Another:
The Circus For Fools
I explore.
The door, old and wrought iron, has tiny little words painted in white all over the bars, and it's all in languages I don't know. To my right are words, white metal bars twisted into the word 'Open'. I feel a bit wary, but all around, on the old bricks is the same iron decorative shapes, some words, some designs, most black, but some little splashes of color. The door swings open without a hitch.
I don't immediately see what it is yet, but there is the noise, the music (for I realize it was music), and people. My eyes adjust to the brightness, and before I'm fully aware of what is going on, a woman about my height marches over, her attire strictly Victorian, and her demeanor friendly. She speaks with a Cockney accent so thick I have to wonder I'm not in England.
She welcomes me, and ushers me farther in--and suddenly I know what this is. A freakshow. I've read about them, and as far as I knew, everyone had abandoned them. They were 'undignified', or something. As far as I was concerned, if the participants were willing, then why not?
It was free, though I didn't actually realize it till I had left. I never saw it again, that magical place, but again, I never knew that until I went back the next day. The people performed stunts I hadn't known existed. I couldn't tell you exactly what had happened, though I do know that woman that greeted me sat beside me most of the night, and only as I left did I notice her skin had an odd, scale-like sheen to it.
The man who seemed to lead the performances was short, and charisma poured from his loud laugh, his sparkling eyes, and every movement of his broad shoulders. He seemed to participate in every act, and I wondered at how one person could be so talented. I did not see anything odd about him either, though every performance, every trapeze artist, every clown and daredevil, seemed to be of a different stock of human. I don't even mean the deformities or oddities, but rather the way they were able to make you see beauty in everything they did.
I was there forever. It seemed as though I were never to leave, I recall eating cakes and drinking tea while sitting on silken pillows--watching a dance of Titiana and Oberon, it felt. Finally, I was almost asleep, and the kind woman who had shown me in leads me to the door. Suddenly there I see him--the ringmaster. He grins at me, and I hear his voice as though it were the only clear sound in my cloudy ears.
"I am glad you enjoyed our performance. " He says nothing else, and I am struck with familiarity. Quietly, I venture, "What is your na--"
He holds a finger to his lips. "Secret. But I promise you this, Clarie--"
My eyes widen, and I step back uncertainly.
He smiles, and I see the flash of teeth. I cannot leave. The woman has stepped in front of the door.
"You...are an extremely delectable fool."
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Hi again! This is a little memory lane sort of piece, for me.
The Orchestra
It is loud. So loud I cover my ears, and drop to my knees behind the bar that, I suppose, is there to keep hapless citizens sliding down the sloped white plaster into the seats below.
It is only what Mema calls the 'warmup', she says they are making sure their instruments are not broken. 'Tuned'. I stick my head up again as it quiets, so I can peep at the orchestra, and try to find the tuba--I think any instrument that's so funny sounding must look funny, too. And it does. But I look back and see Mema's kind of angry look--like she doesn't like what I'm doing, but won't actually tell me to stop. I feel sorry, so I hoist myself back into the scratchy velvet seat and pray it won't fold up again--with me in it.
She smiles softly, her lips wrinkling a bit, and I wonder if it hurts to have all that purple on her mouth. Maybe she will let me try when we get home. I blink, and when I open my eyes the lights are getting darker--I don't know why, because the stage is still bright. A person, tiny and faraway on the stage, walks into the middle and bows. Everyone claps. I think she's holding a stick somewhere, because Mema told me about the 'conductor', who tells the people how to play their music with her hands, and that special stick. Daddy once told me it was a magic wand. I laughed at him and told him how silly he was. He was surprised when I told him how it really worked, how the conductor was making signals to everyone.
The clapping gets quiet, and I quickly stop too, just as a pounding comes, and I can only think whoever is playing must be having a lot of fun.
But when it keeps going, I realize it must be angry. The drum is being helped by a really loud thing, I don't know what, and I am frightened almost, my hand sneaks over to Mema. The drumming goes on, quieter but faster, and the music sounds like....like an army. Marching. I close my eyes and see them, lots and lots of people fighting some shadowy dragon. I bite my lip, and then look up, open my eyes as a sweet sound changes the music. The army won, I think, and they are happy. I want them to go home to their families, and I think that's what the music says. It is still loud, but the happy sound goes away...and the angry fighting comes back. I don't like it, and I watch carefully, hoping for another ending.
When it's over, I run around in the park outside, and touch the statue of a woman, with her mosaic skirt. I think she is sad looking, and I ask Mema if she is the mom of a fighter. She doesn't know, but I try to make a statue out of the dirt, to make her family again. Mema watches, and when we leave to get french fries and applesauce, there are three little people leaning against the lady.
The Orchestra
It is loud. So loud I cover my ears, and drop to my knees behind the bar that, I suppose, is there to keep hapless citizens sliding down the sloped white plaster into the seats below.
It is only what Mema calls the 'warmup', she says they are making sure their instruments are not broken. 'Tuned'. I stick my head up again as it quiets, so I can peep at the orchestra, and try to find the tuba--I think any instrument that's so funny sounding must look funny, too. And it does. But I look back and see Mema's kind of angry look--like she doesn't like what I'm doing, but won't actually tell me to stop. I feel sorry, so I hoist myself back into the scratchy velvet seat and pray it won't fold up again--with me in it.
She smiles softly, her lips wrinkling a bit, and I wonder if it hurts to have all that purple on her mouth. Maybe she will let me try when we get home. I blink, and when I open my eyes the lights are getting darker--I don't know why, because the stage is still bright. A person, tiny and faraway on the stage, walks into the middle and bows. Everyone claps. I think she's holding a stick somewhere, because Mema told me about the 'conductor', who tells the people how to play their music with her hands, and that special stick. Daddy once told me it was a magic wand. I laughed at him and told him how silly he was. He was surprised when I told him how it really worked, how the conductor was making signals to everyone.
The clapping gets quiet, and I quickly stop too, just as a pounding comes, and I can only think whoever is playing must be having a lot of fun.
But when it keeps going, I realize it must be angry. The drum is being helped by a really loud thing, I don't know what, and I am frightened almost, my hand sneaks over to Mema. The drumming goes on, quieter but faster, and the music sounds like....like an army. Marching. I close my eyes and see them, lots and lots of people fighting some shadowy dragon. I bite my lip, and then look up, open my eyes as a sweet sound changes the music. The army won, I think, and they are happy. I want them to go home to their families, and I think that's what the music says. It is still loud, but the happy sound goes away...and the angry fighting comes back. I don't like it, and I watch carefully, hoping for another ending.
When it's over, I run around in the park outside, and touch the statue of a woman, with her mosaic skirt. I think she is sad looking, and I ask Mema if she is the mom of a fighter. She doesn't know, but I try to make a statue out of the dirt, to make her family again. Mema watches, and when we leave to get french fries and applesauce, there are three little people leaning against the lady.
Well, another catch-up piece.
Connie's Cuties!
"Welcome, welcome!" The woman at the door embodied hustle and bustle, red frizzy hair, quick legs, and a loud voice. There were no customers in the shop, which had a cozy facade, all wooden siding and pastel paint, cute little shutters with flowerpots in the windows, but inside was an almost factory-like atmosphere, employees rushing to and fro, all but for one man.
He was standing in a corner, arms cradled to hold something small, something he clearly cherished. His uniform was plain, simple and some would say historic, a tunic over loose pants, and soft leather shoes, the front emblazoned with the cheery slogan, "A Baby Fills A Place In Your Heart You Never Knew Was Empty! ~ Connie's Cuties--pick up your baby today!"
Ha. This was no shop for babies. Why bother having a facade? This man knew the answer. And now, he was busy. Quite busy, in fact, for in his strongly muscled arms, a tiny 'bundle of joy' lay squirming, mewling like a kitten. This baby, this infant, was none other than Julian Tiber Kermit. General of the Frisian army.
Why, then, is he a baby? That is most likely the question that springs to mind. If not, well, too bad. That's the one that is most likely to be answered.
By this man. This man, cradling the thing in his arms, is none other than the brother of our illustrious general.
Justin Rhine Kermit was unseen by many. This facility, used for the age reversal and thus incapacitation of enemies to the Empire, was highly classified, and only the top Frisian agent had a chance. Julian being, well, not his best, that left it up to his heir, successor, and brother to get them out alive. Restoring them to their rightful age should not have been a problem. The problem was getting them out.
And that problem, Justin knew, had one solution--the use of common, industrial-strength, garbage bags.
It had to work.
Connie's Cuties!
"Welcome, welcome!" The woman at the door embodied hustle and bustle, red frizzy hair, quick legs, and a loud voice. There were no customers in the shop, which had a cozy facade, all wooden siding and pastel paint, cute little shutters with flowerpots in the windows, but inside was an almost factory-like atmosphere, employees rushing to and fro, all but for one man.
He was standing in a corner, arms cradled to hold something small, something he clearly cherished. His uniform was plain, simple and some would say historic, a tunic over loose pants, and soft leather shoes, the front emblazoned with the cheery slogan, "A Baby Fills A Place In Your Heart You Never Knew Was Empty! ~ Connie's Cuties--pick up your baby today!"
Ha. This was no shop for babies. Why bother having a facade? This man knew the answer. And now, he was busy. Quite busy, in fact, for in his strongly muscled arms, a tiny 'bundle of joy' lay squirming, mewling like a kitten. This baby, this infant, was none other than Julian Tiber Kermit. General of the Frisian army.
Why, then, is he a baby? That is most likely the question that springs to mind. If not, well, too bad. That's the one that is most likely to be answered.
By this man. This man, cradling the thing in his arms, is none other than the brother of our illustrious general.
Justin Rhine Kermit was unseen by many. This facility, used for the age reversal and thus incapacitation of enemies to the Empire, was highly classified, and only the top Frisian agent had a chance. Julian being, well, not his best, that left it up to his heir, successor, and brother to get them out alive. Restoring them to their rightful age should not have been a problem. The problem was getting them out.
And that problem, Justin knew, had one solution--the use of common, industrial-strength, garbage bags.
It had to work.
Here we go! Another one! FFM is pretty much over, but I can catch up with my postings and such. So here's one:
Life
It was raining. Why, then, did the fire burn so brightly, casting its radiant glow over the three, the woman, her raven locks burnt black as smoke, the man, his eyes burning with the embers of life, and the thing, it's nigh shapeless form cold, but intelligent. The three were the only ones left, you see. Their powers were drained, their knowledge and memory all that remained of the world that had come before.
The world, that still had had life.
But they had hope, well, the man did. The woman had fear, and the thing had only the truth of what was to come, and could not speak of it.
But they toiled, relentlessly building the fire, their backs roiling with sweat, peeling with burns, as they searched far for fuel, labored endlessly, to create the star.
The star would bring back heat, and the witches could rest. It would bring light, so they might wake, and see what remained of their world. They would recover, and could then work more, bring back plants. They would create animals, and watch over them. They would die, long before the world was complete--but they could do nothing else, and they did not complain, nor give up.
And thus, they died in peace, with renewed hope for the future.
Life
It was raining. Why, then, did the fire burn so brightly, casting its radiant glow over the three, the woman, her raven locks burnt black as smoke, the man, his eyes burning with the embers of life, and the thing, it's nigh shapeless form cold, but intelligent. The three were the only ones left, you see. Their powers were drained, their knowledge and memory all that remained of the world that had come before.
The world, that still had had life.
But they had hope, well, the man did. The woman had fear, and the thing had only the truth of what was to come, and could not speak of it.
But they toiled, relentlessly building the fire, their backs roiling with sweat, peeling with burns, as they searched far for fuel, labored endlessly, to create the star.
The star would bring back heat, and the witches could rest. It would bring light, so they might wake, and see what remained of their world. They would recover, and could then work more, bring back plants. They would create animals, and watch over them. They would die, long before the world was complete--but they could do nothing else, and they did not complain, nor give up.
And thus, they died in peace, with renewed hope for the future.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Well, I was in NEw Jersey, catching jellyfish, crabs, and the swatting the horseflies...but here is a story!
http://wrenofthecookes.deviantart.com/art/A-Little-Gorgon-469778640
It had happened again.
The little girl ran to her father through the garden, sobbing and tripping over her baby blue dress, now grass and dirt-stained. "Baba, Baba!" She found him standing still, shoulders hunched slightly, but he turned as soon as she neared him, and knelt stiffly to take his daughter's smooth, young hands in his. His voice, a raspy comfort, was quick,but calm. "Has it happened,Sa-sa?" He asked quietly. "Y-yes..." The little girl swallowed and tugged him back, "Please Baba, come help me!" She pleaded, and the old man nodded, standing and following her down the marble path that wove throughout the gardens. His heels clicked on the stone as her feet slapped it with the sting of urgency.
And there they were. Two children, one of Medusa's own years, standing with books in her arms--and another, a boy slightly older, holding out a toy stethoscope. Her father had been so overjoyed to find a child with such interest in healing as he did himself, and the siblings that had become Medusa's best, and really her only, friends, were always welcome. But inevitably....He laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder, and she blinked, looking up at her daddy solemnly, though tears still tracked her cheeks.
Aesculapius knelt in front of the two young statues, and placed one hand on each heart. He closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed. Medusa watched anxiously, and a small smile hesitated before taking root on her face as she witnessed the gentle glow of flesh on stone, and life returning to the children. Her father's eyes were shut, and his breathing grew ragged, then with a gasp he stepped back, catching his breath. With a start Medusa lowered a pair of sunglasses to hide her lavender, pupil-less eyes, and the pythons that crowned her head hissed uncomfortably.
As her friends blinked, rubbed their arms to get back the feeling, the boy looked up, and grinned at the now-shy Gorgon. "'Dusa, you okay?" He stepped over, and flushed rather sheepishly at Aesculapius, who now raised an eyebrow, his unfocused, clouded eyes suspicious. The boy paused, then admitted, "We, uh....wanted to see. What color. Her eyes are." His sister nodded silently, then ran to Medusa and hugged her tight, causing the snakes to writhe, but the girl to smile cautiously and return the embrace.
"As long as you are careful and don't do something so foolish again, Aaron, Polona." He admonished. Medusa nodded, and her friends did in unison, then all three ran off to continue their game, the Gorgon's dress and pink boa fluttering, Polona's books clutched tight, and Aaron, falling behind, stuffing the stethoscope into his pocket frantically.
The god saw none of this, as he limped to a bench and sat, shaded by a bower of lilies. He had taken Medusa in when she was but a wisp of a child, who sent people running, if they had not already been petrified. The poor girl had had no friends, no family until she came to live with the god of healing.
Aesculapius had made many sacrifices for his daughter, but thought none of them worth more than her joy and life with others.
http://wrenofthecookes.deviantart.com/art/A-Little-Gorgon-469778640
It had happened again.
The little girl ran to her father through the garden, sobbing and tripping over her baby blue dress, now grass and dirt-stained. "Baba, Baba!" She found him standing still, shoulders hunched slightly, but he turned as soon as she neared him, and knelt stiffly to take his daughter's smooth, young hands in his. His voice, a raspy comfort, was quick,but calm. "Has it happened,Sa-sa?" He asked quietly. "Y-yes..." The little girl swallowed and tugged him back, "Please Baba, come help me!" She pleaded, and the old man nodded, standing and following her down the marble path that wove throughout the gardens. His heels clicked on the stone as her feet slapped it with the sting of urgency.
And there they were. Two children, one of Medusa's own years, standing with books in her arms--and another, a boy slightly older, holding out a toy stethoscope. Her father had been so overjoyed to find a child with such interest in healing as he did himself, and the siblings that had become Medusa's best, and really her only, friends, were always welcome. But inevitably....He laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder, and she blinked, looking up at her daddy solemnly, though tears still tracked her cheeks.
Aesculapius knelt in front of the two young statues, and placed one hand on each heart. He closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed. Medusa watched anxiously, and a small smile hesitated before taking root on her face as she witnessed the gentle glow of flesh on stone, and life returning to the children. Her father's eyes were shut, and his breathing grew ragged, then with a gasp he stepped back, catching his breath. With a start Medusa lowered a pair of sunglasses to hide her lavender, pupil-less eyes, and the pythons that crowned her head hissed uncomfortably.
As her friends blinked, rubbed their arms to get back the feeling, the boy looked up, and grinned at the now-shy Gorgon. "'Dusa, you okay?" He stepped over, and flushed rather sheepishly at Aesculapius, who now raised an eyebrow, his unfocused, clouded eyes suspicious. The boy paused, then admitted, "We, uh....wanted to see. What color. Her eyes are." His sister nodded silently, then ran to Medusa and hugged her tight, causing the snakes to writhe, but the girl to smile cautiously and return the embrace.
"As long as you are careful and don't do something so foolish again, Aaron, Polona." He admonished. Medusa nodded, and her friends did in unison, then all three ran off to continue their game, the Gorgon's dress and pink boa fluttering, Polona's books clutched tight, and Aaron, falling behind, stuffing the stethoscope into his pocket frantically.
The god saw none of this, as he limped to a bench and sat, shaded by a bower of lilies. He had taken Medusa in when she was but a wisp of a child, who sent people running, if they had not already been petrified. The poor girl had had no friends, no family until she came to live with the god of healing.
Aesculapius had made many sacrifices for his daughter, but thought none of them worth more than her joy and life with others.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Here's something new!
Friends
She had seen him every morning, walking to work, or to the library, or even just down to the convenience store to get some coffee. She always gave him a cup, and sat for a moment with him, even though he smelled of old things that long gone unwashed. They talked about anything, as long as it wasn't boring or awkward. Nothing was too personal; she told him about her relationships with the Russian man who hated dogs, and he would smile, nod, and show her the bit of Russian he knew from school. "Nyet," When she offered him her coffee once the bus to her office arrived. She'd wave, and not feel childish for it, because he'd wave back.
Friends. That's what they were. On his birthday, she took him to a thrift store, and she bought him a suit, a cassette tape player and books. He cried on the way home, and it was then she realized the homeless man whose name she didn't know was a wonderful man.
Then he died. He was an addict, he was a drunk, and he was in his fifties. He had no home, and one night he just...left.
She spent nights outside, listening to music and crying, and wishing he'd gone to a shelter.
But would it have helped? Maybe. Maybe. But she knew he would not have thrived there. She knew what they were like.
And sometimes she still sat on that corner, drank coffee, and watched the people go by.
Remembering her friend.
Friends
She had seen him every morning, walking to work, or to the library, or even just down to the convenience store to get some coffee. She always gave him a cup, and sat for a moment with him, even though he smelled of old things that long gone unwashed. They talked about anything, as long as it wasn't boring or awkward. Nothing was too personal; she told him about her relationships with the Russian man who hated dogs, and he would smile, nod, and show her the bit of Russian he knew from school. "Nyet," When she offered him her coffee once the bus to her office arrived. She'd wave, and not feel childish for it, because he'd wave back.
Friends. That's what they were. On his birthday, she took him to a thrift store, and she bought him a suit, a cassette tape player and books. He cried on the way home, and it was then she realized the homeless man whose name she didn't know was a wonderful man.
Then he died. He was an addict, he was a drunk, and he was in his fifties. He had no home, and one night he just...left.
She spent nights outside, listening to music and crying, and wishing he'd gone to a shelter.
But would it have helped? Maybe. Maybe. But she knew he would not have thrived there. She knew what they were like.
And sometimes she still sat on that corner, drank coffee, and watched the people go by.
Remembering her friend.
All right. So, today's story (well, the first one, anyway) has a visual prompt, that I would like to show you, with permission from the artist.
Photo by MPREVERT on deviantart!
Here is the story: Heaven On Earth
Jessie sat there on my bay window, smiling as wide as she could. I step farther in, closing the door behind me, and notice the way she bites her lower lip subtly. "What's up?" She doesn't answer right away, but stands, her voluptuous hips swinging naturally--and I cant help but smile at the way she moves, energetic and unplanned, spontaneous. Lord knows I see enough cat walkers at the conventions, and her easy, friendly manner puts me at ease.
Coming around behind me, she spins me around, and I throw my hands up. "Oh dear, I have a bad fee--" She interrupts, her hands flashing quickly into the contortions that have to be the oddest form of communication I've seen. "Outside, come on." Her smile ever-present, I shrug, and let her lead me out. As she steps ahead, her hand taking my callused, thin one, I close my eyes a moment and let the sun beat on my tired eyelids. I quickly open them as she pulls me farther into the garden, needing to see where I'm going. I need to spend more time out here, I remind myself. It's beautiful, if a bit overgrown--the tangle of vines where we planted a raspberry, the huge patch where day lilies have taken over...Then the arbor that Jessie made--I was sick when she did, and it was one of her gifts. I sit under it when I have time, and drink orange juice with my meds.
"Look." She'd turned to say this to me, and I look past her, my eyes widening as I see the fence that now lines our property. Before, it was always open. I furrow my brow, and ask, "What is this..."
She grins, and lifts my hand, pointing it at a shape that's moving among the shadows of the treeline. I step closer to the fence, and the shape, four legged, comes closer.
A goat. I gasp, step backward, already laughing as she steadies me. "You got it, really?" My eyes are wondering, shocked as my hands flash. She nods, and proffers a bag--of raisins. I raise an eyebrow, delicate and speaking volumes--I've had the practice--but take a handful, and kneel gingerly on the grass, holding my hand out through the fence. Jessie squats beside me, and I smile down at the ground after getting an eyeful of what's under her shirt--I don't mean that dirtily at all. She's the kindest person I've known in my short life, and that she can be so casual around me, after knowing me only a year, means so much to me.
The goat does not care what our relationship is, and enjoys her raisins. I bite my cheek when her teeth brush against my palm, and I wince in case she bites--she doesn't. Jessie laughs, and stands after I have sufficiently spoiled the goat.
"I thought you might like to relax today." She signs, and I shrug again. She raises a brow now, well, it's both because she can't do just one. However, she can snap her fingers and I can't, so I guess we're even. We both can wiggle our ears, though.
In response to her suggestion, I yawn, then point over to the rose garden. "Let's listen to music. If you want." She nods, and her hand on my shoulder, we make our way over. I have a boombox already out there, because the circle of soft grass bordered by the blooms is the best place to do everything and I need to be prepared.
She lets me stand in the center, and crosses to the black plastic behemoth on the bench. She starts it, and I watch her reaction to the sound, already the way her foot comes down with purpose--and thus the beat is born in my mind. Her lips move softly, and I can know instantly what she chose, by the way her shoulders shake up and down, her hands clasp mine and move with a uptempo joy. I let her guide me, then we break apart and I am left swaying to her beat, as her hands flash words across.
Rocky Horror. It strikes me as hilarious, somehow, that she chose it. I hated it, or used to. But when she paints it in my head, it is beautiful. Love the dancer, hate the song?
But I recognize immediately the next one. She stops, a small, almost sad smile as she sings the words to me, and I listen--the deep, rough voice, the guitar, the chorus....
She is swaying simply now--no footwork, just Jessie's body back and forth, back and forth, and she holds mine so I follow without a falter. I can close my eyes, and not worry.
"This is how I want it to end."
I don't see her answer.
I don't want to, I just want her to know that.
It isn't sad, because it isn't now. I'm not terminal. But I want to be here forever, with Jessie, swaying to almost forgotten tunes and feeding goats.
"Don't worry. I'll make sure that it is." I've opened my eyes in time, and I smile, stumbling and she catches me. Jessie is the only one who would say that, and not tell me to be quiet. I would laugh if they said that because of the wording, and so would Jessie.
"You know I will stay here, even when you're better, Martin."
She would. I think she adopted me.
"I know."
When the song ends, she takes me inside, and we sit on the window, looking at the sunset and eating orange sherbet.
It's homemade.
Coming around behind me, she spins me around, and I throw my hands up. "Oh dear, I have a bad fee--" She interrupts, her hands flashing quickly into the contortions that have to be the oddest form of communication I've seen. "Outside, come on." Her smile ever-present, I shrug, and let her lead me out. As she steps ahead, her hand taking my callused, thin one, I close my eyes a moment and let the sun beat on my tired eyelids. I quickly open them as she pulls me farther into the garden, needing to see where I'm going. I need to spend more time out here, I remind myself. It's beautiful, if a bit overgrown--the tangle of vines where we planted a raspberry, the huge patch where day lilies have taken over...Then the arbor that Jessie made--I was sick when she did, and it was one of her gifts. I sit under it when I have time, and drink orange juice with my meds.
"Look." She'd turned to say this to me, and I look past her, my eyes widening as I see the fence that now lines our property. Before, it was always open. I furrow my brow, and ask, "What is this..."
She grins, and lifts my hand, pointing it at a shape that's moving among the shadows of the treeline. I step closer to the fence, and the shape, four legged, comes closer.
A goat. I gasp, step backward, already laughing as she steadies me. "You got it, really?" My eyes are wondering, shocked as my hands flash. She nods, and proffers a bag--of raisins. I raise an eyebrow, delicate and speaking volumes--I've had the practice--but take a handful, and kneel gingerly on the grass, holding my hand out through the fence. Jessie squats beside me, and I smile down at the ground after getting an eyeful of what's under her shirt--I don't mean that dirtily at all. She's the kindest person I've known in my short life, and that she can be so casual around me, after knowing me only a year, means so much to me.
The goat does not care what our relationship is, and enjoys her raisins. I bite my cheek when her teeth brush against my palm, and I wince in case she bites--she doesn't. Jessie laughs, and stands after I have sufficiently spoiled the goat.
"I thought you might like to relax today." She signs, and I shrug again. She raises a brow now, well, it's both because she can't do just one. However, she can snap her fingers and I can't, so I guess we're even. We both can wiggle our ears, though.
In response to her suggestion, I yawn, then point over to the rose garden. "Let's listen to music. If you want." She nods, and her hand on my shoulder, we make our way over. I have a boombox already out there, because the circle of soft grass bordered by the blooms is the best place to do everything and I need to be prepared.
She lets me stand in the center, and crosses to the black plastic behemoth on the bench. She starts it, and I watch her reaction to the sound, already the way her foot comes down with purpose--and thus the beat is born in my mind. Her lips move softly, and I can know instantly what she chose, by the way her shoulders shake up and down, her hands clasp mine and move with a uptempo joy. I let her guide me, then we break apart and I am left swaying to her beat, as her hands flash words across.
Rocky Horror. It strikes me as hilarious, somehow, that she chose it. I hated it, or used to. But when she paints it in my head, it is beautiful. Love the dancer, hate the song?
But I recognize immediately the next one. She stops, a small, almost sad smile as she sings the words to me, and I listen--the deep, rough voice, the guitar, the chorus....
She is swaying simply now--no footwork, just Jessie's body back and forth, back and forth, and she holds mine so I follow without a falter. I can close my eyes, and not worry.
"This is how I want it to end."
I don't see her answer.
I don't want to, I just want her to know that.
It isn't sad, because it isn't now. I'm not terminal. But I want to be here forever, with Jessie, swaying to almost forgotten tunes and feeding goats.
"Don't worry. I'll make sure that it is." I've opened my eyes in time, and I smile, stumbling and she catches me. Jessie is the only one who would say that, and not tell me to be quiet. I would laugh if they said that because of the wording, and so would Jessie.
"You know I will stay here, even when you're better, Martin."
She would. I think she adopted me.
"I know."
When the song ends, she takes me inside, and we sit on the window, looking at the sunset and eating orange sherbet.
It's homemade.
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