{ASSM} [Blanket - Flash] Marian by johndear

[john...@softhome.net]

<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.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.org/donations.html.

More stories by johndear are available at
http://www.asstr.org/~johndear/. You can write to him at
john...@softhome.com
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