Tantrum Tremors (FFM Day 8)God, reincarnated and still bundled in diapers, throws himself to the floor and screams. A giraffe chewy falls from his mouth; his hands beat against the blue-gray linoleum. Stricken, his nursemaids and I rush to soothe him, cursing. Holy or not, two-year-old God is a terror.
The morning started off fine. He'd managed to Houdini his way out of the crib--and the locked nursery--before the sun tinged the clouds with highlights, leaving a trail of milk through Heaven. He got halfway to Earth before the night shift, cross and tired, caught up with him and passed him over. He'd finger-painted his oatmeal across his highchair and dropped his Snoopy sippy cup just to be funny. He'd then settled in to watch his favorite movie: Finding Nemo. Nestled on my lap, he'd spent the first part of the movie dozing.
Just as Dory was begging Marlin not to leave her, not to let her forget, God went looking for his ratty, hand-me-down blanket--and came b
Marble Memories (FFM Day 7)In a room of bone clocks, she cradles a soul in her palms. The last gasps of his life are hydrangea peach, flickers of fire reflecting off the crystals hanging from each timepiece. Amber chews on her lip, gaze jumping from wall to wall. She pushes a thick sheaf of honey-blonde hair from her face, thinking.
When the test results came back, they'd covered every angle. He obtained a DNR and found a doctor willing to help him pass quick and painless. He begged for cremation, and left her instructions. He wanted to be a firework; he told her who to invite, and where to send him off, and what song to sing as the colors of his ashes faded into the night.
They never discussed what to do after. What to do with his soul.
Amber started with Heaven. He'd always been a gentle, kindly man. He'd take the shirt off his back for the homeless in the winter; he'd set families up in hotel rooms if funds were tight and they needed to get away.
Studying Wishes (FFM Day 6)Wishes.
People make them all the time--on bones, on weeds, on stars, on time. People take them for granted, wish for things out of fear or desperation or, in most cases, boredom. Only weeks after the incident, Trytion wishes people would just stop wishing. He doesn't dare speak these words aloud--people are always left wanting, and wishing is natural. Besides, he'd wished for something once. Just out of the hospital, right after the accident. He'd been waiting to cross the street, his head pounding with incessant voices, his knees still weak and knocking. He hadn't been thinking. The road is still littered with the abandoned skeletons of broken cars. The city is a graveyard of metal, left rusting in the elements.
Trytion holds a hand out, examining the hazy green tinge of his fingernails in the sunlight. Hiphop blares from his earbuds--a pretense, really. He hears any wish made, listening or not.
Walter's Ear (FFM Day 5)The joint is hopping, the buzz of rumors and half-truths bouncing across the skirts of the flappers on the floor. I sigh, slipping my finger around the rim of my glass.
"Flo, baby--why the long face?" Clarence pulls up a bar stool, ice clanking as his whiskey sloshes over the top of his glass. He sets it down and licks his fingers, casting an appraising eye over my slouched shoulders.
I straighten my back, paste on a smile, and wink. "Oh, the usual. The fuzz raided Earl's last week--heard it was Ruby dropped the dime on 'em." This is only mostly true, and Clarence knows. He lets it lie, waving the barkeep over for another round. But when my smile slips, he sees.
"What's really goin' on, doll? Don't pretend with me."
A streak of knotted wood in the floor catches my eye and I remind myself to sand it down next off-day. I chew the tip of a nail and catch his glance, trying not to blubber. "Hear about Walter?"
Toe Fetish (FFM Day 4)Madhatter's Musings--Toe Fetish
Posted November 1st, 2034 -- 10:59 AM
All Hallow's Eve.
The light of red-flame candles cast embers over the headstones around us. Balthazar, with his long black cloak sweeping behind him in the wind, performed the ceremony. Only our closest friends were in attendance, deep purple veils blurring their somber faces. We were told the dead would walk with us. We didn't see any.
Guzzle was on his best behavior! He gurgled his lines on cue, lunged for my hand to give me his ring, and didn't try to eat anyone. Of course, this might have been due to the warning I'd attached to the wedding invites when he wasn't looking. I didn't want my night--or my dress!--getting ruined.
After my "I do" and Guzzle's bleary-eyed smile, we brought out the cake. Thick, gooey strawberry sauce oozed from the places the knife cut, just as ordered. Guzzle pounced on it soon after the first piece, smear
Centaur Fortunes (FFM Day 2)In the midnight-dark of the tent, the heavy beat-boxing from the lawn gnomes' quarter of the circus square takes on a haunting, thready quality--a funeral march interrupted by drum solos and snares. Small strips of daylight creep in where the ground is uneven, a Morse code S.O.S created by people walking outside. It's a form of deprivation. The dark, the babble of noise, and the strong smell of Kettle corn boiling in the demons' slice of fairgrounds have Deetrix reeling, confused. In a lull, Deetrix hears it. Someone is breathing, a heavy rasping between lips.
"Hello? I was told this was the fortune booth? Is anyone..."
A shuffling scrape to her left draws her short. Chewing on the star of her just-manicured nails, Deetrix wonders if the centaurs have stepped out for lunch. Around the circus, this tent was legend--she'd been hearing people talk about it all morning. Earlier, while standing in line to see the mermaids' concert, Deetr