Carriwitchet

also Ramballiach, Batter-Fanged, and Zawn

So here’s what happened:

I put up a poll last week as I went out of town, as I didn’t have the wherewithal to pick and write on a word myself, and my readers and followers usually are quite good at picking one out for me if I give them a choice, so. I decided to post this image I’d found and have people vote on which word of these 4 I should write on. At the end of that week, it was a 4-way tie between all choices. So I refreshed the poll. Unfortunately, in doing so it kept the voting closed. And so I had all 4 to choose from anyway. So.

Here’s what I’m going to do:

I’m going to do a freeform, generative piece of writing, using these 4 words as catalysts. I’ll use all four, though I think what I want to do is not use them explicitly or in order as they appear here, but have each word show up as a subheading whenever my writing happens to be focused on it. So I have no idea what is about to come out, you guys. It might be a silly flash-fiction sized story, it might be another unhinged essay, or a prose poem, who knows. But you indirectly asked for it (by dispersing your votes). Anyway.

/cracks knuckles/ Here we go… 

Ramballiach

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled through columns of clifftop forest, making otherworldly sounds that yet were as natural and worldly as anything. He slumped against the front door that had just slammed on his backside. He heaved a great sigh, trying to breathe deep for the first time since he’d come here, but found himself choking on lashing rain, then gasping on same as lightning slashed through his sightline, so low in the sky that he felt it prickle in the tiny hairs across his skin. He blinked, tucked his umbrella under one arm (it’d be useless out here right now anyway what with the wind), and his book bag under the other. Bracing himself, he used the unforgiving door to boost himself forward, plodding down the dirt path all the way to the roadside, then hunching under the bus stop shelter once he got to it. The plexiglas compartment didn’t feel adequate for the violence of the storm around him, and each clap of thunder made him jump, as with each boom he expected one streaming panel or the other to shatter inward at him. But as he checked his watch he knew a bus would be coming soon regardless. They always ran, no matter the weather.

Zawn

He closed his eyes briefly as he waited, his phone’s flashlight peeking out of his pocket so the bus wouldn’t pass him by once it got here. Lightning sizzled overhead again, and there wasn’t even time for one ‘one-banana’ before the thunder cracked. He imagined a trench, dug in the span of one breath in, seared into the pavement by the savagery of Nature around him, making the whole front of the mountain fall into the sea. He pictured huge angry waves smashing artistic designs into the chasm that’d be left. He shuddered, and then shivered from the cold. He hadn’t expected to be ejected into this weather; he’d worn a light jacket that he thought looked good on him, instead of anything more waterproof. He thought he’d be staying the night, shows what he knew. And here he was. He’d go to his favorite bookstore and warm up with some coffee and vanilla leaf smell of used books and then decide what to do next. He couldn’t think straight in this chaos. And he couldn’t see. Oh, but there! 

The plate-sized headlights of the bus were materializing slowly out of the night rain. He stepped out of the shaking shelter and waved his phone light in front of the bus stop sign. The bus’ brakes slammed and he grabbed the railing to help hoist himself up the steep stairs, too steep for his sore knees to take alone. He showed his pass, and lurched down the aisle to find a seat. He lost his balance just as he was about to sit—the bus had sped off without waiting for him to be sitting, something that always irritated him.

Carriwitchet

He hugged his book bag on his lap and clutched his umbrella between his knees. He wiped water from his readers (he’d forgotten them hanging from the front of his shirt) and checked his messages. None from her. Of course. He didn’t know why he’d expected any texts form her this soon; she’d just kicked him out. He sighed again, and shook his head at himself, then sheepishly peeked over his shoulders and around the bus interior. He was alone, but for one other rumpled man, wedged into the back corner, sleeping with his head propped up on a No Smoking sign. Good. He tried to look out the windows to see where he was, but it was too dark and stormy (he really could use a drink, but best not). So he squinted to see what the bus notification sign said, and noted he had two more stops before his.

How had it come to this? How had this night turned from cozy to crazy in less than a couple hours? He supposed it was his fault (everything always seemed to be so, when it came to women), though he didn’t know what specifically had just happened. Sometimes he wondered if he was actually asexual, if he understood that orientation correctly—by the time he finally got to know a woman well enough to contemplate sexual activity with her, it never failed that she’d get offended by something, or weirded out somehow, or tell him she’s bored. The offended and the weirded out were the two things that he didn’t understand: he never knew, and didn’t tonight either, what he’d ever said or done or smelled like or posted online or didn’t or whatever it was to cause such reactions from these women. The bored thing? That was more understandable. On the very rare occasions that he did make it into bed with someone, she’d always end up disappointed. Then again, he didn’t remember feeling anything but awkward and ashamed himself. Maybe he should do some more research on that, it might answer some questions, if not solve this exhausting puzzle.

Batter-Fanged

The blurry lights gliding by outside started to get more populated, and then building window reflections and glowing business signs started flowing by too. He checked the digital bus indicator, and pressed the yellow strip to signal his stop. He leaned heavily on the railing again to ease his knees as he descended onto the pavement, now in the center of the city, downtown, only a block’s wet walk to the bookstore. He flipped open his umbrella (it was much milder here than it had been at her place) and the bus lumbered off, splashing the backs of his jeans as it did. Wet jeans. He sighed again, shook his head again, and set off on squeaky shoes to his destination. They were probably ruined. He wore them because he thought they were nice, and he was trying to look good tonight. So much for that. It felt like he was being punished.

Punished by whom? He wasn’t sure. But he always felt vaguely traumatized after a date, like he’d been flogged, or stabbed. He yawned, and the bell on the door jingled as he entered the shop. Wrestling his umbrella closed, he fished for his phone and smiled at the barista. She smiled back, recognizing him—he was a regular, and she was here most days he came in, which is saying a lot. Tonight, she was wearing a black sweater that was very stretched out and ragged at the elbows. It fell off one of her shoulders, and she kept pulling at it as she pulled at the espresso. He ordered something with milk in it this time, since it was late, and smiled at her quip about it being a nightcap. After a few fumbles with flashing his phone screen over the payment panel, he carried his coffee to his favorite corner chair, with the window out on the people-watching. There wouldn’t be any tonight, but he still needed the familiarity. The porcelain cup rattled loudly against its saucer as he navigated it to the table. Was he shaking? He didn’t think he was.

Sipping and scrolling, he did a few perfunctory searches on asexuality, finding something related called demisexual? He shook his head again. For something so inherently central to human functionality, sex sure was a complicated puzzle. Maybe he should quit trying. He had read somewhere that male health relied partially on regular ejaculation, though, but he figured he could take care of that himself just fine. And how depressingly clinical did that sound? But at least he wouldn’t feel like he’d been whipped to death for his (or someone else’s?) sins each time. He shook his head for what felt like the hundredth time. He sipped his coffee, the unaccustomed foamy cream feeling luxurious and warming on his lip, and pleasing on the palate. Then he realized someone had asked him a question. He looked up. The barista stood there, and he saw she wore torn grey jeans, with black fishnets peeking through here and there till they met her boots. 

~

“I’m sorry? I was in my own world, I’m afraid. What did you ask?” he said, stammering.

She shook her head too, and tucked a black-dyed strand of hair behind her ear. It looked none too clean, like she’d been running her hand though her hair too much. “I just wondered if you needed anything else.”

“I–no, I have what I need right now. Thanks.”

“It’s just that I noticed you smirking at yourself and shaking your head a lot. I’ve been there—actually in that sort of situation right now, so. I feel ya, whatever it is.”

He took his readers off and placed them on the table. “I just got dumped. Again. But I’m okay. Thank you.”

Her eyes got bigger, her mouth smaller. “Again? Yeesh. Yeah, I am there with you. I’m sorry to hear that. You seem nice.”

He shook his head, realized he really was doing that a lot, wasn’t he, “Do I? That’s kind of you. But yeah. I am okay. Thanks. Again.”

“Cool. Well I was going to ask if you’d maybe like my number or if you were taken, but. I guess you’re not taken, so. Maybe you’d like my number?” She held out a napkin with her number written on it. 

“Oh! Thank you,” he took the napkin, and noticed his hand was indeed shaking. “Aren’t you always here though? When do you have time to date?” Shit. That was probably exactly what everyone was always complaining about, with him. Oh well. At least he’d messed this one up before it got worse.

But she didn’t react how he expected. Instead, she laughed. “I’m as terrible at dating as I am at flirting, but, you know. My number. If you’d like to try again.”

“Going out to coffee?”

She grimaced. “Hell no. I was thinking more like, a Dark and Stormy.”

Just then, simultaneous lightning and a sound like the effect bubbles in cartoons: KRAKAPOW!

She and he and the whole bookstore jumped. The lights went off and the sounds of the place went low, off, then crescendoed up again as the lights came back on.

“I’ve gotta go check on all that–” the barista waved at her workstation.

He gestured in understanding and put his hand briefly on his heart. He put his readers back on.

He typed her phone number carefully with one thumb, then texted: ‘test text’ and his name into his messages, with the caption, ‘coffee guy’ in the message. He hit send.

She picked up her phone, hearing the buzz. She read the message, smiled at him and thumbsed-up. She texted him her name, then got back to busily resetting things and tending to the few people who had just come in for shelter and something warm to drink.

He wiped his readers with the napkin, and sipped his milky drink. He shook his head. He smiled.