Ciarra

"Oh my fucking god. Where did it come from?! Why the fuck'd you bring it here?!"
"I found her in the bushes behind the complex! Goddamnit, listen! She's really cold, okay? Fucking--run a bath or something! I can't just let her fucking freeze, you know? Kell(?)... Kell(?), I can't take her home."
"Fuck, Dom!? What do you want me to do about it, huh? Jesus Christ! What if it's dying? What if it's fucking dead already?! A dead fucking baby in my fucking kitchen?!! Oh my god--oh christ..."
"She's not dead, Kell! (Don't worry.) Please. Come on, help me get her into some bathwater. Stay with me here, okay Kell?"
"Fuck. Okay! Okay."

*~*~*

"Ciarra! Girl, where the blazes are you?"

"Shhh," came from beneath the porch that the gray woman was just then standing on. She took the two rickety steps down and onto the pale-colored grass to kneel down breathily.

"Sweetie-pie, what the devil you doin' down there?" she wheezed.

"SHHH. I'm hiding."

This time the woman thought to lower her voice, "Who ya hiding from, Girl?"

"The clouds," the child whispered.

Unprepared for this, she still managed to keep her surprised laugh quiet enough for the girl's sensibilities when the woman responded. "Haha! Hon, the clouds ain't gonna hurt you this time o' year."

Ciarra (the girl) made the face of something scandalized when she looked up at the only other person on the planet. "I know THAT Grandma," she whispered quickly. "We're playing hide 'n' seek!"

MysteryGuy?

Working the taps, MYSTERY GUY felt his arms wake up--finally being appreciated beyond their monotonous swaying of the back and forth kind. (Or Hale's line when starts to work again...?)

"You're a distinctual sort of dude, mate. You know what I'm saying?"
I had no idea.
"Absolutely," I said.

The man in the pink hat scoffs for the third time that evening, so that by now I recognized it as an expletive of approval. Luckily there was no one around to see me gloat. I poured Pinky another shot without being asked, good bartender that I am.

Tonight at the bar I saw someone in the midst of a crowd of her friends. Do you know what I mean by that? There were at least a dozen of them, but no matter where she stood she seemed the one surrounded. I keep thinking, 'Does that say something about her? Or does that say something about me?

If it's the latter, I think I'd better grow out of it soon--I can't believe how easy it is to utterly ignore the individuality of seeming pack members.

What's she look like? The better question might be, what doesn't she look like? Or maybe, for an edging of flair, what does she exude? Something like thoughtfulness, I think. Ah! But what does that mean? What next? Something generic--something barely there. Like a patch of sky, painted/allowed in the corner of a ceiling--of a low ceiling, that is.

Anyway, I mean to answer the question, 'Why?' if I can. First things first, she wore a backwards hat, and her eyes narrowed painstakingly with each fixation of her gaze. Absolutely, which is how she seemed to see things.

Maybe that's all it was--a matter of movement. No, but it wouldn't be a case of physical stillness, what with how often she pulled a chosen friend into the crowded room and made her real--even into the crowded room blaring with the dissatisfying music, t-shirt hanging over her shoulders in all the wrong places. She wasn't the only girl grinning either, but it was just as well--I was only curious about hers.

Images of her smiling face watching itself in the mirror for a fleeting moment, and then wilting maybe, they manifested of their own accord by the design of my imagination. I saw her with an inscrutable expression, showing the clothes she would wear that morning. Yawning, and then rechoosing. Would she smile self-deprecating before she did it. Would she get an arbitrary sense of her choices? Of her life, perhaps? And would she keep right on smiling?, I wondered.

Like tonight, though? Why was I wondering about this girl anyway, when each of the other people I saw would have been subjected to the same processes of the days. Why couldn't I seriously care about their expressions, as if they'd be as invisible as my own through my eyes?

Her colors were monochromatic; she was all browns and grays. Cedar-skin, sequoia-hair, and lips and eyes. Shades of sand at midnight ensemble, as if feigning colorlessness. (Almost colorless?) None of this would mean a thing on someone else--I wouldn't even have noticed! How easy it is to get nowhere.

Janey

Jane stammered bodily among her things, bracing herself for the sudden wakefulness she still knew to regret. Her chamomile smile fluttered past her lips at the most unexpected of times.

When she awoke she had changed her mind again. Last night's late hour clarity had seduced her into sleep but now the morning had replaced it and she still didn't know what to do. Though she knew what was expected of her and therefore what not to do. [Which was to go at all...?]

Of course the funeral arrangements had been made far in advance and she and her love had played dress rehearsals with their eyes hundreds of times, but she was to be alone for the real thing. How could she have let herself forget this?

The phone rang downstairs to remind her that she'd unplugged the one on the nightstand across the expanse of the bed: his side, the left. She lay staring through that strange space at the quietly sitting handset when the answering machine next to it clicked on to talk to/speak with her in hushed tones, using the voice of her father-in-law.

"Janey... I hope I'm not waking you. Dear...Dolores and I just wanted to check up on you. Please let us know if you decide you want to come with us this afternoon after all. We can pick you up just like nothing and you can come back here with everybody after, if you want to. To eat something...you know. We love you Janey. Give us a call back when you get up, okay?"

She watched as the thing did nothing to commemorate the passing of Adam's voice, it's disappearance going unnoticed, like everything.

She'd only lied to him once when he was alive, and now with his death she found she would make herself a liar just once more. The first time was when she said she'd let him take care of her. This last would be ruining his expectation of her presence at his funeral. She wanted to sleep more but knew it would only generate/materialize people to put/with their hands on her shoulders and arms. She felt on the edge of a decision that wouldn't allow spare time. She didn't know how she could know this unless she knew what she was going to do, but whatever part of her already did wasn't letting on just yet. So she continued her scrutiny of the ceiling but didn't let her eyes weigh themselves down.

Although she now had the choice to let it have its way with her whenever she liked, exhaustion hadn't any real power ever since she had become a person she could no longer relate to. Sleep would always have to wait on her, she couldn't change this now.

She found herself noticing her breath for the first time in 11 hours. It was a shorter kind of the deep breaths and it filled her body with itself, solid enough to cause her left-center ribs to creak in a wince of pain. She allowed herself not to prepare for the end of the next ten minutes. She breathed instead.

Hale (plus Ciarra, Indie, Mitch & Jane)

"It's good to meet you, Ciarra."

The girl nodded in response, gifting Hale with a joyous smile to go with it. Always forgetful to reminding herself to return smiles at appropriate times, Hale's lips nonetheless worked of their own accord to meet this particularly joyous challenge. [Your characters are always so smiley! Why such smilemonsters, love?]

Curbing the bizarre urge to prolong this first meeting with a curiosity that would ostracize the rest of the room, Hale let go of the girl's hand and stepped backward once more, barely touching the kitchen counter right where it met the cheerily yellow-stained ceramic sink. [Use more concrete terms! Describe the feeling of the situation through the (apparent) physical characteristics of the folks that make it up, yeah?] Finally looking away, Hale did one more quick room glance trick before settling down at Indie's side for a minute to address the still-to-fore neglected inquiries of her dearest, silly friend.

"Since you ask, lovey--I slept something like an awful pitiable excuse for sleep," now, just as not-accidentally, positioning herself away from Ciarra's potential translation, less she offend the girl whose bed had been most graciously relinquished to her. Knowing it wouldn't matter anyway, she didn't extend the same courtesy to Jane--the mother's ears were physically perfect, no doubt, but her attention was inevitably elsewhere.

"It's so goddamn SILENT in this godforsaken sad imitation of a civilized town," Hale finished with faux-forlorn simplicity.

"What d'ya mean "silent"!? Didn't you hear the spiteful garbage kids at daybreak?!!"

"The only hour of peaceful shut-eye I got. And lemme tell you--the screech of breathing life!...'twas a sweet thing, girlfriend." She sighed heavily into Indie's skeptically bent/cocked/tilting head, and then addressed her friend's man/beau, the lumberjack look-alike lover, Mitch Beckham. "Mitch. What's up with getting me some work tonight? If I don't start working again soon y'all are gonna find me unnaturally hanging from my walk-in closet with fuckin' slit-wrists & ankles."

The guy smirked, mildly amused but not about to get crazy about it, it seemed. "You're up, nine to close, no problem."

"That's what you say now, but if you don't let me come till freaking nine, I'm liable to get shitfaced beforehand. How's about seven instead, cool guy?"

"Eh..." Mitch hesitated, not slightly irritate at the damn-near blackmail right along with the utter sense of almost bored entitlement in the face of his favor--spouting like nothing from the ungrateful mouth of his lady friend's best friend. Hale didn't take a word of it back in the down time though, and he reluctantly conceded, needing an experienced bar"man" after all. And being a practical sort of shrewd fellow, he recognized this hard won acceptance of her friend's "situation" would put him smack dab in the middle of a saint's photograph in Indie's wild camera-shot mind's eye. Plus, he liked helping people out...occasionally even without direct praise/appreciation for doing so. [Not a fan of Mitch suddenly, huh?] [Come on, come on! Let's make it more in line with reality...people like Mitch aren't all bad, and maybe aren't even due our casual scorn! Rather, they are aware of the multitude of reactions and consequences of their actions, paying close attention to these, and making colorful plan-outs of where they want to be, and how they will be seen when they get there. Remember, and be compassionately aware that the most evil of our nature can only/best be borne through intelligent means. You know that, love...you live with it too, recall. As most people do.]

(It's like the biggest fuck-ups are the easiest ones to cover-up with claims of most unfortunate irresponsibility...)

Beth (& MysteryGuy?)

Busking was a tricky thing.

Under the guise of artist, I had made it my right and their privilege, but I knew the precipice I walked. I thought of it constantly and so far the view was still worth it.

"My good Gentleman, would you by chance spare--" I heard snippets of the mobile panhandler Jay during a long rest as he made his way toward my corner of town, on his dozenth round of the night. My cello drowned out his approach when it came but he stopped in my line of sight to address another of our worldly patrons. His appearance was more frequent during certain songs for they tended to have an impact on some folks, and as the distracted woman listening fumbled with her purse and generously handed Jay a fiver, he winked at me. I wouldn't have let anyone else get away with it.

The wild-haired sage had a face seemingly gray with its permanent coat of dust and at the moment the angle of the freshly risen moon put a gleam in his wide eyes that I knew he would use to his advantage at the game. Clothes more ragged than necessary draped his every limb, and in layers as it got colder quicker now. His hands were perfectly calloused and clean. He, too, was a musician, but not here; he thought himself pure. I watched him keep my time on his way back against the foot traffic.

The woman five dollars poorer stayed to hear me play twenty minutes more. She was a regular charge, if ever I could claim one, and had been for the last month. She came at the same time each night, stuck around for half and hour or so, and then leave. She always approached from the same direction and the returned again without ever passing me, so I knew that i was the main event of her journey, though she never left any money for me even while I'd seen her dish out plenty to Jay, among other. Not only did I not mind this, I dreaded the evening that would see her drop off a handful of cash and then take back her lunch-break, robbing me of another worthy audience.

When my momentary admirer had gone for the evening once more, I stopped my playing for a while as was my timed habit. The baby crowd that had gathered continued on their way after leaving me with a quantifiable/the counted amount of their appreciation.

I smiled steady at them all as they went steadily on, but didn't respond to the compliments the threw carelessly my way. I never talk to them, it was an exceptionless rule. The fact that most didn't notice wasn't what kept me silent, though I couldn't say exactly what did. Nonetheless, if that one woman ever spoke to me, perhaps I would answer.

I got up to look and saw Jay almost to me again. My cello set carefully on the second-hand stand next to my stool. I bent to retrieve my first shift's wages and then tucked the soft gray case between the two objects. When I rose Jay was there, and I smiled my gratitude as he painstakingly perched himself atop my former seat. I told him I'd be back in a few minutes and he nodded solemnly before hunching forward and closing her eyes. He'd been walking the same hour long routed for the past decade and he was looking old these days. A good man, Jay was, I thought to myself.

Leaving him then I crossed the street. My spot was located on a steep slope; when I play I'm completely facing the folks climbing the hill while my back is to the faces of those coming down. The position seems to work well since most of the people who stop to listen only do so for an excuse to catch their breath. Then they have to pay out something so that they can continue to think nobody noticed.

The other thing this tilted perspective effects is where I go on my breaks. I choose entirely based upon how tired I am or how hot it is rather than where I might like to go or for what I hope to fetch. Consequently, I hardly know what I want anymore. (Aren't the lot of us mood-oriented?)

Up the hill and into the heat, I went as a closet masochist will do. I felt I needed to be tired and slightly feverish to pull off the rest of the night. It seemed I might even play better that way. Too bad for my retired fan.

The places on my right stood still and let me pass. I could distinguish them from those on my left only for the side of my neck that currently throbbed. I could see sounds being created in the distance but what I heard moments later was bodiless and distinctly alone. I stopped suddenly on my intent passage when I noticed a new face to as old a profession as mine.

He was a youngish boy, probably nineteen. Sitting cross-legged on the concrete, he had a cat on his lap and held a harmonica to his mouth, wailing on it in a way that I hadn't realized was possible. He'd yet to draw any serious people but I knew that would change; his hook was an irresistible one. Even to me. I left him a quarter of what I had made so far (we don't think in terms of amount when we give up our own earnings, but rather percentages). He didn't even look up at me and I knew pride at this. After staying to listen for a little while I turned completely around and left, hoping he felt the same way I did when my woman did this. I bought Jay a sweet, sweet coffee on my way back to him, carrying my own bitter brew in opposite hand.

Mitch & Indie

There was nothing wrong with them--they only had to move one, without one another. That night the look in her eyes was foreign to him in a way that he could hold no curiosity for. Like an absence of light that's not quite black, but perpetually at its bidding/on its track.

All along, she maintained that the things which must be made up of more than one soul--that those things themselves have no true substance. Coldly, she'd concluded that their love was intrinsically reciprocal--so that his (perceived) failure at its altar meant that it had ceased to exist. Poof she'd said, cruelly, denying his eager/own wan apologies.

Indie & Mitch

"Do you know that this is not okay?" That grasping your eyes does to my throat somehow when they meet my eyes, might not happen this time, I thought. I close my eyes anyway, instead of looking at you, letting you panic alone/with privacy.

"I only knew you were going to say that," you said. I heard the subtly shaking tone, despite the flippant/calm words. I felt so drained at what would happen next, luckily this new challenge of yours piqued my old anger just enough to get each next word almost fully out of me. What of these I kept, I already realized that I'd never again shake them.

Speaking a bit too slowly, I felt, I said this time: "I want you to know, that if you don't offer to move out by the end of tonight('s end), I won't stay to the morning." My voice sounded like belting-down hale onto a gray parked-car that lived in our past. So much arbitrary history...arbitrarily betrayed?

"Why would you tell me such a thing?" No longer pretending Mr. Cool-Guy, I noted from somewhere farther away then the mere feet that set us (engulfed and) apart. "You don't have to go anywhere, and why the hell would I!?"

"Stop it," I didn't have to look at him to see him drop his arms at my fatalistic tone. "One way or another, tomorrow we'll be living separately. But please..." I felt/heard vaguely the telltale signature of a voice about to break, even though it was my own. "Could you do something for me tonight? Could you sleep with me just life we slept last night? (But) could you not let go (this time)?" Ever the coward solely where my heart is concerned, I still didn't look into the face of my (first/only) love.

He could suddenly reach me and lifted my chin with the scratchy pads of his be/well-loved fingers. I raised my glance to fall into his in the way that I would never again allow myself to. His eyes were so warm, mingling anger and love and shame, perhaps. His face was blank, but to me its very reticence spoke secrets aloud. Locking his jaw, I saw him swallow hard before letting out his withheld breath to harshly and/but pulling me too gently into his arms/chest/body, as though/like he too believed I embodied something broken. He petted my hair while he held tight enough to hurt a little, and actually managed to make me feel temporarily better. But (then,) what else is there? What else c/would I dare to expect/hope for?