the tide was high, and getting higher
I wrote the first part of this a while back as a journal entry in English (the prompt had to do with magical realism, like in the Sherman Alexie story we had just read) and finished it recently for the class anthology. I'm actually pretty pleased with it, which is odd - as I wrote it from my own point of view.
Title: Posting Flyers
Wordcount: 1,018
A/N: No, the title really doesn't have much to do with the story itself.
She sat down next to me at the stop at Soquel and Aptos Center, and the first thing I noticed was the soft, downy tickling at the base of my neck. I paused my iPod, cutting Adam Duritz off mid-word, and turned to glance at her. Aside from one particular feature she was a generically built girl, perhaps my age, perhaps a year or so older or younger. She smiled apologetically and attempted to adjust herself in the seat.
“I’m sorry,” she told me. “They tend to get in the way.”
“It’s all right,” I replied. “I’ve just never seen wings on a person before.”
She laughed. “You and the rest of the world,” she replied. “I’m telling you, they’re a pain. They’re no good for flying, either - I can only sort of glide for a bit. It’s a bit like having a hang-glider attached to my back. Except it sheds.”
That probably would be pretty irritating. Especially if as she said she couldn’t fly with them - then again, if she could fly, why would she have bothered taking the bus? “But they’re beautiful,” I added. “You could consider them… ornamentation, or something.”
“That’s what I tend to do,” she said, scratching the base of one of them. A few small feathers detached themselves and wafted into the air. “They’re great for costume parties, although you’ve gotta get creative. Angels get boring after a while.”
“I would imagine so.”
She was a pretty girl - a really pretty girl. Even ignoring the wings. Her hair was blonde and cropped short, probably because long hair seemed like overkill. She had a really bright smile, like whatever I said was the most fascinating thing in the world, and the sort of twinkly blue eyes you read about but don’t really believe in until you see. Predictably, I found myself exerting my school-dulled wit to try to say something interesting and original. “If you don’t mind me asking, how’d you… acquire them?”
Great job, self. Scintillating conversation, that.
But she didn’t seem to mind the question at least. “We’re still not sure. I was about five years old when I started complaining about severe back pain - like growing pains, but more concentrated, and a weird stretching sensation. They took me to the doctor, but he was mystified. He said there was something growing there - bone structure. So we went to get all sorts of X-rays, CAT scans, you name it - to no avail.”
“They just grew in?”
She nodded, glancing back at her befeathered extra limbs. “It was at school when they first broke the skin. I was bleeding like crazy and my parents had to come and rush me to the emergency room, and apparently I had these two sharp, bony points sticking out of my back. After that healed up, though, the growing hurt a lot less.”
Now there was a childhood story. My biggest event had been the day I got into a fight and beat the crap out of some annoying kid who called me girly names. The only thing that had come of that had been my parents grounding me and the teacher disliking me for the rest of the year. And the kid asking me out in eighth grade. I think he enjoyed being beaten up.
I wondered if she’d ever gotten crap for her wings. I couldn’t see why anyone would do that, but who knows, maybe there was some coalition against people with feathery back-limbs. Maybe it was like a lesser brand of anti-Semitism or homophobia. “Hey,” I said, “what do people tend to think of your dusters back there?”
“Dusters?” She looked momentarily blank, and then laughed. “Oh, I get it now! People tend to be really fixated on them. Like, asking ‘how are those real?’ and ‘can you fly?’ all the time. And then being all offended when I say yes and no I can’t. Or they assume that it’s a prop, and ask me where I’m going in costume.”
“You should tell them it’s the new fashion,” I suggested. “With beads and stuff like that. Ask them where they’ve been living that they didn’t know that.”
She laughed again, wings shaking as she did so. I got a good mouthful of feather, and tried to spit it out discretely, but she noticed again. “Oh, sorry about that!” she said again. “Tasty?”
“If you like eating fabric or stuff like that, I guess,” I told her honestly. They hadn’t really tasted like anything. It was the texture that was weird, lighter even than hair. And I’d tasted hair before. This was decidedly less unpleasant. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“There’s a subject change,” she chuckled. “I’m Mira, though. You are?”
“Charlie,” I replied. “And when I get a taste of someone, I like to know their name. For future association, you know?”
“I suppose that’s a good way to look at it,” she said, grinning.
“Freedom and McDonald,” proclaimed the recorded announcement. I blinked, looking out the window in surprise; the ride had flown by. So to speak.
“This is my stop,” I said, after pulling the cord the three times it took to light up the ‘stop requested’ sign. “I’ll, um, need to get by.”
Mira looked disappointed, to my private glee. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she told me, standing up to let me by. “You take this bus on a regular basis, though?”
“Regularly enough,” I replied.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you again,” she said.
I smiled. “It would be hard to miss you,” I pointed out. The wings would stick out in a crowd. Unless a whole group of people in costume boarded the bus, or there were other winged people I didn’t know about running around Santa Cruz.
I waved as I climbed out of the bus, and as it sped away I could still see a few loose feather trailing from the window. One detached and floated through the air to land at my feet, and with another smile I picked it up and tucked it gently in my pocket as I began the walk home.
Title: Posting Flyers
Wordcount: 1,018
A/N: No, the title really doesn't have much to do with the story itself.
She sat down next to me at the stop at Soquel and Aptos Center, and the first thing I noticed was the soft, downy tickling at the base of my neck. I paused my iPod, cutting Adam Duritz off mid-word, and turned to glance at her. Aside from one particular feature she was a generically built girl, perhaps my age, perhaps a year or so older or younger. She smiled apologetically and attempted to adjust herself in the seat.
“I’m sorry,” she told me. “They tend to get in the way.”
“It’s all right,” I replied. “I’ve just never seen wings on a person before.”
She laughed. “You and the rest of the world,” she replied. “I’m telling you, they’re a pain. They’re no good for flying, either - I can only sort of glide for a bit. It’s a bit like having a hang-glider attached to my back. Except it sheds.”
That probably would be pretty irritating. Especially if as she said she couldn’t fly with them - then again, if she could fly, why would she have bothered taking the bus? “But they’re beautiful,” I added. “You could consider them… ornamentation, or something.”
“That’s what I tend to do,” she said, scratching the base of one of them. A few small feathers detached themselves and wafted into the air. “They’re great for costume parties, although you’ve gotta get creative. Angels get boring after a while.”
“I would imagine so.”
She was a pretty girl - a really pretty girl. Even ignoring the wings. Her hair was blonde and cropped short, probably because long hair seemed like overkill. She had a really bright smile, like whatever I said was the most fascinating thing in the world, and the sort of twinkly blue eyes you read about but don’t really believe in until you see. Predictably, I found myself exerting my school-dulled wit to try to say something interesting and original. “If you don’t mind me asking, how’d you… acquire them?”
Great job, self. Scintillating conversation, that.
But she didn’t seem to mind the question at least. “We’re still not sure. I was about five years old when I started complaining about severe back pain - like growing pains, but more concentrated, and a weird stretching sensation. They took me to the doctor, but he was mystified. He said there was something growing there - bone structure. So we went to get all sorts of X-rays, CAT scans, you name it - to no avail.”
“They just grew in?”
She nodded, glancing back at her befeathered extra limbs. “It was at school when they first broke the skin. I was bleeding like crazy and my parents had to come and rush me to the emergency room, and apparently I had these two sharp, bony points sticking out of my back. After that healed up, though, the growing hurt a lot less.”
Now there was a childhood story. My biggest event had been the day I got into a fight and beat the crap out of some annoying kid who called me girly names. The only thing that had come of that had been my parents grounding me and the teacher disliking me for the rest of the year. And the kid asking me out in eighth grade. I think he enjoyed being beaten up.
I wondered if she’d ever gotten crap for her wings. I couldn’t see why anyone would do that, but who knows, maybe there was some coalition against people with feathery back-limbs. Maybe it was like a lesser brand of anti-Semitism or homophobia. “Hey,” I said, “what do people tend to think of your dusters back there?”
“Dusters?” She looked momentarily blank, and then laughed. “Oh, I get it now! People tend to be really fixated on them. Like, asking ‘how are those real?’ and ‘can you fly?’ all the time. And then being all offended when I say yes and no I can’t. Or they assume that it’s a prop, and ask me where I’m going in costume.”
“You should tell them it’s the new fashion,” I suggested. “With beads and stuff like that. Ask them where they’ve been living that they didn’t know that.”
She laughed again, wings shaking as she did so. I got a good mouthful of feather, and tried to spit it out discretely, but she noticed again. “Oh, sorry about that!” she said again. “Tasty?”
“If you like eating fabric or stuff like that, I guess,” I told her honestly. They hadn’t really tasted like anything. It was the texture that was weird, lighter even than hair. And I’d tasted hair before. This was decidedly less unpleasant. “By the way, what’s your name?”
“There’s a subject change,” she chuckled. “I’m Mira, though. You are?”
“Charlie,” I replied. “And when I get a taste of someone, I like to know their name. For future association, you know?”
“I suppose that’s a good way to look at it,” she said, grinning.
“Freedom and McDonald,” proclaimed the recorded announcement. I blinked, looking out the window in surprise; the ride had flown by. So to speak.
“This is my stop,” I said, after pulling the cord the three times it took to light up the ‘stop requested’ sign. “I’ll, um, need to get by.”
Mira looked disappointed, to my private glee. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she told me, standing up to let me by. “You take this bus on a regular basis, though?”
“Regularly enough,” I replied.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you again,” she said.
I smiled. “It would be hard to miss you,” I pointed out. The wings would stick out in a crowd. Unless a whole group of people in costume boarded the bus, or there were other winged people I didn’t know about running around Santa Cruz.
I waved as I climbed out of the bus, and as it sped away I could still see a few loose feather trailing from the window. One detached and floated through the air to land at my feet, and with another smile I picked it up and tucked it gently in my pocket as I began the walk home.