Acts of Violet(72)
Once again, she reads my mind by saying, “I bet you’re wondering how people can do that. I’ll show you.” She points to the two pitchers. “Let’s say you don’t want lemonade or water. What are your two favorite beverages?”
“Alcoholic or nonalcoholic?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I think for a moment and tell her milky iced coffee and whiskey.
She nods. “Okay. Now look at these two pitchers and imagine one of them is filled with iced coffee and the other is filled with whiskey. Picture it. Really convince yourself of it. Do you have that picture in your mind?”
I tell her I do, and she grabs my mug, tossing the rest of the water onto the grass. “Which one do you want first?”
“The iced coffee.”
She takes one of the pitchers, tips it, and a creamy brown liquid pours out. Pointing to my blazer pocket, she adds, “There’s sugar in there if you want it.”
Two packets of raw sugar, but the coffee is already sweetened perfectly. It’s the best iced coffee I’ve ever had.
“Now my turn.” She moves the manuscript so it’s between us, its white corners peeking from beneath the black sweatshirt. “I love turning paper into confetti but that’s been done to death. Same with the glitter bombs. Now that I’ve finished reading this beautiful book, I don’t want to dump it into a recycling bin, I want to turn it into something different, but also beautiful. I want to see this stack of papers fly, like feathers on the wind. I want the paper to be feathers.”
A quiet moment passes and then a gust of wind picks up. In that instant, Violet whips the sweatshirt away and the manuscript is gone, now replaced by a mound of feathers, which immediately scatter in the wind.
I’m so dumbstruck, my mouth hangs open, and one of the feathers flies into it.
“Wow,” I say.
“You look like you could use a real drink.” Out of god-knows-where, she produces a rocks glass and picks up the other pitcher.
Before she even pours, I know what comes out won’t be lemonade or water. This liquid is a golden amber. I take a sip. It’s the finest whiskey I’ve ever tasted.
* * *
Date: March 6, 2018, at 2:42 PM
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Next Steps
* * *
I am in receipt of a package with a rook on it. What happens next?
* * *
Date: March 6, 2018, at 5:19 PM
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Next Steps
* * *
Dear Mr. Frank,
What happens next is that we converse.
Instruction to follow.
Sincerely yours,
?
* * *
Date: March 7, 2018, at 8:55 AM
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: getting off track
* * *
Your vigil coverage was decent (though more Sasha would’ve been better), but the interview with Antoinette was a bit much, just as I suspected it would be when I heard the rough cut. Let’s keep the weirdos to a minimum, yes?
I’m getting tired of pestering you for updates on the Sasha interview, so I’ll make this simple. Make it happen by the end of the month or we’re going to find a new host for Strange Exits.
—TW
Tobin Woods
Editorial Director & Cofounder
Sidecar Studios
* * *
Date: March 7, 2018, at 9:24 AM
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: getting off track
* * *
You’ll get your Sasha interview, but with all due respect, considering the title of the podcast, I’m going to need some leeway on the so-called weirdos. Especially considering downloads of SE have been increasing week over week, including the Antoinette episode. The lead I’m currently following is offbeat, to be sure, but it may end up being the most fascinating episode to date.
—CF
* * *
Date: March 7, 2018, at 9:34 AM
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: getting off track
* * *
Hopefully it won’t be one of your last episodes.
—TW
Sasha
March 8, 2018
“Be careful!”
“Don’t get too close!”
It’s cold, there’s a tangle of loud whispers talking over each other, and I’m lying on the ground in the fetal position. Brightness floods my eyes and I sit up with a shriek.
“Hey, don’t shine that thing right in her eyes,” a male voice admonishes, and the light shifts down a few inches.
“What the fuck?” I try to scramble backward but hit a wall. Terror liquifies my insides as I try to get a handle on where I am, what this is. I can make out a handful of silhouettes, mostly male if I had to guess. One is holding a long stick pointed a foot above my head and another balances something boxy on his shoulder, which is marked with a glowing red dot.