Superficial Appraisals

by K.R. Segriff

About the Author: K.R. Segriff is a Canadian writer, filmmaker, and visual artist. Her work appears in Prism International, Riddle Fence, and Storm Cellar magazines, among others.

Excerpt

The scene we drift into is almost appealing. 1953, an old hotel lobby bathed in the half-light of late afternoon. The Hotelier, dressed in his flannel suit, sits at the desk by the window. He considers the gentle ripples as they fan out across the lake. On its surface, the hotel seems a most soothing, ordinary place.

We six sisters are the muck beneath the surface of this seemingly placid afternoon. We are not siblings of blood, but of circumstance, the last six occupants of room three-sixteen—save for Devona, the only one who got away. The six of us have departed, checked out, but never in the traditional sense. We exist as formless figures, invisible to all but each other, hovering silently behind a wool-covered wolf.

The Hotelier does not sense our presence behind him. He is not aware that we are watching over his shoulder as a young woman, not more than twenty, eases herself past the carved glass of the front-entrance door. The woman pauses in the vestibule as if somehow sensing it is unwise to proceed.

The Hotelier’s face reflects in the glass. To the unpracticed eye, his expression is pleasing. His cheeks point upward to his pale brown eyes. He gives a brief flash of his perfectly polished teeth. His is a smile that drew each one of us in as we took our own turns passing through the glass door.

“How can I help?” The Hotelier asks.

“A fella named Chuck told me,” the woman says, “that you offer rooms on the cheap to folks who are trying to get back on their feet.”

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