Heather's Short Stories

The Third Queen- Chapter Two

2012-01-26T15:10:00.000-08:00

How neglectful I've been. I've had this chapter for months and never posted it. I'm focusing now on my newest full-length novel and that's sucked up all my writing time (there's isn't much now a days any way with four kids and running our own business). Anyway, I hope you'll forgive me for not having much new. Enjoy.

Chapter Two
“Do you think she has even danced a Qurast? She is so very young.” Queen Jazelda looked down her long nose and spoke to Queen Magda as though I were not even present in the room.
It was just the three of us in the sitting room, all the servants had been sent away to prepare the wedding announcement that was to take place that afternoon before the entire kingdom. How I, Sylvain, just a maid from a remote village was now to become King Rainstaff’s third queen, was beyond me. I had been content to marry Lord Parish, the king’s cousin, but one sentence from King Rainstaff had changed all that. Everything was such a whirl, I hardly knew what to think. I was grateful that words were not something I was required to produce at the moment as the two elder queens assessed me, sitting perfectly still, barely daring to blink, in the far corner of the room.
“She is young,” Magda agreed, a smile ever present on her round cheeks. “I wonder if she has ever even attended a ball?”
“Doubtful,” Jazelda scowled with a sort of pleasure. “To think one can become a queen of Diria and never have danced a ball.”
Magda straightened the dress on the little worn doll that belonged to her daughter and beamed. “But she is indeed beautiful.” When she spoke, there was a sigh in her voice, like a rush of spring breeze.
Jazelda’s scratching-branch voice cut over hers. “Ha. And you are impetuously too-cheerful. If every quality of womanhood was to be taken individually, there would be no end to Rainstaff’s wives.”
So, Jazelda was bitter at me. That was just as well. She was too proud, any other reaction would ill-suit her. But it was easy to see why these women had been chosen to be Rainstaff’s queens. Jazelda had a cold elegance which commanded attention and obedience. Her face was long and fine, like the sculptures in the courtyard and her hair was as a thousand threads of black silk. To soften Jazelda’s severness, it was easy to imagine why Rainstaff had been drawn to little Magda. Her halo of blonde curls and childlike face exuded warmth and happiness. If Jazelda was a statue, then Magda was a cherubim beaming down from the palace’s painted ceiling. I wondered for a moment, how I was to fit into the picture. Rainstaff hadn’t been in my presence more than a moment. What had he seen in me to break my engagement with his cousin and claim me as his own?
“Oh, dear Jaze,” Magda’s pet name for the older woman surprised me. There was a fondness between the queens despite how much Jazelda might try to hide it under her cutting remarks, “you are quiet extraordinary as well. I did not mean to diminish your beauty by acknowledging hers.”
Jazelda turned her face to the window, but I could tell by the crease around her eyes that Magda’s assurances pleased her. After a moment, she snapped her head back. “But what does Rainstaff even know of her? What do we even know of her?” Her gaze upon me was like one appraising a stray hound.
“Well,” Magda gently offered, “why don’t we ask her?” Jazelda humphed but her milder companion took a careful step toward me as though I might fly off.
I however, was not as timid as they might suppose. Though these were the queens of Diria, King Rainstaff had spoken. Whether they, or I, liked the arrangement, I was to join them in the queenhood.
“Sylvain,” Magda started, “may I call you Sylvain?”
Her sudden politeness towards my presence tempted a smile on my lips; I had to force them still.
“Yes, you may call my Sylvain,” I answered her.
“Very well. Tell us about yourself.”
I hesitated just a moment, more accustom to silence than speech. “I was born in the high country. In a small mountain village. I have lived there my entire life.”
“Do doubt training for the royal court,” Jazelda sneered.
But her comment did not offend me as she desired. “Indeed. While the other girls of my age were helping on their families farms and preparing for marriage to a blacksmith or page, I was being taught civility for the time I would join in marriage to the court.”
Jazelda rolled her eyes. “These country folk see one promising face and spend the rest of their resources seeking to thieve the court of its riches.”
It was Magda’s turn to scold, however she did so with much more grace. “Jaze, do you not recall the sea-side town of your birth? Perhaps you are not so different from our Lady Sylvain here.”
Jazelda turned her long nose up. “My parents were of noble lineage. I wasn’t just some country-mouse seeking to weasel my way into the court.”
So it was that Queen Jazelda was to like me too little, and therefore, Queen Magda was to like me too much. She squeezed my hand.
“We are glad to have you,” she said and then giggled like a young girl, “We will be such friends.”
I kept my face smooth to reveal neither approval nor disagreement. As tart as Queen Jazelda was and as temperate as Queen Magda was, these women were powerful, and therefore, dangerous. Jazelda continued to keep her dark eyes slanted upon me. She distrusted me and would probably rather that I drowned in the Eastern Sea. It wasn’t difficult to understand why. Both queens had mothered children for the king. Jazelda had two boys nearing manhood but Magda only had daughters: one of four years and the other still under a year. If I were to conceive a son of the king, that would mean a potential contender for the throne.
Magda went on about what a delight it would be to plan the wedding ball and how my dress would have to be violet to accent my hair and eyes, but my thoughts were on the predicament I found myself in. The more time I spent in the presence of the queens, the more I realized just how difficult court-life would be. Nothing in my training had prepared me for this.
Jazelda was attempting to sour Magda’s enthusiasm, reminding her that surely this was to be a modest and private affair, we were a kingdom at war, after all. But Magda carried on just as chipper as a robin in the spring, oblivious to the frost in the trees.
Just then, a court official entered the room. “Pardon the intrusion, my Queens,” he bowed, “but Lady Sylvain’s presence is required at the throne.”
Magda’s mouth hung open slightly. Jazelda scowled. I curtseyed to each and then followed the official out of the room wondering why I was being called in such an abrupt manner to the throne.
The crowd that filled the long, narrow room I had not expected. Every member of the court seemed to be present and all were talking noisily one to another as though in great excitement, or uproar, it was difficult to tell. Moments behind me, Queen Jazelda and Magda entered, seeming as perplexed as I, and a little put out too to not be privy to the situation.
King Rainstaff was pacing at the head of the room, his violet cape whipping behind him. At his left, his mother, Queen Fayne sat as stolid and gray as ever, her pale eyes fixed straight ahead. Sitting beside the old woman, to my surprise, was Lord Parish. His cheeks were flushed and ruddy, sweat glistened his brow, but there was a glean in his eyes (which never left my face upon my entrance). A smile tempted to curl at my lips, but I held them still, reminding myself that regardless of Lord Parish’s civility and fondness toward me, I was to marry the King now.
My appearance in the court, unlike the first time at the feast where all were stilled, seemed to send the crowd into further flourish. Several weapons were even thrust into the air. For the first time, since coming to the palace I was truly afraid. Something had roused these people into a passion I had not seen in all my ten and seven years.
I ducked slightly behind the official. He gave a small cough, pretending not to notice the indecency in my revealed emotion. Fortunately, no others seemed to notice it either. Except Lord Parish to whom no blink of my eye was lost.
King Rainstaff took quick notice of me approaching down the long room, but the sight of me only deepened the crease in his brow. Had I done something wrong? Undaunted, the official marched me to the front of the room. I bowed before the throne and remained there, not daring to move.
Finally, King Rainstaff hushed the room. “That will be enough,” his baritone voice boomed. The room stilled, though imperfectly. “Rise,” he commanded me and in a violet whirl, sat upon the hard, stone throne.
Rainstaff’s pale blue eyes stared at me for what felt like a fortnight. The lines in his face were hard, rigid and unkind. This wasn’t the kind and gentle king, the lover of beauty and life. This was the commander of war.
The people of the room seemed to sway and ripple around us. Though the room was cold, sweat trickled behind my ear and down my back.
Beside Rainstaff, the elderly Queen remained rigid, beyond her, Lord Parish leaned forward. At long last, the king spoke.
“Lady Sylvain,” the words came out like stones. “It is the desire of our most beloved Queen Fayne,” he gestured to his mother, “that you should be the wife of Lord Parish,” his hand was like a knife as it cut the air, “as was originally intended.”
Again his eyes bore into me, the edges sharp. The room did not stir now. All waited on the words of the king. I did my best to understand as the king hunted me with his eyes.
His words came out like a hiss through his clenched teeth. “I release you from the engagement to myself. You will marry Lord Parish. That is all.” He whooshed his robes and left the room so quickly I had to blink to see that he was really gone. The room alighted again in motion and flurry. All I could do was gaze upon the empty throne. The movement of Queen Fayne’s gown as she arose captured my attention. Her face was unflinching, but for just a moment she looked upon me before she too, left the room.
What was the meaning of this? I longed to ask her, but I felt no ill-will from the old Queen. What was her purpose in ending the engagement with her son? Before I had a moment to think, Lord Parish was before me.
He bowed low to me. Remembering my civility, I returned the gesture.
“Lady Sylvain,” he said. “I hope this pleases you.”
His brow was still glistening from sweat. He, the artisan and poet, had defied the King. Was it any wonder the court was in such a commotion? The true danger Lord Parish had faced in this became known to me at that moment. His very life was at risk. The men in the room were so agitated by the turn of events, a battle was on the edge of ensuing. All because I was to be a queen. But the king was gone. I was not to face those hawkish manners as his bride. The old Queen Fayne had done this for me, I knew not the reason, or the meaning, but she had declared it. And the king had no choice but to acquiesce, for she was his mother. And now, Lord Parish was before me asking if I was pleased? With a smile in my heart, I found that I was.
“Yes, my Lord,” I bowed again to him. Just as he was to take my arm, Queen Jazelda sauntered past us, the twist of a grin on her thin lips. Queen Magda kissed my cheeks and whispered, “Farewell,” into my hair.
I was not be a queen with them any longer. I was to be something much more: the wife of the man I knew in my heart I loved.

The Third Queen

2011-07-08T14:03:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER ONE
Be good to your husband, your lord.
Treat the servants well.
Never speak unless asked to.

Since birth, these were the lessons I was taught. But it was the last one I repeated in my head as the carriage bounced along the rocky road. I tried to set my nervousness aside and remember how fortunate I was. From among the slew of peasants and commoners, I had been chosen. Today, I was going to the king’s court to marry into the royal family.
With shaky fingers, I smoothed the front of my gown admiring the intricate beading and recalling my mother’s praise of how the emerald satin complemented my red curls. “Sylvain, you were born for this moment,” she whispered and kissed my head, and so it was true. How my parents rejoiced upon my fourteenth birthday when it was clear that the beauty of my youth would continue into my adulthood. I would be chosen. That fact was as certain as the rising of the sun over the green hills each morning.
“Such beauty cannot be overlooked,” the sentinels of the village often said. So when it became known that a certain nobleman named Lord Perish, cousin of the king, was seeking a bride, my name was quickly submitted. Two officials of the court came to our small village. The women dressed me in the finest of garments and wove red Sylvain flowers into my hair, the very flowers my parents had named me after. I was set upon a wood block as the officials assessed me. Just like a dumb ass, I didn’t speak a word.
“Fine,” the officials assessed. “Very fine indeed. We will send a carriage for her in the later month if she is selected for the court.”
No one in the village doubted the carriage would come, except me. Mother praised my modesty, saying it only added to my beauty. I was quiet, calm and stunning. Exactly what a woman should be.
The carriage did come. Black wood from the Fir Forests carved in the most current fashion with deep gibbets and spikes, pulled by six white horses. After being synched into the emerald gown and crowned with the jewels the court had sent, my parents kissed me and I looked upon my small mountain home for the last time. As the carriage pulled away, the village men cheered, “May the grace of Fion ever be upon you,” and the women waved their handkerchiefs. Exuberant. Joyful. One of their own had become royalty. The town would be blessed and prospered much for producing such a flower.
My own handkerchief was wrung tightly around my fingers. I ought not to have been so nervous, I had always known this day would come, but now that it was here, I found myself more terrified than I could have imagined. I had never met this Lord Perish, but I had heard that he was a gentle if not reserved, sallow man. Taken more with the pen and paint brush than the sword or saber. I suppose this pleased me. A man with an easel was far less intimidating than a man with a spear. This was what I thought. Of course my thoughts would not matter, I would be the only one to know them.
As was expected, I had not said a word the entire trip. Not to the horse tender or the coachman. Not to the court official who snored loudly in the seat across mine. “True beauty lets it speak for itself,” mother had whispered, reminding me yet again of the custom, “do not utter a syllable and no one will be able to keep their eyes off you.”
But eyes on me just made me uncomfortable and shy. As the carriage rounded a bend, the king’s palace came into view. Seeing all the houses, it became very clear just how many eyes I would have to avoid in a place so vast. My heart thundered so loud and fast I was afraid it would awake the official. The last moments passed too quickly and then the horses reigned to a stop.
The official snorted awake and then in a whirl, I was rushed out of the carriage by more attending servants into the bright sunshine of the stone courtyard and then into the cool shade of the palace. As my eyes adjusted, I had to stifle a gasp. The palace was even more grand and terrifying then I imagined. The ceiling was impossibly far above, a great chandelier of silver glinting from it. Tapestries and finely woven rugs adorned the highly polished stone walls and floors. Every inch seemed to glint as though painted with stars.
“Come this way,” a servant instructed. He led me up a winding staircase, down a long hall with windows open to the green fields below, and into a small, circular room.
More attendants entered, all male of course, fluffing out my dress, and dabbing powder onto my nose. One set to straightening the curls on my head.
When they had finished, they stepped back and let out an audible sigh.
“One of the finest, we’ve ever had,” one awed. “Her skin is smoother than the freshly fallen snow.”
“Her lips are like the petals of a rose.”
But it was my hair and eyes that got the most attention. “Such ruby tones. Eyes like gems.”
“Exquisite.”
My glossed lips remained closed. Though they were servants, they were not my servants. I would not speak to them.
The attendants parted as one of the court officials entered the room. He wore a large hat with pluming purple feather protruding from it. He looked me over and clasped his hands.
“Ah, you must be Sylvain.”
I nodded.
“Delightful,” he cheered. “It is such a pleasure to find a country flower such as yourself so well mannered. Your parents have taught you well.” He held his arm out and I took it. Another flare of nervousness coursed through me, but he seemed not to notice. Leading me back down the stairway, he chatted, “I am Dockam. I have been in the service of Lord Parish for eighteen years now. He trusted no one more with the tasking of finding him a suitable bride.” He patted my arm. “I am very pleased to believe that I have succeeded.”
For my sake more than his, I hoped he was right. What a disgrace it would be if Lord Parish deemed me unsuitable. How could I face my parents and the village?
“We will be dinning in the main hall,” Dockam said excitedly as if this were a special thing. “The King himself will be coming. Though I expect he will be late as usual after a long trip to the southern border.” I was surprised he would be attending at all, what with the war being waged between Diria and Glockland over a tiny speck of land that stood between: Southland. “He will probably be in a sour mood too,” Dockam lowered his voice as if speaking to me in confidence, but there was a smile on his lips as if this were somehow humorous, “we will have to avoid him the best we can.”
As shocking as it was to hear this official speaking of avoiding the king, it was more shocking still to hear him speak to me like a— friend.
We walked down the length of the inner courtyard and paused before two thick wooden doors. A great noise was coming from the other side, like that of a hundred people talking, silverware clanging and music playing. My hands were suddenly slick with sweat.
“Well this is it, dear,” Dockam squeezed my arm. “Take a deep breath and don’t look so ill.”
I did as he instructed. Calm, Sylvain. I told myself. Calm as the summer wind blowing through the buckabow trees.
Dockam nodded and sighed as if in relief, “That’s better.” He leaned down so that his face was inches from mine. I tried to stop the reflex to back away from such closeness. “Now brighten your eyes like you’ve just been surprised,” he instructed. I tried to do so without feeling foolish. “Good. Now just a hint of a smile on those pretty lips.” I did so without letting them part.
He leaned back. “Perfect. Now hold that as we enter. You will find Lord Parish sitting at the head table, four seats down from the throne on the left. You will be presented first and if all goes well, he will offer you the place beside him. Alright?”
I merely blinked.
He must have received that as a “yes,” for he nodded to the two guards who then swung open the great doors.
The roar of the room blasted my ears. I left my face frozen in the expression Dockam had sculpted there, doing my best just to breathe. As we entered, a trumpet sounded to still the crowd, but it rang too late, for as soon as my feet passed the doorway, a hush rippled across the room. Men and women’s mouths hung open, goblets suspended in their hands, someone to the right dropped a platter and a loud clang echoed through the hall.
Heat flushed my cheeks and though I felt a strong urge to flee, I found myself being led to the center of the room, surrounded by long tables and gaping faces on all sides.
Dockam gave a small cough and I remembered that he was there. “Lord Parish,” his voice rang loud and clear, “may I present Lady Sylvain.”
Before I could determine which of the faces was the Lord, I bowed my head and dipped my leg back into a low curtsy. For several beats, all I could see was the polished gray stone of the floor. No one spoke a word but I could sense the rustle of fabric as people moved and leaned in for a closer look at me. Then there was the click of boots upon the floor ahead of me. Slow and deliberate steps. They moved to my right and then circled back around to the left, finally stopping right in front of me so that the leather toe was just visible. I did my best to keep my breathing steady and slow as possible, though my heart tripped and skipped.
A hand came into view. A large hand but not one calloused with hard labor. A finger went to my chin. It brought my face up. Haloed by the light of the chandelier, I looked up into the face of Lord Parish. He was young, younger than I would have thought. Handsome enough if not a little plain, with a straight nose, well set brown eyes and a soft jaw line as naked as a young boy’s. His hair was a lighter shade of brown but there were traces of gray already at the edges. This made me realize his round and hairless face gave him the appearance of being younger than he actually was.
His brown eyes moved across my face as well, bringing me back to the situation. For a long moment, his eyes simply stared into mine. Trying to appear both mannered and modest, I debated between holding his gaze or returning mine to the floor. Just when I could take it no more, the corners of his lips pulled up.
“Lady Sylvain,” his quiet words sliced the air, “will you honor me by taking a place by my side?”
The question was more than a invitation to dine. I dipped my head in assent. He smiled, and I thought that his smile made his face more handsome. Taking my arm from Dockam, he led me to the seat beside his at the head table. I was elated. Not only had I been chosen, I was now accepted. Lord Parish would be my husband.
As soon as I sat, the room burst into an uproar. Men laughed and slapped Lord Parish’s back in congratulations. He took this well, uttering polite thanks when appropriate. Indeed, he was reserved among this room of loud, boisterous and bearded men.
“Out of us all, it is Parish who has found himself the most extraordinary beauty,” they laughed. “Who would have thought?”
The women sat still, shooting glances, and occasionally discreet smiles in my direction. I kept my hands folded in my lap, made sure my posture was straight and counted each breath I took. When I had reached two hundred and forty nine, a small bell rang and the doors burst open. Men servants entered with silver platters of meat, potatoes, fish and fresh vegetables. More food than my village ate in a winter. Every golden goblet was filled with dark wine that filled the air with its pungent scent. I barely sipped mine, not wanting my head to get any dizzier than it already was.
With the food, the men had returned to their seats. I became aware of how alone Lord Parish and I suddenly seemed to be. He cut his food and ate it carefully. Though I barely had a stomach in good condition to receive food, I remembered my training and took small bites with the little silver fork.
When Lord Parish turned and spoke to me, I nearly choked on a piece of potato.
“You are from the nether mountains?”
I swallowed quickly, the food burning my throat and nodded.
He bobbed his head and took another bite. “That is the land native to the Sylvain flower is it not?”
Again, I nodded.
He set his fork down, eyes on me while I stared at my plate. “Lady Sylvain,” he said gently, “you may answer me.”
He paused, waiting. My throat felt tight. “Yes, my Lord.”
He smiled, seeming pleased with this.
“I have been discussing— plans with my attendant, Dockam, whom you have meet. The court wishes our engagement to last less than a fortnight due to the war with the Sutherlands.” Less than a fortnight? That was hardly any time at all to get acquainted with this man who was to be my husband. Lord Parish didn’t seem to question this. “After the wedding ceremonies, I have planned for us to return to my estate by the eastern sea.” He glanced at me, his brown eyes narrowing. “You are very young though. How many years are you?”
“Ten and seven this yester-month, my Lord,” I blushed. Though I was certainly old enough to marry, it was still considered young.
He chewed a bit of meat and thought about this. Is he doubting his acceptance of me? I wondered, but instead he said. “Perhaps you would prefer to stay here with the vibrancy and bustle of the palace over the quite of country solitude?”
My fork slipped from my fingers and clinked against my plate. Several court attendants looked our way, but I wasn’t paying them any mind. Is he really considering my preferences in the matter?
“Lady Sylvain?” he asked again when I did not answer.
“Yes, my Lord?” I managed.
He took my hand in his. His face was full of such sincerity I found it difficult to breathe. “Would it make you happier to stay here in the palace?”
“No,” I coughed. “No, I think I would very much prefer the country by the sea.”
Tiny lines creased the skin around his eyes as he smiled. “I am very much pleased to hear it. I hope you will find the estate a happy home for you.”
Unable to resist it, I returned his smile. Yes, I think I will be very happy.
We had just returned to our food, when several loud trumpets sounded. The room fell silent for the second time that night as a tall man wrapped in large furs entered the room. With my nervousness now gone, I looked on him with curiosity. But then I noticed how every man, woman and servant in the room fell to their knees. I too bowed low, for this man was the king.
“All arise,” his voice boomed, deep, and powerful.
A tremor of fear shot down my spine. I had never been in the presence of a king before. King Rainstaff pulled the fur hood back, revealing curled blond hair set under his gleaming crown. His face was broad, tanned and obviously handsome with two deep-set dimples, white teeth and bright blue eyes. “Ah, that’s better,” he sighed as he handed the heavy furs to a servant. Aside from the crown, he appeared more as a normal man now in a light tunic and belted pants. His broad chest gave a big heave as he took a breath. “It is good to be home.”
The muscles of his biceps rippled as he scooped up a little child that had broken free shrieking, “Father!”
The child’s hand-servant was attempting to scold him but the king simply laughed him away, “Can’t a child great his father after war?” Then to the room, “The Glocklands have been beaten so bloody black and blue, their surrender should come any day now!”
The room erupted in cheers. Two women rose from beside us at the head table and made their way to the center of the room where they kissed the King’s cheeks. His queens. I had been so consumed in myself I had not made notice of them before. But their beauty and grace clearly captivated the room.
“Queen Jazelda,” King Rainstaff kissed his first of wives who was tall, slender and whose cascading dark curls was a source of vanity. She bowed to him. “Queen Magda,” he turned to his second wife, whose round dimpled cheeks beamed up at him. He tucked back a strand of her blonde hair. She too bowed and the queens took their seats.
“Now what is to eat?” King Rainstaff asked and the room burst into laughter. Easy chatter filled the air as the king addressed the members of his court, telling some about the affairs of the war, instructing others on various businesses to be conducted in his kingdom. Lutes and fiddles were sounded to a fast melody.
Suddenly, the king turned and his loud voice rumbled, “Now, wasn’t an engagement to my dear cousin Lord Parish to be taking place tonight? Come, let me see the lady that has been selected for my friend of most mellow heart?”
For the first time, his blue eyes focused on Lord Parish sitting at my side, but for only just a moment before they rested upon me. At first they widened large and bewildered as if he had expected to see a doe and instead found a lion. His mouth parted slightly and then shut just as quickly. I felt the urge to hide, to duck behind my red locks so that he might not stare at me so.
“Well now,” King Rainstaff finally huffed. “What a beauty my dear cousin has found himself here.” I wanted that to be the end of it, for the king to return to his merriment and forget I sat there so helpless at the side of Lord Parish. Instead, his black boots stomped across the stone floor as he walked toward me. His gate was broad and focused, like a leopard stalking it’s pray.
My gaze dropped to the side and I turned my head away as if to hide behind Lord Parish.
“Lady, look at me,” the king commanded. “I want to study your face at close distance.”
Slowly, I turned back to him. He had bent down, as I was still sitting, and was not even an arm’s length from me. I could see that his skin was even more lined and darkened by many years spent in the sun at this distance. His eyes were more gray than blue and they were narrowed into two slits as they traveled over me. I fought the instinct to flinch as his hand went to touch my cheek. The skin of his fingers was calloused and rough as he cupped my jaw. He twisted one of my ruby curls around his thumb.
“Never have my eyes beheld such beauty,” he said lowly, so that none but me and perhaps Lord Parish could hear. “Your hair reflects the fire’s flame,” he twisted the lock around his thumb, “your eyes are as bright as emerald gems.” He tugged the hair, pulling my face closer. I could not flinch now, his gaze was so riveted upon me, I could not break it.
“What is your name?” he whispered and it fell upon my skin like a caress.
“Sylvain,” I breathed.
Lord Parish gave a cough, shattering the spell. King Rainstaff straightened, seeming to coming back to himself. He turned to Lord Parish, then slowly— back to me, as if coming to some decision.
When he spoke his voice had all the authority of a king in it. “Lord Parish, it is my understanding that this lady is consented to marrying you, but I must say that I, as your king, will not permit such an arrangement.”
Gasps and whispers rippled across the room. Such a thing had never occurred before. I could hear Lord Parish’s intake of breath beside me.
“What do you mean, my king?”
“Lady Sylvain,” he turned back to me, “will be my queen.”
*****

Jagged- Chapter Five

2011-06-20T20:37:00.001-07:00

Chapter Five
I propped myself up on a crate and forced myself to look at nothing but the road ahead. In the hoary light of the closing day, I saw weren’t the only ones to have traveled this way. At first it was just a few, but then there were dozens of them: cars left abandoned right on the road. Some of the owners hadn’t even bothered to move off to the shoulder. Mr. Elsa had to maneuver the mules around the lanes like the cars were boulders scattered in a river.
Where were all the people?
Then, we passed a minivan a little too close and I wish I hadn’t wondered. The young woman in the driver’s seat was young, probably near my age. The back of her blonde head was craned against the headrest, as if she were staring up at the sunroof of her red Volvo. But as we passed, she didn’t blink. She didn’t turn at the sound of the creaking wheels. Her mouth hung open slightly, dried blood streaking down booth edges.
Bile filled my throat and I threw up over the side of the trailer. My hands felt cold and wet.
Margaret was beside me in an instant, clucking her tongue. “And here I thought you were recovering so well.”
I allowed her to clean my mouth with a scrap of cloth. “It’s not that. It’s— the cars.” I couldn’t bring myself to look back at the line of discarded vehicles.
“Oh.” Her voice dropped an octave. Gently, she coaxed me to sit back down so that my only view was the dusty wooden planks and blankets.
The shaking of my spine was from more than the potholes on the road. “What—” my voice jolted, “what happened to all those people?”
Margaret played with a threaded string. “There were more back in the city. You were unconscious— you didn’t see—”
I didn’t even want to imagine. Imagining always led me back. To the condo; with the view of the park. “But. All the way out here? In Kansas?”
Margaret twisted the sting around her thumb. “They were probably trying to drive away.”
Like us.
“The effects seem to be a lot less the further you get away from the cities.”
There was that word again. “Effects from what?” I felt incredibly naïve, everyone else seemed to know what was going on.
Margaret tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I think it is nuclear radiation.”
“Like from a bomb?” That would explain the collapsing buildings, but again, my naivety was at an all-time high.
She nodded.
“But this is the U.S. We can’t get bombed.” The frown that formed on my brow caused the bandages on my forehead to pull. “Who would bomb us? Everyone knows we would attack back ten-times worse.” Right?
Margaret’s thin lips twisted to the left. “We haven’t heard any official reports, or anything, of course. But, we talked to a woman from Washington, an elderly couple driving up from Georgia and even a teenage kid from Massachusetts. They were all hit the same. I think it might be like this all over the east coast. Every major city has been attacked.”
The words scooped a dip pit in my chest. But she wasn’t done. “This isn’t like 9-11. Whoever did this was going for more than terror. More than war. They were going for inhalation.”
I looked over the trailer, not at the road, but out at the flat land stretched tight under the gray haze. Our country. The United States of America. Sentenced to Capital Punishment.
A chilly tear tore down my cheek. “But we’re still here.” The words were just a whisper on my cracked lips.
“That’s right.” Margaret took my hand. “We’re still here.”
And there were others. Mr. Elsa’s face was bright that night as he talked about his niece and her family in Hays. He didn’t have much family around. Fortunately, Hays, Kansas wasn’t a big enough town to draw a direct attack. We wouldn’t have to spend the next night on the ground. There would be beds. Fresh food. Hot showers.
As Margaret and Mr. Elsa pulled their blankets up close to ward off the chill of the September night air that had picked up, I tucked my knees to my chest and stared at the flames. Sleep wasn’t something I did well out in the open, so exposed; the darkness a constant reminder of the darkness of that early morning in the exercise room.
I yearned to sleep. For the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. Then the muddled mess of my own life, mixed with the fresh horrors of the dying world, couldn’t haunt me.
But in the early morning hours, as sleep did finally take me, my dreams were even worse. I was back on the treadmill. Could feel my ponytail swishing against my shoulder blades as my feet pounded on the belt. Then there was a loud crack. The glass on the walls shattered and the ceiling came tumbling down.
I managed to dodge a large support beam and scramble out of the basement and up into the main level. More dry wall showered down as I passed the place where the lady was speared through by a pole and jumped out into the street.
But once on the street, everything went silent. The buildings continued to crash down around me, obliterating cars and life as they fell, but there was no sound. It was like someone had pushed a mute button during the middle of an action scene. The explosions and trembling of the ground seemed like nothing more than cheep effects.
My hands flew to my ears. Have I gone deaf? I spun around to see a lamppost fall onto the hood of a blue Taurus, smashing it into two.
The city was going to collapse upon me. Run, Catherine. Get out of there. I stepped onto the street, prepared to bolt toward 84th street and away from the silent horror, when a sound stopped me. It wasn’t the moaning of failing buildings, or the cackle of fires out the windows. It was the cry of a baby.
The tiny wale was the only other noise I heard as the city continued to crumble upon itself. I couldn’t stop. I had to get out of there. But still, the baby’s cry held me.
What is it doing here?
My eyes darted to the burning cars and dusty clouds rising up from demolished foundations. Where is it coming from?
The cry got louder. It pierced my ears and rattled my brain like a shock wave.
Get it to stop. Where was its mother?
I turned back toward 84th street, but found that there was a weight on me I hadn’t noticed before. Terrified, I looked down to see that the crying baby was in my arms.
Its little hands stretched up to me, fingers splayed. Toothless mouth wide open.
I was its mother.
“No,” I screamed and threw the baby from my arms. It fell, arms flailing like a fallen chick, inches, then feet into the open air. I tried to grab it back, but it was too late.
The baby hit the grimy pavement, and as it did, its small body knocked a hole into the asphalt. The infant disappeared into the black gap, its wails going down with it, but the fissure continued to spread. Angry arms branched out, ripping up the street, causing more asphalt to tumble into the pit. The ground between my feet split, jarring every bone in my body. Then I too was falling down, down into the blackness. Nothing to grip onto. The hazy smoke-filled sky growing more distant above me. And still the baby’s cries detonated in my ears.
Usually the rise of the sun, weak and gray on the horizon, brought a sense of relief. But after awaking from that dream, there was no relief from the guilt and horror I felt. Soon, Mr. Elsa would be feeding the mules their ration of grain and within minutes, I’d be dosing off again in the back of the bouncy trailer. But that morning was different.
Margaret and I shared a can of concentrated orange juice and a protein bar for breakfast. I didn’t have the stomach for it, but getting low blood sugar wasn’t going to help me any. I forced the food down just as I tried to force the shards of the dream away.
I was more than indebted to these two people, I realized. My entire survival depended upon it. Without them, I’d be just another body rotting on the side of the road. Their foresight and preparation were my salvation. Mr. Elsa had been storing barrels of sealed grain, jugs of purified water for decades. There were cans of peaches, apricots and applesauce he had his late wife had grown on their own land and boxes of protein bars, like the ones we subsisted upon now. It was like someone had tipped him off that something like this would happen one day. His first aid kit, combined with the one Margaret kept in her car were the only reason I hadn’t bled to death. And though his dog was more than annoying, and the rifle that he kept under his seat which was the size of a small tree made me nervous, I was grateful to be with them.
But as I forced myself to swallow the thick bar down that morning, the unease in my stomach didn’t leave. Why did that baby always have to cry? I tried to push the memory of the sound away by humming a Cold Play song. The air was tangy and metallic, and the wind only seeming to make it more rank. The road was as barren as ever, but the hair on my arms stood up. I jumped as a bunch of leaves rustled across the highway.
Fifteen minutes down the road, as we passed more darkened houses, the vibrations of the trailer on the pavement made my eyes start to droop despite myself. But before I could really drift off, Mr. Elsa reined back on the mules and said over his shoulder, “It’d be best if you stay down, ladies.” I’d never heard him use that tone of voice: tight and low. It made my stomach wring itself into a tight wad.
Before we could ask what was going on, there were voices coming up from the right side of the road. Gruff, deep, male voices.
“What ‘ya got in the back there?” one demanded, making me wish Mr. Elsa hadn’t stopped at all. That voice didn’t sound like he had very neighborly intentions. Margaret and I kept ourselves down as instructed. The sound of boots grinding on the pavement got closer. My heart beat frantically in my chest. I focused on the back of Mr. Elsa’s brown hat and his curly black hair.
He kept his voice even. “Just a couple of things I’m bringing to my sister’s family in Uma.”
“Is that right?” the same gruff voice replied. It sent shivers down my back. “Well I think we’ll just take a look for ourselves. What do you say boys?”
Deep snickers echoed. How many of them were out there?
Mr. Elsa straightened. “Now, I don’t want to cause no trouble here. If you please, I’ll just be on my way.” He brought the reins up but stopped at the man’s humorless laugh.
“We won’t cause no trouble neither.” There was a click. Like something metal. Mr. Elsa sucked in a breath. “We’ll just take a look and then you can be on your way.”
Before Mr. Elsa could answer, the clank of boots came around the right side of the trailer. My eyes shot to Margaret. Her body was rigid, unmoving; eyes wide, jaw clenched tight. I pressed my back into the planks of a crate, wishing I could melt into it.
There were five men. The first to appear at the gate was young, not more than eighteen or so. He had un-cut brown hair that fell around his face like a mop, and a shadow around his jaw; clearly an attempt at a beard. His hazel eyes pulled back at the sight of Margaret and I crouched between the crates and hale bales. “Shawn, look at what we got here,” he exclaimed.
The man named Shawn’s thick chest and curly brown beard which reached his collar bone, came into view. All I could focus on was the rifle he held up like a trophy in the air. That must have been the click I heard. “Well, well,” he smacked his tongue, his black eyes passing over Margaret and resting on me, “this is quite the load you got back here.”
The three other men, all as equally unkempt and filthy as the next, joined the first two. Wide smiles creased the dirt on their faces, a hunger in their darting eyes, like they’d just struck gold.
Shawn spoke again. “I think we’ll just take some of this off your hands.” Mr. Elsa was about to protest, but Shawn wagged the barrel of his riffle at him and Mr. Elsa sank back into his seat. “Go on boys,” Shawn snarled, and like trained dogs, his cronies jumped up into the trailer. My whole body was shaking. I scrambled to think. Margaret stood up and started shouting as they grabbed boxes and barrels of supplies and threw them down to the others on the ground. One of them slapped her cheek, causing her to fall into the hay bales, an angry red mark across her face.
“That should shut her up,” they laughed and tossed more canned goods out of the trailer. “We won’t be hungry tonight.”
“What about that one?” the young guy said, pointing at me. My heels kicked me back into the far corner, as far away as I could get. But I was pinned, without escape.
Shawn turned from the box of peaches he had cut open, his small pin-pricks of eyes on me. Just his gaze made me flinch. The men waited the command.
“Bring her here.”
The kid grinned like a puppy about to be given a bone. Two of the bigger ones came at me. Margaret and Mr. Elsa were shouting. Shawn fired a round into the air, silencing them.
“That’s enough,” he said his mouth an ugly hole. “The next shoot goes into your brain. Bring her,” he repeated. The men’s hands reached for me. I kicked the first in the shin, and thrashed my body, but I was a hooked fish. And there was Shawn’s riffle to think about. They wrenched their arms under me and dragged me out of the trailer.
“Stop,” I shouted. “Let me go.” But I was no match for them.
On the pavement, I realized just how much bigger Shawn was than me. He towered over my head by almost two feet. The skin on my arms burned as I squirmed against the men’s rough hold, but I was hopelessly weak. Like a mouse in a cat’s paw.
Shawn’s eyes roamed up and down my body. “This one’s got some spit fire,” he grinned as if he couldn’t be more pleased with my resistance. His filthy fingers touched my jaw, turning my head side to side.
“Get your hands off me,” I spat in his face.
He didn’t even blink, but wiped his nose. “Her face is a mess,” he said to his men but never took his eyes off me. Then, he grabbed the loop holes in my jeans, lurching my hips forward. “But it’s what’s in here, that matters.”
The men hollered.
“Throw her in the pickup.” He tossed me back. “We’re going to have us a good time tonight!” The thick arms pulled me back, away from Margaret and the nearly empty trailer. The men had gotten their fill of supplies and were now loading them into the bed of a rusty red truck.
My screams ripped the air. I writhed with all my might but the men were bent on taking me. I couldn’t flee. Couldn’t even get them to slow. I craned my neck to look back at the trailer. Margaret was yelling profanities, tears cutting down her chin. Mr. Elsa just stood there like a tall dark tree. Shawn kept them at bay with the aim of his riffle.
It was in their eyes as they watched me be dragged off the road and down the ditch: it was over. That truth sank into my heart. There was nothing I could do. Nothing they could do. They knew it. I knew it.
The men piled the crates of supplies into the bed until the tailgate nearly brushed the ground. Then the men got out a chord, the same pale red kind that Mr. Elsa used to bind his hay bales. They spun me around, so that I faced the road again, and tied my wrists together.
Shawn seemed pleased with their progress. He left his post, turned his back on the trailer and walked toward the truck.
A sick, self-satisfied grin spread across his face as he looked past me at his truck of stolen goods.
But an instant later, that self-satisfied smirk was replaced by his eyes pulled back wide, pupils dilated, and mouth hanging open. For a moment I didn’t understand why. His body teetered, like a cut tree, and then fell face-forward onto the pavement. A large whole was blasted into his back, red blood oozing out.
All the men in the truck turned, gaping at the fallen body of their leader. Before any of them could move, Mr. Elsa came around the trailer, his riffle still smoking from the shot, and picked up the gun out of Shawn’s still hand. The men stared, open mouthed. Mr. Elsa, a riffle in each hand now walked slowly toward the truck.
“You boys have had enough fun around here, I think. Why don’t you let the girl go and help put back those crates nice and neat the way you found them.” His words were polite, even conversational but the men took one more look at the weapons and didn’t second guess him.
The rough hands released me. Blood rushed back into my arms. I tripped a bit as I hurried toward the trailer, away from the truck and the man shot dead on the road.

Feedback Please

2011-06-08T15:49:00.001-07:00

https://www.createspace.com/Preview/1083283

Click on this link to give me feedback on my Query Letter so I can land an Agent. Thanks!

Heather

2011-06-02T16:48:00.000-07:00

"Easy reading is damned hard writing."
Love this quote.

Need a space and moment to vent: Just found a newly published book titled "Black Wings" by Christina Henry and what is it about? You guessed it: a female angel who brings souls to the afterlife.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I guess my oh so original novel idea, is not so original after all.

Now my chances for getting that book published are like my chances of waking up on the moon tomorrow.

There goes over 3 years of work! At least I "grew" as a writer (that's my attempt to be positive:)

Jagged- Chapter Four

2011-04-26T14:30:00.000-07:00

Chapter Four
We weren’t on the road more than fifteen minutes when the trailer wheels started to slow again. The sun was just starting to peak over the rise of the land, grayish and pale in the haze that continually seemed to fill the sky. We were supposed to go forty miles that day. That’s what Mr. Elsa said after clucking his teeth at the hay supply. There was supposed to be a small town with a country store where we could resupply.
If it was still there, he added. But compared to the city, the land out here seemed relatively untouched by what had happened. At least the old barns and little country houses with their peeling paint and grimy windows still stood.
The trailer stopped. Margaret and I got on our feet. To the side of the highway was a huddled mass of blankets. Beneath the blankets were several pair of sneakers. I realized the blankets had pairs of eyes too; eyes that stared at us as wildly as if we were about to mug them.
Mr. Elsa was leaning over the edge of his seat to talk to them. I strained to hear the muffled conversation.
“Please,” I heard one of the taller ones say. Who were they and what where they doing on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere? Mr. Elsa nodded and then swung his long legs over his seat and joined us in the back.
“They’re trying to reach Hays,” his mustache twitched as he spoke. “It’s not far off of 1-70 and on our way to Ellis. Say they have family there. There’s more than enough room— I thought they could ride along.”
Margaret nodded and began re-arranging crates and blankets.
I looked back at the hunched figures. There was something off in the way they stared at the road, like they weren’t really seeing it and one of them wouldn’t stop swaying. They gave off an ere of illness. Like a diseased puppy, or the homeless man back in my city. Something I would rather avoid. But this wasn’t my trailer and I wasn’t in a position to decide. “Who are they?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Folk from Topeka,” was his only answer. He swung the back gate open and helped up a girl of not more than eight years old, huddled in a hand-made quilt that showed just her dirty nose and sharp eyes. Another girl of about thirteen scooted in next to her, was that blood trickling from her mouth? A brown-haired woman who must’ve been their mother and an elderly woman whose head shook uncontrollably underneath her shawl followed.
They gave Margaret and I a quick glance before settling in a tight bunch against the hay bales. Mr. Elsa got back into his seat and the trailer rocked forward once again. They seemed content to stare at the trailer’s wooden planks, but then the littlest one kept glancing at me.
At first, I didn’t understand why. Then I remembered the gash cutting across my face. I hadn’t re-bandaged it yet. I must’ve looked horrific.
Revolted at my own appearance, I turned my head so she wouldn’t have to see me, the freak show. But then Margaret put new bandages on it, and still the child stared.
Her eyes were like two dark stones set into her waifish face. Margaret had struck up something of a conversation with the mother. Something about the green fields of Hays during the spring. But the woman just mumbled and nodded, dabbing at her bleeding nose with a tissue. I noticed the little girl’s dirty fingers kept scratching underneath her quilt at her forehead.
“Don’t scratch it,” her mother whispered harshly.
“But it itches,” the child replied in a voice more like a squeak.
The trailer hit a bump and the blanket fell back revealing an oozing mound of flesh on the child’s scalp.
A gasp escaped my lips. The mother’s dark eyes flashed at me and in half a second, she had covered her child’s head again.
My stomach rolled and an odd gurgling came from my throat. But then the child’s sister tumbled forward and I realized the gurgling didn’t come from me. The girl’s skin turned several shades paler and then she was dry heaving, her stomach attempting to empty itself of its already empty contents. Nothing but a sting of bloody spit came out her mouth.
Her mother wrapped her arms which were a sick purple and blue around her trembling shoulders and tried to comforter her while she cried tearlessly, but within minutes, the mother herself was vomiting blood.
Something was seriously wrong with these women.
I tucked my knees into my chest and covered my nose with my sleeve, determined not to be the next victim. I tried to focus on anything but the sick travelers with their horrible wounds, but my eyes kept coming back to them. The children cried until they became too weak to do even that, their dirty bloodied heads falling into their mother’s lap. The mother stroked their sticky hair as she leaned her head back, closing her eyes. The elderly woman hardly seemed to notice the scene; she just stared blankly at the hay bales and continued rocking back and forth.
“I’m so sorry,” Margaret whispered. “I wish I could do something.” She rummaged through her tiny first aid kit. “I’m afraid I’m all out of anti-nausea medicine.” Her brows furrowed together into one red line.
The anti-nausea meds. She must’ve used them all on herself and me. That truth hit me like a rock as we bounced down the long dusty highway.
Margaret and I made a meal of more saltines and a packet of applesauce when the sun reached its highest point. The food seemed to bring some of my energy back. Margaret offered the women some water, but it only made them vomit more. When Mr. Elsa pulled the trailer to a stop and told us he was going to go water the Mules down at a creek he saw, I jumped to my feet and offered to help. Mr. Elsa’s bushy eyebrows rose, but he didn’t refuse me and I was grateful. I would’ve done anything to get away from the old, shaking woman and the children with their tearless eyes, even if it meant getting near the mules.
I stumbled after him, my legs wobbly from sitting so long, down a ditch and into a brown field. Connie, his little speckled dog ran circles around us, causing me to jump every time he leapt at my legs.
Mr. Elsa told me to hold the rope of one of the mules, Briggs, he called it, while he took the other down to the creek. I hadn’t noticed I’d been shaking until I reached out to take the end of the rope.
“You ok?” he asked.
I didn’t think I was, but the only other option was to go back to the trailer. So I just nodded and took the rope hoping the grunting animal beside me wouldn’t decide to make me its mid-day snack.
Images of the vomiting girls, blood dripping out their mouth and noses kept flashing in my mind. By the time Mr. Elsa’s worn hat appeared over the ridge, my body was convulsing as badly as the old woman’s. Tears streamed from my eyes, and my chest heaved for breath.
Mr. Elsa’s arm was around me. “What’s wrong?” he tried to soften the gruffness in his voice.
I tried to answer, but only more sobs came out. How was I supposed to tell him that I couldn’t go back there? Couldn’t face those eyes, that smell? But I didn’t have to answer, because as in-between one of my sobs, a scream that seemed to stab my very heart came from the trailer.
Mr. Elsa gave me one bewildered look. “We need to go back there. Can you manage?”
“Yes,” I chocked. He took the lead rope back from me and I staggered after him back up the ditch as another shrill cry rippled across the ground.
The mother was standing. I could just see the top of her head over the trailer’s side. We ran around to the back gate and then I nearly collided into Mr. Elsa’s stopped body.
Clutched in her mother’s arms, was the limp body of the child. Her blankets had fallen, revealing her thin limbs, her brown hair falling over her mother’s arms. Those dark eyes that had stared so intently at me were now closed, she could’ve been asleep, but her mouth hung open.
“My baby,” the mother wailed and then collapsed into a heap, cradling the child in her arms. “She’s gone. She’s gone.”
The sister and elderly woman behind her, were like me, too shocked or numb to move. After giving her some time, Margaret and Mr. Elsa seemed to be the only ones with any sense at all. Margaret wrapped her arms around the mother, crying tears of her own. Mr. Elsa offered to help bury the girl. He set off with a shovel into the brown field. It took a while, but then the mother finally released her clenched embrace on her child.
“Goodbye my sweet love,” she whispered through chocking moans and then kissed the girl on the forehead. Mr. Elsa took the body from her arms, wrapped it in the hand-made quilt and disappeared into the ditch. The mother, Margaret and the others fumbled after in a procession of grief and tears.
I probably should’ve followed but found myself rooted to the pavement like one of those big trees that rose up out of the flat land.
Their wails washed over me with the wind. I found myself crying again too. But it wasn’t for the death of the child. It wasn’t for the mother who was now watching dirt fall onto the body of the girl she had given life too. It wasn’t for the empty whole that soul would leave in the lives of all those who knew her.
No, my tears were for myself. Hotly and stupidly. My knees hit the pavement, my head bent. I grieved the death of my own life. My lungs burned. My lips rattled and shook as tears and snot dripped off them.
It’s all over. There’s nothing. Nothing left.
A hand touched my shoulder some time later. I didn’t have to look to know it was Margaret. She rubbed my back and stroked my tangled hair.
I was vaguely aware of Mr. Elsa’s boots on the road, the knickers of the mules, but I couldn’t find the strength to move.
Margaret’s arms were under me. “Come,” she said, heaving me up. “Come.” Half-standing she walked me to the trailer gate, then climbed up herself.
“Catherine, come,” she called, her eyes urgent, almost pleading.
“I can’t,” I mumbled, spitting out hair stuck to my lips. I was aware that the mother and other women weren’t in the trailer either. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“You can,” Margaret stretched her arm out to me. “You just have to get up into this trailer.”
The gate seemed impossibly high.
The mother’s keening in the field reached my ears. “Oh God, there’s nothing. Just death. Everyone’s died. We’re all dead.”
Nothing. That was the word I used.
“Catherine. Now.” Margaret’s words plowed into my thoughts. Somehow I pushed my hands onto the wood planks and Margaret helped pull the rest of me up. “We’re good,” she called to Mr. Elsa who cracked the reins and the trailer moved forward away from the creek with water for the mules, away from the dead girl and her family.
“They’re not coming,” I stated the obvious.
“No.” Margaret’s single word answer was like closing a casket.

Jagged- Chapter Three

2011-04-22T16:25:00.000-07:00

Chapter Three
The scent of vomit, rubbing alcohol and— something else hit my nostrils. Good heavens, what is that stink?
Crinkling my nose, my eyes cracked open. A cream cloth ceiling above me. And a broken light, like the kind in the interior of cars, hanging by a single wire. Where am I?
Putting my hand to my head, I felt a soft bandage. I pushed on it harder. Ouch.
I sat up, but became incredibly dizzy. My feet were pressed against a door handle. Why am I in the backseat of a car?
“She’s awake,” a voice said from behind. I turned. The glass of the backseat was broken and left in shards like teeth. Cool air seeped in like the car was breathing it.
I saw a blue flannel shirt and pair of muddy jeans walking away. On a dirt road. The land, flat and yellow, lengthened on like a piece of stretched cotton until it reached a dusty-blue sky. Where are all the streets? The buildings?
Buildings. Images of collapsed gray sky scrapers came to me, an unpleasant slide show.
Gasping for breath, my hands clung to my knees. The city. The condo—
“Good, let’s get her out,” another voice outside the car said. This one sharp and somewhat familiar, liked I’d heard it once before in a dream. Or a nightmare.
The door behind me opened letting in more chill air and that awful stink. Again, the blue flannel shirt, but beside it, a wide face framed by red hair with gray roots.
“How you doing, honey?” the middle-aged woman asked, holding out a Styrofoam cup to me.
“Where are we?” my voice cracked.
“Here,” she pushed the cup into my hands. “Drink first. Talk later.”
The edges of the cup were brown, but the water inside looked clean. I put it to my lips. The water was lukewarm but it did soothe my throat a moment, before it turned to fire.
Horrified, my eyes accused the woman.
“What’s in that?” I chocked. I’d had strep before, but my esophagus burned like nothing I’d experienced.
She shook her head and I noticed the skin under her hairline down to her chin was puckered and red. As though it had been burned. She poured more liquid into the cup from a large plastic jug. More burns on her arms. “It’s the after-effects. Drink more.”
But I held the cup away like it might detonate.
“Drink,” she commanded. No. She huffed and tilted her head to the side. “You’ve been vomiting the past two days. You’re going to die from dehydration. Now. Drink.”
Vomiting? Well that explained the smell. “Two days?”
The skin around her eyes sagged a bit. She looked so horribly sad, and dirty, and tired. “Yes.” This woman had saved my life. She stopped and put me in her car.
“You didn’t have to get me.”
“I know,” she answered. I brought the cup back to my lip, flinching as the water went down.
“Good girl.” She said it like was an eight-year-old taking cough syrup. “Now, we need to get you out of here.” She backed out the door.
I just blinked and sat.
“We ran out of gas,” she explained, re-emerging.
“Gas?” I tried to put the pieces together.
“Yeah. Luckily Mr. Elsa here,” her hand motioned to the blue flannel, “came by. He’s going to take us in his trailer.”
Her hands coaxed me out with little waves. I pocked my head out the open door. Mr. Elsa was the one wearing the jeans and blue plaid. He was a massive man, his chest the width of a small car. His square jaw was covered by a curly salt and pepper beard. This Paul Bunion figure would’ve terrified me but his coal-black eyes looked down at me with kindness.
“Aint much,” his coarse voice growled from under his mustache. “But the mules are strong.”
“Mules?”
Sure enough, two tawny brown mules were hitched up to what must have been an old car-hauling trailer. Rough planks of wood were boarded up on the sides, but the top was open.
“Come now.” She took my hands, careful not to put pressure on the cuts, and helped me out.
Standing, the sky and grass started tilting to the side.
“Easy now.” Mr. Elsa took my other arm. Who are these strangers?
My head spun so bad, I thought I might pass out.
“I— I think I need a hospital.”
They half-dragged me the rest of the way to the back of the trailer. Bales of hay tied with red nylon were stacked along the sides. Blankets had been laid in the center. At the front, wood crates made a sort of seat for the driver. Jugs of water and grocery bags containing who knew what were piled beneath that.
“I’m sure you do,” the woman answered, “but I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”
A hospital not possible? They set me onto a worn rose-patterned blanket.
Mr. Elsa just gave a sad look, then went back to the car for the last jug of water.
The mules nickered and I realized theirs was the other scent I couldn’t name before. Livestock. Great. And a dog. Mr. Elsa came back around, a speckle-furred dog circling his heels.
“In,” he commanded and the mangy creature leapt up. Tail wagging, his wet tongue was soon all over my face. My arms flailed and pushed at his furry chest in a useless defense.
“Connie, off,” Mr. Elsa said with a half-laugh.
I smeared the slobber on my check with the back of my hand. “I, uh— don’t really like dogs.”
Mr. Elsa’s black eyes blinked. “Oh, okay. Connie, you ride up here with me.” He chucked the water jug next to the others then heaved his massive body onto the make-shift seat. The little dog sprang up beside him.
The woman climbed up, settling on a blanket beside me, using her hand-bag as a cushion to prop her head against a bale of hay. It occurred to me I didn’t have a single possession with me. Just the dirty, blood stained running clothes I was wearing. No cell phone. No credit cards.
The sun was sinking low in the sky, cooling the air. My legs and arms shivered. The woman handed me a blue plaid shirt and pair of gray sweats.
“They’re probably too big,” she said. They were but I put them over my running cloths. Still shivering, she tucked a worn blue blanket around me.
“Thanks.” But my gratitude was being drowned by panic.
Mr. Elsa “yipped” and slapped the reins. The mules responded and the trailer creaked forward toward a destination unknown to me.
The woman’s head rocked with the movement of the trailer. “My name is Margaret Smith.” She folded her small hands which were covered in deep cuts into her lap. “We’re headed west.”
I coughed down some of the terror. “I’m Catherine.” The bumpy road made my cheeks giggle. “Why west?”
Margaret fiddled with the rim of her blanket. “Well, honey. We haven’t heard much. Communication has been down.”
“Communication— like no cell service?” Had the earthquake done that? Even all the way out here? We were far, far from the city, that much I knew.
She huffed. “Yeah, you could say that.” Her fingers rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a silver cell phone. “I haven’t gotten a single bar since— the city. The cell towers must be down or something.” The phone beeped. “Great, and now I’m going to lose battery.”
What I wouldn’t give for my cell. My fingers practically twitched to feel the smooth plastic of it. But no service?
The trailer jostled on the bumpy dirt road. I’d never seen land so long and flat. “Where are we?”
“Kansas.” My only thought was Wizard of Oz, but I wasn’t much in the mood for playing Dorothy or Toto. “And we have to go further west?” The furthest west I ever wanted to go was Boston and that was only for their spring sales.
A wrapper rustled as she pulled out a packet of crackers. “Try to eat this,” she ignored my question and put one in my hand. “But take it slow.”
I didn’t want to eat crackers. Didn’t want to go west. I blacked out and two days later, found myself in the back of a rickety trailer on a dirt road in Kansas. “I’m sorry. But I’d really rather go back to New York.”
Her look was pure pity. Which only made me madder. “Katherine, honey, we can’t go back to the city.”
Were those tears blurring my vision? “Why?” But before she could answer, my insides started twisting. Stomach heaved. Watery vomit spewed out my mouth onto the blankets.
Little stars of light filled my vision as I stared at the bile staining the sheets. I dabbed at the wetness on my mouth with back of my hand. Margaret crawled over. She wrapped up the mess in the blanket, tucked them away in a corner and put new covers on.
“What’s wrong with me?” Stars filled the better part of my sight as I strained to focus on her brown eyes.
“Radiation poisoning. I think.”
Radiation? “I thought it was just an earthquake.”
“I don’t think it was, honey.” Not an earthquake. I slumped my forehead into my hand. Sharp pain reminded me about the gash.
Margaret scooted closer and put her hands on my knees. She smelled of dirt and sweat but there was also a faint trace of lavender. Like the kind of perfume my mom used to wear. The memory only shattered the last bit reserve of control I possessed. “I know. I know,” she crooned, “It’s a lot to take in.” Tears forced their way out my eyes as I squeezed them shut. She just let me cry, patting my leg. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had treated me like that— so nurturing.
Twenty minutes or so later, I regained some control over the sobs. I used the tissue she gave me to dry my cheeks and nose. “Radiation poisoning?” The question came out crackly.
She pulled her unruly red hair back into a messy bun. “It’s my best guess. I’m no doctor. Just a bit of nursing school ages ago.” She sighed. “I had it too. So did the others—”
“Others?”
She stared into her lap. “Yeah, back on the highway near the city. Those who were in their cars when it happened. The pavement was slick with vomit.”
I tried to imagine all those people, spewing out their cars. But if there were others, none of them were with us now.
I ran my fingertips along the soft bandage that wrapped around my forehead.
“We should probably change those,” she added. She was the one who had put them on. “Like I said, I only know a little after all these years, but the bleeding has mostly stopped. I can’t guarantee how it will look though— We just have to keep it clean now. Wouldn’t want you to get infected.”
She nibbled on her cracker, then noted mine setting untouched on the blanket. “You should be feeling better by tonight. Depending on how much exposure you got.”
Exposure. Buildings crumbling like they were made of sand and pebbles.
“What do you mean?”
She shifted her wide hips. “Well, where were you— before I found you on the street?”
My body shuddered. My mind did not want to open up that hallow place. I swallowed, but mouth still tasted like bile. I forced myself to think back. “The exercise room. In the basement.”
Her brown eyebrows rose. “That’s probably why you made it out at all. Your exposure shouldn’t have been too bad.”
She made it sound like a good thing.
“I was underground also,” she continued. “On the fourth level down in a parking garage. I’d come just for the weekend to visit my daughter—” Her voice trailed off like the dust the mules kicked up. “Good thing I filled up the car the night before.”
A sharp wind blew hay into my face and hair. The stuff itched, but what caught me was the smell of smoke that the wind brought and a tangy metallic scent. “So why are we going west?”
Margaret nodded to the driver’s seat. “Mr. Elsa says that’s the way all the animals have gone. Animals always follow clean air.” The mules nickered again as if in conformation. “And there are less cities.”
Less buildings.
The idea of some vast and terrifyingly open place bounced in my mind with every jolt of the trailer, but I was so weak— so numb, I couldn’t possibly allow myself to think of anything else. Of what had happened. Or what would happen.
Nestling my head into a pillow made up of waded blankets, I fell asleep before I could stop myself.
The creak of the slowing tires woke me later. The sun had long since set and the sky was a deep and milky black under low-lying clouds. Those were the kind of clouds that made the space between earth and the heavens feel small and musty. Like putting your head under a dusty blanket.
Margaret had fallen asleep and was just waking up as well, hay sticking out her hair like Chinese chop sticks. She rubbed her eyes as the trailer came to a stop at the side of the road by a large tree whose limbs were like gray arms. I had enough sense to notice the road we pulled off of was now pavement.
Mr. Elsa’s big head poked over the hay bales. “It’s past midnight,” he said in his low grumbly voice. “The mules need a rest. I thought we’d make camp here for the night.”
Margaret filled her arms with blankets and things. I peered over the edge of the trailer and tried to make out any form of a building in the darkness. A hotel, a house, anything. Mr. Elsa unhitched the mules and led them down a slope toward the tree.
Camp. Like camping. I’d heard some people enjoy that sort of thing: tents and food cooked on a fire, sleeping on the ground; that sort of thing. I’d never been.
“Are you ok, honey?” Margaret came over to me.
I shivered in the cool night air that still tasted metallic in my mouth. “Yeah.”
She helped me out of the trailer and kept a hand on my arm as we made our way down the grassy slant. I was left at the trunk of the tree which the mules had been tied to while Margaret helped Mr. Elsa build a fire. Tucking my blanket tighter under my chin, I kept a stiff stance, wary of the large snorting animals beside me. But Mr. Elsa must have known his animals well, within seconds it seemed their eyes were closed and their fat stomachs rose and fell evenly. But their tails still flicked once in a while, indicating that at any moment, they might charge.
“Come sit, Catherine,” Margaret called. A small fire was licking life from the wood they had gathered. The light of it flickered in Mr. Elsa’s small, dark eyes as he held his hands out to warm.
The only fire we’d ever had had been one that you turned on with the flick of a switch.
But as I sat on a blanket close to Margaret, it was warm. Soon my nose and cheeks were hot, but my backside felt like ice.
No one spoke. Margaret’s head began to bob.
“I’ll put some more wood on,” Mr. Elsa said quietly. “You two get some sleep now.”
Without question, Margaret spread a blanket out onto the grass, tossing a rock or two out into the darkness. Though thoroughly exhausted, and warmed enough by the fire, I couldn’t bring myself to do the same. Sleep on the ground?
Embers rose like ghosts into the air as Mr. Elsa put more logs on the fire. I watched them rise into the blanket of gray clouds, tiny sparks of life. Rising with such hope to take their place among the stars. But they too turned into shadows.
Eventually, Mr. Elsa’s head fell to his chest and didn’t rise again. A deep snore rumbled from his nose, but Margaret didn’t stir.
I didn’t like being awake and alone. The wind made the branches of the giant tree sway like arms pleading for help. Their creak was like a thousand voices crying. I put the blanket over my head, tucked it tight over my mouth and nose so only my eyes showed. I focused on nothing but the fire and waited for morning.
My nostrils felt like icicles when I awoke. Somehow, I had dozed off in the night, sitting, just like Mr. Elsa. The fire was a pit of ashes, all the embers just lifeless gray flecks. Mr. Elsa woke as well, but he got right to his feet and didn’t even stop to rub his neck like I did. He must be much more well-suited for this camping stuff.
He spoke in a quiet tone to his mules, rubbing their ears. His little dog was off chasing something in the brown grass.
My stomach gave an audible grumble.
“Hungry?” Margaret said, sitting now.
I nodded.
“That’s good,” her mouth cracked into a smile. “The worst of it is over now.”
But the clanging in my head, the weakness in my muscles as I stood and the metallic taste in my mouth made it hard for me to believe her. She brought us back up to the trailer and put the packet of crackers into my hand.
“You need protein,” she said, “but you’ll have to start with this.”
I mumbled a “thanks,” and tried to open the package but the plastic slipped between my fingers.
“Here.” She opened the wrapping and put the round wafers into my palm. She was about to walk off, but then, judging my condition, decided to help me up into the trailer.
“Now eat.” I followed her instructions as she helped get the mules hitched up by nibbling on a cracker.
The tiny grains of salt melted on my tongue turning my mouth into a mixture of buttery- metallic taste. What was happening? I leaned my head back against a hay bale and caught my reflection on the backside of a frying pan that was strapped to a wooden crate. Straw stuck from my tangled blonde hair. My green eyes were small in the deep shadows that surrounded them. My cheeks were hallow, skin pale and dirty. My lips were two gray lines. But that wasn’t what caught me. Shakily, my hands went to the bandages. The soft cotton peeled off, layer by layer. Each one spotted redder than the next, until the last one, soaked through and claret, fell onto my lap.
The skin puckered fatly around the gash that ran from my hairline, across the right part of my forehead, down my chin and across my right cheek. I didn’t cry. I didn’t blink. I just let the knowledge set in: my life, my face, all that remained of it was left broken, shredded— jagged.

Jagged- Chapter Two

2011-02-28T09:56:00.000-08:00

Chapter Two

Drip. Drip. Drip. Wetness splattered the back of my hand. My eyes cracked open but there was hardly light. An exit sign glowed on its side.
Splat. Splat. A water leak? I lifted my head but a slicing pain made me instantly regret it. I moved my hand to my forehead, but my fingers came away sticky wet. Shakily, I felt along my hairline till the skin was no longer smooth.
The dripping wetness on my hand wasn’t water. It was blood.
My fingers probed the deep gash. At least three fingertips wide. It didn’t end there. I traced the line of oozing fire along my right eyebrow, across my brow bone, down the bridge of my nose until it jutted off across my left cheek.
What happened?
Despite the swimming of my head, I forced myself to sit up, keeping one hand pressed against the gash. I need a doctor.
I tried to get up, but couldn’t move my right leg.
“Help,” the word cracked out of my mouth. “Help,” I repeated, not louder than a whisper.
Where am I? Everything was so dark. Would anyone hear me?
Creaking came from above to the left, like metal on metal. I cradled my head in my arms as a crack ripped the air. Something heavy crashed to the floor. Dust showered my skin and stuck to my nostrils.
That’s when I remembered the flickering light, the shaking floor, the collapsing ceiling. In the pale light of the Exit sign I could just make out piles of rubble. Indistinguishable mounds of darkness. The whole building could fall on me. Adrenaline numbed some of the pain, but also made the blood seep out in quick little spurts.
Keeping one hand on the gash, I used the other to try and push myself out from under whatever was pinning my leg. No use. I need a bandage. No, I need like stitches. Cringing at the thought of what the cut had done to my face, I hoped there was a good cosmetic surgeon on duty when I got to the E.R. The ceiling above gave another creak.
If I ever get there.
“Help,” I found my voice and shouted. “Please. Anyone?” Just another moan from the ceiling.
Wriggled my arms out of my hoodie, I twisted the sleeves into a long line, then wrapped it across my head. The cotton was a decent enough sponge. At least the blood wasn’t in my eyes.
Using both hands, I heaved myself back to free my right leg. I pushed my left foot against what felt like a heavy support beam.
I threw all my strength into it. My head felt so woozy, I might black out. But then the beam gave just enough and my left leg slid free.
Tingling pain rushed into my ankle and foot. But I could feel it.
Panting, I sat there until my breath slowed and the Exit sign came back into focus. With blood back in my leg, I decided to try it out. It was shaky but I could keep weight on it. Must not be broken.
Standing on a concrete slab now, I heard a steady hissing above me. A busted pipe or something. The air had a twinge to it; like burnt rubber. The hair on my arms and back of neck rose.
I stared up at the black gaping hole above me. How do I get out of here? The glowing exit sign revealed several large pieces of sheet rock and debris that angled up to what I hoped was the next level.
Ground level. What about Darrin?
My head spun like a top, whirling my vision. But I had to get out of there, so I put my hands on the dusty sheet rock and crawled up it like a monkey, drops of blood splattering the dust. At the top, complete blackness.
I spread my fingers out to find a smooth patch of ground. Put only my upper body on it first. It held. Pulling my lower body up with my hands, I tried to keep my weight even. I army crawled forward until I hit a large hard object.
Still no light. Nothing to see at all.
“Hello? Anyone there?” Nothing but the hissing and a distant dripping. Tightened the bandage around my head.
Used the hard object to help me stand, but my legs were shaking. Over the rise of it though was light; faint, gray light, but enough.
Twice I blacked out as I maneuvered around the debris on the floor. The light got closer. As I stepped on the cushions of broken chairs and saw that it came from a broken window. I was in the condo foyer. That window led to the street. Freedom.
Using my hand, I swung my shaking legs over a smashed side table and my foot stepped on something soft and squishy.
Looking down, I screamed.
My foot was placed on the raw flesh of a dead woman’s face. Her body had been speared by a fallen metal rod. In the gray light, her blood was a black pool on the carpet.
I leapt off her, crashing into the broken glass of the window. More blood streaming from my hands and arms.
Still screaming, picking out shards of glass the size of knives from my palms.
“Darrin.” I turned back to the demolished foyer of the condo, my eyes searching for the place the elevator should be. Instead mounds of rubble in the darkness.
The smell of burning plastic.
I wiped the blood from my palms on my running shorts. The dead woman’s open eyes glared at me; her mouth open in her last cry.
The glass sliced my bare shoulders, but I didn’t care. Pulled myself onto the windowsill and was about to jump when I caught sight of the street.
Demolished stumps of buildings that had once been smoldered in the pale gray light. Dust and smoke poured out the windows. Car alarms went off somewhere in the fog. A loud crash as the remains of another building up the street collapsed.
More screams. From me, or others?
Yes, across the street, several small dark figures running. The windowsill beneath me shuddered like a tired machine. I leapt. Hit the concrete hard, my knees smashing. Chunks of concrete pelted my back like bullets.
The condo buckled. Blast of wind knocked me into the street.
Then deafening silence.
But I had to look back. All forty floors had fallen, compressing into a mound of gray wreckage not more than two stories high.
“Darrin!” I shrieked. 34th floor. Room with view of the park. Our room. My Darrin.
The mass of our building faded as I blacked out again. When I came to, I found myself still on hands and knees, loose pebbles digging into my cuts, crawling toward the heap.
I didn’t notice the car swerving the wreckage on the road, or register it slowing behind me. But, I did hear the cutting voice that yelled from the driver’s side.
“Honey, you got a death wish or something?”
I turned my head. It was a middle-aged woman with red hair and gray roots. Or was it ash that made her roots look gray?
“Darrin,” I mumbled, stretching an arm out toward him. But I couldn’t tell if I was getting any closer or not. The whole street seemed tipped on the side at an odd angle.
I heard a door open and an engine idling. Then there were steps on the pavement. Arms gripped me under the shoulders.
“Come on,” the lady said, heaving me back, feet dragging.
“No,” my torso squirmed, but unconsciousness was pulling at me. “Darrin’s in there.”
The arms released me. The woman crouched down, pale blue eyes level with mine. The smell of lavender mixed with smoke and ash. Her words were like pelting rain. “He’s gone, honey. They’re all gone.”

New Story-Jagged

2011-02-17T13:09:00.001-08:00

New story I just started on. Breaking the rules of my "plan" but I couldn't get it off my mind. Hope you like.

Jagged
Chapter One
The baby was pink and round, with chubby ankles and arms; everything a baby should be. But I didn’t want it.
The nurses had bundled him in a pale blue blanket which brought out the darkness of his blinking gray eyes. Why did they have to bring him to me? My baby. With my blood, my genes running throughout his tiny body.
Lying on the bed, he began to kick off his blanket. His mouth opened like a freshly-hatched robin’s and his cry sounded like one too. His head tossed side to side, searching. Needing. Me. My comfort.
But I couldn’t soothe him. Couldn’t move my arms to even touch him. I’m sorry, my unspoken apology never reached his ears. I pulled my knees up to my chest. I didn’t want you. I didn’t want any of this.
Tears streaked down the rigid muscles of my face. And still the baby cried.
Beep. Beep. Beep. I sprung out of my bed like a taut wire. My heart pounding, breath came fast. It was just a dream. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair. The horrible crying— the baby, just a dream.
Air whooshed out my mouth. Head hung between my knees. Somehow I felt more exhausted than I did before I went to bed.
Longing to pull the covers over my head, curl up to the warmth of Darrin’s body, but the green digits of my alarm clock blared 5:02 a.m. Like it or not, time to get up.
Staying quiet for Darrin was difficult. The effects of the dream cursed through my body. I had a hard time pulling on my sports bra and running shoes without shaking.
Good grief, Catherine, it was just a baby. You’d think my nightmares were about the Grim Reaper or something.
A run. Yes, a good run was exactly what I needed. Sweat the adrenaline out of my body.
Minutes later, the exercise room in the lowest level of our condo greeted me. As usual, no one else was up this early. The cleaning staff left the lights on for me. But the room’s emptiness only deepened the dark hole in my chest that the crying baby had knocked into me.
Forget it.
I fit the earplugs of my IPod into my ears and cranked up the volume to “American Woman.”
Several songs later, I looked down at the treadmill dash.
589 calories. 5.3 miles. 34 min 35 seconds.
The cuticle of my pointer finger turned white as I pushed the red up arrow. The treadmill quickened. Seven and a half miles per hour. Hot pink and white Nikes dashed over the imported complex cotton belt. Eight and three eights. Faster. Sweat streamed down my temples and dripped off my nose like salty rain drops.
Faster. Eight miles per hour. Eight and a quarter. Only half a mile to go now. Come on. Eight and a half. Heart pounded so fast. Lungs screamed. Legs whipped. Nine miles per hour. Move. Endorphin’s released somewhere in my brain. No thoughts. No open robin’s mouth. Only uninhibited speed. Freedom.
6.1 miles. Yes. Done. Fingertip pushed the down arrow and toes squished in the Nikes to a comfortable walk. Took a blue towel to my forehead. Sweat drops splattered like liquid silver on the black belt. Felt so good. Draped the towel over the handrails. Heartbeat slowed. 110 beats per minute. Stretched each calf, long blonde hair swinging over my shoulder, the tips wet.
Checked the clock. 5:47 a.m. Still alone in the workout room. Darrin’s body was warm and sleeping, his tight chest rising and falling under Egyptian cotton sheets somewhere above me, but I wasn’t finished yet.
Spine curled back, each vertebra touching the big, blue exercise ball. Hands behind my head, palms touched the tips of my ears. My mouth made an “oh” as air rushed out and my abs contracted, lifting my upper body parallel with the ground. The fan in the corner of the room made my armpits tingle as the moisture cooled. 5 reps. 10. No words to think of. No reports to analyze. Just muscles working. Air moving. At least, for now.
5:54 a.m. In an hour and half the board meeting would start. It was a big deal. I was to present the projected plan for phase two of the nation’s third largest shopping center that was under construction just twenty minutes away from my condo on the north side of New York. Shops at Riviera had been my baby for the last three years. Couldn’t blow it now. Reviewed the teasers and tag lines I had practiced all week with each flex of my abdomen. “Brought on all the big national chains. Exponential growth. Projected sales increases of 21%.”
Over and over. This I did so I wouldn’t have to think about what really made my heart trip: the Hopkins Annual Charity Gala. Darrin was to be a key speaker. An honorary guest. It was a big achievement. That’s not what I was worried about. Smiling in my Isaac Mizrahi designer gown, tapping the point of my Gucci heals against the table, while controlling the effect of the wine, was something I could handle. It’s what I was made for: fresh water pearls dangling on my ears, a sling of soft silver around my neck and a jewel of jade just at the tip of my cleavage. That jewelry fit me like a faceted crown, but there was one piece that wouldn’t fit: a ring made of diamonds meant for only one thing.
How could I prevent it from happening? A warming sensation concentrated upon my stomach. What could I say to him? Sitting up on the ball to take a drink from the water bottle, my reflection in the mirror across the room snagged my attention. Cheeks flushed magenta pink. Brushed blonde bangs out of my eyes that were green and vibrant. Skin smooth, and suntanned, lips bright from pumping blood. Cocked my head. Abs were tight. Stomach, hips and legs were smooth, slender, strong. Would have to be sure to make it to Pan’s Yoga class next week to keep it that way. My life. My way. My boyfriend- I’d keep it that way.
He got me our condo overlooking the park with a view that even the Sononnalp would envy. Not only did it have a retro Elaine Griffin style front room, but it checked off the last mark on my seven year plan. Yes, my seven year plan. That was what was so important to me. Everything so under control. So planned.
Lowered myself down on a navy-blue mat. Full suspension sit-ups. The tips of my manicured nails touching my scalp, I could feel the muscles and tendons in my neck flex and contract. Seven years to graduate from prestigious Northeastern top of my class with a masters degree in Business Communication, land a flashy job at a forward-moving company and get a condo in Carnegie Hall in the upper east side of Manhattan. Two years ago, all were accomplished save the condo part and I soon realized that coming from a middle-class background I still did not have the proper social connections despite my success in the corporate sector. That was where Darrin came in. He was born into a family with a long Ivy League history. Getting the condo took less effort than a blink of his long brown eyelashes.
Did he feel superior to me? I don’t know.
65 reps. 70. My stomach was taut under the skin. Come on. 25 more. Besides, I had a fetish for the city. It moved for me. Or so it seemed. The blaring of cab horns, the rush of delivery trucks, the smells of wet pavement and New York style hot dogs, the sophisticated men that turned to watch me pass, all of these existed for my delight. I respected its calloused roughness tinged with a welcome embrace that gathered any and all into it.
Anyone. Yes. Even the ragged homeless man. His sign came to mind as I pushed the air out of my lungs.
“Countdown to the End of the World: 31 days. Pray to Jesus. If you don’t believe in prayer, give me $3 and I’ll pray for you.”
The cardboard was tattered at the edges and stained from the previous night’s rainstorm, causing the letters to run like the black mascara of a drama mask. His wrinkled, filthy palm was cupped and weighted, as sacred as the Holy Grail itself. Brown finger nails pleading for a spare nickel or dollar, or $3 in this case. I took a calculated step away from him, hoping I didn’t get dirt on my brand-new, fire-engine-red Prada heels. They were so wickedly glorious.
His ancient, cloudy-gray eyes looked up at my shinning, gold-chained handbag like a beaten-puppy’s. Don’t even think about it, Mr. But then my cell phone buzzed and all thoughts about the tattered bum with his fatalistic cardboard warning were driven from my mind like a brakeless freight train.
150 sit-ups. Stopped. Took another sip of water. It was lukewarm now. Why were so many people concerned with end of the world? My life was enough to think about. 5:59. Yes, Darrin was practical. He would see the nonsensicalness of pushing our relationship. Maybe he’d let me trade the rock in for a new handbag. That’d be nice.
6:02 a.m. Overhead, the florescent lights flickered twice.
Weird. Maybe an electrical short or something.
I should go upstairs and take a shower. Call maintenance about the short. I put my hoodie on and stood.
The floor trembled through the rubber soles of my Nikes. I tried to steady myself. Maybe I overdid it this morning. I tried to clear my head. Maybe I just need a drink.
The water bottle in the treadmill cup holder rattled softly. Is this an earthquake? I’d never been in one before. An earthquake in New York? Maybe the construction had started on 75th street. But it was six in the morning. A little early for that.
The trembling turned to shaking. Vibrations shot up my claves, my hips, my arms. A low rumbling sound came up from the floor.
I toppled to the left, my arms flailing out, unable to keep my balance. I hit the side of a cycling machine. Pain jolted up my right arm as it braced the impact.
The floor shook underneath my body never allowing me to get hold of it. What the heck is happening? The bum’s sign flashed in my mind. End of the world.
From my position on the floor, I realized the equipment was shifting and sliding. I gripped onto the seat of the cycling machine, but it too was moving, as though the room had been tipped on its side.
My next thought was terrorist attack. The twin towers. The whole city tumbling down.
The rumbling became deafening. My ears rang. Like my head had been stuck in a fishbowl. I didn’t even hear the crash of the TV as it fell to the floor. The lights stayed on just long enough for me to see the ceiling in the right corner of the room start to crack.
A scream ripped out of my throat but I didn’t hear it. There was no where I could go, nothing I could do fast enough as the ceiling collapsed.
Something smashed into my face, knocking me backward. All was blackness.

First Chapter of Frayed Crossing

2011-02-01T14:50:00.000-08:00

You can read and review the first chapter of my newest novel "Frayed Crossing" Here:
https://www.createspace.com/Preview/1077271

Lots of Love!
Heather

Quick Questions

2011-01-31T08:44:00.001-08:00

I'm slaving over my keyboard every day on my new novel (trying to get as much done before this next baby is born :) so I don't have any short stories to post, but I would like to get some info from readers.
If you would, answer the following questions for me.
1. What are the last three books you read that you "couldn't put down?"

2. What kind of story would you love to be written?/What are you looking to read next?

3. Which of the following stories would you be most likely to read off the shelves:

1) Story of recovering drug addict turned rehab counselor who starts experiencing hallucinations of another world, and though he is treated for psychosis, ends up falling in love with his "delusion."

2)Story of 17 year old heiress who decides to uncover the secret society of elitists she was born into, to prevent war between U.S. and China, exposing her own father and risking her life.

3)Story of angel who takes souls to Hell but ends up complicating heaven, earth and hell by falling in love with an angel who isn't meant to be hers.

Thanks!

Cover art ideas for my books

2010-12-13T15:11:00.000-08:00

This is for my newest novel. I created it myself with photoshop. The "#1 New York Times Bestseller" obviously hasn't happened... yet.

Seeing my books like this visually really inspires me. I want to see them in print!

Shera- Chapter Two

2010-09-08T18:24:00.001-07:00

Chapter Two

“Does Brad Fergusson like you or something?” Chrissie said in a low, almost wicked tone to me over a mocha frappe. We jetted off-campus for lunch at our favorite local coffee and sandwich shop. It was just off the center street of Whitefish that looked right off the set of an old John Wayne movie. We walked through the café’s beaded doorway and unexpectedly found Brad, Richard and Dave sitting on cushions like Gods of Gorgeousness around a low table in the corner.

I’d hoped Chrissie wouldn’t notice Brad staring at me, but his odd yellow-green eyes under his jetting orange hair had hardly left my face. What made things worse is that over the past few days, I’d come to realize that Brad was pretty much the only human I felt like licking. Him and sometimes Richard, and a dark-haired guy in leather chaps I hadn’t noticed lurking in the back of my Chemistry class before, but there was something about the way Brad’s orange hair stuck out like dry grass that made my tongue itch to smooth it down.

“No,” I nearly choke on my steaming latte. “He’s just weird that’s all.”

“Tell me about it,” Chrissie rolled her tongue piercing around in her mouth. “Yesterday in Chemistry I saw him licking a vile of hydrogen.”

My ears perked up. “Licking?” I asked, setting down the mug carefully so it wouldn’t spill all over my new death metal blouse. “Did you say licking?”

“Yeah,” she leaned in across the table. “Some say he’s into some pretty weird stuff, but licking a vile of hydrogen? Come on.”

“That is weird,” I muttered, but my mind was going fast. Maybe it’s some kind of disease: this propensity to lick things. Maybe it’s communicable, I did kiss Greg Browning on prom night, and he seemed to want to do a lot of licking, or maybe it’s airborne. Should I ask him about it? Should I tell Chrissie?

“You ready for the auditions tomorrow?” her question severed my line of thought. Tomorrow? They were already tomorrow?

“Absolutely,” I gave a pretense of supreme confidence but the truth was that I’d been pretty distracted lately. “You?”

“Sure, but I can’t decide to go for Lesiel or the hot Frau chick,” she went on and though I knew she still wanted the part of Maria, I was debating if licking a vile in Chemistry class was a coincidence or just another symptom of a deranged mind. It’s probably nothing, I determined as I liked the whip cream off the tip of my spoon. I’m the one with the real problem, and I shouldn’t say anything about to anyone either especially any of them. My eyes shot over to the corner table where they immediately met Brad’s electric green ones.

I wanted to look away, but I noticed a thin line of white cream just above his upper lip. Out flashed his pink tongue and in less than a second it was gone. My spoon fell from my mouth and clanged onto the table. Brad just cocked an orange eyebrow and gave a mischievous smirk.

“Ugh,” Chrissie whined next to me. “You splattered cream all over my shirt.” She dabbed at it with a napkin, but I stood up and grabbed her arm.

“Come on,” I urged. “Let’s go.”

“Why?” Her brown eyes told me she thought I was crazy, which I probably was, but this was just too much for me.

“I just need to get out of here now.” I couldn’t possibly tell her the real reason.

“Ok, but can I get my drink,” she shrugged my hand off.

“Fine,” I grumbled, feeling both Brad and Richard’s eyes on me now. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Forget Brad. Forget licking. Forget every strange thing that’s happened this week, I told myself as I scrambled out of the school and to the dirt lot where my old beat up Jeep was parked. I have an audition tomorrow to prepare for and need to stay focused. Focus, Valerie.

I fished through my purse for my keys when a voice on the other side of my car said, “Valerie,” and made me drop the whole bag. Ruby lipstick, black eyeliner, and pieces of watermelon gum splattered across the red dirt.

“Great,” I muttered at my own jitteriness.

“Let me help you with that,” they said and a freckled hand picked up a piece of gum and offered to return it to me. “Watermelon. That’s my favorite.” I looked up to see the grinning face of Brad.

“Keep it,” I told him, angry that he scared me.

He gave a light laugh that made his thin shoulders rise. “I think you need it more than I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I scowled. “You think I’ve got bad breath or something?”

Again, he just tossed me that off-smile. A very weird moment passed. Are you going to say something? I wondered and was just about to step around him and get in my car when he said, “Simon wants to meet you. I think he’ll have some answers for you. Be at Riverside Park tomorrow night at 8 p.m. Don’t be late.”

With that, he turned his orange head around and started to walk away.

“Who’s Simon?” I asked, stunned that he was going to leave after saying something like that, but still he just skipped on further down the lot. I could see Richard’s bulky form leaning up against a pickup at the end of the row. “What are you talking about?”
He gave a little hop and called back over his shoulder. “Riverside Park. 8 o’clock. Don’t be late.”

I couldn’t believe it. Was this guy completely nuts? I turned around to see if anyone else had witnessed this but the lot was empty. I called after him, “You think I’m going to meet you and your creep friends at some park tomorrow night, you’re wrong.” But Brad had already met up with Richard and they were getting into the truck.

What a wacko! Why is it in a town of only 5,000 I’ve got to be the one to attract all the loonies? I slammed the rest of the lipstick and gum back into my purse and resolved that the last thing I would ever do tomorrow was go to Riverside Park.

That night, I ran over the lyrics of every song over and over again in my head until I was sure I sang them even in my sleep. I was a senior now; this was my last shot at something greater than chucking horse manure, or stocking Red Dirt Shirts on the shop shelves. The school musical was just one step for me into a big, bright exciting future that consisted of: L.A. movie sets, and picking the right gowns to wear for all the premiers.

But the next day, I woke up with a massive twisted knot in my stomach greater than the state of Montana. Was it just nerves about the audition? As I slurped down my Fruit Loops, I kept thinking back on what Brad told me as he stood nonchalantly by my Jeep with his quirky grin like he knew something about me I didn’t even know. “Simon wants to meet you. I think he’ll have some answers for you.” Who the heck is Simon and why would he have answers for me? What kind of answers could he have anyway? But the truth was that I did have questions that needed answering. Knowing the truth was so appealing. But shouldn’t I be focusing on the auditions?

Sick of the indecision, I decided I could go to the auditions which were after school at five and then maybe swing by the park just to see if anyone would actually be there. It was probably the stupidest thing I could do, but the part of me that was so desperate for answers drove logic away.

I tapped my legs nervously all through English, American History, Algebra and Spanish, consciously avoiding Brad, but he wasn’t at school at all. Neither was Richard. Dave Lonsley was there, shouting out Captain VonTrapp lines every once in a while to a gathered hallway crowd. My heart fluttered just a bit at the thought that we’d be playing leads together.

“You look sick,” Chrissie told me as we took our seats in the middle of the auditorium as the minutes to show time ticked down. “You sure you’re still up for auditioning?”

“I’ll be fine,” I told her, but I wasn’t sure I was, or if I was more nervous about singing or going to the park. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Simon?” More and more hopeful thespians poured in through the doors. There was a twinge of nervous energy in the air. My hands were shaking slightly in my lap, but I hid them under my hoodie so Chrissie wouldn’t see.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t think so, why?” I didn’t answer her but pretended to be interested in fixing my broken zipper. “You ok, Val? You’ve been acting almost as dumb-headed as the cheer squad.”

“Thanks,” I rolled my eyes and squished the bread between my fingers.

“I’m just saying. You don’t have to go for this whole musical thing, you know.” Yeah wouldn’t that be convenient for you? I wanted to say back to her, but opted for going over “My Favorite Things” again under my breath, but my own invented lyrics kept creping in, making me freak out that they might slip out when I was on stage.

The excited whispers died down as the director, Mr. Dunn, walked onto the stage and gave a few brief words of welcome and good luck before taking his place at a card table with a single lamp which illuminated the stack of audition sheets we all filled out. There were a lot more auctioneers than I thought there would be, and I was suddenly wary of my ability to walk into the lead as easily as I had hoped.

Biting my lip, I took in the seemingly endless rows of students as the first one bravely took the stage. An expectant hush rippled down the aisles as the tiny, blonde girl shakily started her first notes, but something in the back corner of the auditorium caught my eye and I was no longer paying attention. Normally, I would have passed the tall, thin shape off as a shadow, just another crevice the spotlight failed to illuminate, but shadows don’t have eyes that look back at you. Especially not brilliant yellow eyes. I blinked to see if perhaps the stage lights had just reflected oddly, but the distant pair of eyes simply blinked back at me. A thousand spider legs danced down my spine.

I looked back at Chrissie, and even though she was just feet from me, her eyes didn’t glow like those in the back corner. “Chrissie,” I whispered as the girl on stage wound into the last verse, “do you see that over there?” I tried to point to her, but she batted my arm down.

“Shhhh, Val,” she shushed me. But still, the yellow irises peered from the darkness right in our direction and my heart pounded with more than stage-jitters.

“I’m serious,” I hurried. “There’s something over there.” I squeezed her arm.

She whipped her head around to me. “Jeeze, can’t you see I’m trying to scope out the competition?” The girl stepped down and the auditorium echoed with polite applause. Chrissie clapped her black nail-polished fingers together. “Now, what is it?” she demanded me, but I looked back to the corner and the eyes were gone.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, wringing my fingers in my green hoddie. Wow, I must have stage-fright bad. I’m even seeing things. I tried the deep-breathing techniques my mom was also promoting for emotion control. Calm, Valerie. Breath in and out. Slow. Be calm like a deep sea, a still lake surrounded with pines, reflecting jagged mountain cliffs— that’s where the yellow eyes lives. Whoa. What? Where did that come from? Panic started to wheel in my throat. My lungs demanded oxygen quicker and quicker.

“Chill out, Val,” Chrissie whined. “You’re making me even more nervous than my parents were when I hit puberty and it’s my turn in three more.”

I wouldn’t be on till the end, but what was with me? I had performed on stage before: solos in choir concerts, minor things like that, but I had never felt like this. That’s when I realized it wasn’t about being on stage at all, it was about meeting Simon, whoever that was, at the park tonight and the culmination of all the other weird things in my life that had me more freaked than an elk in hunting season.

A really pretty brunette who was just a sophomore got up next and her clear soprano voice rang like one of the chicks from Celtic Women that Mrs. Tanner always plays in the shop. Enthusiastic cheers erupted as she gave a humble nod of her head and exited.

“She was so good,” I exclaimed, my hands pounding together, but my heart sunk a little lower knowing that every stellar audition lessened my chances of getting the lead that much more.

Chrissie shrugged and put her Converses up on the seat in front of her. “Swine flu sounds better to me.” She was probably just jealous.

“Aren’t you up after this?” I reminded her.

“Oh, yeah.” Suddenly, her face seemed very long and pale.

“Go get ‘em,” I encouraged her with a slap on the butt as she faced her doom. She didn’t bolt like I thought she would, but gave a tentative, yet fairly decent rendition of “Edelweiss.” Good for her. My eyes shot to the far dark corner of the auditorium and still, there was nothing there but shadow. No tall black figure or yellow eyes. Breathe, Valerie. Concentrate on getting through these few minutes and worry about the rest later.

Chrissie wiggled back into her seat, giddy with pride. I gave her a squeeze. “You did so good.”

“Thanks,” she gushed, wiping her forehead with her sleeve. “That was so much easier than I thought. I’m sure I did better than that sophomore girl.”

“Yeah,” I pretended to agree, but the truth was that “chorus girl,” was written all over Chrissie’s performance. One after one, I watched mediocre auditions, some looked more like rabbits caught on the highway, some gave self-conscious smiles while their friends cheered them on. A few had surprisingly good voices, but I knew my audition had to be more than that. I had to own the song, own the stage, and sing every note like it belonged to only me.

Before I knew it there was just one last audition before mine. A very reverent silence fell over the auditorium. With his swoosh of jet-black hair and confident gate, Dave Lonsely took the stage. His white teeth flashed as he introduced himself and let out his strong baritone voice in a unique version of “Edelweiss.” His talent was obvious and his confidence was contagious.

That’s what I need to do, I thought, challenged to prove myself. Following him was frightening; like being asked to play after Mozart or Vivaldi.
The cheers died down and a very sickly quiet seemed to creep through the air as I rose from my seat, descended down the aisle and then plodded up the few steps to the stage. Confidence. Straight back. Remember to smile. Again, I looked to the corner where the yellow eyes were, but the spotlight was so bright, I couldn’t see beyond the first row of seats. Big breath.

“My name is Valerie Brighton,” my voice came out clear and carried well but my hands trembled slightly at my sides, so I gripped onto my jeans, “I’ll be singing “The Sound of Music.” I bowed my head then to collect myself. My heart was fluttering faster than a hummingbird and all time seemed to slow down. I even noticed the tiny dust particles in the spotlight falling down to the wooden stage floor. I found the note in my mind, and a sudden complete calm came over me. You were made to do this, a voice in my head told me. Yes, I am. I lifted my chin and put my right foot out to the audience.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music,” my tone was clean and carried well, “with songs they have sung for a thousand years.” Hearing my own voice ring back to me off the curved walls gave me more confidence and I soared into the next line. “The hills fill my heart with the sound of music.” I squared my shoulders, imagining the spotlight was a warm sun made just for me and danced into the final line. “My heart wants to sing every song it hears.”

A second’s silence followed the last ring of my voice and then the audience burst into an applause close to as enthusiastic as Dave Lonsely’s.

“Thank you,” Mr. Dunn said. It was over. I had done it. Robotically, I moved out of the spotlight and into the darkness beyond. My eyes took a minute to adjust and I could barely make out the steps. Just as I passed the thick, red curtains a voice said lowly.

“Nicely done.”

I jumped nearly a mile, my head jerking to the shadows beyond the velvet. Standing there in a low crouch, I could just make out the orange hair and green eyes of Brad Ferguson. I didn’t say anything but rushed down the steps truly creped out. Had he been there the whole time, or just my audition?

Chrissie rushed at me in the center aisle. “You were amazing!” Her blue highlights bounced as she jumped up and down. “I never knew you could sing like that.”
I didn’t either, I thought but couldn’t get out more than a weak, “thanks,” because my head was too jumbled up.

Chrissie wanted to go out for ice cream at The Firepit to celebrate and anxiously pass the time until we got the results of the audition, but I mumbled some excuse about having to get home and help my mom close up shop.

Grabbing my bag and sheet music, I rushed out of the school and into the chill early spring Montana air wondering what more this day could possibly hold for me.

"Shera"

2010-09-04T12:58:00.001-07:00

Shera
Chapter One

It first started when I wanted to lick Brad Ferguson’s peanut butter smeared cheek. That’s right. Lick the orange streak right off his freakled skin and then slide my rough tongue up the tips of his ears and then the left side of his head so his reddish-blonde hair would lay flat. It wasn’t a sexual thing. I didn’t even like Brad Ferguson. He was part of the empty-headed, steroid-pumped popular pack and I was stuck somewhere between gothic chick and drama dweb. But there I was in Mrs. Webb’s lecture on late British literature slumped over the edge of my desk with my tongue nearly lunging out of my mouth to scrap the dimples of his cheeks.

I shook my head to try and get a grip on myself but my taste buds felt like sand grains and how I longed to lick something. I pulled a piece of my favorite watermelon-flavored gum out of my purse to hopefully satisfy this new impulsive drive, but my eyes were still riveted on the curve of Brad’s face and he finally turned to look at me and as he did, I found myself licking the back of the wrapper instead. Stop it, I told myself. Most of the 725 students of this hick High School already think I’m weird, and this will just give them another reason. He’s watching you, I told myself, but licking the fruity foil felt so good. Then I licked a bit of my hand, and soon my tongue was sliding quickly up and down my own salty skin.

A distant part of me was still searching Brad’s face for a reaction as I continued to frantically satisfy this urge. Instead of puzzlement, mockery or revulsion, there was a slightly bemused smile on his thin lips, and his pale yellow-green eyes flickered. He’s got the weirdest eyes I’ve ever seen. Except for maybe Richard’s: Brad’s best friend. They’re pretty strange too, like the kind of contacts you can buy at Hot Topic, except that I’m pretty sure they’re real. But I couldn’t see Richard’s orangish-brown eyes because his broad back was turned to me as he watched the last minutes of class tick down. But then Brad shot a spit wad at Richard’s arm and Richard glowered back at him. I swear Richard’s irises were more tangerine than brown. Who has tangerine eyes and why was I still licking my arm?

Later that night, as I sliced tomatoes into pretty little ovals for a dinner salad, and resisted the temptation to lick up the tiny bit of butter smudged onto the counter, my Mom asked me, “Valerie, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” I lied and scratched behind my ear with the back of my hand. “I just had a really weird day, that’s all.”

Mom dumped a pot of steaming noodles into a strainer, framing her dyed-blonde hair in a halo of steam. “Hormones,” she re-iterated her favorite diagnosis for her only child, now turned teenager. If a pimple showed up on my arm, or a Huggies Diaper commercial produced tears, or the moon stopped orbiting the earth, it could only be because of one thing: hormones.

Maybe she was right, maybe my new licking urge was merely the symptom of more feminine “changes,” but I was 17 already. You’d think my body had pretty much figured it out by now. Either way, I wasn’t about to confess it to my Mom who would probably take me to some sex shrink for unusual obsessions. But that so wasn’t what it was, or why would I get so much relief from licking a bubble-gum wrapper?

I chopped the tomatoes more madly this time, not caring to make each one symmetrical and just hoped that soon everything would be normal. Or as normal as life could be for a goth-girl who had no father, no siblings, a Mom who thought violet leg-warmers were coming back, and a best friend whose primary ambition in life was to take the lead of the Spring Musical right from me.

Auditions for The Sound of Music were in less than a week and I practiced “My Favorite Things” for the four-hundredth time in the shower the next morning, adding a few lines of my own.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. Eyeliner and incense, and silver skull rings. These are a few of my favorite things.”

“Why do you even want that part anyway, Val?” Chrissie, my best friend asked me as we walked through the melon-painted halls of Whitefish High between classes. She was trying to use the tactic of making what I want less than desirable so she could then go ahead and have it. The real thing was that the part was pretty much guaranteed mine: most kids around here were into calf-roping and the typical Montana ho-downs, not drama. Besides, I had the voice and decent enough acting skills, and Chrissie’s singing was more like a donkey in heat.

“I think it would be fun,” I tried to slough it off.

“But then you’ll have to be a Nun,” her tongue piercing showed as she over-enunciated the word like it was a rotten bit of apple. How I wish my Mom would let me get my tongue pierced. Chrissie knew that and seemed to show hers off every chance she got. “Nuns are so grouse.”

“I think they’re hot,” I came back at her. “Especially if become anti-nun at the end of the play, marry a rich captain and inherit a mansion.”

“I thought they had to climb the Alps after they got married,” Chrissie said in her winey voice as she tucked a strand of blue hair behind her ear.

She had a point. I needed a new tactic. “Well Dave Lonsley is most likely to get the part of Captain VonTrapp.”

“Oh,” Chrissie gave the usual sigh most girls gave at the thought of Dave Lonsley. If Brad Ferguson and Richard Alred were in Westpoint High’s elite class, then Dave Lonsley was the king. His ink-black hair, roughly cut cheekbones and olive skin made babies laugh, old women cry with joy and even Principle Whitler bat an eye if ever he missed class, which by the way only happened once in recorded history.

It was impossible to resent Dave either; if ever there was a Prince named Charming, his was named Dave Lonsley. Everyone loved him: from bubble-popping cheerleaders, to farm nerds, to pent-up-frustration-filled Goths, because he loved everyone. He knew all 725 students of Whitefish High by name, helped old Mrs. Daffiny with her gift shop on Saturdays for free, and always seemed more interested in you than himself. It was almost disgusting how his dimple-producing smile never seemed to leave his angelic face.

Rumor was, he was planning to audition for the musical. My musical. Of course he’d walk right into the leading role just as he excelled at soccer and chess and Mr. Personality of the Year.

“Well who wants a stage kiss from Dave Lonsley anyway?” Chrissie scowled but I could see the way she rubbed her strawberry Chap Stick lips together. My mouth salivated too, but I was just grateful that I didn’t have the urge to lick him. Actually, I hadn’t felt the impulse all day. Maybe things were back to normal.

“Look,” Chrissie whispered and squeezed my arm. “There’s Samantha Gray. Did you know she spent the whole weekend in a mental hospital?”

The news surprised me. Samantha’s family had a two-hundred acre ranch up near Whitefish Lake and she had always been so quiet and reserved. Watching several sophomores try to rope a couple of freshmen with cattle rope ahead of us, I knew who deserved institutionalization more. “Why?” I asked Chrissie as we dodged the sophomores.

“Not sure,” Chrissie shrugged. Suddenly, she ducked behind me. “Crap,” she whispered. “There’s Mr. Wilcox. If he sees that I’m not home with the flu, I can’t ditch class.” As he passed with his typical pointy-nose scowl, she hushed “See you,” and scampered off toward the Gym building.

Time to practice lyrics again in my head while I had a few minutes of freedom left maneuvering through the halls. I wished I could ditch with Chrissie, but my name had been red-flagged for having missed so much class and my mom threatened to ship me off to etiquette school if I skipped one more time. Chrissies parents were so laid back, it wasn’t fair. Mom blamed my rebellion because of my father, who walked out on us when I was four. That was why she moved us to this pathetic little town.

We moved around a lot for a couple of years and then my mom had this great idea to take this road trip around the country to take in all the sights there were. But then she took a wrong turn trying to get to Great Falls, Montana and our white Honda broke down on Hwy 93. An old weather-worn man toed us with his even older green pick-up to Whitefish and when my mom laid her eyes on the quant western town, she said, “Valerie, sweetie, I know where our home for now on is.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tanner let us stay the night in the apartment above their shop until the Honda was fixed, but my mom fell so in love with the warm hospitality of the people and they must have fallen in love with her too, so that when the car was good to go, we just stayed. The Tanner’s let us keep the cozy apartment as long as we helped out in the souvenir store a couple hours a week. So, in Whitefish we stayed, while the rest of the world melted away.

I never did see or hear from my father again. My mom was probably right about him being the source of my anger, but mostly I just felt angry at everything; especially this pathetic town where on any given day, the tourists quadrupled the town’s population of only 6,000 plus or minus a few babies born or old people dead.
Now, I was in a particularly sour mood that Chrissie was still trying to swipe the lead role right out from under me. Everything was back to normal.

I turned down the last hall to head to Algebra where I’d spend the next 45 minutes pretending to pay attention and try not to breathe the B.O. of the kid who always wore a straw hat in front of me and didn’t seem to know how to apply deodorant. At least there’d be no Brad Ferguson or Richard Alred there with their weird eyes. I maneuvered myself around a rather large senior shoving papers into his locker and joined the stream of students reluctantly plodding to class like a bunch of mechanical sheep.

My mind was inventing more lyrics for “My Favorite Things,” and half-thinking how my mom probably wishes she could trade me in on a new model like she finally did our old Honda after years of saving tip money, when my eye caught the purple strap of a backpack on some chick in front of me. It fell down to her knee and I watched as it swayed back and forth, back and forth. Very quickly, all my thoughts seemed fixed on the movement, almost like I was mesmerized by it.

The final bell rang and the chick sped up causing the strap to sway faster. My calves bunched together and my arms tensed as I squatted low, my eyes still riveted on the line of purple. My fingers curled in and suddenly I felt like pouncing. Back and forth it went over and over and I couldn’t resist it: I wanted to swoop down on the strap so bad. The small rational part of me wondered what I was doing, but it was like pure instinct had taken over my body. I pushed my hands off the floor and prepared to leap into the air when the chick turned right into her classroom.

Dang it. I wasn’t fast enough. What was I talking about? Shouldn’t I be glad that I hadn’t tackled her in the middle of the hall and became the joke of the day for Whitefish High? As soon as the strap was out of sight, the feeling was gone and only my disturbed paranoia remained. I shook my head and tucked my short brown hair behind my ear, disgusted by a straw of hay I found caught there. The halls were nearly empty now. Crap, I can’t be late. So I rushed off to class and tried to pretend the strap incident hadn’t happened for the rest of the day.

That was how it started. I thought it was just a weird happening but it got worse from there. The next few days I fought hard to keep from attacking a loose shoe lace, or from licking up my bowl of Fruit Loops instead of eating it. Sometimes the urge to lick and pounce happened at the same time: like in Gym class when I wanted to leap upon the volleyball, flip over onto my back and lick the rubbery surface. Times like that, it was best if I just fled to the bathroom.

All the while, Brad Ferguson and Richard Alred’s bizarre green and orange eyes seemed to be watching me. Life can be weird for any teenager, but this was more than acne or popularity or driver’s licenses; something terrifyingly more.

Query Letter for Agents

2010-08-27T14:27:00.000-07:00

I'm in the process of querying literary agents to obtain representation. I'd appreciate any feedback on my query letter as this is the ONLY shot I have with them. Thanks and much love!

Dear ________,

Meta Blackwing has happily taken seven trillion souls to Hell, but now Satan wants her for himself and the young misfit angel must choose either alluring darkness or follow the hope of having a man that was never meant for her to have.

Angels are supposed to be cheery, light-loving seraphs with Shirley-Temple-blond hair but Meta Blackwing, with her long, ebony tresses and affinity for shadows, has never belonged among them. To her dismay, she must work with Sol, who thinks sneezing during prayer is a sin. Meta gags at his prudish, butt-kissing perfection, but after they get into a territory war over a dead mortal in a hospital room, her vomit reflex turns into an urge to kiss his pearl-pink lips. The mismatched angels plow halo-first into a quirky, often dysfunctional relationship. Weakened by her new feelings and still unsure of who she really is, Satan attempts to seduce her with promises of power and acceptance if she will join him. In a world where forbidden desires are paid for with your soul, young Meta must decide if she will be Satan’s right hand and risk losing the only other angel she has ever come to love.

I received the 1999 Illinois Young Author Award for my article, My Friend, My Father.

Having represented________, by____________, please consider my young adult fiction Meta Blackwing, complete at 108,000 words. Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,
Heather Choate

Dream Casting

2010-07-15T19:07:00.000-07:00

Just waiting for dreams to materialize like dewdrops on the sand,

Straddling a precipice; wondering where my life will go,

Please, sweat summer rain wash these fears away,

Keep me sane long enough for the stars to finally show.

What are these talents for if they can’t be given away?

And what do I do with all of this waiting?

Just standing here waiting for dreams to dance into life.

Slice

2010-05-24T14:43:00.000-07:00

If you've ever wondered how weird a wedding can get and what secrets can be kept- this is the story for you.

The bride is seconds from walking down the aisle and I’m fighting hard to not scratch behind my left ear where the tiny incision was made. Must not draw unnecessary attention to myself.

Peeling chords from the pipe organ start up and there she is: blonde curls piled up high on her head, flowing lace wrapped around the curves of her body. The white of her teeth as she smiles matches the white of her dress. Is DM smiling? My eyes dart up to where he stands in a fitted black tuxedo at the altar. Yes, he is smiling. His emotions appear: happy, loving. How can he do it?
I bite my lip; a nervous habit I have acquired. Perhaps I too have become more integrated.

Turning my head, the bride, Melissa Timber, is her designated name, is now beside my pew. Her eyes are on me for a brief moment, smile gone. Does she know? DM assures me she does not. Another second and she has moved on toward the altar and her beaming husband-to-be. Looking back at him, I wonder for the two hundred and fourth time how this will work.

But the preacher takes the microphone and they say their vows. The words seem simple and contrite to me but the weddings guests dab at their eyes, so I suppose the words have fulfilled their emotional purpose.

Later, I sit at a lavender-covered table in the overly-lavish reception hall, pretending to be interested in the spinach salad. Melissa’s sister and Maid of Honor, comes to sit beside me. Her face expresses friendliness, but I am certain her motives are interrogation.

“So, how do you know the groom, Damien?” she asks, while blinking her overly-large brown eyes more times than necessary for lubrication.

The training comes quickly and I answer, “We are foster siblings.” Deception is still unnatural for me though and the incision behind my ear prickles. “I am his closest thing to family,” I add and that sentence contains more truth.

“Where are you from?” she cocks her head.
DM, or Damien, as the humans call him is brushing Melissa’s check with his fingers as they dance close. An unidentifiable burning radiates in my chest and I almost want to answer her with the truth.

“Seattle,” I state, resorting to protocol. The truth would prove disastrous. Why would I have thought about telling it for even a second? Are my own emotions at the proper functioning level? A server in a black suit is coming around with glasses of Champagne. I take one. My understanding is that the alcoholic beverage is to be used as another ritualistic tradition in the celebratory ledger of the night’s events, but I drink the glass’ entire contents in one bubbly swallow. Liquor is the one commodity I have taken fancy too.

“Is that why you two are so pale?” the sister presses on and I wish she would cease speaking. DM is now kissing his new wife.

“That is correct,” I reply, looking for the server for another drink.

“You aren’t blood-related?” she continues.

“No.”

“That’s funny. You have the same pointy kind of nose. If he had long hair and legs like you, you could be twins,” she giggles.

Failing to see the humor in this, I stand. “I can assure you, we are not blood-related,” I state and walk away through the mingling crowds to a further corner of the room. Not wanting to engage in conversation, I fain interest in the photo montage of the happy couple playing on a screen. But there is a tap on my shoulder.

DM is standing behind me, his shiny black hair matching his tuxedo. His had is outstretched toward me.

“It is custom for the bride and groom to dance with their family members,” he informs me in his trained, smooth voice. Putting my small hand in his, he takes me to the center of the marble dance floor. Most of the guests are watching as the music starts up and I do my best to play the part of adoring sister. Melissa dances with her father nearby and gives me another hapless look.

“Melissa likes me no more than she did before,” I calculate then whisper, “You are certain this is the right course of action?”

DM smiles. “It’s a little late to change it now.” He flashes the silver ring on his left hand.

“But these things are not permanent for us,” I say lowly. “We could still leave, get a start with a new set of humans— one with less risk of exposing us.” My eyes bolt back to his human bride. How long can the deception be kept from her? Her knowledge of us would break command number one. We would be terminated. So would she and any other human with the same knowledge.

“RX,” he calls my name and gives a light laugh, “you still don’t get it. This isn’t just an assignment to me now. These—” he lowers his voice, “these humans— they’ve changed me. I feel like I can feel the way they do, actually know joy, fear, loneliness— love.” His words trail off as he gazes at the human bride. I do not comprehend the same emotions, but perhaps— loneliness? Then, he turns back to me and says, “I understand it’s not logical, but that’s the way it is.”

“No, it is not logical,” I confirm the assessment. I do not understand why we cannot complete this assignment, return to our home base, and— “What am I supposed to do?” I ask him, the odd burning getting worse in my chest. I gulp hard and scratch behind my ear at the little raised red line. “I cannot return without you.” We are like the heart and lungs of a human body— one cannot work properly without the other.

“RX,” he brushes my cheek the same way he did the human’s, “It’s going to be ok.”

I never understood that human expression until that moment but he was wrong: it was not going to be ok. The burning spreads to my throat as the song’s final chords are drowned out by polite clapping and RX returns to the human he loves. Why did you have to pick her? I want to shout. Why couldn’t you have found someone else— one of your own kind? But the words remain silent in me as the couple takes a silver knife in both their hands to the perfect wedding cake. Everyone is smiling and joyful around me, but I felt like that perfect cake, now ripped open and sliced.

Wrapped in Rain

2010-05-15T21:49:00.000-07:00

Song Lyrics:

Wrapped up in rain,
Thunderstorms are calling,
Seeping out my skin,
Pouring out the pain,
Dancing now- wrapped up in your rain.

Ice melting off fingertips,
A crimson sun rising,
Makeup’s all running,
Like a hot roof on my lips,

In my dreams again,
You and crickets,
Swaying hammocks,
A clouded gray sky.

Here we are again,
Even if I knew you completely,
I never would have expected this,
Like an August kiss in January,
Being wrapped up in… rain.

Away- Song lyrics

2010-05-05T20:25:00.001-07:00

Away

Sadness drapes over me like watery veils of silk,
When all the flowers turn to shadows in your hair,
You’re right here, but I can’t touch you, can’t speak a word,
Your blue-jay soul will flit away.

I grieve for my condition, because I can’t seem to find the answer
To all these yearnings, these empty pages and frozen hands,
Where is my happiness, when you’re my every joy,
And you’ve gone away?

Time’s too long to tell me how to turn back the hands,
Start a new beginning with you,
Carry us to a land that’s ever green and never gray,
You’ll never go away.

There’s a tripping frantic little girl in me,
Wanting to take your hand, whisper in your ear,
Tell you all my crazy dream secrets,
Make it so you’ll always be here,
Never to go away.

Miss me pretty little blue jay,
When all the flowers have turned to shadows in your hair,
The light is fading fast and you won’t stay,
Time to flit away.

Toes and Tears

2010-04-28T14:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-14T09:24:00.001-07:00

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

2010-04-06T20:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-06T14:47:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-04-02T10:44:00.001-07:00

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!

Hammock Sky

2009-01-23T10:05:00.000-08:00

I see the waves roll across the shore,
Lost in a hammock sky.

Memories fall like an ocean,
I remember but wish for something more.

River banks lurking wild,
Swirling wildflower waters.

Sunlight dancing like a child,
Taken in the moment, so real.

My Sketchbook dreams lost in mid-day napping,
I'm just a horizontal lullaby lapping.

Like toothpaste slush squirted on the mirror,
A presence once upon a time felt here,

Now gone,
An endangered hush lost in the atmosphere.

The same word repeated twice-then lost-
whispered now again- so soft.

The pied piper is calling us to go,
He dances a little song:

"Existence is eternal in the odyssey of time,
Each life comes in its own season little marchee,
And now my child, its time for you to come away with me."

Light streams in shafts of crimson and gold,
In the place where hope is told.

Where all conversation melts into wonder,
And the quietest hush sounds like thunder.

No more need to try,
All lost in a hammock sky.

Busy little chief

2009-01-21T17:43:00.000-08:00

I am currently engaged in writing a novel and so that is taking up a lot of my writing time. I am way excited about it though. Maybe I'll post a clip of it later. But for now here is short little snippet of a thought:

To me, cooking is like poetry.
You have to have a basic understanding of the language first.
And even then, some people just aren't very good writers.
That is why God made poets and chiefs,
for those of us who are still struggling to read.

Love Cure

2009-01-13T11:17:00.000-08:00

Cure for the lovesick and hopeless,

Open up my head
and let me out,

Free me from my mind,
let me step outside forgiven,

This bird's eye view,
I realize a flower pot
is never a garden,

Swimming in a fishbowl
all our lives,
not knowing that the sea
is where a mermaid thrives,

So hold me,
give me wings with your eyes,
and we'll fly limitless
as the earth, seas, and skies.

Chili Powder

2008-12-24T11:45:00.000-08:00

A Short Story by Heather Choate
Part Two
If you haven't read part one, scroll down and read that one first.

It’s not that I even particularly like Chili Powder, or Chili, for that matter, I tell myself as I bank onto the freeway on-ramp. I just wanted to change up the menu a bit, I grumble to my dashboard, but it doesn’t seem to respond. Good thing. At least dashboards are safe confidants. For now.

I turn onto the highway and accelerate to approximately 45 mph. I can’t say I’ve gotten use to the turtle speed, but at least it doesn’t bother me quite as bad as it used to. It is for our safety, our protection, I remind myself. The better way, the better way, I repeat again and again in my mind, and soon I find myself relaxing a little more. Or maybe it’s the placid tones of Frank Sinatra coming softly over my speakers.

Two years. Two years it has been like this. Already, I can hardly remember life the way that it was… before. Explosions as bombs went off on buses and governmental building; bullet holes in the walls of my house, my car. Someone’s face covered in red oozing sores. Who was it? My sister? I think so. I think I had a sister.
I shudder and concentrate on the smooth, unbroken pavement and mellow tones from the radio, the perfectly manicured trees and polished information signs. The sky is baby blue above and flocks of geese beat their feather wings in unison. I pass a small town with its rows of neatly lined houses. There is a school and I can imagine the children sitting politely, attentively listening to their teacher. Everything in order. Everything the way it should be. The better way.

But in El Paso they have Chili Powder. Home is waiting for me: the small one car garage where I will park my Saturn, the two steps into the laundry room where I will take out last night’s load, after I put away the few groceries. The same routine. The same consistency. I will work all week trimming the heather shrubs on the south side of the gray building so that I will go to the same grocery store and trade in the credits from a select group of approved foods. I will have to check my recipes more carefully now.

My exit is coming up. Less than half a mile. I should get in the turn lane. I should do it now. My car continues to cruise forward without slowing as if it has a mind of its own. The exit is just 50 yards away. Turn now. I don’t do it. The exit passes by. The freeway is an open road before me. I realize I’m already heading south, south to El Paso.

© Heather Choate

Chili Powder

2008-12-18T15:53:00.000-08:00

Part I
A Short Story by Heather Choate

“You can still find Chili Powder in El Paso,” a hurried voice whispered to me from the next isle. “But you didn’t hear it from me,” the mysterious informer added and disappeared behind a stack of creamed corn before I could identify them.

I glanced around nervously; sweat almost dripping from my fingertips. I scanned the isle in both directions. A young mother jostled a tiny toddler on her hip to my left, doing her best to keep the child quiet; wouldn’t want to break the noise ordinance, and an elderly man studied a tangerine far to my right. Neither appeared to have noticed, but that didn’t mean I was safe.

I couldn’t risk being caught looking for chili powder, and so I hurriedly grabbed a small container of rosemary, a very safe choice, as if that were my reason to this sketchy section of the grocery. The tiny wheels of my cart spun madly as I quickly exited it.

“Now, slow down there, dear,” a middle aged grocery worker cautioned me in a very clam tone, “Can’t be too hasty.”

“Right,” I answer, not too hastily. “Thank you for reminding me of the Correct Way.” I bowed my head in the customary fashion and he bowed his as well.

“You are quite welcome,” the man smiled and returned to his box of rice before the conversation could be seen as anything but completely platonic.

He didn’t see the scowl on my face and I did my best to hide it under a natural looking smile, the one I had practiced to perfection for the last two years, before the cameras saw it too. My emotion was heightening, which was not good. I decided to cut my shopping short and head home.

“Thank you for choosing Correct Consumer Care for your grocery needs today,” a young blonde with too fake eye lashes smiled at me from behind the cash register. “Did you find everything that you needed?”

Everything accept Chili Powder, I wanted to say, but knew what it would mean if I did. So instead, I smile back. “Of course I did.”

She smiled again, without a second thought to the slight undertone in my voice. “That’s nice.”

On official paper above the register I read the following notice:

Official Statement of the Elect Board
The use of the substance known as “Chili Powder” is herefore BANNED from all use, both public and private. Chili Powder has been associated with loud laughter, alcohol, and monotonous music and therefore CONDEMENED by the dually appointed leaders of the Correct Way.

Any persons found using this substance will immediately be detained and tried for public disturbance.

“That will be 16 Service Credits.” The cashier rang up the total. That’s a whole week’s worth of lawn care at the community learning center, and I didn’t even get everything that I needed. What am I going to make now with canned tomatoes, a box of dry cereal, and a few red apples?

She scanned my retina and the monitor registered that payment had been made. “Have a great day.” She beamed as I left.

I turned the key in the ignition and my car rumbled to life. There is a tap on my window. It is a man dressed from head to toe in pale gray. I recognized him as a serviceman at once and my heart started thudding madly. They’ve caught me. They overhead me in the spice isle and now I’m going to be taken in. I wrapped my fingers tightly around the steering wheel. I hope they give me a fair trial, if they do at all.

There is a second tap on the window and I know I can’t put it off any longer. I lowered the window. The serviceman misread the anxious look on my face.

“Concerned about your car?” he asked.

“What? My car?” Why is he talking about this? Why not just get it over with and lock me in the back of his deployment vehicle. I almost said this to him when he tapped on the hood.

“You really should have this looked at by the Vehicular Safety Inspections Department. The noise it made starting up doesn’t sound good.”

I can’t believe he is talking about my car. “Uh, yeah,” I pretended concern too.

“If you want I can tow you there right now,” he offered. “It isn’t far.”

“Um, no, thank you,” I declined as politely as I could. I couldn’t risk being more than a few more seconds in his presence. “I have an appointment there already.”

He continued to look at me and I hoped he didn’t catch my lie. “Tomorrow,” I added, to further assuage him.

He seemed to accept this. “Tomorrow then,” he said and gave the hood another clonk. “Consider investing in a better vehicle in the future.”

“I will,” I did my best to smile. “Thank you for your help.”

The serviceman nodded and walked away. I raised the window. In the confides of my own car, I took a deep breath to steady myself. I knew he would still be watching me. He was. Feeling shaky, I put the car in reverse and hoped he wouldn’t follow me.

I glanced out the rearview mirror as I turned right, away from the store. He didn’t follow me. I took another deep breath. My name should be disaster obverted, not Sandy.

© Heather Choate

2008-12-18T08:32:00.000-08:00

Biting Horizon
Short Story by Heather Choate

“We become sad in the first place when we have nothing stirring to do.”
-Herman Melville

I refuse to be sad, so I leave my brown living room and head down I-44 in my silver Toyota, such an un-descript car, to the canyons. I pull into an aspen-shaded parking space under the looming height of limestone cliffs. The sunlight is peaking over the upper ridge; bright tangerine orange and blush pink clouds whip at the alpine sky.

I grab an Arrowhead water bottle, and shove it into my pant pocket, along with my car keys. I don’t bother to lock the doors, no need to. I barely feel the backpack on my shoulders. The gravel under my feet moans in protest to the weight; that, and the distant chirp of small birds, is the only sound heard. Golden aspen leaves twinkle like Christmas lights in the early morning light. Christmas in early fall, that’s different.

The gravel lot gives way to a thin earthen path. I follow it into the trees. The crisp air bites at my nostrils and throat, but soon my body is warm, blood pumping rhythmically in my veins, muscles. I don’t think about anything but moving up the mountain. No more sadness.

The path dips into a ravine and twists in steep switch backs. I’m panting hard, my lungs expanding for more oxygen. A tingly burn moves through my calves as they carry me up the mountainside. I dab at cool tiny drops of sweat on my forehead with my sleeve. The top isn’t far; streams of sunshine light my head every now and then through the tree limbs, like I’m bobbing in a sea of leaves and branches.

I need to get as high as I can. 10,000 ft should do. I check the altimeter on my wrist watch. 9,894. Just a little more. Tiny streamlets of pure Rocky Mountain water gurgle across my path and down to the serpentine river below. Tiny birds twitter out their last songs of the season above me. Soon it will be too cold to hear their jovial little spirits. I see the white tail of a deer flit into the denser forest. The deer won’t be seen much either, once these amber aspen leaves have fallen, and frost submerges every rock and blade and limb with its frosty fingers. Only the mountain goats will prod on through the deep drifts of snow like it were powdered sugar.

I reach a massive outcropping of granite boulders that are relatively smooth on top. I scamper up the stone. The boulders stand as a precipice overlooking a large swooping bowl-shaped valley. Through two goliath pines I make out the river cutting its way sharply into the valley until it rests in a pristine lake nestled deep into the wilderness.

My numb fingertips unscrew the plastic water bottle cap. I chug the contents in less than twenty seconds and discard the empty bottle by putting it back in my pocket. Though the exertion of the vertical climb is over, my heart rate picks up for a different reason: a tiny rush of anticipation; a stirring.

I traverse the wide gray rock until my feet are inches from the edge. The cliff descends vertically down over three thousand feet. Tiny pebbles fall over the rim down, down into space. The trees and rocks are minuscule so far below.

The biting horizon goes on forever. Distant white capped mountain peaks signal to me like flashing lighthouses in the breaking sun. Sweeping Cyrus clouds brush across the atmosphere like paint strokes from a master artist. The world is so calm here, just a round planet of earth and trees spinning in a serene universe.

But the sheer drop off before me, takes my mind off all of that now as I look back down. A second surge of adrenaline creeps its way into my cooling body; another emotive moment. I need to do this while I’m still warm, while I can still move at all. I take a deep breath, the air bitter and clean; an interesting combination. My lungs protest each inhale but I keep breathing. Just keep breathing. The vapors from my mouth crystallize in the air before me.

I rub my hands against my jacket. It’s now. I slide my right foot further a few more inches, until the tip is over the cliff lip, hanging suspended into space. That’s all the taste I need now. I step back with my right foot first, then my left.

I swing both arms back behind me, using the momentum to propel my body forward. In two leaps, I am off the mountain and falling through the air. I keep my arms out wide and close my eyes, feeling the violent rush of iced wind slam into my skin.
Having cleared the cliff side by more than a yard, my body drops freely without slamming into the jagged rocks. This is what I wanted: a clean fall, smooth. My body is perpendicular to the ground now, I can almost feel the trees and rocks beneath rushing up to great me, to take me into their arms and hold me there.

One second. Two. Five. Gravity has complete hold of me. I stretch my fingers out wide into the open air. The solid valley floor is coming up faster. This is it.
Instinctively, I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. I quickly stretch my left arm back and pull hard. The cord responds and within seconds, I am shot back upwards into the sky with a heaving blast.
The jolt shakes every limb and joint, but it passes quickly. Like a ship tossed hazardly by the sea and now cradled in calm waters, I am shocked by how slow and gentle my body moves through the air now. Like a lost feather, I drift calmly over the ripping landscape. I inhale deeply, some of the shock fizzing out of my nerve endings.

A minute passes. I feel like an eagle, an angel, escaping both gravity and death by sweeping high ‘ore the earth. Incredible. Seconds feel like years, years that passed me to quickly in unhappiness. Finally getting my time back. I laugh. Laugh! The sound is strange and distorted in my dry, hoarse throat and that makes me laugh harder.

I laugh as my tiny body defeats the laws of gravity and human destiny by flying over the tree tops and rivers. I watch my thin shadow reflected in the lake below. I wonder if the fish can see me. What a story they would have to tell their neighbors!
Soaring on, I see the wide green space beyond the trees. In the distance, tiny moving brown figures. Cows. The frost has melted in the warming sunrays and the field is lush and green. Perfect.

My body drifts over the meadow and slows, graciously returning me back to earth. My time in the heavens has ended. I put my feet out and run as they hit the ground. I could stop now, but with my shoot depleted and dragging behind me, I keep running. I run and run across my planet of earth and trees. The blood, the life pumping within me. I have found it, my stirring.

© Heather Choate 2008