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.

Her Heart of Gold: Glow

According to the sluggishly ticking clock hanging above the door to the store, it's five o'clock.  But the young woman pulling down the protective grating knows that the clock, like many things out there, is brimming with accidental lies.  Her mobile phone is attuned to the atomic clock and that claims the clock shaved off an extra quarter of an hour.  Time had gotten away from her again with the clock attempting to thieve what she had missed.

Her understated black heels are a clicking counterpoint to the clock. The weak February light that streams between the tightly packed buildings looming over the little shop glints off of her bronze name tag.  She is convinced that no one reads it, let alone remembers what is imprinted by the precise stamping machine.  The shop is one of glass and glittering items; compared to the precious stones and metal encased in the elegant cabinetry, she knows that she and her uniform do not stand out in the least.  To do that was to detract from the wares and it wasn't her that the clients were shopping for; this shop was not for that.

But now is after-hours.

The young woman, her hair neatly pinned back in a bun that resembles a knot of wood with its coloration and shape, gives the glass cases a final spritz and polish to prepare them for the morning.  The shop was painstakingly decorated in such a way as to encourage the perception of sufficient space, cleaned regularly to welcome customers.  In the Court Quarter of the city, most of the shops shared the same dimensions and similar window shapes; any way a business could find to stand out was of critical advantage.

The rooms sequestered behind the 'Employees Only' sign are a hybrid of a workshop and a makeshift break room that could easily support a person staying for a few nights.  This was often the case for a small jewelry shop that had a small range of clientele which would make unusual demands.  It was better for the business owner to make small repairs in-house rather than send out for services he and his trained associate could provide.  Like the tastefully tiled area of the shop which welcomed customers, the back areas were cleaned regularly.  Unlike the determinedly welcoming place beyond the nondescript door, break area managed to amass the sort of clutter that comes with living rather than urging to purchase.

The working desk, the sofa and the small table between were findings rescued from the verges on trash day.  It results in a weathered and mismatched appearance very much at odds with the shop and breathes of different personality.  The desk is cluttered, the couch welcoming with an extra pillow nestled on top of a folded woolen blanket, and the little round dining room table in between them was hosting a pile of mail.

Most of the mail was to her employer but one on the top was addressed differently.  The girl looks down at it, carefully manicured fingers reaching out to cover the name until only her nickname peered out at her. 'Tani.'  She can take a moment to marvel at the way the pearly robin's egg blue of the envelope made the natural tan of her hands stand out, accentuated the manicure that was mandatory in this sort of shop.

"Finally," she breathes, her thoughtful expression clearing into a pleased half-smile.  It was the letter she had waited years for, the engraved invitation more than one mutual friend had made affectionate bets about.  Her fingertips drag to the top left corner of the envelope before she flips it over.  On the back were clear instructions to RSVP before August.

Tani turns away from the table, pausing to use it to steady herself as she steps out of her heels.  The floor feels unforgivingly cold through the leggings but after the shoes it's a relief.  It wouldn't take her long to change into more comfortable clothing before she settled in at the work station.  Nice professional clothing for reasonable price was difficult to come by so she saw no reason to put her uniform at risk.

Once Tani takes the time to change clothing and grab a snack, she settles herself at the workstation both she and her employer used to make repairs to pieces brought to them by clients.  Rarely would they work with things to make unique pieces.  As she scans the board in front of the desk to decide on which instrument to begin with, she rubs her fingertips together.

In the end, she drags out a weighty hunk of metal that has a pair of straight and shallow troughs in it.  It was like iron beneath her now-warm fingertips.  It was made of a dense metal, as weathered as any grandmother's finest cast-iron skillet.  Like the rough-hewn marble work surface that was actually a salvaged off-cut, the heavy mold was also a rescue.  Her employer had no more need of it but Tani saw no reason to dispose of it.  It, like the battered desk and couch, had been given another chance.

Consideringly, she plucks one of their steak knives from the kitchen from its secret spot beneath the desk organizer, turning it over in her hands as she stares at the mold. The metal blade glints with a strange warmth beneath the glow of the old yellow bulb that hangs above the table.  

With a quirked smile, she twists the instrument so that the metallic shark teeth meet her skin and presses it roughly into the meaty part of the palm.  To make sure, she folds her fingers around the sleek steel.  The smile morphs almost instantly to a pained hiss as the flesh parts but as she pulls the sharp implement from her hand, she can only hope the shallow gouges were enough.

Welling from her palm are not the bright red of blood but steaming droplets of glowing metal.  It lights her brown eyes strangely in the small space, promises to catch fire to anything unprepared for it ferociously.  Tani knew that it would cool quickly in the air, turning her hand so it was palm down above the marble and deliberately pressing a thumb into the softness near the teeth-marks of the knife to encourage more flow.

The key was to bleed her gold into a straight line without spattering it and that takes concentration.  This was the best gift she could think to give them.  Her friends would need bands for their vows.  They were only starting and had about as much as any young married couple would have. . . so Tani would provide.  It would take time to process the gold into her desired shape, repeatedly subjecting it to heat and pressure until it was the right size for the intended, to polish it appropriately.  

Tani had until August.  She had time.

*~*~*

Book Reviews in Brief: Part One

Let it not be said that my little Kobo Touch doesn't get a good workout.  In fact, it's been used so constantly that I sometimes fear the little device is near the end of its life. . . sometimes he rebuffs my advances to turn him on.  Repeatedly.

Girls hate to be ignored.  

So eventually the Kobo flickers up, grudgingly.  I suspect he knows that if he doesn't put out, he can get out.  I would move on and find another reader.  Sadly, sometimes it has to fall by the wayside because life just insists on being dealt with.  But, with winter thundering down in the form of storms and nights that hover haltingly above zero, it's come back as part of my evening and weekend routine.  It keeps me warm and curled up in a comfy place.  Or would be, were it not for my chosen reading material.

I've recently finished The Girl with All the Gifts by M.R. Carey and have moved on to Bird Box by Josh Malerman.  I know, right?  Not exactly idea stuff to read right before going to sleep.  Particularly Josh Malerman's book. . . But each of the books are teaching me by example.  And I really do like that.

M.R. Carey's descriptions strike me as more poetic in some places.  They evoke strong imagery for me.  It means that when he uses science in his book to back up what goes on, it catches me by surprise and makes me more appreciative.  You see, my original degree is a biology degree.  So when someone brings me literature that uses something that is at least plausible at a stretch, I become excited.  Someone has done some homework!  Just how much homework?  You'd have to read it to know for sure.  Me?  I'm more than a little tempted to do a bit of digging for myself and see how well he covered himself in science (I'd admittedly a bit rusty and the fun part about science is that we continuously edit it).

Personally, I find M.R. Carey's approach to be one of the more challenging (and also one of the most increasingly popular).  It gives great flexibility but there's not much space for being lazy there.  He pulls this off because each of the characters has, to me, a unique voice.  I never really forget whose eyes I'm seeing through.

Josh Malerman's novel, on the other hand, is more sparse.  But the sparseness, to me, serves a function.  I could attribute it to any number of things, from the narrator's viewpoint to it simply being how Mr. Malerman writes.  However, Josh Malerman's book has its strength in what is not shown and that is quite different to The Girl With All the Gifts, which in my opinion has strength in measured reveal, using more than one viewpoint to widen the reader's understanding of the world and what goes on.

Two different books, two different subject matters, two different approaches.  One's strength is in well-paced reveal.  The other is extremely talented on not giving you anything and letting what I think of as instinctive imagination do the work (Instinctive imagination: The part of you that probably worked fabulously well when humans were still struggling tribes, huddled around the fire and scared of anything that moved in the dark).  And between them?  A lot of space to learn and experiment.  If you want to learn a little more about what to do to creep people out, I think I can suggest Josh Malerman's Bird Box.  I'm about halfway through and seriously had to not stop just anywhere before going to bed.

I am a grown-ass woman.  And I couldn't go to bed because this book was at a point where I was sufficiently creeped out that I had to continue the trip until I found a spot that wasn't the sort of thing that could trigger nightmares.  It's like the literary opposite of "are we there yet?"  I've never had a book do that to me before. . . but to be fair, this is the first time I've read something that seems to be dedicated solely to the gift of sleepless nights.

. . . I'll let you know how that goes!


Edit:

Wanna peek at the books I'm babbling about?  I'll make it easier!

The Girl with All the Gifts by M.R. Carey

Bird Box by Josh Malerman