Carmen, Revised.

The hushed quiet here is because of smothering.

Thick pile carpet swallows footsteps while the mantle clock ignores all comings and goings completely. tick... pause... whir... tick.... Looking around, even with child eyes, at everything painstakingly in place, you know there will be no laughing and no loud young voices tolerated.

What did she do here? A red-haired beauty foolishly marrying into this? Or wait, is that wrong? Was this her own stern family frowning down?

A hallway, an etagere with a figurine of two hands in prayer atop a doily -- probably both homemade. More framed faces here and there along the wall.

A bedroom, an elderly woman dressed in flowered flannel sitting primly on the bed, reading. The younger girl I am with – a blonde beauty wild like her mom – tries to make an introduction. There is silence after her words and my hello. Is she perhaps a little deaf? The child rushes up to the woman. Gramma, Gramma, I want you to meet my friend.

Is this all it takes to unmask such deep silence? Somehow the pin is pulled. The woman is up, advancing quickly toward me as I back up into the hallway; she waves her bible and yells.
“I-KNOW-WHO-YOU-ARE-”
I am trying to get Carmen to stay behind me, not understanding what is happening, but trying to protect her against it. She will not have this, slips between us, shouts back at her Gramma.

The older woman raves – and it is about me. About my mother. How my mother is trying to tear a marriage apart. Through the shouting, I understand this much only. A thick anger, but I can't overrule my silence in time --

Two people come to intervene -- my stepfather and Carmen's mother, who were talking quietly together in the kitchen... now more yelling.

She retreats. I am fine, but they are upset. Together they try to hug me and comfort me, but it is they who are crying, it is they who need comforting. I tell them, it's okay, but they cry and cry and insist it's not okay, not okay. I am bewildered by their guilt and smothering in their arms.

I look up and wish for this scene to quietly end.

tick... pause... whir... tick....

Inspiration

I know I haven't posted much here, but I have been writing, and that is going well. Not the sci-fi novel - instead a feisty old lady somewhere inside me demanded my attention.

She's awesome.

I love inspiration.

Reflection

New prose writing:

Reflection

It seems all wrong somehow.

I scan the wasteland before me. Burned out cars; bodies left in the positions of their final agonies; one other person still alive, but dazed, wandering through the rubble numbly, walking nowhere.

It isn't the death scene before me. That is right, a product of the time and place, fated.

Some acrid chemical pervades the air, so the deep breath I take in burns to my core. I sit down where I am; the debris around me hugs closer. I lean over, look into metal shards that used to be structural, and unanchored tears come. I try to think about it all – a plan from beginning to deadly end; a triumph for people who can't believe that the variety of this world might not be a conspiracy, a personal affront targeted to insult them. A siren calls distantly.

I rub the tears into the metal with my sleeve. Rusty shards of my reflection stare up at me, bright, startling, awash in perverted sunshine.

-issa.