A bit of fiction, sort of for MattMatt, sort of for Reb
Apparently Venice was the only person at dinner who didn't have children she had to get back to.
Sunshine and Cloud (and what was it with the ridiculous names) both had daughters. She had discovered this early on, mostly when Cloud had started chattering about the fact that the brat she had somehow squeezed out from those enviably narrow hips was due to start school apparently. That was when Sunshine had mentioned, a little cautiously, that she had a daughter as well. She, apparently, was at prep school and liked ponies.
That was when Venice realized that she was actually trapped in hell.
Oh, it had seemed like a good enough idea at the time; three birds, apparently with a similar 'sacred duty to Gaia' (which Venice suspected had never been covered in her confirmation classes) all meeting up for lunch. On the surface they should have a lot in common; all of them were women who turned into birds, liked bright and shiny things, couldn't stop talking and had a nearly overwhelming urge to find out every dirty little secret they could. How could they not get along? How could they not have other things in common?
Of course, they didn't.
There were some areas of commonality. Cloud, who was a tiny and impish creature, with a thick black bob and a near insatiable love of chocolate cake, turned out to be an artist, who had held several quite successful exhibitions and that pleased Venice. Sunshine, who was the tallest and thickest of the three of them, turned out to be remarkably interested in biochemistry and actually had made a living for a while manufacturing LSD which made her a remarkable commodity and someone Venice was quite determined to keep in touch with in future. But it rapidly became apparent that the gaps were really far far bigger.
First of all, neither Venice nor Sunshine were dealing terribly well with the little bubbly stream of bright eyed idealism and romanticism that came from Cloud. For a grown woman of twenty eight she seemed to live in a strangely infantile world, as bright and clear, and black and white as a child's story book. There was honour, and duty, and love, and family, and Gaia for Cloud and that was it. She had no doubts, no uncertainties, and, Venice suspected, very few interesting experiences. Her idea of 'fun' as far as the other two women could tell, was a night at the movies with 'Dave', her husband, who she'd married when she was nineteen (and how immensely disturbing was that?)
Still, this was an improvement on Sunshine who when asked about 'fun' had replied with 'fun is high risk. Far too uncontrolled'. When pushed, she had admitted that she did sometimes engage in taxidermy. She'd stuffed a kitten for her daughter lately. And that was when the conversation began to seriously devolve.
It really shouldn't have surprised her, Venice thought. A lot of people turned into birds, after all. A lot of people liked bright things (but some people demanded those bright things were actually diamonds. A lot of people liked secrets and liked to talk. Within that, it seemed, there was actually near infinite variety. Such as we had here, where the socialite, the hippy artist, and the sociopathic scientist sat around a table.
Sunshine and Cloud (and what was it with the ridiculous names) both had daughters. She had discovered this early on, mostly when Cloud had started chattering about the fact that the brat she had somehow squeezed out from those enviably narrow hips was due to start school apparently. That was when Sunshine had mentioned, a little cautiously, that she had a daughter as well. She, apparently, was at prep school and liked ponies.
That was when Venice realized that she was actually trapped in hell.
Oh, it had seemed like a good enough idea at the time; three birds, apparently with a similar 'sacred duty to Gaia' (which Venice suspected had never been covered in her confirmation classes) all meeting up for lunch. On the surface they should have a lot in common; all of them were women who turned into birds, liked bright and shiny things, couldn't stop talking and had a nearly overwhelming urge to find out every dirty little secret they could. How could they not get along? How could they not have other things in common?
Of course, they didn't.
There were some areas of commonality. Cloud, who was a tiny and impish creature, with a thick black bob and a near insatiable love of chocolate cake, turned out to be an artist, who had held several quite successful exhibitions and that pleased Venice. Sunshine, who was the tallest and thickest of the three of them, turned out to be remarkably interested in biochemistry and actually had made a living for a while manufacturing LSD which made her a remarkable commodity and someone Venice was quite determined to keep in touch with in future. But it rapidly became apparent that the gaps were really far far bigger.
First of all, neither Venice nor Sunshine were dealing terribly well with the little bubbly stream of bright eyed idealism and romanticism that came from Cloud. For a grown woman of twenty eight she seemed to live in a strangely infantile world, as bright and clear, and black and white as a child's story book. There was honour, and duty, and love, and family, and Gaia for Cloud and that was it. She had no doubts, no uncertainties, and, Venice suspected, very few interesting experiences. Her idea of 'fun' as far as the other two women could tell, was a night at the movies with 'Dave', her husband, who she'd married when she was nineteen (and how immensely disturbing was that?)
Still, this was an improvement on Sunshine who when asked about 'fun' had replied with 'fun is high risk. Far too uncontrolled'. When pushed, she had admitted that she did sometimes engage in taxidermy. She'd stuffed a kitten for her daughter lately. And that was when the conversation began to seriously devolve.
It really shouldn't have surprised her, Venice thought. A lot of people turned into birds, after all. A lot of people liked bright things (but some people demanded those bright things were actually diamonds. A lot of people liked secrets and liked to talk. Within that, it seemed, there was actually near infinite variety. Such as we had here, where the socialite, the hippy artist, and the sociopathic scientist sat around a table.