Starburst book 1

by Carol James Marshall

  Iggy

  The day felt warmer. The heat was coming and Iggy hated the heat. He wanted to escape it, but the sidewalk had him trapped and wouldn’t let him go. From somewhere buried in the depth of his brain, he remembered the beach. Cool air, salty taste, and cold water. He was too scared to go into the waves. The waves seemed impossible. The waves looked like they would suck him up and never spit him back out. No, the waves weren’t for him, but he would stand at the shoreline. The shoreline was safe and felt like the beginning of an adventure. Iggy would never go all the way to the end of the adventure; it just wasn’t in his nature.

  Then, Iggy remembered something… there were sidewalks at the beach. There were sidewalks all around the beach. Why couldn’t the sidewalks on Feline Street take him to the beach, to the cool air—to the salt? Why the sidewalks wouldn’t let him go, he couldn’t understand. He was stuck with the heat and a prisoner of the sidewalks.

  The sidewalk next to him was laughing now. Big mouths with ugly tongues sticking out, laughing louder and louder, “Pendejo…pendejo!” The sidewalk wouldn’t stop laughing at him and calling him names, “Cochino…Pendejooooooo!” The sidewalk wouldn’t shut up, it wouldn’t stop, and Iggy couldn’t stop himself; He tried to not listen. He tried to stomp on the tongues. “FUCKING SIDEWALK… FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.” Iggy tried to calm down and tried to make the sidewalk quiet, but it was too late; he felt the grab, he heard some talking, and then he was again in the back of a police car. Iggy was glad for the police car because it was cool and it was away from the sidewalk.

  Craig was watching the whole scene from his truck and laughed. He laughed because he was glad that wasn’t him. He was glad he wasn’t Dreadlock Guy and he was glad he wasn’t a cop. At least I’m not the cop… Craig thought.

  Lisa

  Lisa felt uneasy laying on the floor of her apartment; it helped a little, but not really. She knew her marks and knew that she now needed to take further steps towards touching them. She must touch them to make sure that they were the ones, but she felt uneasy. The discomfort of the unease caused her to feel further ill at ease. It seemed like an endless cycle of misery. Lisa knew all too well that laying on the floor, dwelling on her feelings instead of making plans for action, was frowned upon by the Mothers, but the Mothers were not there to see her act like such a human—at least… she didn’t think they could see her. Dwelling on feelings and emotions, instead of following the ever important plan, was taken as being humanly weak; it was not a logical reaction at all. The thing was, Lisa wasn’t dwelling on her feelings or considering her emotions. She was thinking on them—thinking of the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of what she felt, thinking of people all around her that felt the same way and of her desire to know why they felt like that. What happened to them in their lives that caused them to have those feelings? What happened to them during their day to make them feel the way they did? The stories of the people were what Lisa thought on, and she wanted to know how this feeling of unease worked on someone so very uninspired by emotion.

  So, she lay there, feeling the very old and tired carpet. The carpet felt worn out, not only in appearance, but in the very spirit of the carpet. It was as if the carpet had a soul and its soul had seen too much, tried too hard, and could no longer fake being chipper.

  Her plan was too head out, walk down the street, and somehow touch each mark to feel for the sign. The cold, itchy spot left on her skin let her know for sure whether or not they were it and would thus begin the next step in gaining their attention. Instead of walking out the door, she laid down on the living room floor, next to her front door, and there she stayed.

  Anxiety could be the issue, but her kind was not affected by such nonsense. Lisa felt that being amongst the pollutions of these humans had in turn polluted her. She had heard of empaths in her kind—those that felt what the humans felt, but they were considered cursed and unlucky. Lisa shivered at the thought. Hoping that was not what kept her from following through, she stood up and paced the room. She needed to leave, to walk outside and go… just go. She needed to start her tests, but opening the door seemed impossible. The door was the very last thing she wanted to touch. Looking at the door made her chest feel tight, as if bricks lay across her collar bones.

  It was anxiety, but she would not fess up to that. She would not give in to the notion that she could feel anxious. Unease, yes that was the case, but anxiety… anxious, how humiliating! Her kind would look down on her for such a reaction. Her kind would tell her that such reactions did not follow the pattern of what needed to be done. Step A, then Step B: there is no time for such idiocy as anxiety.

  The door was merely a door and nothing more. It represented nothing, but an exit or an entrance to a building. She knew she was playing with fire here. She knew that if she gave in to such weaknesses, then they would stick. It takes only one time to allow the weakness to win, and with that one time, it grows a root that is forever hooked in the center of your chest; in the very center of your brain, it’ll sit. It will fester and grow like a weed. You allow your weakness to win once and it’s over. She knew that. She was born and bred amongst women whose belief was just that. Just standing there, she could sense the cold stare of the Mother’s watching her. She heard the whisper of Superior Mother telling the other Mothers that, if she failed to such a pitiful thing as anxiety, then she was not one of them. She was not worthy of her birth among them.

  Those unworthy were not kept—not kept alive anyway. No one would waste resources and time on the unworthy. The Mothers would be insulted that they raised such a weakling or worse… an empath.

  Lisa screamed just once and as loud as she could. She screamed to purge her thoughts. She would not waste another second of this day. She grabbed the doorknob and went outside, striding down the street.

  First, the boy… most definitely the boy. Walk with power and conviction, she told her feet and they listened.

  Rafael

  The lady touched his arm, “Are you okay?” He’d been spinning…spinning so much that he lay in the grass in a little mess of a heap. He gazed at the lady and pulled back his arm. Her touch was cold—an itchy cold. The little boy remembered the candy and wanted to see this lady more, but the itch…the itch wouldn’t stop.

  Rafael stood up and ran inside the house, but before he did, he looked at the white-haired lady and said, “More candy?” Then, he went inside without looking back or bothering to say good-bye. Lisa smiled. Mark 4 down…. she thought and she continued walking down the street.

  Craig

  “Excuse me…this is a weird question, but do you have a sister named Jackie? I think she and I went to school together…” She lied as she shook Craig’s hand. Craig laughed and then cringed as this woman’s hands were freaking ice cold. He’d never felt anything so cold.

  “Sorry little lady, I’m an only child…” and with that, Craig took his hand back, started his truck, and waved a goodbye to her. S.O.B. thought Craig; his palm itched terribly and his hand felt frozen solid.

  Lisa nodded and boom… mark 1 was it. She continued down the street.

  Iggy

  Laying under the tree in the grocery store parking lot, Iggy felt the hot sun on his face while he slept; it was giving him endless nightmares. Then, he felt a cold rush down his neck. He gasped awake to see the lady looking at him… “Estas vivo?” She said to him with a smile. Iggy ran…he ran for blocks and blocks until he couldn’t run any more. He ran and scratched at his neck. He clawed at the frozen itchy spot on his neck where the lady had touched him.

  Lisa watched him run and contemplated whether or not she should wash her hands after him. Mark 3, gotcha.

  Maggie

  Maggie was hungry after a long day at the donut shop and laundry mat. She thought about cereal as she walked home—nothing special, just a bowl of whatever cereal and the quiet of her couch. Then, she was suddenly bumped by someone walking by and heard a ‘sorry’. The lady that had insulted her the other day touched her hand, then
kept walking. Maggie was upset, but the frost and unusual itch the lady had left on her hand distracted her from her anger.

  Lisa

  Lisa kept walking and didn’t look back. That was mark 2. She knew who they were; she knew their faces and smells. Now, she needed to understand them, befriend them, and gain their trust so that all would do as her Superior Mother wished. They all knew who she was in the most basic of ways; they knew her face. Now, it was time for them to really know Lisa without ever knowing anything about her. The tricky part was having them trust her, but not love her.

  How would she do that? How could she let them know that she was the type of friend you could call whenever for whatever? Maybe by being very jolly and friendly, or by being calm and helpful. She didn’t think her marks where the jolly and friendly type. She would look for ways to help them; look for ways to needle her way into their daily lives. She would find their weak points, find out their needs and seamlessly fulfill them. She would get it to the point where they needed her in their lives. Lisa frowned. She wasn’t sure that was the path at all. Part of her mission was succeeding on her own, from A to B, but nobody gave her a map.

  Is that it? thought Lisa, not love me, not trust me, but need me? The way into her marks lives was to find out what they needed and fill that void. Could that be possible? What kind of needs was she able to fulfill?

  She was not raised to be a person of emotion. She was not a woman of warmth and tenderness. Would she have it in her to listen to the endless chatter of their feelings? That is the typical human need; to have someone give them tenderness and someone to listen to their vomitus, never-ending babble about their daily lives. Would she absorb those feeling and join them in the sobbing, laughing, or the impossible loving?

  Lisa knew the answer to that question. Her kind was very good at deception, but how long could she handle the deception? Deception done correctly took much patience and energy. Lisa knew she had two months from Day One and not a second more to gain authority over these marks.

  On the last day, they must do as Superior Mother says without question. Would them “needing” her gain that? If you needed someone, would they do as you say without a battle? Or would gaining their trust do that? Needing someone and trusting someone is not the same thing.

  Having the marks fall in love with Lisa was out of the question. The Mothers taught her that love was the truest of all human feelings. Love was the human’s greatest weakness with the biggest dagger. There was no sense to it. No logical reason for those that love to love in such a way. Love was sticky and Lisa could not tolerate sticky.

  Craig

  Craig continued rubbing his palm against his jeans. His hand was itchy and cold. It was a nasty sensation. The feeling of ice Craig could tolerate, but the itch that came with it was really starting to frustrate him. Craig was a man of vast dullness and with that came great patience, but this icy itch was intolerable and beyond all sufferance for Craig.

  He couldn’t believe that she’d come up to him with such a lame question about having a sister. What the hell was that about? thought Craig out loud, watching the bartender pour beer after beer for every lonely middle-aged man that came in this afternoon. Craig liked bars in the afternoon. There was a different feel to them in the afternoon. You weren’t there because you needed some company on a Friday night. You weren’t there because you needed to get laid on a Saturday night. You were at a bar in the afternoon whatever day of the week because you needed to think.

  The afternoon bartender usually was no longer good looking enough to bartend on the weekend, but not qualified enough for an office job, so it was safe to talk to her without seeming creepy. If it was a male bartender, all the better because you could talk to him and not feel like a looser. The cracks in the paint and the dust-covered shelves that magically disappeared on the weekend were visible in the afternoon and it made you feel better about yourself—there was no need to get dressed up or fake fancy.

  The afternoon bar understood that there are times in life when you need the company of strangers, the sound of old rock, and tepid beer to clear the head of wasted thoughts that might keep a person up at night. The afternoon bar was a real-person bar. Real, genuine, blood and guts people who clean toilets and cook for a living. The people on the edges of society who worked among the suits and dresses without the suits and dresses ever noticing they were even there. Those were Craig’s people. The type of person who knew that the men in suits were cowards who couldn’t change a flat tire and the women in dresses hid behind those cowards, never knowing what a real man who worked hard for a living felt like.

  Real men have callused hands and big knuckles, not soft milky fingers that fuck a key board all day. Craig waved at the bartender for another beer and stared at his palm. He had the big knuckles and the calluses and now, unlucky for him, he had an itch.

  Maggie

  There is a relief that comes from washing off makeup at the end of your day. It’s removing the mask; taking off the face that you present to society and leaving you with just you, in your purest form. Maggie wanted to give up makeup. Would anybody notice if she gave up makeup? Nobody noticed her with makeup, maybe without makeup she would blend in even more and she could just become part of the wall.

  Every time Maggie tried and looked in the mirror, she remembered her sister. Every day her sister would comb her hair, put on makeup, and iron her dress before going out in the world. With every brush stroke of her sister’s hair, she would yell at Maggie to do the same to her hair. Her sister bought two of every lipstick and insisted that Maggie wear it also. On wash day, her sister dragged Maggie to wash her own dresses with her. All dresses needed to be clean and starched. Hair must be clean and styled; never leave the house without lipstick; never answer the door without a smile. Her sister ruled Maggie into grooming and posture. Maggie never understood why until much later.

  As the two sisters grew, one grew pretty, lively, and fun while the other grew toad-like, slow, and introverted. Maggie understood that her sister loved her and wanted to help her, but she didn’t know how. The pretty girl with an ugly sister didn’t know what to do to “fix her”. There was a prayer in every brush stroke and a wishful thought with every tube of lipstick. All of the pretty dresses held her sister’s hope for fixing Maggie. But, the day came when her sister took one final look at her little sister and shrugged. Her eyes were open and her sister’s heart bled as she realized there was no fixing Maggie.

  The makeup was off and the day was over; her vata and couch were calling her. Maggie felt relief that, for some hours at least, she could be alone in her home, be ugly, be slow, and not have to worry about it. She had her shows to watch, but the itch on the top of her hand was interrupting her bliss. The senseless itch kept tapping at her attention.

  The itch was making Maggie nervous; it was an unnatural itch. A kind of itch you see in movies before somebody grows a third eye or a horn. Maggie thought about her little apartment, and the idea of leaving to go get medicine made her feel exhausted. Her Vata was so comfy. The makeup was gone and the bra was off; she didn’t have to smile and pretend to anybody until tomorrow and this stupid itch was poking her over and over again.

  Maggie cut off a chunk of aloe vera, slit it open, and applied the jelly to her hand. Then, she lit a candle to the Virgin de Guadalupe—between those two things the itch would have to stop.

  Iggy

  Iggy was hiding in his secret hole. Sometimes, the sidewalk wasn’t looking and he had a secret room to call his own—down the alley and up a ladder, down a broken sky light and into a secret room where Iggy could sleep away from the sidewalk and not worry about trying to not be seen.

  Iggy felt safe in his secret room, and when he could get to it and really rest, sometimes his mind would calm. The best day Iggy had ever had was when he was in his secret room with two bright red apples to look at and then eat. Iggy loved that day because the sidewalk couldn’t reach him and the apples cleared his thinking long enough to allo
w a deep, deep sleep.

  Iggy laid on his make shift bed in his secret room, holding his neck. He knew his head wasn’t cut off from his body because he didn’t see it rolling around, but Iggy thought it might be. The lady left a frosty bite on his neck with just the touch of her fingertips. He knew when he saw her face and felt the cold on his neck that she did some dark magic on him. She left a chill on his neck that wouldn’t stop. The cold felt colder by the second; it grew more and more icy until Iggy felt the cold run down his spine and pour into his toes. He felt an itch also, but itching wasn’t new to Iggy. Being homeless, life was an endless itch; so, the cold and the frost was what made him wake up and think.

  He remembered school, the green grass and the lady who would listen—the tall white-haired woman who nodded and was kind to him. That teacher looked exactly like the lady who was following him now, the lady with the ice fingers. She didn’t almost look like the lady, she looked exactly like her. But, if it was the teacher, wouldn’t she look older? If she was the teacher, wouldn’t she know his name? What if she did know his name? What if she didn’t know his name, but looked exactly like the teacher? How was that possible? Was it impossible? “Como, como?” Iggy asked the room.

  The teacher and the lady were the same person, and maybe not the same person. Iggy didn’t know and he felt so cold he wanted to scream. The lady, the teacher, and the cutting cold at his throat were just too much for him. So, he started to rock. If he rocked back and forth, then maybe he could warm up; maybe if he warmed up, he’d get to figure out what his thoughts were on the lady. The lady kept showing up even though Iggy tried hard not to be noticed.