Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Summer does nothing for me. Most people I know can't wait for summer. The long days, warm nights. Beach weather, shorts and flip-flops. Driving around with the convertible top down. I prefer not to leave the house from July 1 through Labor Day. Maybe it's the heat, the days where the atmosphere is so poisonous you can barely breathe. Maybe it's the fact I hate wearing shorts and would rather live year-round in my favorite pair of jeans. Maybe it's because I grew up in a house with no AC and vividly remember being so hot I thought my face was going to melt off like the guy at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Whatever it is, I stagnate in summer. It's like all my creative energy is inversely proportionate to the temperature. This has left me sitting on several story lines which is irritating at best. I have ideas, I go to write, and nothing comes out. While this allowed me to catch up on more TV than I should be watching in any given day, it's not what a want to be doing. So I wait and ponder the practicality of a move to Antarctica. October can't come soon enough.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The night of the thunderous blizzard would forever be remembered not just for the odd weather pattern, but for the night Miss Matilda's house in the woods mysteriously burnt to the ground. Sparked by an errant lightning strike, the mansion was a smoldering pile of rubble by the time the townsfolk were able to plow a path down the forest road. Huddled in the remains of the Westerfell cemetery the rescuers found their frost bitten librarian, covered in soot and snow. While Miss Genevieve was taken to the doctor's and nursed back to heath, a search party looked for the enigmatic stranger who'd taken up residence among them. Despite their valiant efforts, the young man was never seen again. Miss Genevieve, the only witness to his whereabouts, remained silent regarding what happened, knowing the town's wild speculation would pale in comparison to the truth. Their librarian made a full physical recovery but her spirit seemed altered, a malignant shadow ever present where she walked. The rumors quieted to a dull hum until an astute older woman noticed Miss Genevieve's weekly pilgrimage down the dirt lane to the remnants of the Westerfell estate as well as their librarian's blossoming shape.The snows melted, summer came and went, and as the first leaves turned burnt orange, Miss Genevieve gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Speculation was rampant as to the father. Most assumed it was the Westerfell heir who'd since run off back to Europe, abandoning the young woman. Eventually, even the nosiest of the town's inhabitant ceased their questions, accepting her refusal to answer just as they accepted her withdrawal from much of town life. Their once stoic and gregarious young librarian now as strange as the peculiar young man she'd befriended. It was the old timers who recalled faint memories of Miss Matilda and her kin who noticed one abnormal habit although they could never put their finger on what had them so unnerved about it. Those who frequented the library and the scant visitors to Miss Genevieve's home to congratulate mother and baby saw the same oddity. Not a reflective surface was there to be seen. Purposefully, carefully, she had covered every last mirror.