Glasswalker: Reflections

The Lie

Frankie struck the mirror. In his mind, he was thinking of the other mirror he'd just exited from. But he also held the memory of the mirror he'd just struck. Two mirrors, their memories held equally in his mind. Somehow, he felt his mind stretch. He gave a mental push. Something popped.

Steam misted, sound muffled, then he stumbled back out the other side. Two images were in his vision, like he was seeing cross-eyed. It brought a wave of nausea, but Frankie shoved it down. With that shove, he was back to seeing only one image . . . yet he could still sense the other, could still direct it in a tucked away corner of his mind.

There was the Parasite, standing directly ahead in the hallway. Not a mirror image this time; the real monster. And, beyond the Parasite, there was someone else. It was Frankie.

"You see the whole," Frankie said. "And I'm a part of that whole, so you can always see me. But now I've made myself two parts."

The Parasite shrieked: a wrathful, rising sound. "No!"

"Oh I'm sorry," Frankie said. "Was I not supposed to do that?" He gave his cheekiest of grins.

Honestly, he wasn't sure exactly how he had done it, or why. It had just felt right. Instinct. The instinct of the fae, perhaps. Could he do it again?

The Parasite launched itself at the alternate Frankie. Frankie's mind focused into that one's body; controlling it, he sidestepped. But the Parasite wasn't going for him. It struck the mirror, slammed itself against it, the mirror that this alternate Frankie had stepped from. A spiderweb of cracks shattered its face. The alternate Frankie exploded into jagged fragments of light that melted quickly into the air.

The real Frankie gasped. He mind zoomed back into his body, and he vomited from the inertia and the sudden sense of loss. His puke splattered the floor.

"No matter," the Parasite said to him. His chilling smile had returned. "I've fought those of you capable of making reflections. You weren't supposed to, but I can deal with this. It is nothing more than an annoyance."

"No," Frankie said. He gritted his teeth. "The mirrors are mine." He launched himself at another mirror, creating another reflection across the hallway from him. He reached up a hand; his fingertips met the fingertips of the reflection for the briefest of seconds. They both looked at the Parasite as he charged.

Frankie stepped back into the mirror. Another reflection, who stepped out behind the Parasite. And then again, creating another ahead of him. And another . . . and another . . . .

The reflections began to fight, Hammering the Parasite from all sides. He went for their mirrors, shattering them and their bodies. Sometimes he sank his claw-nails into a reflection's chest, and it shattered along with its mirror. As fast as he killed them, Frankie created them.

A purple bruise blossomed on the Parasite's cheek. Blood dribbled from his lip.

He ripped a reflection's heart out. Sank his teeth into a reflection's heart. Smashed one's head against its own mirror.

Frankie felt each death, like losing a part of himself. And he could still feel them. Phantom limbs: he'd heard them described this way. But he was gaining them quickly, and the birth of a new reflection did nothing to assuage the passing of an older one.

All the reflections closed in; the real Frankie joined them. An all-out assault, pressing against the Parasite, trying to crush him with bodies. Then he forced a circle of space around himself and he screamed.

It was like before, but the scream rose higher, raged longer, filled the labyrinth like a coursing river of ice. Mirrors shattered. Reflections vanished in blinding light. The real Frankie covered his ears and found himself yelling.

The Parasite's face drained even whiter, if possible, and he fell to his knees. He and Frankie locked eyes. Then Frankie stabbed him.

He left it in the eye socket: a broken fragment of glass. It had sliced the skin of Frankie's palm when he grabbed it. In a way, it was a sliver of one of his own reflections.

The Parasite tumbled over.

Frankie jerked gasping breaths into his lungs. He blinked, and the hallway returned to normal. All the mirrors were fixed. Little sign of the recent battle.

But Frankie's hand still bled. The Parasite's body still lay on the floor, blood pooling under it.

Frankie knew instinctively that he would be able to escape, now. He wanted to leave. But he had one thing left to do.

He stumbled down the hallways, not mirrorwalking, using his regular legs. The stench of rot grew stronger. Finally, he came upon the body of the girl. Another mirrowalker, the Parasite had said. A dead one. Although the stench was overpowering, Frankie stooped, hoisted her onto his shoulder, and slowly stood. She deserved a proper burial. Then, looking no more at the maze of mirrors, he stepped into the wall ahead of him.

He walked away from the Parasite's lair.

The Truth

All done with the mirrorwalker story. Thanks for reading! Sorry it took so long; another idea has seized me. It is simple and sad and insistent. I don't think I'll be posting any of it to this blog, however.

Whew! Have a good night.

Glasswalker: Seven Years Bad Luck

This is the third part of the short Glasswalker story I've been writing as a spin-off to the Daily Lie section. If you want the other two parts, links to all the Lies can be found here. The previous Glasswalker links are numbers eleven and twelve.

Enjoy!

The Lie

Steam misted in front of Frank Gossamer's vision. Then it cleared. He was staring at a hundred copies of himself.

He let out a startled yell before he realized what he was staring at. A mirror. Mirrors, actually, a long hallway of them, leading to his right and left. Mirrors ahead and mirrors behind. What more could a glasswalker want?

Well, home, for one thing . . . .

"Hello, Frankie."

He yelped again and whirled. A man in a bowler hat was standing there, one who definitely hadn't shown up in the reflection a moment ago.

"You know those stories," the man said, "where the monster makes friends with the unwary traveler, first earning his trust, then luring him to his death? Well, I'm not going to do that. You should count yourself lucky. Isn't that gracious of me?"

Frankie blinked. The man leapt.

His face twisted and warped, the eyes becoming larger, the skin becoming tighter and more waxen. His teeth elongated and curved into vampiric fangs. His fingers reached for Frankie, each of them sprouting a wickedly long, yellow nail. Frankie screamed and ran.

He'd been around mirrors all his life, learned to take comfort in them. Young Frankie, tossle haired and with tear-stained cheeks, running his fingers over a mirror's cool surface. The night his parents died. Blackness, then . . . .

"No," Frankie whispered. Mirrors were his. His safety. His refuge. When the world scared him, then were what he had. They were the only thing he had.

"Please run faster, Frankie," the man said. His voice rebounded off the corridor as Frank sprinted away. "I am The Parasite, and I am coming to feast on your marrow, twist in your gut. You haven't even started glasswalking, yet!"

Frankie ran. With all the mirrors surrounding him, distance lost perspective. He threw a glance over his shoulder. Where was the Parasite? His reflection wasn't right. It showed up on different mirrors, but not mirrors across from each other, and with different poses and different expressions for the reflections. Here the parasite was sprinting forward with a snarl, here it was standing with a smirk, arms folded . . . .

What was that awful smell?

Frankie turned back around, and smack. His head struck a mirror. His only warning had been a brief glimpse of his own reflection growing larger as it ran towards him. Ordinarily, Frankie could run through mirrors, but to do that, he had to know about them first and had to have a jumping location fixed in his mind.

Blackness . . . and the smell of rot . . . .

"Break a mirror, seven years bad luck!" the Parasite's voice called. It seemed to speak from right beside Frankie. "Though in your case, I think the time will be significantly shorter . . . ."

There, to the left! An opening! Frankie dashed through it, forcing himself not to gag at the rising smell. It reminded him exactly of the smell on his first mirror-jump. He ran down a straight hallway till he came to an intersection with another hallway. He took the first left, and . . . Oh, Lord.

A body lay slumped against the mirror, partly decayed. A girl. The source of the smell, with brown claw marks across her through. From finger nails.

Frankie was back, seven years ago, vividly remembering his first-ever jump.

His parents' funeral, earlier in the day. He went home, no more tears left, ran his fingers over the cool glass of the bathroom mirror . . . a flash of mist . . . blackness, and the smell of rot . . . he'd mirror-jumped to inside his parents' joint coffin. The reflective black siding had made an excellent doorway.

No. He wrenched himself from the memories. He couldn't panic. He forced himself to stop. The mirrors were his. Running like this -- like a frightened rat in a monster's trap -- it wasn't right. He looked to the mirror wall beside him and took a breath, then stepped into it. In his mind, he fixed the first point where he'd entered the maze. It looked the same as every other point, but he differentiated internally.

He stumbled out of the mirror, and . . . the Parasite was standing there. No, that was just his reflection. But it smiled, and it spoke.

"I am always so amused by your mad scrambles. Every time I bring one of you here, you think you can outrun me. Out-jump me. Hide from me. But I am above you, looking down, and so I see the whole, and am in every part of the maze. What do you hope to accomplish?"

Frankie started. The Parasite saw the whole . . . but . . . .

Frankie took off running for a mirror. Laughter echoed around him. It pursued him.

The Truth

I don't have time to really edit any of these lies, so the quality is crummy, but I quite like the ideas and mythology that went into these Glasswalker ones. Maybe I'll do something longer with them, if I ever get the chance. I think one more left!

Glasswalker: Through a Glass Darkly

The Lie

The door opened. A silver-haired woman stepped in.

Her face was lined and grandmotherly, but somehow still hard. Her skin was stretched taunt over the sharp angles of her cheeks. As she entered the room fully, she did not smile.

Frankie remained standing, eyes widening as he looked her over and edged back. She wore a deep blue skirt and a loose, silver, long-sleeved shirt. It somehow looked medieval. Though she didn't appear to need it, the woman also carried a cane, undecorated and made of some light-colored wood. It bent as she flexed it against the floor.

Frankie shuddered. It all crashed into him -- the fear and clouding confusion at someone who knew more about Frankie's powers than he did. All he really knew was that he had them. Was this how others felt when Frank mirror-walked in front of them?

"I swear," Frank said, "I was always going to put those batteries back. I didn't want to steal them. I --"

"Shut. Up."

He did.

The woman walked a half-circle around him, eyes flicking over him. Face cold. Impassive.

"Do you know what you can do?" the woman asked.

"I . . . I can jump through mirror. Through reflections, I mean. This . . . it's something like that movie Jumper, isn't it? Like I've been misusing the stuff, and you're this secret society, sort of like police, that hunts us and wants to--"

"If I must silence you again, I will beat you within an inch of your life." She raised the cane-tip off the carpet. Frankie paled.

"Better," the woman said. She seemed to finally finish her inspection, then moved back to the center of the room, hands folded over the cane's straight handle. "You are, of course, a glasswalker."

Frankie shook his head and shrugged.

"Someone with fae blood who can use their old roads. It doesn't mean there's anything noble or magical about you. You've already proven that, as if we needed proof. Your sort always do. There's precious little of the old blood left, and nothing special about it anymore except the occasional manifestation of glasswalking, a penchant for sleepwalking, and some rare infant disappearances. It would be better for everyone if those bloodlines vanished entirely." She sighed. "Ah, well. Old promises to keep until that day comes, I suppose."

"Excuse me, but the fae, what does that . . . ."

Her arched eyebrow silenced him.

"You will be offered the same contract I give to all the others. Asylum for the span of one-hundred years. You will not age, will not decay, will never enter danger."

"Wow, really? That doesn't sound so bad."

"You will remain locked in this chamber of the barrow. You will never leave and will never touch or communicate with the outside world. You will have no visitors. All mirrors will remain closed to you."

"You're kidding."

She narrowed her eyes. "You may, of course, choose to reject the contract."

"What, you mean rather than stay locked in a room for -- what did you say -- one hundred years? That's ridiculous, lady!"

"Very well." She turned away. "You may go."

Frankie blinked. "What did you say?"

"I said you may go. I wish that the scavengers would have all of you, filthy degenerates that the bloodlines have become. Leave. The road is open."

Frankie looked at the black mirror on the wall. It looked the same, yet . . . something had changed. Shifted. It seemed more ordinary.

He took a step towards it, then glanced back. He'd heard a few stories like this as a kid. This was the part where the mentor stopped the hero with a last, parting comment. But when he looked at the room, the lady was already gone.

He stepped through the dark looking-glass.

Not quite how I imagine the chamber in this story. Should be more medieval, with cloth draped over the walls.

The Truth

A continuation of yesterday's story. I think one, maybe two more parts. Thanks for reading! If you want a much better story about this sort of mythology, read the wonderful Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.

Glasswalker: Other Side of the Glass

The Lie

Frankie Gozzomer sprinted down the Walmart aisle.

"Stop, thief!"

He chuckled at the puffing security guard jogging after him. He'd been working on his chuckle; he was rather proud of it. Smug without too much throat, and just a touch of ominous.

Frank was being careful not to run too far ahead, which was tricky. This security guard was seriously out of shape. That, and . . . he didn't seem to be trying.

Frankie's eyes widened for an instant. Then he smiled.

Directly ahead, another blue-shirted guard stepped into the aisle. This one wasn't as portly as the other: it was a muscular woman with stiff features and a serious scowl. She'd better be careful. If she kept that look on her face it might stick that way.

Frank twisted on his heels, sliding a few feet on the slick floor. The woman's fingers actually scrambled to clutch his shirt. But too slow . . . he sprinted sideways, down a frozen goods aisle. Ice-cream cartons and the like. A shelf full of frozen peas. He ran full throttle, both guards colliding and now running behind him down the aisle.

They were gaining, and he was running straight for a reflective glass door. Five feet. He could see the logo on the Moose Tracks behind the door. Four feet, three feet, two feet . . . he leapt.

Frankie's body slammed into the door, and he barely heard the startled exclamations of the security guards before all sound muted. Like plunging underwater. And the world sort of . . . well . . . frosted over, like looking through a steamed up window.

He came out the other side.

It wasn't, strictly speaking, the other side. But sure felt like it. Felt like he'd run straight forward through a puff of steam, and had come out of the glass he'd fixed in his mind: the door in front of the frozen peas he'd seen earlier.

The guards gasped and stared at the door for a good five seconds. After Frank stumbled out, he stopped to catch his breath and lean against the door. He fixed his cheekiest smile on his face. At least he hoped it was cheeky; he hadn't had much time to practice that one.

"Hey!"

The male guard must've caught sight of Frankie's grinning reflection, because he whirled and pointed a trembling finger in Frank's direction. Frank waved, then held up the carton of cheapo batteries he'd nicked earlier.

"Stop! . . . please."

That made him laugh, and then he took off again. The guards jogged hesitantly after.

He leapt through glass cases and came out of countertops, leapt through TV screens and came out of household mirrors, ran into the bathroom and came out of the tile floor, right behind the male guard. Apparently the chick was shy. Finally he grew bored and set the batteries down on a toy shelf as he jogged by. Then he headed back for the mirror section in the household goods. He'd discovered around age thirteen that using a solid reflection allowed him to travel further distances than a simple opaque reflection, like a window. Jumping through this mirror, he should come out a good distance away, in the full length mirror he had set up in the back of his minivan out in the parking lot.

He leapt. But didn't enter any minivan.

He stumbled to a halt in utter blackness, gasping. A dim, pale light flickered on above his head. His vision spun, and remained clouded; somehow, he wasn't able to quite shake free the frost that covered his eyes whenever he jumped. He tried blinking rapidly, hoping that would help, and looked back the way he'd come. A spike of worry grabbed him.

The entire wall was a mirror: a black mirror, still dully reflective but not enough to see himself in. Tentatively, Frankie placed a hand against it. Cold. Colder than it should've been. Like it was draining the heat from his skin.

Frankie shivered and pulled back, then took a running start and jumped at the mirror. He smacked his head. He turned back to the room, which was all unreflective cloth except for the mirror. Then the door opened.

The Truth

I might or might not continue this as a mini-series. It comes from an adventure my aunt had at Walmart today: she reached a door at the same time as someone else on the other side, then tried opening it for them, but realized it was actually the reflection of a person behind her. That's where this comes from.

Would you like to see this continued as a short, three or four episode series? Let me know in the comments!

Have a good night!

Mt. Moriah: Where Faith and Fear Collide

I am not a father. Not yet, blessedly for the poor kid. But I have two incredible fathers -- one Heavenly and one earth-bound -- who have inspired me, shaped me, and given me the tools with which to handle life. Of my many remaining flaws, most should be attributed to me and not to manufacturer error!

Today, father's day of 2015, the pastor gave a sermon in church directed to fathers. Although I'm not one -- we've already established that -- I still found the message applicable. I thought I'd share some thoughts from it instead of a Daily Lie. Please remember that most of these ideas come from the Pastor who spoke today at Pleasant View Bible Church, not from me. He's a Professor from Grace College in Winona Lake, Indiana.

You're hiking up a mountainside. In a few months this will all be lush and green, with splashes of vibrant color decorating the landscape. For now, though, the rains haven't fallen yet. There's nothing but scrub brush and yellow grass, and a few stunted saplings giving tattered shade.

What do you talk about? What can you talk about, with a bundle of sticks on your back and a knife on your belt, and the implements for fire in your satchel? What do you tell your seven, a teenager jogging beside you, who has asked questions that you can't answer? Does he suspect? Does he know that every step you trudge carries the two of you closer to his own death?

You've been traveling for three days. Your journey is nearing it's end.

A Holy death. Hah, you could laugh at the idea. A sacrifice? You don't understand that. Why would your God, a supposedly-loving God who gave you this child, command you to kill him? Isaac is your only son. The only son you're ever likely to have. You were a hundred years old when Sarah had him, after all. And it's not just that he will continue your blood line, that he takes away your shame and fulfills your dream . . . it's that you love him. A deep, violent love, a love that would make you die for him, if that was what it took. You would kill any man who tried to hurt him. But what do you do when it's not a man? What do you do when it's someone you're supposed to love even more, and that person is God?

You're nearing the top of the mountain.

This is Mt. Moriah, a Holy place, so they say. But it doesn't feel Holy, does it? It feels tainted with the coming deed, the coming murder. This is the mountaintop where your Faith and your Fear collide. Where the Giver and the Gift seem to be in conflict.

This is the place of death and life. And now you're at the top.

He's a good boy, you think, as you bind his hand behind his back. Your rough with the cord. You have to be, to get it tight. But still, he could resist, because he's young and you're an old man. He could shove you to the ground and sprint away, and you could do nothing. You wish that he would.

This, however, is about more than his life. It's about obedience, prompted by the fulfillment of God's gift. God always fulfills, you see, in His appointed time and way. He gave you a son, and so you know you have to obey Him, even though you don't understand, even though obeying means losing that son.

In another way, a perverse way, this isn't only about obedience. It's about teaching Isaac, too. Killing him means you will lose him. But if you don't kill him, that will be teaching him to defy God's commands when it suits him, and the result will be far worse than simple loss. You will watch him become a godless man, a corruption of the dream you once had. And you suspect that that is why he does not flee you, now. Even as he clearly realizes what is coming, you see in his eyes that he will obey you and obey God, because he has watched your example of obedience. For better or worse, you have taught him to be meek as a lamb. And it is right. Oh, but it hurts.

If you're familiar with the story found in Genesis 21:1-7 and 22:1-19, then you know how it ends: God does not rip Isaac away from Abraham, but rather provides another sacrifice: a lamb caught in a thicket near the sacred altar. This is such a beautiful story. A heartache-journey of three days, a slow trudge up a mountain towards death, and two men who can stop at any time, but continue on bearing fire, wood, and blade. Finally, at the moment of greatest pain and commitment, they hear the voice of God himself. Then there is red blood on white fleece, and a wailed prayer of thanks as smoke boils up toward heaven.

Philosopher Soren Kierkegaard has said that "Life must be lived forwards, but can only be understood backwards." I'm not sure if that quote is exactly correct, but I think you understand. In retrospect, it is clear to us that God would never demand the true blood-sacrifice of Isaac. But it wouldn't have been clear beforehand. We know that Isaac grew up to be a faithful man, and I'm willing to bet that at moments when he questioned obedience, he remembered his father weeping as he stood against the backdrop of the lands surrounding Mt. Moriah.

How about you? Have you visited the place where Fear and Faith collide? Where the Giver and the Gift seem in conflict? Remember that obedience is not only right, but it is a legacy left for others. Remember that, as you walk up one side of the mountain, God's provision is coming up the other.

And remember Mt. Moriah.

Time Flies

The Lie

Time in the factory ain't reliable. What I mean by that is, five minutes on the clock can be an hour's weight in blood, sweat, and tears. Greenhorns is always complaining about this, which I never did understand. The factory has always been like that, for as long as I . . . I can . . . remember . . . .

What were I saying?

Anyway, there's this new Hoss we just hired, real green, first week on the job. I decided to show him a bit of the ropes, you foller me? After I taught him the proper way to unjam the stirrers, I ain't really too sure how he handled it, so I figured I should take it upon myself to educate the little greenhoss on the makin's of time. One afternoon, I went over to his table where he was busy foldin' and sortin' -- nothing I love more than the sound of a factory full of busy, hard-workin' employees all foldin' and sortin' -- and told him to foller me. His eyes got real huge like big ol' lug nuts. Maybe he thought it was gonna be something like what I showed him with unjammin' the stirrers. Weren't anythin' like that, though. This were regular stuff.

I took him down to the room where it all gets made, all the time. To get there, we had to go down through the three levels of the factory. I have the Masterkey, which I used to let us in through the airlocks. The first airlock hissed open, and we walked through hallways with green potted ferns on every shelf. Some greenhorns have asked what those is good for, but how else are we supposed to hide the chameleons?

We got to the elevator and took it down to the next floor, where I let us through the airlock again. This floor is where we have the scales that measure the blood, sweat and tears. All that comes from the employees, and it seeps down here through pipes, then they weigh it and decide how to pay those hardworkin' Hosses.

The last level is where it gets made. Time. I gave little Hoss a Zoot suit to protect himself, then put on one myself and opened the door. With a puff of gas the airlock hissed open, and there they were. The time flies. They was zippin' around, weaving little green strings behind them. We collect those strings and spin 'em up into balls of fabric and sell them in different increments. It's only one of the ways to make time for things, but it's a good 'un. People call it the string theory of time.

Like I say, we sell them balls in different increments. Say a company comes to us and wants to order a certain amount of time. They can order it in anything from hours to minutes to seconds. Of course, enough hours adds up to days which become weeks and months and years and so-on, but we don't sell it like that. Hours is as high as we go.

The little green Hoss pointed to the pipes juttin' from the ceiling of the fly room.

"What do those do?" he asked me.

"Why Hoss, that's where the waste comes down."

"Waste?"

"Sure. That's what we feed the flies on. Wasted time, wasted lives, wasted dreams." I nudged a pile of somethin' brown and splotchy with my foot. Looked like a deflated soccer ball that'd started to melt. "This right here was made by a parent who didn't go to her daughter's game. What a waste. But the flies love it."

Right as I said it, a whole swarm of the little critters buzzed over and started feastin.'

"So . . . what was all the soap for?" greenhorn asked. "The soap that the gnomes were stirrin'? I mean, stirring."

"Why Hoss, you don't expect people to make use of this time just as it is, do you? It comes outa flies and waste, boy! Naw, all this time has gotta be cleansed. Made new. Time redeemed, if ya speak like that."

Little greenhorn nodded, eyes still huge. What is it with these kids? Anyhow, I took him back up and sent him back to work.

An you know, it hadn't even been a minute since we'd gone down. I guess time don't always fly.

The Truth

This was a fun one to write. Work on Thursday seemed to drag exceptionally slowly, and so I wrote a bit of this in my head over the course of the ten-hour shift.

Factory Mother

The Lie

Mom and I walked through the big front doors of the factory. Well, I guess we didn't technically walk through them. That would be weird, like we were ghosts or something. But we walked inside. Together.

It was really warm in there, and there was this smell . . . a funny kind of smell. A bald man greeted us with a really big smile, which I guess is what happens when you're the daughter and wife of another foreman. I smiled back, although I felt shy, but Mom just nodded.

"Meredith and daughter," she said. "We had an agreement to work today."

The bald man's smile slipped a little, and his lips looked kind of stiff like when people are fake smiling for a picture. You know? But anyway, he guided us past tables to a big machine that kind of smelled like rubber, and showed us how to tug the lever, then press the button, then tug the lever, then press the button. That's how that machine worked, I guess.

He said it took two people - one to tug the lever and press the button and the other to count how many lever-tugs and button-presses the other one made. He gave Mom and notebook and a pencil for the recording. He brought both of us chairs.

"Comfortable, Misses?" he asked. "Alrighty, then. Now, just like I showed you."

I pulled the lever for the first time, and he gave me a smile before wandering away to swear at some workers. People really do swear a lot in factories. Mom put her phone on the chair arm and just sat there, slightly behind and beside me, making a scratch mark in her notebook every time I pulled the lever.

I guess we didn't really fit in. With the swearing, I mean, but also other stuff. Like we were both wearing gray company anniversary shorts and with black leggings, while all the other workers around us had on baggy jeans and uniforms with grease stains, stuff like that. One young man walked by, he kind of jutted out his neck to look at us -- it made me feel weird, for some reason -- and he had long blonde hair in braids, and blue-jeans that sagged down to here! You could see a wide patch of his underwear. It was gray. Mom gave me her look when she saw me noticing.

It didn't matter that we didn't fit in, though. Or that the boy with dreadlocks stared at us in such a funny way. I was there and Mom was there, and she'd come because of my idea. I couldn't believe it when she said yes. All she really thinks about now is money and how tight it is -- which I know I can't blame her for, she's just being responsible, but sometimes I really do with she would talk to me more or not be frowning when I try to tell her things. But that's one reason I had the idea and she agreed, because Daddy mentioned that one of his coworkers had his daughter do the same thing, that they pay you for coming in to help for a little bit. So when I suggested it, Mom really thought it was a good idea.

We worked there for, I don't know, maybe three hours. Then Mom said she was thirsty and it was hot in there and she needed a drink. So we stopped what we were doing -- I wonder if we were technically allowed to? -- and went to find the water fountain.

Well, it turned out there wasn't any water fountain, and when we finally got back, Mom was really frowning. It was that frown. And I felt a little bit bad, and after everything had been going so well! We hadn't actually been talking, but we'd been sitting together for three hours, which was really, really nice.

Then Mom gasped. She was staring at her seat -- especially at the arm of it. Her phone was gone.

"Thief!" she shrieked. It was really loud; everyone could hear. The Foreman froze where he was walking between the lines of machines and cranked his head around to look at us.

"There's a thief here!" Mom said. "Someone stole my phone! Check everyone."

"Now Mrs. Hursey," the bald man started to say, but Mom said "No, check everyone. I am not paying for a new phone."

My face grew warm, not just from the factory heat. He scratched his bald head and looked like he wanted to say something, but finally swore at the workers and called them all to stop what they were doing and stand in a line.

Mom marched up and down in front of them, demanding her phone. The foreman stood behind her, with a look on his face that wasn't sure whether to laugh or be irritated. I stayed back by the machine.

I kept my eyes low, trying not to watch, nudging around the cloths that'd fallen on the floor with the toe of my sneaker. Then I bumped something hard. From out of the pile, I pushed Mom's phone. It must've fallen.

"Mom . . . ." I said.

"Not now, Lisa." She whirled around to glare at me.

"Well . . . ." I said. Then I saw her face, all red and sweating. "It was nothing, anyway."

And I nudged Mom's phone back under the cloths.

The Truth

A mother and daughter did come in to work at the factory today, but none of what I just said happened. I tried for a slightly different style today. I've lately been interested in diverse viewpoints. As before, I haven't had time to edit.