Marcie is unusual. Yes, I know that isn’t saying much considering the title of this Chapter and the company she keeps. Read on though, before you judge.
I knew what she is (a Madcap Mortician), before I knew who she is (Marcie). As I sat in Quentin’s Blood Garden, I saw her playing in a puddle. I was and still am…captivated.
Marcie knew I was coming before I did. She tells me that she spoke to me years before I arrived at Quentin’s Plant Vampling Estate, only I’m stubborn and refuse to remember. I don’t think I’m stubborn, at all. I just know my mind. Regardless, this is her explanation as to why I titled a chapter in my journal, “The Madcap Mortician” twenty years before I’d even met Quentin. And then left exactly twenty pages of this chapter unwritten for these past twenty years…hmm…I suppose she could be on to something.
Dressed entirely in lovely, soft shades of grey (a stunning color, mind you against the blood red puddles of well, blood that she splashed in), she swung her arms and legs about in the most athletically graceful, complex, and alarming dance I’ve ever seen. And such laughter! Marcie has the best laugh, because it has the unselfconscious abandon of a child.
The way her blue-black hair stood on its ends, I thought she’d most certainly been struck by a random lightning bolt (not as uncommon as it sounds…not at Quentin’s estate, that is). Turns out not to be the case, I later discovered. Her hair is just like that. Almost as if she’s in a state of permanent fright. Once you get to know Marcie though, you know that frightened is the very last emotion she’ll feel. Marci is either very brave…else whys, very jaded when it comes to frights. She’s seen it all. I’m willing to go with both brave and jaded.
Regardless, once she spotted me sketching her, she’s given me not one moment of peace until I posted her form for all to see. Not like that! I don’t do nudes. I just do weirds. And Marcie definitely falls in that category.
So truly thrilled to be out here on the WWW, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that very little of that world actually visits my sandgrain’s place in it. Matters not to her, she says. It is the thought that counts, after all.