Notre Dame, 1990

"Chacun doit partir de la tour de cloche, s'il vous plait."

I took my time. Paris was bathed in sunlight, mist rising off the Seine. From up here, the City of Light was mine.

"Chacun doit partir...."

Halfway down the narrow ancient stairway, I understood the danger.

The first bells shook the building, deep-voiced, plangent, angry - a fist to the skull. I covered my ears, tried to run.

The carillon took my feet out from under me. Sitting hard, I bumped down three flights.

Safe in the nave, I blotted blood from my nose, wondering how Quasimodo had survived.

The Cruelest Month

I don't like September.

September, for me, is the month of loss, heartbreak, tragedy, bad news. The year begins its march toward the darkness of winter, the sun begins a retreat, my life falls apart.

Eve died in September; three years old, falling off a high hill. It left me crippled for 18 months, that fall; it left her gone.

My father lost his leg in September, a blood clot, thrombosis, the long slide into death too soon.

N died in September, and history stopped and began again.

September, to me, is bad history, sweet bells jangling out of tune.

Inspired by recent events:
It takes a second because the doorbell doesn’t ring.My house has electrical gremlins. But the dogs woof and let me know that somebody’s out there. I’m silly and wish I’d made up my face. My God, this is so generous, I expect my brother to come out of somewhere yelling “Psych!”. He always did think that game was funnier than I did. He’s a better bullshitter than me and always knew to put in stuff just weird enough to be real. I’ve won a game show. With smut. And hosts you might really want to kiss. The check’s here.

Oh, damn, erika, you just cheered me up. Perfect.

I understand those words, but to be fair I hardly ever see them in this order. I used to be black cloud girl, pretty much. Cool! You're welcome, of course...just a small return on your generosity.

No generosity involved, at least not as a primary reason. If I do something, there's a better than average chance it's going to have at least one result that makes me happy.

Generosity is selfless. I ain't selfless. That corner of paradise, if paradise there be, is not where I'll be pitching my tent.

The Sour Chimes of Failure

The telephone is ringing, again. Ding ding ding.

Another friend, another voice from the past. How are you holding up? Are you okay?

Ding ding ding. I'm so sorry - it was ten years ago today, wasn't it?

Ding ding - NO. Stop it. Stop calling me, stop reminding me, did you all think I'd somehow forgot? That I'd pushed it from my mind?

He died. I know that. You all keep reminding me of that.

He died and I wasn't there, I wasn't there, I wasn't there.

Ding ding ding.

Oh, God. Make this stop.

Please make it stop.

Oh, that's deep and echo-ey, and painful.

I almost hesitate to post mine, it's such a little wispy thing to follow true grief. 'Scuse the nonsense, please.

Alyce thought it must be fairies. She'd only heard the tiny tinkling sound while she fed the birds in the dovecote. This time she planned to see them, if it was fairies, and when she heard the tiny bell, she ran swiftly, quietly as she could in that direction. But after a careful search, she found nothing.

Except the door of the dovecote swinging open where she'd forgotten to latch it, and blood and feathers everywhere. The cat finished washing his paws, blinked at her, and gave a shake to settle his fur. The little bell at his throat tinkled.

BWAH!

OK, that made me happy.

Yay!