Fiction: Ms. Bluebeard

Insanity is best hidden away,
scars tucked in the deepest
recesses of ourselves
near the beat of our hearts.  

There it remains.
We forget that it is even there.
As it should ever be.

But my lover,
ever curious,
determined
to get to the very bottom of me,

Who I was. 

Despite my fervent warnings,
he kept bloody searching
until he knew the truth.

Poor man!

The viscous red fluid was dripping
all over my hands before I knew it,
as his own chest cracked open,
and I ripped out his heart. 

He should have left that particular scar alone. 


**Sorry to have been gone for a bit...Cancer is not friendly to writers!

Fiction: Breathe

Taking a deep breath, I happily closed my eyes.  I was glad to have some "Me" time after a tough week.  While I stood on the wooden floor of the gazebo, I focused on the cool mountain air moving into my lungs, expanding my rib cage until I felt as though I might burst. Then I slowly exhale, mentally pushing out the negative thoughts that always float to the surface as I begin my meditation. I lifted my arms into the air to begin my Sun Salutation.

"So, is this the place we're supposed to meet for the walking tour?" The deep baritone seems to be right next to my ear, and I leap away from it, my heart suddenly racing.  Speechless, I looked up and stared into wild brown eyes and a smiling face that seemed incongruous. A shiver raced down my spine. He towered over me, and his shaggy brown hair and unkempt beard dropped leaves and twigs as he moved.  How the hell had someone so big moved so quietly?  I felt another twinge of nervousness, recalling old news stories of a survivalist who escaped into the forest after slaughtering his family.  Was this the same man?  Had he been watching me? 

"What are you doing here?" I asked, rubbing my hand over my chest to slow my heart.  "This is private property."  

"So this isn't the place for the walking tours?"  Still smiling, the man took a step closer to me, invading my personal space, as if daring me to move away.  My gut clenched, fear soaking every pore. Somehow, I knew that I was in a dangerous situation.  Now I needed to get myself out. 

"There are no walking tours on this mountain, Mister," I struggled to sound polite, my mind racing.  The house was a good quarter mile away; I'd moved out here for the solitude. My phone was sitting next to my water bottle and towel on the other side of the gazebo.  Would I be able to grab the phone while running past?  Somehow I didn't think so.

"You sure are pretty," he breathed out, the fetid air choking me briefly.  He stepped closer, and reached out to touch my hair.  "I need me a wife, and I'm thinking that you'll do."

"NO!" I shouted in his face. In spite of my terror, I stepped forward and kicked out as hard as I could.  My foot connected with his knee, there was a horrible snap, and my attacker screamed as he fell heavily.  I took off running toward my house, my haven, my sanctuary, as fast as my legs and my lungs would carry me.

And ran right into a police officer, my momentum toppling us both to the grass.  The police officer rolled us both until he was on top of me, his hand over my mouth as I was about to scream. Kind blue eyes looked into mine.

"Just breathe, Miss Collins,"  he said quietly.  "I've got you.  You're safe."

I could hear the sounds of gunfire over the sound of my heartbeat.


Prompt: "Taking a deep breath," and/or "jagged"

Fiction: Night Sounds

Sometimes at night, when I can hear the patter of light rain on the roof, I close my eyes and I listen.  In the darkness, the rain becomes a multitude of whispers for my ears only. I use the voices of the dead to find things; lost artifacts, jewelry, the occasional dead body.  So far it's been a decent living, mostly because I seem to be the only one around who has this ability.  Tonight I'm listening for chatter that will tell me the next step, but the voices are also a comfort, in the darkness.

At least I'm never really alone.

Our dead have departed this earth, we are told. They are in heaven. While the idea of heaven is wonderful, most of the departed prefer to remain with their families.  The dead that are able to stay, do.  They want to protect us. At the moment of death, all the dead can see what is out there in the darkness, waiting.  Whatever it is, it terrifies them.

The voices of the dead are unceasing.  Most humans can hear those voices if they try, but many just stop listening in order to protect their sanity.  They must tune those whispers out, dismiss what they heard as imagination, or lose their minds.  Because the dead never stop talking. Most don't say much of importance, of course. Some are downright boring.  Still, I make time to listen to what they say, because it's my job.

I've heard dead voices since the day I was born, and believe me, that got old fast.  The dead don't care that a living being might not want to discuss the Crash of '29, or that humans might actually want to hear normal conversation from each other.  I'd yell at them, but it wouldn't do any good: the dead never stop talking long enough to listen.

Thankfully, I've learned to tune them out most of the time; I would have gone mad long ago.  I have learned to focus on the voice I want, and to screen out the rest, but occasionally the constant chatter overwhelms me.

I pause my reverie suddenly and sit up in bed, reaching for the small iron cross that I wear at all times.  I heard something, and my mind tries to zero in. A small voice among the chorus running through the rain has snagged my attention. A young one, struggling to be heard above the din of older, and louder, voices.

"Quiet for a moment, please." I say this aloud in the darkness, and the dead surrounding me lower their litanies for a second, allow me to focus on that small voice. The image of a young girl, barely ten years old, springs into my mind. I remember reading about her murder in the newspaper of the last town I passed through. She is on the verge of hysteria, being newly deceased, determined to be heard.

"It's coming!" She screams at me from the edges of my awareness. "It's coming! IT'S COMING!"

A frission of fear skitters over me.  What's coming? 



The prompt: "I close my eyes and I listen." and/or "iron"

Not sure what direction this is headed.  Any concrit is welcome.

Fiction: The New Guy

David stared at the doorway where Caroline had just disappeared, though his mind was full of a vague buzzing. He had a daughter?

He searched his memories, turning them over and exposing them to the light.  Caroline had shown up that night in Memphis, just before he left the country. David could still see her tear-stained face, her lower lip trembling. He had expected her to beg him to stay, to cry, anything. Instead, she had thanked him for the loan that saved her farm, and then walked away.

Had she been carrying his daughter then? 

A wave of anger snaked over David's skin. Why hadn't Caroline told him? She could have called! Or emailed. Hell, even a good old fashioned handwritten letter would have done the trick. Anything. He would have come right away, would have done his duty. He would have met his responsibilities.

...And he was lying. All the anger drained away, and David put his head in his hands.

Back then, if Caroline had told him that she was pregnant, he would have run very fast and very far. He would have hit the road and never looked back, considering himself lucky to have dodged the responsibility.  He even remembered telling her, one summer night long ago, that he never wanted to settle down, that he wanted to spend his days doing as he pleased, with nothing to hold him back.

That was who he was.

"I'm not that man anymore," David whispered to the sunny bedroom, and the curtains waved gently in the direction of the door.

"Coming?" Caroline smiled at him from the doorway, mentioning him to follow. He stood up, made sure his jeans were buttoned, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. He wondered what kind of person his little girl was.

Time to find out.

Summer's End

This is a continuation of last week's adventure. 

After seeing to the animals on the farm, they spent most of that summer day naked in bed, their arms and legs entwined. Caroline had opened the windows, and a lazy breeze drifted through the room, helped along by the slowly turning ceiling fan above them.  They both knew that there would be hard work to come, but were content to set the world outside the door for a little while.
 
Occasionally they talked, he on his back, her head on his chest. David wanted to share everything, to reveal the dark and secret corners of his heart to her. To tell her that she was the one, that he would never love another. He knew that Caroline would just push him away, like she always did. Instead he told her stories of his years at college and his time in the military.  She burst into giggles as he talked about the first time he ate a tamale.

"Did you really eat the corn husk?" Caroline was breathy with laughter. "You're just kidding me, right?"  She ran her fingers up his arm, scooping up a couple of ladybirds that had found the coolness of their room inviting.  They ran along her hand, scurrying their way to the tips of her fingers before flying into the air. David held up his right hand.

"Swear to God, I ate the whole thing," he laughed at the memory. "I didn't want to be rude, and I was hungry.  I couldn't understand Spanish, and I had no idea why people were laughing until one of the guys filled me in."

"Do you miss it?" Caroline lifted her head, her face close and suddenly serious. Her eyes seemed to be looking through him, looking for something she couldn't name.  David shook his head, hoping that she could see his heart. 

"If I had missed it, would I have come back here?"  His voice was rougher than he intended; he was suddenly tired of holding back his feelings.  If she ran from him, he would wait for her to return, just like he did with a skittish horse.  "You're all I thought about while I was away, Caroline. I thought my feelings would change, that I would forget about you. I never did."

"You say that now, David," Caroline looked away, her voice sad. "And I want to believe you. I always want to believe you. But summer will end, and who's to say that you won't be far away come winter?"

He gently cupped her face, running his thumb over her bottom lip.

"I'm not that guy anymore, Caroline," he whispered.  "I am here, and I am here to stay."

"Mama! I'm home from camp!" They both heard the girl's voice as the screen door slammed.   David stared at Caroline, a slow realization freezing his features. Caroline smiled gently at him, then sat up and began searching the floor for her clothes.  She tossed his jeans at him.

"David, it's time for you to meet your daughter."





Prompt:“... summer will end” and/or “ladybirds”

The Taste of Summer

David's pleasant dreaming evaporated when he rolled over and found her side of the bed empty.  A glance at the clock on her nightstand was unnecessary; the sunlight forcing its way between the slats on the blinds told him that morning had arrived. 

With a groan, David sat up, scrubbing his face of sleep.  As he located his jeans on the floor near the door, he wondered what sort of reception he would find when he left the bedroom.  Would Caroline remember their feud, or would last night's lovemaking still be on her mind?  Should he play it cool, or let his feelings rule?  The unexpected eruption of passion that had rocked David last night was more than he had ever thought to find again.

He wanted more, but he wasn't sure how Caroline felt.

He quietly made his way into the kitchen when he heard the screen door slam.  He stopped cold.  Clad only in his t-shirt, Caroline held a small bucket full of strawberries. She made her way to the sink, her bare feet leaving wet tracks on the floor.  She dumped the fruit into the sink and turned on the faucet, motioning for him to open a cabinet.  He pulled out a bowl and brought it to her, then just stood back.  David was suddenly fascinated by her hands.  Her fingers had been so soft when they slid over his skin just hours earlier. Yet he knew that she took care of the entire farm by herself.

"Strawberries always remind me of summer." Her voice was soft, distracting. The rich timbre rolled over his skin, raising goosebumps.  Caroline's hands had stopped, and his eyes lifted to her face.  He realized that her lips were still swollen from his kisses, and he liked that.  I thought that she hated me. David had been wrong about that.  He had been wrong about a lot of things. He smiled; so much for playing it cool.

"But you have to pick them early, before the heat, because that's when they taste the best." Caroline picked up and examined an uncut strawberry, red and ripe. She moved closer to David, her eyes glazed with passion. She bit into the fruit, the juice exploding over her lips and dripping onto his shirt. His shirt.  The truth hit him.

"Oops." Caroline's smile was an invitation.  David's eyes focused a moment on the stains where the roundness of her curves began.  In his shirt.  His hands grabbed her waist and he pulled her mouth to his. He could taste the strawberry, the sun, the earth, and the sky in her kiss. 

She was his world.




Summer


Hehehe...summer is all about the heat...right? I'm going to go cool off now.