Dust motes danced in the sunlight when Mrs. Gotobed cranked open the window. The air tasted of snow soon to fall. It was a little cold but she knew once the children arrived the little library would soon warm up. Quickly, Mrs. Gotobed emptied her paper sacks of used books.
There weren’t as many books as she had hoped. With Dougie’s bad hip, they were not able to hit as many secondhand bookstores as they normally did. Fortunately, a few of the bookstore clerks were dearhearts and set aside many treasures for her from the bargain bins. Treasure Island, Wilbur, Encyclopedia Browns, the well-loved volumes were stacked on the free shelf by the checkout counter. Mrs. Gotobed was shelving an illustrated The Secret Garden when the sounds of Sister Thomas’ class filled the library foyer.
Turning Mrs. Gotobed put on her serious librarian face. A hush shushed over the students. The librarian ushered the students towards the reading room. Sister Thomas taught the special reading class, focusing on children with learning disabilities. The nun and the retired librarian had struck up a friendship at a coffeehouse murder mystery reading group. Together they brainstormed how to spark a love of reading for kids who struggled to read. Over Josephine Tey and espressos, they came up with the idea to have Sister Thomas’ students read to younger children.
Each morning, Sister Thomas brought five or six of her middle schoolers in to be readers. Mrs. Gotobed selected the stories and set up the reading room. The student readers were compensated with their choice of free books. Anisha, one of the student readers, had recommended naming the readers the Real Illuminati but eventually the group dubbed themselves the Day Breakers since they read at the library before school started.
The warm smell of freshly brewing coffee percolated across the library’s first floor. Each morning, mothers chatted together over coffee and fruit or hid away in the quiet of the stacks as their kids waited for story time to begin. Each morning the under-age five set listened enraptured to be around big kids. Mrs. Gotobed watched a light blaze in the youngsters’ eyes as the stories came to life. Each morning there was storytelling.
“Yo, Mary, you know more of my kids want to join the Day Breakers?” Sister Thomas said.
“Looks like we’ll have to start the Real Illuminati after all, Sis."
Thick and fuzzy, the red wool slipped off the needles. This yarn was a bad choice, Leslie thought. It was just so gorgeous. Her dress shop phone rang but she kept knitting. With a tattoo hand, she tapped her screen to listen to her voicemail.
“I know you’re sitting there like a shriveled raisin laughing at this situation. You do not know who the fuck you’re dealing with?”
The needles clicked in a soothing rhythm. The business line rang again. Leslie’s doctor had been concerned about her blood pressure and recommended she take up some stress busting habits. Leslie tried hot yoga and meditation but she couldn’t turn her mind off. She examined the neat row of red loops.
“My daughter chose that prom dress back in December. Yeah we didn’t buy then but I want it for her now. I don’t care about some fat nobody who bought it yesterday. She wants that dress, just that dress. Are you denying my daughter her special day out of jealousy? Get it back,” the angry voice on her voicemail said.
Carefully counting stitches, Leslie leaned back. The dress shop was quiet, so quiet after the President’s Day sales. Ring, ring, the phone went off again. Soon Patty and Filomena would be in for re-stocking. Soon mothers would be trailing in for dyed to match heels and decorative clutches.
“You are just sitting there, aren’t you? With your feet up drinking a damn latte. You don’t know what it is like to have a kid and want what’s best for them. Don’t you understand the high school approves dresses? No duplicate gowns allowed. My daughter is head cheerleader. She’s popular very popular not like that little nobody that bought her dress. I won’t have my baby disappointed. Do you hear me!”
Squinting Leslie tried to remember this particularly angry mother and her daughter. She had a vague memory of affluent blondness and great teeth. In the pretty girl business, faces get blurry and the threats, commonplace. Humming she continued knitting concentrating on another row.
“You’ve come back, but I no longer need you,” King Wyck said.
“But your Highness. I can see your distress. Why, your whole body is shaking. Please lay back and allow me to administer the leeches,” Baron Muckle, the Royal Healer, beseeched.
Bowing low, the nobleman held up an earthen water jug full of writhing wormy things. Face down on a lounge, the king continued to shake. When the healer touched his shoulder, King Wyck lifted up his head laughing. The healer shrank back in surprise, convinced his ruler had taken leave of his good senses. Sloshing leech water, he felt his regent’s forehead for signs of a fever. King Wyck pushed Muckle to the floor.
“Unhand me, fool. I called you to play for time, so I didn’t laugh in the ArchBishop’s face. I hope you’ll return with brandy. I cannot stop picturing all their faces with that magnificent creature walking down the aisle to marry me in funeral black. I thought well-bred young ladies were as dumb as newborn bunnies. But this one has fire. Did you see it? All the lord's and ladies' mouths lolling open like so many fish. I’ve never seen Mother speechless. I’d thought she’d have kittens,” Wyck said between laughs.
To think he had fought against this arranged marriage. After that lovely little Princess Lilliette had sicken and died shortly after her arrival Wyck had had enough of weddings. Let stability be won on the battlefield not the bedcovers, he thought. He could not believe his mother and the King and Queen of Pacha would send a second daughter. He had not known Lilliette, but the idea of a replacement bride seemed too cruel to him. Mother had insisted this was the only way to peace and prosperity for Altimora. And now for once he had met someone truly unpredictable.
“Your Highness I don’t understand. Are you not outraged? Three ladies in waiting fainted! The Dowager Queen has ordered the shameless baggage back to her carriage, back to her homeland. The treaty is off,” Muckle said.
“What!” Wyck roared.
The king torn from his room at Saint Furia’s Church back into the sanctuary. Pushing his guests aside, he ran up the aisle. At the church door the king saw his bride-to-be climbing unaided into her horse-drawn carriage. Without thinking Wyck leapt into the carriage behind her. With a thump, Princess Riella in her dark gown tumbled to the floor of the carriage. The traditional white wedding cloak lay on the floor beneath her. Clamour arose outside. Riella looked up to him with unbridled fury. Then like a heavy curtain dropping all emotion left her visage. The king offered her a hand. She scoffed in return.
Riella climbed to her feet and sat opposite her bethoned. Outside the carriage, angry voices were raised. Inside the carriage, the silence bloomed. Steely-eyed she crossed her arms and awaited his next move. Wyck chuckled.
“Driver, take me and my chosen back to the castle. Then return for a priest post haste. We are most anxious to begin our honeymoon.”
never ever hold me Never pick me up leave me anxious under the sofa leave me alone perched on a bookshelf hissing eight pounds of fierceness curled upon oh is that your sweater well it’s mine now okay you can scritch my coat covered in silky night silvery hairs scattered like stars at my temple love you asleep on your pillow love your pencil over the table edge tippy tap my heaviness weighs on your arm in a love-awkward pose forever okay that’s enough
“Milady, your bridal gown,” Pela, the royal seamstress, said with a deep curtsy.
Turning a page on the hefty tome in her hand, Princess Riella looked up and shrugged. Befuddled, the seamstress stammered. The other servants looked to Madame Needle for guidance. She nodded to Pela sternly. The seamstress coughed to find her voice and lifted the beaded gown closer to the bride to be for inspection.
“We selected celadon satin with seed pearls to complement your—um—lovely brown eyes.”
“Miss Whatever your name spare me the flattery. No part of me including my eyes is lovely. My older sister was the lovely one. She loved pretty dresses and idle chatter and the idea of marrying ridiculous King Wyck. Not me. Leave the garment. I will handle dressing on my own,” Princess Riella said without bothering to look up.
“But, milady.”
Jumping up, the princess crashed the book down on the stone floor. Next, she flung the gown to the ground and pounced on it. With a flurry of squeals, Pela and the others rushed from the bedroom. Only Madame Needle remained behind. Folding her arms, the older woman leaned against the door and studied the young princess. Riella retrieved her book and settled back onto the chaise. The princess started to read again. The housekeeper continued to watch.
“You may leave,” Riella said with a dismissive wave of the hand.
“And you may stop pretending. Stow the fake outrage. I have attended spoiled bluebloods since I was a mere girl. I know a performance when I see it. What is going on in your head?”
Close-lipped, the princess glared. They stared at each other.
“Why should I trust you?” Riella answered.
Madam Needle gathered up the gown and headed for the door.
“Of course, milady. Your late sister, sweet but simple chit that she was, I can still see her dressing for her wedding. Lilliette trusted me and look what became of her.”
Riella’s head shot up with surprise. Madam Needle left Princess Riella’s chambers with a slight curtsy. The princess rushed to the chamber door and locked it. Next she dragged a chair against the door. Riella felt the loose seed pearls crunch beneath her shoes as she headed for her trunks. She had insisted that her items not be interferred with but of course her belongings had been carefully searched. Riella drew out the severe mourning gown and held it up to the light. She hugged the gown to herself. Wyck only looked a fool. The slender vial of poison sewn into the boning pressed against her heart. My dear Lilliette, I will avenge you or die trying, Riella thought as she lay out the black gown she would wear down the aisle.
There was just something special about this bouncy house. Andy couldn’t explain. The Dayton Family Fun Fair was anything but.
Outside kids were running back and forth. Old people rock music was blaring. Mom had insisted Andy play in the bounce house. He kicked up a fuss but he relented in case mommy made him go face painting with Olive. Shuddering Andy snuggled deeper into the plastic.
First in the crowded fair attraction, Andy was in a nightmare. Reeking of sick and dirty socks the bouncy house was too noisy. Hands over his ears Andy looked for his quiet place. David, a kid Andy kinda knew from school, pushed him hard. Andy fell backwards. Tumbling he flipped over somebody else.
Confused Andy tried to stand on the wobbly floor. A big headed girl rammed into his belly. He rolled into a corner of the inflatable sinking between the floor and one of the walls. Outside a kid screamed with laughter.
Outside there was the dance music and arcade games. Someone was yelling about on dollar hot dogs. Tucked in his corner the fun fair was muffled. Like a rubber hug the bouncy house held him on all sides safe.
Eventually Olive and her friends would be ready to go home. Mommy would come looking for him with that tired face. Whup whup the bouncing felt like a gentle push in and out. He had been so antsy about going to the fair but now he could rest. Andy curled into the quiet.
The waiting room chair squeaked in protest. Candor the Crusher of Skulls shifted his broadsword uneasily. There was a half dead philodendron in the corner and old scrolls on crop yields in the southern lands on occasional table. The air reeked of stale yaya flowers and despair. Girding his loins for battle, Candor took note of the bad omens.
The great warrior tapped his knee. He looked at time sand charm over the door. His appointment time had passed nearly three quarters of an hour ago. A handful of sea hags, two bickering demon knights, and an ancient centaur with a cough were Candor’s waiting room companions. Candor shifted again.
“Coldo Crush? Is there a Mr. Crush here?” The receptionist called out.
Confused Candor looked around the Office of Senior Wizardry Benefits waiting room. One of the seahags gave Candor a flirty wink. Collecting his OFC paperwork, he walked his joints complaining to reception.
“I am Candor the Crusher of Skulls. Key Bearer of the Sacred Gates, the Left Hand of her Royal Majesty Queen Velle, and hero of the Dragon War. Here to seek counsel with Wizard General Ragik regarding my benefits.”
“That’s what I said, Mr. Crush. Do you have your paperwork filled out in triplicate? Good. Take this down the hall to the second bay and Seer Meladay, second class, will be of assistance filing your benefit complaint.”
With a lime green finger, the receptionist indicated the correct direction. The great warrior spluttered and swore to the moon goddess.
“Three crowned heads owe me their purple and children in the highlands sing my herald. My appointment was with the Wizard General,” Candor said.
“Would you like me to reschedule the WG has opening in three years?”
Patting his faithful sword, the great, old warrior bowed his head and walked stiffly to bay two.
Hello rubs my ankle by the front door Winding missed you around each step Nimble footsteps of how are you Following me from room to room From making dinner to cleaning up Your curled purring my evening’s soundtrack Slow blinks on the book I want to read Could have done without the goodnight leap on my belly when I’m sleeping I love you snores too close to my head Sighing into sleep I scritch I love you back
“I heard you were the best,” Parker said.
His words were hissed out as the first sting of the whip faded and the slow burn of the after pain radiated in warm circles across his skin. Wap! The second strike across his back knocked out his breath. Suddenly there was a volley of slaps. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision. If he hadn’t already been on his knees Parker would have fallen. Delicious pain bloomed. Parker leaned into the sensation.
Few understood. People thought dominance and submission was a sex thing. As if Parker and those like him were kinky freaks. Disgusting. Of course there was a luscious endorphin rush after the fury of a punishment. But the gift was in submitting, letting go completely, not having to be everything to everyone for a few moments.
The tip of her bull whip prodded his left inner leg. Parker jerked. He heard her click her tongue in warning. Using all of his strength he remained still. Smothered in the perfume of red rose petals and his own sweat, Parker focused on his pose of supplication. Knees together, forehead on the floor, back exposed, Parker took slow even breaths.
The tip of the whip handle teased up Parker’s thigh, tantalizing his damp skin. Her high heeled boots made music as she circled his pliant form. Her vermillion silk robe redolent of dark amber swept past him. Head down nestled among her rose petals, Parker smiled on the inside. Gently she lifted Parker’s chin with a gloved finger. He shivered in expectation; the Red Queen was pleased.
I was never trying to be an artist I just started with the shadows the darkest darks learning the language of lines stroke by stroke until I could make my mark
I was never seeking self care but I built layer upon layer carving stippled shapes capturing the light desperate to gain perspective
from a fresh canvas to a masterpiece of time gorgeously spent simply drawing what is there versus what I think should be there I want to be complete not perfect
