by Heather Wood
The stars twinkled down at her like sequins from one of Comet’s elaborate gowns. Gazing up into the stars, she drew in a deep breath. The stars never made Rae feel lonely or distant. Instead the bright points felt familiar, friendly, like they were just about to speak to her.
“Is that why I want to be up among them?” She whispered.
"Good question," answered a soft, deep voice.
Rae spun around; she hadn't realized she'd said the words out loud. She was alarmed to see the soulful eyes of Gno Knuffin staring back at her.
Before she could move, or scream, or even flinch, Knuffin had a hand pressed against her left ear. Instantly, Rae fell to the ground, unconscious.
Gno knelt down and hovered his wrist over her forehead. Small strings of light webbed between them as he touched his skin to hers. He closed his eyes, and beneath his lids, his pupils scanned back and forth, rapidly searching her DNA for information.
Suddenly, his eyes flew open, and he snatched his wrist away. He looked down at the sleeping woman, shocked. But he recovered himself and reached into his leather side pouch. Pulling out a small, flat disc, he gently inserted it into Rae's mouth, then strode off into the night.
8.
Ember shivered. The hold was freezing, cold as Lunalet’s soul. Then she shook her head hard; had she grown so soft that the dampness of the stockade should cause her to react physically? The dark grey stone walls were moist and mossy, bearing huge and heavy shields of the Lunar Noir Faction. The iron-alloy which her people used to have in such abundance was wasted in molding into elaborate crests and insignias to bolster Lunalet’s ego. She had gone so far as to commission a cameo design, reflecting her profile, that adorned everything in the HQ that wasn’t nailed down. Staring at the heavy icicles that hung in the corner, she gritted her teeth. This indignity would not go unanswered; Ember was not a first-year petty officer. Scowling, she brooded over how Lunalet could dismiss her so autocratically.
"There is nothing I can do to regain my standing while I'm sitting here," she growled. The guards had chained her quite effectively to one of the stockade's moonstone benches. They were intended to be uncomfortable affairs, no backs to rest against and constructed just high enough that one's feet dangled. The cuffs, which were clasped round her wrists, were soldered to 3-inch chains that were driven by alloy spikes into the seat of the bench on either side of her hips. Such an arrangement made prisoners unable to shield themselves from the guards' vengeful blows, but capable of planting their palms to avoid falling off the bench when they were struck.
Thoughtful.
Suddenly, the heavy door opened, and the enormous guard who had secured her shackles entered. Ember's backbone shot to its full height; her ponytail snapped back, and she set her gaze on the opposite wall. She sat like that for at least 10 minutes, while the lumbering figure paced back and forth, and then finally settled heavily onto the bench across from her.
Removing his regulation military helmet, the guard looked earnestly into her face.
"Captain? May I speak freely?"
Ember sneered.
"I'm not a 'captain' anymore...remember?" She sighed and surveyed the gloomy form slouched before her. "What's your name, soldier?"
He leapt to attention. "Private Ithes, ma'am."
A short burst of laughter choked Ember as she recalled an Earther song she'd heard on their radio system. She squinted up at him. "Seriously? So you're 'watching me'?"
"Yes, ma'am. Private Ithes is watching you."
"Would you say you see my every move?"
Ithes looked puzzled. "Well, maybe not every move, but..."
Ember dissolved into helpless giggles. Her ponytail trembled in glee.
"....Ma'am...?" Ithes grew concerned. Perhaps the stockade had already begun to make the captain soft in the head.
"Yes, yes. What is it that you want to say, Ithes?"
He gulped nervously. His eyes darted around the room, then he cleared his throat.
"There is a concern- a worry- amongst the HQ regiment, that the commander has grown...dictatorial in her leadership." Here he searched Ember's face for signs of reproach, but finding none, he went on. "We believe that the success of your mission is our best hope of survival. So...we'd like to help."
Shock flashed through Ember's eyes before being replaced by a steely determination. A wry smile played at her lips, as she intoned: “Accepted."
◆◆◆
Rae awoke to find herself shivering and confused on the ground. How did she get here? What had happened? She remembered Comet leaving the shop and locking up, but beyond that....? Badly shaken, and more than a little achy, Rae gingerly stood up and examined herself. She had no wounds, no signs of trauma. If she'd been attacked, it certainly didn't look or feel like it.
Should I call the police?
But what could she tell them? She passed out for no reason outside the Griffith observatory? What was the crime?
She didn't even consider calling a doctor. Medical professionals always fixated on her low body temperature and her slow heart rate. It made her uncomfortable and tended to distract from getting any real diagnosis.
So, slowly and cautiously, she scanned her surroundings. The evening air was clear. A breeze ruffled the wild grasses and mustard plants around her. She couldnt' shake the feeling that someone was watching.
Quickly, she made her way to her car, eager to get home to Comet and some hot tea.
It was at the stoplight on Fairfax and Santa Monica that it happened.
It had happened before, but this was the first time it happened in the waking world.
The intersection was crowded; BMW's, scooters, and beat up four-bangers jostled to cut each other off as they blazed across Fairfax Avenue in front of her. The competition would only intensify when their light turned yellow. Pedestrians crossed slowly, only inches away from the metal and rubber death race, oblivious.
Rae watched her red light as if in a dream. She had never blacked out like she had tonight, at least, not for no reason.
Happily, she found some Top Ramen in the glove compartment (shrimp flavored) and a scoop of crunchy peanut butter at the bottom of a jar in her back seat.
Heaven.
There was a styrofoam crunch as Rae bit off another chunk of dry ramen. She dipped the end into the peanut butter and sprinkled some more of the shrimp flavor packet over the whole thing.
She had to hurry, the light would change soon.
The world moved fast around Rae; she was often the slowest moving piece.
But suddenly, Rae gasped. She watched as the world slowed down twenty clicks.
The metal chain of cars in front of her slackened, as if caught in slow-motion. The honk from a BMW, the driver upset that a Honda wasn’t going fast enough, pulled and stretched to the point that Rae could hear the spaces between the sound waves, making the world echo.
A pedestrian, carrying a bag of wildly overpriced designer groceries, stretched her artfully worn-out boot as if striking a yoga pose- purposefully, intently- as it barely touched its heel to the ground, mid-step. She was precariously balanced, or had amazing hamstrings.
At some point, Rae had loosened her hold on her dinner. The processed noodle brick was on a plummeting course toward her gearshift, but it was taking its time on its way down.
Gravity.
Gravity was the bane of Rae's existence. It always had been.
Gravity was taking a vacation.
Suddenly, the stars shuddered and trickled down the dome of the sky like raindrops on a window. Rae could only watch as the celestial storm intensified, sending more and more rain until starlight was like a waterfall, and Rae was swimming right up the center. She was surrounded by light. She felt like she was flying.
In the chaos, the stars around her spread out again, slowing, the distance between them growing, looking much more like the familiar night sky, except the stars were different.
This was not her night sky.
One bright,
burning star glided toward her, introducing itself, it was ten times the size of the sun.
It grew in her vision until Rae thought she may be engulfed.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK.
Rae gasped and hit her head on the seat behind her. The whole world was honking at her. Irate Angelinos screamed at her in at least three languages.
Her ramen brick lay next to her gear shift innocently, leaving globs of peanut butter and shrimp salt all over the console.
Her light was green.
Before she could even think, she shifted into gear and took off like a rocket, leaving the disproportionately angry commuters behind… After all, they had to race home to catch “Dancing with the Stars.”
She got home in record speed, heart pounding in her ears.
◆◆◆
The place was dark when Rae got home. Her hands, usually so steady, shook a little as she unlocked her door. She dropped the keys.
She had never had such a strong vision before, uninvited. Usually it only happened if she were particularly relaxed, closing her eyes after looking at the night sky, or in her dreams, when she could remember them. At first, Rae thought everyone experienced this, but soon discovered that this little quirk was all her own. At this point, only Comet was privy to Rae's experiences. Otherwise, Rae put the images into her art.
Rae slipped into her room, flicking on the dim lamp by her bed. She pulled out her sketchbook. She knew the drill: her heart would pound and her ears would ring until she rendered the images onto the smooth paper.
Rae wiped her mouth and realized her face was covered in sweat.
She wondered if she was finally, truly, losing it.
She flipped to a blank page. Her pen flew across the white expanse, her pent-up fears and frustrations finally given free reign. Rae was not a crier. She did not weep in frustration or anger or fear, but the metaphorical tears and rages that flowed from her stylus covered the walls of her bedroom. Sometimes, if they were not too personal, they made their way to a waiting, warm piece of flesh.
However, tonight she knew this unconventional diary entry would remain in a special place, a portfolio that she hid away, and revisited on lonely nights when she wanted to wade into her nostalgia, her grief, her psyche, and examine the contents. Those nights didn’t occur often. Rae was much more content to disgorge the bile onto a canvas and be rid of it.
Every so often however, she would return again to the nagging wounds inside her….the questions that haunted her about her own existence. Why was she so different? What did the mysteries of her childhood mean for her as an adult? And did she really want the answers?
Her hands traveled unconsciously to the chain around her neck that held a smooth locket; she caressed it with her free hand, as was her custom when she drew so deeply from the heart.
9.
"Red? Or blue?"
Comet stood in front of a full length mirror; she took turns holding the sequined minidresses on hangers in front of her svelte frame. Frowning, she turned to the Pook.
"Pookie..?"
The Pook's eyes grew wide; he crunched away on a Ramen block and considered.
"Poooka?"
Comet nodded.
"You're right. Neither of them."
Walking briskly into her closet, Comet pushed past the spandex and faux fur to a hidden back corner, where earth tones gathered dust.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled out a navy-colored, tailored business suit. The skirt was a modest length; the jacket buttoned. She reached back into the rack and retrieved a pale blue button-down blouse.
She held the garments at arms length and wrinkled her nose.
"Lord have mercy."
With great distaste, she donned the offending ensemble, then pulled down a shoe box from the shelf above. A coo came from the doorway.
"Poooookaaaaa?"
"Yep. Sensible shoes." Comet stepped into the black, low-heeled monstrosities, then walked back into her bedroom.
She positioned herself in front of the mirror, then opened her eyes.
"Shit!" The contrast of her lime green curled wig against her Demi Moore 'Disclosure' get-up nearly made her wretch. Returning to the closet once more, she re-emerged wearing a brown bob.
She twisted and turned, smoothing her hem as she took in her reflection.
"Hi! I'm so glad you could make it, Mom." She tried out a warm smile, which faded on her lips. This wasn't going to be easy.
******
The plane lifted off right on time; any hope of delaying this visit was dashed when the pilot cheerfully informed the passengers that they'd be landing in Los Angeles a full 15 minutes early.
Mrs. Delancy took a deep breath and stared out the window. Her husband had refused to come; she had no energy left to fight him. However, she wanted this visit to be a success; Conrad ('no, Comet', she corrected herself) had so rarely communicated in the last 10 years, that when he ("she, SHE", Mrs. D. scolded herself) had emailed asking her to visit, she decided that it was time to make the trip, with or without Mr. Delancy.
She only knew as much as she did about her son's (daughter's, dammit!') life as she did because of the surreptitious contact she'd kept up with Rae. She'd felt torn between husband and child for so long, but had finally decided that all of that was between the two of them.
Chuckling, she remembered the one and only time she'd seen 'Comet', roughly 2 years after she'd moved away. It was Christmas, and she arrived at her childhood home looking stunning: red, low cut sweater, painted on jeans, and shiny, red heels. A Santa hat was perched jauntily on her head, covering soft blond curls.
It was their annual party, and Mr. Delancy's business pals were all well-sauced and ogling Comet as if she were a Christmas cookie. Despite herself, Mrs. Delancy had been amused and proud of her gorgeous new daughter. However, whispers turned to sneers, and before she could stop the storm, her husband was throwing Comet out into the snow.
Mrs. Delancy had pleaded and wept, but he was stubborn and old school. Silently, she drove Comet to the airport, tears on both their cheeks.
"He'll come 'round, sweetheart. I know he will."
"I don't care if he does. I am never coming to this house again."
She slammed the car door and stalked into the terminal. That was the last time they saw each other face to face.
The plane jerked; they'd hit a patch of turbulence. Mrs. Delancy reached into her purse and popped a sleeping pill into her mouth. She closed her eyes; soon enough she'd be on Comet's turf, and she prayed it would be a joyful reunion.
10.
Rae shook her head and hunched forward again, tongue curled over her lip in a grimace. It was late afternoon in the shop and everything had a golden sunny glow. Rae licked some of the cold sweat off of her upper lip. The tattoo machine buzzed, and Rae grunted in frustration as her hand trembled, right before making contact with the skin... making the fine line she was attempting to draw impossible to accomplish.
She dropped the machine onto the counter and pushed her stool back from the chair.
“Give me a minute,” she muttered to its occupant and stalked into the back.
Rae grabbed a bottle of water and chugged it. Slamming the empty plastic container against the wall, she closed her eyes.
“Get a hold of yourself.”
She hated this feeling, this sense that she didn’t have the vise-like grip on her life that she’d always thought she had. Every intake of breath fluttered in her chest, rattling her usual steadiness...and she didn’t like it.
She blinked and forced herself to take in her surroundings. Sun filtered in the dusty windows. The mini fridge buzzed. A favorite polaroid of Comet - one that had survived that strange, tiny woman’s attack weeks before - sat benignly, pinned against the wall.
Everything looked normal.
Rae swayed on her feet. Closed her eyes. A nausea swept over her, and she collapsed backwards into a nearby chair, narrowly escaping crushing her head against the wall in front of her.
Taking a deep breath, she composed herself to return to the floor. After all, this customer was not one to wait patiently. And it was bound to be a busy night...It was Halloween, and there’s nowhere like West Hollywood for the holiday.
Today’s client, Sam, looked like a corporate CEO, wearing a bespoke pantsuit, but Rae suspected that she was possibly also a trained assassin. This was not their first session, and there had been several hints to that effect in the past. For example, the woman changed uniforms quite often: last time she was here, she was dressed as a cop. The time before: a cat burglar.
Or maybe she was a stripper? Who knew?
On top of that, this afternoon, there had been an ominous clank of metal objects when Samantha took off her blazer. Nevermind the fact that, usually, buttoned-down business folks didn’t generally sport two almost-completed tattoo sleeves.
But it was not Rae's custom to ask too many questions.
This could have been considered a good strategy; unfortunately, it usually backfired, because Rae's customers took her silence to be compassionate listening.
Her customers loved hauling out all of their skeletons and dusting them off during a session.
Samantha resumed her latest pontification as Rae re-settled onto the stool beside the chair .
“…have you ever just noticed how delicate we really are? Seriously: we are just stretchy bags of blood. And water. That’s it. And hair. Lots of hair, when you include the eyelashes….”
Rae nodded and gripped the machine fiercely. With steely determination, she drew the final, perfect line. A clean curve emerged.
Rae muffled her sigh of relief.
She carefully wiped off a trickle of blood (evidence of Sam’s point). The two women studied the image: A small fox giving a sly look from behind it’s tail, which was curved around the animal, and almost hiding the glint of a tiny dagger.
