Just your basic, garden-variety fiction dweeb. :-)
The chlorine in the motel pool made even the water feel as dry as the rest of the dusty desert town; the sort of dryness you can feel at the back of your throat and in your sinuses. Still, it was one of the few places Cordelia felt at home, her bleached and brittle hair a testament to hours spent beneath the surface. The teenager spent nearly every moment she wasn’t working behind the motel’s counter swimming in idle circles around the nearly-always-empty pool, including this afternoon.
“I understand that it’s company policy to be in-office at least three days every week, but that doesn’t change the fact that there are three unicorns outside my house. They’ve knocked over my trash can, and it doesn’t look like they’ll be leaving any time soon. What? No, I can’t just make a run for my car, are you kidding me? If I get trampled or gored, I won’t even be able to work remotely. No. Yeah, I remember, but Cheryl also rides a gryphon to work. Okay. Yes, I’ll do Thursday next week as well. Thanks, bye.”
“Oh man, it feels like I’m floating… and these colors look crazy!” “You are floating,” Gretchen sighed, glancing up from where she’d been crocheting on the couch. “And it looks like your eyes have turned into mantis shrimp eyes, so you’ve probably got several new photoreceptors.”
To my dear children (who aren’t mine): There are those who will tell you that it takes a village to raise a child, but scorn those of us who fled to the trees when we were told by those same villagers that if we didn’t carry another life in our own flesh, we could never carry the same love for them in our souls. The jungle-wild creatures with no children of their own… as though “own” were a term we should apply to anyone we love.
Crepuscular croissant crafters carefully clear cluttered countertops, circumnavigating crowded carts carrying culinary comforts, clutching cloud-like, caffeinated cupfuls— commonly called “cappuccinos”— cultivating calm cleanliness, countering calculated chaos.