Lose 10 Pounds of Ugly Fat... Cut Off Your Head

LJ Idol Mini, Week 4: Uncanny Valley

2024-07-29T14:10:48Z

Research Log, Day 1:

Built a new body for Calla today. Not that she fucking appreciated it. Just glared at me like always and said, "And how, pray tell, do you plan to transfer my consciousness into it, Genius?"

(Least she didn't call me Princess like she usually does.)

Can't give me a lick of credit, can she? Not like I haven't been working on that too. Just hard cause I've never heard of anyone's consciousness getting stuck in a robot body before. Best I can guess it's the lightning strike that did it, but how would I replicate that without fucking killing her?

Even if I knew how to do that, it'd still be way too dangerous to test out the neural interface and make sure it works like it's really her body. No way I'm gonna risk someone else's fucking life like that.

Wes gave me a Look when I said that in front of him. Said not to even think about it.

Research Log, Day 6:

I'm thinking about it. Best way to test the neural interface is with me in the new body.

That way if anything goes wrong, I'm not hurting someone else. Thing is, I'm not sure what'll happen to my body if I'm not in it. What if I get stuck in a robot? Would my body die?

Only way I can think to address that issue is swapping with Calla. Put me in her current body and her in mine. Then if something goes wrong, at least she'd live -- I hope. Gotta run some simulations first.

Research Log, Day 25:

One hurdle cleared. Pretty sure I know how to swap our bodies now and it's simpler than I thought. It works in 99% of my simulations. The other 1%, I die -- but y'know, I just gotta refine the process some.

"Sure, Princess, I'll just stay in this ugly ass bugbot body forever." That's all Calla said.

Research Log, Day 30:

I'm as ready as I'm gonna be. Just need a sufficient electrical current.

Calla never gives me a fucking inch, just skewered me with her laser eyes and said, "How're you gonna do that, Princess? Ask one of those 'friends' you sneak out to meet at night to lend you a rocket?"

Now that I think about it...

Research Log, Day 32:

Say what you want about my line of work, but I got my hands on a rocket.

Research Log, Day 40:

Proof of concept ~~went okay~~ could've gone worse. Swapped with Calla like I planned to, didn't kill either of us in the process. Would've called it a total success if the swap didn't blow a fucking capacitor. Since it did, I had to go out and pick up a bunch of spare parts -- as a fucking bugbot.

Course I tried to get Kalen to do it. Didn't really want to leave Calla in case something went wrong. Got a vested interest in keeping her and my body alive. But Kalen called 30 minutes after he left with a million questions. You want something done right, you gotta do it your fucking self.

Should've heard Calla griping about how she had to stay in my fucking body while I went out. Like it's worse being me than a giant fucking bug. Or maybe she just didn't want to be stuck home with Wes.

Funny thing, I didn't exactly mind going out as a giant fucking bug. Went in 5 different stores and no one hit on me once. No one said any slurs like they normally do when I'm outside the Umani Quarter. Plus I only got kicked out of one store for being a hideous robot bug thing, less than I would've for being Umani.

Research Log, Day 42:

Tested out Body 2.0 some today. Fucking finally.

Didn't have any issues transferring into the new body, or transferring Calla into mine. Swapped back without any problems too. Except Wes took Calla out for oysters to celebrate -- with my fucking mouth. Can still feel that awful slimy texture on my tongue, makes me want to fucking puke.

Other than that, everything went fine. Walked all the way to the city to make sure the legs would really obey my brain, went into my favorite coffee shop in the Umani Quarter. Counter guy told me they don't allow robots but he'd make an exception just this once. Guess he's into 6 foot tall shiny metal chicks?

Took me 'til then to remember I couldn't even drink coffee on account of being a robot.

Research Log, Day 60:

Head's fucking killing me. Calla took my body out dancing last night, had one drink too many.

She's in a fabulous mood today, so I guess there's that. Told me she ran into one of my "friends" at the club, Major General Ellis. Course he thought she was me, on account of her wearing my face.

I tried to play it off. Tried to tell her Majerians just think all us Umani look the same.

"Princess," she said. Don't get how she made it look like her robot eyes narrowed then cause they aren't supposed to do that. "He called me by your name and asked me how the rocket worked out."

Thought she was gonna ask why a Majerian officer'd even be at an Umani Quarter dance club but she just gave me shit for blushing. Dunno why I don't just tell her I'm a fucking escort. Pretty sure she already knows but I hate it. Even Ellis says I oughtta be working in his lab. Says if I had my papers he'd hire me in a heartbeat.

Gonna have some explaining to do, next time I see him. Dude knows I don't fucking dance.

Research Log, Day 76:

Calla's been in Body 2.0 for a week and everything's working great. Not that it's improved her mood any.

She started dating Kalen's dumbass brother, thinks nobody knows. There's practically hearts floating in the air between them! Bet she's mad she can't feel it when he holds her shiny metal hand.

Guess I know one feature I'll have to add in Body 3.0. How the fuck am I gonna test that?

Research Log, Day 100:

Figured out how to test it.

Haven't been able to look Wes in the eye for fucking days but I guess that's the price of innovation?

Wes couldn't look me in the eye while we did it. Said it was kinda like fucking a creepy doll.

Didn't complain when I did that thing with ~~my tongue~~ Calla's tongue, though.

Research Log, Day 101:

Found out the hard way the neural interface overloads if my heart beats too fast. I'm fine, though.

Went out on a double "date" last night, Wes and Calla and me and Kalen's dumbass brother. Not that Wes and I are fucking dating. Got dressed up, went out to this steakhouse in the city that claims it's "Umani-inspired."

Umani inspired, my ass. Never even tried steak 'til I moved here.

Didn't try it last night either, on account of being a fucking robot. Everyone said it was good, though.

Server took my order last. Said, "And what'll you have, miss?" then looked at me a little closer. Saw her whole expression kinda just... freeze over. Didn't even say another word before she walked away.

Calla said she would've lasered her for that.

Research Log, Day 105:

Worst. Fucking. Day. Ever.

Went out dancing to test my fix for the heart rate issue. Dunno why Calla wants a body that's more realistic, being a chick fucking sucks. Never had so many men staring at my ass before in my life.

...Which is kinda saying a lot, seeing as I get laid for a fucking living.

Speaking of which, Ellis came by the house while I was out. Dunno how he even got my fucking address. Said he was doing inventory, needed the serial number off that rocket he let me borrow.

~~Wonder if it was just an excuse to see me, though. Fucking hope not.~~

Calla went up in the attic to try and find it, found my research log in the process. Guess now I don't have to worry she'll find out what I do for work. Just gotta worry about whether she'll tell Wes.

Research Log, Day 106:

Panic attacks fucking suck. Least I know the heart rate issue's fixed, though.

Research Log, Day 107:

Thinking I'm gonna incinerate this thing. What if Wes finds it too?!

Research Log, Day 118:

Can't bring myself to burn it. Can't bring myself to write in it anymore either, though.

Gonna put Calla in Body 3.0 tomorrow.

Research Log, Day ~~Whatever~~ 119:

Party for Calla's birthday. I'm fucking druuuuunnkkkk. Never done that before but it isn't the worst.

Guess Brendan (thats Kalen's brother) isn't so bad. Can tell he's head over heels for Calla.

Probably gonna regret this tomorrow, but me n Wes... y'know. We did. It.

Wasn't even in the robot this time and it felt a million times more fucking amazing.

Definitely gonna incinerate this thing tomorrow.

Research Log, Day 120:

Head's fucking pounding.

Finally managed to make Calla happy for once. Or technically Kalen's dumbass brother did.

Could hear her all the way across the fucking house.

All she said to me after was, "You better not have test driven this with one of those 'friends'," with air quotes and everything. Didn't glare when she said it, though. Which is good cause Wes wasn't wrong.

She kinda does look like a creepy doll. Guess that's something to fix in the next revision.

Some who remember my old writing from LJ might recognize these characters, but this piece is intended to stand on its own. Only time -- and the poll results -- will tell how well it accomplishes that goal, but I stand by my choices.

Thanks to thephantomq for ~~enabling me~~ beta reading.

comments

Survivor: LJ Idol, Challenge #3 - Smash and Grab

2020-11-14T18:08:23Z

A Study in ADHD and PTSD
(Subtitle: Who Stole My Focus?)

7:09 am
Today’s the day! I can finally write that fiction piece I’ve been thinking about all week. Too bad I haven’t had the time to do more than type up a few notes, but I’ve got the whole day to work on it now.

*opens Google doc with notes and starts reading through it*

7:12 am
Is that a siren? Shit, we are definitely about to have a real second outbreak. Good thing I took off work early yesterday to give my bubblemate a ride into Manhattan for one last appointment at the migraine clinic before things get really bad. Driving in Manhattan wasn’t nearly as scary as I thought it would be. I’d totally do it again, so I could see --

You know what would be good? Some coffee. But I forgot to clean the French press when I used it the other day and the dishwasher’s full of clean dishes now. Hm, I could order bagels and get a coffee with them.

Yeah! Max would love to be surprised with bagels when he gets up.

7:19 am
*opens Seamless and waffles over which bagel place to order from*

7:46 am
*finally places bagel order, completely forgetting to add in a coffee*

7:50 am
*browses Facebook memories because brain is now in waiting mode until bagels arrive*

7:51 am
Oh hey, on this date in 2009, I helped the Medical Reserve Corps give H1N1 vaccinations. It’s weird how I barely even remember H1N1 because our country’s pandemic response team still existed back then and did what it was supposed to. And it’s even weirder how proud I was of my dad for being head of a local MRC chapter and being interviewed by CNN.

[Note: My parents are narcissistic abusers and I haven’t had contact with them since 2013.]

7:53 am
Dammit, I forgot to order the coffee, didn’t I?

7:54 am
*rinses out French press and empties dishwasher so French press can be washed and coffee can be made*

8:00 am
*loads dishwasher and adds detergent pod before getting distracted by bagels arriving*

8:05 am
*eats half of breakfast sandwich*

*spends next 55 minutes Googling dad's local MRC chapter to find out how it responded to the pandemic, then ranting at BFF because it basically didn't respond to the pandemic*

9:00 am
Hm, I'm obviously pretty passionate about this. Maybe I should write an Idol piece about it.

*spends another 48 minutes Googling and ranting*

9:48 am
*notices other half of breakfast sandwich exists and eats it as well*

Hm, I don't think I want to write about COVID two weeks in a row, though.

9:49 am
Wait a minute. My parents knew I was in NYC, at the epicenter of the pandemic.

And they never even asked if I was okay?

*digests this for several minutes because it's apparently never come to mind before*

[Mental soundtrack: this clip]

9:55 am
Oshit, I forgot to start the dishwasher.

9:56 am
*finally starts dishwasher*

9:57 am
Oshit, remember last night when I was telling Nadine how my in-laws voted for Trump and Max overheard by accident?

And asked if that meant Grandma was a bad person?

...And all I said was "Um, it's complicated?"

I should probably go do something about that.

*spends 23 minutes explaining to 9 year old that choices are complicated and his grandparents aren't Nazis and it's okay to love them unconditionally, the same way they love him unconditionally*

*hugs 9 year old while he cries about grandparents not being Nazis*

*considers purchasing duct tape for own mouth*

10:20 am
*more ranting to BFF, first about own failings as a parent and then about parents' failings as parents*

10:48 am
You know what? I really want to buy a snake plant for the apartment. I wonder if I should buy it on The Sill or on Greenery Unlimited. Are there other good plant delivery services here?

*googles best plant delivery services in NYC*

*eventually orders snake plant from Greenery Unlimited*

11:12 am
Am I even going to write something?

11:17 am
Holy fuck, there are a lot of sirens today.

11:18 am
*spaces out [or possibly dissociates] for 14 minutes*

11:33 am
*makes food for 9 year old and shows him pictures of the snake plant*

11:37 am
Wait a minute, can I write about my failure to write due to my brain being... *flaily hand gesture*

11:38 am
*makes food for self*

11:50 am
*sits down to write Idol entry about ADHD/PTSD brain*

11:55 am
Shit, did I leave the oven on?

*goes to check*

11:57 am
*finally writes Idol entry*

2:01 pm
Shit, I still never made that coffee.

comments

Survivor: LJ Idol, Challenge #2 - Keel Hauling

2020-11-03T21:10:29Z

The Before Times (Barely!)

“It’s never this empty here,” Gina says, herding her youngest out of the Titanosaur exhibit.

My best friend Alex, who’s come up from Delaware to visit me for a day, shoots me a look. I raise an eyebrow. He moves closer, speaking softly enough that Gina can’t hear him.

“It doesn’t seem all that empty to me,” he mutters, eyeing our fellow museumgoers.

I swallow a nervous laugh. By Delaware standards, the Museum of Natural History probably does seem crowded. The borough of Queens, my home for just over three years now, is more than twice as populous as Alex’s home state. Still, this isn’t the crowd I’d expect on a Sunday.

Most of the city’s seemed emptier than usual this past week. It’s… kind of creepy.

We make our way to the Discovery Room, a hands-on science area for kids. A friendly twenty-something checks us in. “Stay as long as you want,” she says, offering up the hand sanitizer that’s quickly become a fixture in all public places here. “It hasn’t been busy.”

“Do you think it’s because of the virus?” I ask once the kids have run off to explore.

Gina shakes her head. “It’s the first really nice spring day. People are just outside enjoying it.”

I nod and fall silent, my insides twisting a little as I watch my 9 year old son strong-arming a kid he’s just met into serving as his assistant for whatever experiment he’s dreamed up.

It’s March 7th, nearly a week since New York state confirmed its first case of the “novel coronavirus.” New Yorkers mobbed the grocery stores that weekend, standing in line for hours in hopes of stocking their tiny pantries with bottled water, toilet paper and Clorox wipes.

Not yet, my friends told me when I asked if I should worry.

Since then, life in the city has proceeded as usual; it always does. But there’s more space than there should be on the subway during my commute, and the streets in midtown feel subdued when I walk them on my lunch breaks. It’s almost as though the city is holding its breath.

And yet, when rumors swirl about closing the NYC public schools, I roll my eyes. Why would they do that for 33 cases? I thought New Yorkers were supposed to be good in a crisis.

The Calm Before the Storm

It’s only 7:30 on a Thursday night, but the N train is all but empty. I sanitize my hands. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I sanitize that as well before texting Alex: On my way home now.

Was it fun?

I bite my lip, glancing around the eerily deserted subway car.

I ghosted everyone as we were about to walk into another bar but yes.

For good measure, I sanitize my hands again. It’s probably excessive, but you never know these days. It’s March 12th, only five days since the museum, and our case count has more than tripled. There are almost a hundred cases in NYC alone. The National Guard has set up what they’re calling a “containment zone” in New Rochelle, less than an hour away from the city.

If my team at work hadn’t planned this outing months in advance, I would’ve backed out. I almost did anyway. But it’s for a good cause -- volunteering at a food bank. And once I got there, I figured I might as well stay for dinner and drinks; I’m not planning to go back into the office again until this whole virus thing blows over. Who knows when I’ll see everyone again?

But now I’m regretting how long I stayed, how careless I was. In Harlem, the food bank was quiet but the restaurant where we had dinner was nearly at capacity by the time we left. My coworkers and I sneak-shared food from each other’s plates when our boss wasn’t looking.

Meanwhile, Broadway’s announced it’s shutting down for the next month. And on a private Facebook group, my mom-friends and I are discussing whether we should pull our kids out of school; I decide tomorrow will be my son’s last day. Just for now, and just to be safe, but --

What if the virus really is as deadly as the news is saying? What if we all get sick?

A Beautiful Day

“Is it still safe to be outside?” my son asks.

They showed him videos about the virus in school, before I withdrew him. He’s discovered that the theme from Steven Universe is 21 seconds long, and he’s taken to singing it while he washes his hands. But overall, he’s seemed unperturbed by the virus so far.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell him, gripping his hand a little too tightly.

It’s Sunday, March 15th. There are 720 confirmed coronavirus cases in New York state, 329 in the city. Only yesterday, we reported our first coronavirus death; today there were two more.

My corner of Queens doesn’t seem to have noticed. The weather is glorious, unseasonably warm and breezy. People are out in force, strolling beneath the brilliant blue sky as though it’s a normal spring day -- as though our city isn’t dying before our eyes. I burst into silent tears.

“Are you okay, mommy?”

I nod numbly, towing my son down the sidewalk toward the corner bodega.

In Italy, hospitals are now so overwhelmed they’re “triaging out” coronavirus patients who aren’t considered as likely to recover, turning away the elderly and those with exacerbating conditions.

Italy is us in two weeks, the news keeps saying. Will we be able to walk outside then? President Trump is already threatening to impose lockdowns for areas with large numbers of cases. I try not to think too hard about what that could mean, given his well-known vendetta against the city.

Should I find somewhere else we can stay? Just for a little while, you know. Just in case.

“It’ll be okay,” I say again, more for my own benefit than for my son’s.

We stock up on toilet paper and snacks we don’t really need. Once we’re home and showered, our cast-off clothes safely sealed away in a plastic garbage bag, we snuggle and watch cartoons. I hold it together for him; I don’t look at the news again until he’s gone to bed.

When I do, there’s a new round of closures: New York City public schools, all movie theaters, concert venues, and bars. All restaurants as well, except for takeout and delivery.

This time I allow myself to weep in earnest, and this time it’s out of relief.

At the Epicenter

In case you were wondering how many days into the apocalypse it would be before I snapped and gave myself a terrible haircut with blunt scissors, I text Alex, it’s today many days.

It’s Thursday, April 2nd. I call the virus by its proper name now, or COVID for short. I guess the city didn’t shut down soon enough to keep it in check. There are 92,381 confirmed cases of it in New York state now, an increase of 8,669 from the day before, and 2,373 total deaths.

More than half of both are in the city.

Times Square stands empty, though like most people, I’ve only seen it in pictures. We don’t go outside anymore, not even for walks; my son refuses to leave the apartment. The city is painfully quiet, apart from the unrelenting sound of sirens. We hear them all day and all night, echoing oddly off the silent buildings, and we all know each one means another likely death.

My friend Gina, the one from the museum, posts this on our Facebook group:

So John was called to work today in a hospital to put up shelves. He assumed the shelves were to store masks and other emergency equipment.

He just got home.

The shelves were for bodies.

At other hospitals, the parking lots are filled with refrigerated trailers to store the dead. We lose another New Yorker to COVID approximately every two and a half minutes. And as if this isn’t torture enough in itself, it seems people in other parts of the country believe it’s all a lie.

On Twitter, #FilmYourHospital is trending, an attempt to debunk the severity of the situation here by filming empty reception areas in overtaxed NYC hospitals. It makes me want to spit nails.

I learn to take comfort in small things: Governor Cuomo’s briefings, my talent for finding an Amazon Fresh delivery slot when no one else can, the fact that as our death rate continues to rise, the number of new cases per day seems to be plateauing at “only” 8 to 9 thousand.

We build a new normal, Zoom calls and waving from windows passing for social interaction. At 7pm every night, we cheer for the healthcare workers fighting for our lives. My friends talk about summer, as though camps and vacations are something we’re still allowed to believe in.

But personally, I only hope for days where we don’t hear sirens.

comments

Survivor: LJ Idol, Challenge #1 - Quest for Fire

2020-10-26T21:34:04Z

The first time he come, it was just after supper.

“D’you have any matches, ma’am?” he asked straightaway when I opened the door.

He couldn’t’a been more than ten or eleven, I reckoned then, the top of his curly head not even as high as my breastbone. And I could tell he weren’t from around these parts neither -- or leastways his family weren’t -- on account of the way he called me ma’am instead of missus.

Wherever he come from originally, I’d’a wagered the clothes off my back on one thing. It weren’t from a poor district like this one. Something about him just stank to the heavens of money.

Ain’t nothing I need less, I said to myself, than to find myself wrong-side of a HIgh-Ender’s kid.

I must’a looked at him sideways one minute too long, ‘cause he opened his big brown eyes impossibly wide and fixed them on me. “Please, ma’am?” he squeaked, his lower lip all aquiver.

“What on this green earth’s a child like you gonna do with matches?”

“It’s cold and I’m lost,” he said, but I seen how them doe eyes couldn’t quite meet mine.

“What’s your name, child?” I asked, just as gentle as I could.

His little body tensed all up at the question. He looked up at me again, his eyes near the size of dinner plates. For a hot minute he didn’t say nothing, just stared at me like a cornered deer.

“Eric Woods, ma’am,” he finally got out.

If that ain’t the fakest name I ever did hear, I said to myself then. In the Sentry Wood district, the forest’s both life and death. Ain’t nobody here named after it, though. I shook my head.

“Please,” he said again.

“You know you’re too young to play with matches,” I chided him. “Where’s your momma live? I’m more’n happy to help you find her. There’s leftovers from supper too, if you --”

My words caught in my throat and I seen I was talking to empty air. The boy was gone.

* * * * *

He showed up again a week later, still in the same plaid pants I seen him in before. The cuffs of ‘em was black this time, and the front of his grey shirt was streaked with the same black dirt.

Or soot, mayhap, I thought to myself. I reckon he found them matches after all.

He didn’t look like he’d found any means to warm his self, though, on account of the way he was hugging his self and shivering. And I couldn’t hardly blame him for that, with the wind howling through the trees like a wounded beast. He gave me the saddest little smile.

“D’you have any matches, ma’am?” he asked just the same as the first time I seen him.

‘Cept this time the words sounded wobbly ‘cause of how bad he was shaking.

“I told you, you ain’t old enough to be playing with matches,” I said. “But you’ll catch your death if you don’t warm yourself a bit. You can set by my fire for a spell if you --”

But just like that, I might as well’a been speaking to the stars, ‘cause the boy was gone again.

* * * * *

I started to fret in earnest, once he come knocking a third time. His cheeks had gone hollow by then and his dark curls were matted. Just like before, he come looking for matches again.

And just like before, he vanished as soon as I offered him anything other.

That night, I set up late and scoured the ‘net for a trace of an Eric Woods. It weren’t a surprise when I came up empty -- I knew all along it couldn’t’a been his real name. But by then, I couldn’t just leave sleeping babes to lie anymore. I’d already let that boy suffer alone for too long.

In my line of work you can’t hardly just sit by and watch when a child’s in danger like that.

It weren’t strictly legal, looking him up in the Citizens’ Record. A Care Assistant’s never meant to access the Record for personal reasons. But I reckoned the good I could do canceled out any sin on my part. ‘Sides, I never expected no more’n the goose egg I’d already found on the ‘net.

You could’a knocked me clean over with just a breath when his name and pic come up there.

And I near fell flat out when I read the last page of his record:

Citizen perished in a house fire on Wintertide Eve, one week after his twelfth birthday. The fire claimed the life of his mother, Drea Woods, as well. The only surviving witness was Sasha Tolliver, a classmate at Sentry Wood Middle Grade School. Tolliver died tragically less than three years later, while detained in the Home for the Intractably Insane on suspicions of --

I had to pause there, ‘cause I knew full well what they thought Sasha Tolliver done.

* * * * *

“Remind me again why you brung me here?” I fight the urge to squirm in my seat.

Doc Brinkley crosses his arms and leans ‘gainst the conference room table, tall and towering over me. I smooth down my skirt and cross my legs tighter ‘neath it. There’s something ‘bout being all by my lonesome with him that makes me feel naked as the day my ma birthed me.

He smiles the same fake smile my instructors always did when I asked why a girl couldn’t grow up to be a doctor -- or even a measly Care Tech -- instead of a stupid Care Assistant.

“I’ve brought you here,” he corrects me, speaking nice and slow like I might be too thick to understand him, “because the boy trusts you as much as he’s capable of trusting anyone. Which means the Board will take your word if you --”

“If I betray that trust?” The words spill past my lips like bile before I can stop ‘em.

“If you present evidence supporting my case,” the doc says, that smile near cracking his face.

My eyes narrow of their own free will. “You know full well I ain’t got that evidence.”

He leans in, near enough so’s I feel his hot breath on my face. “I know ‘full well’ that the boy’s real name is Sasha Tolliver. That he’s suspected of setting a house fire that killed his best friend.” He takes my hand and squeezes, hard enough that I’m biting my lip so’s not to cry out.

“And I know about your career aspirations, Ms. Page, along with the allegations against you before you came to work at the Home. It’d be a shame to --”

I stand up, my blood fit to boil. “I ain’t never laid a hand on that man.”

It’s a lie, a’course. They told me the records were sealed, when they helped me smooth it all over. Said I deserved a second chance on account of how my husband-to-be hurt me. But it don’t change the law. It won’t change what’ll happen to me if word of what I did gets out.

The doc smiles again, for real this time. It’s the grin of a wolf on the hunt. “And I never laid a hand on the Tolliver boy. It appears it’s not only my future that hinges on proving it now.”

* * * * *

The Wood’s ablaze, the trees on three sides of me in flames. I’m running for safety, my lungs fit to burst and my feet pounding hard ‘gainst the forest floor. The sound of my shoes on the hard-packed dirt swells ‘til it fills my ears and I can’t hear nothing else, and --

My eyes fly open. I set up with a start, my head full of fog, and blink at the Wintertide log still burning merrily in my fireplace. I must’a fallen asleep in my chair -- on a holiday eve, no less.

I shake my head. It’s been a dog’s age since I had a full night’s rest.

Someone’s pounding at the door, I realize, loud enough it’s a wonder the windows ain’t rattling in their frames. I hold my breath, my heart slamming into my breastbone. It’s him, I just know it.

‘Cept it can’t be him, can it? He’s been dead nigh on four years and I know that now. It’s my guilt getting to me, ain’t it? On account of me selling out that Tolliver boy to save my own --

“Joyous Wintertide, ma’am,” pipes a sweet, clear voice from behind me.

I leap from my seat like I seen a ghost. Which I s’pose I have. He’s covered in soot from head to foot, ‘cept for clean tracks on his cheeks -- mayhap from tears, but he’s smiling softly now.

For once, it ain’t him shivering. “I told you, child, I ain’t gonna give you any matches.”

He bites his lip. I reckon he’s gonna plead with me again, but he don’t.

“You don’t need to, ma’am,” he says, in the saddest little voice. “I’ve got something better now.”

His hands are behind his back, I notice. And whatever he’s got in ‘em, it’s… bright. He holds it up to show me -- the kerosene lamp I keep in the shed out back. It’s lit up and I don’t understand how I ain’t seen the shadows it’s casting ‘til now. I shake my head.

Mayhap I’m still dreaming.

He shakes his head too, his filthy curls bouncing. “Believe it or not, I’m sorry to do this.”

The lantern’s sailing through the air before I can say boo. I duck, but it ain’t headed towards me. It hits the fireplace dead-center with a tinkle of shattered glass, and it hits me that I oughtta run.

I turn to do just that. There’s a thwump from behind me, along with a rush of heat.

And then his little voice: “Joyous Wintertide, Sasha.”

comments