Date: Tue, 10 Oct 2000 08:05:45 -0600 From: Robyn Herrington Organization: University of Calgary Subject: [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: Attention Just a reminder, folks -- email your stories to me, Robyn Herrington at rmherrin@ucalgary.ca. Have them to me by the close of October 17th. 2,500 words max, and I mis-spoke last time... you can enter *2* stories. Whoopsie -- sorry! Dark and creepy fiction of any kind. Critiques always encouraged, but please send those to me, (rmherrin@ucalgary.ca) as well. And now... the story! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Attention For the first time in years Chynda felt no rage toward the populace who passed her by, as usual ignoring her presence and looking right through her. This was most because of the tiny vial Chynda clutched in her right hand as well as the Halloween costume protected within its plastic zippered bag and clutched by its hanger with her other hand. The vial cost Chynda over $300 and the costume rental was $30.00 per evening. The costume was just a silly Micky Mouse outfit, a choice for which Chynda spent ten seconds in the choosing, finally pulling the first thing off the rack. "In order for the potion to work," the toothless old gypsy had told Chynda, "you must take it on all Hallows Eve and must be in costume." Chynda had politely discussed with the gypsy woman the plethora of costumes in which to introduce her new, charismatic self to the world. In the end Chynda eschewed the grand ball gowns she'd so recently considered and decided Micky Mouse will have to do. Chynda also chose to ignore the meddlesome old gypsy woman's warnings. "Sometimes," the old woman literally cackled, "we need to watch what we wish for...as we just may get it." With this the gypsy woman hooted, hollered and smacked her knees. "Attention ain't always what it's cracked up to be." Chynda rushed through the crowd on the busy street, savoring the thought of the evening to come and the subsequent changes her life would take. For at midnight on Halloween, Chynda Masters would become a human being who would enrapture the world; a woman who would enjoy endless attention from her family, friends, co-workers, indeed the entire population of the planet earth. "But Mommy I had the best drawing." Chynda blew a breath wind to dislodge a sweaty bang as she regarded her reflection in the mirror. She was startled by the memory of her childish words. "Of course you had the prettiest picture, Chyn. That's to say Mommy and you think yours is the prettiest picture. The judges chose Rebecca Parker's picture because they think hers was the best. You and Mommy know better." The vignette made Chynda smile. That had been the first time her mother had consoled her weeping daughter but there had been many more to follow. No matter how wonderful her creation, how sweet her prose, how dramatic her hairstyle, there was something about Chynda Masters that caused the people in her surround to dismiss her as if non-existent. "It's not that I'm ugly", Chynda thought as she tried to tame the wisps of her dishwater brown hair to submission. "It's just that I'm not ... ," Chynda twirled a mousy lock around her index finger as she searched for the word. " ... THERE," C|hynda completed the thought with the only word that provided her description . "You're resume is impressive. We will call you tomorrow." "This is a lovely painting. We will put it on prominent display." "You're fun. I'll be in touch." The company so impressed with her resume never called. The gallery so enthused by her painting never displayed. The guy from the singles bar never kept in touch. Chynda slammed the brush on the dresser as if a gavel. This was all about to change. Via steadied research, determination and a firm conviction that she was a talented and vibrant human being, Chynda found the old gypsy lady and purchased a precious vial of the fluid that would bring her, finally, the attention and admiration she deserved. It was crusty old Leroy Macon who provided Chynda with her first dose of the attention that would ultimately destroy her. "Wow, don't you look cool tonight." Chynda shrugged and gave a grin. Not that Leory Macon could see such grin, hidden as it was by the huge Micky Mouse head. Just ten minutes prior Chynda had downed the entire vial given to her by the gypsy. The liquid was warm and slightly salty. Other than this, Chynda noticed nothing unusual and felt no effects from the brew. As for the doorman, Chynda knew she looked no cooler than half the people in the town, all dressed in Halloween garb, all cleverly disguised as celebrity, critter or inanimate object. Leroy's greeting was perfunctory, Chynda knew, just an obligatory comment. Yet as she walked by the doorman, Chynda felt his piercing and quizzical eyes as if a physical force. The rest of the evening was mostly uneventful. Uneventful for most people that is. Chynda arrived at the Halloween party of her co-worker and was greeted with enthusiasm by the woman Chynda most despised/envied. "Is that you Chynda?" Beverly Ward exclaimed in greeting to the large Micky Mouse who knocked to gain entry. "You look great! Come on in, sit over there next to Joe." Chynda was smiling beneath her costume, again attributing Beverly's flatter as social politesse. For most people, the party interaction that followed wouldn't be viewed as anything beyond the norm for this social activity. Joe Reavers, the company's Controller and most eligible of bachelors, queried Chynda as to the status of her latest painting. "The one with the tomatoes," was how he put it. Chynda recalled showing the accounting department that painting in progress. As she remembered, the payroll clerk gave a quick compliment while Joe regarded the still life soberly, finally murmuring a quick "interesting" as the obligatory comment. Beverly Ward cornered Chynda for much of the evening, discussing work, politics, a favorite television show. Chynda had shared an office with Beverly for the past year. In that entire year she and Beverly hadn't exchanged as many words as in the first hour of the Halloween party. It wasn't that Beverly wasn't polite in the manner of office mates. It was more that Beverly was never actually in the office, being constantly called off to management meetings, arranging company affairs and working closely with colleagues who always sought her company. It was Chynda who did most of the daily work while Beverly basked in the attentive glow of her co- workers; a glow for which Chynda felt far more deserving. Chynda was positively heady at having Beverly's rapt attention, this as her own party continued without her ministrations and as co-workers constantly interrupted their conversation to gain access to the social butterfly in their midst. Only it wasn't Beverly Ward's audience they sought that magical evening. The entire staff of the Niles, Wilson and Berg accounting firm enthusiastically sought their moment with Chynda Masters' as eagerly as moths flying to a bare porch lightbulb. The old gypsy's mysterious vial performed as promised. The week following the Halloween party had Chynda walking on air and basking in the constant attention of all humans in her surround. People would stop her in the street, commenting on her dress or beautiful hair style. Co-workers requested her assistance and Beverly Ward never left the office. Chynda would check the mirror regularly, always seeing the same plain face and drab hair as before. Nothing had changed yet everything had changed. The nightmare began when Wilson's art gallery featured Chynda's still life in the pre- Thanksgiving show. "Why, this so lovely, child. Do sit down and tell me where you've been hiding all my life." Chynda flushed at the praise and changed the subject. The fawning was getting to her yet Chynda couldn't recognize the growing sense of dismay and its cause. After living in life's shadow, Chynda knew implicitly she should be nothing less than beyond happy with all of this attention. The gnaw in her stomach to the contrary left her confused and ashamed for being so ungrateful. "Would you consider it for the show?" Chynda cut off the gallery owner's effusive praise. "But of course," the effeminate man shouted. "How could we not?" Chynda peeked through the curtains and frowned at the crowd below. Boom mikes swayed to and fro as the crowd stirred restlessly in response to a rumor that Chynda Masters would soon be making an appearance. "Isn't this wonderful, Chyn?" her mother said, eyes glistening at the mob gathered to get but a glimpse of her daughter. Chynda nodded wordlessly. But it wasn't wonderful. It was horrible, hateful, dreary, burdensome and heavy. At least so Chynda had finally admitted to herself, facing the mirror and still greeted by a plain face with mousy hair. Beverly Ward had become positively a pest and Joe Reavers left her drained with his constant requests for dates or please at the least, just lunch? Her painting had met with such success that Chynda was able to quit her job, an action that bought her only temporary relief. Her face was plastered on the front of the New York Times' style section. Buses transported posters of her latest painting with dates, times and places of the next showing. Gossip columnists printed daily updated rumors of her suitors and choice of groceries. "The still lifes of Chynda Masters are at best pedantic, at worst, and believe me folks it's mostly worst, amateurish and lacking depth." The New York Post's painting critic had penned this venomous review and in response Chynda's agent had called her to soothe. "The guy never had any taste, Chynda. Besides, Clyde's auction house called. They want you to attend their next auction. They'll put you up at the Ritz and hey, I'll make sure the hotel supplies you with those Hershey bars you like. Chyn, you're okay aren't you? You're not going to let the likes of one stinking critic get you down are you hon?" Chynda twirled a lock of hair around her index finger and assured her bossy agent that she was fine. After placing the phone in its cradle, Chynda read and re-read the review. "He's right," Chynda thought. "The still lifes have no depth. I never gave them depth. I crank them out and they bring me money." The walk through the crowd was torture. Chynda's mother pulled her by the hand, using her other to wave enthusiastically to the bystanders. "Come on Chynda. They might break that barrier." Chynda pushed her feet forward at her mother's urging but couldn't get her mind out of the trance she'd entered. All of the crowd was naked. Their bare arms still stretched to her, still attempting to touch, still trying to attach themselves to her. Only the arms were scorched and burnt, fire leaping from the inferno at their feet. "They are the souls from Hell," Chynda realized as her mother gave her another urgent tug. Chynda pushed forward, now firmly rooted in Hell. Her feet moved woodenly even as her body screamed to go, go, go, get away from them. An arm grasped her leg. The acrid smell of burning flesh offended her nose, the sting of fire raced up her leg. "Hurry. Have to get away. They want me to take them out of Hell." Chynda knew that, like a heroic rescuer of a panicked swimmer, she had to get away, get away, get away. Or they would take her down with them. "Chynda Masters Suicide!" The busy crowds raced by the newspaper stand. A plain face with mousy hair graced the upper fold, the headline telling all. "Still life artist Chynda Masters' death has been ruled a suicide by the state coroner. Ms. Masters is best known for her still life paintings. While Ms. Masters enjoyed great economic success with her painting, most critics regarded her work as mediocre. Or worse." An occasional passer-by would stop and peruse the headline. A few dropped some coins in the vendor's hand and hurried off with the purchase folded under his or her arm. The old woman, attired in gypsy garb under her heavy sweater, read the first few paragraphs of the story immediately above the picture of the young woman with the plain face and mousy hair. Carefully she placed the paper back in its display slot and shuffled off. -- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Robyn Herrington New Currents in Teaching and Learning / InfoServe Phone: 220-2561 Email: rmherrin@ucalgary.ca Story ideas are like rabbits that have ventured unwittingly into view. The slightest noise or movement can spook them and they bolt off into the dark undergrowth never to be seen again. -- Adrian Bedford ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~