“I know.”

“Do you know everything?”

“Yes, but not all the time.”

“I bet a lot of us ask you what it was all for, then.”

“A fair amount, but fewer than you would think…”

They each took a sip of their drinks.

“…are you going to be one who asks?”

“Well if there’s an answer, I suppose it’s best to know.”

The figure shifted, in what might have been an agreeable shrug. 

“It is for what is next.”

“Wait-“ the man set his glass down as gently as possible, as if making a sound would be too painful in this moment. “All of this,” he whispered as he peered to each corner of the bar, “is just prep work? For what?”

“What is next. All things are for what comes after them. All that proceeds is exactly that- proceeding to the following.”

The man held perfectly still, “So all of life… is for death?”

“That is not what I said.”

The man thought for a hard moment, then released his tense shoulders, nodding again. He took a gentle sip from his drink, the ice still mostly intact.

They sat in silence for several moments.

“Are you afraid?”

“Are many?”

“It’s hard to tell with some. Bravery does not erase fear, nor does acceptance, but I would hate to count those among them as simply afraid.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

Death “hmm’d” a maybe.

“I suppose I am a bit. I did alright. Just not sure I did alright enough, ya know? If there’s a… next.”

The figure tipped his glass, the whiskey within swirling wistfully before he took a swallow.

“Often, alright is enough. At least to me. In these days, alright is quite good.”

“Good for…?”

“Indeed.”

“Then friend, what is it for us?”

The bartender plucked the two glasses from before the empty stools, pouring a nearly melted ice cube out into the sink.

They’d left her quite a nice tip, those gentlemen, for being such easy customers. She would be extra kind the next time they came in. She could not remember their faces right this moment, but hoped she would when they returned.

The Word

Passage: 1. (noun) The act or process of moving through, under, over, or past something on the way from one place to another. 2. (noun) A narrow way, typically having walls on either side, allowing access between buildings or to different rooms within a building; a passageway.

Passages and journey vs. destination have been on my mind a lot lately, as I am betting they have been for many of us in different ways. Especially as we make it through the first month of 2025. January always feels so much more like the stalling between one year and the next, rather than a beginning. And sometimes that’s good- to stall, to rest. And sometimes that sucks- to be stuck, to endure. It’s that middle place with an odd feeling as if things are happening to you rather than with you. I hope you have gotten rest, and endured, friendly readers.

…also was it obvious that each corner of the bar is meant to be each corner of the world, but just this guy’s current world in the moment? I’m trying to coach myself into not being so AND HERE WAS THE METAPHOR but I’m wondering if I’m pulling back tooooo much. Let a gal know!

Happy reading!

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 😉

Today I am Fatigue

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

Many of the shops along the main thoroughfare have changed throughout the years. They had changed signs, changed sales, changed paint colors. And when those didn’t work, they changed hands, changed trade, changed customers. The past decade had been particularly difficult on the half cobblestone half paved street, and several of the shops were now shuttered. Only lonely “Available for Rent or Purchase” signs gathering dust in their once vibrant windows gave any hint that there had been life within.

The Grudgery had no such issues.

The Grudgery stood healthy and strong in the same building for nearly eight centuries. There had been a few improvements over the years, like the addition of a modern roof in the early 1800s (this had upset a few of the older regulars and many of the town rodents, but did pick up business during rainy season). There was also a rumor about a big fire that had attempted to take the whole street, let alone the whole town, a few years prior and that’s why one of the walls bellowed a bit inward. Though the size of the fire, when it was, and how many buildings it successfully scorched depended on who you asked and what time of day they answered.

The building had stood through so many historical battles, occasionally serving its citizens as hospital or hideout, and city reconstructions, always having just enough documentation to grandfather itself past new regulations, that some believed it may be the oldest building on the coast. Others would grunt and hum and frivolously claim that it must actually be a new building, just styled artistically to look so aged and worn to fool misguided tourists. But the only real change since its first founding were a few flakes of a putrid pink paint along the counter where an overly enthusiastic waitress had tried to “spruce up the place.” But both she and the color had been banned come the following morning.

For the most part though, The Grudery remained the very same since the moment Mrs. O’Harliot stopped her Grutchers’ cart in front of the block on the blossoming boulevard, poured her bag of coins into the proprietor’s hands, and stated she would cart no further. Patrons would now come to her.

The large wooden door with its large iron handle led into a cooling stone floor- mismatched slabs pulled from the surrounding land and smoothed over by many feet and much time. Upon the stones rested several small tables, none of which matched either. Two were beautiful oak, carved with lacy leaves and intricate vines by a thankful carpenter. One was a wispy iron rescued when a tea shop went out of business. Three were just great lengths of the trunk of a proud oak that had once stood at the end of the street. When it was cut for town expansion, Mrs. O’Harliot told the workers they’d all be cursed to have felled such a beast, and then had her sons roll the trunk into her building before it could be turned into lumber. No one knew where the chairs came from, but there were always enough.

The counter was made from the same pine forests as the walls and door. Indents marked where many a man had leaned up to it, pretending to read the scrawly labeled bottles on the tall shelves behind it as they made up their minds. The burls were little tide pools of history, telling of customers’ circling fingers as they unburdened their wares.

And between the well worn wooden counter and the glass filled shelves was a young woman. Not young in the sense of today’s world and not young in the sense of yesterday’s world, for in both she should have probably been married off or shut up in her father’s attic by now. But young in the sense that she only had one singular strand of gray hair intertwined with her blond and had not yet seen the world.

She did however know her job and it was to carry on as Mrs. O’Harliot had wanted, and run The Grudgery. And she was old enough to know not to disappoint one’s ancestors, nor one’s customers.

The Grudgery had both its regulars and its new comers. The regulars were usually ushered in by a knowing family member or friend when the time was right, and brought into the tradition of having a refreshing draft at “the ol’ Grudge” before going about any important business. If they were regular enough, the resident O’Harliot would make a drink specifically for that family line to suit their tastes.

New comers would fall onto the place, having trudged through the streets with a black cloud above their heads, or a worry about their shoulders, and their feet had decided that a stop at The Grudgery was needed. The unsuspecting patron would lean tiredly into the heavy door and be pleasantly surprised by the peaceful air welcoming them into the large room. Even on the rare occasion when there was little company, there seemed to be amiable murmurings of conversation floating about the space.

They’d cross the floor, each step feeling a bit lighter, and finally lean against the large counter, admiring the wall of swirling contents.

“Evening,” the young woman would chirp, no matter the time of day, “what can I do for you?”

And the customer would partake in a tradition of bars and bartenders that has been ongoing since the first wheat was fermented and poured from cup bearer to cup holder. Yet here it was done before a cork or tab or tap was even touched.

“I cannot stand my boss- always egging me on like that!”

“We’ve been fighting like feral cats again, but I know she loves me.”

“I have to see my father-in-law and he owes me still, but I can’t upset my grandma by bringing it up.”

“They’re my child, and I want them happy, but if I hear ‘it’s my dream!’ after the last fourteen dreams? I may defenestrate myself.”

The young woman would nod, knowingly, just as her mother had nodded before her, and her’s before that, and her’s before that, all the way back to the great nodding of Mrs. O’Harilot with her traveling cart.

“I see, that sounds like a lot to carry,” or some variation of a comfort, “why don’t you take a seat and one of our waitresses will bring you something in just a moment?”

Then the youngest Miss O’Harliot would turn to the shelf and pull a few bottles, think for a moment, put a bottle back and pull a box of herbs or a jar of dried produce. She carefully measured each of her chosen ingredients into either a shaker or a teapot or a mug, and then blend or steep or froth as necessary. She would call for a waitress from the backrooms to deliver the drink to the customer’s table so that she could help the next. Because there was frequently a steady stream at her counter.

The waitress would set the drink down with a smile, perhaps a “careful dear, it’s hot” or an “enjoy, love!” The patron, still not entirely sure how they found this tranquil place, would take a hesitant taste and find themselves indulging in a combination of complex flavors, none of which they could ever later recall. Had it been quite earthy, like a matcha? They thought perhaps. But also a bit sweet, with a drop of fruity cordial maybe. On second thought, it had been delightfully warm and spicy. Or, was it bright and tangy? No matter. It had charmed the spirits and the next time they felt so down, they would go to that nice little hole in the wall again.

Because they weren’t so irritated with their boss anymore, were they? They understood her perspective and would be more fair next time they spoke.

Or wasn’t there always two sides to an argument with a partner? Better to make up or break up rather than this round-and-round mess.

And can’t be upsetting Grandma, we’ll just forgive father-in-law the favor, but not forget if asked again.

And so what if a child dreams more than a thousand times? We’ll support, just with a little more caution.

The weight fell away with each satisfying swallow, allowing the deeper emotions beneath to surface and take their rightful place. As each unburned traveler savored their last sip and took their leave, the waitress would appear again, clearing the empty cup as well as the coins or bills or gems or keepsakes which were left in payment.

“You have a good evening, sweetie! Come back and see us anytime!” And they often did.

It was rare, but there was the occasional unsatisfied customer. They would storm back in days or weeks later, angry and flustered. Stating they had lost their ability to indulge, to converse, and wasn’t this the last place they were before it happened!

Miss O’Harilot’s mother had turned these types away, trying to save them from themselves. The younger was more like her ancestor and did not bother with such things. She simply poured the flustered individual a glass of tap water from the old copper spigot, threw in a kernel that looked suspiciously like an acorn, and slid it across the bar. As the un-customer downed it, she had a waitress bring them their refund and pointed firmly at the door.

The other unique kind of customer was the type Miss O’Harilot refused to take payment from. She had been taught to see the difference in the weight of their shoulders, of the dark circles under their eyes. These she would take to a quiet corner table herself, with a large teapot of plain chamomile tea, and say “Dear, you must hold on to this one for a while, for your own good. You’ll come back again, when it’s time to let it go.” She would have a waitress sit with them until they were ready to leave, and make sure they knew the way back. She was always very pleased to see these customers a second time.

For The Grudgery was a place for all kinds, and all kinds for a place. It was why it had lasted so long, and had served both king and commoner, tops of family trees as well as the very roots of them.

You are welcome at The Grudgery, as well. Perhaps you wandered down this street looking for that bookshop a local spoke about, or a spot for lunch before your next meeting. Instead you’re enticed by the swinging sign with an old cart and donkey carved deep into its grain. The wooden walls of the place have groaned through countless storms and yet the door does not creak to announce your entrance. The weather outside has been as cloudy as your mind and you flinch at the idea of making a mess, but the mud caking your boots does not seem to mar the stone floors as you make your way in. Several seated patrons smile up at you, some lifting their mugs in greeting. A larger group points to an unoccupied chair at their table without stilling their conversation, offering that you join their party if you’d like. You nod in thanks but settle into one of the wooden barstools.

“Evening,” chirps the young woman at the bar, her eyes are as shining as the hundreds of colorful bottles behind her, “what can I do for you?”

The Word

Fatigue: (noun) 1. Extreme tiredness resulting from mental or physical exertion or illness. 2. Weakness in materials, especially metal, caused by repeated variations of stress. (verb) 1. Cause someone to feel tired or exhausted. 2. Weaken a material, especially metal, by repeated variations of stress.

I was thinking how nice it would be to just, set a grudge down for a bit, because it’s very tiring to carry around. I know I’m supposed to be a mature adult and like, let gooooo of a grudge or deal with it. But you know, in the meantime before I’m ready to do that work, it’d be nice to set it down for a bit. I feel like my Grudgery drink would probably be pina’ colada flavored. That seems grudge-deleting to me.

Anyway. I also really liked the idea of a building being the main character rather than a person, and I wanted to play with that idea. The O’Harilot line certainly comes in and is a secondary-main but I feel The Grudgery is alive enough on its own, or at least that’s my goal here. But I found it kinda hard to finish. Buildings can’t exactly ride into the sunset, you know? So this ending may change or I might give it another go, we’ll see.

Thanks for being here, reader! Happy reading!

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

Today I am Hectic

On By TheQuilledSisterIn Uncategorized

The Story

Honestly, the apocalypse had been dreadful.

Not just dreadful with the multiple mutating viruses and the earthquakes and dead crops and the fire tornados and the crazy bunker people and the evolved rats with the revengeful pigeons and of course the new volcanos. And then the bunker people being driven out of said bunkers by the evolved rats and then the revengeful pigeons taking out said vengeance on the emerging populace and what not…

But also because it had become dreadfully boring.

At least for Todd.

Todd didn’t have any women or children to save. He’d been checking the grievous ‘Single’ box on his taxes for several decades now. He wasn’t near any of the fault lines, so the earthquakes hadn’t been too much of a bother, except the losing of thousands of his fellow man, supposedly. Similar with the other terrible ‘natural occurrences’. The pigeons were mostly a New York issue, but the news made it sound like it was world-wide, because it was New York. The screaming was a bummer; he had been awfully sensitive to loud noises ever since his cousin let off a firework next to his ear in their teens.

Todd was a finance lawyer for a large import firm, and the import/export business was a reliably good tell for the temperature of the world at large. When things started slowing down this season (between the third Jamaican ice storm and the second great migration of mammals into the sea), the rich CEOs had chosen to quietly fly off to their tertiary vacation houses in the Alps instead of spitting expletives at their secretaries and VPs.

So Todd checked his spreadsheets. Nope, no laundering. He did a swift kitchen-gossip round, nothing shifty there; the protest up North was getting loud again and Martha-in-Marketing was on her third affair partner, but that’s all the busy bodies were talking about.

Still, something was rumbling deep in his chest and it wasn’t the extra large gyro he’d scarfed for lunch. He knew this feeling: time to bug out.

He’d gotten this feeling a few times before. When he was a young heart throb, long before the salt started to take over the pepper in his goatee, there was a traditional rootin’ tootin’ bonfire down by the creek back in his home town. His old pack was celebrating before they all took off for college, or trade school, or the Navy- and the hormones were loose that summer night, along with all the cheap alcohol they could find. About halfway through a second Coor’s and midway down a redhead’s sweaty neck, that feeling hit Todd. He tried to ignore it. It wouldn’t go away. He set the beer down, hopped on his bike, and made sure ol’ man Fuller waved back as he passed the gas station. Todd even made it in time to have dessert with his parents and get yelled at by his father for smelling like beer. But it was well worth the price of several witnesses saying he was home when the fight by the creek broke out. Two boys had been killed- one with a gun nobody knew about and the other when he slipped into the water, too drunk to crawl back out.

Another instance was the eve of his sister Leia’s wedding. Todd had never been a big fan of fiancé Gus, but had done his best to welcome him in to the family. Still there Todd was, holding one end of a table runner off the ground so his mother could iron it and the feeling came. He dropped that runner and left the room at a sprint, his mother screeching behind him. Todd found Leia in the master suite of the house, petting her veil as if it was a nervous panther.

I’ll drive. Go anywhere you like, just let’s go.

I can’t. She whispered back. It’s far too late.

Less than a year later, Gus wrapped his little sports car around an oak with Leia in the passenger seat.

So Todd listened to his gut when it spoke.

He slipped his laptop and phone into the backpack stashed behind his office door. After a short thought, he grabbed the coffee canteen off his desk.

Since Leia’s passing he always had a go-bag on hand. There was one in his office, one in his car, and one tucked in the coat closet of his townhouse. He always drove a car that could off-road well and kept it up to date in maintenance. He refused to have any type of pet because he didn’t want to worry about the hassle of traveling with one and he didn’t really know what would go into their go-bag. Although he couldn’t help but dote on the office mascots, two sparkling goldfish named Bela and Victoria. He snuck them extra food each Monday morning and slyly left the room whenever the front desk assistant joked how fat they were.

Todd gave them another treat this day on his way out, knowing in that same gut-place that he would never be back.

He also stopped by the kitchen, with the illusion of filling up his coffee to try and drop a few hints to the water-cooler gossip.

“Tensions really rising out there, aren’t they?” He said, a bit awkwardly to the room.

“What’s that, Todd?” Kimmy, the sweet new Numbers Analyst, kept typing on her phone but angled towards him slightly.

“Just a bit odd. I saw that the Execs have all taken off, but I’ve got nothing on my calendar.”

“Really now?” Nathanial, a bright young guy and one of Todd’s favorites in the Engineering department, was thankfully taking lunch. “I thought you had the pulse of those dudes in your little legality black book!” He and the surrounding blurred faces chuckled a bit.

“I normally do!” Todd turned to them, trying to remain calm by putting too much cream in his thermos and too much light in his voice, “But they’ve flown the coop! Just a bit odd with everything going on up North, don’t you think?”

The scattered room gave approving sounds and nods. Nathanial spoke for the group again, “What doya think is happening?”

“I don’t know, kid, but I tell ya- I’m going to work from my place for a few days. Catch some fresh air and be out of office, ya know?” He gave Nathanial an overly obvious conspiratorial wink.

Nathanial laughed, “Not a bad idea! Whatever the big boys are up to, might not wanna be here when they get back. I may do the same!”

Todd felt like he did what he could do. At least without sounding like a crazy person.

He punched his Jeep down the carport, reaching again for his computer bag in the passenger seat then the go-bag in the back seat for reassurance. As he turned onto the highway out of town, he thanked Whoever Was Up There that his parents had passed from age rather than having to deal with the way the world was now. And also for the inheritance they’d left that had allowed him to buy a nice little cabin out in mountains, where he took his vacations and now would wait out whatever was happening.

He would get there, recount the stashes he’d secured in the storage over the past several years for just such occurrences. Settle in, settle down. It would be just like all the other insane things going on right now, just another one, and it would be dealt with and done with.

Over the next several months, Todd did well. Relatively.

67% of Earths population, beginning with major cities and spreading outwards, succumbed to the virus within a matter of 74 days. This was due mostly to close proximity, disbelief, and unpreparedness. Saliva and blood are very difficult to avoid when the virus causes the host to sneeze, cough, and lust after the flesh of the living.

By day 108, it was 84% as the survivors became tired and incredibly outnumbered.

Todd made it to day 216. One of his last completely living thoughts was that he was quite proud of himself. The second to last thought was if he did return instead of just dying, he hoped he still liked coffee. And the very last living thought he had was how very awkward the feeling of being eaten was and that perhaps he should apologize to affair-having, vegan-preaching Martha-in-Marketing, for thinking her lunches so strange.

… … …

He opened his eyes. The world was very black. He must have died. So much for into the big light.

Death was black, uncomfortably stabby, and sounded very much like the squawking of birds. Which afterlife-philosopher did that prove right? he wondered. Probably some Greek.

Or, Todd re-concluded, he had a committee of vultures on his face.

His first impulse was to flail wildly- get these flesh eaters to scatter far away from him. But his bones ached in a strange way and fatigue riddled his every molecule. So he flailed the only part of him he could, which was a couple toes. This did not have much effect on the gathered fowl.

Rasping barks seemed to be emerging from the black fog around him. Great, the vultures are fighting over my dead flesh.

Pressure deepened on his chest and on instinct he tried to suck in air to relieve himself, but it didn’t help. You’re dead now, you idiot. He thought, your lungs don’t hurt, it’s your literal ribs.

He opened his hesitant squint a little wider to fully adjust to the world around him and saw the pressure was a very large vulture attempting to assert dominance over his corpse.

Well, it was nice to be appreciated.

The creature hissed and grunted and squorked until the smaller vultures awkwardly hopped off to a safer distance of several feet. Then it turned to take a pick at the soft flesh of Todd’s collar.

“Well that’s a smart boy, the softest meat on a biped is often the pectoral.”

The bird stiffened at its feast making sound. It fluffed a bit, flapped its wings, hovered up, landed beside Todd. It bobbed its head back and forth, inspecting. When the flock dared to do the same, it hissed them back again into the distance.

“Ope- spooked ya, sorry. Good boy- girl? Good vulture,” Todd coughed.

The bird cocked its head and peered a deep brown eye at him. It seemed a long moment to Todd. And he took it to admire the leathery face, like a pilot’s helmet. Rather novel, he thought, the way some creatures seemed to be built for the end of the world where others, such as his fleshy self and his fellow fragile humans, were absolutely freaking not.

“It’s okay, fella, I’ve got no use for it,” With a little bit of recovered energy, Todd lifted his left hand up towards the vulture. He noted it was awfully dehydrated, looked a bit too much like jerky. How long exactly had he been lying out in the sun?

The vulture took a cautious hop closer, pecked at his pinky skin. Then quickly pulled off a sliver a muscle and hopped backwards to swallow it.

Todd grimaced a bit, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as he thought it would. More like a paper cut than the knife wound it should have been. And no bleeding!

“That whole arm was really always there more for balance anyway,” he decided to give sitting up a try, and wondered if he actually had enough living faculties to be dizzy or if he just imagined himself so.

Now at 90 degrees, he saw the large bite marks on his knee.

Looking the several yards to the door of his cabin, there were three skeletons, already picked shiny clean. He imagined done by his new feathery visitors. He wondered why they’d gone after those first- did they like the aged flavor then, like a good red wine?

He tried to put the events together, though the memory itself was hazy: Three figures on his cabin’s monitoring camera. They didn’t look infected on the grainy screen but had walked through the electric fence without hesitation. They were swaying, shouting, and he shouted back through a speaker to go away. They dodged each of his yard-traps with ease or luck, and made it to the door. He’d finally shot two of them through a window, but the third he’d hesitated- was it Nathanial? Young Nathanial that he’d tried to warn? He opened the door to see better but no, just a young man with red around his eyes and now they’re going white and now he’s on top of Todd and he’s thrashing and biting and Todd feels the teeth sink into his knee before he gets a good shot off. He knows he’s done for, has watched people turn. Tries to crawl to a good view of his mountains to end himself before the turn happens and just barely gets into the sunshine before he passes out.

And now he’s here, with no blood flow, sitting up, staring at a very intrigued vulture.

“Well, what now, big guy?”

The vulture squorked.

“You would know better than me.” He returned to assessing the damage. He still had his good hiking boots on, though he noted the vultures had made a mess of his laces.

Todd stood shakily, noting that although his muscles continued to act strained, he didn’t feel much pain for it. Handy dandy.

He got up as straight as he could, which was a bit hunched since he was quite depleted of liquids and the flock or something else had taken a bite of his shoulder, the trapeze muscle? He tried to remember the picture from the medical books he kept in the cabin for first aid, just to see if his brain still worked. He supposed wondering about it proved it did, a bit.

“I think, therefore I am, I suppose.” He took a tentative step to see if he could be more than a thinking monument to dehydration.

His steps were a little sturdier than he expected as he made his way back to the cabin door. His gait a bit like when he was a pre-teen and his parents had decided to do a ranch week for Spring Break. The whole family had walked bowlegged for several days following and his father had vowed they’d go the traditional beach variety vacation from then on. Todd walked the same way now, and he decided to be resolute about this cowboy swagger rather than drag himself around like those poor creatures he’d seen in movies and through his cabin’s monitors.

Once inside, he shifted the items around on his desk. He saw the mug sitting next to his keyboard- the coffee he’d been sipping in his last human hour. It was undoubtedly cold but he didn’t mind cold coffee. Not with the fancy beans he’d procured and rationed like it was insulin and he a diabetic. He lifted the mug and sipped. The liquid poured over his dry tongue with no effect. It tasted like nothing. Less-than-water-nothing. Damn disappointing. He’d really liked coffee.

Then he set to work: One last go-bag.

He did pick up his favorite pen and a fresh pad of paper. An empty water bottle as well as a full one, because who knew. His favorite camping knife that had fallen out of his pocket in the tussle. A couple other things he deemed possibly practical. He packed all this into the already-half-full backpack that had been hooked above the back door. Giving himself grace, he took the picture of his family at his college graduation off the bulletin board and stuffed it in a pocket too, the only useless thing he’d allow. He unpacked most of the food, then after a moment, opened several of the tuna cans and set it out in the shade beneath the tree the vultures had settled in to watch his progress, no doubt disappointed he hadn’t just fallen back over.

And with that, he began to head down his mountain.

But not before he heard a large rustle behind him. He turned quickly, reaching for the rifle on his shoulder out of habit. And there was the big ol’ vulture that had scared the others off of him earlier, a small chunk of canned tuna stuck to its beak.

“Oh, just you,” Todd sighed and tucked the gun back on his shoulder.

The bird cocked its head to the side again, as if asking a question.

“Well my friend, I figure since I’m the danger now, there’s no point in hiding out any longer.”

It hopped closer, as if to say, Go on.

“So… I think I’ll see the world? See what’s left. I figure at least some of the world wonders must have made it. And if I’m already… might as well catch some fresh air rather than just sit around for someone to turn the lights out, right?”

The bird answered by rustling its feathers a bit, cleaning its beak and starring at Todd without blinking.

Todd nodded back at it and continued to walk. But with another rustling of feathers, there was a sudden added weight to his backpack. He looked up to a familiar shady sight of feathers and leathered face.

“Are you… you coming with me there, bud?”

The vulture’s only answer was to settle into the space between the top of the backpack and Todd’s shoulders and begin to preen itself like a royal dove.

“Well, alrighty then.” Todd clicked the backpack’s chest strap so his new companion was more secure, and started once more down to the valley.

Something loosened, deep in Todd’s chest.

The Word

Hectic (adjective): 1. Full of incessant or frantic activity. 2. Relating to, affected by, or denoting a regularly recurrent fever typically accompanying tuberculosis, with flushed cheeks and hot, dry skin.
(noun) A hectic fever or flush.

I’ve been thinking a lot about different versions to the end of our world as we know it because…

-gestures broadly to the world around us-

…and I’ll admit, I’m such a proud cat lady that my spoiled calico has her own go-bag. No way am I doing the apocalypse, be it zombie or alien or vengeful gnomes, without my right-hand feline. But it got me thinking if signing her up for that is fair, and those thoughts became Todd. And really, I’d love for Todd to have his own full story, and I think one day he will.

Also, I would be remiss if I did not mention the momma vulture that continues to raise her babies in the old barn of a family property, and that although no baby bird has ever been cute in the history of ever, especially not a baby vulture, my family is very protective of them. So good luck Todd and his new oddly loyal companion.

Thanks for reading, lovely readers 🙂 and if I see you out there in the end-of-days, I hope we don’t have to fight each other for the last canned tuna.

*The VERY deep Easter egg: The very first zombie movie was Victor Halperin’s 1932 White Zombie, starring Bela Lugosi. That’s why the office goldfish are Victor and Bela 🙂