Stirfry Neon

I’ve seen everything.  Everyone.  Every type.  More than once.  Yet, until she sat down on the other side of the counter:  sneaks, trench and suspicion all proudly displayed, I’d never seen her.

It wasn’t a good day.  No, you don’t fall in love on the good days.  You fall in love on the bad days.  The off days.  The vulnerable days.  The wrong moments.

I had too much history for that sort of thing anyway.  She had too much history for that sort of thing.  And I know about history.  I’ve seen it all in the threads.  

My history, well, I don’t like the family business.  My sisters live to gossip as they watch the world happen.  I don’t.  Neither does she.  It’s one of the things I like about her.  That and she doesn’t really care if anyone notices her.

I used to be a member of one of the oldest and biggest rock bands in history:  The Pantheon.  Apollo claims to be the only real musician but that was never really true.  He was just the front man.  The rest of us were the rhythm and breath of the world.

Then we broke up, went our individual ways, took on new projects.  I got a counter. The spinning the threads of fate business continued on the side.  It pretty much looks after itself.  Threads know where to go.  I give one or two a twist, strengthen a weave here or there, but mostly just try to stay out of the way of the flow.

So I got a counter.  And then she walked in.

The labyrinth shook — yep, let’s call it by its official name not the twisty turning corners o’ death fun ride. Labyrinth. With monster.  Him.

He was surprised to see me. I wasn’t surprised to see him. Mace just glowered, at both of us pretty equally. Like this was all our fault. When, of course, it was his. I’m never at fault. That would imply attempts at doing the right things and a stable tectonic state.  Which might mean I’m always at fault…or I’m always the point that gives. If not, we all get shattered. Right now, there was no give. The Minotaur just wanted to take.  And I had no idea what Mace wanted. Maybe that’s where the labyrinth started — or maybe that was the door.

I turned my back on him…no, not brave, I just focus on one thing at a time (a FAULTy strategy, perhaps) and right now, my focus was Mace.

“What do you want?”  And for once, I planned to listen, not obfuscate with snappy patter or a quick duck down the alley to escape.

The quick duck would have been the sensible thing because and here are the sensations in order:

 Hot breath wheezing behind me.
 Hard hand on collar, scraping sensitive neck not in the nice way.
 Velocity, a lot of velocity.
 Choking sensation around the collar area.
 Standing on NOTHING sensation under the sneaks.
 Looking down at Mace, so a suddenly taller feeling.
 But the distance between us was a killer.

Or maybe it was the guy holding me up. “This?” He rasped.

Mace’s response? A shrug. The ground suddenly got a lot further away.

So did the world.

I don’t know why he bothered wasting time with the roaring and the shaking. I had already gotten the message. Mace continued indifferent , sitting down on a stool, pulling out some knitting, ignoring the angry Minotaur. A pleasant little domestic scene. I think I should have started this whole adventure here. We all would have suffered less.

Let’s try that. So there I was, 30,000 frikking Leagues under the sea. my feet off the ground, no bathysphere, no diving helmet, no rescue team. Pretty typical Saturday. Oh, wait, it’s a Tuesday. Unless Wednesday got here a lot earlier with a change of species, I was looking at a fairly long swim.

And this is where I should have started. Because I don’t remember anything before (better for you if you forget it too, because we are NEVER mentioning this little incident I’m assuming might have happened because my sneaks are a little wet again. Got that?  NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

There she was knitting quietly, one eye watching me, and the motion of the needles clicking together made me forget for a half second the danger, the hot breath, the oceans between us, the bull man behind us, there was just the eye, and us, as a hurricane stormed.

An amethyst eye.

Then there were more voices, swirling around, and once again I heard, “This?”

The woman snapped the threads she’s been weaving in my direction and they moved more like snakes than fabric or waves. But I wasn’t frightened.

“The only way.”

Then I was swirling, twirling like a top or a yo yo let loose off the string, unfurled, launched out of the eye into the hurricane. Into the storm. With nothing solid, thread swirling, waves crashing, the world rewriting its history and mine. Whoever I might turn out to be.

Now, imagine this is a movie and you see a montage of gorgeously lit images flash by quicker than instants, faster than breath…A woman, swirls of threads, alleys, glass, streetlights, stars seen through clear green, blue and grey storm, red eyes, rushing water, still . And your heart (or the soundtrack) is pushing you so fast it feels like a nightmare you’re trying to run your way out of because none of it’s there. The air feels empty but you can’t push through. And the lights, they pull you in like quiet pools but you can never rest.

And this is where we start.

The light punched me between the eyes like it wanted to use the hands on approach to pummel my brain. I was wet, yes, behind the ears, but drippier than usual. Though it smelled a little salty, at least the liquid wasn’t blood this time. Must be a Monday. I usually needed to be hosed down after a Saturday night’s adventure. I straightened my trench collar with a soggy snap and checked my sneaks for skid marks. Still snazzy. Still snappy. Still pattering. This time with drips on the asphalt instead of words. I inhaled — solid, cough inducing night city air.

Smelled like home. My sneaks knew the way. The alleys were empty. The streetlights working. The stars just distant enough. 

You don’t really need to know my name. It’s better that way, for all of us. All you need to know is that I know a place (it may be the only thing I know.)

Smells like a coffee night. You in?

And there she was, Mace, shimmering ahead of me, thread twisted into a ball in her hands, a smile, welcoming arms…That’s where I paused. Mace would certainly be having some other mood than open arms, if I knew her at all. And I did. 

Shapechangers, illusions and witches/wizards playing mind games always mess up the little things. They give you a pretty, perfect fantasy picture, a warm and fuzzy confusion that will pull you into their trap. But I’d never gone to Mace for the warmth and fuzziness; there were sweater gifts every year for that and even they were prickly. No, Mace was a sharp stinging splash. And I’d always liked that. So I slowed my progress until I got a better view of the situation.  Yes, there was a yarn ball in the fake Mace’s hands, but out of it, a thread continued, wending its way to the smallest of holes in the rough, tiled floor. I’d forgotten my jackhammer. I had remembered both how to fall and how to turn myself into a target. Maybe there was a solution there.  

I stopped, just out of reach. The figure ahead of me matched Mace perfectly. Proteus. The old man of the sea. The one who could tell the future; the one who couldn’t lie. That’s what I was betting on.  And yes, I am a betting individual. I just rarely keep anything around I’d be bothered by losing.  These were higher stakes than my usual, but that just sharpened my reflexes. I wanted to win. I don’t know what Proteus wanted but the thing about the Pantheon is, they’ve been around so long, you can usually talk them around to the point where they’re bored enough that you can work around them…or bargain or entertain them enough that they’ll forget about whoever they owe the current favor to.

“so Proteus, what’s in it for you?”

The trident came straight and suddenly at my chest. A string of names and faces who might have called him Dad screamed into my brain as I dove to the floor.

Problem.

It’s always a problem when it gets personal.

That’s why I so rarely mention my name.  But I think people are starting to recognize the style.  Personal. Time to pull something out of my hat — or my trench pocket. Something mighter than a pen. Underwater flame thrower. Sure, I always carry one of those.  

Any other suggestions?

And the trident grazed my ear. And a foot crashed itself into my ribs. And then Mace gave up on getting rescued.  She’s funny that way. And a few others.  

I’ll never be certain if I went through the floor or the floor went through me. I’ll also never be certain if I retained every single internal organ. I’m just certain every one I did retain ached and would continue to do so until I could sleep without feeling like lemon curd or corrugated cardboard.  There’s a combination. 

I’m pretty sure that’s almost what Mace usually says about me, when not (as right then) standing over me muttering invocations in ancient Greek. Yep, invocations, that’s what I’m calling them. Proteus was probably glaring but I’d practiced on Medusa. I wasn’t looking. 

I heard English and looked up, seeing much more of Mace than usual. She traded layers of knitting, sweaters and scarves for a simple chiton. “Do you just hate me”

I didn’t bother to get up. I think my legs were still mostly made of some gelatinous substance. I just laughed. It echoed. “Yep. Hate.”  I sat up, mostly. “That’s why I’m here on the ocean floor. Hate. you figured it out.”

She couldn’t glare. She just half fell next to me and leaned into my shoulder. One of those I don’t care if the ceiling falls in, the ocean pours in and the Minotaur turns the corner moments. Rare…so, a little privacy please. Thank you.

Just that moment though because I really did care if the ceiling fell in, the ocean poured down and the Minotaur turned the corner.

So do you.  Surprises you a little, right?

We sat in silence for too long a time.  I’m really bad at silence. It makes me fidget, which would have ruined the Mace on my shoulder sensation so only my brain could range restless. Mace sighed. She always picks up the vibrations. The easy moment needed to dissolve. Reality was thundering closer on hooves.

“He wants the diner.”

“So give it to him.” I’m simple minded like that.

She turned so she was actually looking at me, both eyes, depths of mood and amethyst emotions.  ”And go back to my sisters?”

“Why does he want the diner?”

“Plans in the city. Tired of life in the undersea palace. Mermaids, Nereids, etc. aren’t really that great for company.”

Legs again. Time to stand. “Can’t he get his own place? I know a guy.”

She shook her head, hair falling out of place as I helped her up, “Only portal around. And I don’t like to share. Neither does he.”

Neither do I. When Mace was with her sisters there was no just stopping by.  And I liked stopping by.

But first, there was the stomping by to deal with.

I didn’t know I was feverish until the cool splash of the green swallowed me. Mist, steam or fog, will o’ whispery white surged wherever skin met splash.  I no longer recognized my surroundings. Nothing unusual there. But there were shadows masked by fog and a strange silence that echoed. Yep… you didn’t hear that and neither did I, over and over and over again, silence upon silence poured into stillness draped over depth.  Echo is a feature of volume…did you sleep through geometry?  Reverb is a feature of a different kind of volume. If that happened here, I think I’d be staring at the sons of the sea making a little heavy water rock on their tridents, conch shells and anemones. But no, what I got was silence, echoing + fog, enveloping.

Beats the heck out of hallucinations.  Or was that one coming at me now?  

The fog parted but no one walked, swam or charged through. So I took the hint. That’s what you do in my line of adventure. You take hints, rock out on the turns and hope the spins didn’t make you nauseated.

I wasn’t sure if I needed my sea or my land legs under me. The walking surface felt spongy and solid enough as I stepped through the clearing mist.  Not so dark anymore. Light filtered down from somewhere and I seemed to be in a mosaic corridor of sea glass: ice blue, black, amber, jade, cobalt blue, orange…colors too old and rare to wash up on your beach. And between the mosaics were decorated tiles, all cool to the touch.  No words, no language, but maybe a map, like a transit station octopus grid but changing…I could see something move against the wall and colors change, loops move, dolphins swim by and wink. Sea legs. Water was holding me up, holding me in here and some magic allowed me to live. I’d wonder how long it would last but I’d wasted that minute too often before. It was always just the one I needed. I wasn’t a dolphin, I wasn’t an anything, the You Are Here that meant me was a glowing swell, a wave that flexed when did, rolled when I stepped, shrunk when I stooped. Nothing on the tiles looked like a destination and the green blue blur only responded, wouldn’t leap.  So I whistled.  Everything shook but nothing shattered.

And a thin purple thread appeared, floating in front of me, a tiny teasing twist.

Thread is something I always associate with Mace. It appears in dreams about her, twisting its way through and around, weaving itself into nets, hammocks, rugs, carpets flying over minarets, blankets in front of a fire…depending on the dream setting.  Something I knew signalled I was thinking about Mace but not a symbol I ever trusted…too twisty, too easy to twirl myself into a situation that no one wanted or was prepared for. So was this a message from Mace, a trick of the water and light or an oxygen deprivation hallucination (internal rhymes bad signs; stop now).

And then I got distracted.

Music…it catches you, slips in, sneaks up, clips onto your spine, works its way up with just a little tickle and then, well then it’s in your ear, working its way down on the inside. I could feel it grip me, a horn open a brass door in my brain, a keyboard play a path through my torso and a voice, well, I’m always a sucker for a voice, female, swoony sexy and I think there might have been three of them well, they finished the journey, swivelling my center of gravity and every ounce of attention I had around 180 degrees, demanding my legs throw me their way. It wasn’t a walk, it wasn’t a run, the motion forced me suddenly away from any previous destination I might have been drifting my way towards. I went from being a sailboat on a lazy day with no wind to a powerboat not even bothering to get more than halfway wet because I was skipping over the waves so fast. I had no control over my direction or velocity, no awareness of anything but these voices that had twisted themselves into a PULL.  

I might have thought I had no sense but hearing left except that I saw them, always a little ahead, no matter how fast I was thrown, curves , crests, waves, movement…voices and colors blended and the pull was always ahead of me and the urge to get closer, move forward, be absorbed was always inside, but it couldn’t get out because I was all skin holding in this push toward the sound, this move forward, this surge.

Then something brought back touch, brought back sensation, causing the vibrations working out through my skin to recede back from the slap of a thin thread wrapping itself angrily around my neck and shoulders, pulling me down, bringing me back, cutting into my skin so the voices receded as pain worked its way in…I hit the ground, hard, it was suddenly hard, not giving and above me, the seas had started to storm.

The voices still wrapped around me, the music trying to find a way to levitate me off the ground and propel me forward while the thread was trying to drag back or pull me down. I had no control, I was just sensation being tugged inside out and in two directions.

Seasick sensation.

So I tried to spin, so that sick would happen when I was facing the ground, but the two warring forces continued to trap me. And the storm closed, dropping, causing the pressure to drop, my ears to close even further around the music driving everything else out of my awareness.

Then my ears started to tickle.

I don’t know if we’ve ever discussed this, I usually don’t, but in case I’m stuck front row oblivious at an undersea lounge act for eternity I should probably tell you a little about Mace. It’s not just the aura, or the amethyst jewel that is the only eye I ever see, or the tangle of clothes, or what’s under the layers of anti style or even that if I’m having a slow patch (I often have slow patches), she just pours me coffee, doesn’t ask questions, and doesn’t leave the bill.

None of that is the ticket. No, Mace, is wicked smart, smells trouble three miles away and does her best to fish me out when I drop into it. I can’t smell trouble until I’m two feet away and trouble has a five foot reach.

The thread was tickling my ears so much the first sound I heard over the Sirens was laughter, mine, inside my head because the thread was knitting me earmuffs, starting inside my ear canals and twisting, twining its way out, a barrier between me and the siren’s song.

Didn’t look back, just rolled to my feet, grabbed the thread and let it pull me along. Sure it banged me into a corner here and there, but it was the only hint I had and I wasn’t going to lose it.

Or let it lose me.

Tonight’s lesson: Be very straightforward with people who don’t want their establishments destroyed and miraculous things may happen. And why do I mention that? Well, instead of walking and whistling, what I should have tried was ducking and covering or maybe screaming and sprinting. Have you ever seen a Minotaur on a Jetski? Well, I have and no one has designed the swim shorts that will make that work. Or anything less than terrifying. Not that I am subject to such moments of weakness (clarity). Now pardon me while I run.

The Minotaur could barely manage more than a lumber. A flat out midnight beach sprint wasn’t suited to his bulk or his hooves or his impatient temper. Me, I flew over the sand, heels lightened by that lovely nightmare friend I call panic.There was a pier to the right and a road to the left, but the pier had a small shack with a light in the window at the end, so I headed there. Fishing nets hung low, everywhere, as an unneeded reminder of the tangles I had wandered into. And a smell I almost recognized lingering, not a perfume, but the familiar pungency that Mace used to keep the world more than an arm’s reach away, just barely there, mixed with tobacco fug, whiskey splash and the fetid stench of fish ground into boot treads and scraped across an unfinished floor.  The Minotaur would be right behind. I had maybe two minutes before an angry herd of hooves shook the pier. The bartender glared; I skewed broke, trouble, and drinks things with cocktail umbrellas in them to the professional mixologists. This did not make anyone encourage my return to their establishment. This often worked in my favor. There was always at least one other person who wanted me out of there. Very handy.

I banged into the bar and knocked over at least two barnacled customer’s drinks. They glared. My flared out arm gesture took out a full bottle of something brown. I could make myself unpopular faster than anyone I know. It’s one of my many talents. And my third favorite hobby.

“I’m looking for a lady.” Only leave yourself enough time for the straightforward approach, ”and a big angry destructive guy who’ll think this is a china shop is looking for me.”

He was going to try the stare and the bluff and the brush off but then the first hoof clove into the end of the pier. I settled on the nearest stool, with a nonchalant lean and a this bar I’m putting my sneaks on is getting ripped in half before I am grin. Then I swept three glasses on the floor and pocketed a handful of damp change. Still smiling. Making friends and influencing people on a daily basis, that’s my goal. Thank you, Mr. Carnegie.

And thank you Misters Lee and Chan for all the movies where you ducked and rolled because that’s what I did as the pier’s shuddering hit he danger zone on the thud meter. Mr. Mixologist hit the red zone on the thud meter as well when I landed on top of him, jauntily.  He kicked me off but being used to that I bounced right up and looked for something that might help Minotaur proof me. Which meant turning and tossing bottles off the shelves they were stored on while I tested their heft for swingability. The was the crunch of broken glass and the grind of angry teeth. He grabbed me with one hand, reached under the bar with the other and suddenly I had a clear curved glass bottle with a twinkly cerulean chartreuse liquid shimmering inside.  I think the grunt was “Drink it” although I’m not sure if the grimaced growl covered up a “damn fool” or “damned fool”.

I decided I could skip the glass and umbrella. The bite was much sweeter than the sea. The darkness came quicker than the bellow of the Minotaur.  And the green swirled up around me as the greyness muffled the world.

This is why I rarely take a drink. You never really know where it might take you in return…

The infinity of colors must have included the golden depths of tequila, the twinkly veridian wink of absinthe and the variety blend that is hootch, because I came back with exactly that kind of a headache.  First step: pick self off pier. Second step: sit down on something solid. Third step: blink.  Fourth step: well, that would involve language you really don’t want to see transcribed for fifty tweets as *(&^_@^#(+^(@(^@%!(^(@+! Fifth step (always a good sign when I can count higher than three): close my eyes, ignore the pain, and try to remember what Mace’s sisters had wanted to show me so much they didn’t care if it blinded me…well, to be fair, they might not have cared anyway. My middle name could very easily be Acquired Taste.

But it isn’t ; )

I saw the map in my head; I wouldn’t put it past the Daughters to have remapped the folds of my brain into the path required. And to have burned the goal into the area behind my eyes. the maze, the labyrinth, the original, his original home and prison, the buried maze of the King of Crete, the ever lost Atlantis, and where I had a vision of Mace weaving a shawl of water, weed and tears. I was going to have to call in a favor.

She might have been a daughter of Poseidon or an even older god. Or maybe she had just been created when a wave leapt high enough to kiss the moon. That’s what she looked like, moonlight and sea foam in motion, swimming easily in air and water. She never set foot on land , probably because I’d never seen that she had a foot. I’m sure she had a a name and I might have known it, but it was a name to be whispered into the wind, in the hope of a distant reply. I needed more than that. Which is why she’d left me with a stronger memory of her than just a kiss. She’d left her face, surging toward toward the waves, about to break through to the sky. I took a deep breath, I did like air, although I missed the city tang, and it would be my last breath for awhile. With her face in my mind, I leapt off the pier (well, stepped into freefall and tried not to think about it) and remembered. There was laughter behind me. Of course, they’d stayed to watch my stumbles. It’s always better in 3-D, without the weave and with the Sensaround. But I was busy remembering flow and motion and weightlessness and a solidity that sheltered my ears and a splash that that sparked new hungers. And the blue that shimmered until there was a green that became the intelligent embers that shine in her eyes.

She wasn’t unhappy to see me. She was just unhappy about Mace. That made two of us, for different reasons. But we were both sorry to cut short the swim.

Well, I was especially sorry because I happened to be swallowing a lot of water at the time. The trouble with the ebb and flow of both words and relationships is that sometimes because something sounds good or looks right or seems that way, you start to think that’s the way it is. When the way it is is actually: you should have tossed a few more messages in a bottle, chump, or made some time for madcap moonlight swims BEFORE you needed the favor. Right, noted. Sounds lyrical doesn’t equal don’t need to be able to swim. She stayed to watch me struggle; I’m getting that reaction a lot recently. Note to self: more messages, more texting, more concern, more communication — people like that. Skip the flirt and run — or flirt and drown approach. Be honest. Or be like me (you’re really not here for advice on getting the lovely ladies (as you all are) not to throw things at you, are you? Smart that) swim like heck in the other direction and don’t look back.

Someone must have knitted me a lifeline because I eventually woke up on a moonlight shore, hacking up seawater in a very unromantic fashion.  The crescent of moon sliced the night like a bright sail and the stars scattered like wave droplets.  I was exhausted as you can only be from being battered enough by wave, disdain and adventure to make you miss all of a day. Not the best way to make the dawn to dusk traverse but I was here, alive, and reaching into my pocket for a very soggy chocolate bar. So +3 there. And it was quiet enough that I could actually do something more complicated sounding than thinking like mulling or pondering or cogitating or brooding — well not brooding, that might attract feathery friends and I did not need a Harpy or Fury visit. Pegasus yes, but they preferred popcorn to chocolate.

Rule of thumb #68: when in doubt, walk it off. That I could do, after I wrung the deep out of my clothes. Head inland with a merry whistle ; what could be wrong with that strategy?

Ever have one of those dreams where you just run and run and your heart pounds and you know, just know that if you stop, if you falter, the footsteps behind you get closer, the dark trips you up and the laughing, well, you’ll never know if the laughing ever stops because all you hear is nothing…

Then you wake up.  That’s why I have a cat, really, so I know it’s not the dream.  Night terrors can’t survive the actual terror of a glaring cat you’ve disturbed with screaming and/or thrashing or forgotten to feed before you were thoughtless enough to pass out from exhaustion. I couldn’t stop running, this was no dream, the Minotaur had crashed larger than life through my front door (never have a front door, too easy) and was currently dealing with the wrath of the Fluffy One. She doesn’t like visitors. She doesn’t even like me…and I don’t have a cat, that was braggadocio talking, the Fluffy One sauntered through my office door one day and appointed herself my keeper one rainy night. I hope she left a few deep scratches on the bull man before she ran for the underside of the furniture. The run was leaving a very deep stitch in my side. No laughing, no roaring, no pounding steps or threatening roaring behind me…time for a pause to see how far lost I’d gotten myself.

I didn’t recognize the neighborhood. The alley grime was a higher quality, the graffiti practically Banksian, the newspapers underfoot pink.  I leaned against a wall, and shoved a few bottles and bruises aside. They only whimpered a little.  Oh, no that was me, as I slid down the wall. Good feeling that, bricks ripping cold into my single layer of shirt. Time to loosen the tie.  And burn it for warmth. Don’t need anything helpful :/ people might decide to use as a noose. Not a good look on me. Less popular than the rack or the Iron Maiden or anything that might have been used in the Princess Bride. That’s what I needed, a mask. Batman, Green Hornet, The Shadow, they all had masks — and millions. But maybe a mask would help. Yes, lack of oxygen, exhaustion and caffeine withdrawal have made me a little punchy, thank you for your concern, and yes, the tie does look dashing with two holes poked in it and tied askew like like this. And dashing is dangerous. Wasn’t that in the manual? And if I’m going to have to face Mace’s sisters, a little touch of dash and danger can only help.

I think this is the right neighborhood, I have a sense that someone’s weaving a path for me to follow. I only hope they’re sending the bull in another direction. I closed my eyes behind the tie, yes, you guessed it, I did not ruin a perfectly good piece of sartorial flair. I’m just reluctant to admit that I plan to take on the next part of the adventure blindfolded. I’d rather not know where I’m going or see what I’m in for once I get there. And I didn’t want you to think I was more than a little insane this early in our relationship. But there are some rooms too well lit and and some futures I’d rather not see written. So, we’ll go blindfolded into the night and have faith that I’m not the only one Mace sent a dream message to.

I stood and closed my eyes behind the tie, and thought about Mace, but not behind the counter, instead I focused on her hands, on the skeins of wool she kept wound, on the needles clicking in and out, creating patterns, on the colors wrapped around each other, on the yarn leading toward her, a twisted pattern of dark grey and darker blue, warmed by a little indigo thread getting pinker and larger as I walked my way out of the night and into the future I had waiting for me.

I don’t remember how long or far I walked, or if I was awake the whole time. When I finally stopped, there was the smell of water and the hunger sounds of seagulls. I stood, listening to the rustle of fabrics around me, I felt someone approach behind me and take off the tie.

“Speak.” The command tone, always fun, especially when they hold back the echoes that could move the sea.

“She sent me. The Minotaur’s in town.” Silence demanded more, my honesty was needed for a sacrifice to the Daughters of Necessity.  ”I can’t find her. And I always do.”

And in the silence, I’m sure they heard the whispers of my fear. Being who they were, seeing what they see, I’m not sure what they thought But honesty was what they demanded. And I was afraid. And I missed Mace. But that far into honesty, we weren’t going. None of us wanted to. Sometimes, you don’t have to look.

“Look at us.”

Irony has never been one of my favorite branches of humor…I mostly stay in the sarcasm/hyperbole lanes. I feel safe at those speeds. I opened my eyes, saw into the day, into the dawn. Beauty screamed an infinity of colors.

And I was blind.

Mace was missing and The Minotaur was in town. I could smell him; they had that much in common and a little more history behind them than she ever really got around to telling me. Mace had never really been much of a talker. That was the great thing — you sit at the counter, you drink your coffee, you watch her knit…occasionally, the ameythst gleam softened a little and you got the feeling she might like having you sit there, but it was never a regular thing, just an occasional gift. But now, the Minotaur was in town, hat hooked on his horns, attitude caught in the door, warnings on the wind. Mace must have caught the scent early, but I’d never known her to leave. So I checked into it. Nobody was paying me enough not to be curious. As usual, nobody was paying me at all.

I just wanted coffee…and maybe a little bit of friendly chat, a nod in my direction, an acknowledgement of my existence. You’ve had ‘em:  nights when the wind in the alleys cried lonely and the streets were so empty and the sky so dark that your footsteps whispered instead of echoing…nights were you were certain that if someone didn’t nod at you soon, you’d be back at the mirror, making sure there was still some sparkle twinking back at you. You know and I hate to admit it, there are nights when you need people and there are people you find on those nights. It’s part of the magnet of being human, when the dark and the dire pull at you, there are people who pull back. And that night, I was staring into a vortex. So I locked up the office, turned off the phone and headed down the street — a little warmth, a little less lonely.

Do you make plans? Don’t. I’m telling you. Just don’t. Plans are a bad habit, a crutch, a weak place for the universe to sneak up and kick you. It’s coming now, quietly…your plans see it and they’re fleeing in the other direction, down that alley with the flickering light at the end of it, leaving us here. So we go get coffee — sure, I’ll pay — and then the real trap is sprung. There wasn’t even a closed sign or a be back in ten minutes notice on the door…just a chain.

No Mace…now, this, this was a new lonely.

I tipped back my hat and pulled my trench tighter…too darn bad I’d given up smoking, might have helped me think a little, agitate some of the sharper, smarter brain cells into a brighter state of being. I tried pacing, sniffing the air, Mace leaves a fairly strong scent but I’m no bloodhound…I’m not even a detective, really. I just wander around until someone tells me what they want and then I wander until I trip over it. Or Mace tells me where to go. I stopped, the brighter breathing oxygen brain cells nudging me a bit….you might not know Mace…well, I have this theory that she knits together skeins of time while serving whatever liquid you might need at the moment if you’re lucky enough to find her. Might be skeins of destiny, threads of time, colors of fortune…this is a world where myths drop into modern gear if you wander the right hours. And here we were again, after midnight, on Attic Row, and having once found my Fortune, I’d lost her. Accuracy required (in language only, you’re pretty safe if I’m shooting in your direction): Mace had lost herself.

Could I find her?

The need for coffee and the pound of rain were the twin rhythms running my heart at the moment…throbbing, pounding rhythms of ruin. Ruin, rain, lost, lace, Mace, pace, make, race, trace, place…my place, word association game over, draw conclusions at will, but my place was the only solution to the coffee dilemma…I had some stashed in case of a dark night like this, somewhere, I think. And I might remember if I had some…well, enough coffee talk because right about now, you’re wondering why you stopped by.

It’s the same reason I did. You want to know what happened to Mace. I do. And I intend to find out…no lady lost on my watch. But first, we have to get through this. It’s a bond moment, where we start to trust each other, a little faith that there’s a bit of knowing laughter and you’ve been here too. And there’s a way out. And we’ll find it.  Stay tuned.

Okay, I slept, nodded off, bounced my chin off my chest, succumbed to the rhythmic lull of a milder universe than the one I currently exist in. Okay, maybe I needed to. And okay, maybe I should try to meet up with sleep more often. And maybe, just maybe, you’ve mentioned this once or twice in my hearing. Well, don’t waste your time. I’ll do what I always do with good advice from practical people: shrug it off. Shrug it off like the warm cozy blanket keeping me warm in the cold clammy dungeon air of the dream corridor. Yes, I’ve walked here before, the raw semi consciousness that we all share in the dream state. We could meet, but I don’t think you’re ready for this particular passage. The torches spit in the gusts, the two foot long rat tortoises hiss as they slowly slither (dreamscape, people, I mentioned you don’t want to visit). The cold seeps off the dank stone walls covered in a glowing golden bioluminescence that makes you itch rather than giving off any kind of comforting warmth. There were scraping noises, a distant scream and the continued hissing/slithering of various native species. And there was a corner coming up.

I turned it.

I’d turned it before, in another dream, a darker one, where I’d been alone. Now I had the feeling I was on my way to a meeting, one I’d been moving towards for a long time, with someone I knew but suddenly couldn’t remember. Then I saw her. And she screamed.

No, I screamed…or she looked behind me, into my apartment and screamed out a warning as my door crashed down and something pulled at my sleeve. Detachable doors and detachable sleeves; I learned about them the hard way, early in this business of sudden dangers and swift retreat. Don’t give your opponent anything they can hold onto. Make sure you can slide away. I rolled, leaving my jacket in the Minotaur’s hands. His shaking, shovel like hands that ripped through the fabric as I raced to the fire escape.

“Where is she?” A bellow, of fury and fervor.

But I was slipping out, sliding down, slithering far far away from the red raging angles of a corner I had no intention of being backed into. He could try to follow, but I was dropping into my corners, my alleys, my streets. This was my maze and his confusion.  And I knew something else. There’d been a whisper, before it rose to a scream. The perfect lips had pursed, the amethyst eye had narrowed, and Mace had sent me to my next test and perhaps my only doom.

“Sisters.”

Meet the fam. We all have nights like this. I always have nights like this. And still no coffee with a night so young it should be carded and a problem so old it was probably the original tragedy (or at least ten of them.) The Minatour bellowed behind me and whispers of doom pulled me into dreams. I turned the corner at top speed as the dark laughed aloud.

Howdy…starting up again…not sure if I’m going to keep the title but we’ll call this one “Bull Horns Aren’t Just For Shouting”