I didn't realize it was happening, to be honest. Well, no, I - I guess it's more accurate to say I didn't realize its severity. I didn't understand the speed at which I was launching, the strength with which I was gripping the grocery bags. I didn't notice my knee twisting, my left hand uselessly groping the air.
All I knew was that the stairwell had shifted unexpectedly. Walled frames had somehow scattered across the ceiling. The guardrail snuck behind my back.
There was no strong emotion. No fear, no guilt. No wondering, no regretting, no flashes back or forward. It was as if my spine had sprouted wings searching sky.
Blame it on the new combat boots. Blame it on a tired inner ear. Blame it on some unrelated character flaw. The doctors certainly have.
I care not for scapegoats. All that unintelligible bleating. There's reason in compassion.
Can you blame a pair of eager feet so passionate for flight? For months and months they've stayed quite still. They've even been denied.
So far I've learned to sit and stand, still one day I'll learn how to land.
"A gold-throated turtleneck?"
*"It was the style back then."
"You sure? It's sleeveless."
*"All the honeys loved me."
"If you say so... And this? It's a-"
*"Fur tutu."
Nose flare. "I assume there's a story behind this."
*"You asked for inspiration, so here it is."
Shrug.
*"Ah! Yes. Handle that one with care. It's the world's tiniest banjo."
"Functional?"
*"If you grow out your pinkie nails, yes."
"And this? Where did you get these shoes?"
*"A little stand just a stone's throw away from roamin' wild yaks."
"That explains the...hair."
*"Mm. Well. The rest of the stuff in there I didn't exactly purchase so...leave Grandpa out of it."
"Lol, Grandma. Really? You didn't 'exactly purchase' this solid gold toothbrush? Didn't the bristles hurt? And is this gold floss in here too?"
*"I swiped them to prove a point."
"Was it the same point you proved by stealing this...gold toothpaste? Grandma!"
*"Is this enough inspiration for you or what? I tell ya, millennials are never happy with anything."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. This should be enough for me to write my story. Thanks, I guess."
*"You guess? Say, what's your story about anyway?"
"Peculiar predecessors."
Fact: Flying fish can take to the air at 37 mph.
Shhhhh. DD! I hear something.
Jrrr, jrrr, jrrr…Click
Creeeeeak.
“Alriiiight!” exclaims a debatably east coast accent from around the corner. “The key still works.”
Post an anxious glance at Jawafra, you rake papery fingers through your lengthy hair, taking care to cover your e- I mean, your face. You pull white-framed spectacles from your left hip pocket and your eyelids flutter as the world comes into view. The walls are so dark and narrow, it’s almost like peering through a telescope.
There’s a woman in the doorway. You recognize her to be Tabitha’s…daughter? Niece? No - goddaughter. Yes, didn’t Tabitha raise her best friend’s little girl for a time? You’d been with Tabitha for years and never once did you see this kid come round. Why is she here now? Cleaning or further cluttering? Or maybe claiming bits and bobbles? There’s certainly enough cactus paraphernalia to go around.
Ooop. Step back. Bull in a china shop. I wonder, what’s her rush?
“Sour Patch!” cheers the woman, her entire face swallowed by a cupboard. She reaches in a few more times. Cereal, gherkins and crisps. (Oh, whoops, I mean “pickles and chips.” 15 years in the US and I’m still baffled. Modern American English is absolutely absurd! I was just getting current with the colloquialisms back home.)
What is this young woman’s name? Jordan? Jenna? Jinxy? I like the name Jinxy. Let’s go with that for now.
You notice how Jinxy looks…off, somehow? She looks… calmly bruised. You know? Puffy eyes, well-kept locs. Shaky breathing, steady hands. She’s whistling. Sad people don’t whistle, right? Well, if experience has taught us anything, it’s that grievers are unpredictable.
Jinxy carries her plunder into the livingroom, and sets up a gaming console. You know it’s a Playstation 2. The game, however, is unfamiliar to you. She must’ve brought it along. Everything you know about videogames comes from Tabitha. When she wasn’t writing, she was teaching you the difference between an MMORPG and a Hack & Slash…or are they called Beat ‘em Ups? Are dungeon crawlers and walking simulators the same thing?
After three hours of shifting your gaze between the gamer and the screen, your impatience makes an appearance.
Predictable you are, predictable you will always be.
You place a hand on Jinxy’s forehead as you glare at the television.
A few glitches and a corrupted save file later, Jinxy’s eyes blaze.
“WHY?!” shouts Jinxy as she hurls the wired controller across the room. The attached console twists and teeters over the edge of the television stand. Jinxy hurls herself on the floor to catch it and yelps. Once the console is safely returned, she inspects her right knee and growls. Yikes. Rug burn.
She gets up and paces. Our injured guest now appears to have new eyes for this rundown two-bedroom stack of bricks.
The floors squeak beneath her slippered stomps. It’s been a while since you’ve heard the comforting sound of footsteps.
Jinxy balls her fists and further explores the house. She reaches out for the doorknob to Tabitha’s study and hears something crash in the next room over.
Nice work, DD. You’re becoming quite the Foley artist.
Jinxy flings open Tabitha’s bedroom door and marches in. A knee to a sharp-cornered brass end table shifts her attention in the right direction. Perfect. She’s on the floor fanning her re-troubled knee.
Give her a moment. You got Jenna Bromberg’s attention in a similar fashion.
While still on the floor, Jinxy scans the room. I wonder how much has changed since she lived here. Were the walls always this cluttered? Rows and rows of travel memorabilia take up almost every inch. Framed maps, signed post cards… images with friends. There’s even a picture of you up there, but I assume Realities only see a subjectless and semi-blurry cityscape. What a wonderful trip to San Francisco that was.
Ahem. I digress.
Jinxy grips the foot of the pillow-encumbered bed and pulls herself up.
She steps on your brother.
She picks him up, another mixed expression on her face. Is she angry/curious Annoyed/fearful? Regretful/uncertain?
Whatever expression that is floats away like dandelion seeds in summer wind as she flips through Jawafra’s copper-red pages. You smile as your brother glows the way he always does when he’s netted you an anchor. Oh, gosh, praises be! How on earth did he know to wait here? Never mind that. Go, DD! Speak!
“Hello,” you say.
You’d think after 100 years, a creature would get good at something.
Jinxy seems not to notice you. Try again and this time, use more words.
“Hello…there.”
Sigh. Not the greatest but at least she’s looking up. She’s no idea where the voice is coming from, the poor mortal. Are we standing behind her? Switch glasses. Ooop. Yes. Ok, walk all the way arou-
“WHOA!” Jinxy shouts while pulling Jawafra close to her side. “What the heck?!”
Protective instincts. Good.
You laugh and give a slight bow. “There’s no need to hide my brother from me.”
And it all goes downhill from there. At least, for me it does. I had to sit there listening to the two of you drone on and on for what felt like hours. She mistakes you for a fellow former ward of Tabitha Boone. She offers you a handshake. You instead give her a meek nod. She offers you some food. You pass on that as well.
She gives you her name, Annigan (RIP Jinxy). She offers you Tabitha’s bedroom to crash in while she takes the couch. You are so stunned by someone - a Reality no less - treating you like a regular person…or better yet, a valuable person, you forget to tell her you’re imaginary. You forget to request her as an anchor. You rest your head in Tabitha’s room and for the first time in a long time, you dream. Pleasant dreams about friends of all sorts. A horned maiden and a wizard beard. Giggling eels and a dainty giraffe.
When you wake up the next morning, the house is tidy, save a box of cereal with a bowl and spoon on the kitchen table. You sit and pretend to eat, if only to have the pleasure of what it must feel like to receive that sort of care.
That’s nice and all, right? Heartwarming, I assume. So then riddle me this, DD. How is it that an entire day has passed and your new friend is nowhere to be found? And um…where did your brother go?
Hail, hail, hail and laud, laud, laud
They said I couldn't do it And most times they weren't wrong
Had a dream in my heart Had emails to return But I closed my fat inbox Said, "you're not my concern!"
Praise, praise, praise and cheer, cheer, cheer
I silenced my thoughts I said, "Get outta here!"
I cleaned all the dishes And turned out the lights Though my want to play Two Dots sure put up a fight
Sing from the rooftops and Shout from the kitchen
I'll share this story with all who might listen
Though you might be encouraged The pleasure's all mine I did something outrageous I dozed off right on time!
All your friends are dead. So far, the only common denominator is you.
Not following, DD? Sit up straight. Pay attention. I will only tell you this once more today.
Deaths drift upward. Like peach-colored steam from boiling creativity. Up, up, up they go, all abandoned thoughts and dashed dreams...all murdered imaginary friends...
And then there’s you. DD. The exception to the rule.
Imaginaries (IFs) who are unattached to living beings are labeled as “recusants” and are legally left for dead. They wander until Time does the inevitable and churns their essence to mist. That is, unless, they find themselves a living “anchor” - a writer without a resident IF.
Every time an author creates a masterwork, that piece gains a soul of its own and becomes a something in between the living and the imagined. An artifact. Witnessed by “Realities” while communing with IFs. When a person reads a passage with the power to puncture their passivity... When a person is refashioned by a reading... they have come into contact with an artifact. It cuts them. Like a knife.
I do not pretend to understand the artifact you wield, but I believe he saved your life. And he continues to do so every time “Jawafra, Blade of Fate” is checked out of the library.
“Hang on,” I hear you thinking. “Where’s the death in all of this? You started this little conversation with a strong line about friends dying, and then you wasted time on lore.”
DD, you are as impatient as your maker, God rest his wicked soul.
Bridget Weller, aged 47. Read the book while tipping tea. Met her end while tasting trifle. Hamilton Beamish, aged 32. Began the book by the Salisbury Cathedral. Met his end in the North Sea. Oliver Presley, aged 55. Pinched the book from Banabas Bauldry. Died right next to the man the following year. (What an odd time that was for you, to hold two anchors at once. You’d cautioned them against eating unidentified foliage. Some choose never to learn.) Jenna Bromberg, 68 - pecked to death by aggrieved chickens. Julian Oddysprey, 24 - crushed by overpriced uni textbooks. Stan “the Prophet” - attempted time travel. Louise Elaine - flesh-eating rage. Rhonda Comyn - gravity. Zachariah Prestcote - shame. Remember them?
If I’m being honest, I’m just talking to pass the time. It’s been three weeks since your most recent anchor died and you’re…we’re…starting to weaken. Look at your hands. There’s barely any flesh there. Your hair is graying. Your vision’s fading.
Jawafra hasn’t left this house and we don’t know why. He’s just laying there, silent, at the foot of Tabitha’s bed. Does he not know she’s passed away? Her body isn’t even in this place.
Maybe he’s finally lost his power. Or worse…maybe he’s withholding it from you. You must have angered him. Why else would he be so silent? Three weeks. Three weeks! Twenty-one distressing days. He’s never made you wait this long.
DD, what did you do?
I claw my way to knowledge
like roots dig through the earth
searching for a nourishment
surrounded by the dirt
Shallow thoughts won’t satisfy Guesses will not soothe Every time I close my eyes my passion’s left to brood
I must thank my environment even though it stains my clothes Every worm and mineral contributes to my growth
The deeper the roots The taller the tree The taller my thoughts The further I see
