I checked to see what I'd written to other 'between' prompts before, but sadly there was only one and it wasn't particularly good either (unlike yours, which I remembered as soon as I read it!), so you're getting a recurring character instead :)
The middle The shop sold curtain fabric, curtain poles, curtain rings and a wide selection of blinds. Anything you could imagine that might cover a window without upsetting the neighbours was sold there, and if you really wanted to upset the neighbours then there were some special decals and blinds that Belinda, the proprietress, kept in a locked cupboard in a storeroom at the back of the shop. She was in the middle of discussing whether pastel peach or pastel cherry blossom would be a better choice for a summer-room, samples spread over the wide wooden counter that separated her from the customers, when I stumbled in. I swayed in the doorway for a moment, feeling as though the door-chimes had stunned me; they tingled and clingled like some mad fairy begging for her life and brought back fragmented memories of a children's nativity play and a donkey that someone had sawed in half. Then I got hold of myself, wishing that my head didn't hurt quite so much -- someone had hit me a couple of days ago and the pain was subsiding gradually but not fast enough. "MacArthur," said a voice that managed to mix venom and disgust into a single word. I tried to doff my cap, but I wasn't wearing one, so I tugged on my hair like I was checking to see if I was wearing a wig. "Have we had the pleasure?" I asked, trying for sincerity, but my voice sounds like it was worn out thirty years ago and has been forced to keep working every since. It sorts of grates and rasps and is a bit like what it would sound like if a dump-truck engine was trying to make works. Only more rattly. "Meeting you is never a pleasure," said the voice and a woman stalked past me and slammed the door as she left the shop. The chimes jangled and clangled like the fairy's inevitable suicide if it were scored by Tchaikovsky, and I shuddered. "I think I asked you not to come in when the shop was open," said Belinda. She sounded annoyed, but no more than most people who have to talk to me sound. I squinted; she was packing up the samples and tidying them away, ignoring me. "You complained when I came in when the shop was closed," I countered. "Well yes. The original request was a polite way of telling you not to come here." I laughed, a wet, phlegmmy sound that would have made a corpse proud. "I need you," I said. "What?" She stopped what she was doing and stared at me like the world had gone mad. "You're a middle," I said. "I need someone who can talk to spirits." She set the samples down, her hands twitching, and rubbed her face. Then she rubbed her face again, reddening it. "You mean a medium," she said finally. "Not a middle." "I need a middle," I said firmly. "A man, or in your case, woman, in the middle. An intercessor. Someone who can talk to spirits." She walked around the counter, trembling, and sat in the Queen Anne chair she kept for her best customers. Despite her flush, her face was deathly pale all around the edges. "Who told you?" she said, her hands washing one another. "Who told you about that?" "The spirits," I said.
I think this might be one of my favorite Mac scenes so far. Almost understated. Just a very calm scene, relatively speaking, discussing something Mac would absolutely require after ticking off the spirits so bad they wouldn't want to deal with him directly anymore.
2 comments:
I checked to see what I'd written to other 'between' prompts before, but sadly there was only one and it wasn't particularly good either (unlike yours, which I remembered as soon as I read it!), so you're getting a recurring character instead :)
The middle
The shop sold curtain fabric, curtain poles, curtain rings and a wide selection of blinds. Anything you could imagine that might cover a window without upsetting the neighbours was sold there, and if you really wanted to upset the neighbours then there were some special decals and blinds that Belinda, the proprietress, kept in a locked cupboard in a storeroom at the back of the shop. She was in the middle of discussing whether pastel peach or pastel cherry blossom would be a better choice for a summer-room, samples spread over the wide wooden counter that separated her from the customers, when I stumbled in.
I swayed in the doorway for a moment, feeling as though the door-chimes had stunned me; they tingled and clingled like some mad fairy begging for her life and brought back fragmented memories of a children's nativity play and a donkey that someone had sawed in half. Then I got hold of myself, wishing that my head didn't hurt quite so much -- someone had hit me a couple of days ago and the pain was subsiding gradually but not fast enough.
"MacArthur," said a voice that managed to mix venom and disgust into a single word. I tried to doff my cap, but I wasn't wearing one, so I tugged on my hair like I was checking to see if I was wearing a wig.
"Have we had the pleasure?" I asked, trying for sincerity, but my voice sounds like it was worn out thirty years ago and has been forced to keep working every since. It sorts of grates and rasps and is a bit like what it would sound like if a dump-truck engine was trying to make works. Only more rattly.
"Meeting you is never a pleasure," said the voice and a woman stalked past me and slammed the door as she left the shop. The chimes jangled and clangled like the fairy's inevitable suicide if it were scored by Tchaikovsky, and I shuddered.
"I think I asked you not to come in when the shop was open," said Belinda. She sounded annoyed, but no more than most people who have to talk to me sound. I squinted; she was packing up the samples and tidying them away, ignoring me.
"You complained when I came in when the shop was closed," I countered.
"Well yes. The original request was a polite way of telling you not to come here."
I laughed, a wet, phlegmmy sound that would have made a corpse proud. "I need you," I said.
"What?" She stopped what she was doing and stared at me like the world had gone mad.
"You're a middle," I said. "I need someone who can talk to spirits."
She set the samples down, her hands twitching, and rubbed her face. Then she rubbed her face again, reddening it.
"You mean a medium," she said finally. "Not a middle."
"I need a middle," I said firmly. "A man, or in your case, woman, in the middle. An intercessor. Someone who can talk to spirits."
She walked around the counter, trembling, and sat in the Queen Anne chair she kept for her best customers. Despite her flush, her face was deathly pale all around the edges.
"Who told you?" she said, her hands washing one another. "Who told you about that?"
"The spirits," I said.
Greg - thanks! I'd quite forgotten that one.
I think this might be one of my favorite Mac scenes so far. Almost understated. Just a very calm scene, relatively speaking, discussing something Mac would absolutely require after ticking off the spirits so bad they wouldn't want to deal with him directly anymore.
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