Kid cousin - Chayla (writing excerpt)

Chayla took one last drag on the nubby Parliament clenched between her lips, then dismembered it in the cheap ashtray (stolen from the Waffle House before it closed), looked at it gloomily for a moment, then flicked it out the open window. Her kid cousin was coming by later that afternoon, and Chayla wasn't thrilling at the idea of a reunion.

She didn't have anything against the girl, personally. She had always been kind of quiet and kept to herself at the holidays, and always seemed more interested in reading than talking. Sure. Chayla could appreciate that; when Steve and Mark and the two Kathys (one of them kin by blood, the other by marriage) were all under the same roof, there was no telling what was going to happen...but it usually involved football or NASCAR, and lots of swearing. Was it two Thanksgivings ago the next door neighbors had called the police on them, reporting a domestic disturbance. The Burgens weren't their next-door neighbors any more. Even though Chayla'd had no involvement in the fight—was sometimes appalled at how her uncles had escalated the feud—it gave her a grim sort of satisfaction that her family had won. Steve had invited the whole family over for a cookout the day after the Burgens had moved out. On the front lawn of the newly-vacated house. Sometimes blood runs thicker than water, even when it shouldn't.

The girl, though, had come from a slightly saner side of the family. She read books and didn't talk much. Didn't seem interested in cars or sports. The had probably been in girl scouts. She probably went to church on more than just Easter, and didn't feel like a guilt-ridden whore afterward. She probably volunteered at the local retirement hom oon Saturday mornings, and did her homework on time, and got straight A's (except maybe in gym class). She probably played clarinet or flute in marching band. She probably knew how to make a fucking diorama. Actually, that's why she was coming by. Not the diorama, but because she was touring Trinity, the little private college on the other side of town. Chayla had never looked into it, but she suspected they had a literature program. She sneered a little, and reached for the cigarette pack again. Damn, empty. She fidgeted with the carton, tearing it into little pieces.

No, the reason she wasn't fond of the girl were extremely simple. They didn't have anything to do with convoluted family politics, or academic rivalry (Chayla had finally made it out of high school years earlier, and was content to put that part of her life well behind her), or even honest and true bullyish rancor (although she would have been a positively brilliant target for it). It was because she was tall, she was skinny, she was blond, and she was totally oblivious. As far as Chayla knew she hadn't ever even been kissed, and here she was getting ready to graduate. And what's worse, she didn't seem to care about all that. It was little putting a hologram of a sandwich in front of a hungry man. Or describing a waterfall to someone who really had to pee. Infuriating!

Well, maybe it wasn't really that bad. After all, there was way more to life that sex. It's just that it was such a fun diversion. And it was maddening to see someone with all that potential so obviously wasting it. Aside from that, she really was a pretty alright kid. A little geeky, but, eh...what can you do about family?

The knock came on the door. Chayla dropped the mutilated cigarette carton and sidled downstairs to answer it. "Hey kiddo. how's it going? Come on in! How was Trinity?"

A bright smile flashed across Rose's face as she stepped into the duplex, then shrugged as she kicked off her shoes. "It was alright, I guess. Just another college I guess, you know? I don't think we could afford for me to go if I don't get scholarships or anything."

Which you will, Chayla snarked silently.

"But I guess it's a pretty good school, and the campus is pretty. The journalism and the American lit programs both sound kind of interesting."

Called it. Chayla chuckled. "Oh yeah? You'll have to tell me more about it. You want a drink? Got some PBR in the fridge."

Rose made a disgusted face, but there was a twinkle in her eye that made Chayla uncertain if she was serious or joking. "No thanks. I'm fine right now. Oh, but that reminds me. Mom gave me some money to order a pizza or treat you to supper or something, since you were nice enough to let me hang out for a while and take me home this evening."

Chayla tensed at the fridge, grappling the can in her hand. No one had said anything to her about taking Rose home. I guess she didn't have a choice, though. There was no way in hell the kid was going to stay here tonight, that was for sure. "You sure? No water or nothing?"

"No, I'm fine! I guess the tour was alright, but it was kind of boring and the tour guide was this junior, except it was just me and one other student and that student's mom so it was a small group, and the tour guide was just acting really weird and it was awkward and he wouldn't make eye contact and...I don't know. I just think he wasn't very good at it."

Chayla kept her thought to herself and dropped onto the other side of the ancient sofa, leaning against the armrest and crossing her legs. "Uh-huh?"

"That's...there's not a lot else, I guess."

Several moments passed, punctuated only by the sound of Chayla drinking.

"...I met a boy."

"At Trinity?"

"No. At the arcade."

"There's an arcade where you live? I thought the nearest one was in Madison."

"Well, there's not. Not really, at least. It's abandoned. Downtown. It closed down in the 70s. Seventy-eight, I think. I looked it up once."

"Huh. So, what's he deal and can you get me a discount?"

"Oh, shut up! Now you're making fun of me!" Chayla wasn't sure she'd ever seen someone smirk and glare at the same time before. Rose was an amusing mark.

"Well, okay. Maybe a little bit. But seriously, why were you hanging out in abandoned buildings? We haven't won you over to the dark side, have we?" Chayla mimed lighting a cigarette.

Rose made another face. "I found a pinball machine there. It still works, and I love it. I had never played pinball before. That's actually how we met. I was playing the machine, and I was really into it, and then when I lost I looked up and he was just there staring at me like he couldn't figure out why I was there."

"I bet it's because he couldn't figure out why you were there."

"You're doing it again. Making fun of me."

"Sure am." Chayla leaned precariously and set the half-empty beer can on the floor beside her. "But, for the sake of argument, let's assume this guy isn't a rapist or drug dealer, and I suspect you're going to tell me he's not homeless either, right? Because that's the other reason I can think of for someone to just hang out in abandoned buildings. And I can't help but think you're doing your damnedest to prove me wrong?"

"He's not homeless. I saw him a couple times at work before I ever met him. He wears some sort of uniform. He probably works at a restaurant or a store."

"You don't know?"

"We don't really talk about work."

Chayla's brow furrowed, partly out of curiosity, and partly because she was becoming increasingly confused. "I feel like I'm going to regret this, but what do you do?"

Who had replaced her stupid kid cousin with this person who, while obviously still stupid, was teetering precariously close to being an adult? Chayla wasn't sure how she felt about having to get used to talking to Rose like she was a real person now.

Another day, another dream

Had another curious dream last night, although it was neither as detailed nor as interesting as some of my previous ones (see this account, and this one as well).

In the dream, I was coming from tech services because I needed to reference a book for some dire, last-minute book cataloging (Author note: can you think of any situation in which cataloging a book could be a heroic act that could ultimately save the world, or at least the lives of a few people? I can't, but it's a dream so let's roll with it), so I burst through the door and onto the mezzanine, which happened to overlook the school cafeteria. Of course, the cafeteria didn't look like a school cafeteria; it probably more closely resembled the atrium of a very nice hotel, but full of round tables and fashionable chairs.

Standing between two columns toward the front of the cafet-atrium was a guy with a mic and a guitar, about to perform some kind of solo charity concert. He looked like your typical American male singer-songwriter sort - tall, slim, stylish not-too-long-but-not-too-short haircut, and a vague lost expression in his eyes that could either indicate artistic and emotional depth or perhaps a gnawing uncertainty about where he is.

I slip down the mezzanine stairs and grab a seat at the nearest free table I can find (after all, I have to blend in with the crowd for this mission...right?), and it just so happens that my supervisor is sitting at the same table, along with a co-worker from a previous job, and a young woman my boss and I both recognize as a member of a dastardly ring of international library thieves (rare book thieves think small. These people steal entire libraries. Carmen Sandiego style, I guess). The former co-worker and the I.L.T. appear to be together, an item, but I'm not fooled; one of them is playing the other in order to get what they want.

I point this out to my boss, using a secret language known only to catalogers and librarians - a secret language that is apparently very similar to English, if you forgot what most consonants sounded like, and were trying to speak it in whale song (AN: I wonder if I actually "said" anything or made noise during this conversation? My former roommate once told me that I sleep-talk sometimes, and I wonder what (if anything) I may have said out loud!). Or Welsh. Even though co-worker and I.L.T. can't hear us over the music (he's apparently very well mic'ed), and they wouldn't be able to understand us even if they could, they're starting to get visibly agitated and it seems clear they are about to make their move. I.L.T. unwraps her arms from around co-worker's shoulders and stands up (she'd been sitting on his lap), and he's about to do the same. I tense up, ready to tackle someone or make a mad dash for safety depending on what happens, and then my alarm wakes me up and I never learn the end of the dream.

Oh well...at least the build-up was exciting!

Dialogical graffiti

Bathroom stall graffiti is something we're all aware of, but doesn't come up in conversation too terribly often. Normally I wouldn't bring it up either, but there's some textual vandalism in a stall at one of my jobs that's actually kind of fascinating. It takes the form of dialogical comments (which in and of itself isn't terribly uncommon, I suppose), but instead of libeling people's sexual proclivities or dipping into the well of juvenile offensiveness, it's a semi-intellectual discourse about the contentious relationship between the science and religion.

The first comment seems to be a sharpie-based statement that reads "Biology certifies my belief that there is no God." The immediate response appears to be another brief (perhaps tongue-in-cheek) comment that reads "Theology proves my belief...that there is no me", and a third (which I assume is the most recent) simply reads "Jesus Christ, the cornerstone". Scattered around these core statements are other pen-, pencil-, and crayon(???)-scrawled comments that say things like "too direct", "smart person", and "like" (because Facebook is just too dang ubiquitous, y'all!).

I know better to contribute to the vandalism (because even though it's interesting, I'd still be engaging in defacing public property), but if that weren't a concern, I think it'd be fun to add some comments of my own to the dialogue. My favorite idea so far is "Positivism enforces my experience that only that which is observable is true. I have observed neither God nor evolution, but I exist. Therefore, I must have created myself. CONGRATULATIONS YOU GUYS. YOU JUST MADE ME A SOLIPSIST. D:"

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.

writing snippet - becoming the game (unrevised)

Buzzers and chimes formed a raucus chorus and small lights blinked smugly as the pinball fell into the gutter. Again. Angel's look of concentration warped into an expression that was equal parts grin and grimace. "Rats. I'm out of quarters. Do you have any more?"

"No, I don't. I only brought enough for a couple games and I went before you, remember?"

Angel sighed and wistfully flipped the flippers one more time before coming over to sit next to me. "I know, but I wanted to ask anyway. Who ever knows when quarters will magically appear out of nowhere?"

"And maybe someday I'll be the queen of France," I teased, and hugged her shoulders.

Angel rested her head on my shoulder. "That would be horrible. You'd look funny without a head."

"So, um, I was just wondering... Why do you always go straight for the pinball machine when we're here? Please please please don't take this the wrong way, but you're not very good at it..." I tensed up, worried she was going to be mad at me for saying it.

She looked up at me.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That was really stupid of me. Awful. I mean..."

"Stop talking."

My voice quit. I was shocked; I'd never heard her use a sharp tone like that before. Oh boy. I must have messed up bad.

Angel looked at me with a smirk, and then her smirk broke into a wide grin. "I always wanted to try that on someone. Don't worry, I'm not mad."

I took a deep breath of relief. "Bene Gesserit witch."

"Enormous dork."

"I thought you were really mad at me for a second there. I was about prepared for emergency last rites."

"No, it's okay. It's a fair question. But I need you to promise you aren't going to think I'm weird or anything, okay?"

"Promise."

"Well...I'm becoming the game."

"Huh."

Angel's normal playful smirk clouded over as she searched for the words to express herself. "I mean, think about it. Pinball is a game that you can't win, right? Like, unless you wanted to play forever, you can't win. It's a game that's all about losing, right? Except...except it's not just about losing, it's about losing in the best possible way. But that's still about losing, if that makes sense. So, it's like you've got to learn the game, become one with it or something. Because it's a game about losing, and there are a million different ways to do that. So then you've got to become the game, so that there's no difference between you and the machine. And then losing doesn't bother you any more, because it's what's supposed to happen. And when it doesn't bother you any more, you can do what really needs to be done. So I don't keep losing because I want to or anything. I'd love to be able to top the high score list. Maybe some day I will, but I'm not going to do it by trying to cheat the game. I'll manage it by doing exactly what I'm supposed to do, by being the game. Does that make sense? Maybe? Sort of?"

"I think so. You're saying that if you learn all the ways you can lose, eventually you'll know exactly how to win, right?"

"No, that's not it at all." Angel frowned, the first time I'd ever seen her do that, and then sighed. "Maybe I'll be able to put it in better words someday. But until then, you'll just have to believe me, okay?"

I looked her straight in the eye. "You have it on my honor that I will take you at your word."

"Thanks." She rested her head on my shoulder again, and looked up at me with another playful grin spreading across her face. "Now are you SURE you don't have any more quarters?"

writing snippet - be careful with that knife

A careless moment, and the blade scraped crossways against the edge of my hand. Not enough to wound, but the metal sheared off the topmost layers of skin and the spot ignited into a dull sting as nascent flesh was exposed for the first time. The sight fascinated me; there was something about the neat, quarter inch long furrow in the side of my hand (barely deep enough to see, unless you could already feel it) that drew my rapt attention. The skin on my hand was normally level, and unmarred save occasional stains of dirt or ink. Recovered from the shock, a single slow drop of blood began to well up from the scrape.
I turned on the tap and help my hand underneath. I braced at the cold water running over my hand and washing away the trace blood, and again as the soft touch of a towel wasn't quite soft enough.
A little scrape—not even a proper cut—and I wanted to wrap my hand, protect it until it was completely healed. It's funny to think how vulnerable we feel when the things we keep inside don't stay in, or the things we keep on the outside don't stay out. Even if it's just the littlest thing.