by Tantra Bensko
A dysmorphic Lucky Lavaggio travels ahead in time on the Equinox, using her scrying mirror to foresee her future as an opera singer and jilted lover. Meanwhile, a male Lucky Lavaggio battles the void.
Chapter 6: Lucky’s Mother, the Bride
As all times are one time, and this all takes place in the same dot, Lucky’s young mother says to her new husband:
“I’m not fond enough of people to ever want a child, really. I still don’t think I ever want to literally have intercourse with you, honey. You know the condom could break, and they aren’t that reliable to begin with. It could have a little hole in it.
“Instead of thinking about making love, I imagine all the time what our children’s lives would be like. Kills the urge to get frisky right away. It works. Try it, if you need to, ’cause I know it’s frustrating.
“Just imagine what our kid would be like. A daughter would probably be fat like me, and a son would probably be a rascal like you. If I got pregnant, I’d imagine even more diligently the horrors of our children, in order to bring myself to do Abort.”
“Well. OK. What about oral?”
* * *
The lucidity of any mirror’s scrying potential depends on the liquidity of the age of the mirror dripping faster here, and there, twisted with timeless ancient anorexic magic. — Dysmorphic Grimoire.
The auras sank into the mirror with each polishing, and Lucky began to feel the tenants ignored it consciously, their subconscious playing with it with paws with softened claws.
“Something is up,” Lucky hears Nimling say in his sleep from his room on the other side of her wall, in his nasal tone. “Or, maybe something is down. I’m having trouble figuring it out.”
Lucky approaches to the little round mirrors on her wall that separates her from Andrew the Little Person’s room.
Andrew likes dirt. Lucky likes dirt. They have that in common: she poos in the garden in the back yard, by the row of birdhouses along the fence. Andrew doesn’t mind at all helping out. And he hardly has to bend, he is so close to the ground.
He wears a nightcap night or day, to cover his long grey, frizzy hair. He has a nice face, wizened, with kind eyes, and a very large navel, proportionally. He’s all one color. Spongy. His arms usually stick out to the sides, and his hair straight up. He has four thick fingers and four thick toes. No nails or fingerprints.
He likes to be picked up by little girls and held in the air, unless he gets too dizzy. Then, he gets scared they wouldn’t ever put him down, but would keep waving him around. He holds on and shouts out “hey hey hey, girl. Hey.”
Lucky knows Andrew is getting out of bed in his room on the other side of the wall and running across his floor. She hears him breathing harder, bending forward, rushing towards the closet, and pushing open the door and grabbing the pimply Nimling out of the little bed in the closet where he lives, and lifting him up an inch or two. Then, he puts him down. And goes back to bed.
Without the little round mirror in the wall, Lucky would never know what the sound was, the grunt, the bangs. By the tiny mirror, she can vaguely scry Nimling standing there, mouth open, silent.
Opera is always the kindest mirror for bigger girls.
Copyright © 2014 by Tantra Bensko