Lovesick

Arrabella was silent. 
Barely eighteen years old, she had just been diagnosed with a life threatening 
illness. 
Countless doctors had poked and prodded her from top to bottom, and after 
endless months of tests, the results were in. 
Defeated, her parents dropped heavily in the chairs next to her bed. 

Every time Arrabella looked at her parents, she couldn’t help but smile. 
Frankly, she was thrilled with the diagnosis and wanted to shout it from the 
rooftops. 
Gently she grabbed her mother’s hand and stroked it, hoping the touch would 
somehow give her mother courage. 
Her father reached out and grabbed his wife’s other hand and wiped a sparkling 
tear off his cheek.

Inside her chest her heart thumped and pounded against her ribcage. 
Japanese honeysuckle climbed lazily up the trellis outside the open window 
sending waves of sweet fragrance that wrapped around Arrabella like an invisible 
cloak. 
Knuckles white, an intern placed a thick chart in the hands of the doctor, then 
stepped back into the shadows.

Little did Arrabella know, this doctor was formidable in his treatment of this 
particular illness. 
Most of his patients had had a complete recovery with very few side effects. 
Never had he seen a case he hadn’t been able to treat. 
Once again, he read the diagnosis to the family and prepared to give them all 
the information he could in order to treat, and destroy the illness.

Perhaps he hadn’t listened too closely to Arrabella, and was therefore shocked 
to the core when she boldly stood up and refused treatment. 
Quickly, an orderly grabbed Arrabella and shoved a needle in her arm to suppress 
any unwanted resistance. 
Running was no longer an option as the medication coursed through her veins so 
swiftly that Arrabella tottered, and then slumped to the floor.

Several things happened all at once. 
Two nurses appeared from the shadows and grabbed the parents, shoving them 
through a door that had, until then, been quite invisible. 
Under the direction of the doctor, the intern grabbed the patient and hauled her 
through a separate door from her parents. 

Voices, like gnats in summer, swarmed around Arrabella’s head as she was whisked 
into a room cradled gently against the intern’s chest. 

“Where am I?” she asked uncertainly. 

Xyloid panels adorned the walls of the room, and her mind began recalling the 
familiar grain in each of the panels surrounding her. 


“You!” she said as she looked deeply into her lover’s eyes, grabbing his face 
and pressing her lips firmly against his. 
“Zack, you saved us, you saved us! “

Installment #1

He walked across the city checking the GPS device every now and then, not caring that he wasn’t making any progress towards headquarters. His anger had cooled to a smoldering warmth inside his chest, ready to ignite at any given moment. He had been going in circles the last hour, completely ignoring the coordinates the woman on the phone had given him. He knew they knew where he was thanks to the little tracking device they had fitted him with right before his assignment. He figured if he didn’t turn up, sooner or later they would come looking for him. He had just turned the corner on his fourth lap when he noticed a dark, unmarked sedan driving deliberately towards him.

Well, here they are. He thought. They took longer than expected, but here they are.

The sedan pulled up along side him and an oily voice issued from the open backseat window. “Get in the car Mr. Rhybrook.”

The door opened and he wondered if they would shoot him if he ran. Not that it would do him any good to try and disappear. If he tried to remove the tracking device, it would release a biological agent that would cause his body to start shutting down, until he was completely incapacitated. They had demonstrated the effects of a disrupted tracking device on an unfortunate stray they had picked up on their way to the lab. There were too many strays in the city anyhow, and he wasn’t too put out to see one put to such use. He slid into the back seat and closed the door.

“Mr. Rhybrook,” a man in dark glasses addressed him from the passenger side of the vehicle.

“Call me Aaron. My dad is Mr. Rhybrook.” He chuckled to himself, thinking that line sounded just as idiotic saying it, as hearing it.

The man in the glasses cleared his throat and started again, “Mr. Rhybrook, you have failed to accomplish your assignment. As per our agreement dated the tenth of March, you are hereby the sole property of Middlegamut Industries. Your home, and all personal effects therein have been moved to headquarters, with an addendum stating your dog be cared for by a Mrs. Lotty Abrams, neighbor. Furthermore, Middlegamut Industries reserves the right to catalog and confiscate any and all items in your home that could compromise your service to us. This includes, but is not limited to all electronic devices, books, photographs...”

Aaron tried looking out the window, but found it to be impenetrable. He couldn’t remember if it was day or night, and glanced at the GPS device for help, but it had stopped working once he entered the car, as did his watch. He closed his eyes as the man droned on and on about policies, punishments, and in short, the reaping of his soul. He could feel the hum of the car engine and wondered how long before they arrived at headquarters.

“Mr. Rhybrook.” A distant voice echoed inside Aaron’s head.
”Sir,” the voice was now clear and very near his ear, “we have arrived. You must exit the vehicle.”

The Matchmaker

approx 2200 words

I arrive at the house early. My way too expensive handbag digs into my shoulder and I wonder if I’ll end up with some nasty nerve damage. I’m still not sure how her card came into my possession, but I am not going to question my good fortune. I am tired of being single, and ready to try just about anything to change that, no matter how bizarre the means. Don’t get me wrong; I have certainly had my share of relationships. Girl meets guy, guy wants goodies, girl gives in, guy dumps girl and moves on to the next willing idiot. I am done with that song and dance. I want total commitment, total devotion, and a slice of happily ever after. That is why I am standing resolutely in front of number two twenty seven, Caraway Lane.

The door opens and I am ushered into a vast sitting room. I drop my bag to the floor and it makes a dull thump on the hardwood floor. Right away I notice the books. Each wall is lined from floor to ceiling with them. I can’t imagine ever having enough time to read that much, and wonder if she has read them all. Part of me wants to climb up the rolling ladder and run my fingers along their bindings, but the rational part of me keeps my butt on the sofa. I tear my eyes away from the myriad volumes lining the walls and am surprised to see a small silver box sitting benignly on the coffee table in front of me.

The box is slightly larger, and deeper than a pack of playing cards, and is covered in a delicate design. I draw closer to make out the design and hear, or rather feel, a humming, and vibration coming from the box. The top and edges of the box are adorned with intricately etched hearts. Inside each miniscule heart is a name. I try to make out some of the names, but every time I think I have one figured out, my eyes water up, and the letters swim out of focus. I am concentrating so hard on reading a particular name that I fail to notice the woman standing in front of me. A cool hand touches my cheek and I reluctantly draw my face away from the silver box.

The woman takes the seat opposite me and I feel shabby and beautiful in the same moment. She sits tall and straight with an air of confidence that draws me in, and makes me feel at ease. Her ebony hair falls in long sheets down her back, and she fixes me with a stare that lodges straight into my heart.

“I am Redocia.” She says. “You are here because you aren’t capable of tying your heart to someone else’s. I will help you with that, but it comes with a price, tailored specifically to you. Are you willing to pay?”

I scoot excitedly to the edge of my seat, ready to answer yes, but she quickly puts a finger to my lips, shakes her head and gives a sad smile.

“So quick to answer without even waiting to hear what the cost to you will be. You are too hasty young child, much too hasty.”

Her words are spoken kindly, but they pierce me, and make me feel foolish and rash. I take a deep breath and somehow find the courage to look on her face. I feel rattled by the depth I see in her eyes, and comforted by the compassion in them. Her skin is smooth and flawless and I am ashamed of my own lackluster visage. I swallow, and then begin.

“My name is Jezie,” I say, “short for Jezabella. I am not exactly sure how your card found me, but it seemed like the right thing to come see you.”

I reach across my lap and pull a small, red business card out of the side pocket of my bag, and hand it to her. My bangs fall out of a hastily installed clip so I sweep them behind my ear, hoping they will stay tucked. She takes the card and slips it into her sleeve. I immediately launch into the story of my sorry love life, explaining how no matter what tactic I take with men, I always seem to come out the worse for wear. I talk for half an hour, and she never interrupts, never even bats an eye. When I finish, I exhale and feel empty and relieved. I wait, not knowing what she will say or do.

“Jezie,” she says, and my name rolls off her tongue and it feels as if she now owns a part of me. “I saw you admiring my silver box. It is my greatest treasure.” One of her pale fingers lovingly strokes the lid and I realize that she has clutched my arm in her firm grip. I open my hand, and she places the box on my palm. I feel the vibration emanating from it, and my hand tingles.

“Inside this box is my collection. There are few, if any women who can match my skill or passion in obtaining these highly desired objects. Before I offer the contents of the box to you, I must tell you a story. After you hear my tale, we will discuss payment for my services. You will have one chance to back out, and I will never hear from you again. Agreed?”

I nod. I am unable to speak because an odd stillness has crept into the cavity of my chest. Redocia stands and beckons me to follow her through a doorway that has materialized in the wall. I rise from the sofa, silver box clasped tenderly in my hand, and follow the tall stately woman through the door. I hesitate for a brief moment before stepping across the threshold, but an unseen hand pushes gently against my lower back, and I cross over.

The room is bright and airy and feels warm in contrast to the swirling snow outside the picture windows. I notice, for the first time, Redocia’s dress. It is a simple cut, with a plunging neckline and hugs her body like a glove. I look down at my own outfit feeling underdressed, only to realize I am no longer wearing my comfy jeans and sweater. My dress matches Redocia’s except in color. She stands by a window, her hand resting lightly against the pane of glass. I walk in her direction, but she lifts her hand and I am directed to sit on one of the two high backed chairs. She looks longingly out towards the horizon, and then settles herself neatly on the other chair.

“I am a beautiful woman,” she said, “and with such beauty I have tamed the hearts of many men, bending them to my will and making them my own. Beauty is not enough, though, to tame hearts. My beauty is enhanced by charm, wit and intelligence, making me powerful and dangerous.”

Her words make the silver box in my hand resonate, and I see dozens of the etched hearts begin to glow. She continues her story in a mild tenor voice.

“Inside that box are the heartstrings of men I have tamed. I have traveled the world, hand selecting, gathering, and keeping safe that most precious item a man possesses. I love them, and know them and they entrust a portion of themselves to me, until the time is right to release them to their match. I have the power to call them to me, no matter where in the world they are, and they come. I am able to bind them to women, like you, looking for a man to be bound to. I have never had a failed matching.” She stops her narration and takes a sip from a glass filled with amber liquid.

I look past her and notice the gathering dark on the horizon. The snow falls thick and wet, and I am sure my car is turning into an indistinguishable lump out front. I pull my gaze from the window and place my hands on my knees, still clasping the box. I feel like it is time to speak.

“Earlier you spoke of payment, something tailored specifically for me?” I finger the silver box and see five of the hearts increase in brightness, the names on them becoming a little clearer. “I believe I am ready to hear your terms.”

“You must give me something of great value as payment for my services. Something that will almost break your heart to part with.”

I place my hand over my heart and close my eyes letting my chin drop to my chest. A small locket presses against my warm skin. It is the only thing I have left of my mother. Her picture, the size of my pinky nail, rests next to a tiny lock of her golden hair. I look up and see Redocia shaking her head, letting me know the locket is not enough. I think hard, and dig deep into my soul. I ponder for some time and then it comes to me. I cry out, and a little gasp escapes my lips. My joy, my solace, my release, my piano.

“You are almost there.” She said with a sad, thoughtful look in her eyes.

I realize she isn’t looking for something tangible. She wants something that I have poured my heart into, something that defines who I am, and sets me apart. I am a pianist. I have spent years of my life perfecting my talent. It is then I realize that I have to pay with my talent.

“My talent,” I whisper, “you want to take my talent?”

“ I will never take anything from you. That’s not how it works. You have to give it to me willingly, in exchange for the heartstring of a man. A man who will be devoted to you, love you, cherish you, fulfill you, complete you.” She turns her attention to the silver box on my knees. I glance down as well. “I can see you are getting close to a decision. Only three hearts are glowing now.”

I look down and see two hearts on top of the box, and one on the side glowing brightly. The names on each golden heart show crisp and clear in bright red lettering. Benjamin, Daniel, Samuel. I turn the box slowly in my hands, studying each glowing heart intently. I want to touch each tiny heart, but something holds me back. I feel the beat of my own heart pound sharply against my ribs. Redocia slides the box out of my hands, and I know it is time, and I am ready.

Redocia stands, holding a hand out to me. I place my hand in hers and allow myself to be lead to another door. Before we cross this threshold, she stops.

“Here is where you leave your payment behind or leave my home forever. If you truly wish to make the payment, you will be charged as soon as you walk through this door. If you wish to leave, another door will be open, and you are free to leave. Your payment will you’re your heart feel broken, almost beyond repair. It has to be this way to make the binding work. It will be painful, but you must give it willingly.”

I nod my understanding and cling tightly to her hand. I close my eyes, willing my heart to relinquish the years of practice, study, and love I have stored there; the years of dedication, tears and frustration. I inhale, then exhale, then step through the door. The pain is immediate and sever. I collapse in a heap and begin to retch in agony. I am alone. The room is dim and cold, and I feel completely abandoned.

In the far corner of the room I see a bright glow. The light gives me courage and I am drawn towards it. I find the silver box sitting on the floor, and realize the hearts are the source of light. I pick it up. The box feels warm and it resonates, cheering my broken heart a little. I look over the names again. Benjamin, Daniel, Samuel. I say each one out loud, feeling the name in my mouth and drawing it into my soul. After a time, only one name remains on my lips. Samuel. I reach down and touch the heart with his name on it. The box opens, revealing a velvet- lined interior. In the center of the box is a single heartstring, thrumming softly. I pick it up and place it against my chest, feeling the man it belongs to. My heart envelopes it, and the empty places begin to be filled.

A voice I have never heard before, but somehow recognize, calls my name. I turn toward the voice and see a man standing beside Redocia. My heart recognizes him, and I walk towards him, a shy smile on my face. He reaches out to me and I fall comfortably into his warm embrace. I feel his warmth and realize he has already given his heart to me, that it is mine to care for and love. My payment for this man’s heart seems like a trifle compared to the overwhelming fullness of joy I have in this moment. I know, without a doubt, the Matchmaker has once again made a perfect match.

No Title Yet...

He leaned against the wall, staring at the large white building across the street. A swirl of emotions danced across his face, giving him an almost pained look. His heart quickened in his chest, and he involuntarily placed his hand against its rhythmic beats. He wished he hadn’t come, but there was nothing that would excuse him from this assignment.

A silver minivan drove past, momentarily blocking his view of the building. It seemed familiar, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the driver waving in earnest. He glanced over his shoulder for a second look, but it had already turned into a parking lot and disappeared from view. He brushed it out of his mind and continued watching the building, waiting for a signal from his contact.

He had been sitting in the sweltering heat for nearly forty-five minutes. Something must be wrong. He was told this assignment would only take a quarter of an hour, however, the rules of assignments dictated that he remain at the scene until an hour had elapsed. This would give the infiltrator extra time if any unforeseen problems should arise. He glanced at his phone to check the time again and noticed the driver from the van walking his way.

He recognized her and knew he had two options. He could turn and run, or he could blow the whole assignment and acknowledge the woman walking towards him. If he engaged in conversation with anyone during an assignment he would be put on the red list and punished accordingly. They were always watching, always listening. He decided to run.

He took one last look at the white building before he began running down the street. A petite, blond woman had finally emerged from the front doors in a simple, white gown. A crown of daisies rested lightly on her head, and a sad smile pulled at the corners of her rosebud lips. A single glistening tear had caught the light, and for a brief moment, it sparkled like a diamond. His resolve almost faltered when he saw it was his sister, Mariella, being paraded across the grounds, hands tied tightly behind her back. Six men in brown robes guarded her, hedging her way against any attempt to flee.

The sight of Mariella stopped him in his tracks, but he quickly remembered the consequences and ran on. In his moment of panic, he missed the signal from his contact, making it now impossible to fulfill his end of the agreement. He seethed with anger and frustration. He realized, as he ran, that this assignment had been a set up. He had now become a pawn, trapped in the ironclad fist of the secret society he had hoped would be his means of freeing Mariella. When he was a safe distance from the building, he stopped running and pulled out his phone. He pushed nine and hit send. An icy voice gave him a set of coordinates. With a heavy heart began his long trek to the society that would own him for the next ten years of his life.

Day 8: Manifesto

"Shut up!" Yelling this time, staccato, sharp, piercing sounds from her throat, desperate to penetrate, to breach his consciousness and force him to understand her need for him to be silent.
"Just shut up! I don't need your arguments, your reasons, your long lists of how you're right and I'm ALWAYS wrong, and if the world JUST went according to what YOU thought and YOU wanted then it would be just BETTER for everyone! I hate it! I hate it! You and your self loathing I'm such a pathetic victim and everyone should pity me and do what I say manifesto!"
She was breathing heavy, her eyes dilating, nostrils flaring, face reddening. He had never seen her this angry before. He actually didn't know she could get angry. For so much of their friendship she had always been the calm one, the reasonable one, the pacific, placid, pensive one who seemed to live outside of the everyday experience of human aggravation.
Wow, he thought, you think you know someone.....

Day 7: Crispy

Sweet, crispy, luxurious. Those were the words to describe the delightful concoction now swirling around on her tongue. Ayla opened her eyes. It was wrong, she knew, to indulge herself so thoroughly on such delights when most of her father's kingdom was starving, but when it came to Chef Chuley's miraculous bit size choco balls, she had no resistance.

Day 6 : Bilge

(def: the widest circumference or belly of a cask)

The light sputtered and obstinately threatened to refuse to shine. A few more vigorous pulls of the chain woke it from its stupor and coaxed a dim, yellow luminescence from the old tired bulb. This corner of the ship was in sad disrepair. Being on the lowest level of the schooner, and also the hardest to access, it was rare for human eyes to take inventory of its state. If the outside hull wasn't leaking, the inside wasn't much worried about. Through most of the ship's voyages this nook remained empty - cursed and abandoned as a misfortune created by bad planning on the part of the shipbuilder. This journey, however, the dank inconvenient bit of ship sported a curious cargo. Twenty-seven ironwood casks were lined up against the furthermost hull, tied tightly together with black horse hair rope,and painted with the symbol of the corn crow on their bilges.

New Character

Sebastian fell to the earth, panting. Sweat drenched hi face and hands, shining on every part of his skin that was exposed to the moist and burning air. The sweat on the rest of his body was absorbed into the fabric of his stained linen shirt and wrinkled black slacks, except where the cloth was saturated. In these spots the sweat condensed into rivulets and sent small streams running down various crevices in his bodies attempt to cool him down.

He had fallen in a kneeling position, appearing to an observer to be in the attitude of emphatic worship - head thrown back in exultation, hands and arms stretched wide, body resting on the heels, knees forward in 'v' shape. His chest was heaving, as much in response to the last ten hours of intense effort on the project as in attempt to breathe in the pressing humidity and heat.

Steam continued to billow out of the gigantic opening before him, washing over him again and again, almost searing him with each opaque wave.

His skin had turned bright red and would soon begin to blister if he remained there for much longer. He had done it. Decades of study, trial and error, opposition, set backs, despair, false leads....every obstacle the universe could think to throw at his endeavor he's encountered. And overcome. After 25 years of plumming the depths, unraveling the mysteries, enduring the hardships and now he had come off victor.

He looked down, anxiously searching for the first view of the fruits of his labor. There, directly in front of him, glittering bright red on the dull black of the basalt cave floor was his prize. A fire demon, newly born, untouched, unimprinted, ready to become one with the first sentient creature it encountered. Ready to grant it manifold abilities on the fortunate first time possessor.

He reached out to pick it up, but as he did so he had the unusual sensation that something was not quite right about the way his brain sent the command to his fingers. He felt as if there was a delay between the impulse to perform the action and his response in doing it.

"Ah," he thought, "So this is what it feels like, the beginning of the unraveling of my being."

It was a quick break, clean and bloodless, mostly. A small trickle dripped out of the corner of the boy’s mouth, collecting in a small puddle on the white sand. She moved close to his head, squatting in the moonlight, and realized that the blood didn’t look red at all. She thought she had really loved this one, trusted him. He was so handsome and smart, and possessed most of the qualities she desired. This one had had great potential, but he started asking all the wrong questions, and in the end she had to dispose of him too. He was already number six, and she wondered how long it was going to take before she found her match. She leaned over and kissed his forehead, his eyes, his nose and finally his mouth, still warm but unmoving under her own.

 

Waves crashed on the shore behind her. She turned, facing the water standing tall and terrifying on the sand, waiting. Her toes dug into the soft powder and a whisper of a breeze swirled her shift lazily around her slight frame. The waiting didn’t bother her, nor did the body lying at her feet. Both were incontrovertibly a part of her life in that moment so she would breathe, and just be.

 

In the far distance, across the inky water, an orange light popped into existence. She reached into the air in front of her and summoned a light, pale blue and warm. The orange light blinked in response to her light and began moving toward her across the water. She looked down once more at the beautiful boy and regretted that he hadn’t been stronger. Regret was something she was forbidden to feel, but after so many attempts at finding her match, she began to feel as if there might be something wrong with her instead. The orange light reached her, encompassed her, and she was drifting within the light, over the water away from the boy. She looked back just as a large wave washed over the boy’s body, dragging it into its cold depths. She closed her eyes and succumbed to the music in her mind, lulling her into the sleep that would take her home. She would start over again, and this time get things right. She was, after all, running out of time. 

Sabrina - youth (somewhere 12 to 15 yrs old)

(This should be read while listening to the song "Flightless Bird and American Mouth" by Iron & Wine. I was listening to that song when I wrote this.)

The room was vast, lit only by the soft amber light of thick candles that had been burning for hours. The late night gave the room a somber heavy feeling - as if the bustle of the dance had been a heavy burden, gratefully cast aside.
She entered slowly. Her bare feet making soft padding noises on the smooth wood floor. This room always held her in awe. The Grand Ballroom. Stately windows on all sides, exquisitely draped curtains framing them like antique edging around faded photographs.
She inhaled deeply. The smell of the room was her favorite smell - candle wax, perfume, food, people, early spring....
She quickly moved into the center of the room, claiming her place for the dance. Her Dance. The dance of her heart.
She only heard the music when she was alone. The room only sang to her when it was empty.
She raised her arms as if to embrace a partner. Slowly stepping in time to the music of the room she moved carefully, confidently through the space with the silent invisible partner that always waited for her. It was her companion, her friend. They had talked many times in this way - her bare feet on the floor, the music of the silent room beating through her veins. They told each other their secrets, shared each others joys, comforted their sorrows. She didn't know who she was without this. The room never sang to anyone but her. And she never wanted to hear another song.