The Waiting Room.

3-aside.

Bulbous red eyes rose above water level. They sniffed the air, and dipped back underneath the current. Kera Tarver watched this occur for the first time in twenty years, and never would again, an identical fate to every other living being on earth. It was midnight now. The grass twitched in the breeze, but did not shiver. Kera sighed in the palm of her hand as she patted the river with her toes. She thought of Irwin, similar to most people in close proximity. Why would he say that? She whispered aloud. Kera knew this would not encourage a response, as she was alone, but she found a life-long comfort in knowing some things could be localized entirely within her, so she asked it anyways. To her left, a wild jack rabbit used the bounty of Stillgrave to wash its hands. The prey looked at Kera, wiggled it's nose, returned forward, and wiped its hand on the clovers that laid underneath it. It continued to feed the silence felt by the town. She understood as much about Irwin as the whole world did about aquatic life, which is to say, an extremely insignificant amount. This bothered Kera, someone who lived in a place where everyone knew everyone, and could love them for it. Her mother, Linette, had spoken the most to Mr. Kimble. Accumulatively, Irwin had delivered thirty-seven words since his fabled arrival, with thirty-three of them targeted at Linette. She watched the scene backwards and forwards with the eye that is her mind, and found herself imprisoned in a state of ambivalence. Emotionally and physically, she remained here until morning.

Thirty feet away, tucked in the safety and warmth of Linette's comforter, she was being ripped apart by wolves. She felt no pain, as she often didn't during slumber. Her therapist from out of town once said that dreaming of harm to ones self meant an attempt at self discovery. She laughed at this, and shared the knowledge with friends so they would feel close to her. Linette felt that she would never be so blunt as to figuratively tear herself apart just to solve the complexity of human emotion. The wolves clawed at her large intestine as the section of her corpse identifiable as the mouth began to tittle. Soon, a powerful, humongous wolf discovered her flesh, and swallowed her face whole. Her dream had always been in a third person view, but in that moment, she became aware of her own authority and woke up. Mrs. Tarver recognized the town memorabilia drowning the walls and confided in her security. Just then, a boulder in the form of Irwin Kimble expanded in her mind. She began to scratch herself in frustration. Soon, bright and embarrassing lines cluttered her body as she growled to herself about the man. Linette contemplated the time -one in the morning- and left to go boil water for a mug of instant espresso.

I harbour a profusion of disinterest in your festivities, thought Herma Peachy, as she tied ribbons around homemade sweet cherry jam jars. She thought it again, angrier this time. The artisan wondered how sheltered a person must be to grow so naturally jaded. She tucked a jar into an overstuffed wicker basket along with a palmful of leftover Easter eggs, and encased it in sparkly, transparent, cellophane. Herma tugged at the bow resting in one of her peach-faced lovebirds' beak until submission, clasping it atop the basket and smiling at her craftsmanship. Her lovebird, flew across the room, perching herself on the cellophane swathed grip of a rubbled gift basket.

"Oh, Brittany," Herma sighed. "I'm not going to give Irwin a gift with bread that's over forty hours old. Yes, I know, It'd be convenient if he had accepted my offering today, but that's not how people are sometimes. Here, darling, not too old for us, huh?" She pulled a portion off a loaf of strawberry-peach sweetbread and fed it to her companion. Herma wondered if how Irwin spoke was practiced or his vocabulary was so advanced he'd refer to the weekly potluck as a 'festivity'. She had already decided to not put memorizing a phrase so malign above him just yet. Brittany squeaked as to ask for another piece, to her avail. Four more avian roommates glided from a homemade nest and began nuzzling their faces into the loaf. She watched them for a few minutes, sitting in a clump of hyper-colour tissue shreds and ribbon strands. Inevitably, a coo-coo clock hung above the bay window sang, drowning the first two hours of a Monday morning. The sonic experience stampeded, destroying everything in sight for a dry moment.