Surprise Sir! Prize day is here. Your gift is all wrapped up in balloon paper, did Sir pry? Ha! That's okay! A bit of curiosity cured the cat, so they all say around here! We all hope you love what we clubbed together and got for you!
My soul rides aboard a paper parasol, eyes wide to the dreaming land. Every vivid hue is where pastel meets neon haze. Into the air I whoop, my lungs singing in anti-thunder boom. Then from my brain comes bubbles of happy rainbow swirl, each of them a snow globe that is to winter quite unknown.
Just when Odin was about to whine a clown burst in through the garden gate. He was as vivid as his mother's summer blooms - red hair more vibrant that a fire donned his head, starkly contrasting to the paper-white make-up of his face. His mouth was huge and raised into a smile and his steps had a bounce to them. Behind him trailed a mass of gay balloons, jostling in the brilliant rays, each as beautiful as the next. Then Odin spied his feet, clown feet! They were beyond large, at least twice the length of an ordinary shoe and they slapped into the grass like flippers. All thoughts of his complaint had been erased from his mind and he gawped to watch the figure approach, making a beeline right for him. How did he know? "Happy Birthday!" roared the clown and took him by the hand toward the best spot for his show. Even his "I am eight" badge couldn't outshine his smile.
At first glance Mica would have sworn it was chunks of clear glass, given the temperature, it was the most likely guess. But when he bent to pick up a piece he almost screamed. It was cold, ice cold, and wet to the touch. What the hell was ice doing way out here? And why so large and irregular? Each piece had at least the volume of an oversized mug. He could only imagine them being used as weapons of some sort, maybe shot from afar, and so he spun around on his heels casting wild eyes to the horizon. Empty. He pulled out his knife regardless, this was a surprise and he didn't like them, not even on birthdays.
He saw the shock register on my face before I could hide it. A small smile played on his lips, I guess he gets that a lot. It wasn't what he said though, his words were like vanilla pudding, sweet in their ordinary sort of way, it was the richness of his tones – luxurious and warm. He must be a baritone in church. I'm glad I saw him before I heard his voice, I'd never have put the two of them together otherwise. I bet he gets that a lot, clients walking in and looking for a bigger guy. Not that he's unusually tiny, its just that if I bought him a sweater it would be a small and still fit generously.
There was a delicious moment where Tara's face washed blank with confusion, like her brain cogs couldn't turn fast enough to take in the information from her wide eyes. Every muscle of her body just froze before a grin crept onto her face, it soon stretched from one side to the other showing every single tooth.
Surprise isn't an emotion I've ever taken well. Generally someone gets hurt and it isn't me. So when I walk into my apartment to see a chair out of place my gun is drawn, safety off. The blood drains from my skin and every movement becomes robotic, my training taking over. In that moment I'm more machine than man. That's when Priscilla jumps out shouting "Surprise!" If the room had been any darker she'd be dead, as it is the moonlight struck her blonde hair, illuminating her profile just enough before the lights went on. In that moment we're strangers, me and the woman I love more than breathable air, and she's in my cross hairs. I lower the gun as every friend of neighbour creeps in quietly from the kitchen. Apparently I'm twenty-four, who'd have thought I'd have made it this far.
Tommy swaggers to his back door, a loose grin playing in his stubble, his hands taking part in an internal conversation where he is the victor (as usual). The door has barely swung shut behind him when his face sets like stone, mouth a grim line. His eyes are like they were on the first day his Papa showed him a gun, waking him up at midnight with the barrel in his mouth. Don the marksman is eating a banana at his breakfast bar, dirty boots still on...
For perhaps a split second her grief was suspended, the surprise protecting her until it shattered like glass. I guess you could call it shock, but to me they're they're the same thing for the first fraction of a second -an inability to compute.
Everything surprises me. That's the bonus of having low expectations, expect nothing and people will surpass it with ease. High expectations are just a one way ticket to resentment, I can't live that way. Ted remembers to turn the bathroom light off before bed, I'm happy. Carla takes out the trash after only being asked twice, I'm thrilled. Carter puts his dirty dishes in the dishwasher without a prompt and I'm ready to jump to the moon. Low expectations, the secret ticket to being happy.