Continued from: Return To the Strange Strands
Her brown pumps pattered over the road of colored glass. Dark warehouses. Doors like gay coffins niched in walls.
On a whim, she pushed one open. No palm trees. No warm sea.
She’d turn around, that’s what she’d do. Give the little man a piece of her mind, but she’d never find her way back. “Never” made her unable to swallow.
She thought she might stand there forever; then something sparkled up ahead, a robe of liquid glass worn by another woman. She looked down at her brown shoes now turning into sand.
I never cared for handsome men. I mean in the square-jawed good hair way. Pretty boys do nothing for me. When I met him in the city, I had a hunch it would be good to spend time together, me being a freak and all. I think my strangeness attracted him, you know, in that kinky way of kindred spirits, sensing each other’s worth, digging our ugly selves, the parts still cute and unformed. Anyway, friends say that he’s wooden and a bit of a beast, but I say when love’s there, it only needs the right amount of passion.
“Just step through the door,” he said. “Anyone can change.”
She might have heard the sounds of waves but wasn’t sure.
“Did I ask to?” she inquired.
The man was very polite, but what an odd duck he was. That just didn’t seem like something she’d considered. She looked behind. She couldn’t remember what was there.
The man set down his cane. “Take as long as you need. “
She guessed they might hold a conversation, but instead she said, “Well then,” and then repeated, “Well then.”
Crashing wave…a warm beach. A change? Why not? She just might be due.
Continued at Connected Passages.
My time traveling father left no map of emotion when he set the clock. What do I say now that I am older? Decades have passed since he kissed my mother goodbye. Should we have martinis and watch our photos go viral? Just before he fast forwarded he said, Space is bending, seconds ago, or a lifetime meandering from that moment to this. He gave me this jeweled butterfly to wear for our meeting that I left in the tissue paper until today. The world is waiting for my father to save it, waiting for my brilliant father to appear.
You write of the sunflowers and the jeweled moth you found nesting within their leaves. I opened your letter tonight, holding it for a long time before I broke the seal, whilst watching another moth, a humble gray fellow, dance around the porch light. I have always felt like the shadow flittering around your incandescence, dear Eleanor; your words have brought a sheen to this blue night. I would carpet myself with gray wings and fly to the southern skies. I would discover your golden body beneath the moth scented flowers, my insect love humble and free.