The Mist Walker’s Must-Have Mixtape
Look at the lonely people!
Eleanora la Fay paced around her kitchen as the toaster pastry began its cooking cycle. The glowing timer above the toaster was nothing new, although Eleanora did change the color setting from time to time for a minor change in scenery. The song played on the old stereo Nimue la Fay fixed up on one of the rare occasions she came home to rest. It looked like an ancient jukebox from almost two hundred years ago, with its bubbly shape and faded gold paint. The neon lights glowed on the misty, cloudy day. Eleanora la Fay loved the old thing… even if Nimue had to add a bunch of tubes and wires and a magic-to-electricity converter on the inside that leaked out into two bulky handle-looking things on the side.
The toaster timer was a lavender color with a light blue hand. She noted about a half a minute left on her birthday breakfast and nodded in approval. Was a birthday cake toaster pastry a bit much for the fifteen-year-old’s breakfast? Possibly, but Eleanora needed food and she forgot to buy groceries last night after coming home from her shift at the damn grocery store. Ironic, wasn’t it?
The pastry popped with a ding and a woosh, the teenager grabbed a plate and held it still as the food fell pristinely on her plate. She grinned at the house, “Did ya see it? I got it right this time!”
Nothing responded to her prideful grin and exclamations of glee, but Eleanora didn’t mind.
She ate the pastry in peace and quiet of her small, rundown home. Ironically, making a mental list of what needed to be done when she got home from work, and her neighbors had told her, she needed to rest and enjoy her childhood. “So the windows need to be cleaned, the sheets need to be washed — should I vacuum the floor today? What do you think?” The brunette asked in between bites of her breakfast. Once more the house did not reply, and Eleanora nodded decisively.
“You’re right,” she continued after the beat of silence. Her tongue on the roof of her mouth to free the sticky, goey shell that stuck itself to her teeth. “I should cook instead of cleaning the floor. I can do that tomorrow.”
All the lonely people, where do they come from?
She almost left without it.
She almost left without it — the only other useful, good gift Nimue gave her.
How could she even — it didn’t stop Eleanora from clutching the Walkman 2192 to her chest, its headphones hung around her neck. Her footsteps measured themselves against the broken asphalt that led into the town square. Memento Mori, North Carolina was a rundown, practical ghost town in the middle of nowhere. Years ago, in an attempt to bring about the historical version of Disney World, a small business group created Memento Mori. A small amusement park that brought about the glorious Gilded Age complete with ghosts from necromancers and dresses that seemed to have jumped out of history books.
But at least they were able to sell the land to town developers which made the business enough money to become Walkman 2.0 Co., the very music player company that created the thing Eleanora clutched to her chest. The girl placed her headphones on her head and spoke aloud, “Hey, Walkman, please use the mood setting!” Eleonora clipped the Walkman to her jeans as the holographic discs switched, going from the green circle to the red and noting the change of modes.
Fifteen minutes later, the fifteen-year-old clocked in for her shift at Stefan’s, the only grocery store for miles. “ —nora! Take the headphones off!” A booming voice broke through her music as the ringletted-brunette took her headphones half-off. From the device people could hear some of the song: Father McKenzie writing some words of a sermon no one will hear—.
“Sorry, Stefan,” She dutifully replied with pursed lips. She shut the Walkman off before shoving the headphones down around her neck. Without waiting for another word, Eleanora walked off towards the back. She had boxes of toaster pastries and coffee to pack out.
She turned around, walking backwards and raised an eyebrow. The elderly, Southern gentleman chuckled at the quirk of the brow. She hummed, waiting for Stefan to continue. “Happy birthday,” was all he said. All she did was nod in thanks.
The moment Eleonora disappeared through the double doors around the floral department, the Walkman was back on and she sighed. For the first time all day, Eleonora felt truly alone.
Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there’s nobody there.
She walked home as the mist rose from the ground. Eleanora sighed, her mind wandering to places of grand fantasy and swashbuckling adventure. Of grand flying pirate ships and bright sunny days. Of a world where no one thought twice of a fifteen-year-old stock girl working on a Monday.
The light dulled, making it harder to see in front of her own face.
Eleonora let her feet carry her. They knew where to go. She walked down this road before and she’d walk down it again come morning. Her feet would carry her while her mind gave her comfort of the old movies like the Princess Bride’s fencing scene or the Jet Li versus Jet Li fight of the One at the climax. A life like that would’ve been something, wouldn’t it?
The trees grew thicker with every step.
The fog lifted with every foot too.
She continued walking, seeing but not processing.
Eleonora stopped and then found that her house wasn’t there. She paused the music, took off her headphones and spun around in circles. The trees were all different. Eleonora snapped her neck up. There were stars out, she never could see stars at this time. The house just up and disappeared.
She felt the fear clawing itself out of her chest. The need to panic as her eyes widened and as the night wind blew her down. She began rocking back and forth, her arms grasping each other in order to gain some form of comfort. Her heart beat faster. Her pupils dilated. She couldn’t breathe.
As her voice struggled to work, only one thing came from her mouth. One wish, hope, prayer — one thing she swore never to do again. “Nimue, help please!”
Only the sound of unknown, far-off animals responded to her plea.
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