Blue (500 Words short story project, January 15, 2019)

The landscape flickered once and then became solid, more real than reality. Blue took three steps forward and felt her feet sinking into the sand, felt a breeze blowing in from the body of water before her. Was it an ocean? A large lake? Blue couldn’t be sure. But the sand was lovely, warm and soft against her bare feet.

She walked out to the edge of the water and dipped in her toes. It was shockingly cold, given the warmth of the sand and the air around her. She stepped back and turned to walk down the line of the water. It had happened somewhere around here, and if she kept her eyes open, she should be able to see some sign of it.

A breeze blew against her skin, colder than she’d expect for this sunny day. Goosebumps popped up on her exposed arms, and she hugged them tight across her chest. It was an odd disconnect that served to remind her of where she really was.

The beach was wide and empty before her, but back a few dozen meters from the water a dense wall of scrubby trees seemed to scowl at her. Somewhere in there, it must have been.

Yes, as she drew near, she spotted a narrow path that led into the trees. She could see murky green light inside — sunlight, or something that might as well be sunlight, filtered through a thick layer of trees.

The path wasn’t terribly inviting — low bushes clustered close, and their branches were crowded with long, narrow thorns. Heavy tree limbs hung low enough that even Blue, who was rather on the short side, would need to crouch down while on the path. The ground here shifted from fine sand to sharp gravel. “Shoes,” Blue said, and sturdy hiking shoes appeared on her feet, with soft socks beneath.

She entered the path, doing her best to avoid touching any of the branches. Nothing here could mortally wound her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t pick up minor scrapes and bruises. She considered donning thicker clothing that covered more of her body, but it was warm and stuffy back among the trees, and she didn’t want to be even more uncomfortable. She inched her way deeper into the trees, dodging branches that seemed to reach out for her.

After walking the path for several minutes, she heard a distant, musical sound. She could almost have mistaken it for birdsong, but it was too mechanical to be natural. The sound was repetitive, a simple four-note melody, and it was accompanied by the faintest whirring noise. As she walked, the sound swiftly grew louder, and after just a few more steps, the path abruptly opened into a small clearing. If Blue could stand in the middle of the clearing, the surrounding trees would be just barely out of reach of her fingertips. But she couldn’t stand in the middle, because that space was occupied.

A shining metal object stood in the middle of the clearing. It was a narrow oval, about as tall as Blue and a bit wider than her shoulders. The surface was an iridescent silver, gleaming in the green light. As soon as Blue entered the clearing, the sound stopped, and the object began to glow a pulsing, otherworldly blue. A voice that came from everywhere and nowhere said, “Welcome. Please step inside.” And then the oval split in half, revealing a dark and vast interior.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

Recruits (500 Words short story project, January 14, 2019)

“That the most foolish idea I've ever heard,” Gregor said, with Tyrna nodding along beside him. "You’ll be broke or dead inside a week, and either way you’re leaving us here to take care of everything without you.” He glared at me over his half-circle glasses. “Foolish and irresponsible.”

“You’ll be fine!” I replied as I pulled on my lightweight summer cloak, the one with all the extra pockets on the inside. I’d already stuffed them full of the things I’d need on my way to the capital -- dried fruit and nuts, some jerky, a thick packet of folded-over blank paper, so I’d have someplace to write down my thoughts and musings, and the little bit of money I had to my name. It wasn’t much, but the capital wasn’t far, and once I got there I’d be taken care of.

With the cloak settled over my shoulders, I returned my attention to scowling Gregor and Tyrna. “We all know you don’t need me to feed the chickens, or anything else around here. Gregor, you do almost everything yourself and shout at me for doing it wrong if I try to help. Tyrna, you do everything else, and refuse to let anyone help you. All I do here is sit around and eat your food. I thought you’d be happy to get rid of me.” I fastened my cloak pin, checked to be sure it was secure, and then lifted my small pack. Again, it didn’t hold much, but I wouldn't need much. And, truthfully, I didn’t have much.

But Gregor wasn’t ready to concede. “Happy to be rid of you? How can you say that? When Mother and Father left us,” and here Gregor paused as both he and Tyrna closed their eyes and murmured a respectful line of prayer, “we promised them we’d look after you. And we don’t aim to let them down.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes and snorting, but just barely. “I was five. I needed someone to look after me then. I don’t now.” With the cloak in place and the light pack over my shoulder, I was ready to go. I darted in close and gave Gregor a quick hug, and then turned to give Tyrna a peck on the cheek. “I’ll write to you when I get to the capital, right after I check in with the recruitment office. I’m sure they’ll keep me busy, but I’ll make time to write nonetheless. Don’t you worry! Soon you’ll be coming to visit me in the capital, once I get settled!”

“Please, Alex.” Gregor’s tone, now pleading, brought me up short. “Please, just consider. I don’t trust this call for recruits.” He and Tyrna shared a serious look, and then he returned his gaze to me. “You’re too young to remember the last time the capital sent out a call for recruits. It was a little different -- last time they were calling for craftspeople, not artists, but otherwise it was just the same. Come put your talents to work for your queen! Finally receive the recognition -- and pay! -- you deserve! Help build our fine capital into a beautiful paradise! It all sounded so noble, and so attractive. Of course everyone from the districts wanted to go.” Gregor dropped his head and was silent for a long moment.

And then I saw the tears welling in Tyrna’s eyes. After long, silent minutes, and Gregor failed to continue, Tryna took over. “Alex,” she said, her voice a whisper. “That was when Mother and Father left. They answered the call for recruits. They promised to write, to send home money, to return with riches and presents for all of us. But once they left, we never heard from them again.”

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

500 Words Week 1 Winner: Armored

The agency took a long time to find a new prospective job for Irma. After a string of false starts and swift dismissals, they began to fear that Irma would never hold down a job (and make them some money). Irma was always attractive to new clients at first -- she was nearly impervious to most weapons, thanks to her unique deformity, which meant that as a bodyguard she never feared putting herself in danger to shield her client. But despite her skill at keeping them safe, clients always grew uncomfortable with her, and she found herself dismissed before she could make it past the agency’s free trial period for all new placements. 

Irma had tried to come up with a new line of work, since it was starting to look like this bodyguard business wasn’t going to work out. She couldn’t go back to ballet -- her old dance mistress had made it clear after Irma’s illness and transformation that someone who looked like Irma would not be welcome in the studio or on the stage. So dance was out, and that was the only thing Irma had ever loved. She was agile, fast, and strong -- but also socially awkward and chronically late, and even the kindest-hearted souls found her rather hard to look at. If she could think of a job she’d be good at that she could do locked away from the world, she’d do it. But so far nothing had come to mind. 

After a few weeks of dreary unemployment, with Irma sitting around scratching at the itching, bony plates that grew along her muscles and stretched her skin taut, the agency sent her a message saying she had an interview with a new client. It would mean travel, and helping out with menial tasks in addition to her usual work as a bodyguard, but Irma wasn’t in any position to say no to work. 

Since her parents had passed, she’d been bounced from one sibling’s house to another’s, overstaying her welcome just long enough that everyone stopped being polite to her, but not quite long enough for them to pack up her things and leave them for her on the front steps after changing the locks. She knew the right time to jump ship, and fortunately had enough siblings that by the time she needed to go back to one and ask for use of their spare room or couch yet again, it had been long enough since her last stay that their negative memories were softened by the guilt and shame that drove them all to help Irma more than they really wanted to. Poor Irma, disfigured and strange, the family’s burden to bear.

Irma was near to the end of her stay with Philemon -- she could tell because her brother’s children no longer swarmed around her to chatter about their day when they came home from their lessons, and his spouse no longer asked what her favorite dishes were so she could order them from the cook, and Philemon himself, who rarely showed his face outside of his study, had started asking pointed questions about how Irma’s job prospects were looking, and whether she was really trying as hard as she might to find gainful employment. She figured she had six days or less before things got truly unpleasant, and she couldn’t let it come to that. 

So she hastily bathed, which tended to further irritate her too-tight skin but couldn’t be avoided, pulled on the custom-fit uniform one of her sisters had sewn for her, and set out to meet with her potential new client. 

Irma had gotten the message from the agency just before the midday meal, and she had skipped her lunch while getting ready for the interview. When she was a few blocks from home, that missed meal began to nag at her. She considered stopping at a food cart on her way to the agency, but she avoided eating in public if at all possible. The way the illness had affected her face bones was both the most unsightly change and most inconvenient. The skin of her face pulled tight over new bony plates that gave her forehead, cheeks, and chin an angular, inhuman look. Her jaw no longer opened the way it had, and she had a hard time chewing because of it. Her stomach rumbled angrily as she walked by a stall selling hand pies, but she kept on walking. Trying to eat a steaming hot pie while walking down the street would be a ridiculous farce. People already stared at her more than she liked, and she’d rather not dribble lunch all over her clean clothes right before meeting a potential client. They’d just have to listen to her rumbling stomach instead. 

The agency was about a 20-minute walk from Philemon’s house. She enjoyed staying with him most of all — the rest of her siblings lived in much less convenient parts of town. Getting kicked out of Philemon’s was going to be unpleasant, for a lot of reasons. After a short, brisk walk, Irma entered the unassuming brick building that held a stable on the ground floor, a printmaker’s shop on the second floor, and the employment agency on the third floor. Up the familiar stairs she went, and at the top landing she opened the agency’s front door without knocking. 

The woman at the front desk was someone new, yet again. For an employment agency, they seemed to have a hard time keeping their own employees around. She looked up when Irma entered, started violently, and then struggled to compose herself. “Can I help you?” she asked. 

“I’m Irma. I’m here to meet a new client.” 

“Oh, yes, Irma! We’ve been expecting you,” the woman said, a wide, false smile on her face. “The new client isn’t here yet, but you’ll be meeting her in the Yellow Room. You know the way?”

Irma nodded and started toward the hallway that led to the agency’s various meeting rooms. The woman’s voice followed her: “I’ll bring in tea in just a moment, shall I?” 

“Sounds good,” Irma said over her shoulder. Drinking was much easier than eating, and this way at least she’d have something in her stomach. 

The Yellow Room was one of four themed rooms the agency kept for introducing new clients to their rather unique contractors. The agency offered contract employees in all sorts of unusual specialties. As things went, Irma’s bodyguard work was rather pedestrian. The door to the Yellow Room was open, and sunlight streamed from the open door into the hallway. Irma approached the door and tapped gently on it, peering inside. 

Roxy was inside, sitting in one of four plush armchairs in the aggressively bright and cheerful room. “Irma!” Roxy beamed. “Come in! Our new client should be here any minute. Where is Clementine with the tea?” Roxy frowned for a moment, but then waved Irma in. “Come, come, have a seat!” 

The room’s chairs were all overstuffed monstrosities in shades of yellow, shifting from light butter to dark brass. The carpet was plush and golden — Irma felt her soft shoes sinking into it and she stepped into the room. The afternoon sunlight intensified every gleaming surface in the room, from the polished curtain rods to the elegant gold-leaf tables near each chair. Irma wanted to shade her eyes, but she resisted the impulse. 

“Hey, Roxy. So this clients a little different than our usual, huh?” Irma said as she seated herself in the seat next to Roxy’s. “Travel? Extra duties?” 

Roxy nodded, her face serious. “I think you’re going to like this one, and I think she’s going to like you, too. But it is going to take a little … uh, flexibility on your part. I promise you, it’s going to be worthwhile!” 

Irma knew she couldn’t exactly be picky when it came to clients. She needed the work, badly. And she needed this one to stick. But she didn’t want to say that to Roxy, in part because she didn’t want to discuss her private business with Roxy, and in part because Roxy probably already suspected as much. “We’ll see,” was all Irma said in reply. 

Down the hallway, they both heard the agency’s front door open. Clementine, who Irma surmised must be the new woman at the front desk, let out an ear-splitting squeal — even all the way down the hall, Irma covered her ears and flinched. “What …?” Irma started to ask, but Roxy leapt to her feet, her face worried, and took off out of the room and down the hall. 

Irma strained her ears to listen as Roxy started speaking, first to Clementine and then to the new visitor. “Clementine!” she hissed. “Go busy yourself with preparing the tea tray, and quit screeching at our clients. Then, in Roxy’s usual tone, oozing confidence and professionalism: “Ah, Ms. Darma! We are so delighted you could make it today. Come with me, and I’ll introduce you to Irma. I just know you two are going to hit it off.” 

Ms. Darma — why did that name sound familiar? Irma sifted through her brain attempting to make a link. She knew she’d encountered the name Darma somewhere recently. 

“Yes, right this way — the last door on the left,” Roxy said, and Irma could hear footsteps approaching. A woman, short and slight, with a mass of bright yellow hair almost dwarfing her small frame, stepped into the room, with Roxy on her heels. Roxy was saying something, but Irma wasn’t listening — she finally remembered where she’d heard the name Darma before. Her sister Isadora had dragged her out to the big amphitheater downtown a few months back, claiming she needed to get out into the world more. Irma suspected she’d done it to give Philemon and his family a break from Irma’s near-constant presence, so she went along without too much complaint. The performance that night hadn’t been at all what Irma expected. The performers weren’t actors, but rather musicians — Isadora said they toured from town to town playing songs of their own devising, rather than the usual folk songs and ballads one heard at public concerts. Irma must have been the only person in the audience who had never heard of them. The crowd had buzzed with excitement all through the performance, and they screamed their adoration between each song, much the way Clementine had just screamed in the front room. The band was called The Darma Birds. And the lead singer was ...

“Oh my stars,” Irma said before she could stop herself. “You’re Irene Darma.”

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

Down (500 Words short story project, January 11, 2019)

The cavern was completely dark at this point, so far from the cramped opening that no natural light could find its way in. Alba’s headlamp provided her only illumination. To reach the next chamber, she had to make her way down an ancient wooden ladder that looked as thought it might disintegrate if the beams from her lamp hit it too hard. Alphonse had repeatedly assured her that the ladder was perfectly sound, that he climbed up and down it all the time, but Alba wasn’t so sure.

She tested the first rung gingerly, and while there was an alarmingly loud creak when the rung took her weight, it didn’t snap. So far so good. Slowly, slowly, she inched her way down the ladder, trying to strike a balance between getting down and off it as quickly as possible without taxing the delicate rungs any more than she had to. Even with her headlamp, she couldn’t see the bottom of the ladder from the top. The darkness of the cavern seemed to swallow up the beam of light. So she just worked her way down, slow and steady, trusting that the bottom would come.

After a minute of descending the ladder, she paused and looked down again. Was that the bottom? Maybe. It was so hard to say with her feeble light, and the crushing black of the cave. She kept going, one rung after another. Inside her heavy-duty gloves, her hands began to sweat and slip. Despite the cool of the cave, she felt beads of perspiration dripping down her neck and into her shirt, creating a nagging itch just between her shoulder blades. Can’t deal with that now, she thought. Get off the ladder first.

After another minute, she looked down again, and this time she was sure she could see a still-distant end to the rickety ladder. She subconsciously picked up the pace, and she could feel her mostly empty backpack slapping against her with each movement.

All told, it took nearly five minutes to descend the ladder. Alba tried to calculate just how far down she’d come, but she couldn’t be sure. Two hundred feet? Three hundred? And this was just the beginning. Here at the base, in a chamber that was about ten feet square, she found the supply box, just as Alphonse had described it -- a beat-up metal chest, with a coat of flaking red paint and a fair bit of rust. It was closed but unlocked. Inside it, Alba found candles and matches, a stockpile of individually wrapped protein bars, a coil of rope, a ball of twine, a trowel, and a clear, glassy orb, about six inches in diameter. The orb was faintly glowing.

Huh, Alba thought. So he wasn’t lying after all.

Alba took off her backpack, setting it on the ground next to the box, and gently picked up the orb. It was warm to the touch, weirdly out of place in this cool subterranean environment. She took a silk cloth out of her backpack and wrapped it around the orb. She could still the orb’s glow through the thin cloth. Then she tucked the wrapped orb into her backpack, reshouldered the pack, and surveyed the surroundings. Yes, just as Alphonse had said, there was an opening in the cave wall directly across from the ladder. Onward.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

The Machinery (500 Words short story project, January 10, 2019)

Awake. Kira’s eyes opened, then closed again. The sun was pressing down on her face through the open window beside her. She tried to bring an arm up to shield her face, but she found her hands were bound at her sides. Her legs, likewise, were immobile. She struggled a bit, just enough to be able to tell that she wasn’t going to get free without a lot more struggling, and she’d likely rub her wrists and ankles raw in the process. She turned her head to the right away from the window, and opened her eyes again.

The room was small but bright and clean. She was on a small cot, low to the ground. The wall opposite her also had a window, and through it she could see lush forests and, beyond them, mountain peaks. What little she could see behind her seemed to be just a wall -- she was in a corner at the end of a narrow room. Down past her feet, she could see another wall with a red door, firmly closed. There were a few tables in the other corners, one with tea things, another with what appeared to be prescription medicine bottles. In the third corner was a wooden chest. It looked heavy and sturdy, and an iron padlock held it shut.

Kira had no idea where she was, and no recollection of how she came to be in a geographic location that included both forests and mountains. What was the last thing she could remember? Something about a phone call, an unknown number and no caller ID. She never answered calls like that, but this one she had picked up on a whim. And then the strange voice that replied when she answered, almost robotic but not quite. “The machinery is ready. Report to your pickup location.” Then, and now, she had no idea what that voice was talking about.

What had happened after that? She had flashes of packing a suitcase, but why? Why would she have done that? Did she do it, or was it just a half-remembered dream? Had she called someone after hanging up on the strange voice? She felt certain she had. But she didn’t know who, or why.

She tried again to move her wrists and ankles, deliberately this time, looking for weakness in the rough ropes. Her left hand, closest to the wall, seemed to be least tightly bound, so she focused her energies there. She twisted and tugged and twisted again, grimacing at the pain as the rope tore at her skin. She could pull her hand out almost as far as her bottom thumb joint, and then it stuck. But if she could get it that far, surely she could pull the whole thing free. It would just mean a little pain.

Kira gritted her teeth. She was no stranger to pain, and she wasn’t going to let it prevent her from getting free and getting some answers. She folded her thumb in tight against her palm and pulled, slowly, surely, and the coarse coils of rope slithered millimeter by millimeter up her hand. Her skin burned and her thumb felt like it was about to dislocate, but she took a deep breath, blew it out and pulled one last time. She almost cried out at her hand flew free of its bindings -- the pain was intense and lingering, but one had was free. Success.

Then, a noise at the door. A key in a lock. Not sure what to do, Kira returned her hand to its former position -- free now, but unless someone looked closely, they would believe she was still fully bound. The door opened, and a figured stepped from darkness into the brightness of the little room.

“Ah, Kira, you’re awake! Wonderful.”

Oh my god. It was Albert Manchester. Kira’s father. Kira’s dead father.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

Out of Gas (500 Words short story project, January 9, 2019)

Empty. Fuck! Tonight required nothing but good luck if Miriam was hoping to end the evening still alive, and this was the biggest piece of bad luck she could have imagined. She slammed her hands against the steering wheel. Great -- now I’m out of gas and my hands hurt. 

The instant she opened the car door, the rain started pelting her arms and face. She was not dressed appropriately for a nighttime adventure through a thunderstorm. Her T-shirt and jeans were little protection against the rain and wind, and her canvas shoes were already feeling damp. Her long hair whipped into her face and was plastered there by the rain, getting caught in her mouth and eyes.

When she’d started driving a few hours before, it was still light out, and the threatening clouds on the horizon had seemed so distant. She thought for sure she would outrace them, outpace the dwindling fuel reserve -- it was all supposed to come together! None of this was supposed to happen! She slammed the car door shut just as it occurred to her that her purse was still inside. Her purse with her phone. And her keys. Right there on the passenger seat, where she could just barely see it through the window of the now-locked door.

She kicked the front tire a few times to let out a fresh surge of rage, but her canvas shoes were no protection at all. So now my hands and my toes hurt. And I’m probably going to be murdered. Fantastic. 

She took a few deep breaths and leaned against the car, closing her eyes and taking stock. Okay, so. I’m on a deserted forest road in the dark. In the rain. My car is out of gas, and I’m locked out of it. If I don’t make it to Adam’s within the next hour, I might as well dig my own grave. That about summed it up. Miriam’s only choice, as far as she could tell, was to start walking, and fast.

She had only been to Adam’s once, and that had been years ago, but this back road had come back to her as if she’d driven down it yesterday. If she was remembering correctly, she was just a few turns in the road away from Adam’s at this point -- not more than a 15-minute walk. She hoped.

She opened her eyes to the rain and the dark, set herself in the direction she had been driving, and squinted her way down the side of the road. She could just barely make out the trees on either side, which helped keep her on the verge and out of the forest itself. Her shoes were soaked through after just a few steps, and her clothing clung to her uncomfortably. But she wasn’t going to get any more drenched or uncomfortable, so she put it out of her mind.

At the first turn, she stepped into a rushing rivulet of water before she realized she’d wandered away from the road and was entering the forest. She squinted some more and reoriented herself against the treetops that were faintly distinct from the dark sky, and continued on. For the second turn, she saw the wall of trees approaching and managed to turn with the road without mishap. And by then, she could see the yellow-white glow of artificial light shining in the near distance. Adam’s house.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

A Long Walk (500 Words short story project, January 8, 2019)

It was cloudy, again. The small cottage, tucked back among a tumble of boulders on the cold, blustery beach, quivered with each gust of wind. As chill and damp as it was inside, Spike knew it would be much worse outside. She dreaded leaving the relative warmth of her small stove.

Still, there was no help for it. The walk was long and cold enough without waiting for nightfall to drop the temperature and add an extra degree of danger to it. She’d best set off, the sooner the better.

Spike had packed her backpack the evening before with everything she’d need for a two-day trip -- a change of clothes, some dry food bars, two large bladders full of water, assorted small tools, a bit of money, a tightly wrapped bundle of highly sensitive papers. Her bullwhip hung from a tie on the outside of the pack, and her walking poles were propped up and waiting by the small front door. Once she’d donned her water-repelling cloak, she was as ready as she could be. She doused the coals in her small stove, checked the locks on all the windows and doors for a third time, then shouldered her pack, grabbed the poles, and headed out.

The front door was small but heavy, and it made a satisfying thud as she closed it behind her. A moment later, a gust of wind nearly took her off her feet, and she had to brace herself against the closed door lest she be blown to the sandy ground. As soon as it let up enough for her to stand upright, she gripped her walking poles, one in each hand, and set out around the back of the house. A gravel path curved along the side of the cottage and wound its way through the boulder field. It climbed up the underlying sand dunes that sheltered the cottage from the worst of the winds. Once she had crested the dune, she was in a wide, rolling field of scrubby grass and scattered stones. Her path meandered off toward the sunrise, with twists and turns to avoid the larger boulders and deeper ravines between dunes.

Her face was bombarded by the tearing wind and bright early morning sun, both of which made her squint and want to shield her eyes. But she knew both would ease as her journey progressed, so she tucked her chin low and pushed her way into the folds and tangles of the gusting wind.

One foot ahead of the other, poles planted deep into the soft earth to support her against the wind, she pushed against the elements for an hour or so before taking her first break. She had kept her head down for the first stretch, knowing the landscape was nothing but ever-repeating clumps of tall grass and gently rolling hills, with very little danger of encountering another soul. But the wind and the sun were desiccating, and so she stopped sooner than she’d have liked to retrieve water from her pack and take a long drink. Before stowing the water and closing up the pack, she checked the placement of the bundle of papers, ensuring they were still there -- yes, of course they were still there -- and that they weren’t wet or exposed to the wind or the sun. The papers had been tucked deep inside the pack, protected by her rolled clothing, but Spike knew important papers like these had a way of getting away from you if you let your guard down. 

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)

Armored (500 Words short story project, January 7, 2019)

The agency took a long time to find a new prospective job for Irma. After a string of false starts and swift dismissals, they began to fear that Irma would never hold down a job (and make them some money). Irma was always attractive to new clients at first -- she was nearly impervious to most weapons, thanks to her unique deformity, which meant that as a bodyguard she never feared putting herself in danger to shield her client. But despite her skill at keeping them safe, clients always grew uncomfortable with her, and she found herself dismissed before she could make it past the agency’s free trial period for all new placements. 

Irma had tried to come up with a new line of work, since it was starting to look like this bodyguard business wasn’t going to work out. She couldn’t go back to ballet -- her old dance mistress had made it clear after Irma’s illness and transformation that someone who looked like Irma would not be welcome in the studio or on the stage. So dance was out, and that was the only thing Irma had ever loved. She was agile, fast, and strong -- but also socially awkward and chronically late, and even the kindest-hearted souls found her rather hard to look at. If she could think of a job she’d be good at that she could do locked away from the world, she’d do it. But so far nothing had come to mind. 

After a few weeks of dreary unemployment, with Irma sitting around scratching at the itching, bony plates that grew along her muscles and stretched her skin taut, the agency sent her a message saying she had an interview with a new client. It would mean travel, and helping out with menial tasks in addition to her usual work as a bodyguard, but Irma wasn’t in any position to say no to work. 

Since her parents had passed, she’d been bounced from one sibling’s house to another’s, overstaying her welcome just long enough that everyone stopped being polite to her, but not quite long enough for them to pack up her things and leave them for her on the front steps after changing the locks. She knew the right time to jump ship, and fortunately had enough siblings that by the time she needed to go back to one and ask for use of their spare room or couch yet again, it had been long enough since her last stay that their negative memories were softened by the guilt and shame that drove them all to help Irma more than they really wanted to. Poor Irma, disfigured and strange, the family’s burden to bear.

Irma was near to the end of her stay with Philemon -- she could tell because her brother’s children no longer swarmed around her to chatter about their day when they came home from their lessons, and his spouse no longer asked what her favorite dishes were so she could order them from the cook, and Philemon himself, who rarely showed his face outside of his study, had started asking pointed questions about how Irma’s job prospects were looking, and whether she was really trying as hard as she might to find gainful employment. She figured she had six days or less before things got truly unpleasant, and she couldn’t let it come to that. 

So she hastily bathed, which tended to further irritate her too-tight skin but couldn’t be avoided, pulled on the custom-fit uniform one of her sisters had sewn for her, and set out to meet with her potential new client.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.) 

500 Words Short Story Project

Hello, friends! I'm dusting off this space as a place to share a new project I'm working on.

You see, I'm participating in a 500-word short story project. Each day Monday through Friday, I'll write 500 words to get a short story started. Friday and Saturday, other participants, and readers like you, can vote on which of the short story starts I should continue to develop, and then I'll write an additional 1,000 words on Sunday.

We'll repeat this process for three weeks, and then I'll ask for votes on my three 1,500-word story starts to select which short story I'll flesh out into a full and finished tale.

For the first week, I've decided to use Rory's Story Cubes for inspiration. Each day I'll choose three dice and roll them, and then try to work the images shown into that day's story start. I'll post photos of the dice each day so you can see what I was working with. I might try something different for weeks two and three, depending on how this goes.

ETA: For week two, I'm using random pulls from a tarot card deck for inspiration, one card per day.

Got it? Great! Let's do this.

Week One:

Monday, 1/7/2019: Armored
Tuesday, 1/8/2019: A Long Walk
Wednesday, 1/9/2019: Out of Gas
Thursday, 1/10/2019: The Machinery
Friday, 1/11/2019: Down

Week One Winner: Armored (expanded version)

Week Two:

Monday, 1/14/2019: Recruits 
Tuesday, 1/15/2019: Blue
Wednesday, 1/16/2019: Search Party
Thursday, 1/17/19: Balance
Friday, 1/18/19: Control

Week Two Winner: Blue (expanded version)

Week Three: 

Monday, 1/21/2019: Invasive 
Tuesday, 1/22/2019: A New Place
Wednesday, 1/23/2019: Liar
Thursday, 1/24/2019: Omen
Friday, 1/25/2019: The Collection

Mending Metaphysical Rifts

Today we’ll be brushing up on our metaphysical mending skills. All too often, we suffer unexpected and unpleasant tears in our metaphysical fabric or loosenings of our most basic threads. While mending these distressing faults can be daunting, you’ll soon find that it’s just as simple as darning a worn sock—and every bit as worth your time!

Before we begin, take out your scissors, straight pins, elastic (enough to stretch the length of the rift to be mended; when in doubt, about 1.2 yards*), theoretical thread, a hand-sewing needle, and grosgrain ribbon (in a color of your choosing; optional). Keep your materials close at hand to ensure this quick and easy repair goes smoothly.

Take a moment now to identify the precise location of your rift. Use the following chart to determine what sort of rift you’re suffering from and where it is located.

Symptom(s): Generalized frustration, feelings of impotence

Rift type: Impedance

Location: The lower left quadrant (gazing outward) of your sixth ventricle, just above the second chakra.

Symptom(s): Malaise, ennui

Rift type: Disaffectation

Location: The left (malaise) or right (ennui) shoulder, usually deep inside the enervative cuff.

Symptom(s): Jealous rage

Rift type: Covetousness

Location: While this type of rift feels global, it is actually quite small and contained entirely within the fifth metacarpal of the dominant hand.

Symptom(s): Yearning, hopelessness

Rift type: Irredemptive

Location: This diffuse rift permeates the thoracic cavity and can be squirrely to pin down.

Once you’ve identified your rift type and location, grip it firmly in one hand. Spend a goodly length of time considering it, wallowing in its complete control of your emotional state. If, after this step, you still have the will to continue, use your free hand to carefully lay the elastic against the length of the rift. Pin the elastic in place using as many straight pins as necessary or enough to achieve attunement, whichever is more.

(This maneuver is tricky when mending rifts of covetousness; if necessary, use your teeth to hold the elastic in place, being careful not to ingest feelings of fury or straight pins.)

Using the needle and theoretical thread, contemplate sewing the elastic in place.

If you so chose, you may now apply the grosgrain ribbon. This step can sometimes result in a newly created morbid or grotesque rift, so proceed with caution.

And you’ve done it! Now you can mend any rift that tears your being asunder, and with a little practice, you’ll be able to adorn those tears with ribbon, a lace edging, pom-poms, or even a sequined border—because even the most persistent metaphysical afflictions benefit from some sprucing up.

Be sure to join us again next week, when we’ll explore using silk flowers in feng shui of the soul.

* Rifts of doubt almost always measure 1.2 yards.