Healthy Mind Farms: An America 2.0 Tale

Dig and plant.  Dig and plant.  Dig and plant.  He focused so hard on digging and planting.  He had to.  He wasn’t allowed to think about the dirt working itself into the crevasses of his fingerprints and fingernails until it was so ingrained that no amount of washing would ever make them feel clean, not even after his skin was cracking and bleeding from so much scrubbing.  If he thought about it for even just a moment… DAMNIT!  Now it was all he could feel, and he had to get it off!  

But he couldn’t.  Couldn’t.  Couldn’t.  He had to dig and plant.  Dig and plant.  Dig and plant.  But he wasn’t because of the feel of the dirt.  The plants were untended at his feet.  Instead, he was vigorously trying to wipe the dirt off his hands and onto his “Healthy Mind Farm Approved” overalls.  An Overseer would notice soon.  They always did.  He couldn’t stop though.  He HAD to get the dirt off.  He could FEEL IT everywhere!

In that moment, for a brief flash, he remembered the before times and how much easier it was on his meds.  He had never been on a lot because he had a lot of supports and didn’t need a lot of medical management, but he missed them so much right now. It had just been Prozac daily and a small dose of Xanax for the full-blown panic attacks, like the one he was having now, that’s it.  Nothing hardcore.  Part of his mind was quite coherent and knew this would end badly for him, but there was nothing that whispered voice of reason could do to stop the sheer horror of the feel of the dirt.  He didn’t know why the dirt set him off so badly today.  He’d managed to keep from drawing the Overseers attention for weeks now.  The inside of his cheeks bore wounds in various stages of healing, dug out by his teeth as he forced himself over and over to pretend that nothing was wrong in order to avoid their attention.  

During intake, they had given him a piece of paper with his diagnoses on it in large print:  Autistic, Anxiety, possible OCD.  Then, during introductions, that piece of paper was torn from his hands and ripped to shreds in front of him.  That Overseer, clearly a good Christian citizen with blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiselled jawline, barked at him that he was none of those things, that he did not need meds or supports of any kind.  The Overseers made it clear he’d better not forget that because he wasn’t going to be leaving the Farm or having any contact with anyone from the outside until he recovered from the woke mind virus he was infected with.  

That was after they had stripped him of everything that was his, including his name (he was now Patient # 25937), forced him into the brand new, stiff, scratchy overalls that made his skin recoil, and shaved his head (supposedly to prevent lice).  He’d been off his meds for about three days at that point because as soon as someone was sent for placement on one of the Healthy Mind Farms all psychoactive meds were stopped, cold turkey.  All of that had, of course, caused him to meltdown the worst he had in decades.  At the Farm though, they weren’t allowed to call them meltdowns, here they were tantrums or disruptive emotional outbursts and were viewed as intentional misbehavior.  It had taken weeks for the bruises from the “correction” that “emotional outburst” had earned him to fade.  However, the Overseers found any chance they could to layer on more bruising consequences for any and every possible infraction, so he hadn’t been without bruises since before his arrival.  The Overseers say all of this was to get the patients “detoxed” from the “poison” of the medications that treat “psychiatric conditions” because those conditions don’t actually exist.  All mental illnesses and developmental delays are, in reality, just moral failings.  That was the whole point of the Healthy Mind Farms.  

On the Farms people with moral failings were supposed to have time to reconsider their choices, get good, healthy exercise out in the sun and fresh air, and renew their connection to God.  It was supposed to show the patients the error of their ways and teach them to be good, upstanding citizens.  He supposed it was a good goal, but in the before times, the meds had worked, and here he was, after weeks at the Farm, scrubbing his hands on his pants hard enough to rip skin while convulsively crying over every single sensation he was experiencing.  The funny thing was, since he had been here, he couldn’t remember anyone being sent home because they “got better,” not even the people who he had never seen show symptoms, not even the exemplar workers who were the pets of the Overseers.  The only people he knew who had left were the ones the Overseers “corrected” too strongly for the capabilities of the on-site infirmary.  Those patients had left in what looked like ambulances.  They never came back.  

The blood from his hands was starting to smear over his overalls, and still the dirt wouldn’t come off.  In between wailing sobs that he didn’t remember starting, he started coughing and gagging because he couldn't get enough air.  He was vaguely aware of the hardworking patients near him trying desperately to shush him.  He hoped they would stay away.  He didn’t want anyone else getting in trouble on his behalf, although most probably just wanted him to shut up so the Overseers wouldn’t pay them too much attention.  

On cue, enter stage right, the Overseers, two of them, always in a pair.  The stable part of his mind giggled; he couldn’t be serious even now.  Through his cross-wired mind, he recognised one of them and realised the worst possible future was playing out.  It was HIM.  The Overseers had no names, just Overseer or Sir, but this one was known to all the patients.  The gleeful gleam in the Overseer’s malevolent eyes as he realised which patient was acting up kicked in Patient # 25937’s flight response.  Sobbing and coughing, he ran while still scrubbing his hands on his overalls’ legs, trying to get rid of the feeling.  Even as he ran, he knew it was not just futile, but the worst possible thing he could be doing, but he couldn’t stop himself.

It was mere seconds before he was tackled to the ground.  In the before times, he had some martial arts training, but it’s hard to fight or even fall safely with a 250 pound wall of muscles hellbent for blood, pummeling you as you are panicking and haven’t had enough food or sleep for weeks.  He heard and felt his arm snap as he landed on it at the wrong angle under the man’s weight and screamed at the pain, struggling uselessly to get away, the dirt getting all over him now.  The Overseer roared, “I’ll give you something to scream about, you fucking useless pansy!” as his meaty fist snapped Patient # 25937’s head to one side, the patient’s jawbone and consciousness giving way with a crunch.

When I Was A Girl: An America 2.0 Tale

        The thick, dingy, yellowish-grey air weighed heavily on the tenements.  Once they had been filled with the life and laughter of brown-skinned families trying to make it day to day and have a few small luxuries along the way, like the newest phone or a good steak dinner grilled on the porch.  Those times felt long gone, although she knew in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that long since she had lived those memories. 

Lots of memories were in her head.  That was the safest place for them.  Keeping them locked up tight, only whispered at night like fairy tales, is what had kept her safe all these long years.  She wasn’t a “good woman,” but she sure was good at pretending to be one.  She’d had decades of practice.

She never thought she’d be one of those women, not even a pretend one.  As a child she had naively thought she would stand up and raise her voice, be heard and have it count.  She had been wrong.  If it had just been her it would have been a different story, but when it happened the kids were little.  Women who stood up and raised their voices disappeared, their families forever under surveillance and quickly punished for any form of deviance.  Many women never came back and those that did were different, changed.  No matter how it rankled, her family’s safety mattered more to her than screaming into the void of impending doom.  

So, she learned to be a “good woman,” wearing approved modest clothing, long skirts, and a bonnet that fully contained her properly braided hair, not speaking in public past what was necessary, keeping her eyes down and demure.  Boy, did that gnaw at her gut for years, but what was she going to do?  Risk her family?  Luckily, she was white, had healthy white children, and had already been a Christian (a “Sunday rollover Christian,” but the Overseers didn’t care about reality only the status quo).  In no time at all it seemed she managed to play the role and get everyone to mandatory church on Sundays, making sure the children learned and followed all the rules.  

Since the factory required twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, she barely saw her husband which meant she took care of the household mostly on her own.  Since they were of the lowest class it was required that she work as well.  Few jobs were allowed to hire women now, and women were not allowed to work farther than walking distance from their homes so finding work was hard and the pay was abysmal.  She ended up working at the local garden when the kids were in school.  The money was necessary to exist, but the veggies she was able to sneak home were what made it a good job.  

That was her life except for the last month of each pregnancy and the first month of each baby’s life.  Since the eldest two were born before the change that meant she got exactly eight months where she was allowed some kind of rest (although she still has the kids to care for and the household to run).  It would have been easier with fewer mouths to feed, but the government wanted citizens and the church condemned any forms of birth control.  Women were supposed to be fruitful and multiply.  It was God’s wish.  She was lucky though, she knew more women than she wanted to count who had died from pregnancy or birthing complications.  At least she was a good breeder, shot them out like clockwork, and never ran out of milk even when calories were in short supply.  It’s not like they could afford any healthcare if anything went wrong.  

As it was, since they were poor, as soon as the children turned eight schooling ended and they were expected to work as well.  That helped slightly, growling stomachs weren’t keeping people awake, but children’s labor was worth even less than a woman’s.  Nothing would ever make up for the loss of her third son to an industrial accident when he was eleven or the maiming of her daughter’s leg though.  At least that one was pretty enough and from good breeding stock so a man with a bit more clout picked her as his wife.  He had enough social standing that her disability wouldn’t mean she would starve to death for lack of work, thank God!

She coughed hard for several minutes and once she caught her breath, sat up in the bed, her frail body almost lost in the old patched comforters.  Since there was no money for heat those comforters had probably saved lives by now, although the fact they had to sleep multiple people to a bed undoubtedly helped as well.  She sighed, lost in her thoughts as usual.  Old brains do do that.  She picked up her crochet in her knobby bent fingers, wincing at the pain, and started work.  Disabled or not, sick or not, old or young, everyone had to carry their weight.  Her crocheted hats and booties kept her family warm and earned just enough to keep her from starving as long as the rest of the family shared a bit of food with her.  Once again, she was lucky.  Her family had never let her go hungry unless they all were.  Some women just got tossed into the street to starve to death when they couldn’t carry their own weight through labor or breeding.

She was just finishing a row when one of her younger granddaughters trudged into the room, fighting to muster a demure, happy smile like a proper girl should.  Little Beatrice was just barely eight and only starting to adjust to the rigors of work.  It was clear she was about to fall down from exhaustion.  The children got the jobs the adults didn’t want to or could not do for size reasons.  Poor thing was covered in dirt which almost made her blond hair look brown like her eyes (her only flaw was they weren’t blue).  Beatrice was one of her favorites, reminding the old woman of herself when she was a girl. The child could use a bath, but it would be a cold rinse in a pail or a scrubbing with a damp rag instead because that was what could be afforded.  

After moving some of the dirt around with an already dirt-stained, damp rag and scarfing down the meager allotment of gruel that was her dinner, Beatrice crawled into the bed and curled up against her grandmother.  In a tiny, tired, secretive whisper in her grandmother’s ear, she asked with her beaten-in manners, “Grammy, could you please tell me about when you were a girl?”

Willing her stomach not to growl (since she had insisted she wasn’t hungry so that Beatrice would be willing to eat without sharing), she sighed and glanced around the shabby room nervously, even though she knew there was no one else around to hear.  “Of course, my sweetness.  Remember, these stories are just for your ears.  Just you, me, and God, right?”  After she felt the girl’s head nod against her bony shoulder she smiled softly, her old, clouded eyes softening with the memories, and she began. 

“Once upon a time when I was a girl I didn’t have to work all day.  I could go for rides on my bike wherever I wanted to go.  And I could wear pants, like the men, so there were no skirts to get tangled up in things.  There were no bonnets either and only braids if you wanted them.  I could climb trees and go swimming with all the kids, boys and girls.  There were people who had skin as dark as night or brown like the mud when it rains, not just white.  Women could go on buses without permission, and it was ok to not get married if you didn’t want to.  In fact, children couldn’t get married even if they wanted to!  Imagine that!  You had to be 18 and agree to it to get married.  And now, MaryAnn is 18 and already has three kids!”  She lowered her voice even more, to the barest of whispers in her granddaughter’s ear,  “Back then, you could even choose to not have children if you didn’t want them!” 

She felt the girl shudder against her at that thought and was unsure if these were happy fairy tales for the child or uncomfortable and scary ones.  Beatrice might be like her, but she had been indoctrinated well.  The girl was so lucky she was healthy, pretty, and well-behaved.  She’d make a good breeder, easily fulfilling her job of giving the government many healthy white babies.  It was probably better that these stories felt like nightmares to the child.  She wondered if it was selfish of her to share these memories at all, even in whispers in the darkness.

Stroking Beatrice’s back softly to calm the child’s fears, she continued, “When I was a girl…”

The Itch

She drew her nails, jagged from chewing, over the rough edges of dry skin,
        the momentary relief from the itch inexpressible.

Ever since she was a child it had been creams and treatments and mittens and admonishments.

“Whatever you do, do not scratch!”

The itching grew as the scaling and flaking did.
The lotions no longer did a thing.

Everyone has limits.
They must understand that!

So she scratched.
And scratched.
She scratched herself blissful,
        nails digging through layers of dead dry skin.

The pain of the scratching was almost more than the pleasure of the relief,
        but she could not stop.

There was something new beneath the torture.
Her shed peeling off revealed sleek scales beneath.
With some more work she fought herself completely free of her shredding human skin,
        suddenly more herself than ever before.

Stretching, wings unfurling, she roared her power.

She finally understood why they told her not to scratch.

The Saga of Grammy Lisa S.1, I.3 Pixies and Tomten and Wards, Oh My!

     The Saga of Grammy Lisa: “Good Witch” and Hearer of the Unheard

Pixies and Tomten and Wards, Oh My!

Season 1, Installment 3

 

Damien turned from the sink at Lisa’s startled squeak, concerned, “Are you ok?”

She nodded, still bent over to get the milk, frantically trying to figure out what to do.  Deciding quickly, Lisa took the milk out and closed the door to the fridge, careful to prevent Damien from seeing the little creature.  “Yah, I’m fine.  Just got startled.  Can you get Severin in the high chair, please?”  She just was not ready to try to explain this to anyone since she didn’t even understand it herself yet.

Luckily her husband wasn’t curious enough to poke at it and went about the complicated process of getting the squirmy toddler in full octopus mode safely strapped into the old, but carefully maintained high chair in the dining room.  Lisa tried to calm her breathing as she poured the milk and then gingerly opened the refrigerator to put it away, nervous at what she might find.  

Sitting on the shelf between steamed broccoli in glassware and a slightly open package of blueberries was a tiny, fully formed human with dragonfly wings dressed in something akin to steampunk or goth style, but made out of bits and pieces that you might find around a yard, like cobwebs, moss, and shreds of bark.  Her blond hair was short and tousled with a slightly wilted daisy, nearly the size of her head, stuck off-center on top of it.  She was currently munching on a blueberry, holding it with two hands like a softball.  

As the refrigerator door opened, the tiny creature jumped up and tossed the entire rest of the blueberry into her mouth (quite a feat that involved her seemingly unhinging her jaw like a snake and left Lisa watching the blueberry dramatically, but effortlessly, bulge down the creature’s throat as she swallowed) before letting out a delicate burp that she covered with her hand.  “Excuse me!” Lisa heard in her mind, the voice sounding strangely like windchimes.  “Didn’t know when you’d be back so I grabbed a snack.  I’ve been trying to get your attention for days!  When the crows said you heard them and today I saw you talking with the pets I figured it was time to try something more obvious.”

Lisa was at a loss.  If she replied Damien would hear her.  She was surprised he couldn’t hear the creature now.  She wasn’t particularly quiet considering her size.  Lisa felt Charlie’s head bump against her calf, and in her mind she heard him reassure her, “He can’t hear us, just you and Severin.  He’s too old, remember?  If you want to talk with that pixie,” the word dripped with distaste, “after dinner might be a better time.  And if you think loudly enough we will hear you.  Which, by the way, is something we really need to work on.  Leaving the property with you so,” he paused, searching for the right word, “...open would be a very bad idea.”

Nodding, she carefully thought as loudly as she could, “Ok, after dinner then?”

Charlie flinched and the little creature covered her ears, wincing dramatically, “Not so loud!” the windchime voice echoed urgently with Charlie’s in her mind.  

Lowering her thought volume, pondering aside at that actually being a thing, she tried again, “Is this better?” 

The pixie relaxed and nodded, “Yes, much!  I’ll find you later,” before fearlessly jumping off the fridge shelf and flying out into the living room.  For all of her fearlessness, Lisa noticed she was quite careful to stay out of the reach of the cats.

Dinner conversation was mundanely focused on Severin’s antics and Damien’s work, although it was hard for Lisa to keep her anxiety in check.  She was sure what she was experiencing was real, but how on earth could she manage to explain it to Damien or the kids?  And what on earth did that pixie in the fridge want with her?  The way she had swallowed that blueberry whole like a snake had freaked Lisa out something fierce and Charlie didn’t seem pleased with the creature, or maybe it was just pixies in general, she wasn’t sure.  At least it felt safe and natural to trust Charlie which had become a lifeline for her in just a few hours.

“Are you doing ok?  You seem distracted tonight,” Damien asked gently as she was cleaning Severin up from dinner so he would be ready to go when Rosemary got there.  

She smiled at his concern.  He always took such good care of her.  “It’s just been a long day.  I’m fine.”  It was true, but missing so many details that she wished she knew how to tell him.

Damien smiled back and gave her a hug just as Rosie showed up, a perfectly timed distraction.  By the time their daughter had left with Severin, Lisa’s distraction during dinner was forgotten and Damien wound up lost in his favorite video game like he did every night.

Once Lisa was settled on the couch with Charlie purring in her lap, Barnum softly snoring with his head on her foot and the TV on a true crime show for background noise, it didn’t take long for their uninvited guest to reappear.  Flitting in from the hallway, she alighted on the top shelf of the bookcase by the couch, feet dangling in thin air, leaning forward a bit to look down at the human, and safely out of easy reach of the cats.  

Lisa glanced surreptitiously at Damien, but he was engrossed in his game trying to figure out a traffic snarl in the city he was building.  She thought quietly at the pixie, so quietly Barnum didn’t even stir, “He can’t hear you, but can he see you?  He can see Charlie.”

Charlie answered as the pixie was opening her mouth to respond.  She glared at the cat as he explained, “If he turned and looked unexpectedly, yes, he might see her if she didn’t hide quickly enough, but his mind would interpret her as a figurine or knick-knack as long as she stayed still.  The human brain is very determined to only see what it understands.  You’ve seen those studies where they have a man walk across the screen in a gorilla suit and no one notices because they are too busy focusing on what else is going on.  It’s basically the same thing.  In fact magic, in general, tends to work that way.”

Lisa understood the first part well enough, but not the bit about magic. ”Um, what do you mean magic works that way?” she thought at him.  As a sudden afterthought, she added, “And why when you talk about magic do you keep bringing up scientific studies?”

The pixie cleared her throat with annoyance, sounding a bit like a bell being dropped.  “Excuse me, but this has nothing to do with what I need to talk to you about.”

Lisa blinked and nodded, reorienting herself, manners kicking in even if the pixie was lacking in them.  “Sorry!  First off, what’s your name?  I’m Lisa.”

With an overly dramatic roll of her eyes, the pixie responded impatiently, “Of course I know you are Grammy Lisa.  I live here and I hear the tiny human name you that all the time.”  She jumped up to stand on the top of the bookshelf, “You have already named me, but since you are insisting on standing on formalities, I am Gremlin,” she said with a flourish and a picture-perfect curtsey.

Lisa was already lost.  “Wait, what?  I’ve already named you?  Gremlin seems like an odd name for someone like you.”  It struck her suddenly, the creature said she lived in Lisa’s home and whenever things went missing for no reason around the house Lisa had always jokingly blamed it on a gremlin.  “Are you the reason things go missing around here?”

“Ding, ding!  The human gets it!” As an aside to Charlie, “They do get slower on the uptake with age don’t they?”  The cat didn’t deign to reply.

“But don’t you have an actual name?” Lisa asked in confusion.

Looking more than a touch hurt she replied, “You know me as Gremlin so to you I am Gremlin.  My common name is Dandy if you must.  Isn’t Gremlin a good enough name?”

Charlie jumped in to salvage things before Lisa unknowingly committed another faux pas, “As I said earlier names have power.  She is afraid you might take that name away.”

Starting to feel a bit put upon herself, but taking his cue Lisa responded, “Gremlin is just fine and so is Dandy.  I am not trying to offend, I didn’t even know cats could talk or magic existed six hours ago so please be patient with me.”

The pixie threw a confirming glance at Charlie who nodded.  Gremlin’s eyes grew as wide as saucers in her face (literally, it was disturbing to watch) before she got herself under control.  “Well, that does explain things!  I knew you couldn’t hear us until recently, but I had no idea you didn’t remember anything.  That could make things more complicated.”

“If you are not going to allow me to explain things to my human, then you probably should at least explain why you chose now to make a fuss, creature,” Charlie’s patience seemed very thin when it came to pixies, or at least Gremlin specifically.

The delicate creature sighed and seemed to deflate, slumping back down to sit criss-cross applesauce.  Lisa half expected her to go flying around the room like a deflating balloon instead of sitting, she was so cartoonishly expressive.  Gremlin ordered her thoughts and explained bluntly, more to Charlie than to Lisa, “The wards are no longer strong enough.  The tomten are being drained.”

That got Charlie’s attention instantly, “Drained?  Why are you the one telling us this?  Why haven’t they come forward?”

“When was the last time you saw a tomten?” was her snippy reply.  “Their whole schtick is hiding and keeping to themselves.”

As the child of an immigrant, Lisa knew tomten were Scandinavian house spirits, that look an awful lot like garden gnomes and do tasks around the house under cover of night.  She interrupted, trying to keep up with the conversation the best she could, “But then why would they tell you?”

A dark shadow passed over Gremlin’s face and she tried to repress a shudder, “They didn’t.  I found a drained one.”

A bit of compassion for the pixie leaked through in Charlie’s response, “I am so sorry.  You didn’t get too close?”

Gremlin jumped back up indignantly, “Of course not!  I might be a pixie, but I’m not stupid!  They must have kicked him out for their own safety.  I found him wandering the yard in broad daylight.  I’ve kept track of his location since then.  Luckily for him, but not so much for the rest of us, even in that state part of him knows enough to not pass the wards.”

“Wards?  Wait, do you mean the wards I placed around the property?” Lisa asked incredulously.  Pagan energy work was one of her “things” and she had very detailed and extensive wards placed not just around her house, but around the entire property.

“Well, of course!  What other wards would I be talking about?  If there were any others you’d know,” Gremlin paused and asked nervously, beseechingly even, obviously wanting reassurance, “You would, wouldn’t you?”

Lisa had no idea how to respond.

 

 

Index

Season 1, Installment 4

 

All content has my intellectual copyright and I reserve all rights to it.  People are welcome to link to the story, however, unless you get my permission in writing ahead of time none of the Grammy Lisa Saga may be copied, sold, or otherwise used.

The Saga of Grammy Lisa S.1, I.2, From the Mouths of Babes

             The Saga of Grammy Lisa: “Good Witch” and Hearer of the Unheard

From the Mouths of Babes

Season 1, Installment 2

 

That was how she found herself on the couch, having an in-depth conversation about magic with her cat, scratch that, both of her cats and her dog.  They had suggested bringing the turtle into the conversation as well, but that was more than she could handle all at once.  This was not at all how Lisa had thought her Tuesday was going to go.

“Hold on!  Let me make sure I have this straight,” she interrupted Emmy, a petite fluffy calico who seemed certain that the human was quicker on the uptake than she currently felt.  The prissy feline rolled her eyes but paused a moment allowing Lisa to lay it out.  “You are saying the only thing wrong with me is that I didn’t outgrow fairy tales?  That magic is actually real?  That sounds insane, you know that right?  But then you are talking cats so…” she trailed off.   

Emmy shook herself with a huff, commenting to Charlie, “Children are so much easier.  They only get stubborn after they forget.”

With a twinge of sadness, Charlie sighed, “I had hoped she would remember me, but it is what it is.  This would seem like insanity to her.”  Feeling defeated, he continued, “It will be easy for her to write us off as some sort of delusion or mental break.  You know how little she can hear when she’s medicated to human normal.”  Barnum, the aged beagle, everything greying even his eyesight, just leaned in against Lisa for pets, offering his old head as a familiar comfort.

“It is what it is,” the phrase echoed in Lisa’s head as her fingers absently scritched his ears.  There was something about that phrase.  It was a phrase she had used with her children and was using with her grandson when things couldn’t be changed and had to be dealt with.  Where had it come from?  She couldn’t remember her parents ever saying it, but Lisa was sure she remembered it from her childhood.  She lost track of the pets discussing her, compelled to follow the phrase deep into her memories.  It had been someone older than her, but not someone who felt like an adult to her.  She fought to pull the memory into focus, but it was like the bees’ melody slipping away the harder she tried.

“Lisa?  Knock, knock, are you there?” Charlie’s familiar voice intruded on her memories.  Suddenly everything snapped into place like a Tetris cascade.  

Lisa gasped, “It was you!” staring down at the bemused tux cat, suddenly losing her words, her hand freezing on Barnum’s head.

“What was me?” Charlie was startled at her vehemence, but curious.

“Perhaps you can let us in on your revelation?” Emmy mentioned dryly after waiting several moments for Lisa to pull herself back together.  The beagle just leaned his chin on her knee, blinking up at her patiently.

Lisa started and stopped several times before managing to get out, “You have Bagheera’s voice!”

Charlie beamed, “You do remember me!” head bumping against her shins and rubbing all over them, brilliantly happy.

“But…  You…  You weren’t real?”

“I was as real then as I am now.  That hasn’t changed.”

“You aren’t,” she stalled out, thinking hard for words and finishing lamely, “...you though?”  She felt like an imbecile with everything coming out unformed questions.

Charlie laughed, “The neighbors would talk if you had a pet jaguar wouldn’t they?”

That made Lisa pause, “Well, yes, but how can you be who, or what, I knew then and be my pet cat now?”

“What part of Magic do you not understand?” Emmy complained.

The best response Lisa had was, “Any of it.”

Emmy turned back to Charlie impatiently, “I am not sure I have the patience to retrain a full-grown adult human.”

“She will get there.  She knows it all; I’m sure of it.  She just needs to remember.  It’s not like we are starting from scratch,” and then, settling himself and turning his head up to Lisa, “Names have power.  When you were little, I was who you named me to be, a teacher and a protector from a book.  I’ve been with you under various names filling different needs your whole life.  Currently, you’ve named me Charlie and so Charlie I am.”

“But are you a cat?  Or a spirit?  What are you?” Lisa waved her hand at the three of them, including them all.

Emmy replied scornfully, “I’m a cat, obviously!”

Barnum looked shy, answering in a deep slow rumble, “Just a dog, mum. Nothing so special as a spirit or any of that.”

“As you can see, I’m currently a housecat, but,” Charlie started before being interrupted by Emmy.

“Maybe currently, but what you really are is a tag-a-long,” she commented disdainfully.

He sighed, his patience with her visibly starting to wear thin, focusing on Lisa he continued, “I am what your pagan friends would call a guide.  Others might call me a guardian angel, or an ancestor, or a spirit.  They would all be partially correct.”

At Lisa’s confused expression he went on, “A lot of what humans remember about Magic and the Unheard world has bits of truth in it.  Many of your fairytales, myths, folktales, and superstitions have a strong grounding in fact.  It would be weird if so many cultures had stories of helper spirits, as a pertinent example, for such things to not exist after all.  In a nutshell, that’s what I am, a helper spirit.”

She nodded slightly, the concept was familiar to her and it made sense based on the murky memories that were resurfacing from when she was little and the completely incomprehensible events of today.  

“Also, technically something is wrong with you, just not quite what you think.  You are autistic so you understand the concept that brains can develop differently and that those differences in development can lead to different outward expressions.  For some weird evolutionary reason, humans evolved in such a way that shortly before they hit puberty their brains stop being able to easily connect with the unseen energy that binds the universe together, in other words, to become an adult human you first must lose the ability to access Magic.  You have to outgrow fairytales.  You didn’t,” he paused, letting that sink in.  Lisa blinked silently, trying to process it all. 

When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Obviously this made it hard for you to fit into the human world, but it doesn’t make you broken or a freak.  Many humans glitch at that developmental step and never lose the ability, like you.  A few others regain the ability to hear the Unheard as they grow older, often during menopause.  Most of the seers, prophets, and shamans of cultures around the world were people who never lost the ability to hear the Unheard.  Call it another type of neurodivergence.”

Lisa just sat there, stunned.  Could it be true?  Could she have spent her whole adult life working so hard to convince herself that reality is real and imagination is fantasy, and be wrong?  Her mind quickly worked through the options.  

Could this be the result of her coming off her meds?  She hadn’t been off them for long and this was an awfully long and incredibly elaborate hallucination if that is what it was.  She was pretty sure this wasn’t how hallucinations worked.  She couldn’t rule it out as a possibility until she could test it though.  How to test it would be the question.  

The only other possible option was that this was real.  Lisa allowed herself to sit with that for a moment, absently chewing lightly on her lower lip.  She had always felt different, alien almost.  Once she had gotten her autism diagnosis at forty, she had thought that was why.  What if it wasn’t?  What if she was a special type of different?  What if fairy tales really were real?  

Before she could pull together any sort of response, Barnum lifted his head off her knee and trotted to the front door, nails clacking on the hardwood, chuffing excitedly, “Miss and the young master are here!”  The sudden motion and sound, and likely the threat of the very affectionate “young master’s” imminent arrival, sent Emmy skittering into the master bedroom and under the bed.  Charlie jumped onto the couch as Lisa got up, trying to compose herself.  With all the craziness she had forgotten it was her day to watch Severin.

A moment later, after a short knock to announce herself, Rosemary walked in, blond hair impeccably styled and her suit mostly child-crumb free, carrying chubby little Severin.  She absently gave Barnum a quick pat on his grizzled head as she pushed past him to get to the living room.  The slender young mother looked exhausted under her meticulous make-up as she gave her mom a one-armed hug before passing over the dirty blond, mop-headed toddler who was squealing with joy and wriggling to get down and play with the dog.  Lisa put him down carefully after the prerequisite grammy snuggle, asking her daughter how things were going.

It was difficult to pay attention to Rosemary’s response about the stress of juggling a toddler and her accounting business with Barnum and Severin in the background being adorable and, wait, what?  Talking!?!  Lisa did her best to school her expression to calm interest in what her daughter was saying, but it was hard considering the background conversation. 

“Hi there little master!  I’ve missed you.  You smell so yummy today!” Barnum snuffled the little boy thoroughly.

Through chortles and squeals of, “BUM!” as he sloppily licked Severin’s face, Lisa somehow heard, “Cookies!  It’s cookies, Bum. That tickles!” his little hands ineffectively and only half-heartedly trying to push the dog away.

The dog’s cataract-filmed eyes lit up, “I love cookies!  Did you save any?”

“Sorry, Mommy cleaned all the big bits up.”

With a big disappointed sigh, Barnum moped, “Well that’s a shame, ain’t it?

They had distracted Lisa enough that she had missed what her daughter had said and, trying to salvage the conversation with her daughter, she responded, “I know it’s hard, Rosie.  Littles have so much energy!  Just look at him and Barnum though.  It’s memories like this that will stick with you when he grows up,” knowing the memories Rosemary would have of this moment would be exceedingly different from her own.  They both smiled and watched the antics for a moment, Rosemary relaxing in the moment of appreciation and Lisa fighting to not get too distracted by her grandson’s conversation with the dog.  

Luckily she didn’t have to split her focus for long since Rosie had to get to work.  Once her daughter left, Lisa got back to figuring out what on earth was happening to her.  Severin had shifted his attention to Charlie, who was safely ensconced out of reach on the back of the couch.  The little boy stretched as far as he could but still couldn’t reach him.  

With her ears, Lisa heard him calling Charlie in his toddler way, “Cha-lee!” but somehow there was more, “Cha-lee! Lemme pet you!”  She could definitely hear it, but not specifically with her ears.

“I’m a bit busy with your Grammy at the moment, little one.  It seems she is finally able to hear us again.  That and you really need to work on not grabbing so hard.”  He turned to the befuddled Lisa, “Do you believe yet?”

She shook her head slightly, more in confusion than denial.  Knowing exactly how crazy it sounded, uncertainly she asked Severin, “Hey, my sweet boy, are you really talking to the pets and hearing them talk back to you?”  A shiver ran through her upon hearing the words out loud. 

The toddler’s brown eyes brightened at her question.  He giggled and nodded happily, “Yah, Grammy.”  Lisa also heard, “And you can hear them again?  They told me you’d forgotten them.”  When she watched his face fall at the thought of her forgetting the animals could talk, she knew everything that she was experiencing was real, knew it deep in her bones the same way she had known she was pregnant well before a test could have told her all three times.

There were so many questions to ask, so many things to know!  It was near impossible to learn much while entertaining a toddler though, even a toddler who could talk to pets and sense magic.  Luckily, the only unusual thing about the rest of the afternoon was being able to hear the pets and Severin interacting.  Her questions could wait, so Lisa let herself get caught up with fingerpainting and snacks, nice, calming, non-magical reality.

The usual cacophony kicked up as soon as the pets heard Damien turn the old truck down the street, Emmy, who had re-emerged from under the bed, jumping onto the window ledge meowing for food, and Barnum baying to let everyone know Damien had arrived.  He came in smelling like pine dust and varnish, kicked off his work boots, and swept his grandson up in a big hug, making the little guy giggle with tickles from his salt and pepper beard.  After a quick Grandpa cuddle for Severin, the pets got fed and Lisa opened the refrigerator to get Severin some milk to go with dinner, Damien behind her, washing off the spoon he had used for the cat food.  

Distracted by trying to figure out how she would ever be able to explain any of this to Damien, Lisa reached for the milk.  She knew she would have to tell him at some point because not telling him already felt like lying and she couldn’t do that to him, but how would she convince him that magic is real and she wasn’t just losing her mind and needed meds?  

If she hadn’t been distracted, the delicate winged figure behind the milk carton, waving dramatically and holding a finger to her lips in the universal “Shhh!” symbol might not have made Lisa jump and let out a startled squeak.

 

Index

Season 1, Installment 3

 

All content has my intellectual copyright and I reserve all rights to it.  People are welcome to link to the story, however, unless you get my permission in writing ahead of time none of the Grammy Lisa Saga may be copied, sold, or otherwise used.

The Saga of Grammy Lisa S.1, I.1, Outgrowing Fairytales?

 The Saga of Grammy Lisa: “Good Witch” and Hearer of the Unheard

Outgrowing Fairytales?

Season 1, Installment 1

        Moments like this were what made her wonder.  She laughed to herself, shaking her head in disbelief at her thoughts, her wavy auburn hair cascading over her black t-shirt.  There were a decent handful of whites and grays in it now, strands of starlight as she liked to call them.  Unlike so many who dyed them away, to her, they were simply new details, new strokes of color on the canvas of her life.  

The cause of her musings today was an interesting “conversation” she had just had with two crows who frequented her yard.  One had cawed at her three times and she replied with three clicks, the same sound she used when she fed them peanuts.  The other bird cawed four times, the first copied it, and then she clicked four in response as well.  To her surprise, the first bird then responded with five in a row, perfectly in sync with her pondering if they would repeat back five.  Lisa went over it again in her head, definitely five times so she clicked back the same.  Suddenly they flew away.

The rational part of her knew that as smart as they were, crows didn’t have words nor did they know how to count or converse back and forth, but still it seemed too deliberate to be a coincidence.  Either way, it did remind her that she should start putting peanuts out for them again.  They seemed to only want them seasonally and it was about that time again.  Kicking the dragging ends of her slightly too long, purple, unicorn PJ pants out of the way so as to not trip on them, Lisa carefully stood up from the ratty, old, green porch swing.  Although nothing hurt much today, care had become a habit made necessary more days than not by chronic pain.

There had been enough moments like this over her life that she trusted the “talk” with the crows had happened though.  It hadn’t been a hallucination, just a weird coincidence.  Her brow furrowed slightly.  No, she wasn’t going to start worrying about the decision to go off of her meds.  Once in her adult life, she wanted to not have to take pills every day.  She’d cleaned up her diet and was biking every day.  Mental health and physical health, especially gut health, were related after all.  Damian and the kids had made her promise to go back on the meds if anything went wrong with trying alternative options, but she was so hopeful she would be able to function without them.  She hadn’t had any symptoms in years after all, not since she was young.  Even her doctor thought it was safe enough to try a run without them as long as she had support.

She managed to tug the stubborn sliding door open after a couple of tries and headed inside to get dinner started.  Before she got started, she put some peanuts on the counter by her little coffee maker to remind her to put them out tomorrow morning.  The crows certainly weren’t going to eat them in the dark so there was no point in doing it while the sunset was starting to stain the sky, but if she didn’t put them where she would see them she would probably forget tomorrow.  Once the peanuts were on the counter, her “talk” with the crows faded to the back of her mind as more immediate real-life concerns like dinner took over.

A few days later, elbow-deep weeding lavender, working peacefully beside dozens of clumsily buzzing bumbles Lisa found herself humming along absently.  The scent of lavender was heavy in the air, like she was soaking in it.  All of a sudden the tune took shape in the air around her and she followed the notes with her humming,  The bumblebees harmonized together, the specific words just beyond her understanding leaving her feeling if she could just focus harder she would be able to make them out.  The song strummed through all of her senses of the warmth of summer sun and the sweetness of nectar, but the more effort she put into hearing it the more it escaped her.

The notes slipped away dissolving down into disorganized buzzing.  Yet again she shook her head at how silly she was being.  While bees did communicate with one another, it wasn’t in harmonizing harvesting songs.  She knew that and besides, the notes were already fading, too ephemeral to hold on to.  By the time the last weeds were pulled from the bed her moment of harmony with the bees had become just a deeply mindful moment, nothing more than letting herself get lost focusing on nature and plant care. Human brains are too good at finding patterns and shoving things around so they are familiar.  Bees don’t sing.  Gathering her tools up, she went back inside to figure out the next project that needed doing.  The bees’ song was completely forgotten as she considered whether to tackle the rats in the attic or something less complicated.

Curled up on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket with her fluffy tux cat Charlie purring on her lap, Lisa was buried in a book, whiling away the rainy day.  She normally devoured books although today she was more lost in thought than functionally reading.  Fantasy was her favorite, but science fiction was a close second.  Being lost in the images in the words and the magic of creating and sharing the worlds that evolved in the authors’ minds had always been her happy place.  That or drawing, or crocheting, or painting, or cooking, or, or, or so many different things!  Creativity was her passion, either letting her imagination out to play or basking in the work of others, it didn’t matter to her.

When she was little there was so much more.  Imaginary friends, magical adventures, lifetimes spent lost in her own mind.  When all of her friends grew past playing pretend and got their feet firmly planted and their thoughts caught up with celebrities, makeup, and boys, Lisa still doodled the escapades of her imaginary friends and wrote stories in her mind to fall asleep.  While all her friends grew up, she was left behind although it hadn’t felt that way to her..

That was what had led to the trips to specialists and trials of different medications.  After a seemingly unending list of drugs and side effects and years of talk therapy, the doctors and therapists eventually “fixed” her.  She had known she would have to grow up eventually, but it wounded her deeply to lose those friends in her mind, the ones only she could talk to.  Her parents had been so proud of her for getting focused and working to become a responsible adult.  It had felt good to finally make them proud and to take away their fears about how she would manage the adult world.

Lisa had done well for herself, all things told.  She had a wonderfully supportive husband who ran his own carpentry business, two charming, well-adjusted children, and her dear grandbaby, Severin, whose toddler chortles lit her heart up and whom she was blessed to be able to care for several days a week.  Due to several lucky twists of fate, she didn’t have to work full-time, although she did enjoy her part-time job at The Rainbow’s End, the local New Age-y pagan store downtown, as much as you could call a couple of blocks of a two-lane road a downtown, and it was always her joy to be able to officiate weddings as a pagan minister through the Universal Life Church.  It would have been hard for her to pull off full-time work at this point anyway since the fibromyalgia symptoms made her abilities vary widely day by day.  Yes, she was definitely a lucky woman even with the challenges she faced.

Paganism had drawn her in young, a big issue in her Catholic family.  She resonated with the connection to nature and had never felt comfortable with people who claimed to follow Jesus behaving the unChristlike way so many preachers and people who called themselves “Christian” did.  Her parents hadn’t been happy at first, insisting it was a phase, but when she told them she had become a minister her mom had been surprisingly pleased.  It could have gone so much worse.  Paganism and New Age practices had been so alluring because they allowed people to believe in magic even if. for the most part, they knew what they practiced wasn’t real in a scientifically measurable way at least not with the current technology.  Still, it allowed her to keep magic in her life, just like her fantasy novels did.  As much as she was supposed to be a responsible grown-up, and even though she played one well enough to pass, she was still in many ways the daydreaming kid with her head stuck in the clouds.

A robocall momentarily jerked her out of her reverie, and as the rain droned on she felt herself nodding off.  Charlie was kneading the soft rainbow blanket she was cocooned in, purring loud enough to wake the dead as usual.  Something about his purr made her feel safe and cared for, although she knew it was irrational.  He was just a cat after all.  Even half-asleep she made sure the book was safely cradled on top of the blanket as she drifted off, pondering what would happen if people didn’t have to outgrow fairytales.

Considering all of that, it is not like she ought to have been surprised the next day when, lost in her thoughts, she absently tripped over Charlie and he yelped, “Hey, watch it!”  

Startled at having tripped on him, and his words not having completely registered, she immediately apologized, “Oh, I’m sorry Charlie!  I should have been watching where I was going.”  

Now, talking to the pets was completely normal for her, but the pet in question talking back was quite unexpected so she was completely taken aback when, as he figure-eighted through her legs, he replied, “Meh, you’re a clumsy human.  It’s to be expected.”

Stopping in mid-step, she nearly fell over in shock causing him to dart out of the way and settle down on the hardwood a few feet away.  She grabbed the sofa for balance and stared at Charlie, blinking hard and shaking her head as though it would settle reality back into place.  The cat simply blinked back at her enigmatically.

Lisa didn’t know what to think.  Cats don’t talk, at least not like that they don’t!  Well, they aren’t supposed to at any rate.  She took a deep shaky breath, her heart pounding from the adrenaline and her back twinging from having saved herself from falling.  She considered for a moment maybe going off her meds was a bad idea after all. Or maybe it was early-onset dementia?  Her mom had been showing signs by this age. 

“You know you look very silly standing there gaping at me like a fish,” Charlie gently chided.

Sitting down hard on the arm of the couch, she managed to haul her jaw off the floor.  Long-buried memories stirring, she muttered to herself, “This isn’t real.  It can’t be.”

The cat held up a paw and examined it carefully before giving an itch a good hard gnaw, then blinked up at her amused, responding dryly, “I’m pretty certain I am indeed real.”

Completely thrown by her current situation, Lisa absently responded, “Yes, you are real, Charlie.  I meant you talking to me.  That can’t be real.  I’m having a hallucination or a delusion or I don’t know what, but this isn’t actually happening.”

“And why are you so sure about that, you silly human?” was his reply.  Lisa noted she didn’t see his mouth move at all, but she clearly heard his words in her ears not just in her mind.  Oddly enough he sounded familiar like she always imagined he would, but of course he would since this was just her imagination playing tricks.  

Already in the habit of talking to herself and to the pets, she replied as though having a conversation with her cat was as normal as buying bananas at the store, “Because cats don’t talk like people do.”

“I’m not talking like people do.  That would be beneath me.  I am a cat after all.”  He sounded mildly insulted and she swore that if he could have made air quotes around, “like people do,” he would have.

She knew the tricks to use on an unruly brain and, once she got her racing heart under control, she was growing more curious than freaked out, “Well fine then, how are you talking if it’s not like people do?”

His eyes twinkled, “Magic, obviously.  Don’t you remember?”

 

Index

Season 1, Installment 2 From the Mouths of Babes

 

All content has my intellectual copyright and I reserve all rights to it.  People are welcome to link to the story, however, unless you get my permission in writing ahead of time none of the Grammy Lisa Saga may be copied, sold, or otherwise used.