midstorm
The heat of the desert was overwhelming.
He didn't know why they'd opted to vacation in Africa of all places. Neither of them had any interest in Africa; Mariam only pretended to, and even then it was a superficial pretending, the kind they used to impress their friends at cocktail parties. And neither of them could stand the heat. Especially not heat like this--sultry, and overwhelmingly dry, where it felt like there was sand everywhere, especially in places you couldn't reach.
He had the strangest features. His eyes were cold, cold, cold, like black ice, and impossibly large, so that one could very well drown in them. His skin was dark, and his cheekbones high;. His nose was narrow but his face seemed to have been sculpted like that of a bullfighter's, stubbornly set and blocky and impossible to forgive or forget. It was like he was missing something--something to hold all of him together.
"You have to follow procedure," she says, her voice insistent and shrill. He doesn't look up. His eyes are intent on the green liquid as it drips, little by little, into the cool glass of the test tube. "Look, you can't do this. We'll get in horrible trouble--"
"Oh, shut up," he says, still not turning his gaze away. "Do you even know how to have fun?"
She shuts up. He risks a glance at her and sees an expression of hurt cross her face, before it shutters and she purses her lips and scowls and generally looks very disapproving.
It's too soon, she thought blindly. Panic threatened to overwhelm her, like bubbles of seafoam rising in the back of her throat that one time she'd tried and failed to scuba dive. She opens her mouth to scream and something dark and irony pours into her throat like a siren's song.
The lion roared and paced in its cage, taking steps full of catty grace and fury. Its mane bristled--was that terror, or anger, or both?--and its hackles stood on end. The ringmaster, smiling beatifically, gestured.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you..."
The lion-tamer stepped forward. He was a solemn man with dark skin. When he opened his mouth you could see that he had very white teeth--too white. His hair was cropped and short and there was a scar on his cheek, as though someone had slapped a white cross there.
It was cold. That was the first thing he noticed after he came to: the ground was hard, and cold, and smooth, as though made of glass or marble. And yet he clearly remembered how he had fallen--tripping over his teammate's foot as they raced down the field. He could see in his mind's eye the grass, sharp and green, the tangy, oily smell of the lawnmower still stinging his nose. And yet the ground beneath him prickled coldly, as though he had fallen on ice.
WHEN YOU WRITE IN ALL UPPER-CASE LETTERS. AND IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU'RE SHOUTING BUT YOU AREN'T, REALLY--IT JUST GIVES THAT IMPRESSION, FOR SOME REASON, THAT ALL YOUR WORDS ARE SUPER IMPORTANT AND YOU NEED TO BE HEARD MORE. AND MORE. AND MORE. NOT EVEN BY MORE PEOPLE--BUT BY ONE PERSON. AND IT'S NOT EVEN THAT YOU'RE ANGRY. OR YOU MIGHT BE. WHO KNOWS.
CAPS LOCK IS WONDERFUL.
Right now, the sky is gloomy and gray. She half-wishes the clouds would burst already, that the rain would come pouring down to cleanse the dirty streets--but they don't. They hang there incessantly, like a warning. A wet guillotine right above one's neck, waiting to drop...and never dropping.
"Fresh fruit! Fresh vegetables!" the bearded man called, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Get them here! Brought in from the country--home grown! Cheap!"
Conversation buzzed in the bazaar as people passed to and fro, occasionally stopping to glance at the stalls adorned by brightly colored canvases. Dust filled the air as a horse passed by, snorting and hoofing at the ground.
The black and white bars went up and down, up and down. He closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him.
Tonic. Dominant. Dominant. Submediant.
"What are you playing?"
She was probably staring at him. He could feel it from all the way across the room: it was in the incredulity of her voice, the disdain that vibrated in the air.
He didn't bother looking up. "Me," he replied, fingers flying over the piano keys.
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writing since 2012 · 13 entries · 13 days shown up
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