The Waiting Room.

8- ceasefire.

In a flurry, an adolescent wasp colony plummeted. An unabashed soil.

"May 1st, 2006
Once I took a trip to the coast. It was warm every day and I could feel the natural light browning my skin until sunset. I drank iced tea and watched the sky for hours, as it turned from shades of pink to swirls of blue. The backlighting turned clouds into hyper colour animals, chasing each other into the ether. I laid on that rooftop until the shingles collected dew, accompanied by ladybugs and moss. It wasn't until this morning, while I was searching for fantasy novels, did I discover a book regarding the science behind sunsets. Tiny air particles scatter across the wavelength of light, colouring the sky blue. But as polluted particles fill the evening sky, and the wavelength passes through far more particles, the blue light is lost. A bold spectrum replaces it, effervescent and beautiful, caused by the city smoke and fuels materialized in the day-to-day. I believe that having to find out information like this on my own volition is obstruction of justice. For decades I believed the most beautiful sight was true. Tonight, I stared at the clouds, thinking about how they look like caricatures of people I know, only to blink and see they are nothing more than what they are on the ground. One that, I swear to god, was a photograph of Herma sifting through the inevitable moonlight.

I'm sorry I write here so much. I often worry that if you were sentient, you would dislike me. I think that I have too many things to say, but when I speak them out, I feel overshared and misunderstood. I continue thinking about the men I've been with. I wish I could piece it together, who Quincy's father is. Palmira would help me if I asked, but I'm scared. I feel useless asking for help if I don't have a unique problem. Something interesting that in itself is enough for people to want to assist me. But I didn't know my father, so I am sinking in the same problem I've always had.

I picked up a book on tiger salamanders today. They are smart enough to associate an owner with nurturing, but not much more. And I think I wish I was like that. I think that people think once you are a parent with an older child, you don't have any more growing to do yourself. I feel like I am so full. That there is too much in my tiny, little, body that I wish I was, as tiger salamanders are, incapable of feeling any of it. And after reading this entry, the feeling does not pass, but merely lingers. I hope I live long enough that one day I read old journals and reminisce on a time where I didn't feel whole."

A chaotic herd scrambled to reassemble, practicing justice on the nearest possible offender. Softly, and in a confident slumber, Irwin Kimble dreams of a delicious spread. Carbs resting across a dining table in the church he grew up attending, while he sits alone, basking in the glow of the setting sun. Beams of light sparkle in the embellishments of the hanging chandelier, unbothered by fireflies swaying to the soft piano record. He stared at the feast catered to him, and Grimesmere did not cross his mind. As he devoured a bowl of garnished mashed potatoes, the bugs try not to look as horror clots their blood and bites their fingernails. Irwin perseveres, disintegrating a tomato, artichoke, and green bean salad with ease. The fireflies shifted white with fear and dripped sweat over the dining table while the insatiable man wished for a jacket but appreciated the rain.

As unrelenting wasps searched for a culprit, Irwin rolled over, creaking the mattress. In an epiphany, a hoard of anger tracked the sound and began an attack. He felt every fowl sting and chomp, every morsel of flesh being ripped apart as he ate. He panicked; why couldn't he wake up? Another mouthful of food. He swallowed and chewed and wept as black and yellow swirled around him, controlling every molecule Irwin couldn't. A handful crawled into the sleeping mans mouth and down, trudging his saliva-coated throat. They stung the undigested dinner still gurgling in Irwin's stomache, lurching from wall to wall. He unhinged his jaw and crushed the swarm with a thanksgiving turkey. Irwin could see his sleeping form like a beam into his minds eye. He chewed at an unprecedented velocity, finishing every bread roll, casserole, and side dish on the spread. As the panicked man laid back in his chair, unbuckled his jeans, and took a deep breath, his mortal form jolted from slumber. Several quick breaths later, he realized there to only be one insect left. The rest covered the hardwood from corner to corner, useless and hollow. The lone wasp made one final act of war before it too, lost its stinger and collapsed into a pile of its friends. Irwin rubs his eyes only to feel no pain in his body. He scans his body for carnage, to find nothing but a myriad of minuscule, bright red stingers poking deep into his skin. He wondered if he had died, and began to removed the thousands of weapons under a flow of hot water. It dripped rapidly off his face down the length of his body. He couldn't remember the last time he was unable to breathe. A smile stretched from ear to ear as he felt alive in a way he had never before. I defied death, he thought. Irwin hopped out of the shower with a newfound glee and swept all the deceased bodies into a trash bag. He put on his brown tennis shoes and walked across the bridge to leave them for the townsfolk to dispose of, then went back to bed.

Sitting on the kitchen floor of Palmira Strother's home, Herma read a journal entry. She felt every stroke as it marked the pages. She felt the frustration in Sau's writing; demonic beings climbed out of her as an anger no person had ever experienced soaked the floorboards and perched in front of the lenses in her eyes. A script sacred to the hour that Sau died. A script sacred to the hour she was killed. She would never, for the rest of her life, live a day without the thought of Sau dying frustrated, and hopeless. In the golden hour, a raccoon pawed at the sliding glass door behind Herma. She flinched, and pushed it open. The animal cozied into her lap as she pried open a cupboard on her left with an awkward bend of the arm. "Oh Mother," she wailed, holding a palm full of trail mix. "I deplore this land of fury. I carry all their mourning, I try, but it is carnivorous on my shoulders. I beg thee, apparate cherry blossoms and beautiful wild flowers, thistles and bountiful mushrooms. Give them to Sopphel. I'd serve an eternity for Sau to be everything she wished to be in our Gully. Allow her this. My time shall be reserved to any task you ask of me, oh I plead to thee," she sobbed. "Give her ease."

The raccoon began to snore.

An adolescent wasp landed upon Herma's nose, rubbing its legs together and humming. "You harmless beast, there is no sustenance there," she moaned, travelling the creature to the half eaten sandwich on the counter with the pad on her index finger. The docile insect took mere crumbs and fled happily.

Irwin Kimble wept. 
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