Interested in learning more about this shapeshifter who’s suddenly appeared in Leah’s life? So am I. Fortunately for us, my partner in this writing venture, Jesse, has tossed up a short story featuring Holden: “The Catcher in the Rye“. Go check it out & let him know what you think!
Posted in Jesse, story
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Tagged Holden, Taqlid
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Leah’s walking — or really, meandering might be a better word — down a street as quiet as any gets in the city. She’s wearing knee-high boots with significant heels and a gray pinstripe suit with a skirt that brushes the top of the boots; her black and blonde hair is worn loose around her shoulders, and she’s wearing a pair of red leather gloves. There’s a messenger bag slung over her shoulder that is quite obviously full. She’s looking straight ahead, although there’s a distracted look in her eyes as she’s wearing earbuds attached to the iPod tucked into one of her suit jacket pockets.
Unnoticeable to most, Kat sits at a bus stop farther down the road. The small blonde’s sharp blue eyes, the most attention-grabbing thing about her, scan a magazine in her lap: the newest issue of Gentlemen’s Quarterly.
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Posted in log
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Tagged Holden, Kat, Leah
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I brought Holden back to the apartment. There weren’t really any other choices – I wasn’t about to go sit in some greasy diner with this gown, although I did give serious thought to stopping by the Starbucks where we’d met. The walk was a little quiet, even though I wanted to ask him more about what little he’d shared with me – I’ve never run into a doppleganger or a shapeshifter (is there a difference?) before, at least not that I know of, and I have at least a hundred and one questions waiting to be asked. How does the shifting work? Is it a multiple personality thing? Does he have a limited number of forms? Where does he get these people that he turns into – are they real, or just figments of his imagination, and did he hurt them, or did he copy them? Could he copy me? Was that what he wanted? Obviously he has control over how he looks, but which one is really him? Should I even think of him as a ‘him’, or an ‘it’?
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Posted in story
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Tagged Holden, Leah
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Icicle’s an upscale lounge located in Midtown, close to Times Square. Invites are exclusive, particularly for this event, an early Thanksgiving ‘dinner’ with a private celebrity chef who is skilled in molecular gastronomy. There’s no seating, and the servers — all stunningly pretty girls, most likely hired from modelling agencies just for this occassion — are dressed in strapless red dresses with very short, very full skirts.
Leah Sunneborne ducks into the room, fashionably late. Her platinum blonde hair is coiled atop her head, threaded with polished golden wire set with a few brilliant crystalline beads, almost like a headdress. Her cocktail dress is simple and elegant, a royal purple satin with one shoulder, fitted to the hips and pooling around her feet. She’s wearing her black-framed glasses and hand-crafted chandelier earrings, but that’s it for accessories. She takes a Cosmopolitan from a passing server and scans the room.
Everyone here wants to be noticed, to some extent, although most are subtle about it. One man, however, is anything but subtle. It’s difficult not to notice the angular German man in his late twenties with thinning blonde hair, who talks animatedly with anyone and everyone. His manner of dress appearing as if he just out and bought the most expensive clothes he could, without much thought to anything besides flashiness. Around his wrist he wears an antique Swiss watch, and holds a martini in one hand, gesturing expansively with the other.
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Posted in log
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Tagged Holden, Leah, the German
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Despite the fact that business hours were long over, the Konarak was unlocked when I got back from Starbucks. I had a key to the place but I never had to use it unless Sam was away on a business trip, which only happened once or twice a year anyhow. He stood in the centre of the gallery, looking at the same print I’d pointed out to the Arab guy earlier with the shoelace in the mud, but when I entered he turned to me with a grin. “Welcome back, nightingale.” His voice still bore traces of his homeland, although it was more in the enunciation of words than their pronunciation. It was the only thing subtle about his Indian heritage, because he otherwise could have just stepped out of a Bollywood film, perhaps one where he played the father of the love interest, complete with a thick handlebar mustache and a dark, clean dhoti.
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Posted in story
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Tagged Leah, Sam
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It’s late night — perhaps indecently late — but this is a 24 hour Starbucks. Leah’s sprawled across one of the red velveteen couches, holding a large drink in the hand she has dangling off the side, the other toying with one of the multiple colourful plastic necklaces she’s wearing. She looks like she’s probably been out clubbing — tall, slender black boots laced up the back of her calf, a knee-length black skirt fitted to her legs, and an oversized purple t-shirt striped with black sequins that hangs off her shoulders. Despite appearances, she’s bright-eyed and her words are clear as she sings along, quite soulfully, to the music playing in the background.
The door opens, and a guy comes into the Starbucks. He has on a leather jacket and jeans, what a totally rad dude. Also sunglasses.
Leah glances over at the newcomer — like she does to everyone that walks in — and continues with her merrymaking. This song is boss.
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Posted in log
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Tagged Holden, Leah
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Now obsolete, revisited & rewritten here: http://averygoodyear.net/writing/revisited-november-12th-2010/ This is the first time Leah & Taqlid meet.
New York City is home to many privately-owned small museums and galleries. One such place is tucked into a small, brick-fronted building on a picturesque side street in the Garment District. The brass sign outside is embossed with the word ‘Konarak’. Inside, the floors are tiled with brilliant red and gold; it seems that a photography exhibit is currently featured, as several temporary walls have been erected and decorated with photos of what might be called urban decay.
Leah sits curled in an armchair near the door, a sketchpad in her lap. Her fingers are stained with the charcoal she’s using to draw.
Hesitantly, a figure pushes open the door and steps into the gallery. He appears to be about thirty, swarthy and with a light beard.
She says, almost disinterestedly, “Welcome to the Konarak.” She’s working on something in her drawing. “Toss some change in the donation jar if you want, but admission’s free.” She pauses, pulls back and looks down at her artwork, then up at the man with a smile that’s much warmer and welcoming, matched by her next words: “I’m Leah, lemme know if you need anything.”
He nods his thanks and begins browsing, pausing to glance at the artwork now and then. His true focus is Leah herself, however, as is evident by the way he throws surreptitious looks her way now and then.
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Posted in log
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Tagged Leah, Taqlid
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The City That Never Sleeps needs something to keep it awake. The most readily available, and legal, is coffee, and the Starbucks adjacent to Grand Central Station is just the place to get that fix. A pretty, blonde-haired woman with striking blue eyes sits at a round table, the only table in the place with a spare chair. She is thumbing through a copy of Elle magazine as she sips her drink.
A notebook drops onto the table, a pen tucked into the spine. Both are plain — the notebook your standard college-ruled, with a simple black cover, the pen a trusty Bic — yet the hand that comes to rest atop them is anything but. Neon green polish, chipped and flaking, clings to blunt nails, and the fingers themselves are decorated with numerous colourful rings.
“Only seat in the place,” says a feminine voice, a little exasperated, “… I’ll keep to myself.” Continue reading →
Posted in log
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Tagged Kat, Leah
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