By Francesca Lia Block
Might be i'd turn into a mermaid....I may dwell within the swirling blue-green currents, doing unique underwater dances for the fish, kissed via sea anemones, caressed via seaweed shawls. i'd have a dolphin as a chum. He could have merry eyes and the thick sleeked flesh of a god. My fingernails will be tiny shells and my epidermis will be like jade with mild shining via it. i might by no means need to get back up...Echo is stuck on the crossroads of a actual international jam-packed with wish and depression and the area of the supernatural, the place younger males have wings and skeletons communicate. at the manner, she is graced through angels and fairies and haunted via ghosts, psychopomps, and vampires. yet as Echo falls below the spell of demons who threaten to spoil her, she needs to eventually glance inside of to discover the energy to outlive. via transferring issues of view, Francesca Lia Block weaves natural magic into this deftly built story -- a unique advised within the type of associated tales. One girl's existence emerges from a tapestry of voices, lives, and loves -- misplaced and located -- that convey her ultimately to herself, positive, ever-changing.
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They looked more like the result of too much head banging to me. The boy jumped onstage and started to yell into the microphone about cancer. He looked right at me and his eyes and mouth shone like a jacko’-lantern. He pointed his finger at me until I left. Echo / 29 I drove to the ocean. I liked to try to notice the exact moment when the air changed and I could smell the sea. Sometimes the smog was too much and I couldn’t taste salt on my lips until I was almost right there. But this night was late enough and I got the smell way before.
When I got home the fragrance of the flowers almost suffocated me. My mother had filled the house—they stood in vases and floated in bowls. My mother was wearing a wreath of roses. She was massaging my father’s feet with eucalyptus oil. He had the look of an opium eater—his jaw slack, his eyes feverish. I went into my room and locked the 42 / Echo door and blasted the music and got in bed and rubbed between my legs thinking of the boy on the beach. It went on and on until I was dry and sore. When I came it was in sobs.
She and the enchantment were gone from the hotel. Years later the artist who called himself Caliban had an art opening in a 58 / Echo gallery. The paintings were of monsters from the depths of hell, monsters with gaping mouths and huge bleeding hands. Sometimes Caliban set real bones and skulls into the thick smeary dark paint. Once he put an entire skeleton in. He called the skeleton Mister Bones. The paintings were huge and sold for lots of money but Caliban was miserable. He vowed he would start painting something beautiful.