This week, I encountered a quote, I can’t remember where, that asked, “What would you do today if you knew you couldn’t fail?” It was something I’d heard before, but I paused to consider it and was surprised at the first answer that popped into my mind: Finish writing The Soul Bearer short story. Because I liked the beginning, I’ve been afraid to continue it, worried it will be disappointing or boring or will actually demand multiple posts before it reaches its natural end.
Well, I’ve decided that all of those things are ok. It’s ok to share something unpolished, that I might not be perfect at. It’s healthy and lovely and beautiful to be unsure and try anyway, to be willing to show inexperience, to revel in the creating of something purely for the play of it. If this sounds like I’m trying to convince myself of these things, you’re not wrong. And I also believe them to be true. I share this because it’s important to me, but also because I want to share the permission - and the joy! - to try things we might not feel confident in yet, to risk being seen in our amateurish pursuits, to enjoy something creative or challenging just because.
How willing are you to share your imperfections? The things you’re working on but haven’t mastered? The activities you enjoy but may lack confidence or training in? Do you refuse to sing in the car, or try a new sport with a friend because you might be bad at it?
This week, I invite you to try something for the play of it - and share it! Show a friend, or your partner, or your mom. Take a photo of your messy artwork. Write or talk about the experience. Let me know what you think in the comments.
And if you are ready for a spooky story in December, listen or read on below for Part Two of The Soul-Bearer. (I’m anticipating that this will be a three or four-part story, the next sections of which I will pepper throughout posts in the coming months). Need a refresher on Part 1? Read or listen here.
The Soul-Bearer, Pt. 2
A moment of static. Then - “Bzzzzz!” The tinny sound bounced around the tile entryway, a bald reverberation. The door unlocked, and the man strode confidently to the elevator. Only now did he begin to remove a glove, almost debonair in the absentminded pinch of the fabric above his pointer, middle, and ring fingers, loosening the tight right glove and finally pulling it off to press the “up” arrow.
But for the vacant lobby, this simple act would surely have drawn a quick and strident attention, for the sight under the glove was alarming to the point of disbelief. It was as if the flesh had evaporated off the bone, leaving only a skeletal approximation of a hand. Perhaps the most unsettling aspect of this uncanny revelation was how waxy the bones looked. In fact, the only way to describe them is that they looked clean. Not the grubby hands of a doctor’s office or biology classroom skeleton, worn with age; nor the appendages of one who might have clawed his way from a premature grave. These were a pristine, pearly white, off of which the aged, yellow overhead lights reflected.
Whether lulled into security by the dimly-lit, abandoned lobby or simply comfortable in what seemed to be a familiar place, the gentleman appeared unconcerned that anyone might suddenly arrive and spot the unsettling hand he’d concealed all afternoon. He waited, head down, for the elevator, skeletal hand crossed over gloved one, which held the paper bag, bobbing forward and back onto the balls of his feet, blinking as a few stray raindrops freed themselves from his wispy hair and skied down the arc of his forehead. The elevator might have been the original one in the building; not that it was old in a charming way, but rather, it moved so slowly and with such obvious grinding, it was surprising that it still moved at all. After the gentleman entered, several long seconds passed before the doors gave an asthmatic “ding!” and ground their way open to floor 3.
Turning right, the gentleman strode purposefully down the patterned carpet, then paused in front of a door near the end of the hall, the number 317 in gold. He took a breath, and knocked softly, one waxy knuckle against the pale green paint of the wooden door.
The door opened quickly, and the gentleman immediately looked down to find a small brown-haired girl, no bigger than six, in a silky pink nightgown. “Mama!” she shrieked to the room behind her, and to the rest of the hallway, in a high-pitched voice that carried. Hair wild and only partially contained by her ponytail, the little girl swept loose strands out of her face with the heels of her palms. She cried again, “Mama! Mr. Caroll is here!”
“I know, baby,” said a wan voice, which sounded tired, but like it contained a smile. A young but rough brown hand appeared on the child’s shoulder, and the door was pulled further open to reveal the girl’s mother, same curly hair as the child, dressed simply in jeans and a red t-shirt, hunched slightly as if afraid to have a shape. Her eyes were kind.
“Go play, Vivianna,” she instructed, patting the girl’s shoulder.
“Can I show Mr. Caroll my tower I built?” Vivianna asked, looking up at her mother.
“In a minute. Let me talk to him first, ok? Why don’t you go set up your other blocks, too, so you can show all of them to Mr. Caroll when we’re done talking?”
This mollified the little girl, who took off excitedly, bare feet padding on the wooden floor. The woman waited until she heard blocks clattering from the next room. Then - “Thank you for coming, Mark. Again.” Her tone had changed, worried, apologetic, as she ushered him into the kitchen.
Removing and hanging his coat, the gentleman took a seat at the small kitchen table, opposite the woman. Placing the paper bag on the table, he slowly removed the other glove, loosening each fingertip as before, and stowing it in his jacket pocket.
The left hand was as shocking as the right, bones shining like pearls, and when he placed his hands on his knees, the sleeves of his suit jacket inched up slightly, revealing skeletal wrists. It was unclear how much of him was bone.
Unfazed, the woman watched him imploringly as he sat uncomfortably, shoulders near his ears. It was the first time he’d looked mildly troubled. “Lucy,” he said, and the woman leaned forward. “I had to request special approval to come today. By law, each global citizen is permitted three soul-replacements. Four requires extraordinary circumstances. There’s talk at the agency that Death is going to cut that number down to two due to budget restraints. Our social workers union is lobbying against that, but I’m not sure how much sway we’ll have. I think this will be the last one.”
He’d delivered all of this slowly, carefully, as if wanting to ensure she understood.
The woman withdrew slightly, hands folded on the kitchen table, bowing her head as she seemed to curl deeper into herself. Nodding, she looked up. “I understand.” She spoke quietly, evenly. “About soul-swapping, I - “
The gentleman shook his head, and she paused mid-sentence. “It’s a complicated and dangerous procedure, which I’ve explained before. It’s only allowed in the most extreme circumstances, and this would never be approved…I did ask,” he added gently.
Nodding again, and tightening her lips, the woman brushed a hand under her eye, which was reddening, and stood, suddenly matter-of-fact. “Are you ready to see him, then?”
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