Welcome to Gaia! ::

It did feel more like an opening chapter than a standalone story, but that's probably because I'm not entirely sure what a vignette is.

Well, I have a tendency to take things as they are (and unless they make absolutely no sense or I'm in a bad mood or don't like the writer, I don't protest things that are unclear on the faith that they will be explained later), so perhaps you should see if you can get a second opinion.

ninja If you can get a second opinion in this place.

Note on the text: If anything doesn't make sense, let me know. This is not the kind of chapter that links closely with other chapters. It's the kind of chapter that has to make sense all by itself, because the other chapters aren't that closely related.

A woman began sobbing shrilly from across the yard. The sudden, jarring noise was so loud that I jerked my head up from the book in my lap, thinking the sound must be very close by. But I didn't see anyone. Following the wails, I decided that it was coming from the direction of the house, but I couldn't see anything through the intervening rosebushes. I tried to go back to my book, but I was so distracted that the crisp black text on the page turned into little worms.

The fact that a woman might decide to weep in our yard didn't seem odd at the time, but who was she? And what had happened to make her cry so piercingly? At first I thought it must have been my aunt Marlene, who often cried. Then I remembered that she hadn't ventured outside her room in more than a month, and would certainly not have trekked all the way out to the back yard just to wail loudly. It wasn't as if we couldn't hear her perfectly well when she cried in her room.

The book snapped shut in my hands, as if of its own accord. I set it down and knelt on the warm flagstone of the garden path to peer through the leafy branches of one of the larger rosebushes. A bruised, overblown blossom pressed so close to my face that I was nauseated by its musty, cloying scent. Even the sulky wall of smell surrounding the stand of lilies behind me was overwhelmed by the mushy cloud of rose.

Through the leaves, I my mother sitting on the patio. She perched on a wrought-iron chair, her face buried in a lace handkerchief. The screen door opened and slammed shut behind a purposeful block of beige: my father, dressed for the weather in a crisp linen suit. Ice cubes tinkled invitingly against the walls of the two glasses he gripped deftly with one hand. Splashes of amber light danced on the patio tiles, reflected through the full decanter in his other hand. He set it down on the little table next to my mother's chair, the shadows from the open grid-work of the iron table veiling the amber patches like black lace.

"Don't just stand there gawking, speak up! How did you know?"

My father's hand clutched my shoulder hard enough to bruise, shaking me back into the baking sun. The ice under my breastbone began to thaw.

"I. . ." my voice buzzed in my throat, small and tinny.

I swallowed and tried again. Words tumbled out every which way, cascading from a point deep behind my eyes.

"She was sick, then . . . then she fell, she went to let out the dog and she fell and the milk man found her dead on the stoop, still warm, and, and. . ."

Red, angry, confused, my father's face hovered, but I looked away, back down at the paving stones. There were little pale green spores on the moss. I liked the stones. I liked the moss. Most of all, I liked the little frothy spores, the color of growing things. Nothing could be more alive than little green sprouts, nothing could be less like the iron-jawed clasp of that dead face.

Dispassionately, I noticed that I was shaking, and that my shoulder hurt. Apparently, fingers were still digging into my flesh, which struck me as rather funny. A hysterical laugh caught in my dry throat, unvoiced. My eyes watered. The patio blurred green, then faded to empty gray-violet, and I twirled away again, this time into memory.

The last time I saw my Great-Aunt Greta, she wrapped me in a boneless hug that smothered me in ancient, powdery flesh, mauve crepe, and the dusty, saccharine smell of her perfume: damask roses, jasmine, and lilies. When she released me, I heard the shuffling of her invisible, slippered feet, buried behind endless waves of crinkling skirts. She gave me a small, flat oatcake. When I chewed it, the dry, crumbly clumps of butter, flour, and oats stuck in my throat. I started coughing.

A stinging blow struck my left ear. The sharp pain made me blink, and when I opened my eyes again, the doll was gone, the quiet, shadowy room replaced by glaring summer sun.

"Who told you?" my father was shouting. "Who knows besides you?"

"Why won't you be gentle," my mother said, voice oozing with tears. "Can't you see the boy is upset?"

"But he had to have found out somehow, and if the housekeeper has been snooping, we need to let her go immediately . . . "

"He might have overheard."

"From all the way out here? He's been reading all afternoon, and we only heard. . . "

"Morton, please."

My mother ran a hand along the line of my father's stubbled jaw, turning his face toward me. The air was so hot that he wavered in my vision. The house, the patio, and the lawn were also wavy. I didn't mind. My shoulder was only a little sore, now.

"All right," my father told me, more quietly. "Sit down."
I sat.

The pale straw disc of my mother's sun hat shaded my face for a moment, and a cold wet glass appeared between my hands. The hat receded.

"Have a drink, son," my father said. "You'll feel better."

The first sip of cold liquor hurt so badly it made my eyes water, and the second left the inside of my mouth raw and tingling, but the third sip was all right. The bourbon tasted like a hollow golden sphere of burnt sugar and hickory smoke. After I drank it, I did indeed feel better. The strong amber liquid filled in the ragged gashes and glued the scattered pieces of my world back together. My parents, the lawn, and the house glowed with comfortable solidity. My father took the empty glass from my hand. I smiled at him, then at my mother. They smiled back. With a pat on the head and a quick peck on the cheek, I was dismissed.

Back among the roses, I opened the book, but it remained mute, letters still hazy and indistinct. So I closed it and laid my head on it instead, and watched the clouds creep slowly across the sky, mind wandering. The clouds were castles, swords, chargers and gallant knights. The sky was blue, and all was well.

Then the sky was navy blue, almost black, and I sat up, shuddering from a dream I couldn't remember. Uncertain light drizzled from the weak moon jittering overhead. My shirt clung in a tight band around my chest, plastered to my skin by a layer of gummy sweat. The roses pressed closer and closer, too close, so close that they filled my nose, my mouth, my lungs. I gasped for breath, coughing to clear my throat until I gagged. I tasted phlegm, sour milk, and formaldehyde, and then all at once I was sick on the flagstones.

June 22, 5:00 pm

Progress report: pro/con edition.

Pro: I finally finished the bit that was making me sweat tears and bleed brain-juice.

Con: it's. . . still problematic. And it still makes me wince.

Pro: The next section appears to be less depressing. Romantic, almost.

Con: I'm not sure where it's going, why it's important, or whether or not it will wind up depressing after all.

Pro: I've also gotten a fair amount of work done on other writing projects over the past few days.

Con: That's because I've been avoiding this project, which is filled with hatred and hard work.

And y'know what the worst part is? The fact that I'm filled with hatred and frustration is a good sign, since it means I'm getting somewhere. My love of writing is exactly like my love of being stabbed with pointy objects: passionate, but ultimately a Very Bad Idea.

Huzzah for writing. And yes, while I can't particularly approve of your methods, you did get started again. Maybe now you can pick up the thread again without as much hassle as this time.