She joins them

~ Christi ~ 2 Comments

Zanna slowed as she neared the crowd. She could hear the flutist playing nearby, and farther off, a group of drummers. The storyteller was elsewhere. An immense woman with grayish, leathery skin and curling locks of white hair draped over her body stood inches from her, and she inched closer until she brushed the woman’s arm. Tilting her head toward her, Zanna caught her attention.

“Oh, my girl, you must be chilled in your thin dress,” the woman wrapped her arm around Zanna. “Let me give you a shawl,” the woman said as she pulled a bright blue knitted blanket from under her tresses. She smiled as she wrapped it around Zanna. “I don’t know you, girl,” she said kindly.

“I am new here,” Zanna answered. “My name is Zanna.”

“Lovely name, girl,” the woman answered. Her eyes glowed with golden light. “Are you joining us here, then?”

“I think so,” Zanna answered. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said, noticing the leggy boys ahead of her with their bony, iridescent wings. Might she get to see them take flight, she wondered.

“It is,” the old woman agreed, nodding toward the twin snowcapped mountains towering in the distance. “I will miss this place if today is my day,” she said. “This is a good place.”

Zanna noticed how warm she felt wrapped in the bright blue blanket, the woman’s wide arms still holding her. She could feel her resolve slipping away. Still a novice, she thought. Still susceptible to experience. She felt the early twinges of disappointment rising in her chest.

The old woman sensed her feelings. “It’s okay, girl. Let’s make a promise. If today is our day, they will remember us in their prayers every Question Day, forever. If it is not, we will remain right here,” she smiled and patted Zanna’s arm.

Zanna nodded at the old woman as she caught a glimpse of the storyteller’s black cloak ahead of them. Her heart lurched.

My Trifecta submission for the week, including the word remember: to keep in mind for attention or consideration.

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She watches

~ Christi

Zanna noticed him weaving in and out through the lines of creatures. His gleaming black cloak seemed to shift and come alive around him as he moved. He drew her attention as he drew theirs. From her hiding place at the edge of the trees, she glimpsed him. She could not make out the color of his eyes from this distance, yet she could sense their brightness. She couldn’t hear his voice but she could tell that he was speaking. She immediately knew that he was different than the others.

The creatures waiting so patiently to answer the priestesses’ questions were waiting for an opportunity, yes. They were kind and loving to one another, yes. But they were following the rules, doing as was expected. The black-cloaked man moved purposefully, unexpectedly. He seemed powerful yet calm, even playful.

From where she was, Zanna could see how he energized the crowd. She could see him seducing them. She wanted to be among the group, listening, being seduced. She needed to hear him. With him as her guide, she would find the quickest path through this new world. The thought made her almost sad, as she wished she could know each of the fantastical creatures. Yet she felt that she must stay focused on her journey and pass as quickly as possible through each new world. The cloaked man would help her find her next death, she was sure of it.

She gathered up the fabric of her white gown around her and set off running from the bank of trees, the deep yellow leaves crunching under her feet and her long dark hair streaming behind her.

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I think I want to join the military

~ Christi

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I like adventure. I want to travel.

I’m not afraid of a little danger. I like to be tested.

I’m good at following directions. I know my place. I respect authority.

I want to help people who need it, and I want to make the world a better, safer place.

I want to be a hero for my kids. I want them to know what I’m capable of.

I want respect for what I do.

I like cold, hard, gritty reality.

I think I’m tough enough to pull it off. What do you think?

If she could do it, so can you

~ Christi ~ 2 Comments

My mom used to be afraid to go out. When I was a kid, until I was eight, she mostly stayed in the house. We lived in a small, suburban apartment, a short walk to a shopping center. We didn’t have a car. When I was really little, the farthest that my mom would go was a fire hydrant that was maybe 100 yards from our door. We used to call it the yellow thing.

“Want to walk to the yellow thing?” my mom would call.

“Yeah,” I’d say and jump up to get my shoes on. I remember being really excited about it.

That went on for years. My mom would need another adult to accompany her to the grocery store, drugstore, doctor’s office, or wherever she needed to go. We didn’t go out much.

Until I was about eight, my mom knew that she had a panic disorder, but I don’t think that she saw a therapist or took any medication for it. I do remember her keeping a jug of wine in the hall closet and having a glass whenever she did have to go out, any time of day.

As a kid, I didn’t think any of that was strange. I didn’t have much comparison, so I just accepted it. I even liked walking to the yellow thing.

One day, out of the blue, when I was about eight, my mom asked me if I wanted to go to Rite Aid to get a candy bar. “Really?” I asked. I couldn’t believe her. I skipped along beside her to the drugstore, practicing my whistling.

A few days later, my mom began seeing a doctor and got a prescription for Xanax. Now I’m not going to lie to you and tell you it was a wonder drug. It wasn’t. She traded her fear of going out for a habit of falling asleep anywhere – on the city bus, at a school assembly, even at the dinner table. I hated it. But my mom’s decision changed our lives. She was suddenly able to take me places – to the mall, to the library, on trips downtown. All of a sudden, my world expanded from the limits of our small apartment.

If my mom were around now, I’d ask her why she decided to change. Did she do it for me? What was it exactly that made her want to be different? What gave her the strength? As a kid, I was thrilled when my mom started venturing out. But now, as an adult and a parent, I can appreciate her choice so much more. It was hard, but she did it anyway. Thanks, Mom, for the great lesson.

I Don't Like Mondays Blog Hop

Go plant some bulbs

~ Christi

I planted my bulbs yesterday. Luckily I snatched up one of the last few sunny, tolerably cool days left this fall. In other words, perfect bulb-planting weather. I do it every year, and now that the kids are old enough to help me, it only takes an hour or so to plant a few hundred bulbs. Yeah, the soft Midwestern soil helps, too. You can practically dig a hole with a plastic spoon around here.

When I plant my bulbs, I am usually a little sad about wintertime. Winter is hard to look forward to, especially since it lasts for six months here. Planting bulbs is not my last chance to be outside – no, not with three kids. Kids need fresh air and exercise all year, so I find myself outside, at the park, building snowmen, having snowball fights, all winter long. No it’s no longer a last chance, but it is the last time until spring that I spend time outside because I want to.

Planting bulbs is a study in patience. The cold, leaf-covered ground looks like it would rather be left alone. Yesterday was sunny, but it could have just as easily been overcast, even rainy. I still would have been out there, planting. The bulbs themselves are ugly, and confusing – I can never quite tell which side should point up. Once I plant them, and replace the soil, everything looks the same as before I began. Afterward, no one would ever guess that I’d just planted 300 bulbs in the yard.

Then I’m left with a wait. Around here, the earliest bulbs don’t come up until April. That is five long, cold, dark months. All I have to tide myself over is a secret. A new life is overwintering in the snow-covered soil. Chances are I’ll forget all about those bulbs come December. By the time February rolls around it feels like the world will forever be gray. At least around here, winter kind of kills hope.

Sometime around the end of March, I usually find myself drawn outside almost against my will. By March, 30 degrees feels warm, and I can shed my down coat, hat, and boots and have a look around. Usually the kids notice the first green shoots before I do. But there they are, poking up from the muddy garden. It’s awesome.

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Now you see it, now you don’t

~ Christi ~ 9 Comments

There’s a chance that Geoff might get fired today. I really wish that I were joking, but I’m not. If you know me, know him, then you probably want to laugh anyway. You’d know how crazy it sounds. Geoff gets promoted, not fired. In fact, he has been promoted twice in three years. You’d know – without me having to tell you – how hard he works and how much he accomplishes. He’s a doer. It’s a challenge to find him not doing something even in his free time. Imagine how much he can accomplish when you throw money into the mix.

If you know Geoff, then you know what a nice guy he is, how agreeable he is. He rarely ever gets angry. It’s one of the things that I love most about him. You’d know that he’s really smart and that he has an uncanny ability to teach himself anything that he wants to know. You’d know that he is an innovator, always thinking of ways to make things work faster, more efficiently, no matter how small.

So, if you knew all of these things about him, would you believe that it would ever be possible for someone to turn all of Geoff’s skills, all of his gifts, against him? Could you believe someone who cast a light in such a way as to make his attributes look like flaws? Would you buy it that he is a liability, not an asset to his company?

Well, it happened.

How, you ask? Well I’m not positive, but I have a suspicion that emotions are to blame. I could go into the gritty details, but I don’t think it really matters. Suffice it to say that emotions are like a magician’s bag of tricks. In one set of hands, a dove flies out of a top hat. In another set, the top hat holds a cloud of gloomy black smoke. It’s a simple illusion, nothing more than a manipulation.

Just remember, not everything is as it seems. I’m half hoping that he does get fired today. Maybe it’s just the kind of motivation that I need to find my way back to the workforce. Maybe we can use the time off and severance money to take a trip. I hear Hawaii is nice this time of year.

Postscript: Geoff just texted me — he’s still employed. Whew. I think.

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.