Thursday, May 24, 2007

A fragment

Created from a prompt for a writing exercise.

It’s not dread, I swear. Dread would suggest a dislike or reluctance. The way one dreads discovering they’ve been given the gristly bits, and they’ll need to either chew through or find a way to distract the rest of the table while they spit in their napkin.

It’s not dread at all, it’s fear. The kind that keeps those tittering on bankruptcy awake at night listening for loan sharks. The kind that the hero never has when he faces the dragon, the orge, the aqua-scaled leviathan.

That—that it is fear, pure and simple childish fear—is the grain of truth in all her excuses. Fear is why she says the slumber parties can’t be at her house. Fear is why she doesn’t tell them she was with me at the mall, eating chocolate ice cream after trying on ridiculous feather boas at Claire’s.

She thinks I don’t know that she’s afraid of what the magic would do to a normal person. I guess she has good reason, since it reduced three Dells to silicon sludge before her parents gave up and bought her a Mac. (It was what she had wanted in the first place.)

It’s for the best that I don’t meet this family of hers, that my BFF comes over to my house instead, so she isn’t sitting at home, pondering what she could do to seem more human.

1 comment:

Rachel said...

I like that!