Quilight Time: The Lotion
You're traveling into a new creation- a city on a hill- a journey to a land of quiet constellation. In the still of the night, breathe deep the gathering glow, there's light at the end of the tunnel - it's Quilight Time.
The Lotion by Joe Little and Somer Aldein - spellingprogress
There was an odd new kid at school named Billy. Well, more accurately: Billy and his bottle of lotion. Billy and his bottle of lotion went everywhere together, which we know because Billy applied lotion from the nondescript bottle to his hands, then rubbed it on his arms, face, and neck. If his classmates asked him about it, with their mouth or with their eyes- Billy would just shrug it off. "Dry skin," he said, "is a rat-fink." Billy had okay skin, as skin goes, so the situation wasn't as odd as it might've been.
But it was still odd, especially given that Billy carried around the bottle in his backpack rather than keep it in his locker- or set it on his desk in front of him during class time. Later that same first day of school a classmate took the bottle from Billy's backpack while it was lying in the bleachers during gym. Billy's lotion senses must have been tingling because he instantly left the basketball court, chased after the kid, beat him up, then applied a fresh coat of lotion, a sort of celebratory smear.
Word got out about the incident which lead to another incident the following day: someone was stupid enough to hide Billy's backpack. So Billy started fighting kids till his bag was abruptly found. Then, yes, more lotion to his skin. His skin but no-one else. Billy didn't share the lotion or make a big deal of it nor did his teachers, though Ms Jackson- who hovered near classroom doors hoping to catch unsupervised mischief-makers- threatened to confiscate it.
I'm Lori, by the way, Billy's classmate, and I remember that second day of school like it was yesterday, which it was. During the final class of the day Billy seemed way down, which didn't go unnoticed by me, his art-partner and best friend after two days.
"Why are you so down?" I asked. "Let me guess: you are running low on lotion."
Billy turned sharply to me and said, "Uh, yes, just running low on the good stuff."
"May I help you get a new bottle tomorrow?" I asked.
"No, it's a special lotion. You wouldn't understand." Billy said quietly tapping the white bottle.
"OK, but if you change your mind, let me know," i said, "my mom's a pharmacist and knows about lotions and ointments."
"Thanks," said Billy. "I can imagine her mixing up a perky potion but THIS is a funky chicken."
Then he lightened the mood by saying a strange thing even by his Billy-come-lately standards: "And speaking of farm animals they say 'when a bell rings an angel gets its wings', but I say when a goat farts a zombie gets his bling."
"Gets his bling!? What the Sam Hell are you talking about," I said with my goofiest Scout Finch voice. "You," I said, punching Billy in the arm, "are a crazy goat." Billy just grinned sheepishly.
Near the end of the day the lotion bottle gave its last squirt. He rubbed the last bit into his forehead, then stood up in the middle of class. He looked around.
"Billy are you okay?" I asked.
"Sit down Billy!" Ms. Jackson said with a growl.
He suddenly darted from the classroom, leaving his backpack and his empty lotion bottle behind.
"For the love of- " sneered Ms. Jackson. When Billy failed to return by the end of class i quietly retrieved his bag and empty bottle and took them home with me. Something in his tone made me suspect Billy was gone for good but i was NOT going to let his stuff get disrespected by Ms. Jackson or anyone else.
Later that night, i tried to sleep but couldn't, as I kept mulling Billy's odd words and behavior. I kept glancing at the bottle of lotion on my night-stand. Finally, I got up the courage to get up and examine the bottle: nondescript, but puzzling. I sniffed the opening. No scent. Finally I gave in to curiosity and reached for the scizzors. It took some doing but I cut off the bottle top and down the side. Carefully, I peeled open the container. Nothing untoward in the dimly lit darkness. Feeling sheepishly disappointed I started to place the bottle back on the night-stand when it caught my eye: barely visible- as if printed a long time ago- were a tiny set of words, hardly legible. Fine print some might say, but it was hardly a fine moment for my heart. These were the words:
Topical treatment for temporary relief from animated corpse syndrome
I read it again. And again. I pinched myself in case I was having a bad dream. Ouch: bad night, but not a bad dream. It was starting to make diabolical, logical sense: though I didn't believe in such things, my new friend Billy was an animated corpse. A zombie. A dead boy walking, and not in a Death-row sense. A dead boy walking, and talking, and learning to fit in. While I was in shock, I was trying to recall the last two days: Billy had done no harm, bitten no necks, eaten no faces- at least not in gym or art class. Ha! A bit of levity. That was Billy- a bit of levity, and then I remembered the oddest levity of all, the odd chestnut he offered me a few hours before regarding the goat farting. He may as well have said "a flatulent goat walks into a bar". Ha. More levity. Billy offered levity. All he asked for in return was the lotion, and there was no more.
Suffice to say I didn't sleep another wink that night. The next day at school was a dismal affair, and not just because of the spookiest overcast skies. Though I had little hope of seeing Billy that day or, really, ever again, my senses were directed toward the doors, down every hall, around each corner and thru every window. There was no sign of Billy, which made me keener as the day wore on. I'm such a private eye I even reached in his desk during the last class of the day, Ms Jackson's art class.
"What are you doing?" Ms. Jackson demanded as I abruptly stopped my sleuth activity and the full class glanced first at Ms. Jackson, then me.
"Just, I, uh," I said before Ms. Jackson interrupted sharply.
"Billy was an oddball," interrupted Ms. Jackson, noxiously speaking of her student in the past tense. "I cleared everything out of his desk, threw it all away. No one runs out of my class without consequence. I'm so sick to death of it, I could just-"
That is the exact instant the end-of-class bell rang but it was barely heard because THAT is the exact instant the loudest fart I ever heard rumbled from the front of the class, from Ms. Jackson's rear end. After a crisp second of stunned silence, the students let out a clap of joyful laughter. And high fives. Everyone got up to leave. After all, it WAS the dismissal bell or- let us say- the dismissal smell. And as Ms. Jackson's angry face reddened, I heard a single comment- "That old goat deserved it!" And at THAT precise moment a flashy, ostentatious, elaborate ray of sunlight broke through the dark clouds and through the window. And I knew that somewhere, somehow, some way or another, my friend Billy had gotten his bling. END
Closing: "Billy, new kid in school, habitual lotionizer, zombie. And what is lotion after all but a topical treatment of temporary relief, practical grace, tender loving care. It's what the world needs now - lotion, sweet lotion. It is written, 'don't forget to be hospitable because your guest may be an angel'. Copy that for the walking dead - just trying to fit in, to break through, and sometimes they do, at Quilight Time.