The storyteller

~ Christi

This post is a continuation of this and this. Let’s see where it’s going…

The storyteller wore his hair and beard in braids, thin and long, some dark some light. Some had bells tied to the end, so he jingled nearly constantly. His deep green eyes glowed brightly, the sign of his gift. His tall figure moved gracefully in and out of the lines, his shimmering black robe billowing slightly in the cool air. Those waiting moved aside in anticipation of his passing, almost imperceptibly creating a living maze through which he passed freely. As he walked, he spoke, telling his stories.

“It all began with a girl,” he said. “The girl was born before her time, so that her very birth was nearly her death. Her early brush with the other side strengthened the girl, and foretold of many more deaths to come. This girl was greatly half-loved.”

“How can a child be only half-loved?” asked a gorgeous centaur woman of the passing storyteller, her silver hair falling to her shining flanks, a woven shawl wrapped over her shoulders barely concealing her breasts.

The storyteller paused for a moment, turned, and smiled when he saw his intruder. “One of her makers refused her. The other worshipped her. Alas, she was only ever half-loved,” he nodded, his eyes on her nearly visible breasts.

“The girl learned to read early, he continued, moving on through the maze with a swish of his robe. She read books and memorized her favorite characters, until they became part of her. Her family realized her gift for language and began to encourage her. She studied with tutors until it became clear that she could learn any foreign tongue within hours of exposure. Her tutors recommended that she travel. Her family refused, preferring to keep her safe within the walls of her home. She continued to read and to study, and to work with her teachers as best she could. She learned many skills; she dabbled in art and healing, in martial arts and meditation. She learned to combine flavors unusual and delicious ways. Most valuably, she learned to make people like her. As she grew, she became very well known.”

The storyteller brushed up against a tall, thin creature with a long neck and a dark, handsome face. The creature wore nothing but its glossy black fur and carried a large sack of roasted nuts, which filled the air with cinnamon. At the creature’s touch, the storyteller turned and placed a hand on his silken back. He snatched a bag of nuts from the sack, paying with a smirk and a bat of his eyelashes. He fluidly slipped around the creature and moved on through the maze. He was gathering attention.

“When the girl found herself a woman, she left home for good and traveled. She continued to pick up languages on her journeys, and she came to know many people in many ways. In some places she found friends and was well-loved, and in others, she was mistrusted, turned away. Her life had always been both, and she carried on,” the storyteller came upon a group of creatures that did not break for him. He reached for a delicate winged woman, lifted her easily, and set her aside. He offered a quick bow and a mischievous glance as thanks and moved on.

“The girl, now a woman, continued her travels until she learned to understand why we do as we do, feel as we feel. She used her gifts wisely and became powerful. Then her deaths began to court her,” the storyteller stopped to listen to a flutist’s tune, his maze momentarily closing in on him.

Maybe I should be a receptionist

~ Christi ~ 27 Comments

She had four different bottles of perfume in her purse. She used to do her makeup at her desk first thing in the morning even though she was pretty enough without it. First, she’d pull her long dark hair into a ponytail. She bubbled. She was recovering from a bout of lung disease and had given up smoking a few months earlier, but can’t you just see her sitting cross-legged at the end of the bar, a glass in front of her and a cigarette in her hand?

She was, what, maybe five years older than me? She hadn’t been to college but was thinking about starting. She was an excellent receptionist and everyone – lawyers, paralegals, clients – liked her, even me. She wasn’t my first girl crush, or my last. I never admitted anything to myself, just kept an admiring eye on her and took a lot of mental notes.

I worked hard that summer, the one after my sophomore year. I earned the money to buy my first car. I had just moved in with Geoff, into his crummy college apartment, and I was thrilled. I cleaned up that slovenly law office. I set to work in May determined to earn enough to buy myself a car by August.

I used to get to work before anyone else. I’d wait outside, reading, until the office opened at 7:30. Subtracting time for lunch, I worked ten-hour days, five days a week. I received time and a half for overtime. I milked every minute out of each day. I started out organizing and relocating all the files that lined halls, which made a good impression. I made a lot of progress in the first few weeks. I wanted everyone to know that I was doing a good job, and it worked.

By the third or fourth week, I slowed down. I bided my time, I chatted with my receptionist. She had a lot of first dates, and she did hang out at the bar. She was interesting. Sometimes she let me fill in at the phones for her while she went to lunch. I wish I could tell you that I did as good a job as her, but I didn’t. I was shy and uncomfortable. I didn’t bubble. I still wore the wrong clothes, had the wrong hair.

Nevertheless, I stuck it out. I worked my ten-hour days until August when the office manager told me that they couldn’t afford my overtime anymore. By then the office was immaculate. I was fine with it – I had $3,000 in the bank and a waiting boyfriend. I cut back to four days a week and bought an ‘83 Toyota Tercel with a manual transmission, which I learned to drive in one day.

The last few weeks, I put some money in the bank for gas and insurance payments. I bought some cute outfits and took some long lunches. A few of the lawyers asked me to stay, to not go back to school, but I refused. I liked my receptionist and as much as I wanted to be like her, I didn’t want to end up like her with a dead-end job and no degree. Do you know what I mean?

Her craft

~ Christi ~ 7 Comments

This post is a continuation of this story, and it includes the word craft: skill in deceiving to gain an end.

She watched from afar, new to this world. Alone, as she had arrived, she lingered in the grove of bare red-barked trees on the hill overlooking the others, watching and gathering her strength. Her death hours earlier had left her weak. She still wore the simple white gown and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She would need to find a way to tie it back. As for weapons, she was armed only with her craft.

She’d have to watch carefully for she sensed that the gathering of odd creatures today was a special one. The clusters seemed peaceful – she could hear soft music playing from tiny flutes and curvy horns. Perhaps weapons would be unnecessary, even useless here. She could feel their anticipation and their secret exhaustion.

To succeed here she’d need sustenance. She needed to learn the ways of the citizens, quickly. Sometimes friendship grew instantly, but more often she had to fight for it. She sensed, pleasantly, that in this world friendship would be easy. The beauty of the unusual creatures struck her, a passing glimpse of sun glinting off of the vibrant fur of a golden bearlike beast and catching the iridescent blue and purple wings of a fairy girl. She noticed that no two creatures were exactly alike. They seemed almost oblivious to their differences, just murmuring to one another and nodding to the passing musicians.

Curious, she crept to the edge of the trees, hoping to overhear their conversations, to learn their lilting tongue. She called on her gift for language, knowing that she would need to speak with them, and soon, to succeed in this world. She would need to make them believe in her if she would ever succeed at leading them, and she knew that she must lead them. Leading them was surely the quickest path to her next death.

Let’s go for a ride

~ Christi ~ 1 Comment

For one whole summer, he drove me everywhere. He had a little blue Mazda that he had named the Smurf. We’d pick up friends and drive downtown to get coffee at Louie’s bookstore or to wander around Fell’s Point laughing at the drunk people. Sometimes we’d go have enormous sundaes at the fancy pastry shop, sometimes we just drove to the park and made out on the grass.

For one whole summer, I was important. I was interesting. I was fun. We had our own silly, secret language to prove it. We were “Smurfing it,” and everyone knew it. We communicated in strange, archaic, made-up words and when we talked it felt like we had always known each other. How could four months feel like a lifetime?

For that summer, we were always together but never alone. Our friends were our witnesses, they were our audience, and they created us. Without their eyes on us, we would have been boring, bored. With them, we were everything. We spoke in imaginary words and made out under blankets, and they observed us on the outskirts, soaking up our excess energy.

Without our friends, we took a few trips together. Alone, we researched obscure authors. We fought. We crammed too much into that summer. Alone, we flared and burned out.

Two decades have passed and it dawns on me. Aren’t we all always waiting for someone to pull up in their cool car and roll down the window, point a finger, and grin? “Get in. Let’s have some fun.” And we would. Aren’t we all waiting for someone to notice us, to take an interest, to make us feel special? Don’t we all want to attract an audience? Isn’t that what our lives are all about?

I Don't Like Mondays Blog Hop

Question day

~ Christi ~ 9 Comments

Thirty-three words to follow Maggie Stiefvater’s quote from The Scorpio Races:

“It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.”

They queued up anxiously outside—beasts, nymphs, giants, wise men—each desiring to trade the damp gray of today’s reality for the mystical vibrancy of the next. Yet only one would be chosen.

Today I began working on Trifecta’s weekend prompt without reading very closely, and I wrote more than 33 words. I liked what I wrote, so here you go. Thanks for the inspiration, Maggie! My longer version:

They were queued up anxiously outside—rippled beasts, tiny nymphs with gossamer wings, leggy giants, cloaked wise men—each awaiting the opportunity for consideration. They each desired to pass through the gate from this life to the next and to trade the cold damp gray of today’s reality for the warm mystical vibrancy of the next. Yet the futility of it nearly stifled them. One and only one would be chosen.

They shuffled in the line, remarkably calm in the face of such excitement. The larger beings offered their shoulders to the fairies and their backs to the stooped wizards. The storytellers wove their tales of distraction while the crowd inched forward. Those with instruments played quietly. Each and every being would be interviewed on this holy day.

At the front of the line, the white-haired priestess gathered her white robes tighter as she smiled at the elderly wise man in front of her. “What do you want?” she asked kindly, the same question that she would ask of each and every one of the offerlings.

“I want to know myself, that is all,” the wise man answered thoughtfully.

“Yes,” the white priestess answered, offering him her gloved hand.

 

Three nightmares and a revelation

~ Christi ~ 2 Comments

Three nightmares:

A baby, a ladder, a criminal

The baby has a slit neck, blood oozing, gruesome.

A set of ladders, in place of escalators, in the center of a glittering shopping mall. I avoid the climb down.

The criminal invades our home. He sits with my daughter as she draws, chatting with her, influencing her.

It’s risky. No matter how difficult it is for me, it’s time.

 

 

Do you remember?

~ Christi

When I picked you up, you asked me not to touch you.

“I’m not a huggy person,” you mumbled.

I drove you to the mall and bought you a CD. I didn’t know that it was the wrong thing to do. How differently this story might have turned out if we’d gone to a museum instead.

Back at home, we made lasagna for dinner and watched a movie. Your laughter was like music.

You spent the night on our futon, and in the morning you refused our chocolate chip waffles.

“Too sweet,” you said.

You were what, 16? You wore girly clothes and sneakers. You already knew your limits well and stayed away from your fences. I admire your awareness.

I tried to braid your hair in a zig-zag pattern, but I wasn’t yet a mom. I had no clue how to braid. I’m sorry.

We drove you home and waved goodbye as you went inside, not touching, not making future plans.

I failed you.

Your fences felt like brick walls to me and I didn’t try to climb them. You had my heart but I was scared of your fear and your anger. Your not-hugs felt like punishments and I’ve never liked to be punished.

So years passed and I wished things were different. I still refused to learn to climb.

You’re older now and I think I see your bricks beginning to crumble. I see the glimpses of light showing through the cracks. Maybe you’re lonely inside those walls. I’m going to build a fence of my own next to yours, almost but not quite touching. I’m going to share your cracked brick wall.

Let’s not hug, just hang out. Let’s laugh some more. It will be fun.

 

A memory

~ Christi
This was written by my niece, my sister’s daughter. It means a lot to me to have some of her beautiful, heartfelt writing here on my blog. Thanks, S.

As much as I try to deny it and force it back, I find myself thinking about you more and more lately. I spent years suppressing any thought that had to do with you, where you might be, who you could be doing it with, if you’re even alive. What should have been my first indicator that something was not quite right.I don’t remember how old I was, because so much happened in such a short period of time, it all kind of blurs. For a lot of the time I was with her growing up, she was in bed, and I do remember times when I would try to get her up to play with me, while my dad was hard at work, because all I wanted at that time was to be with my mom, even if I was always more of a daddy’s girl. Why isn’t mommy getting out of bed? I never knew until years later, but it did upset me at the time, and I guess my brother did a good job of keeping me distracted while he could.

Either way, I did get some time with her, when she felt good enough to get out of bed. She would creep into my room in the middle of the night, and now, at nearly 30, knowing what I do, I’m not sure if she was completely sober and just wanting to spend time with her little girl, or high on something and needing a junk food binge, but she didn’t want to be alone. My brother never wanted to go, yet I was always willing to climb into the car in my night gown, windows down, music blasting. She would take us up to High’s, a convenience store that was open all night, and I could pick out the candy bar of my choosing. We would keep this secret between us, because, of course, it would upset my dad to know, and I liked keeping secrets at that age. Having the special time with my mom that no one else did.

We would sneak back into the house like criminals in the night, making sure not to wake either of the boys snoozing upstairs, and she would tuck me back into my bed, singing “You Are My Sunshine” to me, in a version she had altered, and I would drift back to sleep.

That’s one of the few good memories I cling to, because not long after that, things went downhill fast. Emotional trauma, divorce, living two separate lives in two separate homes, I don’t really know how I made it this far. Sometimes, I feel her sickness creeping into my brain, like we did on those nights, in the form of my anxiety and depression, on the days when I feel like I can’t leave the house. Does the apple really fall far from the tree, especially when the tree is withered, and the apple gets knocked around and bruised by every branch it hits on the way down? Life is funny that way.

My five-year old won’t talk to grownups (or am I a good enough mom?)

~ Christi ~ 3 Comments

My son started kindergarten a few months ago. With the start of school came a strange new habit. He refuses to talk to grownups at school. Now, Gabe isn’t shy. When he was one, he made friends with parents at his big sister’s preschool, waving and calling “Hi!” down the hallway like a movie star in a fourth of July parade.  At home, he is verbal and emotionally aware. He fills me in on every detail of his day. He sings. He is a chatterbox with his friends’ parents.

Then kindergarten began and he won’t speak a word to any adult at school. When a grownup asks him a question, he freezes and his eyes glaze over. It’s disturbing bordering on frightening. And worse, nothing helps him snap out of it, not a joke, a hug, nothing.

He spent one recess period in the principal’s office, coloring, because he wouldn’t tell the recess helper where he left his sweatshirt. He had an accident a few weeks ago, his first since he was two, because he wouldn’t ask to use the bathroom. When he spilled his juice at snack time, he took his teacher by the hand and led her over to his desk to show her. Great, he’s adapting.

I won’t lie, I am concerned. I want Gabe to be respectful of adults. I don’t want him to turn into the weird kid at school. But his teacher asked me to stay positive, to make a big deal about his good behavior and not say too much about his silence. So I’m trying to stay calm. I’m no helicopter.  And I like that he’s picking up new ways to communicate. I feel a little guilty about never teaching him sign language as a baby. Man, I am such a slacker.

It’s all cool. I want him to learn to how to function in the world on his own. I know it’s not easy out there. He’s making up his own rules. And at least if he refuses to speak to adults, he’ll never end up on some therapist’s couch, complaining about how his mom never forced him to use his words.

I Don't Like Mondays Blog Hop

 

My motivation

~ Christi ~ 6 Comments

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I see you there

Glaring at me

Leering

Taunting

Brimming with hatred

Warning me not to come too close

Not to try

Because my story won’t fit on the shelf next to you.

Thirty-three words inspired by beasts in unexpected places.