Another Taste of the Swap

…she takes her tea into the bathroom, turns on the bright lights and then, slowly raises her eyes to the mirror, literally holding onto the seat.  She breathes deeply to center herself, forces a little smile and in the process sees Elizabeth’s very white, well-tended teeth.

That’s me in there!

Amber turns her head slowly back and forth several times in the mirror, then just as slowly up and down. She makes faces, then emulates all the emotions she can think of. She makes an angry face, a menacng face,  a scared one, pouty, sad and puzzled. The puzzled face lingers. She knows that genes affect personality. What will that mean in her case?…

Feeling her way through Elizabeth’s body is like trying to fit into clothing tailored for someone else. Here and there she is restricted, and at other places fails to fill out the material…

I am in the process of changing the title  Shattered Boundaries to The Swap, and have added a final chapter.  In process.

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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