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Cabin FeverJessica spent most of the morning sketching. The stack of filled sheets had grown. Near the bottom they were neatly stacked, and held roughs for scenes or portraits, none of them satisfying. Towards the top, the stack sprawled, and the sketches degraded into doodles. Patches of hatching, and bouquets of swirly lines.
After lunch she went for a walk, and to pick up a new sketchpad. Following an impulse, she bought some paints.
Back at home she grew frustrated with the small sheets. Should have thought of that earlier, darnit.
She wanted to call it a day, but... Go on. You know you want to. Do it!
The desk was light and easy to move.
Some hours later the wall was decorated from the ground to as high as she could reach with flowing lines. Tentacles, or vines without leaves. It was a chaos she might have called beautiful if it had not been her own work. And it made her bedroom smell of paint. At least she had not bought varnish that truly stank.
That had been a bad idea. What
Seeking AdviceGina sat in a chair, glaring at her son over crossed arms, slowly tapping her foot. The fact it did not make any noise just added to her irritation.
"You really thought this was a good idea, yes?"
She leaned forward, her legs partly sinking through the chair as she lost sight of it.
"I thought once you moved out you'd learn to stand on your own feet, but you've kept bothering me to tell you what to do for the last forty years."
"But mum, you're the wisest person ever. I need you."
"Good god, Quentin, I don't know what I did wrong, but you're such a failure. If even me dying didn't give you the push you needed..." She shook her head.
He was close to tears, and the technician took the initiative to switch off the projector.
"Sir, maybe we should adjust her self a little. It would be no problem to remove the awareness of being a hologram."
"Ah. No. Not right now, anyway. I'll think about it."
Cold Summer NightMy grandfather told me this happened when he was little.
Alarm spread through the village, in short warnings the grown-ups didn't bother to explain to their children. The children were gathered in the homes together with the old, while the able-bodied armed themselves and went out in groups to warn anyone scattered.
Cooped up indoor in broad daylight, the children heard the stories about this particular threat for the first time. A pale spirit of sorts, as calm and shining as a cloud-free and wind-still midwinter night. And as deadly.
They were interrupted by calls of a returning search party. They brought one of the older girls home, dead and cold. Not a mark on her.
Everyone waited out the day and night, fearful or mournful.
By mid-morning the next day, some parents decided the children should see, and took them to the place where the hoofprints had been spotted.
Most fae were capricious, but my grandfather never forgot, the unicorn was most dangerous of all.
ClaimsRon wondered how much the tall girl's nonstandard healing process would complicate matters. She sat in the back of the police car, holding her side. If she'd been unclaimed, and their story true, she should be bleeding, but a green growth had closed the wound. The smell, somewhat like freshly cut grass, was odd in this context, but unmistakable.
Her companion caught Ron's eyes in the rear-view mirror, and held them.
"So, what kind are you?"
The assumption he had to be claimed, too, just because he had not sided with the locals whom she accused of taking pot shots at her and her friend, irritated him. However, he cut the lecture, on the basis that she'd had a really bad day. Besides, her assumption was correct.
"So, do you turn into a big shaggy monster on fullmoon nights?"
"He's not that insistent." Well, if she wanted to talk... "What about you? Dragon?"
She rolled her eyes a little. "Wyvern."
"So, do you turn into a venom-spitting flying lizard on occasion?"
She rubbed her c
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
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