On The Edge Of Lake Superlative

Sally’s hair had turned from gold to red overnight. Zeke sat up blearily in the little dinghy and ran a hand through his mussed, black hair. At first he took the red for an artifact of the dawning sun, but as Sally’s placid, sleeping smile came into his waking focus, he realized her long hair was actually the hue of a Scottish lass’s, fiery and pure.

And it was beautiful to his eyes. Zeke’s attention flicked momentarily to the sky, which was clear and cloudless.

“If this was Your doing, I can’t be mad,” he said under his breath. Zeke’s Creator made no appearance or indication, but this kind of sudden shift in reality was right up that fucker’s alley.

Sally, who had been breathing shallow, yawned in her sleep and shifted. Her long, straight, and now-red hair cascaded overboard, sending the tips down into the calmly lapping water. Zeke regarded her long, bony arms and thought he must start feeding the poor girl more properly. Life on the road—and on the lamb—had begun to weaken both of them.

A lone heron, huge and gray-bodied, and looking like a prehistoric pterodactyl, flapped its way overhead. Zeke followed its progress and discovered he was suddenly looking at land—a sandy beach with trees in the distance—not even three hundred yards to the west. He jerked in surprise, sending the dinghy rocking, and had to grab the edges for balance. Sally was snapped away by the motion, too, and a series of emotions (shock, fear, consternation) transformed her face in quick succession, reminding Zeke of the whirling emblems on a slot machine. But as usual, the whirling stopped on a sort of serene, grinning wonder.

“Why is the rum always gone?” she asked absently, staring out towards the trees, then answered her own question: “Because it’s time for sandy beaches.”

She favored Zeke with a lopsided smile, then held the damp tips of her hair up before her.

“I’ve gone totally October,” she declared. Zeke leaned over and kissed her.

“You’re still Sally to me. Help me paddle to shore. We need to find something to eat, and maybe some water that doesn’t look so… green.”

“Like squarsh?” she asked.

Zeke soundlessly repeated the word, trying to hear it through the filter of Sally’s tangential mental processes, failed to decipher it, and just nodded.