Exceptional Mortality in trilogy Quicksand, Belles,&Faux Bouquets by Elizabeth Emerald Artwork by MoonWillow at FanArtReview.com

Quicksand. Not so long ago, whenever time ran down, I'd simply flip the glass and take it from the top. But, insidiously, time has turned itself inside out to master me.  The sand has quickened. The gently drifting grains have banded together and turned malignant. Quicksand. There is no escaping its merciless, inexorable, pull toward oblivion. Imprisoned in the glass I am drawn toward the point from which there is no return. Struggle as I might, I cannot avoid the abyss. And when the end of the day comes, there will be no way to start it over again. Once upon a time, I thought I could build castles to the sky. Now, mocking my audacity, the tides have turned on me, mercilessly drenching my erstwhile fantasies. I try in vain to salvage what I can, but no matter how tightly I clench my fist, the sand inevitably dries and slips through my fingers. The day will come when the last of what I hold dear will be gone. Deem it merciful - or, conversely, more torturous - the grain-by-grain erosion is imperceptible. There is no sudden arrival at the dreaded state of barrenness. But there are signs en route. Desert Ahead. I try not to look too closely. And I desperately search out diversions from the mainline to Emptiness. I seek the peopled oases that, for fleeting moments, supply my superficial well-spring of praise where none is due. For accidents of good fortune. For accoutrements accrued through the fickle favors of fate. Credit for random guesses on the multiple choices in life. From each source, I grasp the good words as they gush. The refreshment they provide is, alas, all too brief, since they are of no substance. In my youth, I craved merely approval; now I've become greedy for admiration. But  thirst cannot be assuaged by cupping hands under a geyser that is a mirage. Hunger cannot be sated by complimentary cotton candy. It would be worse for me had I ever basked in blinding beauty as I bathed in the fountain of youth. It is enough of a shock to be yanked from the soothing water, without being also deprived of the caressing warmth of the sun. Yes, it is the beautiful people who are most mercilessly crushed by the passage of time. I console myself with that thought as I slowly smother in the quicksand. **************************************************************************************************** The night, alas, is not so young. Every Tuesday, my husband and I go dancing at the singles' club where we met six years ago. I love to dress up, and with evening wear, makeup, and (especially) soft lights I look my best. My husband gazes at me adoringly and says that I look "especially beautiful" tonight. During and after the evening he says I'm "the best woman in the place." I cringed while writing the above, lest you think me insufferably conceited. I assure you; my husband exaggerates in proportion to his enormous adoration. (His declining to wear his glasses is a significant contributing factor.) I relate his hyperbole solely to set the stage for what is to come. One Tuesday, my husband followed his usual gushing with this afterthought: "The day will come, of course, that, insofar as appearance goes, you won't be number one." Indeed the day will come when whatever aesthetic appeal I may hold will be no more. Thankfully - or perhaps otherwise - the day-to-day decline is imperceptible. But the path to the future is strewn with portents. Disregard them as I may, they nonetheless foretell the destiny of us all. I have three children by my ex-husband, the eldest of whom is 19. When he was an infant, I, at 26, was often taken for his teenage sitter, which neither particularly pleased nor offended. My only thoughts on the matter was that it would be nice to look ten years younger ten years hence. Well, wouldn't you know - now, at 45, when I tell people the ages of my children there is nary a hint of surprise. Worse, same non-reaction in nightclubs, where the light takes ten years off. At 44, I used to joke that "I'm 52 but don't look a day over 60." No more. Last time I tried it backfired. The response, uttered in mere mild surprise was, "You're 60?" In these tolerant times the F-word and the S-word are socially acceptable. Provided, of course, that you don't actually look Forty, Fifty, Sixty, Seventy. Celebrities, regardless of personal vanity, are obliged to succumb to serial cosmetic surgeries for the sake of their livelihood. For us ordinary mortals, sixty does not look like Dyan Cannon, Ann Margret, and Sophia Loren. The fact that their appearance has been constant for thirty years provides false comfort. It is easier to deceive ourselves that our own clocks are forever fixed at half-past. But like the mythical Janus, there is a flip side to the beautiful countenance of the ever-shining stars; their flawless faces serve to engrave our own wrinkles ever deeper. When I was a child, my grandparents, in their sixties, referred to themselves as "middle-aged." It eventually dawned on me - if not on them - that they were speaking euphemistically. Associating the term with "old" people, I balk at labeling myself "middle-aged" - but the fact is, at 45, I'd be optimistic to do so. Ironically, I am presently in my best-ever condition. I walk 40 miles a week. Never having been able to do a single push-up before, I can manage 15 before collapsing. Recently, I received an effusive compliment on my head-to-toe lavender outfit. I was amused - and delighted - to be described as "adorable."  I was also relieved. "Adorable?" At my age! That means I can't look all that old, doesn't it? And so, each Tuesday night, I twirl in an ever-increasing frenzy, desperate to forestall my destined swan song, my last ovation from the adoring audience of one. Always with the foreboding that my final performance is upon me I recall my husband's warning of the day to come. And so, in the dusk of a Tuesday evening, as I dress my glamorous best, I can't help but wonder: Will the morrow bring the dawning of that dreaded day? **************************************************************************************** Flowers for the dead. As I saunter through the cemetery, I behold Emerald City splendor. Technicolor blooms are harbingers of life everlasting. As I approach the gravesites, I realize what wizardry has deceived me.  The false promise of immortality has been simulated through garish phantoms. Phony flowers with plastic stems and flimsy fabric petals in shades not of this world. And even these hardy imposters don't last forever. Eventually overturned, muddied, trampled, the blatant fakeries doubly desecrate. More dreary, perhaps, but less insulting to my sensibilities, are deserted plots with once live flowers long since desiccated. As a sign of respect for the dead, I itch to remove the eyesores, but dare not risk the truant act of mercy. I seek the few oases in the wasteland that are not mirages. Where a fragrant bouquet or a freshly planted bed of pansies attests to the devotion of the living to their dead. But with few exceptions, most likely, holidays or anniversaries, these favors are bestowed upon only the recently deceased. Alas, the initial glory of death is fleetingly temporal; indifference thereafter is eternal. ******************************************************************************************   Recognized Author Notes Thanks to Moonwillow for the artwork: Weep No More My Lady. I originally wrote this piece 18 years ago. My adoring husband turned erstwhile barely two years thereafter.

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