She was a seal transforming into a human, all caught, all frozen in time. Legs and feet adorned with splendid sparkling shoes emerging from a gray tail. Fins transforming into arms and hands, rubbery gray skin becoming patches of fine fabric, revealing a gorgeous woman . . .
Daisy stared at her face in the full-length mirror.
What am I doing? She wanted to wrestle out of the costume, but . . . She could do something with that face. There was that makeup.
Two roads had opened up for Daisy that day. Road One: stay home like always. Road Two: dress up and go to the lantern festival. Daisy was stuck on the roads’ fork.
Like a delicious morsel, said Jules.
Hardly, said Daisy. Morsel, yes. Delicious? Hmmm.
Daisy thought of poor Helen, her lovely next-door neighbor. Poor beautiful Helen stuck home with bronchitis. The costume, the makeup was for her. Helen planned to go as a selkie—a Scottish mythical creature: a woman once a seal. It was a good costume. Daisy worked on it for six weeks here and there when she could find the time. It was a favor. Helen fed Raul, Daisy’s cat, on days when she worked long hours at the studio.
Why let a good costume go to waste? Would it suit Daisy? Yes, actually, a little on the snug side, but manageable. But . . . would Daisy suit it? That was the question.
I never wear my own costumes! I’m not an actress!
Go! Said Jules.
My face.
Your face is fine.
My face is not fine! It’s plain. Plainer than the Prairies.
You’ve never been to the Prairies.
I flew over them, which counts.
Daisy and Helen had discussed the face. Helen’s, of course. Helen is pretty. Delicate. Daisy suggested seal makeup on the neck up to the jaw line with light makeup on the face. A gorgeous woman emerging from a seal. But Helen wanted more. Larger eyes, sharper cheeks, luscious lips.
Daisy looked at her own broad face, heavy eye brows and Mr. Potato nose.
She never transformed her face before, not with makeup. With masks, yes. She had a few stored away, but they wouldn’t work, not for this.
Daisy was leaning towards Road One.
You could transform your face, said Jules.
How?
Sharpen the nose, give shape to the cheeks, brighten the eyes. Block out the brows. Or finally pluck them.
Ouch!
You could.
I suppose . . .
Daisy glanced at Road Two. It was wooded and dark and mysterious and enticing and weird and could be wonderful but but but but—
Raul jumped on the chair near the mirror.
What say you, Raul?
Raul regarded her with handsome Burmese charm.
Raul, what say you?
Finally, after some thought, apparently, Raul meowed expressively.
Daisy removed the costume, fed Raul, grabbed the makeup, and took a long look at her face.
Imagine you’re applying it on someone other than yourself, suggested Jules.
Good advice. Daisy loved her conversations with Jules. She got lost in them. And they inspired so many great ideas for work! Jules had such a terrific imagination and asked wonderful questions that challenged her sometimes, and Daisy would just talk. Just talk and talk and talk and talk. Could she ever find someone to do that with?
Daisy applied a heavy base to wipe out what was there. She thought of the moon, waxing or waning. I’m definitely waning, thought Daisy.
She stared at the beige canvas before her. Emotion rose in her throat.
Professional touch, advised Jules.
Professional. Professional, okay.
And with a professional touch she completely reworked herself into a Scottish princess, à la sort of somewhat what Helen wanted. She scrutinized her work.
Waxing into garish, methinks. Jules? Cat got your tongue? Raul jumped up and tried to bat her lantern.
“No you don’t, mister.” She scratched his head until his body sank into the couch. Vanquished. She hung her lantern higher than his leaping reach.
Daisy created the lantern—a fully fun thing to do! She manipulated wires in the shape of a waxing moon and shrouded it with light crinkly diaphanous paper; she glued a copper base to the paper with a LED light. The moon was to light the selkie’s way through a mysterious land. Helen loved this! Poor Helen.
When Daisy was ready to go, she kissed Raul’s head, picked up the lantern and took one last look at herself. Emotion rose in her throat again, this time with a hint of marvel.
I did a good job.
You’re beautiful, said Jules.
Oh!
Daisy could have floated out the door, but her costume was a weighted space suit. She stepped outside, like stepping on the moon. One small step for Daisy . . .
She clocked the sky. Thick cloud further darkened the summer evening. It wouldn’t be Vancouver without the threat of rain now, would it? She bowed respectively at Helen’s house—get well, kind neighbor—then thrust the lantern moon in front of her. “Lead the way!” And so it did, like a water dowse, which was an appropriate metaphor, she thought, given that she was heading to nearby Trout Lake.
On Commercial Drive she joined revelers with lanterns who were making their way to the park. Some were dressed up but not many. Most lanterns were old soup cans poked with holes.
People stopped and marveled at her. Daisy forced herself not to giggle. She stopped for photos. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs: “THIS IS SO WEIRD!” She also wanted to add: “YOU STUPID PEOPLE!” She ducked into a side street and laughed.
Collecting herself, she resumed her journey on the Drive. There was drumming. Where? Maybe by the south beach. The moon guided her down a residential street and into the park. Three ghoulish creatures on stilts stopped her.
“Arrrhhhhh,” growled the female ghoul, waving a long stick that rattled. She had long frizzy hair that dangled about her long droopy nose and furious mouth. Her black outfit was in tatters. Her male companions slapped clackers against themselves. The female was the most vocal of the lot. She growled repeatedly. The three of them against the backdrop of an angry sky. A crowd quickly gathered.
“Arrrhhhhh. Arrrhhhh,” cried the ghoul, shaking her stick. “Arrhhhhh.” The crowd was silent. The ghoul stepped closer to her audience and stared intently at them, picking them out individually with her eyes. “Arrrhhhh!! Arrhhhh! This is all you’re gonna get! Arrrhhhh!” Some in the audience laughed and moved on. Others seemed perplexed and lingered, waiting for something to happen. Daisy was perplexed, too, but the drumming was hypnotic. She joined the crowd. The rhythm was pulling everyone together.
In the distance she saw a large circle gathering from where the drumming pulsated. The rhythm was a strong current, moving her torso and limbs this way and that, sweeping her along. The drumming picked up when Daisy reached the circle. People jumped up and down where the drummers were—as if on pogo sticks. She wanted to join them, to dance, but the crowd around them was as still as a wall. And impenetrable too. People seemed knitted together. So how was she to join the dancing? She saw two young women moving to the rhythm. Daisy started to dance where she was. Everyone would join them shortly anyway, she hoped. People continued to stretch their necks to see the drummers, as if hearing wasn’t enough. Daisy wondered why they wouldn’t move to the beat. Pickles up their arses, she thought. She closed her eyes and let the beat sway her side to side, up and down. The lantern swung awkwardly so she incorporated it in her movement to sail this way and that, a graceful extension of her. The rhythm picked up, a call to action to every muscle in her body. Her back, neck, arms, fingers came to life. The lantern was part of the fluidity of her body. Swing, swing, up and down fast drop, slow climb. Daisy spread her arms. She was open and giddy and free.
She opened her eyes. A wall of people stared at her. She jumped back. More people. She looked about her with wide eyes. A circle of eyes had formed around her.
“Turn around,” she yelled. The crowd didn’t move. She stood still, holding her lantern against her body. Some were smirking. Others frowned. Daisy barged through the thicket of people who tripped back with “hey” and “watch it.” Outside the circle, people stood about like trees, staining their necks. Daisy dodged around them until she reached the path. Streams of people were arriving from where she came. She hustled in the opposite direction, spotted a little path to the lake and let her illuminated moon lead her to a dock. A few people were there. Daisy looked about her. The moon lit a side path to a tiny clearing with a tree stump. Daisy made her way to it and planted herself. She closed her eyes.
She cradled the moon.
Her breath slowed down.
She opened her eyes. Hundreds of lights were anchored to the ground on the other side of the lake. Tiny flickers of light moved about.
Why are so many people assholes?
Because god had to meet her quota, said Jules. Daisy made room on the stump for her.
God has an asshole quota to fill? Daisy asked.
I’m afraid so.
And the reason?
To make life superbly interesting.
I don’t think that zombie assholes are very interesting, said Daisy. What are?
You.
You don’t know me.
Daisy closed her eyes. Not this.
I’m a made-up thing.
Stop.
Daisy.
You’re a living breathing person!
Whom you don’t know.
Jules, not now. Please. And, that’s actually not true. I know you deeper than you know.
You barely said a thing to me.
I wanted to. Jules, I was so—I didn’t want to—
Betray, what, your heart? That was almost ten years ago. At school. In Montreal. You haven’t seen me since.
A nasty thing travelled from Daisy’s gut to her chest and throat. She slammed it back down. Then, in a cruel and raspy whisper, Jules said: I don’t want to be your imaginary friend anymore.
Daisy crushed the moon.
Crap!
Repair repair repair! Pointless! The wires were mangled. The paper ripped. Daisy held the squashed mess in front of her. The light lived. She removed the LED and held it in her hand as she would a robin’s egg.
She considered carefully. I am twenty-nine years of age. The only friend I have is technically imaginary. And my imaginary friend is breaking up with me.
Can my life be any more pathetic, she thought. No! I get to design costumes for sci-fi movies and TV shows! My dream job—
Your dreamscape, said Jules.
Daisy looked at her costume and felt completely ridiculous. A creator now actor. A god now human.
Jules, please don’t leave.
How can I when you keep willing me into being?
You don’t want to talk to me anymore?
You do all the talking.
A sharp wind rattled the trees above her. Why am I here?
Daisy willed Jules’s arms around her. Could she live without her best friend? Her lover? Jules’s arms were cold and lumpy like those of a straw dummy. She willed Jules back to life. Jules kissed Daisy’s lips and faded away.
A sharp sting in her eyes brought her back. Her makeup! She was crying. Daisy fished in her sparkly selkie purse for a tissue and dabbed her eyes. I can’t melt away into seal. Hell yes, I can, Daisy thought, but at home, not here. I want to be home with Raul— and Jules. Damn her. She can’t break up with me. She hasn’t the power.
Daisy looked at the steady lights fixed to the ground. She couldn’t imagine herself picking up and going home. She sat slump on the stump. Stuck in the fork all dressed up and no place to glow? Flow? Blow? Grow? Mow. Daisy giggled. Stop it. Goof. There was fog. Drummers still drummed. She could hear the din of human voices. The sounds, sights, smells, the energy all around her. Her presence unknown in the center of everything.
A flash. Lightning.
Daisy stood up. To be caught in the rain. To be found by the storm. Daisy wanted her apartment. Beam me up, Scotty. She would make a beeline home before the rain set in. She darted up the path. The clearing was congested. She’d have to go around the lake and up the other end, to the fixed lights.
Daisy crossed the beach. The loose sand gave her a rolling ride. She tried to maintain her composure and hoped that no one was staring at her, a glorious sea-thing jerking across the sand. Up on the grassy bank she passed trees that stood at solemn attention. A synthetic fog gave everything a ghostly feel. She tasted its chalkiness and wondered if like Alice in Wonderland she would change sizes. Bigger or smaller? Wax or wane. She regarded her crunched moon. I’m sorry I “waned” you. There was a garbage bin. To discard the moon to that was too terrible. She held its brokenness. My albatross, she thought.
Lights beckoned ahead. An explosive crackle ripped the calm. Another flash above. Daisy counted for the thunder. Four seconds. The storm is close. She emerged from the trees almost running. Oh! A lantern path! At its mouth stood Poseidon, larger than life, holding his formidable trident. A literal fork in the road! Rather than stop her (and impale her), the god of the sea invited her to enter, as if she were expected. Daisy floated past him. Paper lanterns on either side corralled her forward. She held the surviving light carefully in her palm, a precious talisman that would guide her way.
A procession emerged from the fog, making its way toward her. Otherworldly creatures in pinks and blues and powdered faces, donning eighteenth- and nineteenth-century dresses and tresses and hats that spiraled up, holding large lanterns that depicted sea creatures and celestial bodies. They regarded her with no emotion as they moved past her.
Mortals lined the path and flashed. Their phone cameras captured the spectacular entourage—Daisy, too—for all time.
A French courtier sailed up to her and with elaborate dumb show invited her to dance. He saw her crushed moon and lamented its terrible state. He handed it to a large frog lady, who wore a lily pad like a tutu, for safe keeping. With gallant flair, the courtier led Daisy in an energetic waltz. The world spun round and round. He stopped, bowed deeply and disappeared into the fog. The frog lady solemnly handed the crushed moon to Daisy and fluttered away.
When the world stopped spinning, a mermaid approached Daisy as if discovering a long-lost sister. She kissed her cheeks and presented her to the people, who took many photos of them together. Happy reunion!
Flash, boom. Rain begins to pelt. Groans all around. Painted faces look up pinched in dissatisfaction. Hurry! You’ll wash away. Rain picks up. Another flash. Another boom. People run this way and that. Lights dissolve. Push bang. Daisy goes down. She touches her face. It’s all over her hands.
I’m melting. Melting. Waxing, waxing! Oh, what a world.
“Hey.” A tall woman in top hat and tails hovers above her. Her powder blue face is dissolving into flesh and blood. She holds out her hand. Daisy takes it. The woman lifts her up. She has lovely eyes.
“Thanks,” Daisy says. Would you care to dance? Someone calls to the woman. She turns to the voice then back to Daisy.
“You should hurry. You’ll catch a cold.”
“Would you like to dance?” Daisy blurts. The woman smiles a question mark. “Dance with me,” Daisy says. The woman’s mouth smiles, but her eyes frown.
“My . . . ,” the woman says, referring behind her.
“Ah,” Daisy says. “You better go.” They lock eyes. The woman holds out her arms and Daisy steps in. They dance a round. Daisy holds her gaze. It lasts a year. The woman gently stops, tips her hat to Daisy, turns and disappears into the dark.
Daisy looks for her light. The moon. They are gone. People scurry past her as she walks home. Her head is several feet high, as if she were a bird, flying. The rain pours on her. Her heart pounds a storm. She begins to run. Not because of the rain. She could play in it for hours. She runs all the way home to Raul, who patiently awaits his evening meal and snuggle.
Cheryl McNamara is a Toronto-based writer who originally hails from Canada’s West Coast. Her play for young audiences, Water Wonder, was part of Carousel Players’ 2019 touring season in the Niagara region. Her other plays have performed at the Toronto Fringe Festival. Cheryl is also a climate and human rights activist. She founded the Citizens’ Climate Lobby’s Toronto chapter and is part of the communications team of KAIROS Canada. Since 2011 she has met with more than 100 legislative offices in Canada and the US, as well as the World Bank to advance legislation that would put a price on carbon. Her articles, op-eds, and letters to the editor have appeared in numerous Canadian dailies and online magazines, including the Toronto Star, Globe and Mail, and Huffington Post. Cheryl is delighted that Hypertext Magazine is the home of her first published short story.
