Echo by Francesca Lia Block

By Francesca Lia Block

Perhaps i might turn into a mermaid....I may stay within the swirling blue-green currents, doing unique underwater dances for the fish, kissed through sea anemones, caressed by way of seaweed shawls. i might have a dolphin as a chum. He might 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 gentle shining via it. i'd by no means need to get back up...Echo is stuck on the crossroads of a actual international packed with desire and melancholy and the area of the supernatural, the place younger males have wings and skeletons communicate. at the approach, she is graced through angels and fairies and haunted through ghosts, psychopomps, and vampires. yet as Echo falls below the spell of demons who threaten to ruin her, she needs to eventually glance inside of to discover the energy to outlive. via moving issues of view, Francesca Lia Block weaves natural magic into this deftly built story -- a singular informed within the type of associated tales. One girl's lifestyles emerges from a tapestry of voices, lives, and loves -- misplaced and located -- that bring her ultimately to herself, positive, ever-changing.

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Their mouths closed and their hands dropped Echo / 59 sheepishly to their sides. No one wanted to purchase these watered-down versions of Caliban’s earlier work. They left the gallery in droves until the only person left was a woman who resembled Nefertiti with blushing hair. ” The woman smiled and it was like a temple full of candles, like a garden full of white flowers, like the spread of wings. At that moment Caliban knew that she was the little girl at the soda fountain in the jade-green hotel and that from then on he would never paint or love anyone else.

I didn’t smoke or drink in his presence. If I felt upset I kept it to myself. I didn’t reveal anything about my mother, my father or my past of lonely kissing and desperate striptease. I thought these things would send him running like the boys who had appeared so mesmerized in the basement but ignored me in the school cafeteria. My approach seemed to be working. He wrote songs for me on the mandolin and accordion; he built me palaces and at dawn, when I left, his eyes shone like the sun-sea-glimmered sand.

I 32 / Echo could go deeper and farther. But I’d had too many beers. The water was so cold. And the waves were stronger than they seemed. Right away I knew it was too much. Part of me reached up like a hand trying to grasp for air but part of me sank in so easily like a fist, plunging deep deep in, flooded with sea until it was inside of me—a lover, in my lungs and in my heart and I was no longer the daughter of a dying man and an angel who could not save him but the daughter of the water. The part of me that was the hand, though, it must have reached up.

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