Short Story Week 2018: Day Five -I Hope You Like Her

It's day five now, or technically day six when you factor out yesterday's day of doing nothing (in my defense, Shadow of the Tomb Raider and Bojack Horseman season five were both released, I've had priorities).

I'm back in reality today. Caris has returned to the Carousel where she doesn't have to contend with medium awareness, leaving me where I usually am. Staring at a screen with an intent to write a short story and absolutely no clue what it is to be about.

I miss the days when I could just do whatever felt right at the time. I remember what it was like. I was a child. I could sit down and draw Seth and Theo in a runaway mine cart and feel good about the accomplishment, no explanation as to why they were in it, how it the braking system became disabled, or what the outcome was. It was simply a snapshot of two characters in peril. That was the whole story, and it was all it needed to be.

Seth and Theo were the co-protagonists of a very poorly drawn comic strip that I took great pride in when I was in elementary school. I never settled on a title for the strip, and I think I changed my special signature twice. They lived in a suburban neighborhood populated by a small cast of monster/alien/Seussian characters in a manner similar to Peanuts and Sesame Street. Seth was the smaller of the two; armless, green and frog-like, with an innate sense of adventure. Theo was brown and furry, with pointed ears and elbows perpetually bent at right angles. He was the slightly more responsible of the pair. Theo-centric strips involved things like his inability to chop down a tree or his revolving door of sidewalk merchanting (binders, bananas, watermelon). Seth was more of a free spirit, his adventures connected to treasure hunts, run ins with criminals, and various attempts to master the skateboard (in situations that raised serious questions about the topography of their neighborhood).

The nature of their relationship was undefined. They may have been brothers, friends, or coworkers, it didn't really matter. Likewise, age was irrelevant. There were no parents or children, schools or workplaces in this locale; although their snake-like neighbor Hafley had an irritating little brother who was apparently 'sent' to live with him. Even Theo's vending didn't stem from a need for money so much as an alleviation of boredom. Seth and Theo owned (and possibly lived in) a spaceship which took both of them to pilot. I think they only took it into space once, the rest of the time using it for transportation around town.

I don't know why I'm bringing them up- well, I do now, I didn't three paragraphs ago when I started writing about them. Seth, Theo, and company were my first real foray into story creation. It was a complicated story without any kind of goal. There was no ending, and no clear beginning. It was just an exploration of a world. And I realize now that it's a part of me that has remained ultimately unchanged as I've grown up. I don't naturally imagine the ends of stories. And I've never had much interest in beginnings either. Maybe I'm just the kind of writer who always starts at chapter two and then wanders off before the third act. I don't know.

But I think I've got my last story for Short Story Week 2018 now. Not that it's crucial to the proceedings, but it involves a minor character who started as far back as the days of Seth and Theo. I redesigned her in the early nineties when I briefly considered picking up the comic strip again (deciding for whatever reason that she was a she). She made a random appearance in the Lotus campaign, arriving and vanishing with no explanation, and she showed up most recently in The Carousel as a video game character Brandon had programmed in his spare time. I never figured out what she was until just now.

I Hope You Like Her

A dream?

Perhaps. But almost immediately forgotten. Only a high-pitched hum remained in her head from wherever she’d been.

Desert sand. So long since dried out that its surface cracked under her weight. A new sun was rising. And there would be nothing she could do to prevent it from baking her.

Camilla’s life did not flash before her eyes like she should have expected. Instead, the place for which her memories were meant was left empty. Frozen. The way her skin felt. Freeze at night, scald at day, would the decision to rise and wander even matter? If not here then at most a few miles away, the end would be the same.

Then she felt it. On her cheek. Soft and rubbery, with a gentle suction, like the hose of a vacuum cleaner. Some kind of desert scavenger, deciding she was nothing more than scrap already? Camilla summoned what energy she had in her to scream at the intrusion, only managing a wheeze. But when she opened her eyes, her whole world was filled with the sight of a long, serpentine snout sniffing her.

She was too weak to move away from the creature and could only allow it to explore her with its nostrils. It was large, elephant sized, and the snout was unquestionably a trunk. But the beast was no elephant. For one, it was furry, like a yak. And its neck stretched entirely too long, similar to that of a camel. And its ears did not belong to any desert dweller she was aware of; they would be more at home on a domestic hound.

For several minutes the creature snuffled her, evidently to confirm that she still had a life force. Then it stared into her open eyes with its head cocked to the side. Waiting for her response.

Camilla mouthed the words “What are you?” to which the beast trumpeted-

REIHAHN!

It circled behind her, stamping heavy footprints in the sand and accidentally kicking dust in Camilla’s face. It burrowed its trunk in the sand beneath Camilla’s shoulders and pushed her into a sitting position. Fatigue tried to roll her back to the ground but the beast was having none of it. It tipped Camilla forward until she had rolled to her hands and knees. Satisfied that she was getting up now, it tromped in front of her and lay down as low to her level as it could get.

REIHAHN, it repeated. Camilla followed the instructions as best as she could interpret them, reaching for the creature’s fur to pull herself onto its back. She struggled, but a little assistance from a friendly trunk draped her in a reasonably secure spot. Whatever this thing was, someone had clearly trained it for rescue.

And with no command, it happily carried her away from that place.

Time, and desert, passed. The next thing Camilla knew, the creature had brought her to the edge of an oasis. No more than about a thousand meters in perimeter, this isolated resort contained a small lagoon surrounded by lush trees and bushes, and a large rock the size of a townhouse cast a protective shadow over the area.

The beast turned away from the oasis and sat down, causing Camilla to slide down its back and onto the cool soil. A moment later, its massive head joined her, nudging her towards the lagoon.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, giving the beast’s trunk a grateful pet. The water’s edge was a mere foot away. Fresh. Camilla drank. And splashed it on her face. And with no warning, she felt her body shoved into the lagoon, whereupon she disappeared beneath the surface.

She had tears in her eyes when she came up, in part because the fear of her situation had finally swept over her, but also because her involuntary dip in the lagoon had revived her so fast that she couldn’t contain how good she felt. “You rat!” she laughed.

REIHAHN! The beast answered.

Camilla wrapped her arms around the creature’s trunk. “Thank you.” With one massive glomp it rolled over on its side, allowing Camilla the pleasure of rubbing its belly. “Well you are just one huge puppy, aren’t you?”

She spent the better part of the day playing with the beast, and splashing it with lagoon water. Curiously, it refused to set foot in the oasis, but it stayed close by, sitting diligently as she restored herself over and over, and at times she thought it might even be smiling.

Eventually the reality set in that whatever this oasis was, it wasn’t a place one could remain in permanently, and Camilla hoped the beast would help her move on to where she needed to go. She stroked its fur from as close to its shoulder as she could reach. “Are you ready to leave?”

But the beast’s attention was on the giant rock. It glanced at Camilla, and then at the mound, as if it wanted her to look over there.

“Is something there?” she asked. The beast showed no signs of response, it only waited for her to decide what to do.

Camilla walked around the lagoon toward the stone guardian, easily spotting a cave at its base that she hadn’t noticed was there. She looked back at her beast, which kept watching her proudly.

“Wait for me?” she said, and crept inside the cave.

At first there was nothing. Absolute silence. She yelled out, but not even an echo of her own voice reached her ears. The cave turned into a tunnel, and she felt her way through the darkness. It was cold. She kept going.

Then a peep. Some kind of a bird? It was some distance away, but she was positive she’d heard it. Camilla continued down the tunnel. Another peep, short and high pitched. “Hello?” she called. No response. She walked faster. The peep came again, followed by another one. “Can you hear me?” Another. It found a rhythm. And she ran to it. As the cave melted away.

Camilla awoke in a hospital bed with five members of the staff surrounding her. They were all talking but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Seated against the wall was her daughter, sobbing into her husband’s chest.

One of the doctors leaned in to where she was lying. “Can you hear me?” she said. Camilla nodded. The doctor smiled. “We’ve got you.”

A second doctor nodded to one of the other staff members, who set a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder. “We’ve got her.”

Before anyone else could react, Camilla’s daughter was pressed against her face. “Mommy!” she cried. Then her husband’s arms were around them both, holding tightly for fear of losing her again.

Short Story Week 2018: Day Four -For the Dental Plan

"What's this?"

"Open it."

Caris has place a small gift about the size of a shoebox in front of me, covered in polka dotted wrapping paper and a purple bow. I know I should be grateful, and I am, but I'm more stuck on the fact that she and I just had one of the most clichéd four word conversations in literary history -'what's this, open it'.

"What would you rather I have said?" she patiently endures my personality quirks. "How about, it's a present. Open it."

"I guess I'm just confused as to why that exchange ever takes place at all, much less why so frequently. When someone hands someone else a present, it's obviously a present. To be opened, contents thusly revealed-"

"Sweetie," she chides me, "Don't sit here and pretend that you have ever used the word 'thusly' in casual conversation."

"What is the point of those four words?" I ask.

"The same as 'knock knock, who's there'. It's ritual. Come on, open it."

"Can you tell me what it's for?"

"It's just a little something." She's beginning to squirm, she's so excited. It's clearly more than just a little thing to her. "It's day four and you woke up this morning with literally no idea what to write. So I got you an idea. Just open it or you're going to hurt my feelings."

Okay, I can't have that.

For the Dental Plan

This is the part of my job I don’t like.

“Come in Thompson,” I say, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. He sits.

I feign one more skim of my handwritten notes that I’m not looking forward to typing up. I know what they say, but I’m giving myself a moment to breath before this conversation. “Do you know why I called you in here?”

“Yes sir,” he says. “I want to apologize-“

I interrupt him. “Let’s just take one thing at a time. I’m supposed to remind you of our company’s policy regarding lunch breaks. You get thirty minutes, as I’m sure you know.”

Thompson nods quietly.

“Now according to your co-workers, you left at 10:15 this morning and were gone almost four hours. Is that right?”

“It is.”

“And it’s not the first time this month?”

“No sir.”

“Third, I believe.”

“Yes sir.”

I pretend to glance over my notes again before flipping to a blank page and clicking my pen. “I’m required to provide an explanation for the extra time spent away from your desk. Can you help me out?”

“Waffles.”

“Waffles?” I stare at him. He doesn’t blink. “That’s really what you’re going with”.

“Yes sir, frozen waffles.”

“Frozen waffles,” I repeat as I write it down. “And do they just take the extra time to thaw?”

“Oh, no sir, they’re not for me. They’re for my wife.”

“I don’t think corporate is all that interested in who they’re for, so much as why they’re preventing you from getting back to your desk in a reasonable manner.”

Thompson shifts uncomfortably. “My wife is very particular about waffles. This specific brand is very difficult to find.”

“So am I to understand that you’re spending your lunch break shopping for this very specific brand of waffles?”

He nods. “Frozen waffles, yes.”

“Right,” I sigh. “Now is there a reason why these frozen waffles have to be shopped for during work hours?”

“Yes sir. These waffles are incredibly popular. They essentially fly off the shelves as soon as they’re stocked.”

“Taste pretty good then?”

“I assume. I wouldn’t know.”

I lean back in my chair. “So to be clear: you’re at work, your wife contacts you via…text or whatever saying that the waffles are going up, you hop in the car, drive to the store, and make your best effort to acquire a couple of boxes?”

“Just one box,” says Thompson, “And I drive a mini-van, but yes. That’s the process.”

“Can these waffles not be ordered online?”

“No sir.”

“Because they’re frozen?”

“No sir. Because we won’t receive our ShopStop credits if we purchase online. I do apologize-”

“We’re still not there yet”. I take the time to jot down ‘ShopStop credits’ with a question mark before continuing. “All right Thompson, this is where it gets uncomfortable, for me anyway. The security cameras have confirmed that all three times this has happened you’ve returned to the office but haven’t gone straight to your desk. They show you’ve consistently visited Sheryl’s office in accounting. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir.” Thompson’s eyes turn downward. “Have you spoken with her?”

“I would just as soon not, if at all possible. But unfortunately I have to ask if you and Sheryl are involved in a romantic relationship.”

He doesn't flinch. “No sir, we’re not.”

“And if I were to approach her about this, you’re telling me she’d confirm this?”

“That’s correct.”

“Follow-up question, which I don’t have to ask but I’m going to. Does she also ask you to bring her waffles?”

“No sir. She’s not involved with the waffles in any way.”

“I’m sure I’ll remember to make a note of that later.” I know my displeasure is more than evident on my face, but I'm not keen on caring right now. “Why are you going to see Sheryl from accounting?”

“Concealer.”

“Concealer?”

“Yes.”

“As in makeup?”

“Yes.”

“Is this a common interest between the two of you?”

“No sir. She has a type of concealer that works very well on my skin issues.”

“Skin, Issues,” I repeat out loud as I write. “These skin issues that only happen to flare up when you go shopping for waffles?”

“Frozen waffles, yes sir.”

“Thompson, do you have a waffle allergy that you know of?”

“Um, no sir. I don’t believe so.”

“Any ideas why your skin might be having this coincidental reaction when you go frozen waffle shopping?”

“It may be a variable in the store.”

“Right.” I fish around in my desk drawer for the still image of Thompson I had printed out. “See, corporate is undoubtedly going to want something a bit more specific of an explanation for your skin than ‘variable’.”

“It’s probably some specific variable in this store that causes my skin to-“

I cut him off by setting the photograph in front of him. “look like you’ve had the turkey stuffing beaten out of you with a metal pipe?”

“Yes sir.”

“Coolant leak from the refrigeration unit perhaps?”

“That’s a possibility. Again I want to apol-“

“Still not there Thompson.” I rub my forehead. “I was hoping this one would answer itself without my having to ask, but what is that around your ankle?”

“My ankle sir?”

“Yes Thompson. The hinge that connects your foot to your lower shin.”

His eyes dart around the floor. “Sir? I don’t-“

“Other leg Thompson.”

“Oh.”

“That’s the one.”

“I didn’t even notice that was there.”

“Yes.” I’m not even going to bother writing this one down. “Now I’m no expert, but wouldn’t you say that looks a bit like a beaver trap?”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar-“

“Do you know what a bear trap is, Thompson? You’ve seen Road-Runner cartoons. Big metal thing with teeth that snaps shut? Doesn’t it look like a smaller version of that around your ankle?”

“Yes sir, I believe it does.”

“Great.” I force a smile. “Now is it possible you may have put your foot in one of those at this waffle store as well?”

“Yes sir. Do you know the game Free the Bunny?”

I hear my own voice crack, unclear if it’s a laugh or a sob. “No, Thompson. What is the relevance of the game Free the Bunny?”

“I have it on my phone. I might have wandered into the sporting goods section of the store while I was playing it.”

“And would this have been to or from your frantic scramble for these frozen waffles?”

“I can’t really say sir.”

“That’s fine. You’re actually doing me a favor.”

“May I apologize now?”

“I don’t really see the need, but I do regrettably have one more question. And I need to stress that you are not legally obligated to answer.” He nods, and I have a pleasant flashback to what my life was like a few decades ago when I was nothing more than a mail clerk. “By any chance have you recently been out of the country? Like, say, within the past few hours?”

“Sir, I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“Nor do I Thompson, but that ferry has disembarked. I only mention it because Mrs. Dresden called me from outside an airport in Greece this morning. She swears she saw you getting out of an unmarked shuttle with a blonde model and two men in trench coats.”

“Well sir, Mrs. Dresden is on vacation. She’s probably had more than a few.”

“That’s a valid argument, Thompson.” I reach for the blank form that I’m dreading having to fill out. “Well, I think we’re done here. Hypothetically speaking, if my department inadvertently hired an undercover spy, my bosses are inevitably going to want me to look into it.”

“I understand sir. That’s why they give you the big paycheck.”

“If you wouldn’t mind stopping by here before the end of the day to sign this?”

He rises to leave.

“Oh Thompson. Just for my own sense of morbid curiosity, were you able to acquire the waffles?”

“Frozen waffles sir. And no. They got away in Luxembourg.”

I shake my head. “A pity. Your wife is going to be so disappointed.”

“Yes sir. And I may need to take a few weeks off.”





"Thank you Caris," I say. "That was quite fun."

She smiles. "I think that's what you've been missing."

"You know that writing can't always be fun."

"Of course I know that. But if you stop liking it, is there really a point anymore?"

We sit quietly with each other for a while. Not thinking, not writing, not doing much of anything. I begin to wonder if maybe I like the idea of writing more than actually doing it. And I realize, by itself, that isn't a good enough reason to keep writing.

"Caris, what am I when I'm not writing?"

"Honestly?" she says. "The same thing you are when you are. You know something I found intriguing, and I can't remember if I had you type it into the blog a few days ago? You can't prove creativity. Look at somebody like M.C Escher. His work is fascinating, and people connect with it and get inspired by it and most of us believe it to be creative. But if someone were to demand that you deliver proof of its creativity, what argument could you make? Identifying creativity really is based on intuition."

"Do you think what I'm doing is worthwhile?"

She stands to leave. "'Worthwhile' is a word describing an ambiguity. Something can be worthwhile and not at the same time, as well as any number of points in between the two. It's certainly worthwhile to me; it's my whole life. How worthwhile is it to you?"

And then she's gone.

Short Story Week 2018: Day Three -The Semantics of Murder

Caris brings over two identical cups filled with soft drink, and I reach for the one she holds out to me, practically spitting it out the moment the taste of diet touches my tongue. "Oops," she giggles. "Forgot which was which."

I trade for the Dr. Pepper impostor. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Nope. Just giving you a healthy dose of chaos." She sits next to me on the sofa and reads the newest blog entry over my shoulder. "So let me ask you something. As a writer, how do you know when a story or blog post or whatever is finished? Does it feel done?"

"I don't know if anything ever feels truly done. At best it feels done enough. I don't know that I'm particularly good at recognizing when something is working so much as I can tell when it isn't. Most of the time I'll let something sit as soon as it no longer feels like it isn't working."

She winks. "Afraid of smothering it?"

"Let's just say I'm a lot happier when I keep my natural tendency to be a control freak in check."

"So let's talk about today's story. You've already written this one before we're talking now. How do you feel about it?"

Honestly as she asks me that, I don't know how I feel about it. I'm a bit more proud of it than the past two because I know how much more intention went into it. It's meant to be less accessible, more esoteric, but I truly can't tell if it comes across as just dumb. "I guess I feel like it's done enough."

The Semantics of Murder

"Come in," I told her.

She scurried into the parlor and struck an attentive pose across from my writing desk, awaiting instructions.

"And you are..."

"Ai."

I smiled. "Easy to remember." I rose from my seat and came around to meet her face to face. She was noticeably shorter (and thinner) than myself, but it was to be expected. "My newest subject."

She nodded in agreement. Poor skittish Ai, with no way of knowing what to expect. "Nervous?"

"Yes."

"Not to worry. By this time tomorrow I'll be finishing your sentences."

Ai didn't respond out loud, but her attendance was understood.

"Come with me," I said.

We left the sanctuary of the parlor together, with me repeatedly ushering her to walk alongside me. She would have to get used to leading once we decided on a heading, and I need her to become accustomed to the proper pacing. In the long corridor to the worlds outside stood a line of massive bookshelves stretching so high it was impossible to determine just how many rows there were. Literature, tomes, scrolls, even ideas conveyed only through pictographs; a sacred hall if ever there was one.

"Beautiful, are they not?"

Ai gave me a puzzled expression. "They?"

I gestured to the vast library. "All of this.. This history. Philosophy. Poetry. All of which we're part of. Have you seen anything so inspiring?"

"No, Miss Pretty Catherine."

I laughed. "Is that what they told you to call me?"

Ai seemed uncomfortable, probably assuming she'd done something incorrectly.

"Call me Cate."

"Miss...Pretty Cate?"

"Miss Pretty Cate is acceptable if that makes you more comfortable," I assured her. "Although I should like to break you of the formal title at the earliest possibility. Has your role in all of this been fully explained to you?"

"No, Miss Pretty Cate."

"There are rules," I said. "Quite a lot of them in fact. It will be most overwhelming to impose all of them on you at once. But simply, I'm required to have an escort. Anywhere we go, I'm obligated to have you in front of me. That may seem intimidating, but I won't steer you where you're not ready to go. As long as we work together, there will be no need for...corrections. For now, that should be enough to keep us on the same page."

I hadn't realized just how scared she was, but her thin frame was visibly trembling. I set my hand gently on her back and guided her in front of me, resting my fingers on her shoulders.

"Let's try this again." I motioned to the shelves a second time. "Beautiful, are they not?"

Ai stammered a little. "They...are."

"They are...what?"

"They are...Miss Pretty Cate?" She glanced back at me for confirmation.

I casually leaned in and whispered. "What- exactly are they?"

Her eyes jumped between me and the shelves for several moments before nearly blurting out "They are beautiful!"

It warmed my heart seeing how pleased she was. "Good girl, Ai."


I steered her into the streets which were vacant at the moment, but the vast architecture stretching all around gave off the atmosphere of a world alive with purpose. "Rudiments," I said. "Our gift. It allows for exchange. Communication. The chance to grow. Become something more."

Ai tried to absorb as much of her surroundings as she could. "It's overwhelming."

"You are correct. But it's also inviting. The only way to acclimate is to dive in head first."

I couldn't blame her for finding the metaphor confusing. The sequence of byways, alleys, and overpasses was already taking its toll on her inexperienced being. I handed her a pocket notebook with a coiled pen attached to the spine. "You should practice."

"How?"

"One letter at a time." She swayed where she was, and I had to steady her. "I'm always behind you," I promised her.

If the streets were a visual noise for her, the lulling sounds of a melody from the horizon soothed her nerves somewhat. She glanced at me with curiosity. "Miss Pretty Cate?"

"It's music, Ai."

She seemed captivated by it. And why shouldn't she be? "It's lovely."

I nodded. "Someday we may venture out there. But you're not ready. You must learn the streets first. The hills are paradoxically complicated in their simplicity, whereas the streets are simply complicated. You must walk before you can dance."

She gave me a look that easily read as though she was trying to replay my words to comprehend them, but they just wouldn't cooperate with her mind.

"Nuance, Ai." I rubbed her head, giving her a wink of encouragement. "Your first beast to overcome."

Our conversation was cut short by the untimely arrival of Sasha, the shell vendor from the beach, who looked as though she had a cause for grave concern. I wasn't ready to inflict her peculiar mannerisms on Ai just yet, so I politely shushed her before she could speak. "First time subject heading into the compound," I explained. "Please direct her by implication."

Sasha pointed to the nearby structure with the branching diagram etched into the plaque on the front. As I expected, the Society of Design. "The cornerstone of our communication," I told Ai. "Take point. The passive round is over."

Ai walked. I followed. "The Society of Design is made up of eight members; Andy, Byron, Drew, Frankly, Humphrey, Mimi, Namine, and Scarlet. If any group of individuals is prone to an argument, it's them. We'll have to work together to sort them out."

As if on cue, a male scream pierced our ears from inside the door. We may have been too late.

"Knock," I told her. A brief rapping on the panel and the door opened inward. Ai and I came eye to eye with the first member of the society. "Drew," I whispered.

She looked to me for guidance. I only gave her a nod of encouragement.

"What happened here?" she asked Drew.

"Come," he told her, ushering her into a large sitting room where six of the other members stood in a scattered formation, watching us cautiously as we entered. In the middle of the room lay the lifeless body of one of their own.

Ai's voice cracked. "Is he dead?"

"Who are you asking?" I said.

She glanced around at the ensemble, asking for clarification from them, but only received blank stares.

"They function as a unit," I said. "You're going to have to be very specific as to what you ask to whom in order to obtain any pertinent information."

"Can I have them arrange so I'm clear who is who?"

"You can do whatever you see fit."

It was a delight to witness Ai's confidence go up on the spot. She demanded the seven surviving members circle her in a clockwise alphabetical order, starting with the spot in front of her. "Who goes here?" she asked.

"Andy," came a female voice, who Ai would soon learn was Namine's. It took some coaxing to get Andy to take his place, as he refused to move until Scarlet and Byron were in theirs. From there she went around the seven faces naming them in turn. "Andy. Byron. Drew. Frankly." I had to give her credit. Her memory was photographic.

She stopped when she came to the next face, that of a female. "Humphrey?"

The woman pointed to the corpse. "Him."

"Mimi then. Namine and Scarlet."

"Any thoughts on who could have done it?" I prodded.

"What about knowing why?"

"If that's the way you want to go."

She looked around at the assembly, momentarily lost for words. "What was Humphrey like?"

I clarified what she was getting at. "Are you asking for a description?"

"Yes. Who can describe Humphrey?"

"Superfluous," said Scarlet, no trace of remorse in her voice.

"That sounded a bit like a confession," I suggested to Ai. "Do you think Scarlet is the killer?"

"Hang on. If she were, why would she reveal it so easily?"

"It sounds like you're still being distracted by motive," I said. "The why of it is a bit trickier to negotiate."

The gears were turning in her head. She pointed at Frankly, but changed her mind and shifted to Byron. "Would you say Humphrey was killed violently?" Byron didn't seem to know how to respond, and it confirmed her suspicion that he was only useful in relation to the others. She pointed back to Frankly. "Same question."

"Violently," he said.

She'd gotten it. I couldn't be prouder. "So who is the only one here capable of such an act?"

"It has to be Drew," she smiled with pride.

At which point Humphrey hopped up from the floor muttering a half cynical "Hooray," before Drew walked us out of the building.

I congratulated her. "Very clever. And what would the sentence be for this crime?"

Ai scribbled in the notebook I gave her, placing a very fine point at the end. She showed me what she'd written, and I knew she and I were going to enjoy each other's company for a very long while.

'Alas, Pretty Cate and I walked out silently.'


Caris pats my knee compassionately. "I like the surrealism of it. But I can't help wonder if you're going to confuse most of your readership."

"Do you think I should spoil it then?"

"Well, I may not be the best person to ask. I can't keep a secret to save my life." She swigs down the remainder of her diet concoction. "I don't think it would hurt you to explain it. People might appreciate the effort you put into it more with the backstage pass."

"You're probably right. Why don't you do the honors?"

"Love to!" Caris waits for me to type <spoiler alert> before her delighted reveal. "Ai is the subject. Pretty Cate is the predicate. The members of the society are the eight parts of speech. Drew, being the verb, was thus the only one capable of committing the 'act' of murder. Did I get everything?"

"The last line of the story."

"Oh yeah. An eight word sentence containing all eight parts of speech. Regardless of how the story comes across in quality, I'm confident it reads as if you really enjoyed writing it- Oh! I forgot. Sasha! She sells seashells by the seashore; she was a tongue twister. That was my favorite bit."

"Caris, what would I do without you?"

"Well, not to overstate my importance, but probably create another Caris." She gives me one last smile before disappearing into the imaginary ether for the day. I'm sure I'll be calling on her again tomorrow.

Short Story Week 2018: Day Two -The Bridge and the Troll

"You know, I was thinking about it during your insomnia last night," Caris says. "I don't believe you're really shy on ideas, so much as taking an idea and fully developing it is the struggle."

She doesn't deserve the sneer I give her, but she's always been forgiving enough to overlook moments of human selfishness. "You mean, when writing gets hard, I lose interest."

"Have you ever heard a writer say they enjoyed the process of writing? They enjoy having written." She watches me carefully. Continuing when I don't respond. "Or they don't. I think it was Nathaniel Hawthorne who tried to destroy ever copy of his first book."

"This hasn't been that much of a problem for me in the past," I say.

"And what's changed for you?"

I shrug. "It's possible I'm just out of things to say."

"I don't think so. I think your relationship with writing has shifted focus. You're not having fun with it anymore."

"Do you think it's time to hang it up?"

"Well, I'd never go so far as that. Maybe you just need a return to basics. I mean, you've made yourself a list of short stories to tackle this week, but you're not really giving yourself room to just play. That's why writing has become work to you, you're pressuring yourself to 'produce'."

I sigh. "I don't know how I feel about my character being wiser than me."

"I'm not wiser than you sweetie, I just have a perspective that factors out a lot of the noise of reality."

"Okay then. If you were me, what would you write?"

Caris's whole being perks up. "A fable. You like fables- actually we both do. They're concise, they have a beginning, middle, and end, and they can pretty much involve any characters in any setting. Try this: go to fairy tales. Find a character-type that represents the way you feel right now. Then find one that represents the way I feel. Then put them together and see what happens."

"Well, this should be rich."

"Forget about quality. Make it sincere and the quality will take care of itself."

She grins at me as I glare at her. "And where did you get that chestnut from?"

"I'm a fictional character. How the hell should I know?"

The Bridge and the Troll

The province of Meadley was known throughout the land as one of the most pleasant caravan stops between Willow Fringe and Castle Sirois. In addition to the hills and pastures that could relax even the most unsettled soul, Meadley was home to some of the nation’s finest wool.  For many years, the province had flourished in the clothing trade, and it was unheard of for any traveler of coin or status to bypass visiting the humble land.

But alas, prosperity has as much a cycle as the seasons. And a few harsh bouts of weather had flooded the river separating Meadley from the main country; leaving in the end a single bridge connecting the two. And this bridge had become the home of a troll, who took most unkindly to the sound of hoofs and wagons overhead.

The smaller wagons stood no chance against the fury of the beast. The larger ones that made it to and from did so with an armed and armored escort, a practice which quickly became more costly and inconvenient than it was worth. And it took very little time for the citizens of Meadley to feel the strain of being cut off from the trade routes.

So one day the troll was gathered at the river’s edge under the bridge, waiting for a sizable fish to swim by when an odd thumping came from the beams above him.

“Who’s that tramping on my bridge?” the troll bellowed.

A young female voice called down, “I’m not tramping, and it’s not your bridge!”

“If it’s not tramping, what would you call it?”

“Walking!” The pounding of heavy steps sent a cloud of dust down on the troll’s head. “This is tramping!”

“Stop that! Or I’ll come up there and eat you!”

“Oh I’m sorry. Is my province’s need to continue living getting in the way of whatever you’re doing down there?”

“Tell you what,” said the troll. “You tell me where you live and I’ll come clog dance across your roof a few times and see how you take to it.”

“Well you see, my family was wise enough to choose a location other than an access road to make their home-“

“Did I NOT make it clear that I’m willing to climb up there and eat you?”

The rhythmic thumping continued, indifferent to the troll’s threat. “Who announces that they’re going to eat somebody? You don’t warn them, you just do it!”

“Are you wearing stones for shoes little human?”

“No, it’s a wheelbarrow. I apologize if that’s too LOUD for you!”

“You could wake the dead with that thing.” The troll grumbled.

“Get over it!” the lady snapped back. “You’ve left us no alternative!”

“Have your kind build another bridge then!”

“Listen troll!” The silhouette of her head appeared over the bridge’s edge. “It costs money to build a bridge, and we don’t have it! So this wheelbarrow is how it’s going to have to be! If you want to come up here and try me on for size, you’re welcome to it! Otherwise, suck it up!”

The troll was a little taken aback, and didn’t know how to respond until she was well gone. He turned his attention back to the river, but the fish didn’t hold his interest. He’d realized he’d never had a conversation with a human before, and he didn’t know what to think about the exchange.

The troll was so engaged in thought throughout the day that he completely lost track of time until he heard the sound of the young woman’s wheelbarrow approaching from the opposite direction.

“How now?” he called. “Have you acquired this money you so need?”

She stopped several yards away from the river. “Seriously? I haven’t even set foot on the bridge.”

“Trolls have very keen hearing.”

“So I noticed,” she said. “No, I didn’t do as well as I hoped. But I brought you something.”

The troll stared suspiciously as she lowered a basket on a rope from the bridge down to his level. “What’s this?”

“Meat pies.”

He sniffed the basket, unclear as to what poison even smelled like. “Why?”

“I thought you might like them. And it’s a peace offering. I’m going to have to be using this bridge quite a bit before I’m able to raise the funds to rebuild any of the others.”

“And why does this burden fall to you?”

“Somebody has to. You’ve frightened everyone in Meadley.”

“Why aren’t you frightened?”

“Who says I’m not?” She pulled the empty basket back up to the bridge and carefully pushed the wheelbarrow across the river, forewarning the troll that she would return the following day with another delivery of wool.

The morning came, and the troll awakened to the sound of her footsteps. He waited in amusement as she tapped softly on the bridge’s railing to announce her presence. “Good day, troll,” she said. “I have several bushels to carry across our bridge. Do you mind?”

Did he mind? The troll couldn’t grasp what he was hearing. Nobody had asked him before. “I suppose that would be all right,” he said.

“Very good.”

And that same rhythmic thumping that irritated him so began traveling across the planks of his bridge. He tried to ‘suck it up’ as she had suggested the previous day, but his troll nature became too conscious for him. “Human!” he shouted. “It occurs to me that if I were to come up there and move the wheelbarrow for you that you would more quickly be across the bridge and well on your way!”

“I daresay I shall not dispute you, good troll.”

Moments later the young woman found herself face to face with the most horrifying nightmare of teeth and claws she’d ever seen. She smiled. “My name is Celia.”

It started with that walk across the bridge, which turned into a walk through the woods to Willow Fringe. Humans have an innate hatred of trolls, and for this reason trolls rarely showed themselves by daylight for fear of being hunted. But the sight of a troll pushing a wheelbarrow while walking with a young woman was enough to stay the hands of those skilled with the blade. Suffice to say, Celia’s wares fared significantly better that morning than they had the previous day.

Soon Meadley had more than enough money to repair as many bridges as they desired, but by then the troll was a valued member of the community, and had moved into one of the spare barns near Celia’s family. Meadley entered into a new era of prosperity compounded by the fact that they were the first town to ever include a troll among its citizens. Celia was eventually named governor of Meadley, and she remained close friends with the troll for the rest of his days.

Caris can't stop smiling at me. "That was a sweet story. Am I to assume that you're the troll and I'm Celia?"

"Not exactly. It started off differently in my head, but I think I'm a bit happier with this one."

"That makes sense. I never imagined myself as so confrontational. Why do you think you're happier with this story?"

"I don't know. I can't say it's any better or worse than the one yesterday, but somehow this one just feels more..."

"Alive?"

I look into the empty space where only I can see Caris. "Yeah. That's it."

"That's a good feeling to close the evening on."

Short Story Week 2018: Day One -A Scoop of Mashed Potatoes On Top of a Manhole Cover

"You did the right thing calling me." Caris appears over my shoulder, carefully peering at the fruitless efforts of my blank screen. "What's going on sweetie?"

"I have really not been feeling creative lately," I tell her.

"Since March?"

I nod. "I thought it was the Seroquel at first. The Prozac-Seroquel combination really seemed to make me feel better, but then I noticed I didn't have that creative spark anymore. I thought it might come back when I went on the depression study because I had to switch out the Seroquel for Melatonin, but it's been three months and nothing's really happened."

"You still daydream."

I sip from the Styrofoam container full of caffeine and sugar that I've been drinking way too much of lately. "Yeah, but I don't feel motivated to really do anything with the thoughts. I'm just...not there anymore."

Caris sits on the desk next to my computer monitor. "Creativity." She smiles. "If I were to turn you into a fictional character, that would be your defining trait."

"It's not a very good trait for a character to have."

"Why do you say that?"

"Logistics. Creativity isn't tangible. Dancing is tangible. I can write a story about you dancing without my actually demonstrating my own ability to dance, or not to. But if I were to write a story about you being creative I would have to essentially be as creative as I'm claiming you are. Otherwise the audience views it at me telling, not showing."

"Well, don't you think you're creative?"

"I certainly try to be."

"What's more important to you? Being creative or feeling creative?"

"If I have to choose?" I glance up at her for the answer that I already know she's going to give me. "I guess I'd say feeling creative."

"And why is that?"

"Well, I was trying to imagine what the difference is. If I'm feeling creative then I'm probably actually being creative. If I'm not feeling it, how would I recognize it?"

"Interesting," Caris says. "Is it even possible for anybody to recognize creativity? Like, is there any sort of official criteria one could devise to unquestionably identify creativity, or is it purely on a system of intuition?"

"That's probably a question best left to people who program A.I.s. But it's definitely an intriguing thought exercise. Can you prove creativity exists?"

"I like this conversation," Caris giggles. "So why don't you try telling a story now?"

"Okay," I huff. "Let's see what happens."

A Scoop of Mashed Potatoes On Top of a Manhole Cover

Nobody had ever placed a scoop of mashed potatoes on top of a manhole cover before, and with understandably good reason. But there was a time, albeit briefly, that one could rattle off those words, in that order, with complete sobriety and no concern for any loss of social well-being. That period, like so many, has long since faded into nothing more than a footnote in history; but not without leaving a trace stain of its existence somewhere, waiting for rediscovery.

It began with the Olhauser exhibit at the Musee d’Meprise. And it ended with the notoriously inflexible critic Emile Michaud.

In his review of modern art, and artists, Michaud’s favorite phrase was, “Yes, but what does it mean?”. It was not his responsibility, at least in his authority, to have to search for a meaning which did not immediately present itself. Which is not to say that complexities of substance were beyond his scope. Far from it. He simply found himself to be the ideal template for measuring the spectrum of the superficial to the esoteric. If he didn’t ‘get it’ there was nothing worth getting to be gotten.

It was this mentality which became contagious to upcoming art connoisseurs, creating an environment for artists that was notably negative in reception. “Yes, but what does it mean?” became an unofficial mantra among those who recognized Michaud’s superior understanding of what separated art from non-art.

To a point, the question was fair. After all, meaning is as fundamental to expression as color or rhythm. But Michaud was particularly vocal about his displeasure with any response reminiscent of “It means whatever you want it to mean”. He equated it with meaning nothing, and many young artists preferred to give up their craft rather than endure what they felt to be a premature judgment.

Michaud’s pull within the art community was equally problematic for an established artist such as Olhauser, who rarely gave much thought to the meaning behind her work. She just did things. Things that came to her, for whatever reason. Occasionally these things resonated with an audience, who might be so inclined as to assign a meaning to them. If Olhauser ever had any interest in the accuracy of said meanings, she never bothered to let anyone know about it.

Her first name remained a mystery to the public as she was terribly reclusive. No known photographs of her existed, and the few people who had met her in the early throes of her career described her personality as flat and blank, almost like an unrealized canvas (a quote that made its way to an early newspaper article about her work). In the few years prior to the time period in question, a handful of Olhauser’s paintings and sculptures would make their way to the Musee d’Meprise with little fanfare, apart from the hostile comments from some of Michaud’s prospective protégés; Michaud himself had long since abandoned paying Olhauser any mind.

But that changed with the arrival of the piece titled A Scoop of Mashed Potatoes on Top of a Manhole Cover.

As far as anyone could tell, the piece was exactly what it claimed to be. The glass casing prevented any close inspection of the artwork, making it impossible to tell if the sculpture was wooden, marble, or an actual manhole cover with actual mashed potatoes on it. Within the first weekend in the exhibit people began talking about it. The inevitable question “Yes, but what does it mean?” made its way to the proceedings almost as fast as the attendees, but the outright dismissal that the words usually carried quickly fell away to reveal more of a piqued curiosity.

“It could be a statement on the way that our professional and personal lives are merging.” “Maybe it’s about vegetarianism.” “It could just be a commentary on the current state of the art world.” The explanations came pouring through the halls of the museum, and then out into the world until they reached the ears of Emile Michaud.

Their courier came in the form of a newspaper reporter who was covering the piece’s rising popularity. He phoned up Michaud and invited a response about Olhauser’s newest creation. Michaud, not being familiar with what had been going on, requested a brief synopsis. When he got it, his initial reaction was a sheer, almost numbing, disbelief. “Are you,” he said after a very long stretch of silence, “kidding me?”

The reporter wasn’t.

Michaud drew in an irritated breath and gave his on record response to the newspaper the way he would talk down to a child. “It is just a scoop of mashed potatoes on top of a manhole cover.”

“Yes,” replied the reporter. “But what does it mean?”

What does it mean, he thought? It means nothing. It was so obvious that he couldn’t understand why he’d even been asked. The question caught him so off guard that all he could do was hang up the phone. A few minutes later, when he was convinced this wasn’t some nightmare he was having, Michaud called Musee d’Meprise’s curator and demanded in no uncertain terms that the ‘piece’ be removed from the exhibit, as it belonged nowhere within three blocks of anything resembling an art museum.

“I appreciate your concern,” recited the curator, “but this piece is bringing in the largest crowds the museum has seen in close to five years-“

“Yes! But what does it mean?” Michaud snapped without thinking.

The curator shrugged; Michaud could just feel him shrugging over the phone. “It doesn’t matter.”

He slammed the phone down so hard it bounced off his desk.

The next morning Michaud barreled through the doors of the museum. He’d nearly gone down there the evening before, but enough rationale had warned him that somebody would be killed if he didn’t give himself time to cool down. Unfortunately the newspaper had been delivered that morning, and the article contained the phrase “Emile Michaud doesn’t get it”, which put him in an even worse state of fury that he’d been in prior.

And it was in the museum that he saw the sight he’d been expecting, and it made him sick to his soul. People. Mindless people. In heavy discussion. About nothing.

There is a concept elitists refer to as ‘Apocryphal Innovation’. It’s when something devoid of any artistic merit happens to catch the attention of the masses, and thus becomes infused with value based on nothing more than popularity. As little as Michaud thought of the masses, and their fascination with waste, this was a new cultural low for them. And he was having none of it.

He shoved his way past the attendees and barged into the main office. The curator sat at his desk with his feet propped up, barely containing his amusement at the intrusion. “Come in Emile.”

“Two hundred dollars!”

“Seriously? You’re going this route?”

“Two hundred dollars, and I donate it to your trash bin! If that’s really iron you can hose it off and sell it for scrap.”

“Offer me 350.”

Michaud pulled out his wallet. “Done.”

“No.” The curator shifted to face Michaud directly. “This is insane and you know it.”

“Insane? That’s insanity out there! Do you have any idea what it’s doing to the reputation of the museum?”

“Yes, nothing,” the curator snickered. “But what will it do to your reputation when the peasants see you shelling out a few hundred dollars for something you view as valueless? Why does it get to you so much? People are having fun.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?”

The curator sighed. “And there it is. You really ought to have that phrase trademarked.” He walked over to the mini-bar in his office and poured two glasses of brandy, setting one in front of Michaud. “I don’t know. And at the end of the day I don’t really care enough to try figuring it out. I’m not in Olhauser’s head, and based on our scant exchanges it’s not a place I’m really inclined to visit. All I know is it probably means something to her, and it seems to mean something to the people out there. What more can a museum really hope for?”

Michaud ignored the brandy he’d been offered. “Where is she?”

The curator rubbed his forehead. “Emile, just let this one go.”

“I want to talk to her directly. You know how to get ahold of her.”

“You know what our rules are, right? We’re legally obligated to protect an artist’s privacy. If they don’t want to be found, we can’t give out information on them.”

“Yes, I’m fully aware of the policies your museum has instated.”

“Good.” The curator produced a card with an address from his desk and set it in front of Michaud. “She asked me to give you this.”

It was a guesthouse addition to a home that had been torn down so long ago there was no longer a trace of it amidst the overgrown brush. She greeted Michaud at the door before he could knock a second time.

“Come in, come in,” she smiled, ushering him into a dimly lit room; a single dying light bulb overhead. The place was packed with more metal shelves than it was ever meant for. Toolboxes and crates filled the gaps, while rusted hammers, saws, and cobwebs lined the walls. The tight space was a storage graveyard.

Michaud opened his mouth to speak, but Olhauser beat him to the sentence by one second. “You’re here about the Manhole piece,” she said. “It means exactly what you think it means.” She squeezed through the obstructions to a distorted door that separated the storage area from the rest of the building. “That’s not entirely true,” she grinned. “I want to show you something.”

She scurried into the open area of the guesthouse where she’d spent all of her recent days painting. Walls, floor and ceiling. All sides dripping with colors, swirls, and spackles of tints and hues. Patterns that flowed in and out of each other, like a spectral ocean.

“They’re back,” she announced as soon as Michaud joined her in her sanctuary.

“They, who?” were the words that formed in Michaud’s head, but they came from Olhauser’s mouth, as she didn’t have the patience to wait for him to ask. “Things. Voices. Ideas. A collage.” She guided him into the center of the room. “Isn’t it beautiful? A self-contained exhibit. I think I’m going to call it ‘Those Who Cannot See’.”

Again, Olhauser assigned dialogue to the perplexed look on Michaud’s face that couldn’t keep up with her. “Yes, but what does it mean? I never know. Sometimes it means something. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes the meaning comes later. Like ‘A Scoop of Mashed Potatoes On Top of a Manhole Cover.’ I didn’t know what it meant until now.”

“You know, I hear your voice in my head? ‘Yes, but what does it mean?’ Over and over. In my sleep. In my insomnia. I’ve been hearing it for a few years now. It’s gotten so loud that I couldn’t hear the collage. And then it stopped speaking to me altogether. And there was just me. I couldn’t see it anymore. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She wasn’t making any sense. Michaud was beginning to suspect that it was a mistake to have come here. Olhauser moved behind him, setting her hand gently on his shoulder and pressing her cheek into his face.

“Creativity,” she whispered. “Linking two unrelated things together. Without creativity, they’re just two things that don’t belong together; like a scoop of mashed potatoes on top of a manhole cover. That’s all I am once your voice gets in my head. Those who cannot see resent those who can. And because you can’t be us, you turn us into you.”

Michaud eyed her defiantly. “I think you’re a lunatic.”

“No,” she said. “An artist. But I can see why you’d confuse the two.” Olhauser slid neatly in front of her primary critic, brandishing a heavy mallet that he hadn’t previously noticed her carrying. She winked as she raised it above his head.

“Oh,” he muttered. “I get it now.”

"Well that took a dark turn," says Caris.

I sigh as I replay the ending in my head, only half-satisfied with it. "Yeah, I couldn't think of another way out of it, except to turn it into a shaggy dog story, and I absolutely detest those."

"So do you think the curator was in on it?"

"I don't know. I don't think it really matters. If he was, he'd be the type to just let the plot unfold as it was going to. I imagine he sensed that Michaud going to visit Olhauser wasn't going to end well."

"What is it about this story that you're unsure of?"

I think for a minute. "The length kind of blew up a bit. And I really can't tell if it works or not. Is the ending a cheap shot from left field, or is it way too predictable?"

"I imagine it lands somewhere in the middle." Caris hops down from her perch. "Have you learned anything new from the experience?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Well, let's give it a little time to gestate and come back tomorrow for another one."

"Agreed," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Editorial: Should Elsa Have a Girlfriend?

Now I'm just going to go ahead and spoil the end of this blog by saying that I'm not going to come out of it definitively answering the question yes or no. I think my leanings will be pretty apparent but I'm really here to explore the pros and cons rather than to lock my opinion into stone. So let's look at Elsa and see if it makes sense for her to start dating another woman.

In just a minute.

First I think it's important to acknowledge why we're even having this conversation about a cartoon character when there are surely more pressing issues for us to verbally assault each other about (please cancel the Gambit film). I mean, how important is this? Well in practicality, not very, but practicality only makes up part of our species' identity. Emotionally, this is life or death.

Avoiding a full review of Frozen until another blog, the movie clearly left an impact, and Elsa proved to be the standout character for quite a lot of the adult audience. In my experience, most of the negativity towards the film comes from people who felt it should have been Elsa's story instead of Anna's. Quite an interesting curiosity, considering throughout the film's ten year development process Elsa spent much of it as the villain. But then Robert and Kristen Anderson-Lopez had to go and write "Let it Go", and boom! There went the villain.

The song answered the question, what is it like to be Elsa? What does it feel like to have something in you that you're afraid of? And why didn't Elsa's parents just ask the damn trolls to remove Elsa's magic as well if it was making her that unhappy? Elsa became a metaphor. Perhaps an ambiguous one, but so many of us see an uncomfortable part of ourselves in Elsa. The case has been made quite fluently that Elsa represents depression, and while I can totally get behind that, it's probably unfair for depression to hold the monopoly on her character. I'm sure any number of people see their mental illnesses reflected in her.

So we're going to put her on hold and chip off a fragment of the #GiveElsaaGirlfriend movement; i.e. the part without Elsa. The LGBT and Sometimes a Few Other Letters community has spent the most recent decade quite publically finding a voice. I had the luxury of being part of the Disney Company during the early 2000's when the societal transformation regarding gay acceptance really seemed to take root.

Gay days. I don't know if they still happen anymore but they were freaking amazing! One weekend in June was partitioned as a gay pride weekend throughout the resort and it was the single most energized and appreciative audience I ever experienced on property. The attendees all wore red shirts to identify as part of the community, and it's very likely that many of them were able to express their sexuality without judgment for the first time. No, Disney didn't organize it like so many ultra-conservative families insist but Disney also never did anything to discourage it either. Case in point, the green-eyed devil himself Michael Eisner addressed the complaints by shrugging them off saying, "They're paying customers". Gay days brought out a heroic moment in him; if that's not a magic trick I don't know what is.

So what we have here is a community that has been very underrepresented in our folktales (of which Disney is a dominant catalyst). And we have Elsa, an embraced yet not-fully-realized character who has a canon sequel coming out next year. Which brings us back to the topic on the table: should Elsa have a girlfriend?

Let me answer this first: should a Disney animated film present an LGBT princess? I say absolutely hell yes. The vast majority of Disney fans would cheer. Yes, Disney would lose a few Kim Davis's in the process, and screw them. The parks don't need the toxicity.

But why Elsa? Why aren't people demanding a lesbian princess from scratch? There's a couple of fairy tales we haven't tackled yet. Or as long as Disney is so remake happy, why not make a radical change to a classic character? It would take virtually no effort to translate Snow-White and Rose-Red into a same sex couple. And everybody loved bisexual Mulan on Once Upon a Time (I stopped watching. Did that resolve satisfactorily?). Is it just a case of convenient timing, or is there something about Elsa's alleged sexuality that makes sense? And not that it means anything, but why not #GiveElsaaWife; can we not commit?

So in terms of Frozen 2, what's the best course of action? Jennifer Lee has cryptically stated that she's been listening to a lot of the fan demands and ultimately she's going to take the story in the direction that the characters tell her to take it. Many fans are taking this as a positive sign, but there's a subtext they may very well be missing. Elsa's sexuality isn't up to the fan base, it's up to Elsa. And that's honestly the way it should be. Lee is an artist. She thinks like an artist. And her statement is spoken like an artist. No amount of signatures on any petitions is going to make something happen that wasn't already likely to happen. Let's also try to think like an artist and see what the options for Frozen 2 really are.


Option #1: Elsa's sexuality is irrelevant

You know, it's quite possible that Elsa might have as much focus in Frozen 2 as she did in the first movie. Just because they're making a sequel doesn't mean it's going to highlight Elsa. It could be about Anna again, relegating Elsa into a supporting position. I don't think this is very likely, but it is a possibility (kind of a discouraging one).

If they weren't going to focus on Elsa, I don't know why they'd bother doing the sequel. Well, money; duh-doi. But that's the kind of corporate decision we would have seen under Eisner's tenure, and the Bob Iger era has really worked its mouse-ears off to regain the dignity it lost. Anna's story honestly ran its course. Elsa is almost guaranteed to be the reason we're coming back to Arendelle.


Option #2: Elsa gets a female love interest

Elsa comes out as either gay or bisexual, the film neglects to mention the difference between the two, the adult fandom rejoices, and the company avoids 9 GB's of incoming e-mail correspondence whining about James Gunn, Song of the South, and family values of the 1950's.

This has a pretty good chance of happening, as Elsa's sexuality has not even been hinted at. She's shown no romantic interest in anybody, which makes her kind of a blank slate. The danger here is catering to the fan base, which I don't think Disney is going to do. Obviously there would be a story around the relationship that the studio believed in.


Option #3: Elsa gets a male love interest

Wow, I can actually feel the seething coming back through time from the film's premier. A few years ago I would have thought this would have been a guarantee. But the zeitgeist evolves. People like the fact that Disney has been getting away from the "Some day my Prince will come" mentality. They've been very vocal about it. If Disney were to go the conservative route I think they know they'd only stand to lose.

I obviously don't know how the high-ups of Disney feel about the current climate of social issues, but the board under Iger have at least demonstrated an understanding of their own company in a way the Eisner period did not. Disney currently dominates Hollywood, and even a blemish like Solo's performance isn't likely to overturn their throne, but they also know that they aren't invincible. Frozen 2 is probably a guaranteed hit but they know better than to get sloppy about it. I don't anticipate Elsa finding a man.


Option #4: Elsa's sexuality is left ambiguous

If I were betting on commission with someone else's money, this is what I'd put it on. I think there will be a new villainess. She'll be closer to the Ice Queen of the original story, and more reminiscent of the earlier drafts of Elsa. She and Elsa will feel a connection, and there will be a 'come to the dark side' lure but Elsa will ultimately resist. Whether or not the new character is redeemable is a coin toss right now.

It won't literally be a relationship. It will serve as a metaphor for one, inspiring countless M-rated fanart, but perhaps you've noticed by now that Disney doesn't really like addressing sexuality in their characters. Disney loves the deadly sins of pride and wrath. And greed is fairly safe for family entertainment. Lust? Not so much. I think Frollo was the only villain to ever demonstrate lust as a motivator, and even for him it was his B-arc. Disney favors the euphemism 'lovesick' over arousal. Based on that floor of eggshells, can you say for certain that ANY Disney character's sexuality has been confirmed?


Option #5: Elsa is asexual

I have a personal bias in favor of this approach because I'm asexual. It's amazing that this is my 232nd blog post and the topic hasn't come up one single time; you'd almost get the impression that I'm uncomfortable discussing it. I can tell you from personal experience that being asexual and aromantic are two very different things, but Disney really isn't the animation studio to explain the distinction. Thus, if Elsa were asexual it would be conveyed through her also being aromantic.

Why does Elsa have to have any sort of romantic attachment? She obviously made it through puberty without ever wanting to connect with anyone. I know she's not the most infallible example of asexuality as she was clearly dealing with her own demons for 21 years, but why didn't Merida get these petitions?

One of the things that made Elsa so special in the Princess lineup was that she didn't need a man to complete her (a common criticism for princesses of yore which isn't always fair but is worth discussing). Wouldn't we be undoing some of her character by insisting that she needs a woman to complete her instead?

Like I said, I have a bias, and a few loose emotional nerves. We absolutely need LBGT characters; LGBT superheroes, LGBT Timelords, LGBT princesses, and we need them until we're finally to the point that the acronym prefix is superfluous. But at the same time I can't help feeling that the wave of wokeness sometimes pushes for people to be something they aren't (Bert and Ernie would have been the worst example of a married couple as they were literally created to have nothing in common).

I guess what I'm saying in so many words is, leave Elsa alone. Let her figure out who she is, let her tell Jennifer Lee, let Jennifer Lee tell you what Elsa said, and learn to accept whatever that is. If Elsa's sexuality happens to be what you wanted it to be, then please know that it had nothing to do with you or your tweets or petitions. But statistically, she's probably not going to be what you want her to be. It's not going to detract away from her character or make her any less of who she is. Whatever is revealed about her just makes her more Elsa. So don't get attached to your own expectation unless you're prepared to #LetitGo.