The Mimosa Effect 2

This was inspired by both the Writer’s Island prompts, spellbound and awakening, and the Sunday Scribblings “smorgasborg” (I picked skin, crush and wings).  

It hadn’t started raining yet when she found him, although later everyone would say that it had.  Maybe it sounded more romantic that way.  People always had to add lightning and thunder after the fact.  In reality it was grey and damp and shivery cold, and late enough that some of the street lights were stuttering, as if not sure whether to turn on yet or not. She was hauling out the last of the boxes, a heavy one that had been forgotten behind the stage curtain.  Most of the other kids had gone home.  Whenever she stayed late, they’d tease her the next day, saying she was sucking up to Mr. Sikowski, or worse, that she had a crush on him; it never occurred to them that maybe she just didn’t want to go home.

Afterwards, everyone wanted to know what it was like;  the way they ask you about your first time, or meeting a famous person.  She always lied, and said she thought someone must be playing a joke.

Her first thought, when she saw him lying there in a spray of feathers and gauze, was that he must have fallen from the sky.  She stood perfectly still, hands gripping the cardboard hard enough to crush it, sure at any moment that he would leap to his feet, laughing.  She even wondered if he might be from St. Dominic’s.  They were doing a production of Midsummer Night’s Dream, and he looked like the type that would get cast as Puck. 

His skin was nearly as white as the feathers, perfect and smooth, a stark contrast against the gaudy mess of discarded props and costumes.   It was all the stuff too wrecked and mangled to use anymore, torn or stained beyond repair; the stuff that wasn’t even worth handing down to the grade school kids.  It was only when she saw the smear of blood under his nose, the yellow crust at the corner of his mouth, that it occurred to her she might be looking at a body.

She couldn’t remember when her thoughts became rational again, but they must have, because she found herself kneeling down beside him, asking him if he was okay.   That was the first thing they taught you to do, when they’d done AR for swim class.  Shake the person’s shoulders, ask if they’re all right.  Only she didn’t want to shake him.  She was scared to touch him.  Not because of all the reasons her mother would be – AIDS, TB, any number of unknown communicable diseases; and she didn’t know enough about any of them to know which ones you could catch just by touching, or breathing near someone – but because she wasn’t quite sure he was real.  She pulled out her phone, and it occurred to her that they’d ask her if he was breathing, if he had a pulse.  His chest didn’t seem to be rising, but when laid her fingers against his throat, just under his chin, she felt something flutter, like a moth trying to break free. 

After she’d punched in 9-1-1, she remembered the other thing they always said you should do.  So she called for help, even though she was sure no one would hear her.  Her voice sounded weird, next to the giant metal dumpsters, echoing across the empty parking lot.  When the other kids came, it had finally started to rain, and it was getting dark.   They emerged from the shadows over by the smoking area, near the back door, not saying anything.  She didn’t recognize any of them.  The way they were dressed, she doubted they went to any school, let alone hers.  They walked like the cool kids walked, cocky but cautious at the same time, grinding out cigarettes under boot heels, brushing back too-long hair.  One of them was drinking out of a paper-bag-wrapped bottle. 

In the end, they decided to move him.  The rain was coming down hard now, and it was starting to freeze, turning the asphalt slick and shiny.  There had been some discussion – they always said not to move people – and looking up at the roof, she imagined he could have fallen from there – been pushed, maybe.  When the kids did talk, they were quiet, and calm, and serious.  No one cracked a joke the entire time, even though the boy wasn’t wearing any clothes.  They got him inside, covered him up, folded up jackets to put under his head.  By the time Mr. Sikowski came back with the cops and the ambulance attendants, the other kids were gone.  Vanished like ghosts.  She figured, they probably didn’t want the hassle of dealing with authorities.

We’re thinking of getting into the motivational poster business.  This was the lovely berm left to us by our friendly neighbourhood snowplow after the Big Dump. (Naturally, M. had to make his own version, which ended up being prettier than mine; darn that bauble-snatching bird.)

Our photogenic tabby, Jake, very glad to be inside where it’s nice and warm.

This last one is for my mom; we started calling this particular drift Mount Maxwell, in fond memory of our trip to B.C.  It looked even more impressive with tendrils of snow blowing off its peak in the gale-force winds.  And yes, these photos really were taken in mid-March.  Hopefully the last few sunny mild days are a sign that spring might still make it up our way after all.

This month I have yet another excuse to procrastinate from real life: editing a 173,232 word novel.  This marks the second stage of the process, also known as the easy part: sitting on the couch with my tome propped open on my lap desk, red pencil in hand.  (The first stage involved sending a duplicate copy to my mom for feedback; considering she was an English teacher once upon a time, subjecting her to a cringingly rough first draft might be perceived as cruel and unusual punishment for some unknown crime, but I’m sure I’ll be paid back in spades when the copy comes home covered in helpful comments - thanks mom!).

So far, seventy-odd pages in, I’m pleased to note that most of it still rings true; I find myself chuckling out loud, smiling at my character’s idiosyncracies, wincing when I know they’re about to do something stupid.  So far there has only been one short section that was truly awful (the original text is almost invisible under a sea of red, accompanied by numerous comments along the lines of “ugh” and “argh!”).  So I remain pleasantly optimistic.  An easy state to maintain, so early on in the game.  Talk to me after page 350, when I’ve descended into the doldrums of despair.  Or better yet, when I actually have to hit the electric-typy-box-thing and find some way to turn the awful bits into gold, while simultaneously duct-taping shut numerous plot holes and magically disappearing glaring inconsistencies.  Oh yes, that time will come. 

For now, it’s back to the couch, and the pencil sharpener.  I couldn’t have picked a better day for huddling under fleece blankets in a cosy living room, as the sky grows darker with every passing moment and snowflakes swirl outside my window.  Hopefully by the time the storm truly sets in, I’ll have followed my two favourite characters to Florida, and will be blissfully unaware of the winter cold.

(Bonus points if you can tell what famous book I’m digitally defacing in the image above).