(Continues from Stepping on Speaking Hens)

Who was I? Was I a member of the suit-and-tie wearing corporate class or a sword-swinging man in a metal cuirass? Two sets of memories lined up to battle for my identity. I shook my head. I had no time for this. A shadow had swallowed my deceased crush and sent him to hell.

Fiona tapped her foot. Impatience made her fidget. “Do you know who I am yet?”

If I said no, she’d send me around memory’s track again. Shells slipped and slid in a percussive suite. The circus had relocated to a beach, and so had we. No doubt this sleight of hand happened as part of Fiona’s plan.

She huffed out a breath fluttering her ice blond locks. “You still don’t get it. What’s it going to take? Do I need to draw you a diagram?”

“Maybe you could talk to me instead of tossing me into a valley of images.”

“Showing is faster than telling.” Fiona folded her arms over her flat chest and rearranged her pout into a glower.

“Yeah? Then why am I no closer to figuring this out?”

“Because I picked a moron for this assignment. I should’ve gone with Chad. Nice hair, not much between the ears but he took direction well.” Unlike you, she left unsaid but her glare communicated her disapproval.

“Well toots, you’re stuck with me. So start talking.”

Find the earlier parts of this series here.

For the November Notes Writing Challenge hosted by  Sarah Doughty of Heartstring Eulogies and Rosema of A Reading Writer.

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