Message-ID: <45243asstr$1068444603@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: johndear@softhome.net X-Original-Message-ID: X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Thu, 06 Nov 2003 21:03:12 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} [Blanket - Flash] Marian by johndear X-Original-Subject: ASSM {Blanket - Flash} Marian by johndear Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 01:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, newsman <1st attachment, "Marion.txt" begin> ASSM {Blanket - Flash} Author: johndear Title: Marian Summary: A homeless woman hides a secret. Keywords: love story Length: 974 words Copyright: c. 2003 A tattered shawl. She clutched it tight against her throat, then swept a hand behind her head and drew the fabric up and over her, covering her coarse, uneven hair. She covered up her scarred and wrinkled face completely. Marian placed one solemn foot before the other and leaned against imaginary winds, limped forward into calm and night and gargoyle downtown shoppers. Marian bumped the plate glass windows, granite walls, ignored the traffic lights and irritated drivers. Marian peeked out through purls and stitches dropped in careless moments during Group, peeked out at hostile armies parting to avoid her. "Watch it, eh." "Don't stare at her." "Freaking loon." _Fresh snow. Makes it hard for them to see; covers tracks and hides the scent from hounds. Thick flakes. Cotton puffs sent from Above. Tufts of down, a pillow fight somewhere, up there, fifty, sixty stories high, and fancy. Feathers from cavorting deities. Accidental like, like Aphrodite scuffling with Athena._ She laughed aloud at that, then giggled. "Hey, Marian! What's the fucking joke?" _A hooker. Jezebel. Skirt short enough to see her panties. Blouse so sheer her nipples tweak the lacy fabric. Heels so thin and high her legs are ... what? Something special._ Marian glanced down to check the strings that wrapped the garbage bags around her own thick socks and tired feet. "I tied them good." She said it to Hephaestus, then waited for his grin. "You tied one on? Good for you, Girl." The hooker put a hand on hip and eyed the paying customers. "Merry Christmas!" to the whore. _They're lickable! Kissable. They're touchable. That's what legs are for._ Marian remembered, smiled at legs now lost along the path back through the alleyways and shelters, journeys from the Sally Ann up to the Mission and back again for supper. Smiled and added one more, "Merry Christmas," to the lady of the evening busy with her lipstick and her clutch. "Fuck Christmas," hissed the hooker. Marian on a side street hid from light and noises. Too early yet to sleep, too excited by the snow, Marian was happy that the winds had told her where to go and whispered what to do directly to her brain, the breeze that barely swayed the softly falling snow. _No, no one noticed. None of them has guessed._ At the General, where the nurses pushed her sweaters up and checked her pulse and took her pressure, they didn't have a clue. A doctor in Emerg once touched her hand. He'd talked to her like she was ... _Almost fooled me. Almost made me drop my guard. Almost led me to confession. Only just that once._ He did the suturing; the nurses did the bandage. _Not a hint to anyone at all._ Marian fell down sometimes and hurt herself and bled. It caused a scene. _A scream. Brings the cops. They stare. They try to find the secret. Traffic stops. Strangers, "What's your name, eh?" Looks and turns away and holds his breath and coughs and mumbles, "Can you hear me? You okay?" And then it's back to General. Not a one of them suspects._ Just her brother knew, none but him. Not her parents. No teacher ever, even one, came close to guessing; not the other girls, nor priests. Just her brother sat with her and showed her pictures from the book: men in dresses, women clad in mail. He taught her dancing names that tickled on her tongue. He told her of their powers, and more. _Where is he now? Not at the house. The house was gone. Maybe he had left for school? Maybe it was recess. Think, Marian._ She pounded on the shawl along her temple. _Think. Think! It hurt. Yes. There'd been a war ... in somewhere called Korea. Ares took her brother. Gone, of course. Years and years ago. But he had known the secret._ Marian pressed her back against the dumpster, set her shopping bag beside her. Marian exhaled and slid her body slowly down to pavement, watched the snow pile up around her, flake by tiny flake. A cat sniffed something in the bag, a possibility. Marian saw past its diffidence, saw through the thin disguise of fur: a nobleman, a hero, an heir to thrones who'd been transformed by jealous Hera. She stroked its back and told her story. She told it with humility, without a glimmer of revenge for all the anger in her heart. She waited for the cat to finish purring, waited for the warmth to seep into her lap, and when he finally closed his eyes so he could dream the words, then Marian explained their situation. Deep inside the layers of clothing, beneath the Stanfield's, under slabs of crumbling skin and sagging tissues, hidden by a mask of age and fury, Marian was Zeus' daughter. Much taller, straighter than her broken frame, she stood in mists of Mount Olympus. Instead of matted hair cut down to scalp in places, Marian had tresses, auburn tresses, wafting in ephemeral breezes, with errant strands that teased her perfect cheeks, caressed them like a lover. Marian's face was sculpted, perfect almond, a hue found only on Elysian painters' pallets. Marian had eyes so soft the snowflakes sought them out for landing: reflections of a cobalt sky in summer. Her mouth, pouting; lips, anticipating their next kiss, just waiting for a grace-note moan to move them. Marian was hiding. "If they only knew," she told her hero. "If they could touch my shoulders bare, the shadow valley clavicles, the swelling of my breasts." She lay her hand along his thigh and stroked his tail. "Don't worry, though, we're safe, my love. They never see us. Ever. Even if they walk right past. They've never seen me yet. We're safe." And with a tear she whispered, "Again tonight, we're safe." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The inspiration for this story came from a pastel and watercolour entitled "Marian" by Jonathan Earl Bowser. It can be viewed at http://www.jonathonart.com/mari.html. This story, the Flash Challenge, the anniversary celebration and the wealth of websites and stories and collections at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/ could not exist without your generosity. Without you, none of it would be possible. If you can make a donation to help keep it going, please visit http://www.asstr-mirror.org/donations.html. More stories by johndear are available at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/johndear/www/. You can write to him at johndear@softhome.com <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderators: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at Hosted by | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+