Reality

I'm ready to call this whole thing: it'll run 75 parts of which this is part 40. The previous parts are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, and 39, and it's all being inspired week by week by the Thursday Prompt over at Poetigress's place. The word this week was "fall."

     Following Mr. Schwarber through the garage, I refused to 

let myself think about what might happen when I got inside.  "Be 

cautious," El Brujo had said, settled big as a throw pillow on 

my lap, and I knew she was right.  Worrying about what might 

happen was worse than useless because, well, it was less than 

the shadow of a passing breeze until it actually happened.  

     If, y'know, breezes had shadows...

     But, see, the thing was: Serena was right, too.  Still 

clinging to the front of my jacket, her tail jittering in rhythm 

with her words, she was muttering, "All will be well!  All will 

be well!" over and over again.  Blind baseless hope is one 

thing, but evidence-based optimism, that was something else.

Philosophy Galore

Of the projected 45 installments, this is number 39; it and the rest of 'em--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, and 38--are all inspired by the word or phrase that Poetigress post each week as her Thursday Prompt. This week? The word "stray."

     Not more than two hours ago, traveling the stretch of 

sidewalk from the Schwarber's place to Chrysalis House, I'd been 

a shattered chunk of silence, darkness, and despair, a stray dog 

slinking through someone else's territory, half praying to make 

it through unscathed, half hoping for a quick death at the teeth 

of those who truly belonged here.

     But traveling the other way now?  It was still dark and 

silent, sure, the sun having set and none of those with me--Mr. 

Schwarber, El Brujo or Serena--saying anything.  But the lights 

in the houses we passed, I didn't look at them and see them 

mocking me, didn't feel the wall there anymore, the boundary 

that said, "We're inside; you're outside."

     I mean, the same houses, the same lights, the same cracks 

in the sidewalk under my wheels, but--

     Not the same.  Not the same at all.

Passing Inspection

As always, should any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the secretary--

Oops! Sorry! Wrong boilerplate!

What I meant to say was that, as always, the previous parts of this whole adventure serial inspired by Poetigress's Thursday Prompts can be found as follows: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, and 37.

This, then, is part 38. "The scandal" was the phrase that triggered it.

     Both Eric and Donna stood in the hallway when Deena's dad 

and I moved out of the office.  Donna stepped forward, the smile 

broad on her dark face, her hand outstretched.  "Mr. Schwarber?  

I'm Donna Basilone, the resident care manager here at Chrysalis 

House."

     They shook hands, and I tried not to panic.  I like Donna a 

lot, don't get me wrong, but when she's all dressed up in her 

business suit, the black tangles of her hair packed into a bun 

at the back of her head, she just exudes authority.  It's what 

you might call a very effective look: makes me think I'm about 

to be arrested every time I see it, at any rate...

     Add to that the way Eric was looking at Serena, and even 

though the squirrel was standing very nice and quiet in my lap, 

well, as I'd discovered, it was more the existence of the 

animals I brought into the house than their behavior that folks 

objected to.

Take Two

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, and 36 are the previous installments in our 45 part series inspired by the Thursday Prompt from Poetigress. This week's phrase was "trying again."

     The little warm spot against my chest exploded.  "Yes, yes, 

yes!" Serena chittered, squirming and writhing up my shirt till 

she popped out the collar of my jacket.  "Deena doesn't hate 

you!"  She scrambled from shoulder to shoulder across the back 

of my neck, her tail fluffing out to whap me first on one ear 

then the next.

     Mr. Schwarber was staring at this, let me tell you, and I 

did some scrambling of my own for something--anything!--that 

might sound even slightly reasonable.  "I...I'm still training 

her," was all I came up with.  Bringing a hand to my shoulder, I 

then asked in animal talk, "Serena?  Can you please be very, 

very polite for the next bunch of minutes and sit quietly on my 

hand?  Can you do that?"

     She grabbed several pawfuls of hair and scurried to stand 

on top of my head.  "I can do anything!" she announced.  

"Because I will be making you live happily ever after!"

Sweet and Sour

As this is the 36th of Poetigress's Thursday Prompts I've done--and the first where I've actually used the prompt itself as the title--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34 and 35 are the links to the previous sections of the story. Feel free to avail yourself of them.

     Sometimes, I think my whole life has just been a process 

of getting me to slow down: running around like crazy when I 

was a kid, that first hitch in my step during first grade, my 

first wheelchair the middle of second grade.  But now, rolling 

into the waiting room of the physical therapists' office, it 

was like I'd plugged my brain into a wall socket.

     It only took two seconds to grab the door handle, pull it 

open, and slide from the hallway into the office, but in those 

two seconds, well, you know how they talk about your life 

flashing before your eyes when you're about to die?  

     And OK, sure, it wasn't like that--I mean, yes, 

part of me expected Deena's father to rear back and punch me 

in the nose, but it wasn't a very big or serious part.  It was 

more that I'd been slow for so long, had lived for ten years 

in the same rooms at Chrysalis House, had talked to the same 

people, had eaten the same food, had worn two little tire 

tracks around and around this same eight or ten block 

neighborhood till I might as well be a ghost or a wind-up toy.  

Slow and steady: that was me.

Prelude

As always, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33 and 34 are links to the previous sections of this story, all of them inspired by the word or phrase known as the Thursday Prompt, a weekly feature of Poetigress's place. This section, #35, comes from the phrase "behind closed doors."

     The second thoughts hit me on the way down in the elevator, 

me back in the chair, Serena tucked back inside my coat, El 

Brujo back draped over my lap.

     I mean, what if Deena's dad was there to punch me in 

the nose?  I could easily imagine the scene earlier this evening 

from his point of view: he's sitting in their living room 

feeling good about how Deena's first session with the councilors 

went, maybe thinking how helpful Gus, that odd little guy in the 

wheelchair had been, when the front door slams open and in 

rushes Deena, her little dog clenched to her chest, tears 

streaming from her eyes--

     Not that she'd actually been crying, of course.  At least 

she hadn't been when she'd turned and run, had left me staring 

after her out in front of their house, and she hadn't cried back 

when she'd slammed into her bedroom after I'd started asking 

about her museum, either.

Port in a Storm

And the saga just keeps on a-rolling!

This is the 34th installment in the story I'm writing in bits inspired by the Thursday Prompt that Poetigress offers the world every week. The previous bits are as follows--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32 and 33--and there'll likely be more of 'em till I get the whole story told.

This week's Prompt was "the flag."

     Face first into my pillow: "Say it."

     A shuffling from the end of the bed.  "What would you have 

me say, August?"

     "You know what you want to say!"  I hadn't cried 

since spending that long, long night fifteen years ago pinned in 

the wreckage of--

     But I'm not gonna talk about that, not gonna think about 

it, didn't want to then, don't want to now.  All I'm gonna say 

is that even with everything that had just happened, I couldn't 

manage a single tear.

     Of course, El Brujo didn't say anything, hadn't said 

anything during the entire ride home, me rolling us mechanically 

away from Deena's house, away from the pebble I'd dropped on the 

sidewalk, the pebble Deena had refused--and not just refused but 

practically screamed at the sight of, run from it like I was 

offering her a handful of spiders or leeches.