Raspberry Bliss

It was happening again.  That thing.

Taylor heaved a shuddering breath, staring up at the once-plain wall of her apartment.  It had been a splash of deep red, an accent wall to stand against the nearly-white of the rest.  

The rich red is submerged now, slashed viciously with repeated impressions of color that have melted like ice cream on the fourth of July but with a more coherent result.  Well, if the images of smudged skies, broken buildings and zig-zagged bright lines melding into each other could be considered 'coherent.'  Standing as close as she is, the woman can see that it had to have been one of her large, flat brushes she'd been using.  Normally, they were used exclusively for priming canvas; she'd be cleaning those brushes for a week judging by the mess here.

Too bad Taylor didn't remember doing any of this; she lived alone.  It had to be her painting these impromptu murals.  The episodes had been easing off.  There hadn't been any sort of stretch of time she couldn't account for in. . . ages.  Or so she had thought.  Sadly, right here there was some rather colorful evidence that maybe she had been wrong to have some hope.

She likened it to a desk.  It was like having a series of drawers. . . you normally knew what was in the top drawer (because you used it all the time) and the bottom drawer (where you can put the Big Stuff).  People normally can't recall what's in the middle drawer, a kind of unloved-middle-child of a drawer.

And then some bastard comes along and upends all of the drawers and doesn't bother to tell you.  That's what's happened here, except it was no drawer.  It was Taylor's ability to recall.  There wasn't even the luxury of denial here; the paint was thick and congealed beneath the woman's short fingernails, spattered over her shirt, smeared in her short and dark hair.  

It was Taylor who did the deed, no doubt of it.

It was also Taylor who shakes her head in disgust and turns on the ball of a bare foot to go looking for her wall roller and a pail of paint in the color the accent wall was supposed to be.  Raspberry Bliss.

If she ever wanted to give up her current occupation, Taylor had no doubt that she would have a bright future as an interior painter.  The last half year had given her enough practice to learn the ins and outs, such as to forget priming it.  There was no need these days, layers of disturbing paintings buried between shallow graves of her chosen accent color.  Corpses of color, stacked on on top of the other as Taylor had neither the time nor the urge to strip the wall back to its base.

Jeoff had called her fucked up.  Taylor hadn't been able to refute that, generally because of things like this.  Still, people in her section of the Academy were closely monitored mentally and physically and the check-ups hadn't found anything.  Then again, the questionnaires never specifically queried this.

'How often do you wake up and find you've had some sort of impromptu art fest in your living room?  Please circle: Never      Occasionally       Sometimes      Often       Always'

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about before we finish, Ms. Forge?"

There never is.  

Ears for Secrets

Some people think it started with the whispers of a wailing, naked girl in the front yard.  The reports are always of a white sheet trailing like a half-forgotten thought behind her, modesty discarded in desperation.  Other people think it started with the pale face staring out of the third story window, dark eyes round with solemn fright.  The keepers, the visitors. . . everyone has seen flashes, ripples on the walls like a great beast breathing.  And like any half sane person, they make themselves believe that their imagination has developed a sudden penchant for pranking. They don't want to believe that the whispered threats to scratch images on the insides of their eyelids are real.

Three floors, eighteen rooms, twelve hallways and a seductive number of square feet for any and every hopeful owner.  That is what it breaks down to on paper for the fiscally-motivated.

The halls of the old house have always creaked, a quiet sigh of settling in for a long journey through time.  Wood is often like that, planed into exacting lines but relaxing into more suitable ones for a site, worn in by the pounding of uncounted pairs of feet up and down the halls, across the rooms, through the doors.  It’s true that the imagination has a way of tricking you, but the sound of small feet pounding up and down hallways above your head, faint music from elsewhere in the building, of muted conversations through the wall are all quite real.

I would certainly know all about that.

I have seen that woman stagger through the halls a thousand times, clutching the sheets to herself as she makes her way towards the broad front doors.  I have seen the little boy’s pale face stare out of the dark shadows in the corner of that room that he huddles in.  Then there are the uncertain looks from people who have felt that breath of unnaturally cold air across their cheeks, a phantom kiss from something begging to be acknowledged.  I have seen misty faces contorted in rage, I have seen them on the cusp of that crucial moment when their passion pulls the trigger on their gun.  Blood cannot be scrubbed clean from unwaxed wooden floors; it can only be covered with ornate rugs.  Forgetting is the harshest insult to them and in this place, they will not let you forget.

"The walls have ears" is possibly the largest comfort. At least something will listen to their secret confessions though there is no priest present at the time of their passing.  The floorboards, the walls. . . these things absorb the laughter and the blood and the rage, hold them inside themselves.

People say that being full of rage leaves you empty, that anger and sadness can eat you from the inside.  I am not empty, not in the least.  I am filled with the tread of feet, the creak of settling wood, the sighing echoes that drift from my water-stained walls.

I am Linden Manor.

Nanna's Purse

I was stuck staring at the aluminum can of air freshener on the table while enduring a team meeting.  "Spring and Renewal" it promised, swirling blue and pink vines around the print.  You'd think that I would be focused more intently on the meeting.  The truth of the matter is that I was there merely as a courtesy, the sort of thing to foster the illusion of "team."  I'm not seen by them as much more than a minion of the outdoors and in a dead-end job.  So while I was here for the tea and cookies and to keep me from screaming "equal rights," that was the end of it.

Spring and renewal, really?  I have spent more than a little time up to my elbows in fresh soil and I can tell you there is nothing enticing about it to the average person.  Spring and renewal is a thing that rises from the soil and the earth; dead things.  You could become mystical about it and say it was the circle of life but really it has to do with nutrients.

At least when you work in the greenhouse, which is where I belong when business meetings aren't in.  It's about as unglamorous as you get I'm not one for complaining; in reality, I'm quite happy with what I do even if it won't exactly get me a date.  Guys seem to count it against you if you have dirt under your nails and staining your skin.  My skin is a bit ruddy to begin with from all the sun, but the soil definitely doesn't help things.  Glancing down at my hands now, I can see that my trimmed nails had brought along some of the glass houses for a ride.

"Macey.  Macey, did you hear me?"

The voice is slightly nasal and heavy with condescension, pushing me out of the more idle thoughts.  When I tear my eyes from my overly-fascinating nail-beds and upwards, the shift manager is staring down the laminated, peeling table at me.  Here at Nanna's Nursery, we don't put our money into nice tables; we save that for lining Nanna's tapestry-patterned purse.

"Sir?"

"I said. . . you have a performance review with Nanna tomorrow at four p.m."

Ah.  That would explain why everyone else at the table is staring down towards this end.  Something more interesting than the tea and cookies just happened.  Let us be honest, no one likes to be involved in company 'team meetings.'  For Nanna's Nursery it's no different in that regard.  We have all personally met 'Nanna' at one time or another.  When you think of grandmothers you probably think of fresh-baked cookies, hearty home-cooked meals and hugs brimming with love and acceptance.  Kindly old ladies who remember The Good Ol' Days.

This Nanna is none of those things.  This woman makes the unblinking eyes of any star National Geographic predator look dewy and sweet.  I'm including sharks in this.  Despite the apparent age that a title like 'Nanna' bestows, you would never call her 'Old Bat' or 'Tough Old Bird' or anything like that.  While she may be substantially older than myself or anyone else sitting at this table, there is something vital about her.

Sometimes she reminds me of the soil; sometimes 'Nanna' reminds me of the dead things in the damp ground in sterile Styrofoam containers beneath my hands and the potential energy there.  Hidden but humming, just waiting for the right set of circumstances to be spun out by the universe before it shows itself.

Having a meeting with management on such short notice just fills people with the instinctive dread that comes with being abruptly informed that you'll be talking to the higher-ups.  You fear for your job.      

Having a meeting with 'Nanna' is somehow so. . . so much worse.

Hostage Situation

She heaved a deep sigh, watching the note next to the fireplace as it fluttered like a broken butterfly.  It was too far to read even if the words echoed in her mind as she played with the sealed mason jar.

Give up the ghost.

She would not.  She could not.

Her Heart of Gold: Glitter

They were coming again.

Time used to run sweet like molasses, as timeless as halcyon summer days.  Now it's like tar; darker and certainly more sickly, devoid of the fresh notes that sometimes come with living.

She picks her head up slowly from where she sits, the hands folded in her lap as limp as her rarely washed hair.  Tani has not been 'living' for some time, shut up in the low-lit room.  The concrete walls were halfheartedly painted a dusty blue color in some misguided attempt to be 'calming.'  All it really does is remind her of the sky when it was veiled by early morning mists.

The TV is her only company in the room except for her scheduled visitations, blaring from the top corner.  The woman is well aware that it's purposefully kept out of reach; they didn't want her cutting herself on the screen if she managed to destroy another television in a fit of desperate outrage.  She stays opposite of it, able to watch but as far from it as she can possibly get from both the television and the door.  Tani can honestly say that there is more in her life that makes her sad than makes her angry, but the television is one of those few things that brings her utter despair late at night.  Maybe they were convinced that she would eventually see she was helping make 'beautiful relationships.'

All she could see is them whoring out happily ever afters.

It was all because of simple bad luck that she had come to be here, Tani knew that.  And that run of bad luck would probably last until the end of her life, whenever it was decided that would be.  There's only a breath of fear as she contemplates her mortality, knowing that it was entirely dependent on how long she was profitable.  It seemed that the Board had recently been struck by the idea that she was a finite resource.

Finite resources, rare resources meant higher prices.  Even the advertisement warns the people about how unique their product is.  'Their' product.

The TV is sneaking into her thoughts again, the softly insistent violins drawing her attention.  The aim of the advertisement was to be 'tasteful' and it was, considering the subject matter.   She supposed she should be grateful that they hadn't turned it into an infomercial for the early mornings, extolling the product yielded from her veins, forged into wedding bands that may as well be bars.  There was inherent artistry with black and white filming, using the climbing of the chords to reach a crescendo of sound. . . all overlapped with the use of words that were emotionally charged.  Where diamonds were supposed to last 'forever' and cost only two months' salary, this set of commercials, accented with soft yellow in key areas never made note of the cost.

If you wanted to know the monetary cost, it would be too high for you.  In a world where so many people were falling apart (and so were their marriages), this was a commodity that would make anyone wistful.  Instead of a 'forever' this commercial promised you a relationship that would last, make the time remaining irrelevant for the individuals purchasing the jewelry.  It was a guaranteed until death do you part, without the possibility of murder for insurance purposes.

She had been here long enough that the sun shadows had faded from her skin.  The once ruddy complexion had begun to blanch under the abrupt lack.  Tani's dark eyes pull back into focus, tracking the scars of various whites and pink that litter her hands, threads of unwilling donation.  Moving the hands stretched some scars, made others wrinkle.  Each one had its own personality indelibly added to her flesh..  She remembered them.

Every.  Single.  One.