Semi-Daily Scribbles

Too many years and too many excuses may make this a futile attempt, but sometimes vast expanses can be bridged. Like so many footprints in the sand, time washes away all those tentative steps that got us nowhere. But, then again, here we are. Let's move beyond formalities and pick up the conversation as if nothing disturbed it in the first place.

Nothing.

Daunting blank page. Glaring white, taunting space. Empty. Waiting for something. I just don't do this very much anymore. A whim and a dumb idea to try and write a letter. Keep the hand moving, right?

So, what do you do? Always thought that was an odd question. Open ended, so difficult to explain. Shall I go into detail for you as to how I make my living? What I do when I'm not "working." What I'm really doing when I'm "working." And another one: "What brought you here?" I promised myself I wouldn't ask, but now I'm holding the record for most promises broken. That's fine. Pick your time, make your call. Check your hand again. I'll even write the salutation. So many words to convey so few thoughts.

It used to be the slightest noise would reverberate throughout your skull like a sonic boom. Sleeping was impossible. Conversations were problematic. You once asked where to draw the line. Don't worry. Something good will come of this. It used to be fun running from our multiple personalities. But now? It's no longer a game. We've been out-bluffed, out-witted, and now we're out-of-luck. Share your thoughts. Clear my head.

Dear me.

A veil. Brain fog. Emptiness.

Zoë thought the words were apt descriptions for how she felt every time she left Hawksview. The words were also the reason why she couldn't stay away from home for long, no matter how much the old haunts made her miserable. Once Zoë crossed over the border separating The Fowler Ridge Reserve from the rest of the world, she could think. She could sort things out and piece together what her life was before she left the boundaries. Before she searched far and wide for the only connection she had to the truth.

Alex.

He was real. Somewhere. It didn't matter if he was a blood relation or not. Zoë grew up knowing Alex was her brother.

Karla wanted a way out. Out from under her desk, her lease, her self-imposed exile from the people who knew her true nature. No one in the office believed for a minute she was a native of their fine, fly-over state, home to miles and miles of corncobs and hogs as far as the eye could see. That was all right. Karla didn't even mind the rumors, really. They were silly, harmless things like "Did you know Karla used to be a nun?" and "I heard she sends most of her paycheck to her relatives in the Old Country." There was, of course, some truth to the gossip, but Karla's story was not shaped in a way that could be easily swallowed in casual conversation.

"Why yes," Karla spoke aloud to the large drip coffee maker in the break room. "I do take care of my family in Romania. As you know," Karla paused to look for a clean mug in the cupboard above the sink, "the dead are always hungry, and they expect to be kept in the lifestyle to which they've been accustomed." Karla sipped the weak, stale coffee and hoped for the raise her boss had promised once she hauled in the coveted Bishop account.