Matches – Prelude
(I’ve been throwing around this idea for a while, this is the prelude to the first book which takes place in Seattle. Entitled Matches: The Book of Mae I’ll be adding excerpts from it, so be sure to keep an eye out.)
Prelude
She was always elegant on stage, with the twist of a prop, a gesture, a wink, and scribble, Mabel could be a whole new person. This particular day was the talent show in Malcolm High School. Everyone knew Mabel as the average pretty girl, curved proportional; voice audibly refreshing, and her height danceably comfortable. She was not a queen from Venus, an officer of any organizations, or an active member in anything, because that was Mabel. Unfettered, she knew it, but no one else did. Mabel was often overlooked for lighter, bouncier, perkier teen age whores. Envy, jealousy these come close to her feelings, but her perception of desks and chairs, how wigs we not for baldness, how covering more intrigued more, and making the game appear easy was quite difficult.
These ideas floating over her eyes, making them so heavy was enough to make her blink. Before opening them, she knew that the audience would love her, the crowd would cheer. Yes, tonight the people would cheer, they would sing her song. As the curtain rose, she was not overlooked, and not for the angelic sonoric song not yet sung, or for recounting untold passion she had never experienced. As the curtain rose higher, the mystery captivated the audience, for the shape and complexity of her statuesque figure was loud enough. Her melancholy voice they had all heard before, and expected the same today. At least until they saw the performer on the stage could not be the Mabel as directed in the ballot. Who was she, thought the territorial teenage lasses. Who was she, said the rustle of jeans now growing tighter and letter jackets leaning forward.
She gripped her necklace between her finger and thumb, and again with the other hand. And so she opened her eyes, and lived the life of another, and felt a sensation she could only equate to the roaming of hands over her body, touching her, stimulating her skin, making her glow.
She enjoyed the song, it was melodious and heart felt. She loved this. She enjoyed people watching her glowing, like a distant star people point to when they are lonely. She loved this feeling. She enjoyed the sweat, her heart beating deep and more resounding than her lungs could voice. She loved the life she had become.
That night she dated and tagged the name Mabel on her list. Recounting the images, in-bedded-numbers, colors, style, makeup, the unique necklace, and most of all, she wrote down in a series of pictograms who she was. Only she understood the pictograms, and only Mabel knew where the legend to the symbols was hidden.
Mabel had always been able to make straight A’s in classes, because she could put names to faces to numbers to pages, before many could read the back of the book. She would record all the men in a separate book. This particular book cover read The Secret Garden, but it was hobby of Mabel’s to rebind books, even if the written binding was not true, it was bound. She would flip through the book to remember who she was and who knew her. Then, sandwich the portfolio between, Childhood Antecedents, and 37 to One the two large unentertaining titles would usually distract prying eyes.
Two months later Mabel graduated from Malcolm High School. She was not going to miss these people, they never knew her. They never actually knew her mannerisms, unconscious tell-tales. She said her goodbyes and made anyone who had ever tried to catch her eye, scribble their cell, and expected towns on a pink velvet notepad, just incase she was ever in the area, in need of a place to spend the night. At least that’s what she told them, with a succubus tone, an open ended kiss. Her destination was narrowing as she glanced at the naive penmanship and put one intended red line through each location she would never visit. When others asked where she was going, she told them money was tight, which it was not, and would leave a silence as she leaned forward slightly and played with the hem of her shirt twiddling in her finger tips, only showing an inch or two of her belly, but enough to dissuade the conversation from progressing any further.
And within the break of a weekend after diplomas had been exchanged for pennies, and out-of-style hats had been tossed aside, she was packed, and driving the scenic roads. All the way to Seattle, Washington, talking in coffee shops, and making phone calls, trying to find a new bookshelf to house herself on. She occasionally offered her time, improving her collection, and watching a disappointed bloat sleep on the couch, as I fade away in the comfort of a nice and soft and homely bed. A new town, a new place to explore, and new beginnings to create, she thought.
Leave a Reply