Toes and Tears

This is a story I am entering into the Mormon Channel's short-story contest for Pioneer day. It has to be a fiction about the early saints and less than 800 words (so short!). I'd appreciate feedback before submitting it. Thanks for reading!



Toes and Tears

“Oh God, please let me keep my toes.” This was the silent prayer I uttered as I removed my stockings in the early gray morning light. The night had been cold- impossibly cold, and though Thomas and I did our best to keep warm, my naked toes that morning were a deep purple.

A month ago, I would have cursed the ice on my lips, the ache in every bone, because this was not my trek, and not my religion. But that was a month ago and things had changed.

If it had not been for the promise I made Mama to take Thomas West with the Saints after she was gone, I would have turned my petticoat around and headed right back to Nauvoo. I was barely seventeen, and after Papa died of the fever, it was Mama who believed the Prophet Joseph Smith and read their strange bible, not me. But we had to burry Mama next to Papa, the Saints were leaving, and there was only one group left. Thomas was only twelve and needed looking after though he was a bother more of the time than not.

“Marianne, my toes are as blue as rocks,” he called to me, holding his ever-growing foot in his hands.

“Mine are too.” I tied the boots and stood. “Grab some cornbread and let’s get going. You know Brother Jacobs likes to get an early start.” Brother Jacobs’ oldest son, Tanner, was watching me with brown eyes across camp, but he quickly acted like he was sharpening his knife instead.

“Tanner fancies you, you know.” Thomas nudged me playfully, making me spill crumbs on my dusty blouse. Blushing, I gathered my tattered skirts and spun around so neither Thomas nor Tanner would see.

Tanner Jacobs was the one who helped cause the change in me. The first weeks on the trail had been hard: our feet and hands swelled red blisters, our legs tingled with exhaustion as we pushed them further each day to avoid the winter approaching faster than an eight-hitch wagon, but none of the others complained. I could not understand why. One morning, I caught a reflection of myself in Sister Myer’s hand mirror: the creamy white skin of my nose and cheeks was spotted with blotchy freckles and I just broke down right there and cried.

“Your name is Marianne, correct?” Those were the first words Tanner Jacobs spoke to me later that night around the campfire when most of the others had gone to bed and my tears and finally dried up like the dry creek bed we had hoped to find water in.
Thomas was sleeping with his head on my lap so I nodded my head so as not to wake him, but Tanner Jacobs did not stop there.

“My mother tells me you are not a member of our faith?” His eyes were gentle, but I was terrified.

“She is correct,” I confirmed in a low voice, unable to look anywhere other than my brother’s mud-crusted head that I picked at.

“This journey must be even more difficult for you,” he stated, rubbing the rim of his black hat.

“I do not know why you all do this,” I admitted. Thomas was a believer and he tried to explain it to me, but as the company prayed, blessed their sick, buried their dead, and preached their doctrine, I still didn’t understand why people would sacrifice so much, a part of me wanted to, but Mama’s death seemed to have scooped out a big hole in my heart.

“Have you ever read this?” Tanner asked, pulling a Book of Mormon from his coat.

Again, I shook my head.

“Well, I would like to give this to you then,” he stated and set the small book into my hands. “Perhaps it will provide you more meaning.”

That night and every frigid, star-filled night since, I read the book. That is when the change started: the throbbing in my legs seemed to lessen, my understanding of Mama’s death became clearer, and the hole in my heart filled with the purest joy I had ever felt. I came to know, as the other Saints did, that this was the gospel of Jesus Christ restored in its fullness at last upon the earth. The Savior knew us and loved us as a Church and individually. He would not let truth fail upon these frost-ridden plains. That was why I journeyed with the Saints toward Zion now, because even if I lost my toes, I would never lose my faith.

City of Elite- Part II

The staccato click of my heels on the marble floors echoed the beating of my frantic heart as Jonas and I paraded into Benazir’s Palace. I wanted to thrust my hand into my bra to make sure the zip drive was still there, but there were too many opulent people milling about the lavish two-story sitting room sipping champagne.

“When do we meet Breyers?” I whispered to Jonas, while scanning the proud faces around us to determine which might belong to the gutsy reporter.

“Just after dinner,” Jonas hushed, his breath smelling minty.

“Can’t it be sooner?”I groaned, not wanting to be ogled my Sheikh pig-fiancé while trying to remember which fork to use.

“They’ll notice if you’re missing before,” Jonas explained while we bobbed heads to several British diplomats that smelled too strongly of lavender and Gray Earl. My stomach gave a walloping roll and I didn’t know if I’d be able to keep dinner down.

“Where are we meeting?” I gripped his arm a little tighter.

“In a private room upstairs,” he said with a wink of his big, brown eye.

“You and me sneaking to a private room after dinner? That sounds a little um—“ I blushed, “suspicious.” What would people think of me going off with the son of a tutor when I’m engaged?

“Better for them to be suspicious of that,” he squeezed my hand playfully, “than to know the real reason.”


True. A bell was rung and we followed the other guests to the long dining hall where hundreds of gold plates and carved crystal glasses were set like art. Crimson tapestries adorned the walls and the windows overlooked the lush palace gardens.
The sun was setting, causing the palm leaves to turn tangerine. My parents sat somewhere in their chairs like thrones, but I avoided them entirely by sitting near the servant’s doors.

An Arabian quartet entered from those doors carrying a lute, tablah drum, Egyptian harp and mijwiz and soon their haunting melody spilled into the hall as platters of spiced fish, curry chicken and a hundred other dishes were set steaming before us. Normally, my mouth would have salivated just at the thought of Benazir’s kitchen, but my stomach was twisted worse than a knotted cobra as Jonas pointed out all the secret service men overlooking the scene from the dark corners of the room.

His magnanimous Mohammed el-Tayyi paraded into the room adorned in navy silver-threaded robes and matching turbine. “Ugh. I can’t believe I’m engaged to him,” I muttered lowly. In a swoop, he bowed to his father at the head of the table and kissed his hand. After sitting himself proudly at his father’s left hand, his hawk-eyes swooped down the seats until they found me. I wasn’t sitting by him, which was ok, because it wasn’t typically custom for men and women to eat together like this, but Dubai isn’t really the most traditional place with all the western influence, and I’m sure the British dignitaries had something to do with the seating arrangement tonight.

Still, my fiancé’s black soul-less eyes made me squirm. I tried to cross my legs, but the magnum .44 brushed against my thigh and I thought I’d really vomit then.

“Steady, Tori,” Jonas whispered to me, and the hand he put on my knee was the only thing that anchored me to the room the rest of the meal.

“Come now,” his words brushed my ears as the final plates were cleared away and guests were moving to the ballroom. “While Mohammed hook-face isn’t looking.” His hand slipped down my arm, causing ripples of fire to light my nerves.

“Yes,” I took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”


Avoiding eye contact with any other person, Jonas stole me away up the grand staircase above which an ethereal blue and purple sky had been painted.

We stopped on the third floor at a carved alabaster door. Jonas knocked twice softly. The door was opened by a burly man in a dark suit- a body guard, I presumed.

“He’s in there,” the guard bobbed his head to the back room after the door was locked behind us. Two more dark-suited men stood as still as the room’s luxuriant furniture by the oval alcove at the back. I was admittedly impressed; this reporter sure came prepared, body guards and all.

In the alcove, at a small circular table a man in brown suit pants and blue pin-striped shirt was turning on a laptop. “Good to see you again, Jonas,” he said in a tone that was smooth and pleasant to listen to.

“You too David,” Jonas bobbed his head to Bryers. Behind him a camera man was setting up more equipment. My tongue felt like it had swollen ten times. I never was good with public speaking.

“And this must be Victoria.” The reporter took my hand free hand into his. “It is a pleasure to meet you. How much time do we have?”

“Before they notice I’m missing?” I twisted my mouth to the side. “Fifteen— maybe twenty minutes.” I wasn’t worried about el-Tayyi. He was probably making plans with some other woman for tonight right now, but my parents—

“All right then,” he clapped his hands together. “Let’s get going.” He motioned to two seats opposite his at the table. From the window behind him, the dark-navy night sky jutted out from behind the millions of city lights, it was like Christmas every day here. “Jonas told me you have some very important information.”

I coughed and scooted a little closer in my chair, wishing I could just bury my face into Jonas’s neck. But, Jonas nodded his head and gave me a reassuring smile which was all I needed to remember why we were here. “I do.” But where do I begin? “You are aware of the assassination of the Arab Embassy leader here in Dubai last month?”

“I am,” Bryers confirmed, his pen hovering over his notebook.

“Well, the people responsible for that are the same ones here in this palace tonight,” I hurried in a hushed tone, hoping that Bryer’s lifted eyebrow didn’t mean disbelief. “But it’s more than just that— it’s the Korean civil war, the Russians nuclear weapon development, the leverage used every day to influence the government of the United States and a hundred other nations that are indebted to them—”

“Hold on,” Bryers stopped me with a hand. “This sounds like a lot of conspiracy theory to me—”

“I have proof,” I told him. “Here.” Blushing slightly, I pulled the zip drive out of my dress. “This has everything you need. All my father’s personal files, emails, weapon designs, bank statements.”

Bryers green eyes studied the small zip drive like it was half-gemstone, half-bomb. “Whatever is on here, we need to download it onto my computer now,” he rushed. “We don’t know how much time we have.” Agreeing, I put it into his open hand, glad that the burden was now not in mine.

“They are going to blackmail half of Europe,” Jonas added as Bryers plugged it into his laptop. “It’s going to create a world war.”
“
All so they can keep their wealth and hold their influence,” I added. “My own father—” I started, but hot unexpected tears filled my eyes. Swallowing what felt like a softball, I tried to gather myself and continue, but before I could get out another word, there was a click of the lock opening. Dark suits whirled into motion, guns drawn and a scream bubbled in my throat. In an instant, the bodyguards had apprehended a single intruder whose face was pressed against the floor. Discreetly, the door was closed and sealed once more.

“What happened?” Bryers demanded in a low tone as he strode to the guards.

“He had a key,” one of them replied, pulling the key out of the man’s hands.

Something about the dark-green tailored suit was familiar.

“Father?” I asked, as the guards forced the man to standing.

“Victoria?” His face was red and swelling slightly from where it had hit the marble floor. “What on earth is going on?”

“What are you doing here?” I shot back.

“I saw you go upstairs with that—” my father’s light blue eyes turned to ice as they stared at Jonas, “young man. I couldn’t just let you— I had no idea, all of this was going on.” His gaze turned from Jonas to Bryers and his mouth twisted sourly. “I know you. You are that reporter.” His head snapped back to me. “Just what is going on her Victoria?”

Jonas put a hand on my arm with a look that said, “Don’t tell him.”

But my words couldn’t be stopped now, and soon he’d find out anyway. “I know what you’ve done father. I know everything.”

My father’s face was poker-smooth. “What are you talking about, honey? Why don’t we tell these people to go home and you and I can talk.”

“It’s too late. I’ve already told them and soon the world will know too.” I glanced back at the zip drive still plugged into the laptop. My father followed my gaze.

“Victoria, you don’t know what you’re doing. Whatever is on there, don’t send it.” But I was already on my way back to the computer.

“I’m not a child anymore father.” I refreshed the screen and saw that all the files had been downloaded, including the pre-recorded video I’d done earlier. Jonas came to my side, steady and solid.

“You’re going to destroy everything we’ve worked for,” my father exclaimed, lashing against the arms that held him.

I logged into YouTube though my whole body was shaking now. “You should have thought about that when you destroyed the lives of all those people.”

“That was unfortunate,” my father agreed in a nearly-sorrowful sounding tone, “but it wouldn’t have had to happen if there was any other way. Please don’t do this. You are going to ruin yourself. They’ll never let you get away with this. They’ll discredit you, shame you into silence, or worse—”

“Don’t pretend to care about my safety,” I nearly shouted. “You sold me off to the highest bidder as soon as you had the chance.”

“If this is about el-Tayyi, then I’m sure we can figure something out,” he pleaded, the lines of his face drawn down hard making him look ten years older.

“This has nothing to do with that.” The file was uploaded now. “You and everyone else in the City of Elite have been drunken with your own power for too long, it’s time to end it.”

“Please don’t,” he begged, his eyes that I had looked into for love and praise all my life, now filled with tears, “for me, please.”

My heart sobbed, my fingers hovering over the mouse. Was this the same man that used to put me on his knee and read stories to me? The same man who I had adored for the better part of eighteen years like only a daughter can. The same man who allowed thousands of people to be murdered to further his own agenda? But could I be the one to loop the noose around his neck?

“It’s time Father,” I said flatly and without another hesitation hit “send,” exposing the City of Elite and all its crimes at last to the world.

City Of Elite

City of Elite
Short Story by Heather Choate
Part One

I slipped a .44 magnum into the rim of my panty hose. There were 15 rounds loaded in the clip, but I hoped I wouldn’t have to use them. I’d never shot a gun before— at a human that is.

The teal silk dress fell to my ankles and easily kept my secret. The mid-June air of Dubai blew in hotly through the open window as I strapped on the pearl-white heals and fastened the last bobby-pin into my brunette hair. Looking into the mirror, I was stunning of course, but felt scared out of my Wonderbra, and it showed in my eyes. I smudged on a little more eyeliner to try and hide it. Who would have thought that I, Victoria Juliet Hannagan, just two days after my eighteenth birthday, would become a threat to international security?

Or supposed threat, I should add. The only threatening thing about me was that I knew too much and they knew it, but nothing would be done, yet. Tonight I had to expose them to the world, while I still had a chance.

I made sure the zip drive was still securely fastened to my bra. Jonas had another, just in case. He was supposed to meet me at the staircase and accompany me to the dinner at Benazir’s Palace as my “friend,” of course. No one should suspect that my pre-arranged marriage to his holiness, the Sheikh Mohammed el-Tayyib was in danger. What a sicko he is. By the end of the summer, I was to be his fair-skinned, Western arm-candy. This is a prime example of the politically-based psychotic nonsense that emerged from this place. Hidden in Dubai was the City of Elite, or the City of the Power-hungry deranged, as I like to call it, and I’d had enough. No more will these people, which I’ve lived my whole life with, be allowed to dictate behind closed golden doors what happens to the lives of millions of innocent people in this world.

All of that would be done away with tonight, the only thing to do now, was act natural through the dinner and social hoopla— but acting natural was proving to be the most difficult part. I would have much rather run through the streets with a big sign, “Take down the Elites before they destroy you all!” but that would have landed me in only one place: an unmarked grave as I’m sure my parents would have wanted. I thought I could trust them, at least my Mom, but clearly strings of diamonds around her neck and arms was more important.

The sick thing was, if it weren’t for Jonas, I’d probably be as naïve and brainwashed as the rest of them. Growing up in a place where the cushions were made of dove feathers, the ice cubes imported from Russian glaciers, and the chair your butt sits on dusted three times a day, it’s no wonder these people don’t want to give anything up, especially when it’s been handed down for ten or more generations. “It’s just the way things are dear,” Mother said while combing her hair with an ivory comb (yeah ivory, as in the tusk from a slaughtered elephant), “You can dream Utopia all you want, but there’s nothing you or I can do to change anything. Just be grateful for what you have.”

Running my fingers along the gold-plated brow of my vanity, knowing it would probably be the last time I saw any of this, I knew that none of the “things” I possessed would ever compensate for the cost with which they were bought. I took a deep breath, snatched a couple hundred dollar bills (the last thing I’d take from this place) and folded them into my purse with all my credit cards (unlimited accounts). Unplugging the cell phone with the secure line, I said a little prayer, “Please let this work,” and then plunged out of the room in a whirl of silk and perfume.

Jonas waiting at the base of the stairs, his usual unkempt hair, combed and even sprayed, made my heart trip a bit, but the house maids sneered at his presence in the illustrious palace and that was ok. No one would suspect anything between me and the lowly son of a tutor.

“Wow, Tori,” he held a hand out to me, and though he had put on cologne, he still smelled lightly of the leather-bound books he spent so much time with, “You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” I bobbed my head in the customary fashion. Ugh, that’s going to be a hard one to break. “You look nice yourself. You sure you don’t want to become one of us?”

He lowered his voice, his lips brushing my hair and said, “I’d rather rot in Prince Mohammed el-Tayyib’s sewage tank, thank you very much.”

“I thought you’d say that,” I giggled, but my nervousness made the sound come out a little hysteric.

“Don’t worry,” he squeezed my hand as we stepped out of the foray and into the warm spring air. The native violet hyacinths were blooming and their exotic spicy scent was invigorating, but I was all hyped up on adrenaline and invigorating was the last thing I needed. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Mm-hmm,” was the best I could manage. Other citizens were perusing out of their luxurious homes and mansions, converging together to the waterways like a stream of Prada chiffon, Zejna suits and gemstones. They carefully stepped into the little canvas covered boats that took them upstream to the looming palace of Benazir.



Jonas and I got in our boat too and for a while the only sound was that of the hot wind rustling the plam leaves, the traffic of the city and the low churning of the boat engine. A few turns later and the exhorbant palace was in view. Tonight the bastion was particularly gaudy because it was the 65th birthday of dear Mohammed el-Tayyib’s father and all the crepe paper from China was imported to adorn the illustrious walls and cavalcades.

“You are sure Bryers is the right one for the job?” I said in a low tone as Jonas and I merged into the river of citizens and followed the flow upstream.

“Definitely,” he assured. “He reported on Darfur. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

“Or killed?” I pressed. “That’s what he’s up against. These are the most influential people in the World, they’ll trample his career at best and trample his body at worst. They’re behind every war of the past four decades, they subdue Queens into passivity, blackmail Emperors to civil war, bribe Presidents, they…”

“I know,” Jonas shushed me with a finger to my lips. “That’s why we’re doing this.”

My mouth snapped shut. He’s right. I really ought to be more careful. Who knows how many bugs they have around here and who could be listening? The worst thing I could do is blow it now. I’ve already talked too much, aroused too many suspicions, but fortunately, my biggest flaw was also my biggest asset.

“You’re barely 18 darling,” mother told me, “barely able to vote, and you’re a woman. Who’s going to listen to you?”

“Because I’m a woman?” My chin jut out. “But there are plenty of influential women: Laura Chinchilla, Pratibha Patil, Mother Theresa, and…”

“And the fact is,” she interrupted, “you’re none of those. We may have named you Victoria Juliet after powerful women, but the fact is, the only reason why you or I, have the privilege of living here is because your father reached the multi-billionaire mark at age 28 and had to be recruited into the society because of his influence. It’s a man’s world, dear.”

Yes, and I know about father, I wanted to say but pinched my tongue with my teeth. In 2000 when the U.S. government refused to fund his latest weapons-technology, father sent a discreet amount of funds to Al Qaeda to help send a “message” back to those that refused him. That act alone resulted in the fatalities of 2,974 innocent American lives. And I had all the evidence on this Zip Drive.
The hundreds of Benazir’s Palace windows glowed like the stars of heaven against a fiery desert sunset ahead of us. Picking up my gown a bit, the .44 brushed against my legs, but I didn’t let that startle me.

“We can do this,” Jonas assured me as he helped me out of the boat and onto the stone paved walkway.

“Absolutely.”

It’s not just a man’s world, Mama, and if that is how it’s going to be, then it’s time to stir things up a bit.

*****
© Heather Choate 2010

Trailing Sister

This piece is admittedly one of the hardest I've ever written: one because I'm wanting to gather a greater audience and that is both terrifying and exciting- putting myself out there to be judged nearly makes my finger's freeze, but even more than that: this I wrote from deep within tonight. Not wanting my writing to be too surface, to have real depth and meaning and put a part of myself truly on the page.

Darkened heart scabs that prick at me within,
Writing from that squishy place is so hard but needed now,
The pains my soul bore are now passed on and born by another,
Sweet little sister, please don’t suffer any more.

I was there too, thought no one understood,
Could possibly understand what its like,
Barely coming to know who I am in this world of water and dirt,
So many faces, telling you what to be,
But the one you needed most is the one that brings the sting.

She is sick sister,
She doesn’t know what she does, how one word changes everything,
Her love is real, but her mind is broken,
Like looking through the shards of a shattered glass,
Build your own mirror now,
One that you can look in and always like what you see.

Cut Scenes

So I had to make a lot of revisions to my book and couldn't bare to let these scenes just go in the trash, so I'm going to post them here. They might be out of context, but at least, maybe they'll be read by someone!

“I want you to go to Preparation,” Sol’s voice says right into my ear as soon as I cross the threshold into the spirit world.

“Excuse me?” I choke. “Sol, didn’t I make it clear why we can’t see each other? How many times do I have to tell you before you get it through that concrete head of yours?”

“At least once more,” he replies. “I want you to go to Preparation.”
Preparation is the class that angels can take to ready themselves before coming to earth and receiving a mortal body, but mostly it’s for those angels too messed up to figure things out on their own. It’s more like a counseling session for the mortally-inept.

“Preparation?” I spit the word back out like an inhaled insect. “Preparation is the last place I would ever go.”

“And that is exactly why I think you should. You are afraid of what Nex and his devils can do, right? Why not do something they would never expect: come to earth and leave them to rot?” His simple question stops me. His plan is logical. It might even work, but I’m never going to earth, no matter how many monsters threaten me.

“Because preparation’s stupid, that’s why.” I wring the fabric of my dress like the throat of a chicken to try and suffocate my sheer fear at the thought of mortality. Trying to be calm, I force my twitching lip muscles to be still. There’s no way I’m going to let him see how totally petrified I am at the idea of being human. Mr. Perfect Sol doesn’t need to know everything.

“Uh, uh.” Sol shakes his ivory head. “Stupid is not a sufficient reason. Going to earth will keep you safe, Meta.” He emphasizes the word and the way he says it feels like a warm blanket dropping over my shoulders. “Besides,” he continues, “Regardless of the Quaver, I think it would be good for you.”

I sigh. “Sol,” my voice is soft but firm, “I’m not going to Earth, and I sure as hell am not going to some Preparation class.” Sol can be so dense sometimes.

“I know,” he says, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smile, as if he’s privy to some inside joke, “and that is another reason why I think you should.”

“Why I should?” I repeat. “Why are you so insistent on making me do something I don’t want to?”

He chuckles. “Not only will it protect you, it will be— a challenge. You like a challenge, right?”

Not a stupid one, I want to say, but bit back my retort.

He grins and his teeth flash like wet pearls. “You are pretty messed up too,” he adds.

I shoot him a burning glance. “That’s not giving you any happy points.”

He rolls his eyes, but under the jest there’s a fiber of truth in his request. He really believes that this will be good for me.

My voice is a mouse-like squeak. “You want me to?”

“Yes. And—” he adds, his eyes waltzing like two disco-balls, “then I will still be able to see you.”

Somehow, that makes all the difference.

*****

“If I were given a pink polka-dotted umbrella—hmmm,” I think as I try to ignore the poor excuses of angels seating next to me in the Preparation Class. This really is more of a therapy session for the idiotic and dysfunctional angels, like me, who are too screwed up to go to earth as they are. This is so embarrassing; I flush and lean back in my chair. I can’t believe I’m even here. How did Sol manage to get me to come anyhow? Under the pretense of protecting me, but this is nothing but painfully discomforting. Is that what friends are for, public humiliation? If that’s true, it’s no wonder I never wanted any friends before. Sol sure does this friendship thing well.

The counselor in her tightly-buttoned sherbet blouse is looking at me expectantly to answer. I want to make a run for the door, but I know that would give Sol bragging rights. And then there is Nex and the Quaver. I am safe from them here. If I am safe, Sol is safe. Blast him. Ok. Fine.

I think hard, trying to go along with the exercise. “If I were given a pink polka-dotted umbrella,” I repeat the cue phrase, thinking of any answer better than the, “I would fill it with daisies and sing songs to it,” answer that the girl next to me gave. None of the angels in this class have near the experience I have with real mortal life. This girl thinks that plants are sung to on earth just as they are in the gardens up here. Boy will she be in for a surprise when her neighbor catches her serenading her daffodils with Puccini.

“Ok, I got it,” I say. “If I were given a pink polka-dotted umbrella, I would scrape its shiny vinyl coating across a concrete sidewalk for a good half mile. Then, fill it with seawater— and shove it down the throat of the person who gave it to me.” Yeah, that sounded about right.

The wide, pale-brown eyes of the councilor widen further. She adjusts the hem of her skirt and proceeds to scold me. “That’s not a very nice thing, to do, Meta.” Her expression narrows as she emphasizes the word ‘nice.’

I cross my arms over my chest and slump into my chair. “It’s not a very nice gift to give someone,” I return. How on Earth is this class supposed to prepare anyone for Earth?

“No?” Her thin, blonde eyebrows almost disappear into her hairline.

“No,” I repeat. Why do I have to explain this to her? Doesn’t she know anything about human gift-giving, or do I have to educate them all? Her face holds the same ignorant surprise. “If you are going to give anyone an umbrella as a gift, why in all of heaven and hell would you give them one that’s polka-dotted pink?”

“So it is the color that you have a problem with?”

“Precisely.” Isn’t that apparent, cheese ball? “Now, if it were a black, dark-gray, or even a deep-navy umbrella, I’d have no problem with it.” Obviously.

“You are hostile toward pink?” I picture her blonde hair turning pink. Horrible color. Then, she does something that I hate. She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

Trying to steady my rising temper, I clench my fists super tight. “Call it what you want, but that stupid pink-polka dotted umbrella wouldn’t last for more than a millisecond even in my peripheral.” I fold my arms tight across my chest. All this talk about polka-dotted umbrellas suddenly makes me very irritable. I shouldn’t be here in this class, pretending to prepare for mortality when I won’t really go through with it. With the rising danger, I should be watching out for the Quaver and making sure Brett is ok. Stupid metaphor anyway. What significance could an umbrella possibly have on the eternal scheme of things?

The councilor scribbles something in her gold-bound book and then taps her fountain pen against it contemplatively. She’s analyzing me. Oh, like your work is “so important,” I sneer inside and roll my eyes. Try dragging souls to Hell and putting up with nasty threats from demons that would surely make you wet your pink polka-dot pants.

In her sweet sing-song voice, she points the pen at me and says, glances at her book and says, “So, you would, and I quote, scrape its shiny, vinyl coating across the sidewalk for a good half mile, then fill it with seawater and shove it down the throat of the person who gave it to you?” She blinks her eyes at me.

“That’s right,” I nod. Do I have to say it twice?

She puts the quill into her mouth, biting the end of it with her tiny row of snow-white teeth, and looks up at me with an intriguing expression. “And what if it came back?”

“What?” I ask. What’s she talking about?

“What if after you scraped it, filled it and shoved it— it came back?” She presses me with the firm line of her thin mouth and slanting creases between her eyes. Is she really that dense?

“I would destroy it some other way.” I spit, disgusted with the whole turn of this session. The thought of the pink-polka dotted umbrella suddenly having the ability to come back in this make-believe scenario makes me very on-edge. “If I destroy it, it’s gone,” I fume. “Period. End of discussion Miss Bleached Eyebrows.”

“I see,” is her only response.

Chapter Fifteen

“How was Preparation?” Sol asks me as we land upon the roof of Brett’s brick building. We have decided to come to earth again, despite the risk of the Quaver, to check on Brett. Ava arrived in Chicago almost three weeks ago and Sol and I are both anxious to see how our Cupid efforts have taken effect.

“Do we have to talk about Preparation?” I moan sitting down and spitting over the edge of the building. The wet ball of saliva plops on a man’s bald spot bellow. The bald man jumps, wipes it with his hand and looks up to determine the source, but of course he can’t see me and walks on puzzled. From the disgusted turn of his mouth, I know that Sol wants to say something about my expectoration, but he holds back. I admire his restraint; he must want to know about Preparation pretty badly. You would think that me spitting on an innocent bald man would give Sol plenty of information on what I thought of that stupid class.

“Ughhhh. Fine,” I moan. He really won’t let it go, will he? “One guy, Joe is his name I think, is afraid to come to earth because of the faucet handles. He’s all freaked out because he thinks he won’t be able to turn the faucet handles far enough to make the water come on and then if it does, he won’t be able to turn it back off…”

“Yeah, Joe,” Sol interrupts like they are old college acquaintances. “He was there when Ava was getting ready to come. Back then, he was afraid that the Vikings of the First Century were wielding axes in Times Square. He’s still there in preparation class?”

“Yeah.” I pucker up and spit again, hoping to annoy him. Won’t he back off? He pretends not to care. “Joe is a total nut case. And then there’s the foot tapper— a girl who won’t stop tapping her foot as if she’s keeping track of her last immortal heartbeats or something. She sits there tapping it constantly. It took all my effort not to rip her leg off.” I thrash my arms as if at an imaginary leg and tear its flesh off with my teeth.

“You are so self-composed,” Sol mocks and does his best to suppress a grin. “What about the councilor?” He tosses a small orange ball into the air, the kind they play racquetball with up in heaven, and catches it without looking. Show off.

“She’s the worst of them all. Nothing she says makes any sense and she annoys me to death.” I do my best to screw my face into a pinchy, scrunchy one like Miss Foot-Tapper has and kick, kick, kick my foot on the side of the building. Sol doesn’t seem to mind the way I’d hoped. My ankle starts to hurt so I stop.

“Annoyed you to life you mean,” Sol smiles and tosses the ball to me. I claw at it and finally catch it, but not as graceful as him, dang it.

I roll my eyes and say, “Oh, is that how she does it then: annoys you so bad, that you come to Earth just to get away from her?” I throw the ball back at him as hard as I can.

He catches it like it was made of cotton. “Something like that,” he laughs and pulls his hand back like a major league pitcher, ready to pelt the ball at me.

“We really shouldn’t be playing around, Sol,” I scold. “Who knows who could be watching us?” I search the dark skies above us, but see nothing.

“Do not worry,” Sol says, giving my arm a little nudge. “I am with you and I know to watch out for demons, Nex and oh yeah, witches. Nex nor any other underworld filth should not give us any further trouble.”

I try to give him a confident smile, and ignore the fear snagging my heart like a fishing hook.

Excitedly near the end!

Just about one more month and "Meta Blackwing" will be revised and ready to be read for feedback.

The END IS IN SIGHT!

Meanwhile, I'm working on another novel about a young widow whoes toddler son starts showings signs of extremely advanced development leading her on a mission to uncover the mystery behind her husband's life and death.

I'd really like to keep posting short stories and stuff here, but it's so hard for me to let too much "raw" material out because it's always so much better after I revise it!