chapter 3

if you're new to this blog, check out chapters 1-2 down below.

3>>

The juniors department throbbed with hushed club music as I followed Lydia and Corine through the racks, trying to restrain my glow.

In the display mirrors, my hair looked tousled instead of unkempt. My dark eyes said ingénue instead of fragile.

Someone flirted with me who wasn’t old, ugly, drunk or fishing for a good grade. He danced flamenco and wore cuff-links and looked great in a suit. True, he was a commissioned flirt but when was the last time a man made me feel that good besides Frank, my massage therapist? An ego massage. That was it. Where could you even book one of those? And leave with great shoes as a souvenir?

In the swarming food court, surrounded by the rival aromas of pizza, Chinese food and hot dogs, I savored my bourbon chicken, oblivious to the crush of shoppers and squawking voices, while Lydia and Corine reviewed their purchases.

Lydia caressed a burgundy leather satchel and held up a plum Calvin Klein tankini. Corine lined up her Lancome splurges and hauled out four colorful spring tops.

How much longer could we shop in the juniors department, I wondered, as Corine and Lydia cooed over the transparent, ruffled and shrunken blouses.

In addition to the sandals, I netted magenta and sky blue DKNY t-shirts with matching underwear, and two new bras, none of which I displayed.

“Buying panties is like a sexual invitation to the universe,” explained Corine, taking hold of her chili cheese dog. “My grandmother always told me to buy new panties to bring a new man in my life. It’s like, body feng shui.”

Oh, brother. Corine’s grandmother Nora reigned over the Willowbrook Ballroom and dated men twenty years younger. She was, Corine liked to say, “a role model for us all.”

“Is that why you have so much lingerie?” responded Lydia, loud enough for the quartet of affluent older ladies behind us to hear. She slurped at her blueberry smoothie. “I thought you just didn’t like to wash it.”

“That’s your video,” Corine laughed. “Eva, don’t you want to see our shoes?”

“Yeah, let’s see them.”

“You mean, ‘Bring it?’”

Through my friends and students I kept current with twenty-first century slang. Even so, I often imagined a crop of future linguists puzzling over our innocuous, attitude-laden phrases.

Would the pharaoh Seti stand before an army of marauding Nubians, and declare “Bring it”? Would Cleopatra respond to a servant's offer of mushy grapes with, “Like...no-o...”

I pretended to admire the pale blue mules and the vertigo-inducing espadrilles even as I swore never to buy such temporary, indulgent styles.

Then it occurred to me that Lydia and Corine had wardrobes, style, and radiated youth, while I stuck to the classics, shopped resale and refused to update. When I wore the latest styles I looked like I was trying too hard.

“Hey, show us what the shoe guy sold you,” Lydia said, waving around a fry, which Corine snatched and gobbled.

“You mean Larry?”

“Larry?” they asked in unison.

“Yeah, Larry.”

“Oh.” Lydia shrugged. “He doesn’t look like a Larry.”

“I know,” I agreed. “But that’s his name.” I unveiled the sandals and made the black heels perform kicks on the edge of the table. “Ta-da…!”

“Look out Mami,” Lydia said.

“Classy.”

It was rare chance to exhibit my wild side. “And we’re going dancing next Thursday night.”

“I am so glad,” said Corine, “you bought that underwear. See? It works!”

“I’m just kidding,” I said. “I told him I go to the Vu on Thursdays and he said he’d stop by with friends. I think he was just being polite.”

“He’s cute and he looks like fun,” Lydia said.

“He is fun. The whole time we were talking about shoes and history and flamenco.”

“Ah, for a summer fling…” Lydia sang. “Maybe he’ll give you something to write about. How’s that story coming?”

For the last two years I’d been working on segments of a science fiction romance. Visualizing some scenes--the arrival of the blond prince with his entourage or the wedding night, felt visceral, but the rest of the plotless saga left me blanker than a black hole.

“Oh. I don’t work on that anymore.”

“Why not? It was great erotica.”

“Sci-fi porn,” Corine added clinically, reaching for her drink.

“I can’t understand why her guardian makes her marry the blond prince when he’s obviously in love with her,” I said. “But I don’t think she stays married to the prince.”

“What’s her name again?” Corine asked. “Sulaming? Sulamot?”

“Sulametaniel.”

“How about her guardian? Is he still ‘The Dark Haired Man’?”

I closed my eyes and shrugged. “Yeah.”

“You can’t name him,” Lydia said smoothly, “but he’s the smartest, most handsome man on the planet, and speaks seven languages?”

“Seventeen,” Corine clarified. “And is skilled in the arts of massage.” She rolled her eyes. “How did you invent the part where she has to consummate her marriage in front of the wedding guests?”

“I didn’t invent that. That’s an ancient Semitic marriage rite.”

“Semitic means Jewish, right?” Corine asked, over a sobbing toddler and ringing cell phone.
“Semitic denotes the descendants of Noah’s eldest son, Shem. That applies to Jews, Assyrians, Arabs, and Phoenicians.”

“Okay, professor…” Lydia said, balling up her napkin and throwing it on her tray.

“Dang it,” said Corine, dabbing at her denim jacket. “I got chili on me.”

“You guys ready?” asked Lydia. “I saw an Ann Taylor store on the third floor.”

As I bussed my tray and followed through a maze of tables, my mind continued lecturing. It always intrigued me that Noah’s eldest son Shem was a shortened version of Shemyaza, the leader of the mysterious tribe who introduced the daughters of men to all manner of questionable arts. And then married them.

2>>

A river of cars flowed north and south down Michigan Avenue’s valley of glass, metal and stone precision, glinting under the sun.

The warmth on my face was a velvet caress, and just what my pale skin needed after months of hibernation.

Trailing behind Corine and Lydia, I admired the Assyrian reliefs carved into the high granite exterior of the Hotel Intercontinental—a procession of bulls flanked by round elaborate shields.
Lydia, wearing a short red jacket and cat’s eye sunglasses said, “Eva doesn’t like shoe shopping.”

“Really.” Corine fixed a withering gaze on me as we followed shoppers gravitating toward three revolving doors. “Are you female?”

Lydia smiled her sunny South American grin and hooked her arm around mine. “Eva feels the same way about shoes as she does about men.”

I applied a stoic expression. “The attractive ones aren’t comfortable and the comfortable ones aren’t attractive.”

“Get in there,” Corine said, pushing me into a wedge of revolving glass door.
The trio of revolving doors to Northbridge opened onto a three story white marble foyer.

Overhead, a metallic sphere sculpture trailed lengths of silver strips resembling film from a giant camera.

I inhaled the starchy aroma of the new and joined the procession down a soaring two-story corridor lined with glass-fronted, upscale boutiques.

My brown loafers skated over white marble floors to stores where bass beats throbbed and price tags insisted everything was size four and over seventy dollars. I never felt so chubby and cheap.

Lydia and Corine paid homage at The Body Shoppe, Armani Exchange, and Sephora, but these were just card-swiping practice. At the end of the marble corridor, a sleek coffee bar enticed shoppers to rev their engines before the advanced retail therapy began.

From the cafe, we glimpsed an acre of glamorous footwear posing on wood tables, metal displays, and glass shelving.

“Come on,” Lydia said, grabbing up her double skim latte and sashaying toward the shoe floor.

“Ooh,” Corine said, momentarily torn between the shoes and the makeup department across the aisle. I took her arm and guided her toward Lydia’s low-slung jeans.

Dark, terraced tables held Franco Sarto mules and strappy sandals in black, mocha and crimson. Cascading glass shelves supported stilettos.

Young mothers with babies in strollers sat on low sage sofas slipping on ballet flats. Damsels in short skirts and sly blouses fingered Spanish leather espadrilles. Matrons with blond streaks and designer handbags requested Ferragamos in multiple shades while suited men and chic women delivered boxes.

While my friends salivated over the merchandise, I spied on women sporting colorful spring jackets and professional manicures. I forced myself to look away from one woman’s unique jewelry, chic haircut and impeccable makeup, noticing that even the less adorned wore the attitude of youth or affluence.

Was I just as fabulous as they were and couldn’t see it? I caught a glance at my resigned stare in a display mirror. My windblown hair was dark at the roots. Turning away, I wished I had worn lipstick, or at least tinted gloss.
Shoes were the antithesis of archeology. They had no history, could be found anywhere, and taught nothing.

I longed to abandon myself to the rituals of foot fashion, but my wardrobe was unworthy.
All I really needed were loafers, boots and sandals in black and brown, I resolved, following reluctantly.

“Wow, these heels are high,” Lydia admitted, picking up a black buckle Via Spiga stiletto.

“So is my Visa,” Corine said, studying the underside of the shoe.

“Now here’s a sensible shoe,” I said, picking up a black leather loafer with a spongy sole. “Donald J. Pliner.” I turned it over and choked on the hundred-and-ninety-five dollar price tag.

“Why don’t you go over there,” Lydia said, waving toward the other side of the shoe floor.

“Where the less expensive shoes are.”

“Okay, but don’t stay all day,” I said. “I’m just going to look.” Lydia snatched up pastel leather mules while Corine scanned the floor rabidly for a salesperson.

Ambling around a circular display, I avoided other shoppers until I came across two attractive young women gazing at a pair of camel-colored wedges with a wrap-around ankle strap. “Those are adorable,” said the brunette. “I have them in red,” her blond companion said. “They’re actually comfortable.”

As they walked away, I realized I had to have them. Sandals were not shoes. The Egyptians, Romans, Assyrians, and Hebrews wore them. They had historic significance.
I picked up the caramel-colored wedge and thumbed the padded sole.

“Can I help you?” asked a cheery male voice.

I looked up to see a short, attractive man in a navy, double-breasted pinstripe suit with dark wavy hair.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like to try these.”

“Everyone loves those,” he said, “What size do you need?”
Between the tailored Italian suit and matching face, I didn’t know where to look.

“Uh, nine-and-half,” I confessed. “Wide.”

“That’s a pretty common size,” he said in a voice brimming with theatrical cadence, “but I think I have one pair left. I’m Larry,” he said with a relaxed smile, handing me a pair of nylon footies.

Three tiny cigars held back his French cuff above the wide, veined, hand of a body-builder. “Have a seat.”

As he disappeared into the shoe hive, I settled down on an empty sofa and slipped off my comfy brown loafers. I took off my sock and cringed in mortification.

I hadn’t shaved my legs for at least a week. My unpolished toenails and pale cactus calves poking out of navy chinos announced to everyone that I had picked the worst moment to go glam. So much for first impressions.

After several naked, shrinking minutes, Larry emerged from the hive with two stacked boxes, which he placed on the sofa.

“Thanks,” I said quickly. “You can leave now.”

“Why?” he asked, with combative curiosity. “You have foot fungus or something? Broken toes?”

“No,” I said defensively, avoiding his eyes. “I haven’t shaved my legs in a week.”

“Oh that’s nothing,” he said, bending down to open a Kenneth Cole box. “I have five sisters. You guys can’t scare me.”

“Five sisters?”

“Yeah: Sheri, Sandy, Samantha, Sabrina and Eva.”

“My name is Eva!” I crowed.

“Really? Eva is a great name,” he said, extracting the sandal from tissue paper and plastic filler. “It’s an old family name.”

As his manicured hands worked, I observed how the line of his jaw, the tilt of his cheekbone, the arch of his nostril and the slant of his earlobe all came together in diagonal parallels, to a confounding symmetry. But at quick glance it was mainly an aquiline face, Italian or Spanish, framed in dark, soap opera star waves.

He handed me the sandal and I slipped into the cool, new leather.
“You’ll have to buckle it a little tight,” he said, never looking at my stubble. “So your foot doesn’t slip.”

Fumbling, I strapped my foot in.

“Put them both on,” he said. “And take a stroll on the hard floor.”

I sauntered away, feeling sexier by the second; then turned and walked back.

“I’ll take them,” I said proudly.

“Great,” Larry said. “I brought you something else for fun.” He popped open a box of black leather mules with a dominating silver buckle across the top.

“Oh, I’d never wear something like that,” I told him.

“Why not? They’re sexy.”

“They’d never stay on my feet,” I replied, but inside, I was beaming. “What I really need are shoes for dancing.”

“Talk to me,” he said darkly, lowering his chin.

“Low black heels, a comfy sole and a secure-fitting strap.”

“I’ll see what I’ve got,” he said and hustled back to the hive.

I stood up and spotted Lydia and Corine across the floor, surrounded by a sales person and a dozen shoe boxes. I sat down, gloating, because I had the best-looking shoe guy.

On his return, Larry broke open a gray Franco Sarto box. “Now don’t be afraid of the ankle strap,” he said, which was thicker than most.

“I love them,” I said, admiring the retro criss-cross over the toes. Larry handed me the shoe and I put them on eagerly.

“Go take another walk.”

As I took another strut on the aisle turned catwalk, other shoppers admired my stylish heeled sandals. Nobody was looking at my stubble.

“I had a tango dancer buy a pair of these last week,” Larry said. “She bought another pair yesterday.”

“I can see why,” I said, twisting my ankle. The shoes hugged without strangling. “Can I afford them?”

“Seventy-nine, ninety-five.”

“It’s a wrap,” I said, surprised to be having fun.

“Good. Hey, what kind of dancing do you do?”

I sat down. “It’s kind of a rhumba, merengue, flamenco…” I flubbed, removing one graceful stiletto. Was there even a name for the belly-dancing grind I called dancing?

“Flamenco. Now there’s a dance,” Larry said smoothly.

“You like flamenco?”

“I studied for a couple of months in Toledo.” The way he said Tol-ay-do, did not mean Ohio.

“You studied in Spain? I’d love to see you dance sometime.” Although he was roughly my height, he had broad shoulders and a dancer’s posture. “I go to this place called Déjà Vu.”

“The Vu,” he said with a reminiscing smile. “I used to go for the turtle races on Wednesdays.”

“I go on Thursdays for the Bandoleros. They sound just like the Gipsy Kings,” I said, studying the impeccable waves of his dark hair.

“Ah, those guys. You know, they’re not even Spanish. They’re Assyrian.”

“I know. I love their Arabic music.”

“The Assyrian race is one of the oldest on the planet.”

“I know,” I replied, relinquishing the other shoe to his muscular hands. “I teach Mesopotamian history at the U of C.”

“Really,” Larry said, as if I had just confessed to wearing lace panties. He squared his shoulders and inhaled sharply. “So you know how Sargon with his sons Ashur and Arman used to sweep down into Egypt to pillage and plunder.”

I bristled at the thought of anyone violating Egypt, but my head swirled with annoyed fascination. “Not many people know the names of Sargon’s sons,” I said, reigning in unbridled curiosity.

“Not all twenty-seven of them,” he added casually, nestling the shoes inside their box.

“Twenty-three,” I corrected.

“Whatever,” he shrugged in polite superiority. “Or that there was a city named Ashur,” he said in a near whisper. “On the Tigris; in the north.”

“Sargon’s chief deity was Ashur,” I added, enjoying myself more each second. “I’ve always wondered whether Sargon named the city after his son or his god.”

“Or if the city and the god existed long before Sargon,” he replied with an authoritative wink as he placed the lid on the box.

“You know your history,” I granted.

“I read books,” Larry shrugged, looking down at my brown loafers. “Hey, those are great shoes. Munros.”

“Yeah.”

“Very comfortable. And they don’t make that style anymore, so take care of them.”

I nodded, thirsty for more historical small-talk

“Let’s get you checked out,” he said, collecting my boxes and heading toward an empty register.

“Do you ever go to the Vu on Thursdays?” I asked, following.

“Sure, I’ve been there.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you.”

At the register, Larry keyed in my purchases, giving my eyes ample time to trace the lines of his fit physique.

“The Assyrians used to sweep down into Egypt to steal silks, gold and grain, and bring them back to their women,” he said, as the register spit out my receipt. His voice dropped to a lower octave and his dark eyes lost focus. “Three-thousand B.C.,” he said slowly. “The world rode on the point of a spear. Armies weren’t anything like you’d think of today, or even a hundred years ago. Back then; an army was like a Mongol horde.”

The world rode on the point of a spear.

Larry placed my receipt on the counter with a pen. I scrawled my signature and he swept it up.
In seconds this shoe salesman had transported me to the sands of the Sinai Peninsula. Why couldn’t I paint those ancient vistas for my students?

Suddenly it occurred to me I was draped over the sales counter, my ears as drunk as my eyes on the elegant planes of his chiseled face. I stood up straight.

“Ah, this is probably boring to a history professor,” he said, hovering over my receipt, scrawling something. Could it be his phone number?

“No,” I sputtered. “Not at all.”

He stretched large rubber bands around each shoe box and bagged them in a large gray tote.

“I’m at the Vu every Thursday,” I reminded him, taking my bag from the counter.

“I might drop by with friends sometime,” he said, handing me the receipt on which he had written, ‘Thank you, Larry.'

“Alright, maybe I’ll see you,” I said, matching his cryptic tone. Now leave, I commanded myself, turning away and throwing a wave over my shoulder.

No sooner did a triumphant smile cross my face than I spotted Corine and Lydia watching proudly from the main aisle, with matching bags.

“Find something you like?” Lydia asked, showing off her man-eating incisors.

“I love shoe shopping,” I said, suppressing a schoolgirl giggle.

“My shoe person,” Corine observed, ogling Larry, “looked nothing like that.”

Chapter one

This is the first chapter of the paranormal romance I'm working on, about a Sumerian history professor who gets more a history lesson than she bargains for.

1>>

Below plumes of dissipating smoke, steady hands hoisted pints, affected laughter rang out and layered clothing concealed a stratum of conflicting body language.

The wail of Springsteen’s Born to Run pealed from the digital jukebox of Jimmy's Tap, enough of a dive to draw students but not enough to scare the faculty on this rainy first Friday in May.

Lydia was too proud to turn around, but Corine and I were watching a guy in a green and gray rugby shirt eye his companion like bait as she worked to restrain her demure giggles. She didn’t look old enough to be served, but her date, grinning like a shark, wasn’t concerned.

Her flat-ironed platinum bob illuminated the dark bar like a lampshade above her tight pink tee.
“Too many women in this city,” Corine grumbled to her Heineken.

“Too many young women,” I said, entranced by the lapping tongue of flame bobbing in the red jug on the pocked wooden table.

Swirling gimlet in hand, Lydia scanned the dark paneled walls and neon bar signs. “The competition is stiff, man,” she said, her Columbian accent barely detectable. A white lace collar peeked over her blue military-style jacket, garnering best-dressed honors.

“Just the competition?” Corine asked in a low voice, looking every bit of fourteen with liquid brown eyes and long auburn hair cascading over her black turtleneck.

“Naughty girl,” Lydia said with a smile and turned a face that was equal parts Kahlo and Hayek toward the entrance.

Two male grad students sauntered in with the sound of rain and cars splashing through puddles along 55th Street.

The awkward waltz of pub choreography snagged and released our wavering attention with each round as the classic rock soundtrack churned.

“I can’t believe how long we’ve been coming here,” Corine said, raking blunt fingertips through her hair. “I can’t believe I’m getting divorced.”

Corine did tech support for the university. We met four years ago when the Institute’s files were converted to database.

“Honey, this is no-thing,” Lydia said, having been through it three years ago. Her ex-husband Ken had custody of their six-year-old son, which left plenty of time to resume her pagan ways.

“You have a great ex to watch your kids while you go out and celebrate your freedom. You are just starting out...”

Lydia and I had been complementary friends since sophomore year. A chemistry major, she aced my lab and physics assignments while I wrote her history and lit papers. Furthermore, her fashion advice and sexcapades spiced up my years of buttoned-up monogamy.

A wedge of light sliced over our table briefly us as a toilet whooshed and the heavy bathroom door opened and closed, illuminating our neighbors.

Their young eyes sparkled with shining relief, as if surprised their owners remembered how to laugh after three midterms and multiple papers.

Rivulets of water flowed in hypnotizing succession down the darkened front window as competing voices clamored.

At the bar, baritone voices debated the wisdom of invading Iraq; then switched to the history of beer when the discussion became too tense.

I recognized the backs and voices of these poli-sci profs. For all their expertise, few knew exactly what was going on in modern Mesopotamia.

Their uninformed exchanges reminded me that the first stories were told around campfires with fermented beverages.

Maybe if our ancestors hadn’t been intoxicated we would know more of our earliest history.

Then again, perhaps that was how myths got started in the first place.

My eyes eyes skipped over the quivering beacons of candle jugs on tables, recalling the primal urge to gather around fire at day's end.

“Eva,” Lydia said, inclining her short-cropped head my way. “You want to be part of this?”

“Oh; sorry.” I straightened in the brace of hard wood chair and swizzle-stirred my Jack and Coke. “At least you have an ex-husband, kids, a condo,” I said, imitating my icy beverage.

“Yeah,” Lydia quipped, smirking at Corine. “You could be living at home like Eva, never married, no children, teaching a history no one cares about.”

“It’s true,” I insisted, following the curl of smoke off Lydia’s cigarette in the black plastic ashtray.

“No one cares about Mesopotamian history, even if it is the cradle of civilization.” I regarded my semi-buzzed friends soberly. “I should have gone into bio-chem.”

Silver rings glistened on Lydia’s hand as she picked up the cigarette and drew a graceful drag.

“Why?” Corine asked, scanning the two guys as they collected their drinks at the bar and disappeared into the back room. “When the rest of us had crushes on Tom Cruise and BonJovi, you were probably mooning over King Tut and Alexander the Great.”

Lydia tipped back her head and grinned, releasing a lungful of smoke.

I nodded guiltily, recalling my crush on one particular fourteenth century B.C. pharaoh. He had broken with polytheism to create a monotheistic society that honored poetry and the arts.

“Even Akhenaten doesn’t get to me like he used to,” I admitted, looking down at my prim lavender twin set.

“I wonder why,” Lydia stated.

“You can always hook up with a living, breathing man,” Corine suggested.

“Had one. Twelve years.”

“You broke up with Kurt seven months ago,” Corine said, absently tucking a strand of hair behind an ear that held a gold hoop. “And you were dating since the Bronze Age.”

Lydia tossed a smile to a guy in a teal polo shirt at the bar. “Early Bronze Age…”

“Face it honey,” Corine said. “You’re only interested in dead guys.”

Lydia snorted with amusement and nearly dropped her cigarette. A passel of undergrads erupted in laughter near the front of the room as if they had overheard us.

“You’re a complete bitch,” I mumbled, over the clink of bottles as the same crowd toasted the end of another week.

“Some parts are missing,” Corine said, over the raucous revelers.

“A brain, a conscience, a heart,” Lydia ticked off on her free hand.

Corine shrugged and drained her beer. “Speaking of things dead, miz sweater set, we're taking you shopping tomorrow.”

“Salvation Army?” I asked hopefully.

“Nordstrom,” Lydia countered, sharpening her pixie-vixen face at me.

“I can’t shop there,” I said, fear bulging my brown eyes. “Everyone has better clothes and shoes than me.”

“That’s because you approach shopping like an archeological dig,” Corine said to the ceiling.
“Shopping means buying new things, okay?”

I drew a contemplative breath and regretted it. The whole place smelled like an ashtray full of beer.

“Okay,” I granted, hands raised in surrender.

Sipping each other's air in this dank room, bumping up against each other's worlds lent the illusion of togetherness, fueled by the elixors of the gods. But at least Lyd and Cor cared enough to revolt against my lack of style.

My jean cuffs still damp, I stood and caught my stern reflection in the framed Smirnoff mirror.

No wonder people thought I was angry when I wasn’t smiling. My short blond hair did nothing to hide large eyes that revealed the smallest annoyance.

“You’re leaving?” Corine asked, looking aghast at the rain sheeting down the window.

“Why not?” I said, careful not to club anyone as I shrugged into my black trench. “The rain couldn’t beat me up any worse than you two.” I bent to grab my umbrella, swerving to avoid a patron backing his chair.

“Or be any colder,” Lydia added archly. “See you tomorrow at eleven, Sweetie.”

“Eh.” I held up a fist and side-stepped my self-conscious exit.

Through the rain-splattered window I spied my new gray Accord under a streetlight. It was a necessary indulgence on the South Side of Chicago. Slipping past Ms. Jailbait and Sharky, I turned up my coat collar and felt the cold comfort of keys in my pocket.


Under the down comforter, I listened to the rain shred against roof and pavement with raw ache in my stomach.

A flash of lightning illuminated my pale blue walls.
A bellow of thunder rumbled through the house.

Sometimes a few drinks made it even harder to fall asleep alone in the creaky old Victorian.

During the day I savored the vast, vintage solitude that was mine until Dad returned from Germany. At night, I double-checked doors and windows and strained my ears for unfamiliar noises. Every creak and pop of century-old wood sent my stomach spasming.

Like the fire and the intoxicants, fear was inextricably linked with the night.

Gradually the rain retreated, and I succumbed to the anxious drama of dream life: missed classes, unwritten final reports and forgotten locker combinations.

The name game

When I decided to start a blog I couldn't believe that someone already had 'escapeschool' picked.

Who stole my site name, I wondered. Turns out, it was this high school student from the Pacific northwest whose blog is meant to be an escape from school.

Now, I never did escape much from school. I was a bookworm, mostly an A student and probably not very interesting to my peers. But then, they weren't very interesting to me either, whether they were popular or not.

I knew that one day I would escape, not just from school, but from the whole rat race itself into a world of fiction and art and magic. And that is just what is happening.

Escape school comes from a dream I had over ten years ago.
I was in a steel-lined room and there were five olive-skinned humanoids with guns to our heads. There were four of us, students, humans, on my 'team'.

They weren't entirely unattractive, these black haired men with oddly-tinged skin, but they weren't appealing either. I think they wore gray flight suits of some sort, all of them. And I remember the room had a corner booth that was metal and they used it to corral the four of us.

Now this was the game: when one of us didn't have a gun to our heads, we had to run. In this room, or corner of a metal room (imagine something like SG-1 headquarters) there were escape hatches and doors. We had no knowledge where they lead or if these aliens would shoot us. But we had to try and escape. This was some sort of practice for future missions.

They never shot us, but they did bring us back over and over again and we had to keep trying to escape.

So this blog is not meant as an escape from school. It is a forum to explore the means of escape from the drudgery and captivity of daily modern life.

I escape by reading, day-dreaming, writing, doing yoga, running and making jewelry. How do you escape?