Cassie knew she had been jilted from the red, raw skin that started on
the tops of her arms and shoulders, spreading to her face before the truth
sank in. She'd been in the sun for an hour, maybe longer; enough time for
her to burn was enough time for Morgan to get back from the Farmer's
Market. If Morgan had wanted to.
     As she walked home she considered the disposition of their shared
whirligig collection. Morgan had started it as a little girl and therefore
deserved at least half. On the other hand, since moving in Cassie had
reglued the majority of broken vanes, traced factory imprints on unusual
models, and sourced various foils for fellow enthusiasts.  Morgan had in
fact become somewhat sullen about it, starting to work on a new assemblage
of wooden tops that invert themselves when spun. A 50/50 split would be
equitable, but Cassie was prepared to argue for custody of the most
precious items.
     It struck her a few blocks later that Morgan might be content taking
up a new hobby entirely if it meant avoiding a confrontation. Morgan might
be utterly gone already. And then what?

     Morgan was home, in her underwear, smoking. She only stripped down to
her skivvies when her other clothes were boxed up or being laundered; she
only smoked when packing a bag for vacation. In a trance Cassie brushed
past her, set down the load of mail she'd been out getting from the P.O.
box, watered the tulips. Checked the storm windows. Gazed into the fridge.
All this with one eye on the persistent coil of smoke that reassuringly
kept drifting in from the living room.
     "The storm's not coming," Morgan finally said. "You don't have to do
that."
     "I know. The weather's fine."
     The living room now emitted the hiss of packing tape unspooling and
Morgan's voice saying, "I blended something up for you. It's got spinach
and beet root and pepper. The cup in the fridge is mine but there's a whole
pitcher on the counter."
     "But there's coal in my stocking, Santa."
     "Look, I'm trying to be as--"
     Morgan was interrupted by the sound of the back door slamming. The
porch door? No, no, the back door.
     She only had one box left to pack. She left out secondary texts of
Welsh and Breton to make room for a few 1948 Whirly Seths. The books were
replaceable, should she ever go back to finish grad school. At least, it
seemed possible.

     That October they unexpectedly saw each other in the financial
district. Morgan put one hand on a newspaper kiosk and sank down to her
knees, eyes upturned.
     "I see," thought Cassie; "a choice." She said nothing, looking down
sadly.

by Aaron for Beckie * eVille, Friday, 2002

I was still deciding about the ending as I wrote it. The other two possibilities were (1) leaving off the last sentence, or (2) adding

     "I see," thought Morgan; "a choice."

Beckie worked at the juice bar next door to my camp and had thus been a source of fresh produce-related cheer in our lives ever since we set up. The story she requested came fluently and quickly; in fact, it was the fastest one I did all week, in addition to being the longest and maybe best. Not the kind of thing that encourages a good work ethic! One of these days it would be nice to go through a painful and difficult writing process which nevertheless had elegant, refreshing results.

I could have written less about the whirligigs at first; I didn't know where things were headed yet. My attempted light touch came and went throughout the story -- I think, for example, the P.O. box should have been mentioned somewhat differently, though I don't know how; it attracts too much attention this way. It seemed important to specify that Cassie was indeed out doing something other than waiting for Morgan to buy vegetables. The bit about Morgan smoking half-naked also needs refinement, as in its current form I think it might be mistaken for some cute minor detail as opposed to the banal proof that Morgan is leaving.

The second large chunk also has a perspective shift in the middle of the dialogue, going from perching on Cassie's shoulder to Morgan's. This is fine, rhythmically (in fact, I think it gives a lot more weight to Cassie's gesture if after she stomps out we see Morgan alone rather than following Cassie outside to be lonely there), but formally I botched it. Maybe just a full blank line after the dialogue, with "Morgan was interrupted" changed to something more active, more instantly placed within Morgan's frame of reference.

- everything is by Aaron Mandel; please ask first if you're about to steal something -

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