Semi-Daily Scribbles

A kid on the fringe, Mae's talent (survival skill, really) is her readiness to answer any question lobbed at her. She spits out the first thing that comes to mind when asked, "How old are you?" or "Where are your parents?" or "Did you sleep in the park last night?"

28

K.L.

I go where Sadalmelik and Sadalsuud are brightest.

Answers are easy, especially when there is so little variety in what is asked. Mae's quick thinking can be seen as a cover, out-and-out lies to hide behind. But Mae's learned along the way nobody likes bad news. The misfortunes of others make most people uncomfortable, and no one ever has anything interesting to say after a sob story. Mae keeps her conversations quick and light. There's nothing to know beyond what she tells the blue uniform, or the sandwich lady, or the boy on the bench with his teeth kicked in.

It was first take, out of the gate magic. You'd say it was beginner's luck, but that's such a cheap, throwaway line. Success like that, like what I had, didn't happen often. So naturally, stupid newbie that I was, I didn't think all the curiosity was a big deal. There I was, everyone's favorite flavor, and not once did it occur to me something else was at work. Didn't even bother to keep a diary so I could remember half the shit that went on. I was knee deep in everything I ever wanted, and I held you in the palm of my hand. Today, I would trade my soul to have a couple of those good years back. Something happened while I was preoccupied with all the window dressing. Blinded by the glitz and all I have to show for my 15 minutes is a bleeding ulcer. A lot of guilt, too. Of course the gravy train would keep on rolling. How could it not? Well, the wheels fell off and I have the answers to absolutely nothing. I've got to wonder if the man behind the curtain made an arrangement with The Fates to kick me off the mountain as soon as I got to the top. I mean, I fell hard. Really hard. I blew through all of my good stuff a dozen years ago. What happened?

There were conversations in the grocery store, or at the bus stop, no one but Brenda could hear. Floorboards squeaked when she was the only one in the house. Brenda's upstairs bedroom could feel like a meat locker in the middle of August. There were just no good reasons for any of the things Brenda regularly heard and felt. Or saw, for that matter. Mornings would be sad, dull affairs if her friendly helping hand didn't toast the bread and brew the coffee. Having someone, or a partial someone, make breakfast for her freed up Brenda's time so she could work on her memoir. She remembered waking up in the hospital, strapped to the bed and sweaty. A gentle voice near Brenda's ear said she'd be o.k. A helping hand wiped away her tears. Monitors beeped and blinked. Brenda didn't know where to go from there and stared at the blank page. She was grateful for the steaming mug handed to her as she searched for the right words.