Sister, Sister

“Hold still!” Lana exclaimed, her hand nearly slipping and creating a streak down her sister’s eye and into her temple.

Hannah looked up, her eyelids fluttering.  “You’re going to poke my eye out!”

“Not if you hold still!”

Lana finished lining Hannah’s eye and set aside the black stick. She looked through her compacts of eye shadow and chose a complimentary combination of bronzes and browns. 

“Now, close your eyes.”

Hannah closed her eyes, trying not to squint as Lana applied generous layers of color and shaded them in.

Lana dropped the compact into her make-up bag.  “Beautiful!”

Hannah opened her eyes and looked into the mirror, examining her face closely.  “Wow . . . nice!”

Lana smiled, admiring her work.  “All that time spent in beauty school wasn’t all for naught.”  She dug into her bag, searching for her ruby lipstick.  She had to dig through the large bag for a moment, but finally her hand emerged with the perfect metallic blend of red and pink.  “Here.”

Hannah applied the lipstick and pursed her lips together.

The two looked over Lana’s work, both equally pleased.  They turned in unison as the doorbell rang.

Hanna stood.  “Showtime!”

“Have fun!”  Lana said as Hanna found her purse and hurried out with an excited wave.

* * * *

Hannah played coy most of the night, feeling unsure of herself.  It had been nearly six months since she had last dated, and Ray was a definite catch. She didn’t want to play things too quickly, afraid of passing herself off as too easy; at the same time, she didn’t want to scare this one off.  She had a way of scaring guys off.

The two had met on the sales floor where she worked.  She had convinced him to buy a new mattress set.  He had convinced her to let him take her out on a date.  He was a successful businessman, at least from what he had told her, and the Armani and Rolex adorning his body backed that up. He took her to dine on lobster and drink expensive wine—two more points for him—and his charm and good looks had her hooked on his every word.

“So, you have a sister?” he asked between bites.

She nodded.  “A twin sister.  Lana.”

He held back an amused laugh.  “Hannah and Lana?  How . . . adorable.”

Hannah shuddered.

“The bane of my existence.  My parents had no idea what a curse they had bestowed upon the two of us by insisting upon ‘twinsie’ names.”

“I think it’s cute,” he said.

“I think it’s sick.”  She finished her lobster tail, trying to show a look of disgust despite the sweet decadence melting in her mouth with every chew.  “Being a twin isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  We shared every birthday cake, every Christmas present, every punishment, regardless of who the perpetrator was.  It was like we were one person destined to live two lives, and yet forced
to share everything.”

A wide grin crept upon his face.  “Even boyfriends?”

“Everything except that.”  She finished her glass of wine and sat back as he took her cue to pour her more.  “We might live together, but there’s a place where we both draw the line.”

“You know it’s every man’s dream to have twins,” he said playfully.

“Tell me you mean that, and this date is officially over.”

He sat back.  “Can’t a guy have a little fun with clichés?”

“Not at my expense.”  She downed half her glass in one large gulp.  “It’s not funny, at least from my vantage.”

He frowned apologetically.  “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

She took another hefty gulp of wine.  “We tried giving into the cliché once.  It nearly destroyed us.”  She tried to smile, but her smile faded quickly.  “We ended up fighting over the guy, nearly killed one another.  We were never the same again.  It was . . . a
mistake.”

They both went silent for several minutes.  With empty plates and a nearly empty bottle of wine, the night seemed like it might be over almost as quickly as it had begun. Hannah took a deep breath, determined not to let the past destroy yet another moment in the present.

“Let’s talk about you,” she said.  “You never told me exactly what it was you do.”

He clapped his hands together with a sigh.  “It’s complicated.”

“Business is complicated?”

His face went tight in a sudden grimace, and then his eyes seemed to shift their focus.  “You look absolutely stunning.  Did I
tell you that?”

She shook her head and gave another coy smile.

“Really.  You look like you have your own personal hairstylist and make-up artist.”

Hannah giggled.  “What if I told you I did?”

He gave her a sideways glance.  “Really?”

She shrugged, suddenly unashamed to admit, “I do have a living mirror image, and she just happened to go to beauty school.”

He seemed to get a kick out of that, raising his glass for an impromptu toast.  “You look lovely.”

She raised her glass, happy to toast to that.

With the clink of their glasses, the two drank down their wine.
 
* * * *
 
Hannah felt uneasy at the first thought of inviting Ray back to her place, but after a few glasses of wine, her inhibitions waned. 
She hushed him as they made their way through the front door and to the dark living room, but as they fell against the sofa, they both giggled in their intoxicated forwardness.

“She’ll hear us!” Hannah said in a hushed voice.

“She’s obviously asleep in bed,” Ray whispered back, looking around.  He sat forward as he realized that Hannah lived in a studio apartment.

“What’s wrong?”

He continued to look around.  “Where’s her room?”

“Whose room?”

“Lana’s?”

Hannah looked around, taking note of the empty bed across the room.  She glanced over at the dark bathroom, then back at Ray.  “We share the bed,” she whispered.  “No funny stuff though.”

Even through the darkness, he could see that there was no one there.  “Is she out for the evening?” he asked, his voice rising to a normal tone.

“Shh!  Do you want to wake her?” Hannah asked, still whispering.

He got to his feet, unable to hide his discomfort.  “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not into it,” he said, and
then promptly left.

She tried to stop him, if only to get him to clarify the issue, but he was out the door and gone before she could find the words. 
All she could manage was a weak “Ray?” which he ignored as he disappeared down the stairwell.

She spun back around, stormed into the apartment, and flipped on the lights.  “Thanks a lot!” she growled as she found Lana in the bathroom.

Lana stood before the mirror plucking her eyebrows.  “What did I do?”

“You let him think I was a nutcase, that’s what you did!”

Lana turned away with a shrug.  “Maybe you are a nutcase.”

“Bitch!”  Lacking in judgment from her one-too-many glasses of expensive wine, she took a swing at Hannah.  Her fist connected with a surprising crash.

Hannah staggered back, clasping her broken, bleeding hand as she glared at her sister’s broken face.

Lana stared back through shattered, bloodied shards.  “Think you’ve had bad luck with men for the past six months?”

Hannah shook her head, a hint of realization hitting her.

“Another seven years might settle our score.”

Hannah continued to shake her head.  “No. . . .”

Lana nodded through the severed shards.  “Oh, yes.”

Exit . . . Stage Left

Emily took her time applying her makeup, making sure every stroke of eye shadow, every brush of mascara, and every daub of lipstick was flawless.  After all her years of acting, this was to be her most memorable performance.  She sifted through her jewelry, finding a garnet pendant and matching earrings, and matched them against the scarlet of her lips.

Yes . . . perfect.
 
She stood, her hands shaking as she wrapped around her a stole she had owned since the ‘50s.  Fur was so politically incorrect these days, and for that reason alone she had hidden it away in the back of her closet for many years. Tonight, however, that wouldn’t matter. It was her exit, and she was going to do it her way—in style.
 
Her manager, a sweet young thing with blond curls and big blue eyes named Joe, entered with a knock.  “I told the guy we’d be there at ten thirty sharp.  You ready to do this?”

She nodded, taking a deep breath.  She took one last look in her lighted mirror, admiring the flawless face in her reflection as she summoned the courage to leave this place for the last time.  “I’m going to miss working with you,” she said, wishing there were another way.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied as she met him at the door.

He led her outside to the car, opened her door for her, and then walked around to the driver’s side.  The engine started with an abrupt roar, then they were on the road heading for the agreed upon destination.

“I’ve never been so nervous in all my life,” she said, and with that, she lit a cigarette.

He glanced back at her though the rearview mirror.  “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No, of course not.  It’s just. . . .”  She shook her head.  “I don’t know.  This has been my life for over a half century.  I can’t imagine living any differently, especially in some obscure country that’s never heard of me.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

She nodded, looking down.  I just never thought this day would come.”

He took a deep breath and focused on the road ahead.

“I just don’t know how I’ll sustain myself,” she continued.  “I’m sure I can establish myself at some small, local theater once I’m settled in, but I’m used to much larger meals—masses in the tens of thousands at a time.  What if I starve to death out there?”

“You’ll be fine I’m sure.  Elvis had no problem adjusting, and neither did Marilyn or James.”
 
She nodded, although her face went tight with the torment of her uncertain future.

She had started her career on stage, finding the energy offered by willing admirers had somehow kept her youthful beyond her years.  When she had graduated to film, somehow her fans continued to keep her young, despite the reduced contact.  While her peers slowly applied more and more foundation to hide the fine lines, then the crow’s feet and laugh lines, and eventually the heavy wrinkles, performing had offered her a personal fountain of youth.  She didn’t know how it worked, only that she was not all that unique in her condition.

The years passed quickly, however, and soon she found herself in a position she couldn’t have foreseen: the tabloids claimed plastic surgery, but anyone who knew her knew that she was living on borrowed time.

There were people who took care of problems like hers, people who helped to contain the secrets of the elite, the secrets of those whose bodies had discovered a means of transforming adoration into eternal life.  Their services were not cheap, and successful execution of their work meant disappearing for a good century or two, until they had long been forgotten and their faces were once again fresh and far off the celebrity radar.  Still, it meant giving up wealth, love, and everything else that had defined them for previous decades.  Unfortunately, there was no other way.  A staged death was their only out.

Emily realized her eyes were tearing, and she dabbed them with a tissue before they could run mascara down her face.  No, she would go out with dignity.  There was no room for tears.

She’d had a choice between a drug overdose, a car or airplane accident, a shooting, or suicide by bridge-jumping, and she had chosen the car accident.  She had too much pride to go out by suicide or drugs, and she had always hated airplanes.  Buddy had chosen the airplane route, and by a freak accident, his death had gone from staged to very real.  No, cars were fairly safe these days, and even a light tap caused their exteriors to cave, making the damage look far worse than it really was.  As far as she was concerned, it was the only way to go.

“We’re approaching the intersection,” Joe said, glancing down at his watch.  “Right on time.  Are you ready?”

She nodded, her throat going tight.  “Let’s do this.”

She saw the paid car as it ran its red light, and immediately she felt the jolt of the impact, her teeth clenching with the crunch of metal on metal.  As planned, she burst the blood packs that had been left for her, and she lay motionless as the cameras flashed and the ambulance came to take her away.  She nearly broke character when she heard the cries of fans, wishing she could let them in on her little secret.  Still she stayed to plan.  This was how it had to be.

She opened her eyes as the ambulance sped off, just in time to see the EMT on call injecting her IV with a clear blue fluid.

“What’s that?” she asked, suddenly feeling drowsy.

 “Goodbye, my dear,” said the EMT.

She struggled to remain conscious.  “Goodbye?”

“We can’t just let psychic leeches like you run unleashed across the globe,” he said.

And with that, her world went dark.

I’m really excited to be here at The Cerebral Writer today. Though I have to say that I feel like I’ve been set a bit of a challenge. Being cerebral is probably not my preferred style – at least not while anybody’s watching. Still, I’m the sort of person who always likes to make a go of things so let’s see how I go.

Eclectic and interesting. I like the sound of that. Mind you, I like the sound of anything that makes what I do seem clever and special. And I’ll never turn down a chance to say a bit more about Dag-Lit. But today, I’m thinking, maybe I should start off by talking a bit about dags themselves.

A dag is the sort of person who just doesn’t care. They don’t care about whatever is fashionable, and we’re not just talking about clothes here. In pretty much any facet of life, dags are the people not paying the slightest attention to whatever the trends are in food or music or (most importantly in my case) books. They choose to wear what they want and listen to what they want and read what they want, regardless of what the magazines or newspapers or any other taste-makers are saying.

So I suppose every dag is daggy in their own special way, and if that doesn’t qualify as eclectic and interesting, I don’t know what does. But there’s something more to being a true dag. It’s not just that they don’t care about whatever is or isn’t in fashion. They also don’t care about what other people think about their chosen style (or lack thereof). So they aren’t hiding the fact that their tastes are their own – they’re celebrating it. They’ll dance down the street, singing along to some twenty-year-old pop song nobody else ever wants to hear again. They’ll proudly display the cover of the book they’re reading on the train, heedless of the scornful stares directed at them. In short, they have, what I think at least, is a really joyful approach to life.

And that, to me, is the most critical aspect to understanding Dag-Lit. It’s not just that they’re stories that pay little heed to literary trends. It’s that there’s an aspect that shares that joyful approach to life. That will (hopefully) make you forget yourself, just for a bit and be immersed in something wonderful and new. Maybe it will make you see things a little bit differently. Maybe it won’t.  But hopefully it will be a worthwhile experience all the same.

Before I finish, I just want to add another note to mention the person who has made this tour possible. Donna Brown is a huge supporter of independent writers and it’s thanks to her that you’re seeing me here today. She runs a great resource, The Indie Exchange, as well as her own site, Books, Bags and Catnaps. And she’s also a terrific writer – check out her collection of short stories, Double-Take Tales.

About Jonathan Gould's comic fantasy Doodling:

Neville Lansdowne fell off the world.

Actually, he did not so much fall off as let go. The world had been moving so quickly lately and Neville was finding it almost impossible to keep up.

Doodling is an engaging comic fantasy which relates the events that befall Neville after he finds himself abandoned by the world and adrift in the middle of an asteroid field. Douglas Adams meets Lewis Carroll (with just a touch of Gulliver's Travels) as Neville wanders through his new home, meeting a variety of eccentric characters and experiencing some most unexpected adventures.

About his Satire/fable/fantasy Flidderbugs 

As Kriffle the Flidderbug investigates why his fellow 'bugs find it impossible to agree on the pressing issue of how many points there are on the leaves of the tree on which they live, he finds that the truth is more complicated, and ultimately more terrifying, than he ever could have imagined.

Flidderbugs is a political satire, a modern fable, or maybe just a funny little story about a bunch of insects with some very peculiar obsessions.


For more information on Jonathan Gould and his books, check stop by his page on Facebook.

He also has an Amazon author page.