Flash Fiction - Oracle - O

The Sock Drawer Oracle

Lissa slammed the bedroom door behind her and hurled her lavender backpack across the room. It slid to the edge of her bed, balancing precariously for a moment before the momentum of the textbooks sent it to the floor. She leaned back against the poster-covered door, teen boy bands and actors under twenty taped over the faded rainbow and unicorns her mom painted years earlier. Her hand fumbled with the lock as she tried to catch her breath, racing home from the bus and sprinting up the stairs causing her lungs to burn.

He knew her name. Patrick Masters knew her name.

Slow down. You've got to form the question before you touch it or it won't work. Slow down. 

Lissa's internal talk allowed enough time for her lungs to quit threatening to seize up. Her hands began sweating, so she rubbed them carefully against the pale blue of her jean shorts and paced from her door to the bed.

Okay, you've only loved him since second grade. How could you not be freaking out right now? He suddenly knows your name and you're going to be on the dance committee together. 

She replayed the end of the day over and over again. Her delight that Patrick showed up to the first committee meeting. Her shock when he said, exactly, "Later, Lisa" after the bell rang. Lisa was close enough to Lissa as long as you ignored her name being short for Melissa. If he called her Betty, she'd beg her parents to have her name legally changed. The name wasn't nearly as important as the fact that he knew she existed.

Lissa's pacing stalled out and she stepped up to her dresser. Her hands hovered over the top, palms just above the only cleared space on the otherwise cluttered area. The surface was littered with perfume bottles, spilled nail polish, half a million bobby pins, a broken yo-yo, four makeup kits, a fossilized licorice rope, a camp canoe trophy, old birthday cards, and two stuffed cartoon characters. But centered at the front was a completely cleared rectangle of white washed, shabby chic wood.

According to Amanda, who sat behind her in geography, shabby chic is so three years ago and only poor people and cat ladies would dare own it. It had been three years since the only time Amanda had been invited to Lissa's house for a sleepover. Amanda left before midnight and Lissa had overheard from Amanda's mom when she picked her up that Amanda had never managed to sleep away from home a single night yet. Lissa's bedroom set might be out of fashion, might, but she was able to sleep over at her friends' houses and go away to camp every summer. Suck it, Amanda.

Taking a steadying breath, Lissa focused on her question and pressed her palms lightly to the wood.

"Will Patrick Masters kiss me at the formal?"

The phone rang downstairs, the muffled noise fading into the background as Lissa's hands slipped down the front of the dresser. She pulled open the top drawer and carefully retrieved a black sphere roughly twice the size of a baseball. The girl lifted it over her head, both arms fully extended, and shook it three times. Lissa lowered the orb and turned it over in her hands.

OUTLOOK UNCLEAR

Lissa stared at the prefab message in dismay. This was the best it had to offer? She chucked the toy back into the drawer. It rolled between her zombie squirrel socks and the purple toe socks she absolutely had to have but never wore. She slammed the drawer shut. She'd been so sure the plastic ball would give her some confirmation, something more to obsess over when she called Karlie later to dissect every shred of the 15 second interaction that surely would lead to marriage and babies.

“I just want to know about my first kiss!”

Lissa slapped her hands on the dresser in frustration, sending Doc Doberman’s fuzzy form to the floor. She shrieked her outrage to the empty room. Why did life have to be so difficult?

She was so lost in her personal agony, Lissa didn't notice the soft purple glow around the edges of her sock drawer. Her first thought was the fortune telling toy had cracked, leaking out into the dresser. Her mom would kill her if she ruined any furniture. She paused as she reached out to open the drawer. Wait, if the goo inside was glowing, was it dangerous?

Lissa watched the drawer and sniffed twice. There was no smoke, no burning smell. She couldn't just leave it spilling, or worse, glowing. Mom would notice that. Resolved to prevent a parental meltdown, she opened the drawer.

Instantly the room was enveloped in a silver mist, the air cool and damp. The purple light radiated from the entirety of the opening, but nothing was visible. No zombie squirrels, no broken toy, no light source. Not even the wood of the bottom of the drawer. Lissa shivered, half from the sudden temperature drop, half from shock.

“In days of old, you would have had to present a worthy offering just to be allowed in my presence. Now I am reduced to in-dwelling visits at your whim.”

The disembodied voice, a woman, reminded Lissa of the actresses in the Shakespeare productions her mom dragged her to with annoying regularity. Dramatic and cultured. Kind of full of themselves.

“Yet for all the passage of time and changes in the world certain things do not change. The young man you desire is unworthy. You will regret the moment your paths entwine if you pursue him. Antiope’s history would be happier than your own.”

“Uh, what?”

A heavy sigh came from the voice.

“There is malice, aggression and a need to control in him. He would take that which you would not freely give, then so much more. He hides his true face from the world.”

Oh.  Lissa's dad would say he's like a gift wrapped pile of shit. Her heart sank.

“Thank you?” Lissa wasn't sure what to say to a voice coming from a bright light in the top of her dresser, especially one with an uncomfortable prediction about her crush of the last six years.

“Mm. Should you have a need in the future, I will be available. Within reason. I shall take my leave of you now with two parting thoughts.”

“Oh, okay.” Lissa wondered if she should take notes, but she didn't think she could move at the moment.

“First, the beginning of your love affairs will be better served if you wait until the full bloom of June's heat.”

Lissa nodded dumbly. What did that even mean?

“And second, this globe of false prophesy should be removed from your chambers with haste.”

“Is it evil,” Lissa wondered with growing interest.

“Of course not! It is ridiculous and makes a mockery of thousands of years of our history.”

“There are more of, well,” Lissa faltered, “of, um, you?”

“Perhaps. I will not return until the device is gone.”

The mist dissipated and the purple light winked out. Lissa’s eyes scanned the ordinary contents of the drawer. She rifled through dozens of pairs of socks, shaking the diary hidden in back, but nothing unexpected was revealed.

Lissa scooped up the false fortune telling ball and examined it closely. It looked exactly the same as it ever did. She glanced at the stuffed dog on her floor, then up to the clear space of white wood. There were a smattering of water drops, like when her mom setup the humidifier to full blast as soon as anyone in the house coughed.

Lissa was down the stairs in less time than it took to fumble with her bedroom door lock. The round toy sunk to the bottom of the garbage can in the garage. Lissa was extra careful when she closed the lid, as though needing to be sure the object was secured inside.

On her way back up to her room, Lissa wondered if maybe this wasn't something she should tell Karlie.

No - N

Non, Nyet, Nein, Na, Nope, Nee, Nahin... etcetera, so on and so forth.

I know plenty of people who have a hard time with the word. I'm not alone in this.

While I try to be more open and not so quick to say no to something or someone unfamiliar, I tend to struggle more with saying no when I need to and not being manipulated into saying yes. 95% to the benefit solely of the person who won't take my no as the end of the matter.

I'm not talking about someone who legitimately has a crisis out of their control and needs the support. I'm talking about the folks who ALWAYS have a crisis, typically of their own creation because they're bored (aka crave drama), who need to be in charge of you with passive aggressive finesse.

Ahem. Working on a bit of baggage there.

Much like the quest for inner peace or personal happiness, or in fact, exactly in sync with them, being able to say no without apology, explanation or guilt is up to me.

Digging a little deeper beneath the surface of people pleasing, going beyond the layer of fear of rejection and replacement is the fear of missing out or being left out. I don't want to miss the party. I don't want to be left out of the fun. Even if whatever is happening isn't something I would have chosen to be a part of.

This is my own problem to work out, not someone else's. And I'm at the stage where I'm comfortable with my detachment from needing extraneous people's acceptance. I worried about it for a while, this current state of not giving a damn about being pulled hither and thither (Triple word score, because I said so.). And I sat with it. And I ruminated. And despite my inner nag telling me I'm being an asshole, I realized that I still have empathy and wish people well and all that jazz. My not-give-a-damn about same shit, different day is my mind's way of saying: N-O. And if people who need an audience for their histrionics (The coffee is strong today. Mmmm, behold the force!) are upset about that, THAT is their problem. Because it's no longer mine. Which is a beautiful and peaceful thing.

And I promise, I used the word and so much on purpose.

Muse - M

Some (or sinew if autocorrect is to be believed) days the idea faucet flows freely and others (aka most)  it's like pulling teeth to string 100 semi-cohesive words together for this blogging challenge.

And once I've cobbled an idea together, usually within 20 minutes of clicking the publish button, I'm flooded with other, more interesting topics I could have more thoroughly articulated. Hindsight is a manipulative bitch.

So ‘M’ is for muse, because manipulative bitch felt a tad aggressive. ‘M’ could be for one of my favorite swear words, made oh so eloquent by Samuel L. Jackson, but my coffee has kicked in so I'll manage not to write an ode to swearing. At least until ‘S’. At that point, I make no guarantees.

Writing has been my guilty little aspiration until recently. Who am I kidding, I still take a lot of crap from people who view it as a self-indulgent and delusional hobby. The handful of people who offered encouragement over the years, mostly teachers or my husband (who in all honestly encourages with the hopes that I someday write a string of bestsellers and make him a kept man), are silenced by those who view the whole idea with contempt, manuscript unseen.

It has taken some time to offer my ideas to other writers in brainstorming sessions. To my surprise though, I’m usually met with, well, surprise. Probably more from the volume of ideas I suggest rather than quality. (Naughty, naughty self-esteem. Pull yourself together.) Either way, it was one of the first times it had ever occurred to me that not everyone who puts words to screen/paper/coffee cups/pizza boxes has a never ending stream of ideas. Certainly they’re not all winners, but I can keep going until I spit out something that can be worked with.

Is this muse? Is this an overactive imagination? Is this something that requires prescription medication? For the sake of argument, I’ll go with some of column A and some of column B. (We aren’t going to entertain column C at the moment. I can keep myself quietly amused, so I’m harmless.)

I have notebooks, discs and flash drives full of the random ideas that come to mind. I have been known to completely zone out in a movie theater because five seconds of a screen time is enough to get my mind racing while I piece together an outline for the duration of the picture. I have woken up with entire scenes, an overall plot outline or fully formed characters. As long as my brain is left alone to puzzle over a topic long enough, I can figure out something to do with it. I’m a marathon writer. Stories on the fly, quick writing prompts, timed writing? Those are never going to be my strengths. But I take it from the open mouthed gapes of a few writing friends when I do share an idea that there may be something to my process after all.

Come to think of it, maybe they're afraid...

My muse(s) doesn’t necessarily appreciate the blogging situation. And I’m sure there are plenty of people who will tell me (and have done so) that I’m doing it wrong. But I’m using it as a personal challenge, a sort of thrown gauntlet to stretch my muse(s) and push myself in a direction I’m not decades-long comfortable with. The muses, like myself, bitch about discomfort but ultimately are enhanced by it. And who am I trying to kid? Unless my muse has a hyperactive disorder, there’s got to be a whole Greek chorus up in there.   

Flash fiction - Longing - L

Carter watched the trio approach from the other side of the quad. Marci, Sean and Dina took the bus together from the Wisteria Vistas apartment complex ten miles away from Citron State. They, along with Carter and four other students of the Thursday night HUM 2234 class met up each Saturday morning for study group when the former community college campus was more or less deserted. Carter, along with Greg, Ben, Talia and Kristy, worked full time office jobs and tended to tease the younger group about their carefree schedules. Most of the time they didn't even sound bitter.

Unlike his other, adultier co-students, Sean made Carter think about what life would be like if he were about eight years younger. If someone who looked like Sean and smiled like Sean had been a part of his first college experience. Someone who made him too tongue tied to speak. Someone who made Carter's insides full of butterflies confined by twisty knots. 

And each Saturday, the professional grown up and title processor by weekday would hide behind his laptop reviewing notes on the Enlightenment and stealing glances at the beautiful blonde Adonis who always managed to sit just within his direct line of sight. Marci, it was clear, found Sean equally appealing, but youth, inexperience, and willful disregard blinded her to Sean's lack of interest. Carter was sure it probably would not be her last crush on someone looking for a little... more than she had to offer. Sean goodnaturedly put up with her hands-on flirtations, but wasn't subtle in mentioning how well his dates with the lively Mike were going.  

Carter hated every fiber of the legendary Mike's being.

Watching her rub Sean's shoulders, as she was doing now while they waited for Kristy and her brother Ben to finish up at the often unmanned coffee cart nearby, made Carter's hands itch to slap her own away. He could never be so aggressive. The coke-bottle glasses and overbite might be long gone, but the insecurity remained. So he inched closer to thirty alone, going back to school in his spare time and dreaming about the younger man mere feet away with his whole life ahead of him. He had life insurance and a 401K. Sean had to bum change to ride the bus half the time. But he was so pretty to look at. 

Carter sunk lower behind his screen, praying the flush creeping up his cheeks looked like a sunburn. Sean laughed at a filthy joke Dina told. Something twisted in Carter's stomach, coiling hotly around the base of his spine.

"Your parents must be so proud." Greg dropped down beside Carter and offered the giggling trio a withering glare. Carter nodded silently in greeting to the middle school guidance counselor. Greg's attitude towards the younger group, heavily affected by the hours spent with foul-mouthed preteens, added to Carter's shame in his attraction to Sean. The kid was barely old enough to buy his own beer. But his eyes sparkled with all the brilliance of the finest jewels. 

Karma - K

Karma, as defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary, is the force generated by a person's actions held in Hinduism and Buddhism to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person's next existence. Karma - Merriam-Webster It’s become a popular idea, at least among people I know and social media sites I follow, to apply it like a ticking time bomb of paybacks. The variety that tend to be a bitch.

In my blue collar, Middle America upbringing, I was introduced to the idea of Karma pretty early. My dad is something of a displaced Renaissance man. A man of endless interests and an aptitude to learn damn near anything and everything he puts his mind to. I grew up with magazines on astronomy, history and humor right alongside my copies of Wee Wisdom, a now defunct children’s spiritual periodical that focused mainly on being a good person and doing good things as opposed to shoving fire and brimstone down my throat (At least as far as I remember - I may have blocked out anything I found angry or distasteful), which was my mom & grandma’s contribution to the reading material available to me as a kid. The magazines were on top of regular visits to whatever library we lived near and bookcases full of Reader’s Digest compendiums and various fiction and nonfiction tomes on just about anything.

I hasten to point out that my mom and religion tends to be a touchy area. As can happen with some people who have certain varieties of mental illness, her problems could be at their worst when she hit a stage of religious zealot. My dad on the other hand, gave me a very pragmatic view of life, religion, spirituality and such. Which is bringing me back to Karma, I swear.

I asked, at maybe seven or eight, if my dad believed in God. I’d noticed Mom sitting with her Bible on tape when she wasn’t quite herself and my dad’s complete disdain for organized religion. Before I was born and before Mom got sick, my parents were regular church goers who taught Sunday school. A decade plus later, I was curious about my dad’s belief system. Probably because I was beginning to form my own. My dad had always been very vocal that religion was a personal choice that each person and I was finally old enough to be curious to compare notes.

The most important thing I took from that conversation, something that I remember to this day, is that he believed in a higher power. We’d gotten through too many difficult situations and had too many strange things occur for there not to be something bigger at play. I recall, with great clarity, being awed by his answer. My daddy, the guy who I figured was able to hang the moon in the sky, believed in something greater than himself. He just didn’t believe in the people who told other people what they had to believe. Or else. That made a lot of sense to me. My dad can make compelling arguments. He also forgets to turn off lights and would be perfectly happy to survive on meat, potato chips, and homemade baked goods. I never said he was perfect.

As I got older and experienced the highs and lows life had to offer, I started accruing that life experience business that contributes to how you view the world. And I realized, life has a funny way of, shall we say, balancing the scales. In time, Dad would offer, with saccarine glee, to let Karma handle situations out of our control. It actually fits along well with my grandma’s advice, handed down to my mom: put it in God’s hands. It seemed to me that God’s hands were called upon when you were in a difficult spot. Karma was expected to kick in and take care of people who contributed to the situation once you made it through. Admittedly, of a more punitive approach. Old Testament vengeance.

I subscribe to a little more active take on Karma, in terms of trying to put good out in the world. I believe that it’s important, but I’m constantly at war with the snide little devil on my shoulder, with a tone that suspiciously mimics my father’s, urging me to take a walk on the low road every once in a while. Or… like, all the time. Not to say that my dad's a vengeful or low road kind of person. His youth was just a little more colorful than mine. And though I've inherited his temper, he's got a hair trigger when it comes to putting up with other people's bullshit.

I don’t necessarily want to subscribe to a punitive higher being or energy in the universe. But I also don’t want assholes, backstabbers and generally not good people to run rampant with impunity. So instead I’ll keep believing that by doing good (as best I can anyway) and praying for good, that good things will occur. And, as the need arises, a butthole will get theirs and perhaps have a change in attitude.

So be the good you want to see in the world, because the assholes seem to be breeders.

Jubilant Jointed Jellyfish - J

I am as joyful about 'J' as I was about 'E'. Blame it on the biorhythms, or my joints alerting me to drop in air pressure and the storm that should be here in a few days. I had lots of ideas, nothing that leapt across the desk, grabbed me by the collar and demanded immediate, rabid attention.

Not that H for Handshake, or many of my other posts, is my best effort. I'm better, IMHO, in something a bit more long form.

Regardless of whether or not I chafe at this particular constraint, the show must go on.

'J' is for juggling. Juggling what can feel like a thousand plates in the air and spending most of the time praying they don't crash down around you.

Modern life feels like a gjinormous juggling act. Work, home, social, community, family, self. Broad topics that break down into those thousand plates I mentioned.

I also think that over time we've been conditioned to apologize for not having more plates in the air, for not having the juggling act down to perfection.

So for everyone frantically running about trying to keep fine china in the air, it's going to be okay and perfection isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Flash Fiction - Imposter - I

I got off the train at quarter to eleven and trudged across the muddy lot to Betsy. Betsy, a nine year old Toyota hatchback with pockmarks from hail and worn tires, showed her age. I knew the feeling. I had to press the unlock button on the car remote three times before a half-hearted flash of headlights accompanied the sound of the driver's side door unlocking. I plopped myself into the bucket seat, quickly pulled my mire-caked sneakers off and dumped them in an ancient plastic shoe box for the ride home. Aching feet melt into a pair of ballet flats for the ride home. Ain't commuting grand?

I rev the engine once I'm settled, increasingly relieved that Betsy still comes to life without hesitation after all these years. I worry that my concern may be an omen of an impending repair. Under the hood expenses would further delay the needed tire replacement I'd been saving up for since the summer. Even my worries have worries. Modern life, full of antibiotics and random, compounding expenses. Now that you can survive, can you afford to?

On my hour long train ride, I catch up on my latest trashy escapism of choice, otherwise known as genre fiction. Today, it's a mage on a quest to reclaim his grandfather's hamster bone wand (Who thinks this stuff up?). Last week it was a young woman who inherits a general store on a spooky island. I got an email from the library's digital collection this afternoon, letting me know that next week it'll be the inspiring tale of four generations of women and the stories they've shared over jam making. That's sure to be a real page turner.

For the last twenty minutes of my commute, I listen to self-esteem guru du jour, Maximus Alder, try to build me up in his dulcet tones. Probably not the best choice to keep me awake on the drive home after a long day in the trenches, but I dutifully repeat after him and before I know it, I'm pulling into the parking space outside of my doorstep. The light flickers over my door, the yellow glow claiming another mosquito victim in the night. Bug light, one, mosquitoes, infinity.

I carry my box of crusty shoes inside to rinse off in the shower. I've stepped onto the back patio, where a faucet for a garden hose is, exactly once. I estimated the snake skin to be a good four feet long, but it's hard to be sure. I froze in place just as the mummy-bandage-thick layers of spider webs enfolded my head and shoulders. I sucked in air to scream, something completely automatic in my skin crawling revulsion, and received a wad of desiccated bug remains square in the middle of my tongue. A little mud down the drain is a fair trade off to never open the back door again.

Keys, coat, messenger bag, phone. They all go in their proper places, hooks or the yard sale accent table with a huge chunk burned out of the top. At three dollars, I didn't ask. A piece of cardboard and a bit of clearance fabric later my bargain adequately serves its purpose. Which is what I feel like my epitaph will eventually be.

She adequately served her purpose.

Maybe I need to listen to Mr. Alder's podcast a little more often. I don't think the message is taking.

By the time I'm slumped on my love seat with the television on for background noise and the laptop balanced on the armrest, I feel defeat rising. I keep trying this meaningful social interaction by way of technology, but it rings more hollow as time goes by. I must not have the Midas touch for social media. No one from the office likes my posts. Nobody favorites my pictures. Zero retweets. Not a single comment on the blog. I sink straight from dismay to despair.

Dutifully, I make my usual updates and skim my regular feeds. I'm sure everyone else's life isn't as grand as they portray it to be, but it doesn't stem the feeling that I've taken on a kind of half-life. It's clear Marjorie Cleary never had much going for her and there's precious little to do about it now. Stay the course, that's what's been drilled into my thoughts from my earliest memories. Get up, go out, stick to the routine, go home, reset, do it all again the next day. How long can I keep this up? How does anybody keep this up?

I click the laptop closed a good hour later, casting aside the television remote to the far corner of the love seat after I turn that off as well. Regrettably, I don't take advantage of the new nasal cleaning machine advertised at an insanely low price advertised by a benevolent company thinking only of the greater good. I scratch an itch in front of my right ear as I climb the stairs of the townhouse and my fingernail finds a patch of dry skin beginning to flake. Time to reset indeed.

Inside the master bedroom, I head straight for the closet and pull down the access ladder to the small attic each unit in the complex has. The dim light cast from a single, bare bulb in the uppermost storage space isn't visible from the porthole style window to the outside. A few layers of heavy duty foil took care of that. I close the hatch behind me and balance my feet on two of the beams running above the plaster of the ceiling below me. The itch is spreading down to my jaw, as is usual for this time of day. I'd think it was an allergy to something in the apartment, but I know better.

In the musty space, maybe two thirds the size of the master bedroom, there's a seat akin to a dentist chair and a long steamer trunk covered in dust. The chair has glassy trays the length and width of an adult's forearm with a deep groove carved down the middle of each one. The trunk appears old enough to house enough spiders to cripple a child with nightmares for the rest of his or her life. I run my hands along the top of it until I hear the hiss of the seal breaking and the front and lid fold away revealing a restrained form of a woman in her mid-twenties.

"Long day at the office today. How did you put up with Natalie constantly badgering you to buy her slimming shakes and body contouring wraps? Honestly, it's enough to drive a person insane."

Her mouth is covered, so of course I receive no reply. Why should this part of my day be any different than the rest? The itching along my face demands satisfaction, so I finally and blessedly peel away the human face the covers my own. The hooks that keep the mouth lined up with my own, the better to hide the fact I have two sharp plates for teeth instead of the ridiculous variety human evolution has chosen, come free with all the relief of removing a belt after a heavy meal. I sigh in delight as I wipe away the layer of viscous mucus and membranes that protect my sensitive skin from the human tissue that covers it.

Gently I wipe away the infected fluid oozing from my auditory canals, the pus a reaction to having the human skin covering the necessary airflow that would ordinarily prevent irritation. Human skin doesn't appreciate my bodily systems either, thus the reason the skin flakes and dries out when I wear it too long.

The real Marjorie Cleary watches me with practiced disgust. As though she hasn't seen me shed a bioidentical shell of her skin for the better part of a year already. I pat her on the head, evoking nothing more than a mild shudder between the heavy sedation and effective restraint system. Carefully I walk from beam to beam to get to my real job. As I settle into my chair, I peel off the Marjorie skin covering my 'arms'. I stick a skeletal finger into the framework at the wrist to disengage the framework that recreates Marjorie's forearms and hands over my tentacles. Just as the casing on the trunk did, the frame neatly folds away, tucking back into where a human's kidneys and intestines would be.

After I've submitted my report, I'll put the Majorie casing in with the real thing. The overnight 'soaking' process helps both the upkeep as well as continuing the minute aging process of the skin that occurs day to day in a human life. Marjorie will get her life back eventually and on that day she'll look exactly as I did on my last day as her. Down to the crinkling beginning to happen around her eyes. Details are important.

"Reconnaissance three dash star primary, Earth plan fifty-two. Identity is compromise-free. Still no indication in this quadrant that the people could handle an interplanetary meeting. Recommend maintaining silence with everyone outside of first contact protocols. Ambassadors Tyson and Hawking continue to be correct in their analysis. Subject continues to reject a give and take reciprocity scenario and remains humanely quarantined. Subject shows marked improvement after stasis chamber detected and removed rapid growing tumors of an aggressive nature from the respiratory system.

Observation through immersion continues. Tedium remains an issue with daily living, as was expected. Culture and entertainment pursuits continue to be a highlight, though by no means on par with our own. At this time, there is nothing of merit to report. Instructions to maintain current position and plan understood and accepted. End transmission. Date and send."

My right appendage slithered across my bumpy green face, my eye lids swirling closed like the aperture of a human camera. My auditory canals already felt better, the drainage almost stopped.

It was easier to undulate down the stairs after I tucked Marjorie in again, the human legs make climbing the ladder more than a little awkward. I do it, but I don't care for it. I leave the floral kimono I donned after work in the attic. I don't care much for the look of the second skin upon mine, so it's become my go-to apparel in the home. I'll wear it in the morning after putting the casing on for the day.

The en suite bathroom's tub is half full of iridescent gray gel. Out of habit I've already added my daily nutrition supplement into the cool goo when I first get home. When it's time for bed, to borrow an expression from my human colleagues, I prefer to have things ready and waiting so I can just slip in. I understand this usually has to do with the process of laundering bed clothing or clearing clutter from the bed space.

The replenishment plasma is the best part of my day, the thing I look forward to most when dealing with strange human customs. I ease in, not wanting to waste a drop of the welcoming balm it offers. I stare at the ceiling through the thick gelatinous matter. As my eye lids spin shut, I happily drift and hope the morning doesn't come too soon.