Hello, my follower count is showing zero both on mobile app and desktop for a few weeks now. It should be around 435. And when I click on it, it is not showing the full list.
Please help fix this.
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We strolled up through the wild grass and rocks right, over flat-topped grey and white rocks, and stood, staring at the majesty of the Atlantic spread before us in sunset glory. The sky was light pink and coral, and the heaving waves, crashing quite gently against the rocks which stretched out some fifteen-twenty feet below us, a shimmering silver-tinted reflection of those colours.
A container ship moved massively in the distance. I spotted the outline of a bird, and pointed it out to Anne. I took one step closer on the rocks, but she clutched me, pulling me back and scolding. “I’m not going to jump down and get you if you fall!”
I put my arm around her. We had been dating for only a short while, during which time I realised our political opinions were not the same, but I was raised to be respectful and tolerant of all beliefs, and she was so good to me, that I just didn’t talk about politics with her. Bam, problem solved!
And look at her, not snapping away photos of every angle of the waves and plants and rocks like other girls, pouting and posing in the camera constantly- or even worse, like one of my awful exes, asking me to take hundreds of photos of her, sulking when they weren’t all what she was expecting, and everything would end up being about the photos.
Anne was simply gazing out over the water, enjoying the view. An immense sense of calm and gratitude washed over me like the waves, and I hugged her closer.
We both saw it at the same time.
“A seal!” cried Anne. The dark head bobbed for a second on the waves, before disappearing under. We turned to each other with shining eyes- it always felt like such a win to spot one of these creatures, even though they were not uncommon on our stretch of the Atlantic.
“Oh do you think we will see it again?” said Anne. “How long can it stay under water?”
“I don’t know- let me check”- I pulled out my phone. I was mildly surprised at Anne’s excitement at spotting a seal- she had always appeared quite blasé and “above nonsense” kind of girl.
Well, you learn something new about your partner every day, I guess. “Oh I hope it will come back up, a bit closer- I wish I could see it again- I wish- ”- and incautiously she took a step forward on the rock, that much closer to the edge.
I looked up from my phone “Sweetie it says they can hold their breath under water for an hour or more. It’s probably on its way to the Mediterranean by now!”
“No!” cried Anne. “I want to see it again- It was so gorgeous- I wish-“ I looked with surprise at her desperate straining face, scanning the blank waves, and then something interesting about the World Cup popped up on my phone and I glanced down, taking a step backwards.
A massive crash- Anne screamed- I looked up from my phone.
A huge seal larger than a very large man reared up to the rock, riding a wave effortlessly. It snatched Anne in its enormous mouth- for a split second I saw her flailing like a Barbie doll against its glossy foam-flecked pelt, and then it vanished.
I was alone on the rock. The sea was empty except for a seagull and a container ship, now quite far from the shore.
Lauren didn’t usually go for thrifting and second-hand bargains, but the new-looking pair of shoes which popped up on her screen were too lovely to resist. She felt drawn to them as soon as she saw them- a brand she knew and wore regularly, just her size. She actually smiled at the screen, so great was her pleasure and immediately messaged the seller.
“Hi, is this still available?”
In a few seconds, she got her desired response, and within a few more, she had made arrangements to pick up in an hour. The seller lived in an apartment building not too far from them, and he was selling off his late wife’s belongings. Lauren didn’t care, she just wanted the shoes, she didn’t care if the shoes had belonged to a hundred dead wives, nothing else was more important in the whole world than for her to have those shoes.
And it sounded like they were hers! She ran to tell her husband, Joel, the good news.
Joel was the best husband in the world- in the case of Joel and Lauren, the cliché “I married my best friend” was the literal truth. They did everything together, for years.
Her best friend had a bit of a bad back, but he still had no problem driving her to the building where she was meeting the seller. He winced as he backed smoothly into the parking spot, and for a second, Lauren felt a renewed gush of love and protective feelings for him as she looked at his forearms and hands, swinging the steering wheel around. He’d been doing a lot of digging and whatnot in the garden and outdoors lately, the tan and the muscles- but yes, also the bad back.
Oh she wanted those shoes so badly. Thank god he found parking quickly- sometimes he took ages.
She saw him wince again, and prepare to slowly get out of the car.
Being a good wife herself, she told Joel to stay in the car- she’d run to the building and pick up her shoes.
They weren’t hers yet, but as good as.
He looked at her gratefully, but also worried, as a good husband should be, and asked her if she was sure.
She reassured him that she was meeting the seller in the lobby of the building, and it would be perfectly safe.
He handed her the cash, and she skipped out, floating with excitement at getting the shoes.
She checked the photo again on her phone. She had never, ever seen a pair of shoes so beautiful, never in her whole life of shopping for shoes and wearing shoes.
Then the seller messaged her. Her heart skipped a beat.
Oh it was nothing. Just the elevator wasn’t working- she could come back at another time, or she could meet by the apartment door on the fifth floor, if she didn’t mind taking the stairs.
She was so relieved that the shoes were still available that she wasn’t even a bit miffed the seller hadn’t offered to come down. After all, maybe he had a bad back- like Joel?
So great was her desire for the shoes she floated up the five floors and arrived at the apartment door, barely out of breath.
The seller was waiting for her at the door.
Disappointed, she saw that he wasn’t holding the shoes. Instead, he invited her inside to try the on. She could see the shoes, on a little footstool behind him, even more beautiful than the pictures. Poor widower, she told herself, just wants a bit of chitchat, and so great was her desire for the shoes, that she agreed, and stepped inside.
Poor Lauren. She was never seen again.
Darcy: Not hot. Everyone agrees that were it not for his wealth, nobody would turn around for a second look. He's not ugly, mind you, he's just Not Hot. Also, he's kinda short. That, more than anything else, accounts for his gruffness and awkwardness around people- he's shorter than Bingley and Fitz (the cousin), everyone knows it, he knows it, and it pisses him off mightily.
Knightley: Nice body, leading such an outdoorsy life (I feel like there was a comment about his fine upstanding figure in the book?)- his face is ok, but again, it's more his position and authority which gives him his aura, rather than good looks. Not hot.
Tilney: Hottish. He has the kind of nerdy, spectacled good looks that we're not immediately supposed to find hot, but then grows on us. His glib humour is his awkward attempt to draw attention to the fact that he is, actually, quite good-looking.
Wentworth. Obviously, objectively hot. Folk can't stop gushing about him. Anne is pining for him after ten years. Star looks. Probably the hottest of the bunch.
Edmund. A close second. The book is full of phrases referring to the whole family's good looks- starting with the acerbic comment on Lady Bertra's ability to snag a husband far beyond what she merited. Mary considers marrying him, a lowly second son! Oh yes, he's a hottie.
The cheerful bright lights of the enormously popular Western Towers fair destroyed the blue summer twilight while lighting up the group of friends- Alan, sitting in his wheelchair pulling at his fingers fretfully, his friends Mark and Tony, and his newish girlfriend, Emily. Garish shades of electric green, red and yellow flitted across their faces.
Emily impulsively stroked Alan’s hair- a gesture he hated as it reminded him how much shorter he was, always seated. “Love, are you sure? You don’t have to”.
Alan glowered at her. “Yes I do!” he snapped. “It’s the only way Emily- my therapist agreed. I have to do that stupid ride- defeat it-“
Mark and Tony scuffed their feet uncomfortably. They had stood by Alan like champs since the accident on the ride “FearScream” at Western Towers which claimed the life of his then-girlfriend Lisa along with Alan’s legs. But the emotional therapy stuff seemed to get harder and harder.
Alan wasn’t done “Maybe she’ll leave me alone after this!”
Emily winced. She had entered the relationship with open eyes, yet the constant reminders of Lisa and her terrible death never lost their sting.
Lisa hadn’t wanted to go on the ride. Alan had teased her into joining.
The shouts of joy and fear of the fair-goers punctuated the awkward silence. “Well, let’s get on with it then” said Tony, grasping Alan’s chair- the only person allowed to touch it without Alan’s express permission. Even though Alan was perfectly capable of driving his electric chair, he said nothing as Tony wheeled him towards FearScream.
Emily held back. Although she had said she would join him, now that the time had come she didn’t want to.
Alan barely noticed.
Once they were at the foot of FearScream, with deftness brought about by the years of practice, Tony and Mark manouvered Alan into the dangling scarlet chair, where he sat by himself. Then they clambered into the chair behind him. The bored attendant glanced at their seat belts, bringing down the bar over their heads and across their laps.
As FearScream reared and tossed its riders into the lit sky, the shrieking reached crescendo. Alan gripped the bar, his face twisted in anguish and fury. The pain of his phantom legs, crushed at this spot, shot through his body. Out of agony rather than fear he cried out as he was turned and twisted every which way. The thundering of the carts filled his ears.
And then in a split second, on the last lap upwards, Tony and Mark saw her.
Lisa, her hair and white summer dress flying, eyes on fire, clambering through the metal bars of FearScream into the chair next to Alan. They saw her lean over, and they saw her hands gripping the bar. They saw the bar move up, Alan’s seatbelt unbuckle, and with a great shout, Alan’s mutilated body catapult into the sky.
Then the empty chair slowed and shuddered as it approached the ground.
She was waiting for me when I returned from the hospice. Outside, by the door.
I barged by her, or through her- I was so discombobulated that I don’t know which- and went in.
She didn’t follow me. Just stood by the door. I think she can’t come in. I’m certainly not about to ask her.
I don’t understand why she’s doing this to me! She lived a full, respectable life, and she was a catalogue of aches and pains that I can’t begin to list. She chose to die freely and openly, after lots of discussion.
Well, some discussion.
I told her about the option, you see. The medical staff in our region aren’t allowed to raise it with patients- after some scandal about homeless or disabled or mentally-ill people being pressured into it – I forget which. Some local busybodies took to the press and made a huge fuss, and the sanctimonious old geriatrics who run this place quickly put a fuck ton of extra rules in place.
But there’s nothing to say that a loving grandson can’t gently talk about the option to his suffering grandma.
Especially since Grandma has a nice house, and I was forced to live with my parents (it’s the economy, stupid), until Grandma moved to the hospice and someone- I forget who it was- suggested I might as well move into her house since it was lying empty and she has all these plants need watering and it can be sorted out later.
Oh yes it will be sorted out. It’s later now. And I put the plants out by the pavement the second day- I don’t have time to waste on plants, they were dying anyway! All those creepy long yellowing stalks, brushing against me wherever I turned. The night before her death- before she chose to die, please let’s not forget that, one of them caught at me when I got up to pee, Jesus Christ, I don’t think I ever screamed so loudly. I’m surprised the neighbours didn’t call the police.
Yeah, they were out on the pavement that morning. Ugly things.
Anyway, I had the conversation with Grandma. Grandma looked at me as I told her, her eyes bright and unclouded. She was wearing a very pretty lacy blue nightgown. It looked expensive, and ancient.
“Thank you Nicholas” she said deliberately. I didn’t tell her about the plants, and she didn’t ask.
Mom told me about her decision later that day, struggling to hold back tears. “She wants us all there, Nicholas, singing her favourite song.”
Auld Lang Syne. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the attention-seeking old bag. I showed up. We all stood around the bed, she held Mom’s hands, who was sobbing uncontrollably and unable to sing, and I sang and watched the stuff being pumped into her veins. She watched me. I think. I was trying not to look.
Everything went well. Grandma closed her bright eyes. I was out of there. My parents agreed I could stay in her house until “we sort things out”- honestly I don’t think they enjoyed having me with them either.
She was there when I returned to the house.
I genuinely thought it was just a random old lady in a blue dress standing by the door. I remember wondering why she didn’t have a coat on.
Then I went up- she turned to me, and I froze.
She opened her mouth, and I saw very clearly the gaping black hole.
I heard her voice, very deliberate and slow “my plants, Nicholas”. The hole grew wider and wider and moved closer to me, starting to swallow me up.
I unfroze and barged in.
She was still there, standing. I knew I can move past her, if I move very fast. And I knew she’s not going anywhere.
But neither did I.
We get used to everything, they say. After a while, I got used to Grandma standing on my doorstep, I got used to zipping through her as she opened her horrible mouth to cry out about her plants. I am thankful she can’t actually come into the house.
Sometimes I feel trailing yellowing leaves brush against my skin as I move through the house, from the kitchen, now open and spacious thanks to me, to the living room and back, as I go about my day. I don’t let it bother me.
I am alive, she is not, I have the house, she does not, she made the choice, and we will both live on with that, in our own ways.
I wasn't necessarily planning to write this out and post it today, on canada day - in fact I can't quite remember what triggered my memories of reading The Blind Assassin during a sweltering hot Toronto summer more than twenty years ago. But of course, it pleases my brain immensely to do so.
I had not become acquainted with Margaret Atwood or CanLit at that time, and yet as we settled into our new home, it seemed quite the obvious thing to do. I can't quite remember how I "did my research" - there was no or basic Google, back then- but I learned somehow, the way people in those days learned things, that Atwood was the pinnacle of CanLit, and thus reading Atwood will lead to great learning about my new country, which frankly, I didn't know that much about, except that it was better than my own, and to succeed in Canada would mean that you have succeeded in life.
Anyway, there I was, from an ancient country full of carpets, just like the terrible country in The Blind Assassin in fact- those carpets that not only made their child-weavers go blind, so great was the detail and effort of weaving them, but were valued based on the number of children who had gone blind in their making. So this carpet made fifty children go blind, and thus was worth only half this other carpet, which led to the blindness of over a hundred children. So there I was, even more traumatized and upset about my own country, not having learned much about my new country either. Thanks, Margaret.
This is one of the clearer details that I remember about that book. For one thing, my plan was stupid and wrong. I did not learn anything about Canada by reading The Blind Assassin, and I would have done better, if that was my goal, to study the paper map of downtown Toronto (which was not the small town I eventually wound up in).
Two sisters, and a terrible family- the mainstay of every story since we began telling stories. Nothing particularly Canadian about that. A woman who enjoys tanning and selling artefacts. A woman who writes a story, and then dies. A woman who becomes famous after she dies. A car crashing into a freezing lake. A story within a story, a story about a very terrible ancient land full of carpets, and then another story about a modern land, less terrible, kinda just more generally shitty. I finished The Blind Assassin, and thought about the different lands and different stories. Perhaps I did learn something about Canada after all. Happy canada day.
Lisa sighed in frustration as she tried to upload payroll for the 3rd time and the bright green and yellow message spelling doom for her evening flashed at her. The words blew out of one of the comic speech bubbles from the oversized beak of a cartoon bird, their company mascot, filling her screen.
No amount of cartoons could console her. She was meeting Mira for happy hour in their favourite bar in thirty minutes, but if this stupid payroll didn't go through, it would be people left without pay and all hell would break loose. This ridiculous new accounting system- ugggggh. She clicked through the steps again, willing herself to be zen, and to impart the strength of her calm to the system, just like Helena, her yoga instructor told them too. She visualized a big beautiful blue bowl. Click.
"Uh-Oh Something Went Wrong. Just Don't Panic."
She cried out. The lights flickered and she looked up. Maybe Darren could help, although he was a moody little bitch and she sometimes had good dreams where she stabbed him at his workstation. "Darren?" she called, rearranging her features in a big smile. Her phone flashed. A text from Mira "5 min away U here?"
She hated being late. Even though they were on the tenth floor, she could hear the honks and cries of rush hour below. Weren't the windows soundproof? Was Darren pretending not to hear her?
"Darren?" she called louder.
Darren poked his ugly face around the grey partition. She hated him so much it physically hurt her. "Lisa- if it's not working on your computer, it's not working on mine either. I told you how the system works" he explained.
Lisa smiled wider. "I'll call IT then shall I?" Last time he had had a toddler's meltdown when she had called IT without "checking with him", even though he was not her superior. He hung out with the IT guys and it hurt his masculinity when they had an IT problem.
The lights darkened longer than a flicker, and the cries from outside seemed to get louder.
The sound of breaking glass echoed down their part of their floor. Most people had left- it was a summer Friday afternoon after all. Lisa looked around, Darren was the only other person she could see.
Another text popped up. "I love you Lisa"
Lisa was confused. Then she saw the text was from her Mom, and not Mira. She stared at the text, and then her phone screen went black.
Darren was typing frantically, the sound of his clacking keyboard echoing along the emptied floor. Lisa looked through the broken windows. The sky seemed to be closing in the ground, the buildings swaying.
Screams filtered through the glass. A loud bang shook the building and the lights went out. The darkening light lit up Darren's face. He had stopped typing, and was walking toward Lisa.
Lisa realized she's going to die with Darren at her side.
Even though the grooms aren't supposed to be excited and interested in their wedding preparations, I was.
Melanie's bridesmaids, a close group of her girlfriends she had known forever, giggled, calling me "metrosexual" as I heatedly discussed the various flavours of cake and shades of napkins but I didn't care. And when Melanie and I had a screaming row over the flower arrangements (lilies? really? Can we think just a little bit outside the box darling?) they actually took my side.
I liked her bridesmaids fair enough. For the first year of our relationship they had been an amorphous blob of vaguely interchangeable "Melanie's girlfriends", and I never quite got round to learning their names. After all, Melanie mostly hung out with them without me. As the months past, I learned there was the tall one, the curvy one, the one who looked like non-actress version of Julianna Margulies, and the bitchy one.
And now the wedding preparations were fully underway, and I was starting to tell them a bit apart. But still, perhaps it was their habit of dressing in generally similar styles, often in each other’s clothes, and doing their hair and make-up similarly too, that often led me to confuse them. But so long as they went along with the vision we had for our perfect day, it was all good.
In fact we were talking about the bridesmaids dresses when I first realised there might be a problem. Melanie casually mentioned Elaine, one of her bridesmaids.
It didn’t first register with me. Melanie kept talking about the dresses.
"But she really dislikes the sage-green we've picked for the colour of their dresses. I told her that was all you darling."
Suddenly my brain did a double-take. "Elaine? Your childhood friend?"
Melanie nodded. "She's so excited for the wedding! and to be a bridesmaid! She never got to be bridesmaid while she was alive, so I'm so happy to do this for her."
I sat down heavily and suddenly, and looked at Melanie, who was staring at her face carefully in the mirror, contouring her cheeks. Ugh- she was using that shade of bronzer which made her look like a white actor cast by Hollywood in 1970s Technicolor as "Cherokee warrior 1". I had told her many times not to use that.
Then I focused.
"Melanie- Elaine is dead. You told me- she died of cancer, just a few months before we started dating."
Melanie turned and I couldn't help wincing at her makeup. But the expression in her eyes was real emotion: pure anger. "I know what I told you. And I told you too, she is always with me- she will always be with me. And if you have a problem with that, or any of my girlfriends-"
I held up my hand to staunch the Spice Girls rant that I had heard several times before. "Melanie- no! Of course I don't have a problem- I thought you meant, like metaphorically, spiritually, you know. Like people always talk about their dead grandma or whatever looking out for them! But now you're talking about her wearing a bridesmaid dress! At our wedding!" My voice rose incredulously and I could hear a tinny note of panic creeping in. Our whole relationship was flashing before my eyes as I remembered all the times Melanie had casually said something like “and we were at Happy hour when Elaine said- and we all died laughing!” “and Elaine told me not to worry about it, she would sort it out, and you know, the next day it was all fixed!”
The doorbell rang. Melanie ran to the door, and a second later the high chatter of excited women filled the air as all the friend group trooped in. They were all dressed quite similarly as always, in stripy crop tops revealing various parts of their body, and cargo pants. And that dreadful orangish contouring.
Melanie said "Ladies- this fella here doesn't think Elaine should be one of the bridesmaids!"
The chatter subsided, giving place to a nervous tense silence. The girls exchanged glances.
Then Julianna spoke up. "Look- you don't want to do that. Elaine is really happy to be a bridesmaid, plus you don't want to make her mad at you. She um, really cares about Melanie, they were like sisters growing up you know."
The air in the room seemed to thicken slightly. I couldn’t quite tell how many there were. The orange contour gave them an almost animalistic quality, and they stared at me with their hostile strange eyes, which yet were not devoid of some sympathy.
Suddenly I yelped out- something was burning me in my pants pockets. I snatched my phone out, which was glowing bright hot, and immediately dropped it on the floor, my hand scalded.
We all stared at the phone, the red glow fading harmlessly. I held my blistering hand, my shock numbing the searing pain.
"That was Elaine" murmured the Curvy One.
Melanie came up to me, looking up into my eyes beseechingly. "Please, don't make her spoil our perfect day- we’ve been planning this for so long. She has to be there- she has been waiting for this, just try to understand. She loves us all so much"
Tall One spoke up. "Melanie passed a cyclist too close the other day driving home, and he gave her the finger. You don't want to know what Elaine did to him. She draws strength from caring for Melanie you know, his head was almost cut off by his bike chain, it was wrapped so tightly round his throat."
Melanie nodded solemnly. "It cut right through his spine, I could see his vertebrae poking out, covered with blood."
I looked at my phone and tried to quell the shaking that was threatening to take over me. I didn’t want to appear scared and witless in front the bridesmaids.
My hand was starting to throb. The girls moved around, all still looking worried at me. I still didn't know how many there were- four or five?
"Of course" I muttered. "Of course Elaine should be one of the bridesmaids".
A sigh of relief went up. Then Melanie threw her arms around my neck. “Oh darling, we’re going to have the best wedding ever!”
It happens a lot more than we care to think. People are not quite dead- not as dead as we think they are -or perhaps like to think- when they are buried. Our medical technology isn’t quite there yet- we haven’t quite yet mastered the skill of recognizing when somebody is fully dead, dead dead dead, no longer waking up, never, never again.
And so, quite by accident, no malice, (mostly) many people are buried who shouldn’t be. They are placed in their grave in a half-state of being alive and dead, where they become companions for Margoo, the graveyard monster, to play with.
They finally die, of course. Humans are mortal, everyone knows that.
Margoo was used to playing with the mostly-dead, barely-alive inhabitants of the old graves in a cemetery close to the city centre. Years and years ago, the cemetery hadn’t been close to the city centre, it was more like a sleepy suburb, where folk buried their (not quite) dead. And Margoo had settled there and played with them.
But with the passage of years, the city centre had grown, and the cemetery had become a sort of adjacent area to a small inner city park, with the old crumbling graves and the faded lettering still in place. Because even though it was prime real estate now, the city knew it could not realistically sell off the old cemetery, and it was better to just let it lie there, charming, melancholy and pretty, old trees, old flowering bushes and old graves, criss-crossed with little footpaths and shortcuts, as pedestrians often cut through the cemetery, walking fast and minding their own business.
In fact, pedestrians cutting through were the only times living people were in the cemetery anymore, the friends and family of original inhabitants of the graves having now died off, one by one.
And now those inhabitants were fully dead too.
Finally.
Margoo was bored and restless. It wanted new companions to play with.
And then Cicely entered the graveyard.
She walked fast, anxious to get home after her morning errands. The weather was mutating, with flecks of snow scattering downwards one moment, and sunrays piercing through the greyness and lighting up the streets the next. The chill wasn’t too biting, and people were out and about, moving busily through the shadows cast by the sky and clouds.
She had paused by the old graveyard. But she was in a hurry, she needed to get home. She entered the quiet space, stepping quickly among the old worn gravestones, weedy footpaths and thick old trunks, her fur-edged hood high despite the stops and starts of the snow.
Even though Cicely was a very ordinary woman, and even though she walked quite fast and had quite a determined, focused look on her face, very unlike the barely-alive, mostly-dead people Margoo the monster had been playing with for all those long long years, it decided it wanted her.
Yes, Margoo felt she could be a nice new playmate, despite being fully alive and not quite dead yet.
And so, with some effort, Margoo rose from the grave of the last person who had fully and finally died there, and began following Cicely.
Margoo didn’t quite understand the snow and sun, and as Cicely exited the graveyard and stepped into the streets, it paused, discombobulated by the unfamiliar sounds and smells of cars, humans, dogs, crows, melting snow, wet weather.
But not discombobulated enough, unfortunately for Cicely and the living humans around her. It continued following her, determined to bring her back to the graveyard which was its home, someone fresh to keep it company in the long dark night.
Cicely, conditioned like all women since birth to spot signs of something wrong, glanced back a couple of times- the walls of the graveyard were already blurry. She couldn’t spot Margoo in the shifting sun and flickering snowflakes and cars, and she hurried onwards, impatient to get home.
Margoo drew closer and closer.
Cicely stopped at the curb of a road before a pedestrian light turning red, her hands deep in her pockets. She pulled out her phone, bending her head, snow crusting in the fur of her hood which almost fully concealed her face.
It was a busy intersection. Other people were walking up and down, some weaving among the cars, some wrapped in blankets or wearing tattered old jackets, holding up signs asking for food and money. One of them, himself used to creatures of darkness from his life on the streets, noticed Margoo preparing to take Cicely. He knew where Margoo came from, and knew he had a split second to decide not to let it take Cicely back with it. So he made that decision.
Clouds slipped over the sun, blanketing the sky in grey. The pedestrian light turned green. Cicely began crossing, Margoo pounced, and the panhandler pounced right along with it, right into it. Cars obeying the lights screeched and tried to swerve to avoid the flailing figure or figures.
Cicely reached the other side, moving swiftly ahead without looking back. The sun came out. The snow stopped. The panhandler lay motionless in the road. Margoo was no longer there.
Gray, staggering slightly after a hard night of partying, made his way to his upstairs bathroom, in time to heave and throw up in the toilet.
Usually he would visit the downstairs bathroom after a night out, since the mirror there was ordinary, and just showed the reflection of what his face looked like to everyone, which was very pleasing and lovely. A man in the peak flush of youth, with a face and body that would draw anyone passing by to turn around for another look.
But he couldn’t make it downstairs in time that morning.
Wiping his mouth, he raised his head.
It’s actually very hard to avoid looking in the mirror in a small bathroom. Gray twisted away, but still couldn’t help catching a glimpse of the long sag of crepe-y skin hanging off his jaw, the extended and bloated chin of an old, old, ugly man. He shuddered, and tried to focus on a small Grecian statue standing in the corner of his bathroom, barely 20 inches high. The statue was of a beautiful young man - Gray had modeled for it, in fact- holding his finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. It wasn’t the original. The artist had gifted him this small copy of the original statue, now languishing in some prestigious museum, to compensate Gray - he couldn’t afford to pay a model, back then.
Even though it had been years since the mirror started doing its thing, and by now Gray had been older longer than he had been young, Gray could never get used to his true reflection. He knew he could never get rid of the mirror, as he would lose his cherished youth and beauty. He had no choice but to keep it with him, as he wandered from place to place, seeking pleasure and enjoying the benefits of looking young and extremely beautiful.
He usually moved every seven years or so. After his close childhood friend found out his secret and had to be disposed of, Gray made sure to avoid putting down roots. Gray tried never to think of him, but it seemed to be getting harder. Nosey jealous bastard, always prying and poking in Gray’s life. Gray closed his eyes, and an image of his friend’s face -so ugly and ordinary- shimmered up.
“Gray?”
He froze, his eyes jerking open. He had forgotten. Oh god how had he forgotten? Memories of the night before came flooding back at the sound of her hesitant voice. Damn damn damn, when would he ever learn?
“Gray- are you alright?” There was a slight tap on the door. He tried to remember her name, but it was hopeless.
It was a while now that he had started to suspect the mirror only kept his physical looks youthful, not his cognition. But he wasn’t sure what -if anything- he could do about that.
“Ummm- I’m fine- be out in a second-” he muttered.
The woman tried the door- and it opened. Paralysis flooded Gray as he realised, in his haste to get to the toilet and assumption that he was alone, he had left it unlocked. His guest, her hair dishevelled over her naked shoulders, came in. The harsh bathroom light lighted up the dark circles under her eyes and faint lines etched around her mouth- Gray frowned.
Imposter. She was definitely not as young as she had claimed or looked last night.
His guest smiled hesitantly “Sorry- didn’t mean to barge in- you sounded awful in there for a sec- do you want me to get you some toast- coffee?” She stepped nearer to him, extending her hand in a gesture of comfort or perhaps morning desire, after all Gray’s looks and physique did not suffer in the bathroom lighting.
Gray stepped back- that’s how they got you- offers of food, of friendship, of companionship, of growing old together- and look at her - how old was she anyway- she took another step, and Gray could see her neck had already started to sag. Disgusting deceitfulness- like all women.
And then she turned and looked at the mirror, showing Gray’s true profile.
There was a long moment of silence. Her eyes widened as she took the decrepit old man in the mirror, the deep grooved wrinkles, the horrible misshapen ear, rough hair sprouting from the wrong places, the bulbous veiny nose, almost meeting the nasty chin. Then she turned back to Gray, who was standing very still.
She began opening her mouth, and Gray’s paralysis broke. He snatched up the statue and brought it down in one swift movement, smashing it into her aging face. She didn’t even have the chance to scream, falling down heavily on the floor.
Gray stood over her. Then, out of caution, he wielded the statue a few more times. His reflection, splattered with blood and brain, watched him impassively.
Panting, he straightened. He didn’t wait any further. Still gripping the statue, he left the bathroom- he had to make a couple of urgent calls, call in a few favours. But he wasn’t worried anymore. He had things to do, places to go, people to see. He was Gray.
These are all -actually- variations of the same name, and I love every single one of them -I will fight for them till my last breath, if I have to. It pleases my brain immensely to keep repeating these beautiful, timeless, elegant names, I actually find it very therapeutic, even healing, one could say. I love writing out these names also- that firm unexpected upward stroke of the pen on the e, guiding the lips and the tongue to where they need to go for proper enunciation- those double jiggly dots on the u and the o- oh yes. oh yes.
They are how the same name is pronounced in different parts of the world. I bet you didn't get that. I bet your stupid McDonald-addled brain thought they were all different names, but know, puny mortal, they are all actually the same name, referring to the same omnipotent being.
Fascinating, innit?
Thaïs/Taisiya/Taisa/Taida/Thaisa/Thaisia/Taissia/Tais : r/namenerds
I was wakened by the splash.
Rude.
Then I realised it wasn’t the splash- a tiny wedding ring doesn’t make much of a noise- rather, it was the arc of sunlight following our wedding ring into the lake and beaming off the water that hit my eyes and roused me.
Simon. He had thrown our wedding ring into the lake. Our lake.
Rage powered me into consciousness. I had only been dead a short while- it’s not like I can keep track of time, months, years-
And here he was, sitting by the lakeside with That Woman, and he just threw our wedding ring into the water.
I watched, unable to believe my eyes. Neither could That Woman, in fairness. She gasped, covered her stupid mouth with her stupid hands- “Oh Simon!” she exclaimed in her stupid voice. I clenched my ghost teeth.
Simon gripped her hands. “Darling, it was time. I feel so much lighter.”
What? What?
I was the burden to him?
Misery and agony coursed through my veins. The lake shook in sympathetic synchronicity. That is not my fault now, is it?
That Woman’s eyes grew wide- she looked at the water which was moving in a wrong way – “Simon-”
Oh stupid Simon. Only listening to the sound of his own voice – once so dear to me, so beloved- “I wanted you to see me do that- I only care about you- I only want to be with you-“
A wave rose from the lake and smashed down on the stony muddy little beach. But it wasn’t hard enough. A spray of water hit their shoes. That Woman stood up, but Simon pulled her back down – “darling, please, listen to me!”
I snorted. As if, if she chose to be with Simon, she would have any other option! The waves heaved again –“Simon- you shouldn’t have thrown your ring into the lake-”
Duh. I searched through the muddy heaving plant-filled water, the gleam caught my eyes, and I grabbed our ring and dove upwards, towards the sky and sun.
Another wave rose. This one got them. It was so satisfying, watching him getting pulled under.
I laid the ring- our ring- carefully by the bench.
Olivia’s mom walked as she did daily to the tree where Olivia had hanged herself, a few months ago.
It was a beautiful old tree with a thick canopy of bright leaves, dappled all shades of green and yellow in the hot summer sun. Several thick branches grew horizontally, perfectly parallel to the ground, perfect for hanging.
Olivia had used her mom’s dressing-gown belt, a soft burgundy velvet, and pushed her summer-cracked-varnish pedicured feet off a gaily coloured upturned plastic bin labelled neatly “Recycle”. The pedicure had been a bright yellow. They had got it together at the mall early summer. The flecks of yellow had been the first thing her mom had spotted as she ran to the tree, that terrible morning.
There was no official reason why Olivia did such a dreadful thing. True, the move from inner city to the outskirts of London was upsetting, but it wasn’t exactly a huge culture shock- barely an hour’s ride away. And Olivia had been a budding climate activist, setting up a school environmental group, labelling bins for sorting waste. As Dad, who sometimes teasingly called her Greta had said, she should enjoy living closer to nature. The police had used the words “climate anxiety”, rumours of hidden instability burbled in the school corridors. Enough to hang herself?
The locals knew. They knew the tree- it wasn’t exactly evil, but Olivia hadn’t been the first. That didn’t go in the police report, because they didn't want to sound mad.
The tree roamed the neighbourhood, watching it overgrow from green village to a nice hot suburb with a train station connected to the Underground, cute coffeeshops, human-free supermarkets, charity thrift stores and graveyards with stones dating to the 1700s and further back. The tree itself wasn’t that old, obviously, but it watched. It certainly wasn’t uncommon to wake up at night from the sound of branches tapping against glass, the tree right up against the windows.
“It probably tapped too many times on Olivia’s window” said Yasha. He had often been awakened by the tapping on his window, but his family had lived in that area for generations, and they knew better than to answer the call of the tree. Nobody knew why or what set it off.
Ellie shrugged “Why didn’t you tell her then?” A group of them were hanging out by the local corner shop which sold slices of cheap greasy pizza. The view was breathtaking, right over the river, glimmering silver-green-grey under the sun.
Yasha said “Why didn’t you? You were best buddies, all that eco-warrior bullshit.”
Ellie scowled. “Fuck off. We weren’t best buddies, and it’s not bullshit.”
“You just wanted your photos on the school website!” snickered Sophia.
“The tree will come for you both!” cursed Ellie, her eyes sparking with rage.
But Yasha pointed away. “No it won’t. Look.”
They looked dispassionately at Olivia’s mom, about a stone throw away, busily looping the belt around her neck, the Recycle bin by her side.
“Mom said she would do something like this, and it’s not the tree to blame,” said Yasha.
Ellie nodded. “It would never strike so quick,” she agreed.
They said no more, watching Olivia’s mom in silence.
All the neighbourhood kids knew that Sarah shapeshifted into a dog and were more or less ok with it.
There was that unfortunate time when she accidentally killed Molly’s baby brother, although, it wasn’t really an accident because Molly had been kind of upset ever since the arrival of the baby, and Sarah was Molly’s best friend and wanted to see her happy. The kids all said the same things to the police and to the parents, and no one ever suspected Sarah.
The kids wouldn’t have snitched on Sarah anyway, they knew they should stick together, but they were also getting more afraid of Sarah. As a human child, Sarah was lovely and gentle and quiet, but as an adult female dog – the correct term for which, as Michael kept reminding them, was “bitch”- she was becoming more and more terrifying.
Like now. They were hanging in the playground, and Sarah was sniffing around them and sometimes giving them little nips. “Ow, stop it Sarah!” yelled Ahmed, rubbing his leg. The nip left a little mark, but Michael swooped down and hugged Sarah “Awww, she just wants attention, don’t you lovey” he said in a baby voice, rubbing Sarah’s fur on her neck and her back.
“It actually hurts, Michael!” cried Ahmed. “She shouldn’t be biting us!”
“It’s not a proper bite, Ahmed, just a little love nip! It’s not even bleeding! She woves you, don’t you, you little snuggly-wuggles!” And Michael buried his face in her silky honey-blond fur, the exact same shade of her hair when she was in human form, but which Michael would never ever have dared to touch. He loved how freely and comfortably he could play with Sarah when she was a dog, or more correctly, bitch.
Emily jumped off the swing and walked over. “Ahmed’s right you know. Why is she hurting us any way? Look what she did to me!” She lifted the hem of her coral-pink t-shirt, and the kids could see three parallel fire-engine red scratches on the soft smooth skin of her tummy. Sarah growled softly.
“Aw she didn’t mean to! She’s just playing with you, aren’t you fluffykins! She just wanted you to pet her!” Michael gave Sarah some nose kisses. “Ugh that’s gross Michael” cried out one of the kids. "She was just jealous of you talking to Molly, Emily!" snickered another.
Sarah pulled away from Michael’s kisses and hugs, gave a yellow glare from her dog eyes at the snickering kids, and bounded over to Molly, rising on her hind legs and bringing her front paws up. She was big enough now that when she reared, she was taller than Molly, and could put her paws easily on Molly’s shoulders. That was the signal that she wanted to shift back into human shape, and Molly, who kept Sarah’s clothes, began walking away from the playground and the kids, into the little wooded area for privacy, Sarah leaping and barking playfully by her side.
The remaining kids looked at each other in silence. Then Ahmed said it. “They’re gonna find out you know. She’s becoming bigger, and more dangerous. We should tell someone.”
“No!” Michael stood up and squared off to Ahmed. “Don’t you dare! They’ll take her away! She’s a lovely creature, just needs lots of attention and care! I had a dog, I know how to take care of her!”
“Michael- you’re crazy! She’s not an actual dog or a pet– she’s a human-dog beast!”
Michael’s face flushed red- he turned away from the group and ran off in the direction Molly and Sarah had gone a minute ago. “Michael- where are you going? Come back, leave them be!”
He stumbled on them much sooner than he had thought- they hadn’t gone far off. Sarah was still fully naked, sitting on the ground about to pull on her panties. Michael caught sight of her chest, barely hidden by long thick fall of golden hair. Molly was standing by her, holding the rest of her clothes. They both screamed when they saw him intruding and reeled back- “I’m sorry! I didn’t me-“ he gasped.
He never got to finish his sentence. Sarah flickered back into a dog almost instantly and leapt for his throat. Molly screamed again. Michael was dead before he hit the ground.
I was eight. We had just moved to a new city, a new home, a new school, and a newish language. I had cried a lot.
Anyway. I got invited to my first school birthday party a couple of months into the school year. I can't remember the birthday girl's name. I was excited and nervous. My mom got a gift, a very appropriate kid's book (a nice edition of a collection of stories), we had it gift-wrapped, she walked me to their house, exchanged pleasantries with the host-mom at the door, and I went in.
I don't remember much of the party- I feel like it was quite structured? At one point all of us were gathered round the cake and a tower of presents, and the birthday girl was opening them, one by one.
The girl's aunt gifted her a whole box set of those damned books.
And my gift was only one book of the series.
I remember the mom being very kind about it, smiling at me and thanking me. I don't know or remember what the actual birthday girl did- I don't know or remember if she noticed or paid much attention- she was quite overexcited, I think.
My mom came shortly after and picked me, I can't quite remember if I told her what had happened? If I did, she didn't make a fuss about it either.
I don't know what triggered this memory this morning, as I was lounging about in bed enjoying my sunny Saturday morning lie-in, only to be suddenly flooded by that horrible sinking feeling of dismay and embarrassment, as sharp and fresh as if it was yesterday, the piles of wrapping paper, the presents, the cake, the school, oh god please take me now.
As another famous author, Louisa Alcott said in Little Women, readers like to know what the actors look like, and here is how I imagine our favourite Austen heroines:
Emma: chestnut/brunette. I was shocked at Gwyneth Paltrow's blinding blondness when I saw that movie- and had to go back to the book to make sure Austen doesn't actually say she's chestnut, so certain I was that she was.
Harriet: "mousy" blond- in sunshine, very golden-y, but looks darker indoors and in candlelight. A fair bit of frizz.
Jane Fairfax: obviously jet-black. It's in the book, right?
Anne: "soft" brunette- a few shades lighter than Emma.
Fanny: Obviously blonde- it says so, right, that's what all the talk about her being "fair" was.
Elizabeth Bennet: Darker chestnut than Emma, but not full on black like Jennifer Ehle. Some lighter streaks show up in the sunlight.
Jane Bennet: Blonde.
Catherine Tilney- Same as Harriet- light brown, but straighter than Harriet's.
Elinor: Blonde.
Marianne: Dark brown.
Agree or hard disagree?
I'm a handyman, plumber, jack of all trades, in and out of houses all the time with my trusty tools.
Now now, none of that. I know where your dirty mind went -and I’m not gonna say I don’t have a few stories to tell about bored housewives and frazzled single moms. But this story isn’t about that stuff.
It’s about the children.
My own childhood was a bit of a blur - nothing much ever seemed to happen, you know, days bleeding into each other, just a big blurriness of house and sky and school. I left when I could because there was no reason not to, and soon realised I could earn a pretty penny doing basically what I watched my dad doing around the house- that’s sorted then.
And then I think I must have been in my late twenties- I read somewhere that’s when our brains fully mature so that’s probably why- I was fixing a kitchen sink - crawled up in the gadawful smelly cabinet-hole beneath the sink my legs stretched out- something was nudging at my feet and it was bothering me- I looked down, it was a glossy little dog- should be restrained- but nice lookin’ critter.
The woman called the dog, then she bent low, I saw her face and brown hair swooping down and the tops of her boobs juggling up from her red blouse, framed against the kitchen table and chairs. She picked up the dog, and I blinked- it was a child.
I concentrated on the pipes and sorted out the sink. When I left, I couldn’t see the dog/child.
I walked out into the street, promising to return if anything went wrong. After the darkness under the kitchen sink, sunlight blinded me. It was summer, schools just out, little buggers everywhere. I could hear the calling and yelling and laughing. I blinked some more, and the menagerie running around in the street became clear, some of them playing with a ball, others on bikes.
Otters, bear cubs, foxes, some frogs or toads -never learned the difference- dogs and cats.
I swore loudly, and a mom pushing a lamb in a huge buggy which looked like it wouldn’t be out of place in a battlefield frowned at me. I was worried she’d hit my ankle. But she didn’t, I’m a big guy, after all.
Anyway - I left the street.
I just kinda rolled with it, I mean, what am I supposed to do? The critters seemed harmless enough, not my circus, why bother. I kept showing up at houses to fix pipes, walls, repair shit, and I see them, running around, the moms picking them up and plonking them down here or there, or telling them to go out in the backyard, and then I’d see the kid.
Mostly little woodland critters, but once I saw a little tiger cub, dashing around the living room, and mom’s make-up was smudged something awful and her face was red and her hair wasn’t neat and smooth like most of them. The tiger cub showed her his teeth, I saw its green eyes glow at her, and my hand tightened around my wrench and I felt a nasty feeling right down in my stomach, like on Friday nights when you're having a pint with the lads and then someone says something really fucking stupid and everyone is quiet for moment and you know shit is about to go down - that kind of feeling.
Then the mom kind of flopped on the couch and hugged the tiger, burying her smudged face into its golden stripey fur, and the sun through the window shone on their hair and fur all mixed up together, real pretty and shiny, like. It was just a kid after all, a mom hugging her tawny-haired kid.
Then the mom looked up at me, and I realised I was gawking, and I quickly went back to the leaky pipe, feeling my cheeks on fire. I couldn't get out of there fast enough, and I didn't promise to return if the faucet stopped working, but she didn’t ask me to, neither, she was playing with her cub, kind of dancing around the kitchen together, not minding me gathering my shit together.
As I left, I couldn’t help looking back, and the tiger cub dashed in through her bare legs and looked like it bit her calf muscle, she cried out- but not very loud- not like it drew blood- I mean I didn’t see any, any how. Not my business, I closed the door loudly behind me, nowt so queer as folk, I remember my mom saying that, and I stepped out in the street where all sorts of little critters were dashing around- a badger on a bike pedalled by, with a white stripe in its black hair, just a kid, only a kid, with a swoop of white hair. Fucking weird.
I looked up my next call, and took off.
Am I allowed to legally change my name to "Kamasutra", nn Kami? It's because I recently found out that's the name my parents were planning to give me, but my evil karen Aunt Janice staged a family intervention and basically bullied them to name me after her. What a karen.
I hate my name, Janice, and I love "Kamasutra", knowing what it means to my darling parents. They tell me they have a deep, deep, VERY DEEP spiritual connection with this name and my conception, so I feel it is very appropriate for me. And the nn "Kami" is simply darling!
Also I recently learned I was a bee in my past life.
https://www.reddit.com/r/namenerds/comments/1u8lmyz/the_name_bindi/