"Jan, come on! My stinky brother will see us!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming."
"I don't know why Tina didn't want to come today. She's such a weenie sometimes."
"I think she got in trouble last week. Her mom's making her clean the whole house or something. She was talking about how unfair it was yesterday at lunch."
"Well, what is she in trouble for?"
"Who knows? Failed the science test?"
"Not likely. You know she's good at that junk."
"Yeah, I guess. Not like you, booger brain."
"Who's a booger brain?"
"You!"
"No, you!"
"No, you! You got Ryan Kettle to cheat for you on that math test!"
"Math isn't science! And he didn't have to, he didn't for Jocelyn and she offered him her pudding cup."
"That's 'cause he likes you! Ryan and Judy sittin' in a tree -"
"Stop it!"
"K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"
"Stoooooooooooop! I'll tell everybody about you and Ted!"
"What?"
"You heard me."
"What about me and Ted?"
"Geenie said she saw you guys behind the curtains after gym. She said you guys were kissing."
"Ewwwww! No we weren't! I'd never kiss him!"
"But you'd kiss somebody else!"
"No!"
"Yes! You said you'd never kiss him!"
"Come on Judy! That's not funny!"
"Yeah it is. Ted's such a dork."
"Your brother's a bigger dork and you kissed him!"
"That was Truth or Dare! That doesn't count! Besides, he's just my brother, he's not like a real boy."
"So who's a real boy?"
"Well, I bet Tina thinks Ted's a real boy. She pulled down his shorts that one time, remember? Maybe she did it again and that's why she's stuck at home."
"Yeah, but we would have heard. Everybody in the whole school heard the last time. Didn't he even miss school the next day?"
"Oh yeah. And Sammy and Rusty took those shorts from the Lost-and-Found the next week and were throwing them at him all day. Mr. Hawthorn looked like he was going to pop a vein."
"Anyway, those two need somebody to whip their butts a little. They're such noodle brains. I think Ms. Forster just wants to kick them out of class sometimes."
"Sometimes I wish Ms. Forster would get kicked out. She's such a witch."
"She's not that bad...is that all you got?"
"If I take more my dad'll know."
"Well, who's going first?"
"I am. I got it, didn't I?"
"OK...but don't slobber on it. That'd be like kissing you when it's my turn."
"Ew. That'd make you a lezbo."
"Would not. If you don't get my spit, it's just you kissing me so that makes you the lezbo."
"Does not. You're sucking my spit so you're kissing me."
"Let's just do this. I brought the lighter...oh, crud, it's not working."
"It's OK. I brought matches just in case."
"A whole box?"
"Yeah, my dad gets 'em from all over: hotels and bars and restaurants. A lot of 'em the same. he won't miss one box."
"OK...you have to breathe in..."
HACK GASP CHOKE
"Oh, that's nasty!"
"You probably didn't do it right. Give it to me."
FSSSSSP! GAH HACK WUFF
"Oh gah!"
"My dad's crazy doing this! It tastes like poop!"
"I think I need some fresh air. I can't breathe very good back here now."
"OK Jan, let's just go down to the store and get some Jolly Ranchers. I need something sweet."
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
a connected tale
In a little house in a little town in a little country lived a little family with a little boy. He was a boy very much like all the others. He helped his father in his shop when he was needed and the rest of the time he was allowed to do as he pleased. Mostly, what pleased him was to run through the fields pretending he was a great warrior with a long stick for a sword. He also dreamed about having a mighty war pony, but his parents just shook their heads and rolled their eyes when he asked about it.
One day a traveling show came to the little town. All the children ran to see it and oohed and ahhed over the performers, especially the magician. His hair stood out all over his head like a porcupine's spines and his eyes glittered in their sockets with fire from within him. He whirled around the stage with his cape swirling around him, changing colors in the light. He made things disappear and reappear in strange places. He took them apart and put them together again. He made a dog cluck like a chicken and a canary hiss like a snake and a lizard sing like a choir boy. All the children were fascinated by him and clapped and screamed when his performance was over. They went home, chattering joyfully, driving their parents to clap their hands over their ears, exasperated. The show packed up the next morning after a quick speech of thanks by the barker, and the boy and a friend of his ran into the camp to find the magician. He was tying boxes closed with twine and his hair wasn't quite so electric and his eyes were more glassy than glowing. But he was still wearing his cape. The boy ran up to him and said breathlessly, "Sir! I would like to know how you learned your tricks." The magician smiled a little. Oddly, it made him look much older. "They are not tricks m'boy, they are facts. But I'm afraid I cannot reveal my secrets to you, or to anybody." The boys looked at each other, trying to think of a good whine to convince him. Then the boy said boldly, "I will be your apprentice. I will help you move your boxes. And you will show me how to do these facts." The magician shook his head. "I'm sorry, lad, but I cannot accept your offer. You are far too young to be my apprentice." "But isn't it better to start young?" asked the boy. "Not with my facts," answered the magician, "Others have tricks and illusions. Go to them. They will take you on and you will be happier anyway." The boy stood pouting and said stubbornly, "I don't want to do tricks if I can do facts. I want to do real magic like you do." The magician heaved a sigh and the boys could see that his cape was really a patchwork of different materials of different colors. In the light of day it looked sorry and threadbare, not magical and mysterious like it had on the stage. "I will give you a token and when you are older my master will pass by here. He will recognize the token and take you on. Do you accept?" "Oh yes!" squealed the boy. And the three trudged around the caravan. On the other side there were two animals tied up: a skinny, little horse and a big, fat dog. The horse was not only skinny, he was dirty and ugly, with knotty knees and bony shoulders. He was dark bay or brown with scruffy hair and piggy little eyes. The magician slowly untied his rope and stared at it for a while before holding the end out to the boy. The boy was overjoyed. Now he had his war pony and the promise to be taught magic too! Then he could make himself a warrior and make the little horse big and strong. But then his friend grabbed his shoulder squawking, "You're not really going to take that thing, are you? It doesn't look like it'll even make it to your house." The magician said softly, "I assure you he will. But I also remind you that you would be happier learning other things than what this creature promises." The boy looked from his friend to the magician, catching a glimpse of the dog too. It was watching them intently and it occurred to him that it looked more like a wolf than a dog, with its bright yellow eyes and pointy ears. The magician shifted uneasily and snapped, "Decide, boy! I don't care if you choose to accept the animal or not, but I can't stand here all day and wait for you to make up your mind!" At this, the boy snatched the rope from the man's hand and started to run home with the horse. He called back over his shoulder, "I'll be waiting for the master!" The magician was staring at the ground and the dog was watching them go, grinning with a more wolf-like face than ever. The boy also noticed now that it wasn't tied up, there was just a rope tied to the caravan with one end dangling down next to the dog. The boy's friend ran after, yelling, "Are you really taking that old nag? It looks like it couldn't pull an empty cart! Your ma's gonna box your ears for taking it home!"
In fact she didn't box the boy's ears, but she was very upset. The boy's father was too, and his brothers and sisters chided him all evening about his useless horse. The animal stood behind the house that night, chewing on the weeds that grew there.
The next morning the boy and his next elder brother went to the saddler to see about making a harness so the horse could help their father make deliveries and earn his keep. They were told to come back in a couple of weeks as the saddler didn't have enough material at the moment to make a harness and didn't have any lying around either. Their father was frustrated and their mother threw up her hands in exasperation. "That nag will eat us out of house and home!" she cried. "No he won't," piped up the youngest sister, "Look how skinny he is. I bet he hardly eats at all." The parents went on about their daily business grumbling and shaking their heads and the brother smacked the boy on the back of his head. "Now they'll be cross with us for days, manure-brains!"
That night the boy couldn't sleep. Supper had been tense and quiet. Then everybody went to bed without much talk. Everybody else fell asleep quickly, but the boy's bed was closest to the little window that looked out over the back yard and he could hear the horse walking around. Finally he got out of bed and went outside to see what the animal was doing. When he went out the door, the horse stopped in mid-stride and looked at him from across the yard. The boy picked up a stick from the ground and ambled off to live his warrior fantasy, at least for a couple of nocturnal minutes. The horse waited for him, ears pricked expectantly. Putting the stick between his teeth, the boy heaved himself up on the horse's bony back and, as soon as he had righted himself, the horse sprang off, heading right for the fence. The boy grabbed the horse's tough, thick-haired mane, expecting to suffer a bouncy jump. The horse did jump - and soared up towards the full moon. The wind rushed by faster and faster, and colder and colder, and the boy's teeth dug into the stick as they chattered. He looked around, half-expecting to see wings had unfolded from the animal's sides, but there was nothing to explain their flight. It seemed like there were others flying through the air with them, black shadows against a slightly less black sky. Over the shrieking whistle of the wind the boy could just barely make out sounds like shouts and laughter. He couldn't quite tell what the other shapes were, maybe other horses, cows, pigs, goats, maybe even other people flying by themselves. The boy looked down at the earth and saw it rolling beneath him at a frightening pace. He started to feel terribly dizzy and closed his eyes.
He opened them in his own bed with the sun shining through the window into his eyes. At first he thought it had all been a strange dream, and out the window he could see the horse standing placidly in the yard, looking no worse for wear and completely flightless. But when he went to make his bed, he found the stick, nearly bitten into pieces by a set of teeth that fit his perfectly when he held it up to his mouth with a trembling hand.
One day a traveling show came to the little town. All the children ran to see it and oohed and ahhed over the performers, especially the magician. His hair stood out all over his head like a porcupine's spines and his eyes glittered in their sockets with fire from within him. He whirled around the stage with his cape swirling around him, changing colors in the light. He made things disappear and reappear in strange places. He took them apart and put them together again. He made a dog cluck like a chicken and a canary hiss like a snake and a lizard sing like a choir boy. All the children were fascinated by him and clapped and screamed when his performance was over. They went home, chattering joyfully, driving their parents to clap their hands over their ears, exasperated. The show packed up the next morning after a quick speech of thanks by the barker, and the boy and a friend of his ran into the camp to find the magician. He was tying boxes closed with twine and his hair wasn't quite so electric and his eyes were more glassy than glowing. But he was still wearing his cape. The boy ran up to him and said breathlessly, "Sir! I would like to know how you learned your tricks." The magician smiled a little. Oddly, it made him look much older. "They are not tricks m'boy, they are facts. But I'm afraid I cannot reveal my secrets to you, or to anybody." The boys looked at each other, trying to think of a good whine to convince him. Then the boy said boldly, "I will be your apprentice. I will help you move your boxes. And you will show me how to do these facts." The magician shook his head. "I'm sorry, lad, but I cannot accept your offer. You are far too young to be my apprentice." "But isn't it better to start young?" asked the boy. "Not with my facts," answered the magician, "Others have tricks and illusions. Go to them. They will take you on and you will be happier anyway." The boy stood pouting and said stubbornly, "I don't want to do tricks if I can do facts. I want to do real magic like you do." The magician heaved a sigh and the boys could see that his cape was really a patchwork of different materials of different colors. In the light of day it looked sorry and threadbare, not magical and mysterious like it had on the stage. "I will give you a token and when you are older my master will pass by here. He will recognize the token and take you on. Do you accept?" "Oh yes!" squealed the boy. And the three trudged around the caravan. On the other side there were two animals tied up: a skinny, little horse and a big, fat dog. The horse was not only skinny, he was dirty and ugly, with knotty knees and bony shoulders. He was dark bay or brown with scruffy hair and piggy little eyes. The magician slowly untied his rope and stared at it for a while before holding the end out to the boy. The boy was overjoyed. Now he had his war pony and the promise to be taught magic too! Then he could make himself a warrior and make the little horse big and strong. But then his friend grabbed his shoulder squawking, "You're not really going to take that thing, are you? It doesn't look like it'll even make it to your house." The magician said softly, "I assure you he will. But I also remind you that you would be happier learning other things than what this creature promises." The boy looked from his friend to the magician, catching a glimpse of the dog too. It was watching them intently and it occurred to him that it looked more like a wolf than a dog, with its bright yellow eyes and pointy ears. The magician shifted uneasily and snapped, "Decide, boy! I don't care if you choose to accept the animal or not, but I can't stand here all day and wait for you to make up your mind!" At this, the boy snatched the rope from the man's hand and started to run home with the horse. He called back over his shoulder, "I'll be waiting for the master!" The magician was staring at the ground and the dog was watching them go, grinning with a more wolf-like face than ever. The boy also noticed now that it wasn't tied up, there was just a rope tied to the caravan with one end dangling down next to the dog. The boy's friend ran after, yelling, "Are you really taking that old nag? It looks like it couldn't pull an empty cart! Your ma's gonna box your ears for taking it home!"
In fact she didn't box the boy's ears, but she was very upset. The boy's father was too, and his brothers and sisters chided him all evening about his useless horse. The animal stood behind the house that night, chewing on the weeds that grew there.
The next morning the boy and his next elder brother went to the saddler to see about making a harness so the horse could help their father make deliveries and earn his keep. They were told to come back in a couple of weeks as the saddler didn't have enough material at the moment to make a harness and didn't have any lying around either. Their father was frustrated and their mother threw up her hands in exasperation. "That nag will eat us out of house and home!" she cried. "No he won't," piped up the youngest sister, "Look how skinny he is. I bet he hardly eats at all." The parents went on about their daily business grumbling and shaking their heads and the brother smacked the boy on the back of his head. "Now they'll be cross with us for days, manure-brains!"
That night the boy couldn't sleep. Supper had been tense and quiet. Then everybody went to bed without much talk. Everybody else fell asleep quickly, but the boy's bed was closest to the little window that looked out over the back yard and he could hear the horse walking around. Finally he got out of bed and went outside to see what the animal was doing. When he went out the door, the horse stopped in mid-stride and looked at him from across the yard. The boy picked up a stick from the ground and ambled off to live his warrior fantasy, at least for a couple of nocturnal minutes. The horse waited for him, ears pricked expectantly. Putting the stick between his teeth, the boy heaved himself up on the horse's bony back and, as soon as he had righted himself, the horse sprang off, heading right for the fence. The boy grabbed the horse's tough, thick-haired mane, expecting to suffer a bouncy jump. The horse did jump - and soared up towards the full moon. The wind rushed by faster and faster, and colder and colder, and the boy's teeth dug into the stick as they chattered. He looked around, half-expecting to see wings had unfolded from the animal's sides, but there was nothing to explain their flight. It seemed like there were others flying through the air with them, black shadows against a slightly less black sky. Over the shrieking whistle of the wind the boy could just barely make out sounds like shouts and laughter. He couldn't quite tell what the other shapes were, maybe other horses, cows, pigs, goats, maybe even other people flying by themselves. The boy looked down at the earth and saw it rolling beneath him at a frightening pace. He started to feel terribly dizzy and closed his eyes.
He opened them in his own bed with the sun shining through the window into his eyes. At first he thought it had all been a strange dream, and out the window he could see the horse standing placidly in the yard, looking no worse for wear and completely flightless. But when he went to make his bed, he found the stick, nearly bitten into pieces by a set of teeth that fit his perfectly when he held it up to his mouth with a trembling hand.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
cat
I am a cat. I live in a nice, warm house with good people who always make sure I have enough to eat and drink. They groom me and play with me too. All the people in the house belong to each other, there aren't any strangers. There is one who takes a special interest in me. She is a young woman. I think she is pretty by their standards; in the last few years she's often entered the house with the smell of strange male on her and she's always showing her teeth, which people seem to do when they want to be friendly and nice.
Actually, lately her her teeth have been out even more than before and there's one particular smell she always brings home with her. Maybe the source will come and not be a stranger anymore.
Today she's very excited, very nervous. She's running all over the house. She picks me up and puts me down again. I wish she'd sit down in front of the light box like she used to so I could relax on her lap. The other people are nervous too, but everybody seems happy except the little girl. She doesn't seem happy at all. In fact, I think she's very angry about something. But everybody else is running around and papers and clothes are flying everywhere. It's starting to make me a little nervous too.
Now the girl is following the young woman everywhere, but she's not drawing her attention. Why doesn't she speak? Or grab the woman's shirt? That's how I get her attention. I also roll around on the floor in front of her, which makes her produce all kinds of interesting noises, but it's been years since I've seen any of the people do that. Wait, now she is putting her hand on the woman's arm. Now they're going into her sleeping room. They're staying in there for quite a while; I think I'll lie down here in the hall and wait for somebody to massage my head.
Wow! What's that racket?! I must have fallen asleep. I do tend to do that. Everybody's all excited now and running every which way, but it's not the happy excited like before. Everyone seems upset. The young woman is sitting on her bed crying. I run up to her and she grabs me up into her lap, holding me tightly. She's extremely upset, her hands are trembling and tears are falling into my fur. The older people are shouting at each other but I don't think they're angry with each other, they're just nervous and I think a little afraid. The girl is coming back into her sister's room now and she's crying too. Her face is all red. On one side it's shaped like a red hand. "I'm sorry," she whispers, "I'm sorry." The young woman buries her face in my fur and sobs. The next day she takes all the things in the house that smell like the stranger and throws them in the big metal cans outside. I guess he'll always be a stranger now.
Actually, lately her her teeth have been out even more than before and there's one particular smell she always brings home with her. Maybe the source will come and not be a stranger anymore.
Today she's very excited, very nervous. She's running all over the house. She picks me up and puts me down again. I wish she'd sit down in front of the light box like she used to so I could relax on her lap. The other people are nervous too, but everybody seems happy except the little girl. She doesn't seem happy at all. In fact, I think she's very angry about something. But everybody else is running around and papers and clothes are flying everywhere. It's starting to make me a little nervous too.
Now the girl is following the young woman everywhere, but she's not drawing her attention. Why doesn't she speak? Or grab the woman's shirt? That's how I get her attention. I also roll around on the floor in front of her, which makes her produce all kinds of interesting noises, but it's been years since I've seen any of the people do that. Wait, now she is putting her hand on the woman's arm. Now they're going into her sleeping room. They're staying in there for quite a while; I think I'll lie down here in the hall and wait for somebody to massage my head.
Wow! What's that racket?! I must have fallen asleep. I do tend to do that. Everybody's all excited now and running every which way, but it's not the happy excited like before. Everyone seems upset. The young woman is sitting on her bed crying. I run up to her and she grabs me up into her lap, holding me tightly. She's extremely upset, her hands are trembling and tears are falling into my fur. The older people are shouting at each other but I don't think they're angry with each other, they're just nervous and I think a little afraid. The girl is coming back into her sister's room now and she's crying too. Her face is all red. On one side it's shaped like a red hand. "I'm sorry," she whispers, "I'm sorry." The young woman buries her face in my fur and sobs. The next day she takes all the things in the house that smell like the stranger and throws them in the big metal cans outside. I guess he'll always be a stranger now.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Devil's in the Details
Charlotte sat at the old, wooden desk, covered in orangish lamp light. She turned pages furiously, eyes darting, cramped fingers scratching out notes on the wrinkled paper next to her. Why hadn't she thought to buy batteries when she was out that afternoon? It was so much easier to speak her notes into the little digital recorder. Even Char could barely read her chicken-scrabble writing. Her mother joked that she needed to make friends with a doctor who could decipher it for everyone else. But, this was her only option for the moment. She had to get through the old book, lift all of the pertinent information for her article. She had disappointed Ralph too many times already, with her blown deadlines and dropped projects. This time she had to finish something.
It wasn't her particular interest, though, this sort of thing. A tract on pseudo-Wicca. The plasticky smell and feel of the cover threw doubt on the human skin story. The bright cherry red of the chapter titles made blood ink seem unlikely. The rest of the ink, a soft, easily readable black, could have been made with ashes and melted fat, she supposed. Ashes of burned witches and fat of unbaptised babies. Or was it pigs? Or cats born on Friday the 13th? So many rumors, so many people believing without question. That's the thing about magic, she mused, it plays to our deepest desires as greedy humans. Everything supernatural has a connection to our own psyche and our petty, selfish wants. That was what she had wanted to write her senior thesis on, except she hadn't finished her sophomore year of psychology before she switched to history. Then journalism, then chemistry, then French. Then she switched to an accounting program at the community college just so she could have some qualifications and maybe a chance to get a job and pay back her bank account draining, paycheck swallowing, hope and dream crushing loans. But she didn't even finish that 6-month course.
Fortunately, her favorite cousin (although the feeling was not necessarily mutual) had an exceedingly large house, inherited from a great-aunt by marriage. This cousin let her stay in a small apartment over the back patio in exchange for a pittance in monthly rent and some gardening. Char did enjoy a good session of weeding when she was feeling blocked and watering with the anaconda-like hose in the early morning gave her the kind of wake-up she enjoyed. Her income was mostly freelance articles and the sale of flower photography. Char herself thought neither the flowers nor the photos were anything special, but there did seem to be a market. Which was undoubtedly fortunate, since not one in ten of those freelance articles ever left her laptop.
Charlotte was too easily distracted, said the family indulgently. Charlotte found this diagnosis irritating, but also found herself unable to modify her behavior. In a way, her first attempt at college had been her trying to fix herself. Hadn't worked. Just opened her eyes to more possibilities for study and exploration and Char felt like she had to try everything before her time ran out. That was really the problem, she told herself, that she had too much curiosity, that everything was interesting to her. And life was short. If she knew she would have the chance later, she could settle down and focus on one thing at a time.
That's weird, she thought with a start, these pages are different. The paper was slicker, whiter, and the ink was blue. Sure didn't look like the rest of the book. Must have been added in later, Charlotte thought as she scanned the pages. Her hand automatically scritched key words. It was a pack of about 20 pages, but at the end, she noticed that the sentence cut in the middle by the end of the newer-looking page was finished on the top of the next, original looking, page. Maybe it's just a sloppy repair job, Char thought. I'm so tired now. I probably won't take good notes at this time of night anyway. Better finish up tomorrow.
Charlotte awoke the next morning not feeling refreshed at all. She couldn't remember what she had dreamed about, but she still had a feeling of fearful tension in her upper back and shoulders. Even going into the garden and dousing everything with its daily soothing shower did little to ease the tightness. She went back to her desk and her notes feeling troubled. When she saw her notes, her frustration hit its peak; they were practically illegible! She'd have to go through more than half the book again. But first, batteries for that damn recorder.
With the gadget newly prepared, Charlotte sat down to work. She opened the crackly old book to the third chapter, where she had been when the recorder had died the day before, and started off. She murmured through her reading, gaze sliding rapidly over the paper, dry fingers turning pages easily. It was amazing how much faster it was this way. Then she got to the part that she vaguely recalled as being an insert or repair. And it wasn't there. All the pages were the same off-white color, with a texture somewhat like a paper towel, rough and spongy, and the black ink never brightened into blue. Charlotte was sure she could remember that part. Positive. She couldn't go on until she proved to herself that she hadn't been dreaming. Or had been, whichever. She pulled her notes from their circular grave. A flash of headache hit her, but she thought she could probably decipher a word here and there and find that odd part. It definitely had a different tone than the rest of the book, more straightforward and less pretentiously magical. Char always thought the language in those magic books sounded forced, like people pretending to know a foreign language and wording everything in a completely unnatural manner because they heard something like it in a movie once. Those blue ink pages had a very normal and natural feel to them, very contemporary. Hey, here's something. Spells for getting what you want from your superiors. That was from the blue part. And she'd made a note of the change back - page 345. And even some of the lines from that last page. Charlotte checked the book. Pages 344 and 345 had the same paper and ink. The blue sentence had stated, "With just a little help from beyond, you will see made reality -" The sentence, now all black, read, "Beware temptations and beguiling spirits whoso offer- (page 345) all thy wishings and wantings and needs in all the world."
Charlotte sat back in her chair. What the hell happened last night? How could the book have changed? Was she really dreaming then? Or now?
Confused, Charlotte got up to make some tea to wander around the grounds with while she considered the possibilities. She spent several hours wandering and wondering. In the early afternoon, though, a pile of dark gray storm clouds slumpfed over the horizon making staying outside a less attractive choice. A clap of thunder boomed just as Char closed the door behind her and she flipped on the light. Which immediately burned out. Scowling and cursing, Char stomped over to the desk and tried the desk lamp to be sure it wasn't a blackout or fuse and warm light illuminated the desk top. She sighed and sat down. She picked up her notes, sighed some more, and looked at the book. Wait a goddam minute. Now there's a sheaf of white pages in there again! With no regard for old bindings or paper cuts, Charlotte yanked open the book and there it was. White pages, blue ink, simple style. Was it the lamplight? Char reached for the switch to test her new theory, but hesitated, afraid the blue would disappear and not come back, or wouldn't disappear and then she really would be crazy.
Fine. The "new" bit was there again, staring her in the face. What to do now...Charlotte glanced back at her notes and where a jumble of scribbling had been sprawled before, a pattern now seemed to leap out at her. The letters down the left-hand edge of the page made words and the words made sentences that actually made sense. The words trailed around the bottom where she had written some quotes and then back up the right side and backwards across the top (if she only used the first letter of each word). Charlotte picked up the paper and murmured the words to herself. When she had finished the full circle an enormous crash of thunder shook the room while the desk lamp flickered nervously. Then all went quiet. No wind outside, no pitter-pat of the first drops of the storm. Char looked out the window and could see the dark gray clouds drooping over the trees like somebody's first attempt at setting up a tent. Curious about the stillness, she went out into the garden. At the far end of the yard, Char saw a woman standing under the trees. She was dressed in a floor-length black hooded cloak with the hood draped loosely over her head. She started to walk into the yard. Little leaves and fallen petals whirled around her footsteps before she even put her feet down, although Charlotte felt nary a breath of air around her. The woman's face was pleasant, rosy cheeked, red lipped, with a smile that bespoke a calm good humor. Her eyes glittered like stars. She came right up to Char and said, "Well, dear girl, here we are at last." Char's confusion must have been apparent on her face because the woman quickly added, "Of course, you weren't really expecting me, but I've been thinking about coming to find you for some time now. I'd like to offer you a bit of assistance. It's a small favor for me to grant and no trouble at all, really. But you must accept the favor for it to benefit you." Charlotte was even more confused by this, but then the woman took her hands. Her smile widened just a little and her face seemed to radiate joy. She's practically glowing, thought Charlotte, maybe she's pregnant and wants to sell me the baby. Give me some direction in life. The woman lifted her hand to her mouth to cover a musical little giggle, then put on a more serious face. "Charlotte," she said, her voice soft and rich as the garden soil, "You need to relax and concentrate. I've heard it many times in off-hand comments, but after so many, I felt it was worth my time to present you with a solution. You will have time for everything, Charlotte, that I can promise you. But you will have to use the time or it will revert back." Now Char was skeptical. "Revert back to what?" "Why, to the Universe." The woman was smiling again, pink lemonade lips curving slightly upward in a gentle arc. Charlotte considered for a moment and said, "I would like to have time." The woman's eyes brightened. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, sure. Everyone wants more time." "But do you want the time I offer you?" "Well, yeah, why not?" The woman sighed happily and said, "Charlotte, I look forward to hearing about your achievements. I may drop in from time to time, just to make sure you stay on course." She squeezed Char's hands and glided back the way she came, with an unfelt wind whipping up the leaves on the ground and swirling her cloak around her. She reached out and absently caressed a blossom on her way and Char just watched her go, entranced and not sure what to think or do.
When the rain started to fall, she darted back into the house. After a moment of indecision she went for the light-bulbs and a chair in the kitchen. Once the burnt out bulb was replaced, she went back to her desk and sat down in front of her notes. Suddenly she realized she had sliced her thumb on the pages of the book some minutes before and had left a small dot of blood on the paper. Her thumb didn't hurt at all now, though, and the opened skin had been closed with a skinny line of dried blood. Without another thought, Char opened the book to where she had left off recording and, snatching up the recorder, she smoothly began to redo her notes.
After a couple of hours of unexpected and newly experienced dedication, Char stood up to take a walk and stretch her knotted muscles. This attention thing was hard work, but maybe with some practice she could get into the habit.
Things began to come together for Charlotte after that day. She started finishing more and more articles on time. She was able to start studies in communication and journalism at a local college, and do a reasonable amount of work for her classes while continuing to write for the magazine. She just felt calm, no rush at all. Her relationship with her family also improved. They were more relaxed around her, feeling no need to push or pressure, and she felt they were more supportive of her endeavors than they had ever been before.
Char's life rolled on in a steady stream of writing, research and travel. Her degree hung on her wall, she dedicated herself to her articles, and she got to know people and places that only five years before had seemed far out of her reach. But finally, she began to get tired. It started with a frightening experience on one of her research trips, where she was going to interview a few museum curators and witnessed a spectacular traffic accident. Instead of researching and writing, she began pondering and brooding. Her output slowed to a trickle, but editors were willing to give her a little time off, a mini sabbatical. It became clear after an entire week in bed that her interest in the world had tapered off and she no longer felt the urgent need to get things started and experience everything before her time was up. Somehow, she was sure there would always be another day, another year, and she would do everything she wanted to do and more. And it made her despair.
When Charlotte finally rose after that week, she realized she could barely stand up. She lurched into the bathroom and splashed water on her face, spraying the walls and floor with heavy droplets. Finally she looked in the mirror and was thoroughly startled to see how awful she looked. Her hair was greasy and lank, hanging in twisted strings; her eyes were puffy and bruised looking, with the little red blood vessels jaggedly shooting across the sclera; even her skin had a horror movie quality to it, all grayish and full of bedlines like Frankenstein monster scars. "What the hell is wrong with me?" she wondered aloud, shocked at how raspy her voice was. She dragged herself to the kitchen for a vitamin shake. As she gathered the blender and ingredients, she kept trying to keep down the nagging thought that the effort would kill her, although as she moved around the room she began to notice energy trickling back into her limbs. By the time she finished drinking the shake, it was like she had been given a whole new gas tank, filled to the top. Now that she was full of energy again, she didn't stop to ponder the meaning of this almost spontaneous healing; she got right back to work on an article she had been having trouble finishing. It came out easily. Like a hot knife through a stick of butter. Words poured onto the page, and they were the right words, Charlotte was sure as soon as she typed them.
So, Charlotte went back to her busy life for a while, with only a niggling, nagging feeling in the back of her head about her collapse. After another couple of months, it happened again, with the same result - after a time spent in repose, getting worse, Charlotte forced herself up and she recovered. The third time laid her out quickly, and with such alarming physical effects that her mother had her shipped off to the hospital, where doctors were stymied by her failure to respond to treatment as much as by the cause of her condition.
One night while dozing in her hospital bed, Charlotte suddenly became aware that somebody else was in the room with her. Her eyes flew open and she shot bolt upright in bed, heart pounding in her anguished chest. There in the visitor's chair sat the woman in the cloak, resting her head on her right hand, with a somewhat wistful expression on her face. She smiled just a little at Char and said softly, "Well, Charlotte, I told you time was a gift to be used."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I told you that morning in the garden. If you don't use the time you're given, it will be taken from you."
"But - but it's not time that's leaving me, it's my health, my life!"
The woman dropped her hand and straightened up in the chair. "What do you think life is, my dear? Life is time. Life is the time you use. Everyone receives a certain measure, but sometimes we can be persuaded to give out more if we think it won't be wasted. When it looks like the gift is not being appreciated, however, it leaves the recipient."
"So you 'gave' me time and when I needed to slow down, you took what you gave plus interest."
"Oh no, Charlotte. I'm not taking anything, it's natural. If you pull back a branch to open up a little space and the branch springs back when you let go of it, are you taking space away? No, the branch is returning to its natural state, although it might have a little, shall we say, backlash. You were given more time. You stopped using it, and it's returning to its natural place, but you feel a little weaker than you would normally. If you can stand to wait, your feeling will balance itself eventually."
"So my gift time is leaving me, and taking my own time with it? Should I be dead already?"
"If you should be dead, you would be."
"But who says I wasn't using my time? I just got tired, I needed some time to reflect, think about my life and where I was going! Am I supposed to just work, work, work? I want to consider the big picture of existence!"
The woman sighed and stood up in one smooth motion. She stood then at the foot of Char's bed with her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes shining like little mirrors in the dimness of the room and her smile twisted oddly on one side of her mouth. "You may have mistaken me for somebody else, Charlotte. I don't deal with the big picture, that's a friend of mine. I am all about the details." Then she smiled broadly, white, teeth practically glowing, and just when Char noticed that she hadn't heard one sound while they had been talking, not a chirp of monitors or a nurse's voice or a footstep in the hallway, a piercing beep drove into her ears.
She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them. It was morning and the nurse was opening the blinds, making a horrible squealing noise. She turned around and looked at Char sheepishly, as if to say she couldn't do anything about it. Char noticed a thin brown haze out the newly unclad glass, a collection of gases hovering in the atmosphere above the city, and felt the strength returning to her arms as she visualized typing up her next article on the dangers of and solutions to pollution.
It wasn't her particular interest, though, this sort of thing. A tract on pseudo-Wicca. The plasticky smell and feel of the cover threw doubt on the human skin story. The bright cherry red of the chapter titles made blood ink seem unlikely. The rest of the ink, a soft, easily readable black, could have been made with ashes and melted fat, she supposed. Ashes of burned witches and fat of unbaptised babies. Or was it pigs? Or cats born on Friday the 13th? So many rumors, so many people believing without question. That's the thing about magic, she mused, it plays to our deepest desires as greedy humans. Everything supernatural has a connection to our own psyche and our petty, selfish wants. That was what she had wanted to write her senior thesis on, except she hadn't finished her sophomore year of psychology before she switched to history. Then journalism, then chemistry, then French. Then she switched to an accounting program at the community college just so she could have some qualifications and maybe a chance to get a job and pay back her bank account draining, paycheck swallowing, hope and dream crushing loans. But she didn't even finish that 6-month course.
Fortunately, her favorite cousin (although the feeling was not necessarily mutual) had an exceedingly large house, inherited from a great-aunt by marriage. This cousin let her stay in a small apartment over the back patio in exchange for a pittance in monthly rent and some gardening. Char did enjoy a good session of weeding when she was feeling blocked and watering with the anaconda-like hose in the early morning gave her the kind of wake-up she enjoyed. Her income was mostly freelance articles and the sale of flower photography. Char herself thought neither the flowers nor the photos were anything special, but there did seem to be a market. Which was undoubtedly fortunate, since not one in ten of those freelance articles ever left her laptop.
Charlotte was too easily distracted, said the family indulgently. Charlotte found this diagnosis irritating, but also found herself unable to modify her behavior. In a way, her first attempt at college had been her trying to fix herself. Hadn't worked. Just opened her eyes to more possibilities for study and exploration and Char felt like she had to try everything before her time ran out. That was really the problem, she told herself, that she had too much curiosity, that everything was interesting to her. And life was short. If she knew she would have the chance later, she could settle down and focus on one thing at a time.
That's weird, she thought with a start, these pages are different. The paper was slicker, whiter, and the ink was blue. Sure didn't look like the rest of the book. Must have been added in later, Charlotte thought as she scanned the pages. Her hand automatically scritched key words. It was a pack of about 20 pages, but at the end, she noticed that the sentence cut in the middle by the end of the newer-looking page was finished on the top of the next, original looking, page. Maybe it's just a sloppy repair job, Char thought. I'm so tired now. I probably won't take good notes at this time of night anyway. Better finish up tomorrow.
Charlotte awoke the next morning not feeling refreshed at all. She couldn't remember what she had dreamed about, but she still had a feeling of fearful tension in her upper back and shoulders. Even going into the garden and dousing everything with its daily soothing shower did little to ease the tightness. She went back to her desk and her notes feeling troubled. When she saw her notes, her frustration hit its peak; they were practically illegible! She'd have to go through more than half the book again. But first, batteries for that damn recorder.
With the gadget newly prepared, Charlotte sat down to work. She opened the crackly old book to the third chapter, where she had been when the recorder had died the day before, and started off. She murmured through her reading, gaze sliding rapidly over the paper, dry fingers turning pages easily. It was amazing how much faster it was this way. Then she got to the part that she vaguely recalled as being an insert or repair. And it wasn't there. All the pages were the same off-white color, with a texture somewhat like a paper towel, rough and spongy, and the black ink never brightened into blue. Charlotte was sure she could remember that part. Positive. She couldn't go on until she proved to herself that she hadn't been dreaming. Or had been, whichever. She pulled her notes from their circular grave. A flash of headache hit her, but she thought she could probably decipher a word here and there and find that odd part. It definitely had a different tone than the rest of the book, more straightforward and less pretentiously magical. Char always thought the language in those magic books sounded forced, like people pretending to know a foreign language and wording everything in a completely unnatural manner because they heard something like it in a movie once. Those blue ink pages had a very normal and natural feel to them, very contemporary. Hey, here's something. Spells for getting what you want from your superiors. That was from the blue part. And she'd made a note of the change back - page 345. And even some of the lines from that last page. Charlotte checked the book. Pages 344 and 345 had the same paper and ink. The blue sentence had stated, "With just a little help from beyond, you will see made reality -" The sentence, now all black, read, "Beware temptations and beguiling spirits whoso offer- (page 345) all thy wishings and wantings and needs in all the world."
Charlotte sat back in her chair. What the hell happened last night? How could the book have changed? Was she really dreaming then? Or now?
Confused, Charlotte got up to make some tea to wander around the grounds with while she considered the possibilities. She spent several hours wandering and wondering. In the early afternoon, though, a pile of dark gray storm clouds slumpfed over the horizon making staying outside a less attractive choice. A clap of thunder boomed just as Char closed the door behind her and she flipped on the light. Which immediately burned out. Scowling and cursing, Char stomped over to the desk and tried the desk lamp to be sure it wasn't a blackout or fuse and warm light illuminated the desk top. She sighed and sat down. She picked up her notes, sighed some more, and looked at the book. Wait a goddam minute. Now there's a sheaf of white pages in there again! With no regard for old bindings or paper cuts, Charlotte yanked open the book and there it was. White pages, blue ink, simple style. Was it the lamplight? Char reached for the switch to test her new theory, but hesitated, afraid the blue would disappear and not come back, or wouldn't disappear and then she really would be crazy.
Fine. The "new" bit was there again, staring her in the face. What to do now...Charlotte glanced back at her notes and where a jumble of scribbling had been sprawled before, a pattern now seemed to leap out at her. The letters down the left-hand edge of the page made words and the words made sentences that actually made sense. The words trailed around the bottom where she had written some quotes and then back up the right side and backwards across the top (if she only used the first letter of each word). Charlotte picked up the paper and murmured the words to herself. When she had finished the full circle an enormous crash of thunder shook the room while the desk lamp flickered nervously. Then all went quiet. No wind outside, no pitter-pat of the first drops of the storm. Char looked out the window and could see the dark gray clouds drooping over the trees like somebody's first attempt at setting up a tent. Curious about the stillness, she went out into the garden. At the far end of the yard, Char saw a woman standing under the trees. She was dressed in a floor-length black hooded cloak with the hood draped loosely over her head. She started to walk into the yard. Little leaves and fallen petals whirled around her footsteps before she even put her feet down, although Charlotte felt nary a breath of air around her. The woman's face was pleasant, rosy cheeked, red lipped, with a smile that bespoke a calm good humor. Her eyes glittered like stars. She came right up to Char and said, "Well, dear girl, here we are at last." Char's confusion must have been apparent on her face because the woman quickly added, "Of course, you weren't really expecting me, but I've been thinking about coming to find you for some time now. I'd like to offer you a bit of assistance. It's a small favor for me to grant and no trouble at all, really. But you must accept the favor for it to benefit you." Charlotte was even more confused by this, but then the woman took her hands. Her smile widened just a little and her face seemed to radiate joy. She's practically glowing, thought Charlotte, maybe she's pregnant and wants to sell me the baby. Give me some direction in life. The woman lifted her hand to her mouth to cover a musical little giggle, then put on a more serious face. "Charlotte," she said, her voice soft and rich as the garden soil, "You need to relax and concentrate. I've heard it many times in off-hand comments, but after so many, I felt it was worth my time to present you with a solution. You will have time for everything, Charlotte, that I can promise you. But you will have to use the time or it will revert back." Now Char was skeptical. "Revert back to what?" "Why, to the Universe." The woman was smiling again, pink lemonade lips curving slightly upward in a gentle arc. Charlotte considered for a moment and said, "I would like to have time." The woman's eyes brightened. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, sure. Everyone wants more time." "But do you want the time I offer you?" "Well, yeah, why not?" The woman sighed happily and said, "Charlotte, I look forward to hearing about your achievements. I may drop in from time to time, just to make sure you stay on course." She squeezed Char's hands and glided back the way she came, with an unfelt wind whipping up the leaves on the ground and swirling her cloak around her. She reached out and absently caressed a blossom on her way and Char just watched her go, entranced and not sure what to think or do.
When the rain started to fall, she darted back into the house. After a moment of indecision she went for the light-bulbs and a chair in the kitchen. Once the burnt out bulb was replaced, she went back to her desk and sat down in front of her notes. Suddenly she realized she had sliced her thumb on the pages of the book some minutes before and had left a small dot of blood on the paper. Her thumb didn't hurt at all now, though, and the opened skin had been closed with a skinny line of dried blood. Without another thought, Char opened the book to where she had left off recording and, snatching up the recorder, she smoothly began to redo her notes.
After a couple of hours of unexpected and newly experienced dedication, Char stood up to take a walk and stretch her knotted muscles. This attention thing was hard work, but maybe with some practice she could get into the habit.
Things began to come together for Charlotte after that day. She started finishing more and more articles on time. She was able to start studies in communication and journalism at a local college, and do a reasonable amount of work for her classes while continuing to write for the magazine. She just felt calm, no rush at all. Her relationship with her family also improved. They were more relaxed around her, feeling no need to push or pressure, and she felt they were more supportive of her endeavors than they had ever been before.
Char's life rolled on in a steady stream of writing, research and travel. Her degree hung on her wall, she dedicated herself to her articles, and she got to know people and places that only five years before had seemed far out of her reach. But finally, she began to get tired. It started with a frightening experience on one of her research trips, where she was going to interview a few museum curators and witnessed a spectacular traffic accident. Instead of researching and writing, she began pondering and brooding. Her output slowed to a trickle, but editors were willing to give her a little time off, a mini sabbatical. It became clear after an entire week in bed that her interest in the world had tapered off and she no longer felt the urgent need to get things started and experience everything before her time was up. Somehow, she was sure there would always be another day, another year, and she would do everything she wanted to do and more. And it made her despair.
When Charlotte finally rose after that week, she realized she could barely stand up. She lurched into the bathroom and splashed water on her face, spraying the walls and floor with heavy droplets. Finally she looked in the mirror and was thoroughly startled to see how awful she looked. Her hair was greasy and lank, hanging in twisted strings; her eyes were puffy and bruised looking, with the little red blood vessels jaggedly shooting across the sclera; even her skin had a horror movie quality to it, all grayish and full of bedlines like Frankenstein monster scars. "What the hell is wrong with me?" she wondered aloud, shocked at how raspy her voice was. She dragged herself to the kitchen for a vitamin shake. As she gathered the blender and ingredients, she kept trying to keep down the nagging thought that the effort would kill her, although as she moved around the room she began to notice energy trickling back into her limbs. By the time she finished drinking the shake, it was like she had been given a whole new gas tank, filled to the top. Now that she was full of energy again, she didn't stop to ponder the meaning of this almost spontaneous healing; she got right back to work on an article she had been having trouble finishing. It came out easily. Like a hot knife through a stick of butter. Words poured onto the page, and they were the right words, Charlotte was sure as soon as she typed them.
So, Charlotte went back to her busy life for a while, with only a niggling, nagging feeling in the back of her head about her collapse. After another couple of months, it happened again, with the same result - after a time spent in repose, getting worse, Charlotte forced herself up and she recovered. The third time laid her out quickly, and with such alarming physical effects that her mother had her shipped off to the hospital, where doctors were stymied by her failure to respond to treatment as much as by the cause of her condition.
One night while dozing in her hospital bed, Charlotte suddenly became aware that somebody else was in the room with her. Her eyes flew open and she shot bolt upright in bed, heart pounding in her anguished chest. There in the visitor's chair sat the woman in the cloak, resting her head on her right hand, with a somewhat wistful expression on her face. She smiled just a little at Char and said softly, "Well, Charlotte, I told you time was a gift to be used."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I told you that morning in the garden. If you don't use the time you're given, it will be taken from you."
"But - but it's not time that's leaving me, it's my health, my life!"
The woman dropped her hand and straightened up in the chair. "What do you think life is, my dear? Life is time. Life is the time you use. Everyone receives a certain measure, but sometimes we can be persuaded to give out more if we think it won't be wasted. When it looks like the gift is not being appreciated, however, it leaves the recipient."
"So you 'gave' me time and when I needed to slow down, you took what you gave plus interest."
"Oh no, Charlotte. I'm not taking anything, it's natural. If you pull back a branch to open up a little space and the branch springs back when you let go of it, are you taking space away? No, the branch is returning to its natural state, although it might have a little, shall we say, backlash. You were given more time. You stopped using it, and it's returning to its natural place, but you feel a little weaker than you would normally. If you can stand to wait, your feeling will balance itself eventually."
"So my gift time is leaving me, and taking my own time with it? Should I be dead already?"
"If you should be dead, you would be."
"But who says I wasn't using my time? I just got tired, I needed some time to reflect, think about my life and where I was going! Am I supposed to just work, work, work? I want to consider the big picture of existence!"
The woman sighed and stood up in one smooth motion. She stood then at the foot of Char's bed with her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes shining like little mirrors in the dimness of the room and her smile twisted oddly on one side of her mouth. "You may have mistaken me for somebody else, Charlotte. I don't deal with the big picture, that's a friend of mine. I am all about the details." Then she smiled broadly, white, teeth practically glowing, and just when Char noticed that she hadn't heard one sound while they had been talking, not a chirp of monitors or a nurse's voice or a footstep in the hallway, a piercing beep drove into her ears.
She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them. It was morning and the nurse was opening the blinds, making a horrible squealing noise. She turned around and looked at Char sheepishly, as if to say she couldn't do anything about it. Char noticed a thin brown haze out the newly unclad glass, a collection of gases hovering in the atmosphere above the city, and felt the strength returning to her arms as she visualized typing up her next article on the dangers of and solutions to pollution.
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