The sisters of Gamma Beta Pi long held that the goddess was a myth.
That their initiation ritual, the bloodletting under the cover of darkness in the woods behind their house one night in late October every year, was nothing more than simple tradition. That the magic they claimed to call forth, bringing beauty and power to those few worthy women, were nothing but empty affirmations.
But Marsha Hart knew the truth.
Looking back now on all those times Dad died, I’d have to say the first one remains my favourite.
When he was twenty-nine, Dad was working as an in-house solicitor for a now defunct telecommunications firm. He lived alone in Peckham, and clocked in long, unsociable hours. One hot July evening, a little past nine o’clock, he got home and found a dead man lying at the foot of his stairs.
I killed my mother-in-law last month. Obviously, David doesn’t know I was responsible for his mother’s death. He thinks it was just an accident. Which is infuriating, because I was finally going to prove to him what a cow she was. But now I have to listen to him crying over “Poor Mummy,” and reminiscing about how perfect she was.
From the road, the modern building looked out of place – as though it had been dropped into the Kansas wasteland by accident, meant for another location, but destined to end up here. We stood in silence, neither of us with any constructive thing to say and already exhausted in the creeping summer sun.
My eyes fell to the cheap sign that didn’t match the rest of the aesthetics: The Museum of Museums. The sign would have fit better in one of those old time tourist traps and looked at least twenty years older than the stark white behemoth it guarded.
The scene is like this. Julia’s guidance counselor who vaguely looks like hot Top Gun Kelly McGillis pushes her reading glasses up from the tip of her nose while holding out a manilla folder like she’s going to tell Julia something important about college applications or her next term schedule. Julia hopes that the anti-learning book banners aren’t trying to cut the school’s Latin program, again. Aside from working with marionettes, translating The Aeneid is Julia’s favorite thing. But no, to both Julia’s annoyance and relief, Miss Langtree doesn’t say this. Instead, the moment turns noir weird.
I really don’t remember much of anything anymore. And people always get frustrated when I say that, but if I asked you about something that happened when you were a kid, you probably wouldn’t be able to tell me every single detail either. People forget that memories are slippery. Slippery like you and your friend’s sweaty grips on your bikes’ handlebars on a hot day during summer break. But you wouldn’t remember that. I’m going to try to explain to help you remember because I want you to understand why we did it.
For starters, we were ten.
In the morning I scrub myself clean with a quick, efficient shower. Ten minutes, no more, no less. Soap, shampoo, scrub and rinse. No repeat.
To build a monster, you must begin with clean skin.
From there it’s a matter of covering up the right vents and ducts. Leave no portals unobstructed. Build upward with layers of the appropriate energy patterns and attitudinal currents.
This is not as difficult as it sounds. Once you get used to the required adjustments, it becomes second nature.
The piano arrives in a flurry of men pushing, pulling, and shouting directions. They heave it onto a dolly and up the front steps. They guide it through the doorway, then carry and lift and shuffle all the furniture to position it as the focal point of the front room.
In the back room, Clara hides in a corner and eavesdrops. She listens to her mother say, “This is what Clara needs. A hobby. A purpose.” Her father agrees, “Yes, this might help.” Help with what, Clara scoffs. Help diminish her propensity toward solitude? Help transform her into a different girl? Nothing could help Clara fulfill her mother’s expectations.
On the train ride home, I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened that day at work with my boss. Since she’s the director of our organization, I rarely have reason to interact with her at all. That’s my supervisor’s job, so being summoned to her office felt like a big deal. And it was, I quickly discovered. She chewed me out, all over nothing, really. A perceived slight she took personally. I thought she was going to fire me on the spot.
Idle Ink 