writing snippet - driving (Rob)

Those who knew him would probably say that Rob had no imagination. Those who knew him best would probably tease him about how boring he was, and he needed to start playing video games or something. Rob was simply a practical-minded man, and preoccupied himself with the things around him, rather than engaging in flights of fancy. Elizabet kept telling him he needed to lighten up a little bit, encouraging him to “exercise those mind muscles.” In return, he’d just chuckle and make sure that the equipment at the station was in good working order. 

He had a soft spot for Elizabet. He wasn’t secretly in love with her or anything, at least he didn’t think he was, but he felt a definite fondness for the dark-haired woman.  He’d noticed that she seemed a lot less of herself recently, almost seeming harrowed, and had made an effort to pick up more late work at the station so that he could be around if something happened to her. That’s where he’d been tonight, why he was driving home at 2 in the morning. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he’d done all the regular maintenance and Elizabet had shooed him home, insisting she’d be alright. He’d still been reluctant to go, but she was very persuasive. Or maybe he’d just been very good at letting her persuade him. He didn’t think their friendship was different from any other, but he felt obliged to admit the possibility that he might let her influence him more than he let other people.

It was too late to hit up Taveston’s and he wasn’t really in the mood anyway – his work and Elizabet’s health had put him into a more somber mood. Rob guessed he’d just go home. Late spring warmth had given way to late night chill, but for some reason he felt stifled in the car so he rolled down the windows and switched on the heat. The mingling sensation of warm air from the vents and pre-dew coolness from the windows played across his skin, raising the hair on his arms. The radio was tuned low, so that he could just make out guitars and drumbeats above the noise of the wind. God, I don’t think I’ve done this since college.

Rob turned onto Old Orchard Road and his mind began to wander. He may not have much imagination, but he had plenty of memories.  Sometimes he felt like maybe his life was a sequence of memories that got replayed, over and over again. He’d certainly lived this one before, driving down Old Orchard with the windows and the heat, the radio playing low, head all wrapped up about a girl. It hadn’t been Elizabet back then of course. Her name was Erin, and she was an old sweetheart – not the first girl he’d ever slept with, but the one before.

“…Widening the corridors, and adding more lanes…” a stray lyric made itself audible above the road noises. Damn it, Cake. That was a weird coincidence. Maybe I’ll tell Elizabet about it tomorrow. In the years since the night he had driven home from Erin's, Old Orchard had been widened. Now there were extra lanes where the honeysuckle used to grow wild.

He felt a sudden pang of sadness. It had been a couple years now since any part of this road smelled like honeysuckle. He missed it, and he didn’t know why. Rob took a deep breath, entertaining the absurd notion that maybe some of the scent was left. He knew there wouldn’t be, and there wasn’t, but he was still a little disappointed that there was nothing flavoring the night air. He pulled up to a stoplight with a sigh. This one was always red, no matter what time of day he came to it. What was the deal with that?

writing snippet - radio (Elizabet)

"It is now 12:14, and you're listening to the Witching Hour with Elizabet—the witchy woman herself—right here on WDTZ; music so good, it's spooky. That was Bjork you just heard, Regina Spektor just before it, and Lach before that. I'll start the music back after this PSA from the Center for Disease Control, and we'll see what kind of magic we can make with the next set, starting with...well, we'll just find out won't we?"

Elizabet cued up the CDC bit that Cindy and Shawn had given her earlier, and collapsed back into her chair. She'd been the "Witchy Woman" for almost a year now. She'd been delighted to take the spot, in fact, because she'd just gotten out of grad school and couldn't fathom what a normal person's sleep schedule was like, or how it could possibly apply to her. Play whatever seemed like a good idea, take requests (there were a few, but not usually too many), and make sure the studio didn't burn down. Not a bad gig at all.

A few weeks ago, she'd started getting headaches, some of them bad. Maybe they were migraines, but they never lingered like her mom's had. Just here, there, and gone all in the course of a night. Still, sound hurt. Lights hurt. No one else could take her spot for more than a night or two, though, and she was too damn stubborn to let the WDTZ go off the air during her shift. So rather than admit something was wrong, she started "flying blind" in the studio. Eyes shut unless she absolutely needed them, and blocking out as much of the music as she could. The "Witchy Woman" had always been secretive about her playlists, and that worked in Elizabet's favor now; she really had no idea what songs she was queueing until she worked up the gus to open her eyes and sneak a glance.

She'd never thought she knew the studio like the back of her hand, but she made out with minimal screw-ups (somehow), and no one had called to bless her out about her show sucking. Either she was doing alright, or no one was bothering to listen to her any more. At this point, either one of those seemed like they could be okay. Maybe she'd offer to pick up Rob's tab at Taveston's—the bar down the road—if he'd record her show one night so she could actually hear how the "blind" Witching Hour sounded.

Or maybe she didn't want to know.

Ugh, the PSA was ending. Time to get back to work. She dared a quick peek around, trying not to wince. "This is Elizabet wishing a happy Witching Hour to all you boys and girls out there, and we are back to cast a spell on you with this classic track from Beck."

writing snippet - radio (Chayla)

Chayla grinned wolfishly as the last haunting strains of music faded into the air. The DJ's voice crackled across the speakers of the 30-year old transistor radio, announcing the time. "It is now 12:14, and you're listening to the Witching Hour with Elizabet—the witchy woman herself—right here on WDTZ; music so good, it's spooky. That was Bjork you just heard, Regina Spektor just before it, and Lach before that. I'll start the music back after this PSA from the Center for Disease Control, and we'll see what kind of magic we can make with the next set, starting with...well, we'll just find out won't we?"

Chayla hated the breaks. Not that she particularly cared for the music, but the breaks were worse. The Witchy Woman put together incredible playlists, and played it like she thought of them off the top of her head. Chayla had never heard a disc jockey pull that off as well as she did, and she had listened to a lot of radio shows over the past few years. Elizabet never really played music that Chayla liked, but that was beside the point. Chayla didn't even want to try to imagine the hours she must spend going through the station's catalog. It was rarely the kind of music she liked, but it always worked. And more importantly, it always read.

The temptation to fidget with the radio dial was more and more powerful, but Chayla didn't dare - on this old junker, she'd never be able to get the station back. It was an accident she'd found this station in the first place, while looking for a local classic rock station James had told her about. One that didn't suck, he'd said. Besides, by then the PSA was almost over. That was the great thing about these little stations; they played commercials about as often as ska bands played sonatas.

The Witchy Woman's voice came back on the air, and she started to talk in the next song. Something she'd never heard of by Beck. Chayla huddled even closer over the card table, her ear trained intently to hear the opening riff while she unconsciously fidgeted with the ballpoint pen in her hand. The table was littered with scraps of scribbled paper, snack food wrappers, an torn-up cigarette pack, empty cans of diet Pepsi, and a deck of tarot cards carefully divided into seven different stacks.

Those were just for double-checking, though, and Chayla hardly ever used them any more. Somehow, Elizabet's playlists always gave good readings.