A Cold Light Coming
There is a cold light coming.
Brimming over the underbrush, tugging at shadows.
It lacks malice but treads a chill, and it walks in with the Night, head down, collar up.
It weaves between the trees and pauses at times, peering at divots and hollows.
As the light strikes the snow, searing it in fiery hues, so it recedes, leaving blues.
Deep, icy blues. Ultramarines, purplish-cobalts; the inner mechanisms of an icicle.
Before Night arrives and darkness drains the world of color, all is dipped in this cold light. And it lingers in copses and leans against birches and then sits, waiting, on a snowy hill.
Until the Night doubles back and carries it away to rest.
Brimming over the underbrush, tugging at shadows.
It lacks malice but treads a chill, and it walks in with the Night, head down, collar up.
It weaves between the trees and pauses at times, peering at divots and hollows.
As the light strikes the snow, searing it in fiery hues, so it recedes, leaving blues.
Deep, icy blues. Ultramarines, purplish-cobalts; the inner mechanisms of an icicle.
Before Night arrives and darkness drains the world of color, all is dipped in this cold light. And it lingers in copses and leans against birches and then sits, waiting, on a snowy hill.
Until the Night doubles back and carries it away to rest.
Periodic Sentence: Finding Happiness
The future seemed a bleak, pallid gray, but if others could find cheer in this world amongst the holes and cracks of despair; if beggars could lift their weary heads on a December morning and find the trickling warmth of the sunlight just as captivating as it was when they were naïve newborns; if birds still rejoiced in song even during a long, harsh winter that occasionally froze their wingtips to the sides of their nests; if young boys were able to look out the classroom window during particularly long tests and observe the first flakes of a snow storm that would let them out of school early, and feel their hearts expand with excitement and hope; if children could brave the winter cold to roll about in the fresh snow and wander into the forest, knocking the ice off of branches with long sticks, and watch each other shatter the icy caps of puddles, and find awe in the row of icicles that jutted out from a rock face, brimming with light and cold; if one child wandered off, spying a particularly interesting stick somewhere away from the path, and was frozen in wonder by a lone deer, caught unawares, blinking down at the child with cool indifference, and the child bustled back to the group and never told any of them about it, keeping the memory alive and warm long into adulthood; if snowflakes still danced like they did when she was much younger, rushing towards the windowpane and then pirouetting at the last second, rising up, up, around the chimney and through the treetops; if the deep red stems of the briars frosted over, appearing the pale blue of Heaven and dreams, and only revealed their true nature when pressed between warm fingers, thawing back to the color of a loving heart; if the crisp chill of the outdoors as night approached caused the children to retreat back inside, discarding snow-crusted clothing in favor of fuzzier, warmer things, and the warm coziness of the indoors caused color to bloom in their cheeks and laughter in their voices; if the stars could shine brightly, unhindered by clouds and enhanced by the clarity of the winter air, and illuminate the gentle folds of snow that undulated across fields and forests; if the land itself could express joy in bright red berries and evergreens, rich in vitality even as ice and snow had their way with the world; if all other beings were able to delve into their hearts and tap into that thick sap of joy that flows during the coldest of seasons, sparking the body into movement and powering its unceasing, miraculous functions, and emit a sense of contentment and peace; if her cat could sit by the window and gaze at the frosted yard and purr, restricted to the indoors as she was, then she, too, could find happiness.
The Story of Babshee Writson
Babshee Writson was twenty years old, she owned one cat, and she would forever be utterly alone.
How did Babshee know this? Was she a powerful oracle, able to see into her own future and peek at the outcome? Was she the lone survivor of an apocalypse, doomed to live out her days in solitude? Was she some otherworldly creature, the last of its kind, wandering space and time and helping out all of humanity with her cat? No. Babshee Writson was incredibly plain, incredibly simple, and if not for the sympathies of the narrator, would not even be the protagonist of her own story. She was so insignificant that her insignificance doubled back in on itself; rather, she may be significant because she was so gray and scripted. Her sole talent seemed to be baking, but that was simply because she could follow recipes exactly. Straying from the norm did not suit her. |
The only reason Babshee knew she would be completely alone for the rest of her life was because she could feel it. Like that cold rush of blood you get when you realize you’ve forgotten something important, or that internal blankness that precedes throwing up, Babshee felt a sort of bleak aching for as long as she could remember.
If she sat very still in a quiet room, she did not get this feeling. It was more like a persistent itch than a chronic condition, haphazardly acting up and causing Babshee to wince at the dull pain. But whenever she watched as friends turned away to speak to someone infinitely more interesting, or a group of acquaintances headed off to have fun after class, the feeling stabbed at her insides.
It was unfair to not consider Babshee’s own take on the matter, and what was intriguing was her belief that she was, in fact, important. That she shouldn’t be alone. She was relatively smart and thought herself creative; she made delicious chocolate-chip cookies that looked as good as they tasted. She loved cats, if only perhaps to the extent of any normal girl loves cats. Babshee was simply not scripted to be important, or to form any meaningful bonds with her fellow members of the human race.
That is, dear reader, until Babshee rewrote her script.
--- . ---
At the age of twenty, Babshee was at college, seeking the most general field of study to get the most general degree that would generally satisfy her parents and society. She used her earnings from her job of several years, baking at her hometown pastry shop, to rent an apartment off campus. Her family was not poor, but not rich, and she didn’t want them to worry about expenses on top of their constant concerns about her future.
So Babshee tended to a small apartment that she could call “home,” tucked between much nicer and much newer apartments and owned by an elderly lady with many rings on her fingers. Every time the lady took rent, Babshee was mesmerized by the gleaming array of finger adornments, and her cat jumped about trying to catch the light that bounced off them. They jingled lightly as the woman walked. The sound of jingling was the heads up that Babshee’s wallet would be going on a diet.
But this was not a problem for Babshee. She budgeted her money and paid her rent on time and in full. She did not have a car, so she walked to wherever she needed to go and saved on gas money. The walking. That is where the script began to change.
Babshee was walking to the grocery store and, completely out of character, took a different route than she normally did. Years could be spent analyzing her decision, trying to fathom why she stepped out of her comfort zone and braved the winds of change. Perhaps there was a dead bird on the sidewalk that she didn’t want to walk past. Maybe there was a strange sign, pointing her in a new direction. Whatever the case, Babshee veered away from her usual route and continued down a street lined with trees, the leaves vivid with autumn colors.
Lined with trees, that is, save for where they stopped near the corner. And on that corner was a sign, and beneath it was a peculiar yet familiar structure, an old-fashioned diner that appeared to be a mix between a circus boxcar and an Airstream. Babshee had seen this diner many times, as the bus between classes passed it almost regularly. The sign used to light up, in all its neon, film noir splendor, but now sported half as many letters and a dull, washed out look.
“The Marvel,” as it was called, was essentially abandoned.
But Babshee had never seen The Marvel on foot before, or gone closer to it than a lingering glance out of a bus window. She wandered up the steps to the side door, getting a feel for her new adventure. The door didn’t appear to have a lock, and when she gently leaned against it the door easily opened. It didn’t even screech in that horror-film way that Babshee was expecting.
Besides a smattering of dust, everything still appeared to be in working order. Lights blinked on a vending machine, and a jukebox sat idle in the corner. Babshee shifted uneasily, unsure whether she could touch things or if she’d be arrested for trespassing.
She delicately leaned back against the counter and stared up at a ceiling strung with cobwebs and little lamps.
This place, she thought, and was momentarily surprised that she was allowed to have her own thoughts. But today was a day of firsts, and such oddities were becoming more familiar by the second.
This place is nothing like they said. The “they” Babshee referred to was her classmates, whom Babshee had asked about The Marvel just last week. Everyone was chatting before class and Babshee felt obligated to tap into the rambunctious energy, so she asked something that she had been wondering for a while. Was The Marvel still open? From the bus it seemed vacant, run-down. It couldn’t be open still?
A handful of her classmates said outright that they had gone to The Marvel, that of course it was open and they just hadn’t been back for a while. Those who didn’t say they had gone still agreed that it must be open.
Babshee’s heart skipped a bit with excitement from all of the responses, unusual as they were, but interest soon dwindled and everyone turned back to talking with their neighbors. Babshee fidgeted at her desk, the familiar ache settling in her stomach. She checked her phone, pretending that she too had interesting people to talk with, or an abundance of unread texts that she had to answer. It didn’t help that the battery was dead.
It seemed to Babshee that The Marvel was a bit of folklore, the place that almost everyone assumed was open but to which no one had recently gone. Why wasn’t it up and running anymore? It was still in pretty good shape, and it obviously wasn’t being torn down, so what was its use?
Babshee had been musing for a good five minutes or so, and her neck was stiff from examining the ceiling.
She lowered her head and turned just in time to see a back emerging from the swinging door that led to the kitchen, followed by a slender male body and a large tray. The boy had his foot wedged in the door and was carefully maneuvering the tray to the counter. He caught sight of Babshee and blanched.
“Shit!”
Fortunately he had reached the counter and the tray only dropped a few inches, noisily smacking the countertop while what appeared to be croissants flumped listlessly from the impact.
If she sat very still in a quiet room, she did not get this feeling. It was more like a persistent itch than a chronic condition, haphazardly acting up and causing Babshee to wince at the dull pain. But whenever she watched as friends turned away to speak to someone infinitely more interesting, or a group of acquaintances headed off to have fun after class, the feeling stabbed at her insides.
It was unfair to not consider Babshee’s own take on the matter, and what was intriguing was her belief that she was, in fact, important. That she shouldn’t be alone. She was relatively smart and thought herself creative; she made delicious chocolate-chip cookies that looked as good as they tasted. She loved cats, if only perhaps to the extent of any normal girl loves cats. Babshee was simply not scripted to be important, or to form any meaningful bonds with her fellow members of the human race.
That is, dear reader, until Babshee rewrote her script.
--- . ---
At the age of twenty, Babshee was at college, seeking the most general field of study to get the most general degree that would generally satisfy her parents and society. She used her earnings from her job of several years, baking at her hometown pastry shop, to rent an apartment off campus. Her family was not poor, but not rich, and she didn’t want them to worry about expenses on top of their constant concerns about her future.
So Babshee tended to a small apartment that she could call “home,” tucked between much nicer and much newer apartments and owned by an elderly lady with many rings on her fingers. Every time the lady took rent, Babshee was mesmerized by the gleaming array of finger adornments, and her cat jumped about trying to catch the light that bounced off them. They jingled lightly as the woman walked. The sound of jingling was the heads up that Babshee’s wallet would be going on a diet.
But this was not a problem for Babshee. She budgeted her money and paid her rent on time and in full. She did not have a car, so she walked to wherever she needed to go and saved on gas money. The walking. That is where the script began to change.
Babshee was walking to the grocery store and, completely out of character, took a different route than she normally did. Years could be spent analyzing her decision, trying to fathom why she stepped out of her comfort zone and braved the winds of change. Perhaps there was a dead bird on the sidewalk that she didn’t want to walk past. Maybe there was a strange sign, pointing her in a new direction. Whatever the case, Babshee veered away from her usual route and continued down a street lined with trees, the leaves vivid with autumn colors.
Lined with trees, that is, save for where they stopped near the corner. And on that corner was a sign, and beneath it was a peculiar yet familiar structure, an old-fashioned diner that appeared to be a mix between a circus boxcar and an Airstream. Babshee had seen this diner many times, as the bus between classes passed it almost regularly. The sign used to light up, in all its neon, film noir splendor, but now sported half as many letters and a dull, washed out look.
“The Marvel,” as it was called, was essentially abandoned.
But Babshee had never seen The Marvel on foot before, or gone closer to it than a lingering glance out of a bus window. She wandered up the steps to the side door, getting a feel for her new adventure. The door didn’t appear to have a lock, and when she gently leaned against it the door easily opened. It didn’t even screech in that horror-film way that Babshee was expecting.
Besides a smattering of dust, everything still appeared to be in working order. Lights blinked on a vending machine, and a jukebox sat idle in the corner. Babshee shifted uneasily, unsure whether she could touch things or if she’d be arrested for trespassing.
She delicately leaned back against the counter and stared up at a ceiling strung with cobwebs and little lamps.
This place, she thought, and was momentarily surprised that she was allowed to have her own thoughts. But today was a day of firsts, and such oddities were becoming more familiar by the second.
This place is nothing like they said. The “they” Babshee referred to was her classmates, whom Babshee had asked about The Marvel just last week. Everyone was chatting before class and Babshee felt obligated to tap into the rambunctious energy, so she asked something that she had been wondering for a while. Was The Marvel still open? From the bus it seemed vacant, run-down. It couldn’t be open still?
A handful of her classmates said outright that they had gone to The Marvel, that of course it was open and they just hadn’t been back for a while. Those who didn’t say they had gone still agreed that it must be open.
Babshee’s heart skipped a bit with excitement from all of the responses, unusual as they were, but interest soon dwindled and everyone turned back to talking with their neighbors. Babshee fidgeted at her desk, the familiar ache settling in her stomach. She checked her phone, pretending that she too had interesting people to talk with, or an abundance of unread texts that she had to answer. It didn’t help that the battery was dead.
It seemed to Babshee that The Marvel was a bit of folklore, the place that almost everyone assumed was open but to which no one had recently gone. Why wasn’t it up and running anymore? It was still in pretty good shape, and it obviously wasn’t being torn down, so what was its use?
Babshee had been musing for a good five minutes or so, and her neck was stiff from examining the ceiling.
She lowered her head and turned just in time to see a back emerging from the swinging door that led to the kitchen, followed by a slender male body and a large tray. The boy had his foot wedged in the door and was carefully maneuvering the tray to the counter. He caught sight of Babshee and blanched.
“Shit!”
Fortunately he had reached the counter and the tray only dropped a few inches, noisily smacking the countertop while what appeared to be croissants flumped listlessly from the impact.
“You scared the hell out of me!” he said. He wore a professional-looking black apron that he was in the process of untying with floured fingers. Actually, he was wearing all black, with flour handprints on almost everything; he looked like he’d been groped by a ghost.
Babshee was still trying to find words, as this was a seemingly important development of events and she was not used to handling such things. She couldn’t possibly be the right person for this, she decided. She’d had her time in the spotlight, she’d gone off the beaten track, and now the real protagonist of this moment would come and say the right things and move events along to create a compelling story. Gorgeous eyes. The stranger was resting his head on his forearms, staring up at Babshee like her cat did when he wanted a treat and waiting for the response that any normal person would have spit out by now. |
Babshee stared back blankly. “The Marvel isn’t open, is it?”
“Nope.”
“Ah,” she said, not yet sure what terms they were on. “Then you are…?”
The boy extended his hand after brushing the flour off in his hair. “Marconey.”
She waited for a last name that never came, then quickly shook his hand. “Babshee Writson. Are you a mob boss’ son or something?”
“Are you a granny in a girl’s body?”
She almost choked on a laugh. “Touché.” What was she doing? She’d never been like this before.
“My dad’s Italian though, so you’re not too far off.” Without his apron on, which was folded neatly and placed beside the tray, he was svelte in that stereotypical lead-character’s-love
-interest way, and he was still staring at her intently. At me, Babshee repeated.
In a bold maneuver, she leaned forward against the counter so they both occupied each other’s personal space. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Ah, I wasn’t asking for your name before,” Babshee started, “I was trying to ask what you’re doing here.” She rubbed her neck. “But, you know, without literally asking ‘What are you doing here’.”
“My dorm doesn’t have a kitchen”--ah, so a fellow college student—“and the back door wasn’t hard to ‘persuade’ to open, so ever since freshman year I’ve been using this place to bake.” He motioned at the tray and his floury attire. “But this is the first time anyone other than me has wandered in; I definitely wasn’t expecting that.”
“Neither was I, honestly,” Babshee said. And then she winced; the aching feeling had begun threading its way through her body and she realized she couldn’t think of anything else to talk about. Stupid, stupid! She crossed her arms to mask the fact that she was clutching her gut, and was just about to say that she had to go, sorry, her cat needed to be fed and he was very picky about the timing and if she didn’t go now he would probably gouge out her eyes, when Marconey said, “Babshee.”
“Marconey.”
“Well, you can call me Mark, you know; that’s what everyone else calls me.”
“And what do you like to be called?”
This made him pause for a moment. “I think Marconey is pretty damn cool. Makes me feel like a Dessert Detective or something.” He did a Sherlock Holmes impression with the croissants and the aching receded, just a little.
“Marconey, then. Did you want to tell me something? I should really probably get back to my cat; it was nice meeting you but he gets really hungry—“
Marconey took her by the sleeve as she pushed herself away from the counter. “Do you want to see it?”
He saw her face simultaneously drain of blood and blush a violent shade of crimson. “Ah, no, um, I meant do you want to see my set-up?” He gripped her sleeve tighter as if to squeeze understanding into it.
“I keep all of my equipment here, plus I keep everything really clean so you know, it’s all really shiny and cool-looking, or at least that’s what I think.” He released her sleeve.
“It’s okay, really, it was totally nice meeting you. I don’t want to hold you up.” Marconey scratched his neck to hide his awkward smile, his stupidly pathetic grin at a girl he didn’t even know.
Babshee may not have been special or interesting, but she wasn’t clueless either and was able to deduce Marconey’s point pretty much from the start. And what froze her in place, what made her breath catch to the point that she had to consciously remind herself to breathe, was that the aching had dissipated. As soon as Marconey offered to show her around, the pain just went away. She’d had it for so long she’d grown accustomed to it. She could deal with it. She wasn’t a wimp when it came to pain. But the absence of it was a relief that she could never have imagined, and it was her turn to cover her eyes as they began to water.
Marconey shifted back and forth, unable to decide whether he should lean back and give her space or lean in and pat her head or something. “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or scared or anything. I’d offer you a croissant but you’d probably think I’m trying to drug you. Crap. That came out so wrong.” He stopped when he realized that she wasn’t sobbing hysterically, but was in fact laughing, cracking up so much that her laughs came out as puffs of air and she had to cough a little to help her lungs get a purchase once more.
Babshee looked up at him, teary-eyed but beaming, both of them a bit confused and probably never meant to meet in the first place. “It was really just an eyelash in my eye or flour or something,” Babshee said. “I’d love to see how you work.”
Marconey relaxed and put his hand on the swinging door. “Shall we, then?”
Babshee walked around the counter to him and he opened the door the rest of the way. “It’s not the Chocolate Room but maybe you can humor me with some ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s, perhaps some general compliments thrown in?”
They continued into the kitchen, the swinging door closing behind them, The Marvel seemingly empty once more save for a folded apron and a tray of disheveled croissants. It was never recorded what happened in that kitchen, whether the author was simply too lazy or it was decided that the characters deserved a little alone-time, but what we do know is that Babshee was late on next month’s rent. She walked a different way to the grocery store every time she had to go. Her apartment started smelling like spices and, on occasion, one could walk by and see flour come out from beneath the door, and hear a great deal of laughter and tumbling about coming from inside.
Babshee Writson was twenty years old.
She owned one cat.
Anything else was yet to be written.
“Nope.”
“Ah,” she said, not yet sure what terms they were on. “Then you are…?”
The boy extended his hand after brushing the flour off in his hair. “Marconey.”
She waited for a last name that never came, then quickly shook his hand. “Babshee Writson. Are you a mob boss’ son or something?”
“Are you a granny in a girl’s body?”
She almost choked on a laugh. “Touché.” What was she doing? She’d never been like this before.
“My dad’s Italian though, so you’re not too far off.” Without his apron on, which was folded neatly and placed beside the tray, he was svelte in that stereotypical lead-character’s-love
-interest way, and he was still staring at her intently. At me, Babshee repeated.
In a bold maneuver, she leaned forward against the counter so they both occupied each other’s personal space. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Ah, I wasn’t asking for your name before,” Babshee started, “I was trying to ask what you’re doing here.” She rubbed her neck. “But, you know, without literally asking ‘What are you doing here’.”
“My dorm doesn’t have a kitchen”--ah, so a fellow college student—“and the back door wasn’t hard to ‘persuade’ to open, so ever since freshman year I’ve been using this place to bake.” He motioned at the tray and his floury attire. “But this is the first time anyone other than me has wandered in; I definitely wasn’t expecting that.”
“Neither was I, honestly,” Babshee said. And then she winced; the aching feeling had begun threading its way through her body and she realized she couldn’t think of anything else to talk about. Stupid, stupid! She crossed her arms to mask the fact that she was clutching her gut, and was just about to say that she had to go, sorry, her cat needed to be fed and he was very picky about the timing and if she didn’t go now he would probably gouge out her eyes, when Marconey said, “Babshee.”
“Marconey.”
“Well, you can call me Mark, you know; that’s what everyone else calls me.”
“And what do you like to be called?”
This made him pause for a moment. “I think Marconey is pretty damn cool. Makes me feel like a Dessert Detective or something.” He did a Sherlock Holmes impression with the croissants and the aching receded, just a little.
“Marconey, then. Did you want to tell me something? I should really probably get back to my cat; it was nice meeting you but he gets really hungry—“
Marconey took her by the sleeve as she pushed herself away from the counter. “Do you want to see it?”
He saw her face simultaneously drain of blood and blush a violent shade of crimson. “Ah, no, um, I meant do you want to see my set-up?” He gripped her sleeve tighter as if to squeeze understanding into it.
“I keep all of my equipment here, plus I keep everything really clean so you know, it’s all really shiny and cool-looking, or at least that’s what I think.” He released her sleeve.
“It’s okay, really, it was totally nice meeting you. I don’t want to hold you up.” Marconey scratched his neck to hide his awkward smile, his stupidly pathetic grin at a girl he didn’t even know.
Babshee may not have been special or interesting, but she wasn’t clueless either and was able to deduce Marconey’s point pretty much from the start. And what froze her in place, what made her breath catch to the point that she had to consciously remind herself to breathe, was that the aching had dissipated. As soon as Marconey offered to show her around, the pain just went away. She’d had it for so long she’d grown accustomed to it. She could deal with it. She wasn’t a wimp when it came to pain. But the absence of it was a relief that she could never have imagined, and it was her turn to cover her eyes as they began to water.
Marconey shifted back and forth, unable to decide whether he should lean back and give her space or lean in and pat her head or something. “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or scared or anything. I’d offer you a croissant but you’d probably think I’m trying to drug you. Crap. That came out so wrong.” He stopped when he realized that she wasn’t sobbing hysterically, but was in fact laughing, cracking up so much that her laughs came out as puffs of air and she had to cough a little to help her lungs get a purchase once more.
Babshee looked up at him, teary-eyed but beaming, both of them a bit confused and probably never meant to meet in the first place. “It was really just an eyelash in my eye or flour or something,” Babshee said. “I’d love to see how you work.”
Marconey relaxed and put his hand on the swinging door. “Shall we, then?”
Babshee walked around the counter to him and he opened the door the rest of the way. “It’s not the Chocolate Room but maybe you can humor me with some ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s, perhaps some general compliments thrown in?”
They continued into the kitchen, the swinging door closing behind them, The Marvel seemingly empty once more save for a folded apron and a tray of disheveled croissants. It was never recorded what happened in that kitchen, whether the author was simply too lazy or it was decided that the characters deserved a little alone-time, but what we do know is that Babshee was late on next month’s rent. She walked a different way to the grocery store every time she had to go. Her apartment started smelling like spices and, on occasion, one could walk by and see flour come out from beneath the door, and hear a great deal of laughter and tumbling about coming from inside.
Babshee Writson was twenty years old.
She owned one cat.
Anything else was yet to be written.