Dec. 18th, 2018 07:20 pm
all those letters lined up like dice
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justboltsI remembered a half-written story I'd left lingering my Tumblr draft folder for a couple uh, years, and went to go dig it up. In the process, I discovered a good 40 drafts hanging out there, at least half of which were me screaming about other people's opinions on Steven Universe.
Because wow, I sure do have some strong feelings about the popular fandom interpretations of that show.
It seems a waste to delete them entirely, but do I really want to share my annoyed ranting with anyone else? You know, except for the close friends I messaged about it. And the time my very tolerant wife stayed up until 3am listening to me about it.
Maybe I've caused enough suffering on the subject.
Anyway, for the sake of completeness, here's the story snippet: ***
It’s Sunday afternoon in a chain coffee shop and I’ve accepted that I’m going to not going to be doing anything of value today, either, when a man sits down across from me.
I look at him and he looks back. He has the face of a human man in his thirties and the build of someone who goes to the gym every other day and uses the time to catch up on his magazine reading. He wears a pristine grey suit with a clear and profound reluctance, sits as though he has a grudge against the chair, and reminds me of my father on the grounds of being completely opposite from him.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
As I watch, several emotions cross his face at once. Uncertainty takes up residence on his brows before being muscled out of that prime real estate by anger and finally splitting it with doubt. Mild annoyance meanders across his mouth, flirts with reaching moderate levels about half-way through, and then escapes out the far corner without really committing. Wariness firmly occupies both eyes, whilst fear and determination dally together around his nostrils.
“Yes,” he says, clipping the word out quickly, “I’m moving and I need a ghost brought with me.”
“Ah, that – “ I begin to say, but he continues on, apparently wanting to head off the argument I wasn’t going to make. His Adam’s apple radiates impatience at me
“I’ve tried all the usual rituals, of course. Incense, chanting, calling to water, transference into a ceremonial object – all of it. Nothing has worked and I’m tired of wasting my time.” He flicks out one hand and frowns at his sleeve cuff, evidently displeased to find it’s still on his body. “A friend recommended you,” he adds, “Said you’re the best for these sorts of things.”
“Oh no, that was a lie,” I say, “I’m satisfactorily competent for these sorts of things.”
Doubt makes the journey down from his brows all the way to his chin. It’s a fine chin, I think. He must shave it absolutely every morning.
“But that may be all you need in this case,” I add, aiming for reassurance, and motion to my mug.
It sits on the table between us; heavy bottomed ceramic, glazed in cream and yellow, with painted blue flowers on green stems that stretch half way up the curved sides. There are no chips or cracks or stains from past beverages. The mug is most the solid object in the entire coffee shop, at least from my perspective; it occupies the occasionally indistinct and turbulent surface of the table the way a rock occupies the ocean.
“Get me a cup of your favorite coffee and then we’ll go check out the situation.”
Doubt drips off the man’s jaw to make room for the resignation and relief dancing across the bones and hollows of his cheeks. He picks up my mug by the handle.
The world snaps into sudden, sharp focus. Furniture and objects gain distinct edges, no longer seeping endlessly into each other, while the skin and muscles and features of the other people in the coffee shop become opaque, their emotions and thoughts muffled until the blanket of corporal flesh. I can clearly see the fine details of the pictures on the walls and the round tables with their clustering of chairs and the for-sales mugs and tins stacked on shelves or arranged in baskets. I can look at the man carrying my mug to the counter and properly see all the ways he is entirely unlike my father. His jaw is square rather than round, hair brown and thin instead of black and full, eyes pressed in close to either side of a narrow nose bridge instead of tucked in under thick brows.
And I was right. He has a fine chin.
The man reaches the counter and places an order with the barista. I hover just behind his left shoulder, taking the chance to get a good, proper look at her.
She accents her dark eyes and brown skin with purple eyeshadow and copper lipstick, and wears her hair short and shaved on one side. She smiles at the man and casts me a look before ringing up the order. This is the first time I’ve seen her “in the skin”, as ghosts say. I’m more familiar with the sight of exhaustion pouring down from her forehead and onto the shoulders of her company-issued shirt and apron. I’ve grown used to the way the edges of her fingers melt down into the beverages she makes, leaving little bits of herself in each creation.
Of course, that’s all metaphysical. In the reality of the living, her flesh holds snug against her bones. I can never settle on which look I prefer.
Because wow, I sure do have some strong feelings about the popular fandom interpretations of that show.
It seems a waste to delete them entirely, but do I really want to share my annoyed ranting with anyone else? You know, except for the close friends I messaged about it. And the time my very tolerant wife stayed up until 3am listening to me about it.
Maybe I've caused enough suffering on the subject.
Anyway, for the sake of completeness, here's the story snippet: ***
It’s Sunday afternoon in a chain coffee shop and I’ve accepted that I’m going to not going to be doing anything of value today, either, when a man sits down across from me.
I look at him and he looks back. He has the face of a human man in his thirties and the build of someone who goes to the gym every other day and uses the time to catch up on his magazine reading. He wears a pristine grey suit with a clear and profound reluctance, sits as though he has a grudge against the chair, and reminds me of my father on the grounds of being completely opposite from him.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
As I watch, several emotions cross his face at once. Uncertainty takes up residence on his brows before being muscled out of that prime real estate by anger and finally splitting it with doubt. Mild annoyance meanders across his mouth, flirts with reaching moderate levels about half-way through, and then escapes out the far corner without really committing. Wariness firmly occupies both eyes, whilst fear and determination dally together around his nostrils.
“Yes,” he says, clipping the word out quickly, “I’m moving and I need a ghost brought with me.”
“Ah, that – “ I begin to say, but he continues on, apparently wanting to head off the argument I wasn’t going to make. His Adam’s apple radiates impatience at me
“I’ve tried all the usual rituals, of course. Incense, chanting, calling to water, transference into a ceremonial object – all of it. Nothing has worked and I’m tired of wasting my time.” He flicks out one hand and frowns at his sleeve cuff, evidently displeased to find it’s still on his body. “A friend recommended you,” he adds, “Said you’re the best for these sorts of things.”
“Oh no, that was a lie,” I say, “I’m satisfactorily competent for these sorts of things.”
Doubt makes the journey down from his brows all the way to his chin. It’s a fine chin, I think. He must shave it absolutely every morning.
“But that may be all you need in this case,” I add, aiming for reassurance, and motion to my mug.
It sits on the table between us; heavy bottomed ceramic, glazed in cream and yellow, with painted blue flowers on green stems that stretch half way up the curved sides. There are no chips or cracks or stains from past beverages. The mug is most the solid object in the entire coffee shop, at least from my perspective; it occupies the occasionally indistinct and turbulent surface of the table the way a rock occupies the ocean.
“Get me a cup of your favorite coffee and then we’ll go check out the situation.”
Doubt drips off the man’s jaw to make room for the resignation and relief dancing across the bones and hollows of his cheeks. He picks up my mug by the handle.
The world snaps into sudden, sharp focus. Furniture and objects gain distinct edges, no longer seeping endlessly into each other, while the skin and muscles and features of the other people in the coffee shop become opaque, their emotions and thoughts muffled until the blanket of corporal flesh. I can clearly see the fine details of the pictures on the walls and the round tables with their clustering of chairs and the for-sales mugs and tins stacked on shelves or arranged in baskets. I can look at the man carrying my mug to the counter and properly see all the ways he is entirely unlike my father. His jaw is square rather than round, hair brown and thin instead of black and full, eyes pressed in close to either side of a narrow nose bridge instead of tucked in under thick brows.
And I was right. He has a fine chin.
The man reaches the counter and places an order with the barista. I hover just behind his left shoulder, taking the chance to get a good, proper look at her.
She accents her dark eyes and brown skin with purple eyeshadow and copper lipstick, and wears her hair short and shaved on one side. She smiles at the man and casts me a look before ringing up the order. This is the first time I’ve seen her “in the skin”, as ghosts say. I’m more familiar with the sight of exhaustion pouring down from her forehead and onto the shoulders of her company-issued shirt and apron. I’ve grown used to the way the edges of her fingers melt down into the beverages she makes, leaving little bits of herself in each creation.
Of course, that’s all metaphysical. In the reality of the living, her flesh holds snug against her bones. I can never settle on which look I prefer.