The Writer

Carina spurred her wolf. She clung to his fur as if the wind tried to pull her from his back. She barely discerned the distant castle through the slanted snow. The blurred grey spires grew larger with every pounding paw of her faithful beast. The Southgate Bridge, the entryway to safety, was around the bend.

The writer stops typing and her fingers hover over the keyboard. Her face glows by the light of her laptop screen. She yawns, leaning back from the four-top table inside a restaurant meant for hipsters and the organic-obsessed. A decorative candle flickers in the corner. The warmth of an overhead vent heats the top of her newsboy cap, and she wears blue scrubs with the top hidden beneath a grey cardigan. She glances out the window. Tiny snowflakes swirl like confetti. She drinks her well whiskey and coke, jots a note in her notebook, and blinks away her fatigue. She writes:

“There it is, Dante. I can see the castle,” shouted Carina. She tightened her grip, and felt Dante's flanks lunge forward with increased speed. The strength of the white wolf assured her. He had never failed her father, and now, more than ever, she needed him to bring her to the castle of King Adelric.

The chorus of grizzly roars echoed from behind. The booming sound sliced through her hope. Carina peered over her shoulder to see three giant bears in pursuit. They towered two stories tall and barreled through the trees, splintering the ancient timbers like twigs. Their white eyes glowed against their icy blue fur. Their long claws tore through the thick ice coating the road. She knew they charged with a singular mission - to end her life.

Something exquisitely red catches the writer’s eye. She slouches a bit more and peers over the top of her laptop like a novice spy. At the table in front of her, a couple. They fascinate, especially the damsel. A glow of unspoken desire between them, and their eyes skip over her, the ghost. She senses their assumed privacy. They bid for open seclusion, yet, she can’t help but steal a prolonged stare. It's like she came out of a perfume commercial. Then there's this cliché prince charming.

Dear God, she is beautiful. Smooth, fair-skinned, with rich red hair, parted simply down the middle and draped down her back. She wears a guileless green V-neck top that closes conservatively high. Her sunken cheeks lead to a slender neck peeking from the cover of her hair. Her chest casts two crested shadows that raise more curiosity than bare cleavage ever could.

Her man, hulky, prince charming, wears a button-down shirt, untucked, with the top button undone and pressed. His arm lays nonchalant on the back of her chair. He smells nice, she assumes, but her lip curls at the sight of his overly-gelled, no, slimed, spiky hair. She scratches down an idea for her story - giant porcupines.

The damsel sips her cocktail and then stands. She slips away, her fingers gliding over his arm. The writer loves her more, for her tight jeans show off an elegant form. The writer watches her leave, her long red hair swaying in concert with her hips. The writer holds her breath, while prince charming looks at his phone. She wants to throw an ice cube at him.

An all-black vintage pencil dress with cap sleeves, no chest, and expertly coiffed blonde hair appears alongside the writer.

“Would you like another,” asks the server. She wants nothing more than an answer to her benign, predictable question. The writer hesitates, momentarily stunned by her unmarred beauty.

The server leans in, silently encouraging an answer.

“Yes, please,” the writer says. Her voice cracks. “And don’t worry about a straw this time.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” says the server. “I forgot you don’t like straws.” She touches the writer’s shoulder and smiles as she leaves.

That touch, and such a youthful smile. The writer knows it’s merely polite gestures. She knows, but even merely ignites. That slender pencil skirt with a flashy smile fakes human connection for a decent tip, she knows that, but, on the other hand, she’ll take whatever she can get. When was the last time someone made physical contact even just in passing? Or smiled like that?

The writer sighs. "I'm surrounded by models." She drinks the dregs of her double-tall whiskey and coke. Her fingers take to the keyboard.

They rounded the bend. Carina barely made out the columns of the bridge a hundred yards away, but the pounding of the earth only grew louder. The bears were fast closing the distance, and their blood-thirsty growls made her fear the worse. She dug her face into Dante’s fur and clung to his neck with white knuckles. An enormous blue bear exploded out of the forest to her left. Another leapt from her right. Uprooted trees splintered in the air as the beasts attacked. Their outstretched paws swiped to end Carina’s life.

Dante threw out his paws and slid beneath the claws of the ferocious assailants. Carina, still clinging to her wolf, passed barely out of reach of their snapping jaws. The bears collided in the air, their heads making an audible thud. Dante came out of his slide and galloped onward. Carina looked back over her shoulder to see the two over-sized beasts lying unconscious on the ground. Their tongues hung limp out the side of their mouths.

The writer smirks, satisfied with Dante’s escape. She rests her chin on her hand and looks over her shoulder farther into the restaurant.

In the distance, the bar. Closer still, an occupied two-top with a thick fleece-wearing man sitting across from a woman with a scissor-tailed flycatcher tattooed on her arm.

She’s stunning.

That beautiful bird conforms to her bare arm, defined and muscular. It’s wings wrap over the shoulder, outstretched, and its split tail curves over her bicep, long and delicate. She wears a silky black top with thin straps, jeans and knee-high boots. Her pale skin, short dark hair, delicate curves, and erect posture, everything about her emits a vibrancy that mystifies.

Her gawking should embarrass her. She’s ogling the woman with the scissor-tail tattoo like a dog drools over a bone. But, it’s going so smoothly, the exchange, the banter, and the unspoken mystery of what will happen between them. They’re getting along so well, and everything about it, about them, is full of potential. They glow with wonderment for each other, and they finish each other’s sentences. It's so perfectly cliche. An invisible string connects her eyes to his.

She laughs, boisterous, and throws her head back, the scissor-tailed alight, so free and fit and exuberant. Her laughter makes the writer smile and the story unfurls, no longer on her laptop screen, but only a few feet away. The writer slouches in her chair, grins, and adores her neck, silently adulating her. Not out to tame as if she were hers to cage, but solely enraptured by her everything. Their chorus of laughter, the harmony between them, the duet so effortlessly sung, all the invisible they exchange, all of it meriting adoration.

The writer shakes off their spell, and drifts back to her canvass.

“Well done, boy,” shouted Carina with a smile, and she patted Dante’s side.

She peered over her shoulder, this time terrorized by the sight of three giant bears leaping over their dazed companions and taking up the hunt. Their paws tore ice and earth into the air. They were unfazed by the howling wind and stinging sleet in their pursuit. They seemed more infuriated than before.

"Where did they come from?" shouted Carina. She looked to the bridge fifty yards too far. “Faster, Dante,” she urged and looked back.

They closed the distance, the largest bear taking the lead on the icy path. They were nearly on top of her. She could see their white eyes like ice daggers flung nigh to their target – her.

“Here ya’ go,” says the server. She places a fresh drink on the table next to the laptop. No straw. The writer whispers her appreciation. The server walks away. Was it mere coincidence she glanced at the servers backside as she walked away?

“Focus. What happens next?” whispers the writer. She raises her fingers over the keyboard but stops. Her phone vibrates in her scrub pocket. She pulls it out and looks at the screen. It’s a text:

Know you’re off, but where are catheter bags? We’re in crisis.

She responds:

3rd floor main closet. Daryl moved everything didn’t tell anyone.

Out of the corner of her eye, the writer sees the redhead return to her table. Her man stands. He turns to her, and their lips interlock, her cheekbones accented by the prolonged PDA. Gawking, the writer's right-hand freezes in the air above her phone. She looks on, her mouth drooping. Her phone vibrates:

Thanks. A bag sprung a leak.

Totally gross.

They are still kissing and the writer slowly shakes her head. She texts back.:

Living the dream.

They're still kissing as the writer puts her phone away. She slouches again and tugs at the bill of her cap. They're inhaling each other, and her lip curls in disgust. "Jeez, get a room," she whispers.

When they finish, finally, he caresses her cheek. They exchange whispers. She puts on a black waist-high fur coat. He pulls out a wad of neatly folded bills and drops a few on the table. The two walk away and around the brick wall. In a moment, the writer sees red outside the window. God, she looks like a porcelain doll with her hands in her pockets and the white flakes sprinkled atop her furred shoulders. Prince charming wraps his arm around her waist, and the writer glares at his hand.

His fingers slip down, draping over her tightly packaged jeans.

The writer takes a gulp of her beverage, chomps on a cube of ice, and relishes demolishing it into bits. Her glass comes down onto the table with a louder thud than she had intended.

“Something has to die,” she says. Her eyes dart back to the screen, her nostrils flare and she clicks her keyboard with heavy fingers.

“We’ll never make it,” said Carina.

Dante turned his head back and grabbed her ankle with his maw. He yanked her from his back and threw her forward. The sleek road flashed beneath Carina until she met it with her chest. She slid, spinning like a top on the ice, and the air knocked out of her. She rolled to her back and dug in her heels. When she stopped, the bridge columns loomed over her.

“Dante,” she screamed as she looked back. She saw the backside of her faithful wolf some thirty meters away. His paws dug into the ice and the fur on his spine flared with rage. She heard him growl at the fast-approaching bears.

“Dante. No!” Carina screamed.

Her best friend looked over his shoulder. His soulful eyes went tender. He barked and nudged his head for her to run on. He turned back to the enormous beasts, bore his teeth, and growled.

Carina could only watch helplessly as the first ice bear swiped, his claws as long as her arm. Dante’s blood sprayed into the air and the yelp of her only friend echoed down the deep canyon behind her. The other two bears pounced on him from either side. They dug in their snouts and ripped away his flesh.

Carina looked on in terror. She cried, frozen at the thought of losing another member of her family. First her brother, then her father, and now, Dante. She felt as if the cold had stopped her heart.

“This is it,” the writer whispers with gusto. She takes a gulp of her whiskey and coke. “You’re going to lose everything, little girl,” she says to her computer screen. “You’re going to run onto the bridge, but the bears, they pursue you. The bridge can’t hold their weight, so it breaks and everyone falls down the canyon. You’re going to fall, little girl. Yes. That’s how I’ll end the chapter.”

“How is everything?” asks the server. She approaches from behind, surprising the writer.

“Just fine. Thanks,” says the writer, nodding, smiling, and sheepishly hiding her hands in her lap.

“Do you want another?”

The writer shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. No. I’ll . . . actually, I was wondering, what’s your name?” Instantly, her face burns. She holds her breath.

“Stephanie.” She smiles politely.

“Cool." The writer waits for Stephanie to ask her name. It's an awkward pause. "I like to come here. To write.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you here before. Always working on something,” the server says. She nods, smiles.

“So what do you do when you’re not a server?”

“I’m in law school.” She holds her tray as if it were a shield.

The writer nods, genuinely impressed. A moment of awkward silence. She adjusts her hat.

“So, I was wondering . . .” the writer says, but stops. The audacity of what she is about to do hits her. Her courage rips to shreds and the writer sees herself play the fool. The conventions of past commitments and a princess at home block her next move. What is she thinking? Besides, she reasons, Stephanie appears uncomfortable. Or not. She can’t tell. “I’ll take my bill,” she says instead.

The server looks down, blushing.

With a quick glance, the writer catches only her dimpled cheek.

The server turns away.

"What am I thinking?" she whispers.

The writer drinks. Looks to the two-top. The scissor-tailed flycatcher flew away along with her man in a blue fleece. They must have left while she was writing. She searches out the window. Footprints mar the white sheet over the sidewalk, but already fresh snow fills in the divots of heel and toe. She cranes her neck to catch a view of her scissor-tailed scurrying away. Nothing. She takes another gulp of her drink. Stares at her laptop. Drinks. Stares at each word of her woeful tale and shakes her head.

“So stupid,” she says. She sighs and rubs her eyes. The night’s turned somnolent, drab, her imagination as pathetic as the exchange with the server. CTRL+S and she closes the screen. She packs the laptop in her shoulder bag, shoves in her notebook, and leaves an apologetically generous tip. She throws on her coat as she leaves with her head down.

***

The writer opens the front door of her home feeling the sloshy effect of the whiskey. She steps into the dark entryway, locks the door behind her, and drops her computer bag on the floor. Her keys clang against the side of the bowl where she keeps her work badge – her faded straight faced picture above her job title, nurse. She turns on a small lamp, but she really doesn't need the light. She knows her cookie-cutter home like the back of her hand. She even knows when to step over the beach house playset.

She walks with her eyes firmly shut through her living room, around her couch, and through the down the hallway alongside the dining room. Her head has an inebriated tilt, but she’s especially careful when she turns the doorknob. She opens it slowly and it creaks like all entryways to fairylands.

The writer peers into the room of her princess, who sleeps atop a cloud and beneath a down comforter. Her long wispy hair drapes across her pillow like a tattered cloak. A string of Christmas lights line the edge of the ceiling. Colorful drapes of gossamer fabric dampen the twinkling bulbs. Toys litter the floor, and overflowing bookshelves hide the far corner. An open book rests below her hand. The writer grins with pride at her bookworm. She closes the door with care, as if to seal in the wonder.

Snores greet her when she reaches the half-open door at the end of the hallway. She pushes it open and wobbles in. Deafening bellows like those of a foghorn emanate from a large lump beneath the covers. Snores and heavy exhales, repeatedly. She listens and remembers the bears of her story.

She sits on the edge of her bed, unties her shoes, and tosses them to the floor. She unties her scrubs and lets her pants fall to the floor while draping her sweater on the bedpost. She pulls her top off over her head, undoes her bra and tosses it to a chair in the corner. She scratches her breasts, adjusts her underwear, and puts on the t-shirt she had left on her pillow from last night. She slips her icy cold feet under the covers and wraps the blanket over her shoulders. She turns away from the bulge next to her.

She lies there, staring at nothing, and meditates on Carina. She wonders what will save her. Poor girl. Lost everything, even her best friend, Dante. Now the bears, blood dripping from their jowls, roar for the taste of her flesh. She sprints over the bridge. In a single leap, the bear descends on top of her, but its weight splinters the bridge into a thousand pieces. She’s tumbling, her eyes closed, wishing for a simpler time.

She turns in midair, and her eyes open. The giant bear plummets beside her. It paws the air and grumbles. It’s doomed just as much as she is. She turns again and faces her fast approaching end - the frozen river never looked so wide. She takes a deep breath, and flowing red hair caresses her cheek. The damsel descends with her, naked and perfect. She kisses her and she kisses back, and their chests meet and their arms envelope each other. She smells of mint. Her lips kiss her slender neck, soft and warm. She can feel her deep inhale, her body slipping beneath a wave of desire. Human warmth coats her as her hands glide over her back. Then she kisses her defined shoulders and her lips slide down her arms. She kisses the scissortail that takes flight, climbing upwards out of the ravine and into the sun.