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Asha::Story

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“Asha”


By Kate Sherron



When she first met him he called himself Asha and wore man-pants and boy-shorts that hung low on slender hips and wrote letters to No One, never sending them anywhere but reading them to Girl whenever she asked. Sometimes when she didn’t, too. A story-teller, a story-writer, a story-mother-father-creator-nurturer-lover to replace in himself the ones he never had. The ones who left him without a name, without a place, without a heart-home. All better now, he told her. All better now that he had a brother more real than blood and a brilliant soul that even he could see in all the tarnished mirrors around him, the mirrors in everyone’s eyes, everyone’s hands.


All better now.


“Why Asha?” Girl asked once, while they sat on gray wood stairs, graced by bay breeze and moon teasings.


“It sounded good, softer and sweeter than my eyes looked then,” he laughed, no fear in recalling the Dark Time.


Eight, ten, twelve, those years filled him with violence and hate and poisons to replace the lost gentleness, lost kindness, lost food and shelter and safety. Beastie would purr and coo and nod, understanding this boy, knowing exactly what he meant by foster traps and heavy hands and nights he should have never survived.


Nights that he didn’t, not really.


That’s why he gave himself a new name later, when he gave himself a new life. A life with Palti and books and worlds and words.


Especially with words.


But before he would tell Girl about Palti, he told her about pain. Pain that Palti saw every day as he watched the stranger boy, all pale skin and dark hair and long, bruised limbs and elbow-crooks that raged rampart in the street outside Palti’s Fine Shopping Establishment. Pain-drain wounded cries of the cornered wolf-boy that the young man heard loud and long when he caught the boy silently sneaking out with Stoli and cigs one fine October evening.


I was twelve and trouble: in trouble, causing trouble, double trouble, always trouble, Asha would murmur, more serious. Asha would always take the waking life of his young adulthood seriously and dismiss the twilight nightmare of a childhood lived, learned and left behind. Girl liked this part of the story, when the words grew soft and curled out of thick lips on the tail of clove smoke that hung about him something fierce. Of all Asha’s bedtime stories that he told to her, snuggled in the window-embraced alcove of her apartment, this one remained her favorite in its entirety. It never mattered to her that he never changed a word or a beat. He never changed its heart, either.


Twelve and third strike, he would begin. I would be out of the game until twenty-one and then probably would lose the instant I stepped back on the field. Palti caught me red-faced, guilty as sin, and should have handed me over to the police that very same instant but he didn’t. The man bargained with me, fourteen years my elder and a hundred thousand times my better, the saint bargained with me.


“Work in my store, go to school, pass your classes, and quit the smack,” he told me.


I laughed and called him some poorly-chosen choice words, names that spat on his God, spat on his heart, on his outstretched hand. He repeated himself and finished his offer, laid out what he’d do for me if I would do for him.


“Work in my store,” he said, “go to school, pass all your classes, and quit the smack. You do this for me and you’ll have my home and my self at your disposal.”


I got real quiet and he let me go, exactly what I had hoped for. Running out of the store I heard him shout that he’d be waiting for my answer. I laughed at the moron, the rube, that complete imbecile. He’d let me off the hook and I gladly let myself drown in the river before crawling back to his dry land.


That night I celebrated my regained freedom but I couldn’t pay; a broke punk, a stupid punk, indebted to the Devil or his brother-in-law, perhaps. My kind benefactor beat me senseless and left behind what little of me remained, cursing my tiny body for sucking up too much of his profit for too long. The fever and the fury followed the blessed darkness and my dreams for that week brought Death and her chessboard, as well as a few friends.


Thick lace, liquor, and lights of golden blue hung just below the low ceiling line, embracing a crowd of specter-spectators that laughed and chattered with themselves, with her, but never with me. Delicious velvet, heavy-handed brocade, slick-as-a-sex-kitten’s-stare silk covered couches and touched flesh in the shadows, the room a picture of softness that fought against talon, scales, tooth, and claw. A salon of the Otherside’s finest, all taking an interest in what their debutante love-love had to say to the pitiful boy-child left in her care for the time being before one side or the other claimed him. I sat across from Death on a vinyl-covered stool, my bony knees knocking against a table of mahogany and oak inlay that stood almost too high before her fainting-dead-away couch of something so black its shadows looked gray beneath it. All in all, the place could have been chic and slim and smoky and trimmed just so for Death’s vicious circle but I had never before known wealth and couldn’t judge.


The back of my calf nervously itched and no matter how much I scratched, it never went away.


Death had slim hands, all strong and long and shadow-pale with posy-pink lacquered nails. She moved them with effortless grace, gripping her rook just so between fourth-finger and thumb. When her queen advanced I heard the confident swish of expensive, expansive skirts and powerful petticoats girding the loins of a goddess-on-earth. Pawns pranced playfully across checkered courtyards, more than glad to act the martyr for their great and glorious leader. Nothing more than cannon fodder, really, but the way they gazed adoringly at her ancient, juvenile face, I understood.


I would have died for her too, in their place.


Chess with Death, nothing new. Still, I sat transfixed, trying to attack, to defeat, when really all I could do was delay the inevitable. Hardly caring that I would lose, eventually. Lose or concede. That’s all one could do when facing Death.


After an hour, though, Death got bored and with a pout and a laugh waved it all away.


“Who likes a game they always win?” she asked me, her bubble-gum lips pulled back in a blinding-bright grin. Too much teeth, intimidating and weak and sad and not in the least predatory, like I expected it to be without realizing I ever thought on the matter before.


The demons, delights, and lovely beast-brights all twittered and guffawed at a joke not funny enough to deserve such mirth.


“Truth or Dare? Something with ill-defined winners and ill-defined losers, eh?”


Truth or Dare? We rabid mongrel children only played violent games that taught survival. Strength and cunning and bloodbloodblood, none of the parlor coquettishness and entertainment derived from revelation not ravishment.


“So then,” she murmured, her playful demeanor diminished by my look of ignorance, “let me explain. I ask you to choose one or the other, Truth or Dare, and choose you do. Choose Truth and a question I pose that you must answer. Choose Dare and a task I give that you must perform. Failure to faithfully and truthfully answer my question or obediently complete my dare results in a black mark against you. Three of these and you die here and now in that shitty dive, alone and filled to the gills with poison and pus and little else; time I certainly don’t budget for fools, understand. If you do die, then where you go from here will be up to you but I doubt it will be a place you deserve.”


“Why’d you do this for me,” I asked, suspicious.


“There’s a corner of your tin soul, shiny-clean and free of the dirt and the rust and the muck you rolled in on the way here. It’s nothing rare, priceless, or pure, your soul of course, but I like its light-shine earnest nature. If I fail three times before you do, you’ll get a chance to clean it up and bring me back a beautiful bauble when your life’s done and gone at last.”


A slow nod on my part ignited excited chitterings from the spectators; the real game was on now, something far more interesting than any old chess match. Something new and the hope that they’d all find out some delicious tidbit about their love and rival and leader to digest, regurgitate, and share amongst the crowds that weren’t lucky enough to be there that evening.


“Your turn first, sweetling,” Death cooed. “Truth or Dare? And remember, I’ll know if you’re lying on the truths.”


“How’ll I know if you’re telling the truth?” I balked.


“I’ll just have to be honest, won’t I?”


I gave in, an action I only felt willing to do at her feet. Out there, in my life and on my streets, I would never bank on blind trust, but here in Death’s world nothing remained right, nothing remained the same. I felt like a sickly-sweet fog curled itself around my head and made me into someone else entirely.


“Truth,” I responded.


“Are you going to take Palti’s offer?”


Hesitation. She set before me something I hadn’t thought about since it happened and here it was once more. The guy seemed nice enough but to me nice always costs, the hidden fees a pound of my flesh, plus interest. So, I answered the only way I knew how.


Defiantly.


“No, of course not.”


Death tsk-tsked and shook her head but didn’t refute my claim; she knew I meant what I said.


“Truth or Dare,” I asked, moving things along. I caught on quick.


“Truth,” she responded, saccharine-smug-sweet. I sat there, again put in my place. This all stood outside of my mind, of my thoughts, of my current abilities; just what would Death clutch deep in her heart, what would she never, ever divulge? I knew nothing about her and yet she knew all about me. An unfair advantage, to say the least.


Silence dropped thick and wet over the salon but dissipated as the rumble of fixated conversation warmed to the topic. Thick fish lips told tall elfish ears just what they would ask if they sat on my stool at that moment. I strained myself to understand what they said, a hint, a hope, anything, but it all sounded discordant in my ear, a mix of gravel and glass running down a steel dump truck’s slanted bed. Too much at too low a volume.


Blushing, I stuttered out a ridiculous question, embarrassed by it the instant I said it.


Before I said it, even.


“You kill everything?”


“Honey, I never kill! I can’t. I’m simply the corporeal manifestation of a biological, fate-centric process.”


My face fell at the reproof. Seeing my shame, her light-hearted derision softened like summer butter and she went on.


“I do get the soul of your question and I’ll give you the truth you intended to receive. A freebie just this once, mind you. I only pay attention to the important ones such as saintly no-names, long-awaited infants, fading lotus blossoms, hyena-hounds, and so on and so forth.”


“Don’t forget puppies,” a crowd voice crowed. “She weeps long and hard over the really fuzzy runts!”


Death’s brilliant blush rivaled my own as the great, lurching, gnashing, smashing, glittery wave of laughter circled once more.


I didn’t get it.


“Lotus blossoms? Hyenas? Puppies?”


“Only one question per round, dearheart,” she replied, her voice tight and taunt with embarrassment. I still didn’t understand but she was asking me my choice again so, considering how painless it was before, I chose truth.


“Why do you feel more comfortable in a skirt?”


Broken bottle bright and twice as sharp, the question pierced my eyes and for a moment I couldn’t see through the mortal terror welling up.


No one knew about secret bundles of filthy rag-tags I got second hand from Chaz’s girl Mushi; tiny things of lace and cheap shine that smelled of her clients, her man, cheap whiskey, and fresh bruises. No one knew how badly I needed them on the worst nights, when the black-gray-green light all over the street would rise up to eat me chomp-chomp-swallow in one swift bite. The softest things I ever felt against my flesh, softer than needle-bite or closed-fist-open-handed discussions or coldcoldcold, Mushi’s old girl clothes fit my stick bone form and held me right and tight like no one ever did.


Of course no one knew.


If I let this secret slip they would call me a fag and cut open my face with their hate. Didn’t matter if I wasn’t, didn’t matter if some of them were. Self-loathing led to other’s-lashings in my circles.

“A black mark then, if you won’t tell me.”

The glamour of Death had begun to slip away and I felt anger coil and twist in my gut. Burning, fuming, I wanted to shout and curse (I knew some good ones, really I did) but I held my tongue.


Fair was fair.


Death stood in the right.

“Before you have to ask, darling, I choose dare this time around.”


        Frozen again. This was hopeless, completely hopeless. I could tell she was excited, pleased, and maliciously so, not even trying to hide her laughter.

Then Death stopped.

Head tilted up to the right a little, eyes sliding closed, mouth moving ever so slightly with silent half-words tripping through them and then lips pausing for the equally silent reply, Death looked strained and tired and impossibly old. I could see lines beneath her eyes, saw in the shift of shadow and light playing across her face and the color of her entire person (tea and cookie roses, childish pinks, and frightening fuchsias) melting into less-than-black-and-white. Color-before-color. Soulless, stillborn hues. She turned her head once, as if to try and see something better despite closed eyes, and the gold-blue lamps dragged their light across her face, throwing her eyes and mouth into ghoulish shadow. I could have sworn, for that second, she had a head of skull and bone. And then her eyes slid open and she took in the room with a deep breath, smiling a tiny, humorless smile at us all.

“Let’s take a little break, hmm? Get something to drink from little Sa-Sa over there and stretch your limbs while you have them.”

“Take me with you.”

“Out of the question.”

“Dare you to take me with you.”

“Don’t try that shit on me, little one. It’s against rules, regulations, health and safety and cosmic codes. Pick another dare.”

Arms crossed, I refused to budge on the matter.

The one called Sa-Sa slipped into the pool of light inhabited only by Death and myself until that moment. Her stature and size diminutive at best and malnourished to be honest, but despite this she eased gracefully onto a chair beside Death that stood at twice her height. Although too thin and sharp, her every feature proudly displaying a race’s inclination for hunting, for killing, Sa-Sa was gorgeous. She walked on quicksilver-fur haunches that melted into pale blue limb-flesh and periwinkle lady’s blush, the transition hidden beneath a satin and tulle party dress. Claws for fingers and four twisting, twirling horns, two growing from each temple, this little demon would have terrified me if it weren’t for those rose-glass eyes that only held quiet concern for your well being, anyone’s well being.


“Come now, let him go-go,” Sa-Sa crooned, low and soft and bass, like a mother whale. Tender yet insistent.

Death’s mouth opened, closed, opened and then at last clamped shut in a pout. Little Sa-Sa’s sway surprised me; why would Death of all people let someone else push her around? Still, I said nothing. Why fight those that fight for you? I may have been ornery back then but not entirely stupid.

I also decided to keep my questions about her occasionally, spontaneously repetitious speech to myself. No need to be rude.

“Fine. Sure. Whatever.”

Clipped and cool, Death responded and then motioned for me to approach. To balance my movement the entire salon took a step back and a breath in. Then Death laid down the ground rules.

“Don’t say anything, don’t touch anything, and don’t look any soul in the eye. They might be envious of your pathetic yet existent pulse and could lash out at you or me. If they go after you, you’re on your own. If they attack me, you’ll be the one to suffer punishment and blame when we return.”

A heavy swallow preceded my nod, my dry half-spit seeming to pull my head back and then releasing it snap-quick. Death held out her hand and I glared at it. What was I to do, be seen by a room full of people holding on to a girl’s hand like a little boy wet behind my still too-large ears? She shrugged.

“All right, little man, as you will. Don’t blame me for what will happen on the other side.”
Death’s world slipped away like oil-slick suds on the surface of a city gutter-river. My stomach pressed hard against my heart and together they threatened to explode. At the very moment the pressure became too much and I would willingly let them all blow up for a moment’s rest, we were there.

“There” was a small apartment in a strange city, salty tang air and brilliant gold water-bright light drifting in from between yellowing lace curtains that hung in an open window. Spartan but clean, colored in browns and once-greens that now simply sighed and shrugged when asked what they were, the living room-kitchen split smelled of dried flowers and dryer sheets. The flat next door held the three aging washers and three aging dryers that serviced the building, their heat and steam keeping the three-room unit cozy. I could only imagine how unbearable it would be in the summer.

Standing there in the middle of this strange place I knew everything about it all at once and my breath caught in my throat; this apartment felt, sounded, tasted too, too real. Right then my body fell apart. It felt like withdrawal, that awful shaking starting in my marrow and working its way out until my teeth rattled around in my empty, throbbing skull and I couldn’t stay still no matter how hard I tried. Sweat and spit and pain. More intense than any fix, any solution, Death’s world aligning with mine slammed me down to my aching, quaking knees. Hyperventilating, I knew I would die if I moved even a breath across the worn, warm carpet.

A blessed cold spread from slim fingers curving comfort around my quivering shoulder. Breath in then out, lids and lashes squinched shut then pulled open, I looked up to see her eyes, sad then angry then composed.

“I told you to stay with me. You’re not trained to handle the shift and you’re not dead yet, either.”

She removed her hand and the illness grabbed me tight. Sighing, as she seemed to do so much in my presence, my very existence too exasperating for words, Death extended trim fingers, small palm, and my dirty, dingy bone-claws gripped tight, fear of embarrassment gone completely. If I’d get sick without her touch then I’d allow it just this once, this demonstration of weakness that proudly oozed from our clasped hands, leaving behind a messy trail.

“He’s in here,” was all she said and we walked into the bedroom.

An old man slept while a young girl read beside him, her round form curled around herself in an age-loved easy-chair. Her brown hair hung long around her sweet face, down slumped shoulders, and reached the middle of her back. A young boy dozed coiled round himself at her feet like an obedient, no, enamored puppy; he raised his head when we entered and grumbled low, drawing the girl’s attention to us.

“Little one,” Death crooned at the boy, “why don’t you come with me too? It’s way past your turn and I don’t mind extra company on the return.”

“He won’t go,” the girl said through a curtain of hair, voice stronger than posture and holding no fear. My age, I wondered, could she be my age or so much younger, older? I couldn’t tell, couldn’t judge. Maybe if I saw her eyes, but all she gave to us was curved shoulders and shiny, shiny hair. And a voice that knew Death and didn’t care.

I really wanted to see her eyes.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we? You know of me and mine, family and staff alike, don’t you?”

Death had asked the question, a pink-pink nail tapping her chin. Looking at her sideways, her appearance had changed again, like that moment back in the salon. No excellent-cut three-piece suit, no bleach-blonde perfection; but now the best name to call it would be earth mother of the night. Flowing gauze, high-waisted lace, and dark roses in deep red, blood-beating crimson hair. I blinked and the image was gone. How many faces did Death have to suit her needs and why did the girl need to see her this way?

Turning my eyes to the girl I realized she stared at us both now, hair still draped about her pale, round face, her deep eyes glittering above a light blush, a rouge that seemed only natural and lent an air of perpetual embarrassment.

Twelve years old, whispered something deep inside. My age. Little girl lovely. Soft and clean with an upturned nose that would probably never be sexy but still too perfect; yet when I looked at her, her own gaze flittered and flustered, hanging back and away while trying to focus on Death.

“I wonder,” Death continued to tap-tap-tap and stare, ignoring my sweat-slick palm pressing tight against her own Gobi flesh, so cool and dry. The spell broke at last when Death spoke firm and slightly bored, her interest gone from the room.

“Girl, you can’t keep everyone around you all the time. Your Beastie here (how she knew what to call him surprised me not nearly as much as the fact the name rang in my mind too) won’t go with me and I accept that but getting attached to the dead never led anyone to happiness and mirth. That said and done away with, I’ll be having a chat with your grandfather and then we’ll be on our way.”

Then Death sat upon the bed, not even mussing the sheets, and bent to whisper in his ear. I heard nothing, not a word, no vibrations passing through our twined flesh, our grasping fingers. Whatever she said, she said for his ears only. Straightening, Death placed her hand upon his breast and when it pulled away she held a brass knob, something of heavy weight yet delicate craft, intricate mouldings and filigree that spoke of pride, concern, and craft instead of steel, presses, and massive assembly lines churning out the same thing over and over again. A light tarnish, green in the afternoon light, took away from the shine but not the brilliance.

Satisfied, Death pocketed it away.

A new bauble for Death, one of too many to count, and as precious as the very first.

The job done, the room faded quietly, not at all rough and tumble jerking-ripping like moments before. As it disappeared, this warm, worn world of so many rich browns I stared, transfixed by the girl’s eyes, watching wary and anxious as we made our exit. She finally looked back into me and all I could see was an odd sadness colored golden with patience.

Beautiful.

I dreamt of those eyes, of that soft girl who didn’t feel the pressure of Death in the room, of her protective hair, drapes shut tight against the sunlight outside, and her eternal blush. Really, I did dream; it sounds so silly, like a poet’s pathetic attempt at romance and pining and earnest devotion to love at first sight. All innocent, nothing to discolor the memory of a meeting in what was probably the most fantastic dream about her, the best hallucination I ever found myself sunk into that deep. I think the blind hope I’d see those eyes again in life made me accept what followed, although I knew I never could, never would see them the way I did that day looking through Death’s eyes.

(At this point in the story, Girl would always smile and snuggle closer, burying her grin deep in his chest so he wouldn’t suspect. Maybe this was why she enjoyed this story so much, that Asha met her all those years ago and still remembered how wonderful she looked to him when she only saw plain-jane hum-drum blahs. Maybe she also liked it so much because he never figured it out and Girl could keep this wonderful secret warm and dry and free of any embarrassment in her heart of hearts.

After squeezing Girl back, he’d continue on.)

Little had changed since our departure, although seats had shifted, pairings and groups of beings flowed with the ever-changing mingling and conversation. Ansty with a new, indescribable impatience, a need for action, I stood and swayed from foot to foot, eager to get on with the game; it felt like it had dragged on long enough.

“Look at you, sweetling, ready to piddle on the floor like a wiggle-fresh pup,” laughed Death. The room sniggered crudely with her but it didn’t touch me this time.

“I choose dare,” I said, my voice stronger and clearer than it had been all night.

“Really, you promise?”

Of course I promised, rules of the game. My breath snagged in my rough throat, I nodded and waited for what would come.

“Accept Palti’s offer.”

Well then, didn’t see that one coming.

“A moment to think on it, perhaps? A drink, perhaps? I’ll wait for your answer; Sa-Sa, help him, please.”

There she was again, the tiny slip of a demon with iron-sure claws cradling my elbow as gently as one would a newborn baby’s head, careful not to cut my oh-so-delicate human-flesh. Away she led me to a dark, empty corner and its lone chair of chenille and too much stuffing. Her other hand fluttered like a feather-dusted butterfly, gesturing for me to please take a seat. I did and expected to her slip away and leave me all alone in this squishy-soft chair; instead she knelt, her haunches covered by her dress and her hands both resting on my bone-gawk knees.

“You have to watch yourself, little-little. She has you right and tangled and doesn’t intend to lose this game.”

My confusion apparent, she went on, her rumble-soft voice whispering low and echoing through my chest as she leaned in; I leaned in close to hear her and could smell something rich and spicy and warm on her breath. I learned later that it was cinnamon I smelled but at the time it seemed so alien and beautiful that Sa-Sa’s breath had captured my attention more that her explanation.

“No matter what you choose to do you’ll have two black mark-marks. If you refuse this turn then the next thing you choose, dare-dare or truth, you won’t survive. She’s lived longer, knows more, and has the patience of a Zen-Zen monk man. But there’s another problem; if you go back to Palti sir then you lied-lied on your first truth and she’ll come for you if you don’t follow the dare completely, if you leave before Palti’s deal is full and done-done.”

A frown cut across my dirty cheeks, dripping down my chin like winter snot. Unsavory. Everything about this tasted so bad. Death did have me; she planned it the entire time.

“What will you do, little-little?” Will you leave us and live-live or will your pride keep you away from the sun-sun and the rain-cloud sky?”

My anger escaped with a shuddery sigh and I slumped back in my chair. I didn’t want to die but I didn’t want to go back. What could wait for me? I didn’t know.

The gaping maw of uncertainty opened wide, so wide I could see its rotting molars way in the back. This stranger, this Palti, who knew what he was like, what good and bad he could, and would, do to a child? Why would he promise these things to worthless me unless his motives were as white and pure as a third-day city snow? Why would Death be so anxious to send me someplace that could end up like every other sort-of hell-home I had before? Did Death do this to me out of concern or pure malice?

Now I was terrified.

“Not malice, no-no. She’s too sweet on fuzzy runt-runts like you,” cooed Sa-Sa, a comforting, light rumble-tumble that covered me with exotic breath and sleepy comfort. “She’ll never push you into black and teeth and pain-pain, that’s not her heart. Not in it or anywhere around it.”

“How do you know Death so well?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. I wanted to trust Sa-Sa’s words implicitly but cynicism curled my tongue.

“Older sisters should always know and care for the littler ones. That’s why we come first-first.”

That was all I could get from her before Death sidled and swayed up to us, the light following her back into the corner Sa-Sa and I shared.

“Made your choice, have you? Time affects us all, boy-o, and I have precious little left for you.”

Vulpine-grin hard-sneer lit up her face and I almost believed for a second that she planned to eat me all up; from the look in her eye I’d have been just right. All I could do was answer in a mouse-whisker whisper that crept cautiously from my mouth.

“I’m scared.”

Death softened her hard-ass act and smiled a real smile.

Never saw anything like that before.

“The fear means you’re still alive, pulse and precious breath in every pore. Dead and done souls feel nothing, lingering ones hold on beyond their time, hanging around where they don’t belong. I won’t tell you what to choose dearheart, sweetling, darling, but you should know you’re still alive. Most people around you die long before their body does, and then take others with them. You though, you’re a lucky little one, aren’t you?

It was all I could do to nod and swallow back tears.

“So little-little,” said Sa-Sa, what do you choose?”


* * * * *


On the dawn of the Sunday a week after I died, I found my hands and knees kissing the sweet blue and white tiles, tiny porcelain tiles, of Palti’s store, thinking what I had to do for him would be nothing compared to what he’d give me.

And you know what?

It took me a year to realize the real chump, the real idiot was me and everything I thought I’d done to get the better end of the bargain had, in fact, been for myself the entire time.”

That was always how Asha ended it. A pause, long and heavy, full of so many memories of the years the trickled after, a brook chasing itself down a hillside, and then resolution at his almost-brother’s store. Girl knew there was more after this, so much more, but those stories were for different times and different places. When the moon climbed high and their limbs tangled all mush and feathery together, that was always the time for Asha and for Death.

Sometimes, when she drifted off to sleep, still woven tight within Asha, she wondered if Death ever wanted to check up on her runt-grown-up, about Sa-Sa, and about what her soul, Girl’s soul, looked like, buried deep in her chest. She also wondered about Asha’s shiny tin soul.

Girl hoped hers looked liked a tiny, ebony figure of Anubis, all dark and true and guarding over her as she made her way between death and life. She hoped when she gave it away to Death that the woman would have the consideration and care to place it on the same shelf as Asha’s, right next to him, so she could always see herself reflected bright in his shimmer-high light.

This is the short story I based my senior show on (the bastard-thing that sucked four months of my life away FOREVER; the show, not the story.) It's actually a chapter from a larger story in which the main protagonist, Girl, can see the “Otherworld” (ghosts, fairies, bogeys, etc.) The whole thing focuses on her life and is a sort-of young adult coming-of-age story, blah, blah, blah. “Asha” is the chapter that talks about her boy Asha (they’re 22 or so in the beginning) and his back story.

I’ll follow the story with a few pics of pieces from the show (there were a lot and not all, if any, of my pictures turned out okay) for your enjoyment until I finish up new stuff I’m working on.

And stuff.
© 2005 - 2024 ZombieKate
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hell-on-a-stick's avatar
finally i filled a glass with tequila and orange juice and i read the tale. this is outstanding. not too wordy not too heavy on the adjectives and the ones you used were very apt. there was almost total metaphor and no simile. the assonance that you use and the poe-esque consonnance would sound foolish, used by anyone else. this draws up memories of the nod like nothing ive ever read, i need a fix now, but too late, too late. i wish i could truly explain...........
Thank you so much. i know this sentiment is staid, but really, thank you.