The rest of the gulp.

Chapter 1: Of Dangerous Bifocals  Part 2
   Hunger was the only force that could pull Maleya out of her area when she didn't want to. She pressed her thumbprint into the handle of the fridge before opening it. When she did, blue light shone on her favorite foods. Maleya pulled out feta cheese curds. She turned and leaned against the counter. To her right the counter ran in a U shape, curving around in front of her again six feet away. Across this counter from her, tan-ish hair bobbed and twisted, disappearing momentarily sometimes before coming back into view. Maleya smiled and threw a cheese curd at it. The tan-ishness ducked behind the counter and Barley tossed her a thumbs-up before nimbly retrieving the fallen cheese curd.

            "Leya."

            "Mmm."

            "You have writers 'spert stuff in a while."

            "Mm-hmm. S'why I'm eating." Another cheese curd. She savored the spices and the crumbling tangy cheese against the roof of her mouth.

            "Kay. Leya, think I'll ever be an expert?" It was a ridiculous question, which may have been why Barley loved asking it so often.

            "You're not practiced in the art of failing, so my suppositions are that yes, one day you too will be a spert." Half of a face appeared above the counter, cut abruptly off at the bridge of a nose. Tan hair and blue eyes stared at deep brown hair and green eyes.

            "Good." Barley's eyes thanked Maleya seriously. "In what?"

            "What do you love?"

            "Knowing."

            "Barley!"

            The eyes widened. "Why not? Other people have made up new expertesses before."

            "Areas of expertise, Barley."

            "Expertesses. It's a new word."

            "Um...Barley? Words are not invented." Maleya looked serious. Barley rolled his eyes and propped his chin on the counter.

            "D'they really? You're such a parrot, Maleya. You say everything you hear in your writer's class thingy because you're so scared to be different, a cross-over, to be a writer-techy, because people don't like that. So what? What can anyone do to you?"

            "Lot's of things."

            "Leya, seriously."

            "People could take away everything I've been working on. Everything. You don't know what that means."

            "Ok, ok. But whadda you really think about words. Aren't they invented? Do they always gotta come from the right people?"

            Barley, you know too much. You figure out so much more than anyone else would. It's because you always have to know! Maleya didn't voice her exasperation. It was better to just answer Barley's question. "Ok, fine. I don't think words grow. But I don't think they're invented either," she cast a superior glance at Barley, "they are discovered. They wait, hovering on the fringe of consciousness, dancing out of reach of our thoughts when we reach for them, and then slipping in when we need them and forget to look for them. It's perfection."

            "That's why you're a writer," Barley stated. They stared at each other for a few minutes.

            "I want a drink," Maleya intoned, pushing her off the counter. A cupboard opened and the tap started running.

            "That's why you're a techy." Barley stood up all the way and leaned against the counter, watching Maleya drink her water.

            "Barley, you have no idea."

            "But I will." Barley grinned and held a slender black wire, barely visible even in the brightness of the kitchen.

            "Is that a microphone?"

            "Mm-hmm. I've got a bunch. Dad brought 'em home," Barley championed grinning. Maleya sighed. Her father was the only real techy, and it was dangerous for him to be bringing supplies home to his family. It was hard to say exactly why, though. All areas of expertise just kept to themselves, without sharing what they had or what they knew with other areas, unless there was a finished product that would benefit everybody. Maleya's dad had always been bringing things home because his literal area was in the house, where he preferred to work on things. Naturally Maleya and Barley had grown up with more than their share of tech knowledge.

            Knowing some things about tech wasn't so much a problem, because everyone was allowed to have some tech. But not too much. The Hominy's had too much. Even that wasn't such a problem, except that they used it, instead of just knowing. Of course using the knowledge made them more proficient in it, and soon Maleya's dad had begun telling the children not to flaunt their tech knowledge. They obeyed. But Maleya still used it.

            And then had come her idea to use it in conjunction with writing. There she had crossed a line. Nobody knew about it yet, not even Barley, to whom Maleya told everything. It was too dangerous. It was mixing two areas of expertise. It would change the way things were. It would blur lines and confuse both techies and writers. It was a fascinating secret, and Maleya was confident that it was worth the time she spent on it, and worth the difficulty and the isolation of hiding it, but it was getting more difficult.

            "Leya."

            "What?!" Maleya scowled, confused by her thoughts.

            "You really should go. The writers' expert meeting is in a few minutes." Barley only used full words when he was serious.

            "I know." Maleya tried to ignore what she was thinking and went to her room – her area – to gather her manuscript and pert-paper for notes. Confounded technology.

             
{Hey - same rule here as before. Comment. And thank you kindly for reading, friend.}

Good ol' County Fair

Celebrations mark the opening of Fair. A parade marches past. Flying candy, children running almost to the middle of the streets, Miss So-and-so and Miss Queen-of-something and Miss County giving their unrealistically refined waves and trying not to overheat their gowns, fire trucks annoying and startling more than they please, bands playing snatches of tunes that nobody has the time to recognize...And then at night, the fireworks! Magical light in enchanting colors and patterns dazzle the sky and reflect excitement in wide-open eyes. (If there were like Gandalf's, though!)

"The finest rockets ever seen, They burst in stars of blue and green, Or after thunder, Golden showers, Came falling like a rain of flowers." -J. R. R. Tolkien

Mom caught these!

You ought to be gasping with me. They were so exciting! I hadn't seen fireworks forever!!!

Is this not beautiful?!

The cheese curds were gargantuan. They were not bites, they were hand fulls. You spend the first minute gazing at them and trying to pick one to eat. You can't decide whether to save the big greasy one for last, or not. So you grab one and take a nibble; a grin lights up your eyes and displays stringy cheese to a crowd of persons who don't know you, but having mozzarella draped over your chin doesn't bother you today. Your eyes bug out when you remember that you have numerable nibbles left.



In the 4-H building, scents and colors dance wildly for your attention. Homemade clothing swells proudly on it's display. Pictures of events judged earlier stand boasting in their awarded ribbons. Creativity made manifest in numerous venues; scrapbooks pull colors together in charming collages, bilboards broadcast "quickfacts" and "My Story" in alternating bursts of before-and-after pictures and short sentences or paragraphs. Ropes sag around display tables, upheld by soldier-stiff metal rods.


Outside, sterotypical heat necessitates costly water balloon fights and dunk tanks. The ferris wheel turns in it's traditional circles, lifting fairgoers to glorious hights before sinking them into noisy reality again. The subdued roar of the rides accomanies the chattering roar of the people. Every so often, someone jumps up and waves his arms, having noticed a friend he must talk to. People amble past, ignoring and ignored - all minds are on rides, food and fun. The midway streams with scantily dressed girls clinging on their shaggy haired boyfriends and mothers who've eaten to many snacks pushing strollers and searching for another dollar, rescuing an almost-dropped chili-cheese-dog, and calling after the one who graduated from stroller-hood and thinks she can go anywhere.
 
It is the first time I have paid attention to the stables since last years fair. The first thing to catch my attention is a flashy new sign reading "Horse Barn." Two horses, from the whithers up, are outlined. I grimace: they are not well drawn horses. The lines are smooth, but they are horrible proportionately. Almost like caricatures of horses, but bad even for that. I know my artistic and horse-loving sister will have a fit when she sees them.



Inside, things are not so dis-familiar. Stall doors all hang at the same nearly straight angle, tattooed with staples that, 363 days ago, held ribbons, posters, signs, and pictures. At one end of the barn I remember the manure pile used to be. Likely to be there this year too, I reflect, since the other end of the barn is towards the fair and people will want to keep up appearences. But right now a pretentious and self-righteously clean folding table stands, holding an assignment list of the stalls and turning up it's corners at the rustic structure behind it.


By Thursday, there is no more table. Mocking manure is chunked and heaped where the table stood. Horses fill the stalls - making friends, declaring enemies, or generally ignoring the hubbub. Older horses stand relaxed with their heads in the quietest corner of the stall. They've aquainted themselves with the hay pile and the water bucket and they know they should rest while they can. Middle aged horses turn about their stall, still hopefull that they can make it comfortable. They are mostly to proud to acknowledge bystanders. The youngest fillies and colts are too busy discovering if they love or hate their neighbor to eat immediately. One filly takes an instant dislike to the mule behind her and expresses her feelings by applying her teeth to his rump. Minature horses - always two to a stall - ignore the world and eat in silent companionship.


Well dressed chidlren clinging to slender mothers shriek with excitement or gape in awe as real-live COWGIRLS(!) walk casually past carrying grain, pitchforks, and brushes with careless ease and nachalance. The youngest ones stare as farm boys in dirty shirts - sleeves long since torn off - enter stalls and talk softly to equine friends. Anxious mothers chide their children that saddles should already be on the horses which are still only being bathed. At the riding ring, the only relaxed ones are those unrelated watchers sitting on the single bleachers. An announcer commands the attention of those on the horses, announcing the games, calling out the names and numbers of the next riders. Riders command the attention of the parents, who run around holding reins of their childrens horses, cheering when their children ride, comforting when the children lose. Riding instructers pay attention to everyone, announcers, riders and young children running annoyingly and dangerously close to the horses.

Little Bro washes his horse, Knightly.

Little Bro rides Jewel, our Appolousa.

Art Maniac ('Lil Sis) rides the two-year-old horse that she has been training through the spring.

Little Bro shows Knightly in Halter Class.

Art Maniac shows her horse, Dance, in Open Class horse show and takes Grand!

 Little Bro does the barrel race.

Little Bro does the Trail "race". You have to open a gate and ride through without dismounting. He did well!

Waiting between games!

Waiting for results...who will place?

 Art Maniac and Midnight run the keyhole race.

Art Maniac (Horse maniac?) and Dance celebrate a victory.

And all the stalls undergo the necessary decorating.