Alicia Quinn
I’m writing a
novel-length story and it's sort of about superheroes. There aren’t capes
and spandex. People with special abilities work with the local police
force to keep the city safe. Or they don’t—it’s their choice. I finished
a very rough draft a couple months ago and I’ve been working on
expanding it.
Here’s a character, Alicia Quinn, that I wrote a short scene about earlier this week. I don’t know if I’ll add it into the larger story, so for now it's here.
One.
I closed my eyes and let my mind open, but it felt like I let down the flood gates and now a small village was drowning. Sounds circled around me, bombarded me. Conversations. Birds chirping. Cars honking, tires skidding. Sirens. Children laughing.
Two.
I took a deep breath and the spinning stopped. Each sound took on a form: a spotted sphere for the laughter; jagged lightning bolts flashing forest green—those were the police sirens; flat rectangles with irregular stripes for the conversations; popping bubbles, orange and pink, for the car horns. I could organize the sounds after I made them tangible this way. Better yet, I could focus on one specific sound, if I wanted to.
Three.
Another deep breath, and I felt my body floating. I glided between the sound-shapes. I touched the laughing sphere and giggled when it tingled-tickled against my hand. But that wasn’t what caught my interest.
I hovered over to the lightning and shielded my eyes as sparks splintered off the green bolts. The sirens. They were all I could hear now and if I focused, I could pinpoint where they were coming from. The way Derek had taught me. I closed my hands over my eyes, blocking out the light that still shined through my eyelids.
Where. Where?
I felt my mind drifting and I gasped, reaching to stay with the sound.
Main Street. Espresso machine buzzing—a café nearby. The green bolts snapped into twin vertical lines. 11th Street.
Two.
I let the sound-shapes dissolve and return to their abstract, invisible forms.
One.
I opened my eyes and sat up. “Derek, I got it.” I sat on the edge of the couch. “Sirens down town.” I looked up and realized I was talking to an empty room.
My older brother Derek died a year ago, but I still talked to him sometimes. I sighed and stood up. I found the sound exactly like he taught me. The next step was always up to me.
Here’s a character, Alicia Quinn, that I wrote a short scene about earlier this week. I don’t know if I’ll add it into the larger story, so for now it's here.
One.
I closed my eyes and let my mind open, but it felt like I let down the flood gates and now a small village was drowning. Sounds circled around me, bombarded me. Conversations. Birds chirping. Cars honking, tires skidding. Sirens. Children laughing.
Two.
I took a deep breath and the spinning stopped. Each sound took on a form: a spotted sphere for the laughter; jagged lightning bolts flashing forest green—those were the police sirens; flat rectangles with irregular stripes for the conversations; popping bubbles, orange and pink, for the car horns. I could organize the sounds after I made them tangible this way. Better yet, I could focus on one specific sound, if I wanted to.
Three.
Another deep breath, and I felt my body floating. I glided between the sound-shapes. I touched the laughing sphere and giggled when it tingled-tickled against my hand. But that wasn’t what caught my interest.
I hovered over to the lightning and shielded my eyes as sparks splintered off the green bolts. The sirens. They were all I could hear now and if I focused, I could pinpoint where they were coming from. The way Derek had taught me. I closed my hands over my eyes, blocking out the light that still shined through my eyelids.
Where. Where?
I felt my mind drifting and I gasped, reaching to stay with the sound.
Main Street. Espresso machine buzzing—a café nearby. The green bolts snapped into twin vertical lines. 11th Street.
Two.
I let the sound-shapes dissolve and return to their abstract, invisible forms.
One.
I opened my eyes and sat up. “Derek, I got it.” I sat on the edge of the couch. “Sirens down town.” I looked up and realized I was talking to an empty room.
My older brother Derek died a year ago, but I still talked to him sometimes. I sighed and stood up. I found the sound exactly like he taught me. The next step was always up to me.
388
In my head, I see colors swirling. Deep golds and vibrant blues, shimmering greens and robust reds. Mixing, separating, fanning out to sparks from trumpets and drums. Clipped violins and reverberating guitars. Smells of cotton candy and soft pretzels. Crackling crushed ice that just melts on my tongue and dark chocolate whose flavor bursts and then deflates. Spinning echoes and twisting light. I'm not always happy, but I'm always me: thinking, talking, feeling, tapping, twirling, grinning.
But then I come here and everything inside me hums, falls out of tune, fades away to a flat gray. I smell chlorine and can't ignore the taste of sand in my mouth. Everything here is in slow motion, stuck, and I have to practice every form of tolerance. I become less than myself, not even a shell.
I don't want this fuzzy world. I want mine.
But then I come here and everything inside me hums, falls out of tune, fades away to a flat gray. I smell chlorine and can't ignore the taste of sand in my mouth. Everything here is in slow motion, stuck, and I have to practice every form of tolerance. I become less than myself, not even a shell.
I don't want this fuzzy world. I want mine.
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