brigit's flame - july: week 1, "bad advice"
*Blinks tiredly* Did I actually get this entry written? I can actually start my day?
Below the cut you'll find a one shot piece for "Bad Advice." Constructive criticism is always welcome. Questions too. Thanks in advance for the read and good luck to everyone! :)
The Misfortunate Talent of Abigail Warner
BBWoolf says: how long til they throw you out?
Abby1121 says: A few weeks? Not looking forward to the newfound freedom.
BBWoolf says: no job online…?
Abby1121 says: No one wants to hire a web-schooled teenager. Think about it, BB. My life experience is zero.
BBWoolf says: mebbe its time you got out there. old fashioned newspapers, networking, etc.
Abby1121 says: ……
Abby 1121 says: I don’t know how I feel about that.
Abby 1121 says: …actually, I do.
Abby 1121 says: I hate it.
BBWoolf says: don’t your sparking personality will save you. your cool enough.
Abby1121 says: um…thanks…
BBWoolf says: anytiem!
BBWoolf says: hey i’ve got an idea! why don’t we vidchat? i’ll cheer you on!
Abby1121 is typing…
Abby1121 says: Sorry BB, headmistress is calling. I’ve got duties to perform.
BBWoolf is typing…
BBWoolf says: okay sure! have a goodnight.
Abby1121 is offline.
Abigail was lucky BB wasn’t too smart. Either that or she was overly optimistic (if her abuse of english grammar meant anything). Still, she was grateful for the internet’s ambiguity, savoring words without context, face, or voice. But despite BB’s incessant enthusiasm, maybe she was right. The world was at times, too modern, but there was something to be said for old fashioned networking. Abigail had tried everything else.
She pulled back the drapes. Spotted clouds were pinned against a bright blue sky. It was a friendly scene, but her tart stomach knew otherwise. Any day she had to leave the safety of her room was bound to be trying (and that was putting it mildly).
Abigail pivoted past a pile of crumpled laundry. Her mission was to locate something other than two-day-old pajamas. She would have to dress appropriately to make a good impression, but nothing seemed suitable in the dim-lit room. Her fingers tugged absent-mindedly through her nest of red hair. The ends were frizzed in an electric-shock fashion and refused to be tamed. Sighing, Abigail twisted an elastic close to her hairline, allowing the locks to burst over her right shoulder. She looked somewhat tidy. It would have to do.
Next was finding clothes. Where did clean laundry hide? Abigail hopped carefully between patches of clean floor-space. On the way to her closet, she stubbed her toe. The throbbing was so terrible that she nearly missed the folded garments on her desk. She swore those weren’t there before. A smile crept across her face. The headmistress was checking up on her. She probably put the clothes there while Abigail was sleeping. She lifted the fabric into view.
It wasn’t expensive, of course. Not like the headmistress could afford designer fashions. The wares were probably purchased at a thrift store. But the threads-Abigail rubbed the fabric between her fingers-had history. First there was a loose fitted top. It was white and billowy with beading at the neckline. Next was the long forest green skirt. The fabric was crinkled and would brush just past her knees. All she had to do was throw a pair of cheap sandals on and the outfit would be complete.
It worked well in theory, but Abigail couldn’t help but dress sluggishly. The trepidation of leaving the small safe-room made her hands sweat. She rubbed them on the fabric at her hip. Her mind was whirring. This place would not be home for much longer (a few weeks at most, if the headmistress could sway her superiors to push back her age-out date).
She shook her head and shimmied out of her pajamas. Best to keep her mind on the task at hand. Once dressed, she checked herself in the full-length mirror. Hazel eyes peered back at her, beneath which were the beginnings of dark circles. Abigail was paler than most, with splashes of freckles that skittered across her nose. She pinched her cheeks for color and stuck out her tongue. “You can do this,” she whispered. Nodding in forced agreement, Abigail grabbed her purse and rushed out the door.
The streets were always too loud, the fault of tourism and constant construction. Panic welled in her throat. A man was walking a dog, chatting eagerly with a blonde female. Abigail angled her eyes at the ground. No contact. There was time; they were a hundred feet away. She reached into her purse and frantically withdrew earbuds. Meanwhile, the couple was getting closer. She could hear bits of their indistinct conversation. That’s when it began, the crumpling static in her brain: low, like the hissing of a slow-warming machine. She had to be quick. With a swipe of her finger, Abigail activated her music player. The methodic hum slowed, diminishing as the tunes soothed her mind.
Her heart was beating like a hummingbird. Nausea pricked the back of her throat. That she hadn’t eaten wasn’t helping. Abigail knew she had to meet people face to face. Ripping off the metaphorical band aid would be difficult, but necessary. Maybe if she drank tea… it would ease her stomach. Things couldn’t possibly get worse. She could practice.
Abigail ducked into the nearest café. The barista was the only person inside. Just one, she assured herself. It would be easier.
A pit swallowed her stomach as she approached the register. She kept her eyes leveled on the granite counter and ordered a cup of ginger tea. “To go,” she added.
The barista cleared his throat and mumbled something deep. The static was returning. Abigail regretfully withdrew the buds from her ears and took a slow breath. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Size? Do you want any sweetener?”
“I...uhm…”
S….s….s….si….kh….sikuh… sick…sick...sick..sickness…
The murmur was triggered by his voice. Abigail’s fingers tightened around the buds as the not-quite-sound whispered at the base of her brain, a sexless tone perpetuating mindspeech. Like inner thoughts, except the words did not come from her. Not actively. When young, she tried to pass it off as nonsense-an overactive imagination or tired mind. That theory didn’t last. How could it? The episodes were too frequent: daily, whenever others were around.
“Medium and no, thanks,” her voice came out squeaky. Too much air was rising in her lungs. Abigail’s vision wavered. She tried to breathe.
Sanguine, bile, sweat, dizzy. The words fired rapid in her brain, looping like a record on repeat. The boy’s voice, for he suddenly seemed much younger, was distant and sagging. Slow, Abigail corrected, ragged, maybe. Words bubbled in her throat and before she could stop them-
“Are you feeling okay? I just…uhm…” Her eyes snapped upward reflexively. What she saw was a very sallow face. Dark eyes-near hollow-stared through her, despite that all she could see was the barista’s back.
Again, the words came. They rushed at her like wind gusts, twisting in her hair and whizzing in her ears: sadness, loss, early, sickness, nausea, poison, sadness, loss, early, sickness, nausea, poison. The face distorted, becoming like swarming pixels, and vanished. Abigail was dimly aware that the barista had begun speaking. Her hands shook.
“To be honest, I had a really late night out and an early morning. Good thing I work at a coffee shop, you know?”
He turned and handed her a foam cup with a sleeve. Like printed letters on her brain, in slow definitive keystrokes, two words formed.
Liver failure.
Abigail reached for her wallet. Her fingers were slick as she handed the barista a five dollar bill. She refused the change.
“Tip,” she wheezed and forced a queasy smile. “I, uhm…” She fumbled with what to say, how to say it.
“Yeah?” The barista quirked his eyebrow.
“I think,” Abigail knew, “you should see a doctor.” Her voice quivered. She licked her lips as the words dipped on the edge of her tongue. What would she say? She didn’t want to-
“Throwing up blood isn’t normal.”
The barista sneered and took a step back. There was fire in his eyes. “Who put you up to this? It was that douche, Mark, wasn’t it? I’ll fucking have his head!”
Abigail barreled out of the shop. Tears lined her eyes. She could barely see, but kept running until her legs were sore. Planks squeaked under her feet.
Oh, the boardwalk.
The inner static was gone, now. No one was close enough for her to read. At least, she figured as much. Abigail slumped down on the creaky slabs. She could see the ocean and hear the soft rush of waves as they swallowed the shore.
Her mind wandered. Where did the words come from? How did she know them? Abigail wasn’t sure, but she was certain of one thing: they were the truth.
It felt like she had been gone for hours. Abigail pushed herself up; the now cool cup of tea was an afterthought between her fingers. She surveyed the houses that dotted the shoreline. One stood out among the rest.
In its window was winking neon, an eye and hand, with an emblazoned sign that flashed “open.” The curtains parted. A figure smiled and waved.
Abigail found herself drawn to the home. She plodded slowly, until she stood in front of the door. Her eyes traced the letters of a crudely written sign.
Psychics wanted. Inquire within.
Below the cut you'll find a one shot piece for "Bad Advice." Constructive criticism is always welcome. Questions too. Thanks in advance for the read and good luck to everyone! :)
The Misfortunate Talent of Abigail Warner
BBWoolf says: how long til they throw you out?
Abby1121 says: A few weeks? Not looking forward to the newfound freedom.
BBWoolf says: no job online…?
Abby1121 says: No one wants to hire a web-schooled teenager. Think about it, BB. My life experience is zero.
BBWoolf says: mebbe its time you got out there. old fashioned newspapers, networking, etc.
Abby1121 says: ……
Abby 1121 says: I don’t know how I feel about that.
Abby 1121 says: …actually, I do.
Abby 1121 says: I hate it.
BBWoolf says: don’t your sparking personality will save you. your cool enough.
Abby1121 says: um…thanks…
BBWoolf says: anytiem!
BBWoolf says: hey i’ve got an idea! why don’t we vidchat? i’ll cheer you on!
Abby1121 is typing…
Abby1121 says: Sorry BB, headmistress is calling. I’ve got duties to perform.
BBWoolf is typing…
BBWoolf says: okay sure! have a goodnight.
Abby1121 is offline.
Abigail was lucky BB wasn’t too smart. Either that or she was overly optimistic (if her abuse of english grammar meant anything). Still, she was grateful for the internet’s ambiguity, savoring words without context, face, or voice. But despite BB’s incessant enthusiasm, maybe she was right. The world was at times, too modern, but there was something to be said for old fashioned networking. Abigail had tried everything else.
She pulled back the drapes. Spotted clouds were pinned against a bright blue sky. It was a friendly scene, but her tart stomach knew otherwise. Any day she had to leave the safety of her room was bound to be trying (and that was putting it mildly).
Abigail pivoted past a pile of crumpled laundry. Her mission was to locate something other than two-day-old pajamas. She would have to dress appropriately to make a good impression, but nothing seemed suitable in the dim-lit room. Her fingers tugged absent-mindedly through her nest of red hair. The ends were frizzed in an electric-shock fashion and refused to be tamed. Sighing, Abigail twisted an elastic close to her hairline, allowing the locks to burst over her right shoulder. She looked somewhat tidy. It would have to do.
Next was finding clothes. Where did clean laundry hide? Abigail hopped carefully between patches of clean floor-space. On the way to her closet, she stubbed her toe. The throbbing was so terrible that she nearly missed the folded garments on her desk. She swore those weren’t there before. A smile crept across her face. The headmistress was checking up on her. She probably put the clothes there while Abigail was sleeping. She lifted the fabric into view.
It wasn’t expensive, of course. Not like the headmistress could afford designer fashions. The wares were probably purchased at a thrift store. But the threads-Abigail rubbed the fabric between her fingers-had history. First there was a loose fitted top. It was white and billowy with beading at the neckline. Next was the long forest green skirt. The fabric was crinkled and would brush just past her knees. All she had to do was throw a pair of cheap sandals on and the outfit would be complete.
It worked well in theory, but Abigail couldn’t help but dress sluggishly. The trepidation of leaving the small safe-room made her hands sweat. She rubbed them on the fabric at her hip. Her mind was whirring. This place would not be home for much longer (a few weeks at most, if the headmistress could sway her superiors to push back her age-out date).
She shook her head and shimmied out of her pajamas. Best to keep her mind on the task at hand. Once dressed, she checked herself in the full-length mirror. Hazel eyes peered back at her, beneath which were the beginnings of dark circles. Abigail was paler than most, with splashes of freckles that skittered across her nose. She pinched her cheeks for color and stuck out her tongue. “You can do this,” she whispered. Nodding in forced agreement, Abigail grabbed her purse and rushed out the door.
The streets were always too loud, the fault of tourism and constant construction. Panic welled in her throat. A man was walking a dog, chatting eagerly with a blonde female. Abigail angled her eyes at the ground. No contact. There was time; they were a hundred feet away. She reached into her purse and frantically withdrew earbuds. Meanwhile, the couple was getting closer. She could hear bits of their indistinct conversation. That’s when it began, the crumpling static in her brain: low, like the hissing of a slow-warming machine. She had to be quick. With a swipe of her finger, Abigail activated her music player. The methodic hum slowed, diminishing as the tunes soothed her mind.
Her heart was beating like a hummingbird. Nausea pricked the back of her throat. That she hadn’t eaten wasn’t helping. Abigail knew she had to meet people face to face. Ripping off the metaphorical band aid would be difficult, but necessary. Maybe if she drank tea… it would ease her stomach. Things couldn’t possibly get worse. She could practice.
Abigail ducked into the nearest café. The barista was the only person inside. Just one, she assured herself. It would be easier.
A pit swallowed her stomach as she approached the register. She kept her eyes leveled on the granite counter and ordered a cup of ginger tea. “To go,” she added.
The barista cleared his throat and mumbled something deep. The static was returning. Abigail regretfully withdrew the buds from her ears and took a slow breath. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Size? Do you want any sweetener?”
“I...uhm…”
S….s….s….si….kh….sikuh… sick…sick...sick..sickness…
The murmur was triggered by his voice. Abigail’s fingers tightened around the buds as the not-quite-sound whispered at the base of her brain, a sexless tone perpetuating mindspeech. Like inner thoughts, except the words did not come from her. Not actively. When young, she tried to pass it off as nonsense-an overactive imagination or tired mind. That theory didn’t last. How could it? The episodes were too frequent: daily, whenever others were around.
“Medium and no, thanks,” her voice came out squeaky. Too much air was rising in her lungs. Abigail’s vision wavered. She tried to breathe.
Sanguine, bile, sweat, dizzy. The words fired rapid in her brain, looping like a record on repeat. The boy’s voice, for he suddenly seemed much younger, was distant and sagging. Slow, Abigail corrected, ragged, maybe. Words bubbled in her throat and before she could stop them-
“Are you feeling okay? I just…uhm…” Her eyes snapped upward reflexively. What she saw was a very sallow face. Dark eyes-near hollow-stared through her, despite that all she could see was the barista’s back.
Again, the words came. They rushed at her like wind gusts, twisting in her hair and whizzing in her ears: sadness, loss, early, sickness, nausea, poison, sadness, loss, early, sickness, nausea, poison. The face distorted, becoming like swarming pixels, and vanished. Abigail was dimly aware that the barista had begun speaking. Her hands shook.
“To be honest, I had a really late night out and an early morning. Good thing I work at a coffee shop, you know?”
He turned and handed her a foam cup with a sleeve. Like printed letters on her brain, in slow definitive keystrokes, two words formed.
Liver failure.
Abigail reached for her wallet. Her fingers were slick as she handed the barista a five dollar bill. She refused the change.
“Tip,” she wheezed and forced a queasy smile. “I, uhm…” She fumbled with what to say, how to say it.
“Yeah?” The barista quirked his eyebrow.
“I think,” Abigail knew, “you should see a doctor.” Her voice quivered. She licked her lips as the words dipped on the edge of her tongue. What would she say? She didn’t want to-
“Throwing up blood isn’t normal.”
The barista sneered and took a step back. There was fire in his eyes. “Who put you up to this? It was that douche, Mark, wasn’t it? I’ll fucking have his head!”
Abigail barreled out of the shop. Tears lined her eyes. She could barely see, but kept running until her legs were sore. Planks squeaked under her feet.
Oh, the boardwalk.
The inner static was gone, now. No one was close enough for her to read. At least, she figured as much. Abigail slumped down on the creaky slabs. She could see the ocean and hear the soft rush of waves as they swallowed the shore.
Her mind wandered. Where did the words come from? How did she know them? Abigail wasn’t sure, but she was certain of one thing: they were the truth.
It felt like she had been gone for hours. Abigail pushed herself up; the now cool cup of tea was an afterthought between her fingers. She surveyed the houses that dotted the shoreline. One stood out among the rest.
In its window was winking neon, an eye and hand, with an emblazoned sign that flashed “open.” The curtains parted. A figure smiled and waved.
Abigail found herself drawn to the home. She plodded slowly, until she stood in front of the door. Her eyes traced the letters of a crudely written sign.
Psychics wanted. Inquire within.