The Invitation

The grooming parlor where Vig takes the Maltese puppy Vicki brought home—six weeks to the day after he discovered her affair—is walking distance from their downtown Los Angeles apartment. But at nearly five months old, Freyda has yet to feel LA’s sidewalks under her paws. She travels to her vet appointments, play dates, and Vicki’s boozy brunches in a front-facing backpack that seems to polarize the humans she meets. Some exclaim at its cuteness, gushing over Freyda and asking permission to “say hi to the baby.” Others look away quickly, seemingly embarrassed. Vig, whose earliest experience of dogs was the pack of strays that roamed Parco Saraceno in his youth, hates the backpack. He’d rather carry Freyda in his arms (he agrees with Vicki that the streets of DTLA are too filthy for her to walk on). But today, he has no choice. Today, he needs his hands free to carry the invitation.

Vig and Freyda earn a few double takes as they cross town. The immaculate, snow-white bundle is striking against his leathery neck and forearms. On especially hot days like this, Vig’s already florid face deepens to a purplish carmine, giving him the look of a root vegetable left roasting too long. His clothing has been carefully chosen to emphasize this mediterranean coloring, which he secretly believes makes him exotically handsome. Garment-dyed polo, light wash jeans, and the same sneakers his daughter’s boyfriend wears. “My style is Malibu boomer,” he likes to joke, flashing veneers as white as Freyda. At fifty-two, his vanity is like an increasingly bored wingman, yawning and tapping his watch pointedly. Vig, however, is not ready to leave that dance just yet.

He walks with one hand lightly resting on Freyda and the other holding the invitation carefully away from his overheated body. It’s a simple flyer Vicki printed from her computer: You’re Invited! Please join us for our (First annual??) Tarts and Vicars Penthouse Party. Dinner and drinks will be provided, duh, so come hungry and horny. Costumes encouraged demanded! Clip art of a Playboy bunny in silhouette is pasted clumsily besides a screenshot of Hugh Grant in Sirens. Vicki ordered her outfit the night they decided on the theme. It’s the first party they’ve planned since Vicki’s affair ended—the first since months of nightly fighting have tapered off into a wary truce, brokered unwittingly by Freyda. Love for the puppy pours out of Vig so abundantly that her little body cannot contain all of it; the excess soaks slowly into the porous fabric of their relationship.

Still, the humiliation rankles. Vig knows that Vicki is lying about not having told any of their friends. He dreads their eyes falling pityingly on him as they walk in the door. So he is on his way to rearrange the board a little bit. If he is successful, the distraction will be so complete that no pitying eyes will even notice him. If he is not, the mere attempt will communicate all that he needs to.

Vig straightens his shoulders, clears his throat, and steps into the pet supply shop that houses the grooming parlor. Freyda, immediately recognizing her surroundings, wiggles and whimpers to be let free. He sets her down on the polished concrete floor and the click-click-click! of her tiny nails is the only sound in the otherwise quiet shop. Realizing she must be in the back, Vig lingers out front, letting the air conditioning dry his sweaty forehead. He watches as Freyda happily explores, taking her scent inventory of other recent canine visitors. Vig suddenly has a terrible thought. He realizes he forgot to stop on the way over to let Freyda relieve herself. She almost certainly has to pee—or worse.

“Freyda,” he says in a low voice, striding toward her. “Freyda, come girl.” She ignores him, sniffing intensely. Vig freezes. He knows that sniff. He hesitates, afraid to risk lifting the puppy mid-stream and having her urinate on him. Before he can make any decision, Freyda makes one for them both. She squats, blinking innocently at Vig as a soundless trickle issues from beneath her.

“Fuck!” Flustered, Vig grabs for the puppy with both hands. The invitation, still in his right hand, falls partially into the pool of urine, wetting the bottom left corner. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Holding both at arms’ length, he carries Freyda and the wet paper back outside. A gust of hot wind lifts the invitation, grazing his wrist with dog piss. Cursing, he sets Freyda directly on the ground. The puppy sniffs the verboten environment excitedly while Vig collects himself.

His pocket vibrates: Vicki, probably. He doesn’t answer, busy positioning Freyda in the backpack once more. Another vibration: Vicki texting.

Babe where are you?

He waits a beat.

Groomers

Wasn’t she just there?

He looks at the message. Here it is. The long awaited moment. He moves his piece.

I’m inviting Billie to the party.

A very long pause. So long that Vig has time to consider whether or not to go back in and extend his invitation verbally, or to just go home. He sighs and rocks back and forth gently, a habit he’s picked up since carrying Freyda. He turns to look inside the shop’s glass front. From his vantage point, he can see all the way back to the small room where the dirty, smelly, and shaggy dogs of downtown Los Angeles are cleansed of their sins and made respectable again.

Then, he sees her. She’s hosing down a golden retriever in the huge stainless steel basin. Her back is to him, but her form is familiar. The smooth, strong line of her calves. The ponytail that swings as she works. His phone finally vibrates again.

The girl that clips Freyda’s nails?

Yes

A short pause.

Isn’t she like 25?

Vig doesn’t answer. He pictures Vicki on her couch, glass of wine in hand. The day’s makeup already washed clean from her cosmetically taut face. He stares at the words on his phone, at the number on the screen, as if it holds all the secrets to the universe. As if it can explain to him why his girlfriend cheated on him, why decided to stay with her, or why he is here right now.

Freyda yips, jolting him out of his reverie. Love for the tiny being holstered against his heart floods through him. She is no doubt hot, thirsty, and confused by their lack of movement. He taps out his reply to Vicki.

Talk when we get home. On my way now.

Along the way, he tosses the crumpled up invitation into a trash bin.

Les Deux Chanteuses, Part 2

continued from here

—-

Many years passed. Prete took up work with a kindly candlemaker, a trade that regularly brought her into the homes and shops of nearly everyone in the village. Every day she could be seen delivering her bundles of beeswax pillars and tallow tapers, always tied up neatly in paper and twine. As she walked she sometimes sang softly, both for her own amusement and to pass the time. However, it wasn’t long before the beauty of her voice betrayed her, and all the children in village were soon begging her for a little song or rhyme whenever she visited.

To the old tailor and his grandchildren she sang:

Tyrian satin and nimble fingers—
Un manteau mignon pour la reine des abeilles!
Careful now, not to break her stinger
Elle va percer vos petits oreilles

To the baker and her nieces she sang:

Je t’apporte le suif pour les pate brisees,
Je t’apporte le suif pour cuire a la nuit,
Plump berry tarts on copper trays,
Prickets and tinder to last for days

And so it was that Prete the candlemaker became known as Prete la Chanteuse, and her music filled the lives of the villagers with as much light as her candles.

One evening, Prete took a walk to the grove where she last saw her dear sister. She placed her palm upon the tree under which they sat that fateful day and sighed. Soon she fell to singing a beautiful but mournful tune. Her voice carried up into the branches above her, higher and higher until it met the ears of a bluejay at the very top.

The bluejay listened for a moment, then hopped down a branch, then listened some more, then hopped down closer. Lower and lower the bluejay went, drawn by the voice of Prete far below, until it was perched just above her. Prete went on singing for a time, then sighed once more and gathered herself to go.

“Wait!” cried a voice. “Don’t go, dear sister!” Prete whirled about, looking for a the speaker. She saw no one but the little bluejay in the tree. Prete looked around, bewildered, when suddenly the bluejay said: “Sweet Prete! It is I, Paresse, your older sister! Do not be afraid, for it is truly me. I live under the enchantment of the wicked witch we met that terrible day. I heard your voice high up in the trees just now and knew instantly that it was you! Oh, sister, I have missed you so!”

As you can imagine, there was then was a scene of great rejoicing, but also much amazement. Having greeted her younger sister, Paresse went on to tell the story of the spell under which she had lived so many years, beginning the very night the sisters parted. Ever since then, poor Paresse had been forced by the witch to sing all day and all night, endlessly. Every minute of every hour of every day, Paresse sang and sang and sang. Spellbound, she could do nothing else. She could not eat or drink or even leave the witch’s cottage in the woods.

Now, there are all sorts of evil in this world, and the witch’s was the kind that feasts on the pain of others. And since the music that Paresse sang was so full of sadness and longing and loneliness, it fed the witch’s wicked soul quite well. Soon she gave up all her other evil schemes, doing nothing but gorging herself on song. Eventually, the witch grew fat and round and stupid with laziness. Her sleek black hair became matted and her lush velvet cloak slowly tightened, becoming threadbare and dull.

When Paresse saw that the witch was weakening, she decided to try and trick her into letting her escape. Paresse begged her for just one day of freedom. “Oh, please let me go find new things to sing about! I can see that hearing the same songs over and over is making you thin and frail,” she lied. “Soon you will waste away to nothing and die!”

The witch, nearly witless from gluttony, agreed—but on one condition. Paresse could leave for one single day, but she must do so in the form of a bluejay. As such, no one would would be able to understand her if she tried to tell them about the enchantment. And come midnight, she must either fly back to the witch right away or die on the spot.

Hearing this, Paresse was heartbroken, thinking her chance of escape was gone. Still, she agreed to the terms, desperate to get away. As soon as she nodded yes, she felt the whoosh! of evil witch magic transforming her into a bluejay.

As fast as her wings would take her, she flew straight to the little village. There she hopped from window to window, seeking some sign of her sister. But Prete was busy about her candle deliveries, and though the little bluejay visited all the same places her younger sister went, always she missed Prete by a few minutes.

The day wore on, and the little bird grew hungry. But she knew just where to go: the baker’s, where she helped herself to a feast of crumbs swept out the back door. Night came on soon after that, and the cold made her little bones shiver. Again she knew just where to go: from the tailor’s scrap heap the pulled a length of silky ribbon and a strip of soft lace. With these she flew up to the highest branch in the tallest tree she could find. Here she set about making herself a cozy nest in which to spend her last precious hours before she must fly back to the evil witch.

Darkness came over the village, and one by one Paresse watched as each home and shop lit up with candlelight. Never had she seen a more peaceful sight, and her heart ached to think that somewhere in all that soft glow was her long lost little sister.

Of course, you know what happened next—for it was then that les deux chanteuses were so happily and wondrously reunited. Talking further, they decided it must be their close connection as sisters that allowed them to understand another despite the witch’s charm.

Paresse dropped her tiny feathered head sadly. “That means nothing now, though, for the hour approaches that I must fly back to the witch or die!” she cried, despairing.

“Take heart, dear sister!” replied Prete. “I have an idea. If sad songs are what the witch wants, then sad songs she shall have!” she declared. “But come, we must hurry. It is nearly midnight and I cannot fly as you can. You must lead the way!”

Off the sisters sped into the dark forest, Paresse darting deftly through the trees with Prete close behind. With just minutes to spare, they arrived at the witch’s cottage, cold and dark and cheerless. Instantly the little bluejay Paresse changed back into her human form, and the sisters embraced.

“Now sister, listen to me,” whispered Prete. “We are going to fatten the witch up until she cannot move at all. Then we shall kill her, break the spell, and make our escape.”

“But Prete,” said Paresse. “How can I possibly sing sad songs, now that we are together again? My heart is full of nothing but joy!”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Prete answered. “Just take care to sit by this window and leave everything to me.”

And with that, Paresse went back inside the hateful cottage. Immediately, the hungry old witch demanded music. Paresse did as Prete had instructed, and moved her chair close to the open window. Her heart pounded with excitement and the thought of escape. She stalled, trying to remember the hopelessness she felt just a day ago. But when she opened her mouth to sing, what filled the room was not her voice, but that of her little sister. And sing her little sister did. Prete sang and sang and sang, each song more heartbreaking than the last.

She sang about a young tailor losing his beloved wife, stitching bits of her clothing into a blanket for his bed.

She sang about a lonely breadmaker who poured her love into her loaves, when there was nothing else to love.

She sang about a poor old couple missing their daughters.

She sang about two sisters getting lost in the wood, and deciding to seek their way out on opposite paths.

Minute by minute, the witch grew fatter and fatter, her wicked soul gobbling up the sadness in Prete’s songs. She became so frenzied in her greed that she grew blind to everything else. She didn’t notice that it was Prete she heard singing, not Paresse. She didn’t see Paresse carefully climbing out the window to join her sister safe outside. And she didn’t see Prete pull a smooth yellow candle from out of her cloak, light it, and throw it in the cottage. The old witch didn’t see the two sisters pulling shut the window and trapping her inside, but surely she smelled the smoke of the flames before they burned her alive.

And surely the old witch heard the song the sisters sang as they ran away, hand in hand, the spell broken at last. Surely that happy song was the very last thing she ever heard.

The End

Index of Selected Life Experiences as Reflected in Songs I Love

A

aging
solidarity in, via friendship…….………….……….…..……All My Friends, LCD Soundsystem
sting of.………………………………………………………………Family Friend, The Vaccines
Losing My Edge, LCD Soundsystem

alienation, constant sense of……………………………………Everybody’s Changing, Keane

ambition, pointlessness of……………………………………….Tougher Than It Is, Cake

attachment, pointlessness of……………………………………Arc of Time, Bright Eyes

B

breakups
contentious…………………………………………………….. Already Forgot Everything You Said, The Dig
inconclusive……………………………………………………..If You Wanna, The Vaccines
overdue…………………………………………………..……….Someday, The Strokes
painful……………………………………………………………..Careful, Gunster

bridges, amicably burned………….…………………………..Landlocked Blues, Bright Eyes

C

childhood
adverse experiences………………………………………….When Will I Belong, Geographer
positive selective memory of…………………………..…The Unicorn, The Irish Rovers

casual sex
advantages of…………………………………….………….…I Want A Lover I Don’t Have to Love, Bright Eyes
age gap in……………….………………………………….……Your Love, The Outfield
Take it Easy (Love Nothing), Bright Eyes
with unavailable men………………………………….……Curtain Calls, Old 97s

codependence
romantic…………………………………………………………Crane Your Neck, Lady Lamb
post-romantic………………………………………………… Just a Memory, ODESZA

cohabitation………………………………………………………..Wheels, Cake

communication, difficulty in…………………………..……Say What You Feel, Jagwar Ma

D

depression
relief from, as provided by friends…………..…….…..Geraldine, Glasvegas
respite from, idiopathic origin………………………….There Goes the Fear, The Doves

disillusion
general…………………………………………………………...Road to Joy, Bright Eyes
romantic…………………………………………………..…… Someday, The Strokes
with society…………………………………………………….At The Bottom of Everything, Bright Eyes

F

friendship
excellence in……………………………………………………Simple Song, The Shins
A Glorious Day, Embrace
life-saving shared experience of…………………………All My Friends, LCD Soundsystem
loss of & pain caused thereof…………………………….All My Friends, LCD Soundsystem

G

grief, survival of…………………………………………...………Hold On, Alabama Shakes

I

infatuation
healthy…………………………………………………………..We Belong, ODESZA
Fresh Feeling, Eels
unhealthy……………………………………………………….South America, Shout Out Louds
Waiting for That Day, George Michael

L

loss
romantic..………………………………………………..…...It’s Only, ODESZA
familial…………………………………………………………Sloom, Of Monsters and Men

love
current idealized vision of…………………….…………Oh Baby, LCD Soundsystem
post-apocalyptic vision of.………………….…..………Buick City Complex, Old 97’s
practical application of………..………….………….…..Let Me Go, Cake
secretly held vision of……..………………....………..…Save The Last Dance for Me, The Drifters

M

mental illness
acceptance of, in romantic partners…………………….My Beloved Monster and Me, Eels
Let Go, RAC
optimism about………………………………………….……..Blinking Lights for Me, Eels

N

nostalgia
unmerited, romantic……………..…………………………You Used to Be My Baby, Mike Del Rio
unmerited, other………………………………………………Sedona, Houndmouth

P

psychedelics
enjoyed with partners……………..………………...…Inside Out, Spoon
enjoyed solo ………….……..……………………………..Good For Me, Above & Beyond, Alpha 9 Remix

R

revenge, fantasies of…………………………………..….….Rush of Blood to the Head, Coldplay

resilience, hard won……………………………….…….…..Always Alright, Alabama Shakes
The Wind, Cat Stevens
Dime, Cake

S

self-perception, romanticized…………………………….English Girls Approximately, Ryan Adams
Science of Silence, Richard Ashcroft

sex, excellence in………………………………………………..Your Sex is a Dream, Trevor Something

suicide, heretofore aversion to…………………………….End of The Movie, Cake

T

toxic boy moms…………………………………………………Indefinitely, Old 97’s

W

writing, finding purpose in……………………………….Closer to Fine, Indigo Girls

Cool Blue Veil

Late spring in a suburban Michigan yard. On my stomach, on the grass. Someone’s older sister learned the buttercup trick, probably at summer camp, probably with a boy, passed it on to the rest of us. But we don’t have buttercups, so dandelions it is. Only, I can’t see my own chin. Doesn’t matter. I know I like butter. I rake my hands through clover patches that my dad, no landscaper he, missed or never cared about anyway. Scanning with my keen young eyes, ever hopeful. There’s got to be one here somewhere. But no, never. My own front yard keeps its good luck hidden from me.

I wander along the side of the house. The patch of crocus beneath the living room window is in bloom. Delicate periwinkle and that exotic splash of yellow. Something about it, something I’ll never be able to explain, feels sensuous and more feminine than the other flowers. It makes me embarrassed, somehow. I am not yet ten years old.

The Shell boys are out next door, playing with their German Shepherd. I drift away from the fence between us, uncomfortable being close to them. All three intimidate me, though the two teenagers are really nothing more than vague cardboard cutouts of Older Boys. But my mother has made comments about their mother, and my father has made comments about their money. The gavel has fallen, and I keep my distance.

Evening is dropping a cool blue veil, but I’m already home. When I get cold, I’ll just walk inside. All the doors are unlocked, all the time. Besides, the fireflies will be coming out any minute. As long as they don’t land on me, I’m not afraid of them.

Les Deux Chanteuses

Once upon a time there lived two sisters—Prete the younger and Paresse the older—born to parents of modest means and gentle temperament. The sisters grew up the best of friends, always generous and kind toward one another in all things.

Though the sisters came from humble beginnings, they were quite extraordinary in one regard: their voices were exceptional, clear and bright as summer stars. Indeed, both girls could sing so beautifully that no nightingale would nest within a thousand fathoms, for envy.

All day long, the sisters would compose little songs which they sang to one another, and to their parents. Nothing gave them greater joy than to put their talent to such delightful use, and wistful were the travelers who heard such a happy home as they passed by.

Alas, the time came for the poor sisters to go out into the world and seek their fortunes. They had few possessions to pack, but their mother and father sent them off with enough food to start their journey and enough love to keep them warm forever.

At least that’s what they thought, those fairy-tale parents. You and I know that love can’t mend a sock, or fill a belly, or patch a leaky roof. Neither can music, for that matter. You and I know that in the real world, only firewood feeds the fire. So learned the two sisters, who all too soon found themselves with nothing but a hunger no song of theirs could soothe.

“Let us stop there,” cried Paresse, seeing candlelight in the window of an innkeeper. “Surely they’ll take pity on us, give us something to eat and beds for the night!”

The younger sister hesitated. “We’ve relied on the kindness of others too long already,” she said, thinking of their parents. “The village is close. We must go there, learn a useful trade, and earn our way properly.”

But the older sister was persistent, and she persuaded the younger girl to join her in begging at the inn.

“After we eat, we’ll treat them to one of our songs,” said Paresse. “They’ll be quite grateful, I’m sure.”

The sisters were met warmly by the innkeeper and his wife, who fed them well and then led them to a cozy attic to sleep. But when offered the gift of the sisters’ singing, the couple declined, tired from their long day’s work.

The next morning, the sisters continued on their way, refreshed and humming a cheerful tune. It wasn’t long before they came upon the village, bustling with shops and tradespeople of all sorts. There were tailors and seamstresses, bakers and cobblers, fruit-sellers and ironsmiths. There were maids and ladies-in-waiting on errands from their mistresses. All around were the trappings of commerce, and the sisters stared in wonder. Here was the world where they must make their fortunes, for better or for worse.

“Well,” said the younger sister bravely, “I suppose we should see what we can do!” And before her older sister could say a word, she grabbed her hand to pull her into the nearest shop.

As it happened, the sisters had stepped into the shop of an old tailor. He was a clever fellow, and had devised an ingenious way of getting more light into the little shop, with a roof that could be moved through a series of pulleys and levers. But even more fascinating was the tailor’s work itself. All around the sisters were bolts of fabric, jars of buttons, and plump pincushions stuck through with shiny silver needles. Wondrous, colorful things that were nevertheless hard to connect to the finished dresses and stately suits that hung throughout the shop.

“We’ve come to the village to learn a trade,” said the younger sister, offering the old tailor a deep curtsey. “Pray tell, good sir, what is the life of a tailor like?”

“Hmmm,” grumbled the old man. “The life of a tailor, you ask. Well, it’s stuck thumbs, for one. It’ll be years before you’re proper handy with the thimble. And your back will trouble you sorely, what with hunching over your work day in and day out. Oh and your eyesight will go, no doubt, from all the squinting at seams. And—”

“Enough!” cried the older sister, who pulled Prete back outside roughly. “Bloody fingers and blindness? Surely there must be something better!”

The two walked on a bit until they reached a pleasant little shack, ablaze with the light of a dozen ovens. The delicious scent of fresh bread came wafting through its open windows. Peering inside, the sisters could see a woman kneading dough. Her apron and arms were dusty with flour and her face was deeply flushed.

“Look, Paresse!” cried Prete. “A bakery! Wouldn’t it be lovely to make cakes all day? You’d never be hungry again!”

“Or cool,” shuddered Paresse. “Those ovens must be scorching! Sweating morning, noon, and night? What a dreadful life that must be!”

And so it went all day. As they walked through the village, Prete asked questions of the shopkeepers and tradeswomen, exploring their workshops and examining their wares. Everyone she met was eager for help, and she knew that she and Paresse had only to choose. But Paresse merely followed mutely, silently wishing she didn’t have to work at all.

“My dear sister,” said Prete gently, pulling Paresse under a nearby tree. “If I cannot convince you to join me in some apprenticeship, if nothing appeals to you, then I fear we must part ways. We promised Mother and Father that we would do our best, and I cannot beg another meal from the good innkeepers.”

“Oh, Prete,” wailed Paresse, finally confessing her true thoughts. “I wish we could have stayed children forever. I wish instead of stitching or cooking or cleaning we could just sing our pretty songs!” And with that, she collapsed in a tearful heap against the trunk of the tree. Her younger sister pulled her close, and for a time the two girls sat together, each lost in her own ideas and worries.

Now, it just so happened that at this very moment, perched in the tree above them was a sleek black crow. Only, the crow was really a witch who had disguised herself so she could come to the village and see what evil could be done. And when she heard Paresse, the witch knew exactly what that would be.

With a caw! caw! of wicked delight, she jumped from the tree into the bush, to hide her next transformation. When she stepped in front of the two sisters a moment later, they saw a woman with raven-black hair and a magnificent black velvet cloak. Her eyes glinted formidably, and the sisters felt compelled to bow before what they could only assume was a noblewoman.

“My dear,” said the witch, addressing Paresse. “I could not help but overhear you just then. Am I to understand you are great songstress? If so, that is a wonderful coincidence indeed, as I have been searching for just such a thing!”

At these words—indeed, at the very sight of this striking presence—Paresse was so shocked she couldn’t utter a word.

“Well…m’lady,” stammered Prete. “We….I…my sister…we’ve come to the village to—”

“Yes!” cried Paresse, having found her voice. “Yes, I am! I am indeed a songstress! I can sing song after song after song, as you wish. As can my sister! We can show you, if you like.”

The cunning witch suppressed a smile. “Is that so?” she asked, now addressing Prete. Prete nodded, though somewhat hesitantly.

“Well then, doubly lucky am I today. I shall take you both,” she declared matter-of-factly. “You shall sing songs for me every day, when and as I wish. Happy songs, sad songs—whatever I command, however many I command. Les deux chanteuses. ”

Beside her, Prete heard Paresse gasp. She, too, was amazed by what she heard. But young Prete was sensible, so she summoned the courage to be bold. “By your leave, good lady,” she replied, “could you kindly tell us more? Are you from the royal court? Does the king seek entertainment? Are we to live at the palace?”

The witch’s lip twitched ever so slightly. “No…” she began slowly. “It is not the king who requires music. Indeed it is of no consequence who does. You shall live by your songs, that is all that matters. Or perhaps…” and here she shifted her gaze meaningfully to Paresse. “Perhaps you would be happier in a scullery? Scrubbing pots and pans is good, honest work for girls such as yourselves…” The witch let her words trail heavily, with just a touch of scorn.

Paresse stepped forward. “No, m’lady. We…I—”

“How much?” Prete broke in. The terrible witch narrowed her dark eyes dangerously, but the young girl pressed on. “How much, for a song?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t wish to put a price on the beauty of music,” said the witch lightly, glancing away. “I only ask that you sing…” (and here she paused to look back at the sisters) “...all day. As I imagine you have done all your lives, no?”

Paresse nodded eagerly, but Prete remained silent.

“It is your very favorite thing in the whole world, is it not?” Again Paresse nodded. “Then how,” she smiled and spread her hands, “could you possibly ever grow tired of it?”

Prete and Paresse looked at one another, each thinking something very different.

“I will leave you now to consider, but I’ll return at midnight to this very spot. Should you wish to accept my offer, meet me here then.” And in a flash of black, she was gone.

Now, I’ve told you already how much the two sisters loved one another, how in all ways they were devoted to the other. And you’ve seen for yourselves a bit of each girl’s character and nature so far. So I’ve no need to tell you about the argument that ensued between them, and how the division in their hearts pained them both. Suffice to say they were of two wholly different minds by the time midnight approached.

At the appointed hour, the witch appeared, even more dazzling in the moonlight. The sisters embraced and bade one another farewell. And in an instant, Paresse and the black-hearted witch were gone.

Many years passed. So many, in fact, that by the time they saw one another again, the two sisters had lived longer apart than together. But see one another again they did…

to be continued

NOFOMO!

I wrote an SNL commercial, because why not. It stars Andy Samberg, Pete Davidson, and Bill Hader as the announcer. Click below to open the PDF, if you want to read it. Probably get high first, though?

r/antiwork

"Hello, front desk? I'd like to request an early checkout, please."

In all the hand-wringing, jeering, finger-pointing, and/or moralizing going on, there is only one response to the Titanic subsmersible event that makes any sense to me: envy.

We should all be so lucky as to die doing something we love, in the blink of an eye, before old age has a chance to start working us over. Before the shit hits the fan with the climate, and before society devolves into whatever apocalyptic shape it’s going to take when the resource wars start—provided we’ve had a chance to experience enough that we must undeniably say, “I’ve had my share.”

Which is why today I remembered how much I have in common with billionaires. God I bet it would piss them off.

The absolute mind-blowing things I have gotten to experience in this life, I mean good grief. If the Grim Reaper materialized before me and said sternly, “That’ll do. Leave some for the others,” and then went choppity chop, I would have nothing to complain about. Not a goddamn thing.

“But the young one,” you’ll say. Are you kidding? He’s the luckiest of all. Even billionaires are not immune to suffering, aging, and death. Money can’t cure most degenerative disease or buy immortality. It can buy longevity, but who wants that? Linger on decrepitly, exhausting caretakers and draining resources? Lord, why?

Any human born into extreme wealth who gets to lead a charmed, comfortable life and then check out before the going gets rough has won life’s lottery. And we’re talking an instantaneous, fraction-of-a-second checkout.

Granted, I don’t know anything about the final circumstances in that sub. If something went wrong and they lost control, any minutes of anticipatory fear must have been unbearable. But even so—give me hours of terror over decades of decay any day. One experience-packed life for my entree and a Melancholia ending for dessert, please.

If I disappear tomorrow—if you never hear from me again, and somehow through the fading echoes of my once-great social media presence you sleuth out that I died suddenly, juuuuuust past my prime and with a smile on my face thinking of all I’ve gotten away with?

Do not mourn me. Cheer me, for the massive fucking win.

Oops, Missed A Step

Dispatch from Dearborn

Darling Loulah—

Leadened is my pen today, for it is dire news which I must impart. Forgive me, dear heart, if before I unshoulder the heavy burden, I divert myself—and hopefully, you!—with other trifles, however briefly. Having so elevated us to such a plane of levity, I promise then I shall bravely reveal all to you, whose gentle virtue ever redeems me. It shall redeem me again today, surely.

Do you recall some months ago, when in the course of trying to impress upon you my fervent desire to continue my “musical education” here in Chicago, I spoke at length of a particular artiste? No doubt my soliloquy was tiresome, and perhaps now the details do not readily return to you. (And I shouldn’t blame you for finding the whole of my enterprise in this domain damnably frivolous.) But certainly, familiar as you are with the depths of my passion, you’ll remember the admiration in my tone. For in all my travels, no sounds have so captivated me as those in this esteemed gentleman’s oeuvre.

Lest I ramble further, let me roll up my rug of flattery and tell you straight out: Loulah, he comes to Chicago this October next. And I’ve procured a ticket! The concert hall in which he is to perform is said to be quite something, and only a short carriage ride away. How delightful, to think that when next I see you, our beloved oak will be shimmering with gold and my head will be brimming with music!

Otherwise of note—as promised, I am enclosing with this letter my watercolor of the lake. Failed as I have to adequately express in words her precise and utterly captivating shade of green, my clumsy hand will have to suffice. I feel it imperative that when I am so bold as to make an appearance in your mind’s eye, that great beauty likewise be in your thoughts. Oh, Loulah, almost daily I am at her side. Majestic or moody, she is the only companion who can soothe me through your absence.

And now for the regrettable coda.

I’ve had to concede Federal Plaza. Beloved Federal Plaza, through which my nightly perambulation was a reliable delight. Wide, smooth-stoned and still, with that curious crimson statue holding court. It is the skateboarders, Loulah. They have grown manifold. Tried as I might to hold the pedestrian line, those whippersnappers-on-wheels overwhelm me. They make clear their disapproval of my proximity, producing dangerously close skirmishes the likes of which my knobby ankles would never survive. I must re-route. I can see your frown as you read these words, feel your anguish for my loss. Do not begrudge them! They are young, and this world holds in store for them countless betrayal and pain. Let’s permit them the pleasures of play before adulthood throws obstacles which no ollie can overcome.

There, I have done it. I have pulled back the curtain on my cowardice. Would that the sunshine of your grace illuminates some small hope that you think me not a spineless poltroon. I know it does. I know it will, always.

November, Loulah! Godspeed that cheerful month. Until then I remain as ever,

Your James

Sandcastle Man

Sandcastle Man lives at the sea, and will never live anywhere else. “The sea,” he mumbles to himself, his mind corroded by the salty air. “I am the sea and the sea is me. Sea me, see me. See me!”

Sandcastle Man has been hard at work. His face is puffy and red with the effort of trying to build something that matters. Crabs scurry by, accustomed to his messes. They’re temporary, after all. Gone by morning, one after the next.

A half-dead squid has washed ashore, and in a delirium of delusion, Sandcastle Man pulls it from the briny tangle of weeds at his feet. Its slick, grasping limbs thrill him, and he places it safely above the water line to watch him. “My little mermaid!” he declares. The squid grows limp and still.

Sandcastle Man digs and scoops and molds and smooths. Plastic buckets and shovels litter the beach, a testament to the sincerity of his conviction. But under his gnarled hands, all that takes shape are crumbling, wet lumps.

Finally finished, he whoops and dances and calls to the moon, who ignores him. “This one! This one this one this one!” Seagulls glance then glide on. The tide comes in for the kill.

Sandcastle Man lives at the sea, and will never live anywhere else.

Poesie the Changeling

Once upon a time there lived a changeling by the name of Poesie. Poesie seemed for all the world to be a regular girl leading an everyday life, with parents of ordinary means. Nobody knew she was a changeling or even suspected it, as she behaved just like other children her age.

As it happened though, Poesie was fairy-born. On the day she entered the world, a powerful witch had come to pay her respects to Poesie, as her birth had been foretold in the legends of the time. Legend held that a fairy child more magical than any that had ever lived was to be born that very day, and to bless her would ensure one’s good fortune.

Now, you’ll not be surprised to learn that the witch who came that day was only pretending to wish well upon the changeling. In her heart she was scheming and plotting, wondering how to capture and keep the infant sprite’s potent magic for herself. The witch decided that she’d have a much better chance at succeeding if she separated Poesie from her fairy family, and put her somewhere secret and safe until her magic matured.

So while all the magical beings were celebrating that night—the fairies and sprites and elves and other creatures you’ll never know about—the evil old witch crept into the briar where Poesie lay swaddled and sleeping, and quietly replaced her with a young fawn. Swiftly she carried the changeling off through the night, before her cries could give them away.

After a time, the witch came to a simple stone cottage at the edge of a clearing. Smoke curled from the chimney and an axe lay beside a stack of freshly cut wood. The witch leaned close over Poesie’s basket and cast the strongest spell she could, hoping to dampen her powerful fairy magic for as long as possible—until, she hoped, the time came for the witch to kill her and take it.

When the woodcutter and his wife found the basket, they were frightened at first. But soon the infant sprite’s magic enchanted them, and they agreed to keep her and raise her as their own. For ten years, all was good and peaceful with the little family. Poesie, who did not know of her birthright, grew up happy in the care of her human parents. She loved nothing more than to wander the very same woods she’d been stolen from, singing made-up songs to the birds and foxes and frogs she called friends.

Then one day, on Poesie’s eleventh birthday, the spell the witch had cast took hold. It was indeed a powerful spell, and one that from that day forward would cause the changeling many tears and much trouble. You see, the witch cast a spell such that everything Poesie touched would hurt her—or she would hurt it.

If she tried to pick blackberries, brambles would tear at her clothes and hair, and she’d come away with nothing.

If she drew the old wooden well bucket, splinters would find her fingers.

If she picked up a piece of crockery, soon there’d be shards on the ground.

If she moved to embrace her father, she’d step on his toes or snag his beard.

All of this was harmless enough, but as the years went on the spell grew stronger and more dangerous, and the accidents and mishaps worse, until Poesie no longer dared venture out of the cottage. This was a very sad time for the little changeling, who missed her forest friends but feared what might happen to them in her presence. Four years passed, and during that time Poesie wiled away her hours at the window, reading books and writing stories to entertain herself. And so while she could not go out into the world, the young changeling wandered far and wide in her own imagination.

On her fifteenth birthday, the latent magic the witch had been waiting for blossomed in the young changeling. She didn’t know it and couldn’t feel it, but all the magic of all the fairies she had descended from was blooming inside her. What’s more, this very special magic began to counteract the effects of the witch’s spell. Poesie noticed fewer and fewer mishaps befalling her until one day, she decided to go pick an apple—and nothing happened:

She walked carefully through the clearing, cringing at every twig snap, bracing for a tumble or twisted ankle. Nothing happened.

At the apple tree she hesitated, ready for the thunk! of fruit hitting her head. Nothing happened.

Finally, she reached up and plucked a perfect, rosy red apple. Eager for the treat but expecting the sting of a wasp or the bite of an ant, she paused, waiting. Nothing happened.

And so it was that the spell which had caused so much pain was finally broken.

Deep in the forest, the evil witch could feel the change. She lifted her crooked chin and sniffed in the direction of the little cottage. She knew the time had come to kill the changeling and take her magic, before she could fully grow into all her powers. Off she set through the woods, a dagger hidden in her cloak. The old witch smiled to think of how powerful she’d soon be.

Now, little is known about the fairy magic of old times. That’s because it didn’t want to be known and still doesn’t. But it’s said that nothing is more powerful than a fairy who has suffered like an ordinary human. Fairyfolk are born to lead whimsical, enchanted lives—that is the way of things. But a changeling placed in humble human hands learns things that their brethren do not, such as loss and pain and sacrifice. When Poesie was forced to give up the things she loved to keep them safe, another kind of strength carried her until the magic foretold in the legend returned. This was the power the witch faced, as she crept up on the darkened cottage.

No one knows the for sure what happened to the witch that night. Most say she was outmatched by Poesie the Changeling, and her dagger found a home in her own wicked heart instead. Others say Poesie spared the old witch, having no wish to cause pain ever again.

But everyone agrees it’s a very bad idea to try and steal the power of anyone, human or fairy. You never know where a creature gets its magic.

Unburdened

I heard you wanted to tell me something, but you were too afraid to even think it. To think it would be to know it, and to know it would mean unknowing everything you thought you knew about yourself.

That’s okay, you don’t have to say it. It’s written in neon above both our heads. To me it’s a bright ribbon of truth. To you it’s a buzzing banner of shame that burns particularly hot at bedtime.

I heard your conscience went digging through conversations we didn’t have and found far too many things you should have said. I heard you ran like hell away from them, but once unearthed they stuck to you like burs. They must make it hard to run, and dance, and play.

I heard you enlisted an army of justifications to campaign for you—to go to war against the knowledge that you could have done better. It’s a ragtag army, full of weak excuses and paltry pretext. It won’t protect you.

I heard all of this in the places you don’t even speak—in the rooms you never enter. In the quiet moments of admitting to failure, to fear. In the intimate space between two dropped masks. Your absence there screamed at me again and again, telling me who you really are, until I had no choice but to believe it.

I doubt—even if you tried—that I could hear you now, over the noise of what you didn’t say, when you should have said it.

Badger and the Beast

Badger and the Beast are thieves, first and foremost. They desperately want the precious thing you have—the thing which they traded off long ago. But they cannot reach into your pocket and take it, as it is intangible and perfect, and quite literally the best thing in the universe. They cannot take it, and this infuriates them. So they rob you of other things instead, contenting themselves with your discomfiture. They steal your joy, should you let it shine. They steal your dignity, whenever they can get their hands on it. They particularly like stealing your good mood—it’s simple and pure and ephemeral, and can be easily vaporized with a few well-chosen words.

Badger and the Beast have grown increasingly sadistic over the years. Stress and exhaustion have ground them down such that the full, natural scope of empathy and warmth has, within them, shrunk to a narrow slice. On either side stretch bitterness, envy, and the deep disappointment that comes with realizing decades too late that the wrong choices have been made. The wrong irreversible choices. Their souls are full of cavities, and ache with pain. Your pain is the only anesthetic, and they dose themselves liberally.

Badger fancies himself brilliant, undervalued, possessed of a rare talent. Something of a wunderkind, his exasperation at the lack of expertise in others is like a favorite toy to clutch and stroke. All day, every day, he runs his hands over the failings of others. Detecting and declaring faults. Comforting himself with them.

The Beast is quite stupid, and only knows a few basic games. She always wins, of course. Her targets are callow and unarmed—for now. But it is like watching a child play at psychological warfare: clumsy and transparent.

I see them, truly, and they are failing. They choose what is comfortable and easy, always. They do just enough to secure their reputation and take care of themselves—and nothing more. Blinders firmly affixed, they willfully ignore the shoddy foundation on which they are standing.

And they do it because they are thieves who cannot steal the unstealable.

Ashore

A great shipwreck. The black and foamy sea claims all lives except one: a young sailor. He clings desperately to a scrap of hull, the tempest tossing him this way and that. The man knows tonight he must surely drown or be torn apart by sharks—but hours pass and he somehow stays afloat.

Come morning, the streaky light of dawn reveals an incredible sight: he is close enough to land to swim ashore. But the reef is jagged and the current sucking him swiftly toward it. No doubt I have survived the storm only to be dashed upon these rocks, he thinks bitterly. Wave after wave pushes him closer to the razor-sharp reef. At the last moment, the sailor maneuvers the splintered hull into a shield, protecting himself from the jutting coral. The thrusting sea recedes, leaving him safely banked in the atoll. He can finally stand. The sailor picks his way carefully across the rocky shore, vines of seaweed twisting around his ankles.

The steps seem endless, though really it is less than a minute before he collapses on the sand, waterlogged and near-dead from exhaustion. The day passes while the man sleeps. Unbeknownst to him, hidden in the tall grass nearby, an ancient, mottled tortoise watches all of this unfold.

Dusk besets the island. Seagulls cry, returning to shore’s edge to spend the night. With the sun gone, a chill awakens the sailor. He blinks slowly back to life, then pulls himself painfully upright, feeling the cuts and bruises of his battered body. Hunger and thirst ring distant alarm bells, but first: the cold. It is coming on fast now, and he must find shelter.

Never before has the sailor been lost, much less on a deserted island. He has no idea how to fashion a suitable shelter for himself. All he can think to do is gather everything useful he can find, then see what he can make of it. The night passes in frustration—and fear—as he tries and fails, again and again, to coax palm fronds and fibrous strips of dead plants into the shape of a roof. The effort keeps him warm at least, though he does not realize it. All the while he works, thinking moonlight is his only companion, the man is unaware of the tortoise in the grass, still silently watching him.

It is morning before the sailor finally finds success. He devises a way to weave the wide palms together by degree of size, creating imbricate clusters sturdy enough to block wind—and, he hopes, rain if it comes. The labor has left him with too little energy to search for fresh water, which he knows he must do next. He crawls under his pile of soon-to-be roof tiles, thick enough to provide warmth. But as the man drifts toward sleep, his brow is furrowed in worry. How will I survive? Will rescue come? And if so, will it come soon enough? His stomach growls as if having the same thought. Mere hours past the ordeal of the shipwreck, past the circling sharks and the dangerous reef, the sailor thinks nothing of these obstacles now overcome. He fixates only on what he lacks, and dark thoughts carry him into dark dreams.

From the shadows, the wizened old tortoise watches.

Afternoon: clear blue sky, no ships on the horizon. Refreshed by sleep, the sailor rises with determination. He must find water immediately; his thirst is urgent. Inland, the rough brush tears at his legs. There is no path, no precedent set to ease his way. The island is unyielding and unforgiving, the going hard. Hopelessness besieges him, a surety that all is lost. I don’t know how to find water, the man thinks. And I will die for not knowing.

Eventually, the landscape changes, slowly clearing as the elevation rises. A vast mountain sits at the heart of the island. Water flows down, thinks the sailor. I’m on the right track. Pushing deeper into the valley, the man scans his surroundings as he goes. Suddenly, a bit of yellow catches his eye. A mango tree, flush with bulbs the color of sunshine. Gaping at this discovery, he suddenly freezes, listening. Water. He can hear the tell-tale musical tinkling of a stream. He follows the sound and quickly comes to it. Fresh, clear water trickles down a steep ravine the heights of which are hidden in wispy clouds. Food and water. He is saved. Despite his weakened state, the man yells in triumph.

Not far away—for the sailor has had to fight very hard to move very little—the tortoise on the shore hears his call.

After drinking his fill of the stream, the sailor makes a basket of his tattered shirt. Carrying as much as he can, he retraces his steps back to the beach camp. The ripe, juicy fruit nourishes his body, but as he eats the sailor thinks of nothing but the shelter still to be built—and the foreboding clouds in the distance. He’s no architect, and he knows it. Fastening some tree branches together is one thing, but how will I get this whole thing upright? Sourly, he tosses aside a piece of mango skin.

A small rustling sound in the grass behind him. A crab, he thinks. Then the rustling becomes the heavy crunching of a large animal flattening dead leaves. The sailor jumps and turns, and sees the sharp triangle of an open mouth reaching for the discarded mango. Before him, slowly chewing the fruit he has thrown, is the tortoise that he hasn’t known has been watching him since his luck-filled landing. Astonished, the sailor cautiously steps forward. The creature is bigger than anything he’s ever known like it. He stares as the tortoise chews, looking older than time itself. Deep, dry wrinkles crease and stretch as she swallows. The scaled stumps of her legs bend deeply, as with the weight of her many years. Across her broad back, thirteen scutes in a concentric pattern of moss green and gold. She is the history of the sea itself.

Having finished her bite of food, she begins to speak.

—-

to be continued