Summer Meanders: A short stories collection. by Asha D.
Summer Meanders
By Asha D.
Text Copyright © 2016 Asha D.
All Rights Reserved
To the few gems who genuinely pushed me to write.
To the few who will this read.
I thank you.
Table of Contents
Dream Come True
Grover
Arella’s Gold
Lara’s Haircut
Sachi
Dream Come True
Bold and brash, the imposing rays of another day’s sun knocked against the front door of Helen’s consciousness. Aware of her first sentient breath, she stirred awake but kept her eyes shut. She was up before the ring of her alarm and knowing this, frowned, already suffering the deep loss of those few extra minutes of senseless sleep she should have attained. Damn the circadian cycle! Damn evolution, urbanization and human beings! Damn her life!
Turning over onto her left side, Helen forced a lungful of air into her being, and switched the channel in her mind. Flickered into clarity, a snapshot of herself- standing in front of her bathroom mirror, dressed and ready to head to work. Only, her hair was longer, fuller and exuding more life than a newborn; her skin pristinely smooth; facial features perched as perfectly as an architectural wonder’s; and figure, a supernatural replica of Michelangelo’s best sculpture. She was unconquerable and everything any working- woman (or man, if she dared to hope that far) in this century aspired to become. Eliminating all other thoughts but this from the dungeons of her groggy mind, Helen squinted open her eyes, and heaved out of bed.
She turned on the faucet to her shower, hopes of a positive day steering her actions, but in want of the warm cocoon of water to invigorate her. She stretched her neck up in anticipation, only to be hit by a Himalayan downpour of freezing pinpricks instead. Gasping in shock, Helen banged the shower shut. She was awake now all right! This is what she paid rent every month for? Curses to the landlord, Markus Zingman. May the wrath of all the Gods in all the worlds be unleashed upon his grimy head!
In her mind’s eye, Helen had already begun stomping her way over to Mr. Zingman’s apartment.
Her two most dangerous weapons in possession were gripped tightly in each of her fists- a cheap toolbox hammer long exiled to its forgotten place somewhere in the utility closet, and her worn out wooden spatula that has survived the most gruesome of wars with its enemy the non-stick pan! She banged on his pretentious door, fire burning in the pits of her stomach. As soon as he unlocked the door, Helen was upon him- a feral beast, ready to annihilate its prey. As ridiculous as her choice of weapons were, the blows delivered were unquestionably fatal. She hadn’t religiously attended mixed- martial arts lessons in her youth for naught! Helen truly believed in her spirit animal, The Bride from Kill Bill.
The scene of Mr. Zingman’s mutilated body flopped against expensive wallpaper slid out of projection, replaced by another, less gory view in her mind.
This time, Helen was leaning against her bar table with phone in hand, the epitome of cool. She was calling up Mr. Zingman’s home line. As soon as the ringing was cut off, Helen barged into speech, not allowing for the customary “Hello”. “Heeeeyy sweethearrrt, how aaare you,” she purred. “I had suuuch an amaaayyzing time last night that I just couldn’t wait anymore to talk to you. You said you were free again tonight, no?” Helen gushed in a breathy, drunken manner, which she hoped was seductive enough to make her neighbor’s neutered dog impregnate again. There was a moment’s silence on the phone, followed by a sputtering, hoarse reply, “Who is this? You bitch, tell me your name!” “Yes!” thought Helen. The wife was in. “Oh! Oh no, I’m so sorry,” Helen spewed in mock embarrassment. “I was only looking for Mr. Zingman for business purposes, I swear!” she cried before hanging up.
And then she snapped back to reality.
On her way to work after a delight less breakfast of oats and fruit, Helen could not help but notice every glaring testament to the glamour of a life that was wholly out of reach of someone in Helen’s position. Her daily walk to work constituted thirty minutes of navigating through a maze of modern towers, shiny and splendid in the sheen of each others’ reflected light. Each massive structure seemed to Helen to possess a certain lure, like the pulling charm of a seductive woman in a smoky bar. Yet at the same time, they were equally forbidding; challenging of a person’s status, questioning one’s worth to partake in the cult- like energies that flow within. Will someone like Helen, with her blemished Chelsea boots and faded jeans ever fit in in such places…
Other than in her dreams?
As orchestrated and formidable as those buildings were the people that marched beneath them. Sophisticated, independent, dressed like mannequins from a variety of stores. Helen wondered if her unadorned appearance solicited ridicule from this army of perfection, perhaps pity, or revulsion even? She felt stuck in a place where the high standards of beauty towered over her like the very buildings of downtown. Just then, two ladies with sickeningly tempting physiques and color coordinated outfits wandered too close for comfort in their effortless gait, oblivious to the musings of a less fortunate counterpart, who would rather have just been born a goblin instead. She imagined one of those dimwits to trip over her obscenely tall heels and fall face flat on the grey asphalt, a thunderous ripping sound erupting from the back of her beige pencil skirt in the process and cracking her porcelain charm. Catching herself in the midst of her wretched thoughts, Helen bowed her head slightly in shame and hurried on, grateful that those who knew her had no inkling of her barbaric views.
At the corner of Rose Ave and Luther St, Helen was about to turn into the back courtyard of Roseburgh Building, where she worked as a Materials Research Assistant. Just as she was going to make the turn, she caught sight of a movement in the alley beside the building opposite her. An elated giggle sailed with the wind toward Helen from the spot of the movement. Helen knew that giggle, was familiar with that octave of voice. She did a double take, bending sideways at the hip a little to get a better view. There, leaning up against the sidewall of the red- bricked building ahead and talking into her cellphone, was the unmistakable figure of Kat Erindale.
Tall and captivating she was, even from a distance. Those long, spindly legs rose from the ground like summer vines up the wall, blossoming into a petite but voluptuous form framed by fiery red cascading hair. Mesmerizing to many, Kat was the very core of what Helen recognized as hatred.
It was not just an irrational personal feeling, founded off of jealousy or insecurity. Indeed, Helen had many sound reasons to support her opinions about Kat Erindale. One of the major ones being that she had first hand experienced the offhand unpleasantness of Kat’s attitude toward those she obviously deemed lesser than her. From blatantly ignoring those who even made efforts to acknowledge her, to outright humiliating those she worked with, Kat had showed no reservations when it came to ascending her ladder of success. Reminiscing the time when Helen had the misfortune of working alongside Kat on a certain project made her cringe. She can never shake off the feeling of hurt and shame that Kat had instigated by practically overwriting all of Helen’s efforts on that project and how she completely diminished Helen’s worth before her respected professors. There were not many things in Helen’s possession that she cared for deeply or harbored much pride in. However, her work was, in her mind, her saving grace, and even though she often coveted a more dazzling alternative, nobody could say that she was not serious about what she did.
Spotting Kat in that alleyway, effortlessly beautiful even in such meek backgrounds but deceitful in her very appearance, immediately ignited rage inside Helen. She tore her sight away from th
Yet, she couldn’t restrain her thoughts from running wild again. This time, she was envisioning herself gliding her way over to Kat’s position, breath-taking and mighty in her own way. She came up to Kat, innocent smile playing on her lips. “Hey Kat, remember me? We worked together once although you did all the work, apparently,” Helen said, oozing confidence. She waited for the spark of recognition to enter Kat’s eyes before softly placing both palms on the sides of Kat’s face. She cupped Kat’s pretty face in her hands, and admired the faint sprinkling of freckles across her fair cheeks. Then she brought Kat’s bewildered face closer to hers, seemingly to place a lover’s kiss on her lips, before bashing her head back with all her force into the wall behind. There was a sickening, dull thud as a sharp breath whooshed out of Kat’s mouth. Her eyelids had snapped wide open in fright and her painted lips were agape. Helen brought her head forward again, before cracking it into the wall once more. She repeated the motion a third time, and then again, and again, and again.
Satisfied that she had ended the loathed character’s essence in her head, Helen breathed in deeply, and turned her face toward the shining sun’s rays. Now she could come back to reality and finally focus.
She made her way toward Roseburgh Building’s entrance, feeling more awake. Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream filled the surrounding air and Helen jumped in shock, turning abruptly toward the source of the outburst. All motion on the streets came to a chilly standstill. “What happened, what have you done?! Oh my goodness! Oh my…! Call 911, call an ambulance, somebody, now!” shrieked an aging lady in a printed dress clutching her hand above her heart. She was gaping straight ahead in panic- straight ahead… at Helen. Helen suddenly became disorientated and dazed. Why was the lady screeching at her? Why was Helen perspiring and gasping so heavily? Her arms felt strained and heavy, like they usually did after a tough workout session. She looked down at her hands, and was hit by a shockwave.
They were bright red.
Helen turned in her spot in what felt like slow motion, and froze when she faced the marred body of Kat Erindale, flopped against a brick wall not nearly as red as the blood slowly pooling around her. Helen stopped breathing.
Her skin experienced a fast succession of hot and cold flushes. Her feet turned heavy like they were blended into the concrete. She screamed in her head, pleaded with her consciousness to stop this dream, and begged the universe to return her to reality. Helen somehow found the soft skin of her left forearm with her right hand, and started pinching. She pinched with her nails until her skin gave way and red crescents dripped blood onto her jeans. Still, the lady was there, was shrieking. More people had gathered around, blocked her way. Helen could not hear anything but the blood pounding in her head. She was blacking out.
This was not how dreams were supposed to come true.
Grover
In the hilly banks of the perennial woods, there lived a little family in a comfortable wooden home. On sloping plains of dense shrubbery, the house sat snug between loping branches and leaves. Twines of bark and florid vines endowed its window ledges, painted gables and wooden crevices. One passing by this house often got the feeling that whichever family dwelled inside lived a natural, balanced and snug life, and indeed, they did.
One crisp autumn’s morning, when the rustling leaves filtered through golden light, a baby boy was welcomed into this home. The newborn had all ten fingers and toes, and wailed mightily as any healthy baby should. Yet, instead of cooing and fretting over this little one’s liveliness, his surrounding family members merely stood around looking at him stiffly, oddly subdued.
In the tired mother’s arms, quivered a pruned up red creature that was, even when kindly viewed, quite grotesque. His face was a nightmare of misshaped features, distorted and difficult to look at for long.
Framed by an unnaturally elongated and skewed jaw, the baby’s yowling mouth was a gaping entrance into a wild, deep and slimy cave in the midst of rough, cratered wall that was his skin. Surrounding his bulging lips, varicose skin scrawled up to uneven slits of eyes that watered with salty liquid. So close to his eyes was pinched his upturned nose that one may even think from far that he had four eyes.
This baby was truly a gruesome sight to behold. His distraught father and frightened elder sister kept their distance from the bed, mentally questioning what went wrong, wondering what to do next. The mother, a stark contrast to the ugliness that she held, seemed indulged in the deepest of thoughts as her pale, lovely face gazed intensely upon her child. Her light brown eyes flicked up to the rest of her awaiting family, and a sad, deep sigh escaped her lips. Her elegant fingertips stroked down the crooked side of her baby’s face as she said tenderly, “Grover”.
“His name shall be Grover, and we will love him and care for him more than God has, because the rest of the world won’t.”