Edie was not the sort of person who radiated a motherly glow when you looked at her. She was frail and spindly with a milky pale complexion that bathed her entire body in an almost translucent pearl. She had an impossibly long, slender neck that always seemed to be craning upwards to present a rather expressionless face, two pinkish cheeks introducing the only bit of color to the rest of her frame. Jet black hair hung straight in a kind of frankness, nearly touching her bony shoulders just before it ended abruptly in cut, jagged layers styled with painstaking finesse. In short, Edie Harangue was not so much a sister-in-law than a sort of flawless runway model you would see in the glossy contents of a fashion magazine.
Her impressive height, a slightly jutted hip, a small, poised hand absent-mindedly thumbing a silver necklace charm, Edie was the sort of woman who silently dared you to call her “Mrs. Harangue.” And yet, that was precisely who she was. Mrs. Edith Harangue, though her husband, my eldest brother, was the only person in existence that could get away with calling her Edith. Niicholas Harangue had met her on a transatlantic flight and effortlessly presented her under his arm to the rest of us the following Thanksgiving. Edith, he had said as they made their charming entrance. Edie, she had made perfectly clear when she was later seated next to me.
She had never liked her proper name, she explained, and refused even her mother the right to address her by it, but with Niicholas it was somehow different. She seemed to take it as a sign that it was Fate and Love and an Evident Future Together, but the other Harangues had no trouble digesting her lapse in reasoning; Niicholas was always “somehow different.” Especially if it meant getting what he wanted.
And so Edie Lennox married into the Harangue family when she was 26 years of age. Two years later she gave birth to what would become her first and final child. It was a boy, and although the couple seemed sufficiently proud of their addition to the family, I could not imagine Edie changing a single diaper. I admit that it was partly due to my prejudice against anyone far too attractive for their own good, but I simply could not convince myself that Edie Harangue was the sort of person who could have a pregnant belly. Or suffer from labor pains. Or allow any mouth, hungry or not, to come even remotely close to her breasts.
So opening the front door of my apartment to see a young boy clasped to one of Edie Harangue’s hands with the knobby paw of his own took me by surprise. She looked so out of place next to him in the hallway; the small, shy little boy standing a bit pigeon-toed and staring downwards with great big black eyes. Perhaps a completely unrelated young stranger had inexplicably attached himself to one of her limbs as she had made the journey to my residence. I would’ve had far less trouble believing it.
“Hello, Stirling,” Edie said as soon as the door had opened sufficiently. Her voice was a long, thin one, with a hint of authority just underneath it. It was the kind that lulled you into a sense of melting admiration yet was barbed with a sharpness that soon snapped you to attention. Like the splitting crack at the end of a whip moments after it is cast.
“Well hello Edie-and-friend,” I managed to respond in as harmless a tone as I could muster.
A sweeping gesture with an arm motioned them both inside, but at Edie’s behest both remained in the hallway, unmoving. A moment of silence filled the prominent gap. Clearing my throat ceremoniously, I smiled down at the boy, who had not broken eye contact with his shoes. This latest attempt at securing a non-threatening place in his heart failed, I pressed on.
“Please, do come in the both of you.”
“I’d rather not. I’m on borrowed time as it is,” came her reply as quickly as the final word had left my lips. “The office doesn’t like it when I waste their time.”
With this statement issued, Edie slipped effortlessly out of the boy’s grasp and with her newly freed hand pressed gently but firmly between his shoulder blades, directing him swiftly through the door frame and into my apartment. As soon as he had felt the pressure of his mother’s petite wrist, the boy seemingly woke from his transfixed gaze and dutifully propelled himself the rest of the way. This obedient thrust into my living quarters happened so flawlessly and with such streamlined practice I had very little time to bend awkwardly towards the door in order to let him pass.
There was something so immaculate about the exchange between mother and offspring that it would’ve been an unspeakable blasphemy to allow either member to bump up against me or brush past my leg, and it took me a moment to realize that I had twisted my body so far out of the way that I had had to grasp the doorknob for balance. I had contorted my body like that of someone who had had a highly poisonous snake thrust at their face and realizing the embarrassment, straightened my stature at once. If Edie held any opinion of my rather pitiful reaction, she had done a flawless job of masking it with a face that read nothing.
“We appreciate you doing this, Stirling,” Edie said before I was able to open my mouth. “Niicholas will be here at 7 to get him. Don’t feel like you have to go out of your way to entertain him the entire time, he does a good enough job staying out of trouble by himself.”
She quickly bent forward with neck outstretched and planted a brief kiss on the boy’s forehead before returning to her correct height. With the act complete she swiveled on a stiletto to leave.
“Don’t worry about us, Edie,” I replied, speaking to her back. “I’m sure we’ll get along just fine ‘til Dad gets here.”
Edie stopped and looked over her shoulder, picking up my gaze and grasping it with a narrowed attention.
“Stirling,” she said slowly, with just the slightest hint of severity, “Please don’t feel like you’re forced to play nanny to him every waking second of the time he’s here. Don’t make me feel even guiltier about burdening you with my kid than I already do.”
She let these words sink in before snapping her eyes away from mine and directing them down to her son, who was looking at her from within the apartment.
“Langley, dear. Don’t bother your Uncle Stirling.”
And with that she walked briskly down the hall and towards the set of elevator doors. In a moment she was out of sight completely, and a new, stifling silence grew up from the confines of my living room. The window curtains were only partially drawn back, allowing the light from a late afternoon sun to spill out from behind them and paint the carpet with a long, narrow stripe. Langley was standing directly in the middle of it, covered in head to toe with a yellow-gold glow. His back was to me, the slight frame clothed in the gray and navy tones of a meticulously pressed school uniform, four hopelessly disproportionate and scrawny pale limbs spilling out from the trousers and cotton collared shirt. He had his arms behind him, one small hand clutching the other’s wrist as if he were thoughtfully considering an oil canvas in a deserted art museum. He started slightly when I closed the door, but did not turn to face me until after I began speaking.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Langley Harangue. At last we meet again. Though I doubt you remember me; it would’ve been several years ago now. You were still being carried around by your mum.”
Langley looked up at me with the set of incredibly enormous black eyes. They curiously lacked any hint of verdict, though looking into them I realized with a sinking feeling that I had already failed at the only speech I had told myself never to do the injustice of uttering.
“Well, now that I’ve blown it and sound like a properly dull uncle, would you like a snack?” I sighed. “Kindergarten can really take it out of you sometimes.”
Langley nodded silently, the strangely unreadable expression never so much as flickering. Taking it as my one and only cue, I quickly headed for the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Langley, but I’m afraid I don’t have a television here,” I called back to him through an open door as I threw a sandwich together. “Wish I had a board game or two, but I’ve never really had the need for keeping one around.”
I noticed my hands were trembling and with great embarrassment soon realized that I was, in fact, afraid of a six-year-old who was standing in the next room over. When I frantically tried to recall my own thoughts and feelings from the age of six, I came up hopelessly empty-handed. I had never been any good with children, even when I was one myself. As far as I could tell, I had come out of my mother’s womb with all the maturity and experience of a young adult and had simply grown vertically.
Returning with a hastily-made sandwich and a mug of milk, I jerked my head towards the sofa and spread a disarming smile in its direction.
“Go ahead, make yourself comfortable.”
Langley Harangue’s wide, dark eyes followed the projected course of the sandwich until it came to rest on the small glass table in front of the couch. After a slight hesitation, he hopped up to settle on a cushion and drew up one of the halves of white bread to begin nibbling at the edges.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, ending it in an odd trailing intonation as if he had more to say, but instead drifted back into silence.
In the safety of silence that followed I took a seat in a shaggy armchair opposite the boy and thought. Crossing my leg and biting my lip, I engaged in a kind of frantic mental scramble of what to do next. In a matter of twenty minutes I had managed to cross off everything I could possibly do relating to a quiet child of six. I had invited him in, I had established myself as an uncle who thought he looked taller from the time I had seen him less tall, I had made amends for not having a TV, and I had given him food. What was there left to engage in?
Time for action grew nearer as Langley’s chewing began to grow more infrequent and less involved.
“I have to admit I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to do until your Dad comes. I’d take you on a tour but this is pretty much it. My room is pretty boring. Anything you see catch your eye?”
To my relief, the boy seemed to take this floundering question as a personal mission and I watched him as he began to scan the room with a newfound spark of duty in his eyes. They came to rest on the small cluttered desk in the far corner, next to the windows. It was overflowing with countless stacks of typing paper, some filled with scrawling handwritten notes and useless bits of ideas and facts, the other half a bit yellowed but free of handwriting for the most part. A chipped mug held several strongly harassed no. 2 pencils, their eraser ends hopelessly rubbed out of existence or stale and hardened beyond use. It was a sorry state of affairs, yet Langley dwelt on the cluttered bureau for longer than I had expected he might.
I couldn’t quite make out just what he may be interested in but then his motive dawned on me. I hopped up from my seat at once. Crossing over to the desk and taking several nubby writing utensils and a pile of blank paper, I triumphantly returned to drop them beside the boy’s plate.
“Your Mum tells me you’re a keen artist, and my refrigerator’s been looking pretty bare these days. Care to doodle something up for me?”
Ever silent Langley, who had been looking up at me until this point, slowly let his gaze fall down to the pile of typing paper. Not looking up, he put down what was left of his sandwich and took up a pencil in his fist.
“Thank you,” he said very quietly.
Feeling very pleased with myself I sat back down to revel in the victory, staring beyond the window into space. However badly I had come off in my previous attempts of the afternoon, I now had successfully taken at least one step in the right direction and for that I was eternally proud. Hopefully the act of drawing would keep him occupied for at least half an hour, perhaps even longer if I was lucky. However, a few minutes later a very small voice cut into my thoughts.
“Father says you’re a writer.”
Snapping back into the present, I looked around suddenly. The scuffed pencil in Langley’s fist was no longer moving about. It remained frozen next to a page which housed four very round and oversized letters that seemed to form a hesitant “LuNG.” The boy’s eyes were trained back at the writing desk again. It took me a moment for my brain to process his question.
“I-ehrm… yes. I suppose you could call me that,” I finally responded, studying Langley and trying to make out what was taking place just beyond those bottomless eyes.
Langley looked over the countless piles of paper that had spilt over every possible surface of the desk.
“Father says you write a lot,” he said again, slowly, a sheepish tinge to his words.
“I do,” I said, running my fingers through my hair and massaging the back of my skull in an act that I could neither label mild complacency nor embarrassment. “I do indeed.”
There was a pregnant pause before Langley allowed anything else to come from his mouth. Yet when it did, there was something very recognizable in the way he let it timidly emerge that made me wonder if he had not been nursing the question somewhere in the back of his mind for a very long time.
“What about?”
It was at that moment that it all became clear to me. Langley Harangue didn’t want to eat. He did want to draw. He didn’t want to be told that he looked a bit older or a foot taller and he didn’t want to carry on senseless small talk with a complete stranger. Langley Harangue just wanted a story.
I could no more see my brother or his wife telling the boy a bedtime story than I could see them hiring a nanny to do it for them. Edie, in all her practiced poise and cover girl chic, would never begin a sentence with “once upon a time.” Niicholas, in his ruthless attempt to fulfill the code of conduct that was his life, would never conclude a speech with “happily ever after.” I knew it was hopelessly biased and not at all fair to think, but try as I might, I simply could not see Langley’s parents filling their child’s mind with anything but pure and solid fact. They were no panderers of fiction and they would not be caught polluting his mind with superfluous fluff.
I suddenly felt a sense of duty far greater than any tenuous title of “Uncle” offered me.
“Oh, I write about all sorts of things, really,” I replied, my mind racing.
The only problem was that I was at a loss of what to share. The majority of material I had ever churned out and committed to paper dealt exclusively with very depressing things indeed. Rapidly going down a mental checklist, I found that all of the stories that came to mind seemed to be entirely obsessed with mid-life crises, early deaths, and self-inflicted mental squalor. It wasn’t that I was completely ashamed of the topics I wrote about, it was merely that I hadn’t exactly written them with a child audience in mind. I figured I could regale certain portions of them to Langley, but he had the whole of his pubescent years ahead of him and I simply did not pride myself a better author to human misery than they.
Then, quite unexpectedly, help came in the form of a sweetly ignorant offense that only a six-year old nephew could ever hope to pull off.
“Father says you write a lot of drivel.”
There was the Niicholas Harangue I knew and loved. I barked out a laugh but quickly stopped when I heard the flicker of a figurative light bulb come to life just above my head.
“Oh yes!” I replied quickly, a grin spreading from ear to ear. “Drivel. I have quite a few stories about him. He’s the Most Brilliant Boy in the World, you know.”
“That’s his name?” Langley asked in a hushed curiosity.
“Mm-hm. Only that’s his surname. His first name is… Lung,” I answered, eyes darting across the boy’s pencil marks. “Lung Drivel, the Most Brilliant Boy in the World.”
“That’s a silly name.”
“Of course it is! With a name like that you’d either have to be very brilliant or very unfortunate, and ol’ Lung decided being unlucky just didn’t suit him.”
Langley’s questions were gradually growing in their intensity: “How old is he?”
“Oh, I’d say he was exactly the age you are now. Right down to the day.”
“And he’s really smart?”
“That’s the thing,” I began, slipping into the familiar frame of mind that came with a sudden bout of creative inspiration. “He’s no smarter than you or I. Fact is, he’s just as intelligent as the next boy in his class. But what Lung is is brilliant. The most brilliant, to be precise, which doesn’t just mean he can add or subtract or spell. It means he can think of up the all sorts of ideas, he can think of all sorts of ways to use them, he can think up just the right things to say, and he can think up who to say them to. There’s quite a difference between just knowing your numbers and letters and knowing how to fit them all together just right. And Lung Drivel can do just that. Better than anyone else.”
“In the world,” finished Langley, holding onto his knees and leaning forward slightly.
“In the world. He’s done all sorts of things and traveled to all sorts of places and seen all sorts of amazing really fantastic things. So many I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” I said, leaning closer to the boy as his deep dark eyes grew the widest I’d seen them yet. “So you tell me. Which one would you like to hear first?”
(the harangues again. for the final piece of the year in my creative writing class.)
.nat
Show us some art in your home.
why my christmas break was a little too long. took about two days to finish this thing and i still had ample time to do nothing afterwards.
.nat
Return
A dark blur appeared on the warped frosted glass pane of the front door. As the padded footsteps that accompanied it grew louder, the blur bled out larger and larger until I could make out the melted features of my mother on the other side. There was a click and a scrape and the door opened inward as Mrs. Harangue peered out from behind it, smiling her small, weathered little smile. A few loosened strands of her hair had escaped the saggy bun at the back of her head and quivered slightly beside her face from the outside air. She stood in the cool air and looked at me for a good minute or two.
“Hello Stirling,” she said quietly, “How was your trip?”
“Fine. Nice to see you again,” I replied, following her through the entrance and closing the door behind me.
The presence within the house had both a familiar and foreign quality about it. I recognized the thick feel of the air, the enveloping of the dusty motes around my body as if the house swallowed me whole as soon as I entered through the front door. I remembered in my early years lying in bed and watching the sluggish arms of dust specks curl and fall in the morning light that came through the windows. The dust had a pointless yet friendly relationship with the house itself. It never seemed to settle on the surface tops, opting instead to wander airborne through halls and rooms, politely parting when one passed through it. But something about it seemed dense now. The once gentle, almost protective feel of the air now threatened to press ever closer and its irritable temper was unsettling.
“Wick should be down soon. He’s up in his room at the moment, doing I’m not sure what,” Mrs. Harangue’s tired voice broke through my thoughts.
She was referring to my youngest sibling, whose full name was Wicker Riley Smith Harangue. Wicker had returned to his upstairs room ever since he had graduated from University with a Bachelors in Media Theory & Juxtaposition four years ago. To the best of my knowledge, not one member of the family knew what he had been doing since.
“I’m so glad you were able to make it down here on such short notice,” Mrs. Harangue continued, heading for the kitchen. “I think it’ll mean a lot to your brother. Niicholas is already here, by the way; he’s in the sitting room, why don’t you go through and say hello.”
As Mrs. Harangue continued down the hallway towards the smell of cooking food, I took a right and entered the sitting room. Niicholas, my eldest brother, looked up from the overstuffed chair he was sitting in.
“Stirling,” he stated solemnly, “It’s certainly been a while. How’ve you been?”
“Alright, I suppose. And yourself?” I replied, on autopilot.
“Oh, incredibly busy, but what else is new,” Niicholas rattled off as if reading from the dictionary.
There was a long, strained pause between the two of us as I remained standing and he remained sitting. Finally, rolling up his sleeves with two theatrical flourishes, he heaved a heavy sigh.
“My Lord is it stuffy in here, or what? What’s she got the heat turned up to? Stir, go turn it down if you can.”
Seizing the opportunity to leave the stifling room, I quickly turned and went back into the hallway. I knew exactly where the thermostat was, but I took my time to reach it, still halfway lost in various childhood memories.
“You finally decide to show up and the first thing you do is mess with the cozy atmosphere?” came a slick, wet voice from behind me.
I turned around to face a slender young man at the foot of the staircase. He was leaning against the banister in a practiced pose that radiated an apathetic air.
“Nice to see you, Wicker,” I said, smiling with recognition.
“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,” he said, getting up and walking across the hall. “She makes a huge fuss if you change it even one degree. Did I hear that our dear Niicky’s here already?”
I nodded.
“Oh joy,” he said flatly and drifted into the sitting room without a sound.
The doorbell rang suddenly, causing me to jump. Swiveling around I noticed a small obscured figure through the front door window. Quickly unlatching the entrance, two hands came bursting through the doorway and I found myself in the middle of a tight embrace.
“Stir! We haven’t seen you in forever!” a muffled voice sprang out from my shoulder. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, Bel. Having a bit of trouble breathing at the moment. And yourself?”
Bel Harangue quickly detached herself and beamed. “I’m sorry, Stir. It’s just been a while.”
“So everyone’s been saying.”
I helped her with her coat as Bel’s cheery expression began to fade. Suddenly she turned to face me, her eyes now looking up at me gravely.
“Have you seen him yet, then?” she said in a hushed voice. “Mum’s only told me about it. I haven’t had a chance to see him until now and I feel absolutely terrible about it. You don’t seriously think something’s wrong with him, do you?”
“I really don’t think so, Bel. I mean I haven’t seen him either but I doubt it’s anything to get worried about. Anyway, I don’t think he’s arrived.”
“Really?” she asked, visibly relaxing, “I thought I saw his car out front.”
She began to hurry towards the sitting room. “Oh, I really hope it’s nothing serious. I mean, of all the kids, why on earth would it be Shie?”
“You’re talking about our family, Bel. Which one of us wouldn’t do something like that?”
“Which one of us wouldn’t do what?” Niicholas asked, his head snapping over in my direction as we entered the sitting room.
“Nothing,” I said, as Bel made a beeline to the two, squeezing them each with hugs.
“If you were talking about a certain someone who would do a certain something that is certainly very childish requiring us all to come out here and see for ourselves,” Niicholas said all in one irritated breath, “then it certainly wouldn’t be me. Anyway, we all know who you’re talking about, and I for one think this is an absolute a waste of time.”
“Really, Niicholas. I think it’s quite good that everyone’s back for once. And I think we owe it to Shie. He’s usually the least of our worries, so the least we could do is be there for him when something does happen.”
“He’s not dying, Bel. He’s just throwing a fit probably because he thinks he was ignored for so long,” Wicker threw out lazily. “All it is is just a big cry for attention.”
“Something I’m sure a few of us are quite familiar with,” Niicholas let slip out, examining his fingernails.
The last remark was left wholly ignored; something the Harangues are quite good at doing. Bel gave a short sigh of frustration and directed her attention back to Wicker.
“We don’t even know what’s wrong with him. For all you know he could be dying, or, or mentally unstable. And if he was, then how would you feel?”
“I don’t think a dying man would be wearing what he’s wearing,” Mrs. Harangue said softly.
Everyone turned to look at her, as she stood framed in the doorway, wringing a tea towel in both hands. It took a moment for everyone to realize she had been there for quite some time.
“You’ve seen him then? How is he?” I asked slowly.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s been in the dining room for half an hour now. He’s refused to talk until everyone came.”
Bel, Niicholas, and I exchanged looks before getting up and hurrying to the dining room. Obviously not bothered with keeping up with the rest of us, Wicker followed at his own pace, Mrs. Harangue bringing up the rear. The dining room hadn’t changed since last I’d seen it. In the middle of the room the enormous oak table stood, countless nicks and scratches on its surfaces. Sitting patiently on the left-hand side was Shie. Shie’s immensely black eyes were obscured, however, by a pair of green-tinted goggles. In fact, the majority of Shie’s head was covered by a weathered-looking WWI gas mask that both hid his expression and echoed each hollow breath he took. He remained still as we spilled into the dining room, stopping abruptly at the doorway to stare at him.
“Shie?” Bel said as softly as she could.
The long leather snout turned to face us blankly. The oversized goggles reflected two tiny sets of our stares back to us.
“He’s had it on for two days now. Stir, talk to him. He said he wanted to see you specifically,” Mrs. Harangue whispered, although the entire room could hear her perfectly.
I turned red as soon as she said these words. I immediately knew why I had been called yesterday and pleaded with to come over for dinner. I immediately realized why our brother had donned the mask and refused to talk to the others, and I immediately recalled a conversation with the boy that had occurred on the day I had graduated and left the house.
“You’ll come by to visit, won’t you?” Shie had said, helping me drag several bags of luggage to the taxi waiting out front. “Because I don’t think we’ll be able to function without you around. I think we’d all suffocate and die if you didn’t stop by to clear the air once in a while.”
Despite the flood of guilt that now washed over me, I grinned at the glassy lenses that stared at me. The silence hung thick in the suffocating air.
“I’m back,” I told the gas mask. “Shall we eat?”
[end]
(the harangues have been in my head for a very long time. it was nice to get a few of them out.)
The young man left the store a good ten minutes before the young woman, so his reflection had to hide first. He had been browsing around the garden trowel display, she had been perusing the vacuum cleaner aisle all the way on the other side of the building. Neither of them realized it when they walked out the exit without their reflections. The image of the young man was able to fake a renewed interest in the top left trowel on the rack just as his body turned to leave. His reflection had found it quite easy to simply stay put on the tool without detection. He was a bit warped in the concave scoop but it suited him just fine for the time being. He didn’t mind that sort of thing.
Her reflection’s lingering had proved a bit more difficult. The young woman was more the type to notice things gone missing, but her image managed to stand stock still in the narrow metallic handle of an upright Hoover long enough for her body to leave without her. It wasn’t all that bad in the end, as the drastic slimming effect seemed to help.
The two had been eyeing each other from either end of the store ever since their bodies had entered it. Frustrated the young man himself hadn’t noticed the girl, his reflection took it upon himself to start the introductions. He had winked at her, but only her likeness in the silverware set next to her had caught the gesture and reciprocated. It smiled back at him and fluttered a few fingers as a friendly response.
And so, in a silent agreement, they had both decided to meet after the hosts had left. The young man’s reflection grinned at her reflection on the handle and gestured towards the middle of the store. She nodded back and both began to make their way to the meeting point as discreetly as they could.
Her image oozed gracefully on and off each handle and reached the wall clocks where she shed the appropriate opacity and rounded each face with practiced skill. His reflection flashed past each trowel to jump an aisle and end up in a field of faucet heads, stacked nearly as high as the ceiling. As each made their bending twisting rising falling journey towards the middle, they never took their eyes off each other.
Both of them had enough sense to avoid the mirror display. If they were to be noticed bodiless and surreal by any passing customer, it would most definitely happen within the frame of a looking glass. The panes were relentless in their sense of duty. Every host, when faced with a clear view of themselves, would not fail to sneak a look. Some, far less discreet than others, would find no embarrassment in specifically stopping to spend several minutes in front of themselves to adjust their hair or examine a blemish. Most, however, would race past the field of vision and dart their eyes towards their scurrying counterparts to acknowledge what they saw.
Still others (the most dangerous of all) would find an excuse to study their surroundings lazily just to the right or left of a mirror, until their eyes fell, precise and planned, onto their reflection within the frame. There they would perform the casual check-up before allowing their gaze to drift and feet to amble once again.
Reaching the middle of the store, his and her reflections found safe refuge amongst a gaggle of morose-looking garden ornaments. His image grew to accommodate a porcelain gnome’s flowerpot, her likeness shrank to fit a bright and shiny whirligig, still from the dead air. Both had come to the inevitable stand-still in their relationship. As each reflection looked around desperately for an appropriately large and polished object to house them both, their hearts sank.
Then, all at once, both pairs of eyes came to rest on a small and lonely looking display toaster sitting on a shelf near the back. It was smudged from curious pawing, a dent on the top. From the flowerpot and whirligig they exchanged glances of agreement. It took only a few seconds for the pair to race to it. There they slipped on in one fluid move and embraced.
It wasn’t much but it was a place to call their own, nonetheless. They knew from experience the practicality and sweet anonymity of residing on a kitchen appliance. One was either too bleary from sleep or rushed in preparation or starving from hunger to ever bother noticing what they looked like, ballooned up and stretched beyond flattery in the surface of a toaster or frying pan. Here they could hide, undetected, for as long as they liked. Their hosts would soon grow or meet or bump into a new reflection for themselves; however the process of obtaining one worked. As far as his and her reflections were concerned, it wasn’t their problem anymore.
[end]
(another writing assignment for class. the original idea was provided by a dear friend quite a long time ago, but i never did anything with it until now.)
.nat
[Untitled Writing Excercise]
Tuesday, February 8th
Situation has grown complicated, newcomer blocking my view has refused to move. This marks Day 3 in series of days unable to successfully gain full view of intended Subject.
Also: unforeseen complications grow surrounding neutral relationship w/ Head Librarian. Irritation at “lack” of doing anything “productive” (her terms) leads to unwanted attention directed towards me (i.e. glaring, scowling, clicking of tongue whilst maintaining decidedly unfriendly eye contact). Have concluded—dutiful keeping of logbook aids in:
A.) Appearance of studious behavior.
B.) Significant decrease of unwanted attention. (anonymity concerning staff, patrons not specially related to Subject)
Wednesday, February 9th
Plan B officially in effect. Move to the left (three chairs) now alleviates previous congestion, provides unblocked view of Subject. Subject twice glances in direction of current location. Possible awareness of my existence surely on horizon. In all, a good day.
Thursday, February 10th
Obtained from minor reconnaissance work: Subject’s first name (as was previously theorized) Regina. Information compiled during events as such:
1.17 PM - Regina’s acquaintance recognizes Regina approx. 12 ft. away.
1.18 PM – Regina + Regina’s acquaintance (roommate?) begin short conversation.
1.21 PM - I feign desire for water, locate and proceed to strategically placed fountain (approx. 4 ft. away from conversation).
1.28 PM – Regina’s acquaintance uses name “Regina” as form of persuasion within body of speech (exact usage: “Regina, you know I’ll pay you right back.”)
Note: Acquaintance failed to divulge surname. Regina’s full title still shrouded in mystery.
Friday, February 11th
Change in physical appearance(!) --> Regina arrives twenty-eight minutes late with (endearing) new hairstyle. Black, cropped shoulder-length, barrette above left temple. Attraction factor multiplied ten fold (possible eleven?).
Complications ensue as Head Librarian questions relevance of logbook at 3.18 PM. Previous brainstormed list of possible excuses proves useful. Harsh questioning is drastically reduced after “Penning Review of Dewey Decimal System” explanation is employed. Visible reluctance at retreating behind desk = lingering doubt? New alibi Monday for safety measures (weekend hours nonexistent; Regina’s study limited exclusively to weekdays).
P.S. St. Valentine’s Day Monday. Due to heightened affection surrounding holiday, plan to commence in introductions leading to probable cause of blossoming relationship (claims of relationship starting on Valentine’s Day will most likely win various listeners’ favor with evident poetic romanticism.)
Monday, February 14th
Failure to commence introductions. Anxiety levels dangerously high.
Tuesday, February 15th
Have been banned from library. Failed to produce adequate research on Dewey Decimal System. Head Librarian smug.
Wednesday, February 16th
Plan C officially in effect. New persona. Disguise consists of:
1.) One (1) sequined handbag, black.
2.) One (1) velvet ascot, black.
3.) One (1) necklace of pearls.
4.) One (1) roll of yarn, off-white or cream.
5.) One (1) pair of reading glasses, purchase of lorgnettes to follow.
6.) Two (2) knitting needles.
7.) One (1) can of theatrical hair dye (#423: Silver Gray)
Have successfully convinced majority of patrons in library with faux identity. Successfully requested and obtained new library card (employed new voice) from Head Librarian, made out to one, Vera Agnew. Chose novel thought to be appropriate for 78-year old grandmother of seven to “skim.” Title: The Scarf by Francis Durbridge. In all, a good day.
Thursday, February 17th
Possible compromise of elderly façade. 12.36 PM, in restrooms to alleviate self --> reflection in mirror leads to realization that costume (in entirety) has been left on. Aquamarine eyeshadow + Gents toilets = unwanted notice from passersby. Man of forty, blonde hair, brown eyes, approx. 5’10” enters at 12.37 PM.
Avoidance of eye contact necessary, feigned interest in condom dispenser on opposite wall crucial for minimal exposure. Purchase of one (1) condom occurs during 49 seconds man takes to wash hands in sink. Total recognition from man unknown. Identity concealment through condom involvement thought to be success.
Friday, February 18th
Mission failure. Distinct lack of complete interest (however falsely rooted) from Regina solidified by first/final confrontation. Preliminary response to proposed get-together: “I’m not really into… elderly women.” Followed closely (directly after unveiling) with “Or your type.” Note: tonal emphasis on “your.”
Thus, with noted heavy heart, herein ends official account via logbook. Possible secondary subjects of interest:
1.) Head Librarian
[end]
(just a quick writing excercise - the first from my creative writing class this year. we were given several items and asked to create a character based on these objects. obviously the various parts of the costume (sans the grey hair spray) was what was given to me.)
.nat
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Ersatz Smile said:
[this is good]i remember amanda telling me about this quite some time ago read more
on Experimental Storytelling Pt. 6
Your picture caught my attention in the vox hunt, just wanted to let you know I've been inspired! read more
on Vox Hunt: Call Me A Curator