Rosy Cheeks (5)

T,h.Re,e/diFF.e.renT] ^a/i en.#[Ding(s) o=F rosy C(h<ee~K)s

13.03.14.57-30._{binary finary}11.22.46-16.01.11.01

1^st?2^nd?3^rd?4^th?5^{th happy sad open possibilies} delete others

Ending 1. . .

The Mothman enters, chaos around him like smoke. He looks like a modern banker in a tight all-in-one leather piece. He has a futuristic jar and a siphon with him. He approaches, grips the Banshee by her hair, drags her into the floor, marches back out into the carpark. His leg looks cocked into the earth as if to maintain balance, like a long embedded jack, his toes are injected in to the asphalt like cinches. He poses behind himself, a comedy of perspectives, then sticks his siphon into her temple. Her creative juices flow out of her like drafts from a sideshow circus tent.

          “My grandfather cannot make it,” she attests. “Remember me…”

Ending 2. . .

“He wants my creativity!” she said.

          I wished I could protect it. But I was about as useful against this Mothman geezer as a traffic warden against a hurricane.

          “My brain fluid takes months to regenerate.”

          “Where’s your grandfather?”

          “He said the Mothership won’t start up. He’s coming in a Mercurial. Hold tight, he said.”

          I stood up in the fake storm sweeping around the diner and protected the Banshee, both standing forward in front of her and leaning back into her. She clutched at me like sovereign gold. I wondered if he intended to rip her head clean off to get at her fluid or leave her brain-dead in a vegetative condition.

          “Stand by me,” she spluttered, “and I’ll marry you on Neptune.”

Ending 3. . .

His face appears in the cracked partition between broken halogen and ominous shadow. “Both of you come with me.” His voice beckoned like thunder.

          “Grandad, Grandad…” the Banshee spoke into a cupped hand like a telephone, but there was no answer. At least not yet. And then--

          The noble gentry grandfather swept in with a swirling cloak. He looked Victorian apart from this, he defeated the Mothman outside underneath his mothership, and saved his daughter from losing her brain fluids. I was dead happy to meet with him.

          “You sure did one hell of a jobbie back there,” I told him.

          “You are more than welcome with us,” he replied. These mountains will survive your absence should you decide to abide with us on our return journey.”

          I looked at the Banshee, being held in his arms. So comforted, so safe. They looked like they never belonged apart, or had ever been apart, or would ever be apart. I imagined myself in their company, in a distant time, in a faraway place.

She smiled welcomingly. She licked her lips. Out leaked a little drool.