Ripening

They parked the truck off the road outside of town, underneath an old oak tree, so they didn't have to spend any money for a hotel.  Libby waited in the cab while James dragged an old blanket from behind the seat and spread it on the now empty bed of the truck. She climbed over the tailgate and sat on the blanket, and removed her coat, bunching it up to form a pillow.  She lay back, listening to the night sounds, until James climbed into the back of the truck.  Libby rolled away, her back to him, and tried to sleep.

She was so tired.  All of her dreams seemed as far away as the stars.  They'd driven all this way to sell the last of the cattle, and what they made wouldn't even be enough to keep the bank from foreclosing, let alone pay for her to attend college for even a semester.  How was she supposed to make a better life for herself, like her mother wanted, if she couldn't even get off of the farm?

And James?  Sometimes Libby felt as though she had known him her entire life, they fit together so well.  He seemed to sense her emotions before she was even able to name them.  He'd listened to her for hours as she talked about the life that she now was never going to live.  He made her laugh, and held her when she cried more times this summer than she cared to remember.  Libby had thought that James had somehow been sent to her, that her destiny might have been with him. She prayed that it was so, but those prayers had never been answered. He was so radiantly beautiful, so kind, and he wasn't interested in her at all.  He'd never even tried to kiss her!

She realized that she was crying again, and she clenched her body tightly, so that James wouldn't hear her.  And then his arms were around her, pulling her to him.

"Come here," he whispered, and just held her, stroking her hair softly.

Libby had no idea how long she cried. She had borne so many hurts this summer, big and small. She let herself grieve for all of them, as she never had before.  And then the storm was past, and Libby felt empty.  She took a shuddering breath, and let herself feel the strength of the arms wrapped around her. 

Those arms anchored her, and even if there was nothing more to be had from those arms but strength, she would be grateful. Even if it broke her heart.



This is a continuation of the story I started here.

***

“What is happening to me happens to all fruits that grow ripe.
It is the honey in my veins that makes my blood thicker, and my soul quieter.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

Unraveled

Royce' s first day on the job, and he ended up on guard duty in the most crowded courtroom on the planet. Sweat was already pouring down the back of his gray polyester uniform as he waited by the door, monitoring the mass of people trying to cram themselves into what was billed as the trial of the century.

Delatorre, Royce's mentor, motioned him closer to the bench, and Royce waded into the sea of sweaty civilians and joined him.

"First day," Delatorre smiled. "You got lucky, kid."

"I don't know, sir," Royce pulled at his collar. "This looks like more than I can handle."

"Nah, most everybody behaves," Delatorre scanned the room as he spoke. "The judge already threatened them pretty good."

"Who is that old lady in the front row?" Royce had noticed her when the courtroom opened. She was the first one in the door, and although it had taken her a few minutes to get to the front, people made a place for her right behind the defendant's chair.

"That is what we call a murder groupie, rookie."  Delatorre's tone became sarcastic. "She's been here every day since the preliminaries, just sitting there knitting. Sometimes she reaches over and straighten the guy's collar, or pulls off the stray hairs from his coat. It's sickening."

" Why let her in?" Royce watched the old lady, her head nodding in time to her stitch. Her lips were moving as she worked; it reminded him of his grandmother, who used to pray to herself while she worked.

"It's a free country, man," Delatorre shrugged. Both men came to attention as the judge entered the room and brought the court to order. The defendant entered soon after, a smile on his face. Clarkson had suddenly pled guilty to the sadistic rape and murder of one girl, with the understanding that he would not be charged for the other 17 bodies that had been found. The death penalty was off the table to avoid a lengthy court battle.

Royce felt a chill move over his skin at the sight of the man; he was sure that the guy had killed more that would never be found. Clarkson radiated pure evil, he thought. He was glad he did not have to stand close to the guy.

The judge and the lawyers conferred, and then the judge announced that the families of the victims would be allowed to read statements describing the impact Clarkson' s crimes had had on them.

Only one woman stood, and there was a soft gasp in the courtroom. The frail old lady, who had sat through months of back and forth between the lawyers, jury selections, and a million pretrial motions, slowly made her way to the stand. She turned to face Clarkson, her knitting still in her hand, and straightened her spine. As Royce watched, she seemed to expand and grow taller, her outrage infusing her with momentary strength.

"I am Natasha Treblinka," she began. Clarkson smirked; he recognize the name.

"You murdered my granddaughter," Natasha's became stronger as she spoke. "She cries out for justice, but the judge has decided that there will be no trial for her. So be it. I and the others whose children you have killed will have justice, however."

Royce jumped as the old woman raised her arms, the garment she had been knitting in her hands.  He moved his hand away from his gun and exhaled.  The old woman pulled loose the first stitch, and the yarn so carefully created began to unravel.

At first no one knew what was happening, but as Clarkson began to scream, and as the blood poured from his chair, the crowd seemed to be holding their breath. They all watched as Clarkson unraveled before them, his screams becoming more frenzied and piteous. He screamed for the mercy he never gave another living soul, and then he was gone, nothing but eight pints of blood soaking into the wooden floorboards of the courtroom.

Silence.

"Case dismissed." The judge stood, and Natasha Treblinka of the Roma clan, began to move slowly away from the stand toward the exit.

Royce leaned over and vomited.



This is probably more than 500 words, and I apologize. I cut as much as I could.

“Are you really sure that a floor can’t also be a ceiling?”
― M.C. Escher

***

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

Just Like Heaven

She crept so quietly into his dreams that Nathan barely noticed at first. The woman was a small, pale face at a window, a beautiful stranger waiting at a curb to cross at the light. So many different scenes, and she was there. Once Nathan registered her presence, she seemed to be everywhere, almost out of awareness. It was as if she did not want him to see her. She merely watched him, her violet eyes staring as Nathan fought his dream battles, or sought out quests. He wondered at it, this slip of femininity, so beautiful and frail, ethereal.

It wasn't long before Nathan found himself daydreaming, his thoughts of her coming to the front of his mind no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on his work. He imagined her as a new co-worker, as if his dreams of her were suddenly come to life. What would he say to her, he wondered. Would she even be interested in a guy like him, he thought, looking at his thin arms with disgust. Nathan thought of himself as no physical match for the men he saw at the gym.  Still, he could not deny that he was daydreaming about a figment of his imagination.  He should be worried about his mental state.  He should be concerned that his brain was faltering.

He was not concerned.  He was intrigued.

On this night, his dream took him to the edge of a cliff, the deep blue of the ocean revealing jagged rocks as the tide receded below.  Nathan had always feared falling; he shivered and stepped away.  Turning, he saw her, the moonlight silhouetting her body underneath the pale vintage nightgown she was wearing.  He stood perfectly still as she approached, her eyes darkening to amethyst as she stared at him.  Nathan breathed in the scent of her as she finally stopped in front of him; the smell of rosemary left a taste of her in the back of his throat, and he savored it. 

He wanted to speak, but was afraid to break the enchantment she had thrown about him.  He remained still, staring into her eyes. She finally stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips softly to his, her delicate fingers brushing his cheek. Nathan closed his eyes in ecstasy, his entire being exalted.  He had the barest sensation of her movement, a slight breeze as she passed him.  Surprised, he turned, aware of the cliffs behind him.

He was too late.  The girl stepped out into the air, suspended for a moment.  Nathan's heart stopped as she looked over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his.

"Follow," she said, and disappeared. Nathan peered over the edge; he could see her, the distance between them becoming impossible.

He followed.




I used the picture, and while I was writing this, that Cure song kept playing in my head, so that's why the title. 

Middle of Nowhere

The wind swept over the grass in the fallow fields as Libby sat on the tailgate.  In the distance, storm clouds gathered, moving to the north.  The north didn't need the rain, she thought.  The water would ruin the corn crop if there was too much of it.  But at least that'd be way more interesting than sitting here on the side of the road watching the grass grow.  Her father had sent her out here to wait.  She couldn't remember what she was waiting for, but at eighteen, did it really matter? 

Libby felt as thought she'd been waiting half her life, only to be slapped down. Just last week she got the letter denying her a loan for college because the farm was already in the red.  She was stuck.  The rich, dark soil of the farm was suffocating her, covering her with seed, water, and fertilizer.  She would die here, her bones calcifying underneath that soil while the worms did their work. 

A plume of dust approached in the distance, and Libby sat up as she recognized the sound of a truck sliding and skidding over gravel.  A visitor! She smoothed her hair, wiped the shine away from her nose, and stood up.  The driver saw her at the last, slamming his brakes and sliding halfway into the irrigation ditch before he stopped.  The swirl of dust choked her briefly, filling her lungs with the very soil of her nightmares.  Libby's eyes teared and she was bent over in a fit of coughing while the stranger slammed the truck door and walked around to her.  

"Sorry about that."

The first thing she saw were a pair of dusty cowboy boots, their best days long past. The jeans weren't much better, the hem frayed, and one knee ripped.  The view improved as her eyes traveled upward; a lean pair of hips, wide shoulders, well-defined arms in a snug fitting gray t-shirt. A strong jawline, tanned skin, the curl of dark hair that begged for touching.  And eyes the color of a winter sky.

He was smiling as though he knew her.

Libby felt her stomach drop.  Her heart seemed to stop beating, and right then, she was okay with that.  If she had to die looking at such a beautiful man, she was resigned to her fate.  The stranger touched her arm, and suddenly she could breathe again.  He held on to her as she stumbled a little, her knees weak.  She stared at him.

"I think I'm lost," he said. 

"Me too," she replied.

Still round the corner there may wait, A new road or a secret gate.

~J. R. R. Tolkien

Image courtesy of Unsplash.
 

Last Train

She took the last train to Clarksville.  As the crowded car drew her closer to the man she loved, Eleanor caressed the old camera he had given her last year. When Jeremy had left for basic training, her heart felt his absence keenly.  There were daily reminders of him everywhere, from the many pictures of the two of them on her dresser to the smell of the feedlot where he'd worked.  Was there any place for her in his life now, or was this a trip to heartbreak? 

Six weeks apart was a long time, and Eleanor wondered if he still resembled the lean eighteen year old boy who left her crying on the front porch.  As the train rolled into the Clarksville station, she stared into the crowd, searching for his face.

Jeremy was waiting for her next to the exit, the set of his shoulders a beacon in a sea of people. Eleanor couldn't help herself; she dropped her bag and threw herself into his arms.  The camera swung around and hit his back. Jeremy laughed and hugged her back. He pulled back to look at her.

"Hello to you too," he smiled, wiping a tear from her cheek. He lifted her chin and kissed her hard, pulling her hands into his and clasping them to his chest. When he pulled away, Eleanor found a tiny diamond sparkling on the ring finger of her left hand.  Her heart hammered in her chest, the sound resounding throughout her body.

"Oh yes! Yes!" Eleanor didn't want to cry, but the tears poured from her eyes anyway.  She made a fist of her left hand, fiercely guarding her ring.

"I have a car waiting to take us to the chapel right now.  The chaplain said if we hurry, he'll marry us today," Jeremy had her bag in his hand and was already walking her toward the street, the sound of the terminal dimming behind them.

"What?" Eleanor stopped. "Why so soon, Jeremy? I wanted our parents to see us marry."

"Eleanor," Jeremy took her face in his hands. "I am shipping out tomorrow.  I'll be in Viet Nam before the week is out."  He held his breath. She held the whole of his world within her.

Eleanor stared at him a moment. He was her whole world, and he would be leaving her again.  She wanted this part of him, to have and hold in the days to come.

"Well then," her chin lifted.  "We will just have to take lots of pictures."

***

“When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.”
~Ansel Adams

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

I was listening to the Monkee's "Last Train to Clarksville", and I started feeling extremely sorry for that guy, sitting at a train station, about to ship off to a place where he would probably not return from. I wanted to give him a little happiness.  

Stalker

Karen could not pinpoint the exact moment that she knew she was being watched. It had been going on for months. Initially a vague uneasiness, or a tingle between her shoulder blades, the sensation grew until she found herself constantly looking around her, searching for the eyes she felt so strongly.

There was never anything there, but she checked anyway. 

Her friends and coworkers were concerned.  Karen tried to make light of her need to look for cameras in the air vents in her office, but the truth was that she was becoming overwhelmed by the feeling that someone was staring at her.  Was she just being paranoid?  She didn't think so.

Then there came the little gifts.  A white flower left on her desk.  A box of her favorite chocolates. Small, surprise tokens of affection began appearing in odd places, such as the Crabtree & Evelyn hand cream that somehow found a way into her medicine cabinet.

The security of her home felt violated; even with the curtains closed tightly and the doors and windows locked, she could not shake the fear that someone was there.  The feeling had been especially strong two weeks ago.

She had awakened in the darkness, heart racing, with the distinct impression that someone was in her bedroom with her.  Her eyes had fallen on a dark corner of the room, where a menacing figure seemed to be sitting. Karen had lain awake for the rest of the night, praying that it was just a pile of laundry thrown on a chair.  In the daylight Karen could discard her fears as irrational, a figment of her sleep-deprived imagination.  Except the next night brought the same dream, and the night after that, and so on. The menacing dark figure seemed larger, more corporeal.  Last night Karen felt as though the dark figure were looming over her as she hid cowering underneath her covers.

Before she left for work in the morning, she had moved that chair into the next room.  It was a heavy piece of furniture, and it took her some time.  The relief she felt was worth it.  Karen thought that maybe it was time to get rid of that chair.  Her ex-boyfriend had given it to her, but the chair was merely useful to her now.  Gavin had been dead for at least a year, and they had broken up not long before that.  Maybe it was time to let the chair go, she decided, as she walked into her house that evening.

The chair was back in the corner of her bedroom.  Dark marks on her wood floor mapped the trail it took, as if the chair had not wanted to be moved.  Karen felt terror swelling in her gut as she stifled a scream.  Hysterical, she called the police, who arrived with calm reason, took her statement, and searched the place to ease her mind.

"It looks like you have a stalker, ma'am," Officer Carlson had told her.

It made perfect sense.  Karen felt stalked; the prey waiting to be devoured. Hearing her fears validated in some way was liberating; if she did have a stalker, the police were on the job.  They would take care of everything, she thought as she fell asleep.

She awoke hours later, her heart racing, as if she had been running.  Her eyes immediate fled to the corner of the room, searching for that dark figure.  It wasn't there.  Karen breathed a sigh of relief, then another, and was grateful that there was no midnight visitor sitting in the corner. 

An arm encircled her waist from behind, pulling her close. 

Pine Box

It was the blessed smell of pine that pulled my consciousness back to the surface.  There's nothing in the world like the smell of fresh cut pine, especially when the cold weather comes rolling down from the mountains with the snow.  For a moment, I simply inhaled that wonderful scent, thinking of Christmas.  Then I opened my eyes.

Darkness.  Pitch black.  I could see nothing.  Confused, I lifted my hand to touch my eyes. There was a hollow sound as my knuckles struck something very close.  Too close. I froze a moment, then my hands moved to either side of me and touched the rough texture of wood.  I kicked my feet and the hollow knocking reverberated within the confines of my resting place. 

I was inside a coffin.  A coffin made of pine boards.  Panic swelled inside of me.  I finally came back to myself, my throat swollen and sore, my hands battered and slick with what could only be blood.  In my hysteria, I had kicked at the sides of my prison, and I had knocked a pine knot out of a board.  The light that seeped into my dark place was heavenly, as was the icy, fresh air. 

Calmer, I began to think.  It was winter, and the ground was too hard for burying.  I must be in the shed behind the funeral parlor.  I felt a little wiggle as I adjusted my body to the confining space, which meant that the pine box I was in was likely propped on a sawhorse to let the cold air circulate around my body.  It would be at least four months before the temperatures allowed the earth to be turned for burials; unless someone else died, nobody would be coming out to this shed for some time.

I couldn't wait.  I put both my hands flat out in front of me and pushed.  I wiggled.  I rocked.  I kicked. Finally, the pine box toppled slowly over and I was falling, my stomach lurching just before I hit the ground with a crack as the coffin split at one corner.  I pushed and pulled at the splintered wood until the hole was big enough, then I struggled out. 

The cold immediately turned my skin blue, but I took a moment to be grateful.  Then I picked up the remnants of a pine board and went to the door of the shed. 

My sister needed a lesson.

Rainbow

Mr. Matthias of Matthias Talents, Inc., strolled up the driveway from the road, as if he were simply admiring the green glass jars perched precariously atop the picket fence. He knew that the girl and her mother were waiting, but he took his time.  He preferred to savor their anxiety, breathing in their fears with an almost feral glee.  He was their only hope, their only ticket out of this godforsaken backwater, and everyone knew that. What they didn't know is that he took their money and never made a single phone call to a movie producer or modeling agency. Mr. Matthias specialized in finding a certain kind of talent.

The sole of his well-shod foot had only barely touched the dingy welcome mat when the door was yanked open.  The girl was indeed a beauty, her skin pale and perfect, her blonde hair homespun gold.  She smiled at him tremulously, good manners overcoming her natural curiosity.

"Mr. Matthias! Won't you come in?" She held the door, and took his hat.   Her mother sat on the couch, her hands folded in her lap. She nodded to him as he sat down.  Both mother and daughter leaned forward in anticipation.

"I'm sorry, but you're just not what the producers are looking for at the moment."  Mr. Matthias had practiced his bad news face until it was second nature. But with Miss Elizabeth, he found some difficulty concealing his joy at destroying her dreams.  The rainbow in her eyes had burned with such delicious intensity that he could not help but celebrate as it flared and died.  Miss Elizabeth's shoulders slumped forward, a sob escaping.

"Please, Mr. Matthias! I'll do anything!"

Mr. Matthias specialized in finding a certain kind of talent. Talent that would pay him a significant finder's fee.  They'd pay extra if Miss Elizabeth was a virgin.  She would just disappear one day, of course, but that was the cost of doing business.





The prompt is the third definition of the word RAINBOW.


The prompt is this picture:

image courtesy of Unsplash, Creative Commons

And a quote from Sylvia Plath: "August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time."

Crossroads

Millie's Tavern was the kind of place where both the hopeless and the desperate came to quietly drink themselves into oblivion. The building tilted precariously next to a dusty crossroads.  A dark cloud seemed to hover over the roof, blocking all possibility of sunlight, and the windows were grimy with the dirt of ages.  Loud, heavy music could be heard all all hours, Motorhead's "Ace of Spades" occasionally rattling the windows of houses miles away.

Cadence Jones stepped into the tavern doorway.  A glowing smile on his face, he took in the low hanging cloud of smoke, the lack of good lighting, and the barest scent of sulphur.  Murmurs of conversation floated around him, punctuated by raucous laughter.  The bartender had been spirited directly from the 1880s, with muttonchop sideburns and a prodigious mustache. Above the bartender's head, a large sign sat on the wall. TRY THE SOULBINDER IF YOU DARE!  

Exactly what he was here for.

"I'll have that." Cadence pounded once on the bar to get the bartender's attention and pointed.  All music and conversation stopped, a hunger in the air.  The entire bar was listening; Cadence politely refrained from noticing.  Hands shaking, the bartender began the concoction.  When he was finished, a foul black liquid was placed into a stone cup and placed in front of Cadence.  The mixture resembled hot tar, and smelled of death.

"You must drink the entire SOULBINDER in one swallow," the bartender read the rules from an obscure manual.  "If you can do so, all debts are forgiven, and we are free. Otherwise, your soul is bound to Millie's. We brand you with her mark and you'll be stuck here."  

A warning completely ignored.  Cadence tilted his head back and downed the entire drink.  There was a flash and then the entire bar vanished, leaving Cadence sitting in the dust.

Score one for alcoholic angels, Cadence chuckled.





The prompt is the third definition of the word "BRAND".



Let me introduce you to Millie:

Millie’s Tavern, Hampton Beach NH

Millie was a character. I just know it. But what an incongruous image for a bar sign, right?
So for this week’s Write at the Merge, our weekly writing prompt and link up — where we give you two points of inspiration, 500 words, and from Sunday to Thursday to write and share your fiction, non-fiction, or poetry, I give you Millie’s Tavern sign, and the first song that popped into my head the night I saw it: (Beastie Boys' "No Sleep Til Brooklyn")

The Family Tree

"Come in, come in!"  Stanislav motioned the visitor to come over to the window where he sat.  A bare tree with blackened branches sat just outside the window, several branches sitting on the open window sill.   Stefan entered the room, bowing, and sat where he was directed.   An awkward silence descended as the two men eyed each other with the same ice-blue eyes, the same proud chin. 

"So!"  Stanislav clapped his hands together.  "You are blood--er, family?"   The old man's accent was thick, reminding Stefan of his long dead grandfather.  He smiled as he nodded.

Stanislav leaned forward.  "I thought that all such records had been destroyed."

"My great-great grandmother, your sister, kept a bible,"  Stefan began, but Stanislav cut him off.

"Ah yes, a bible.  She has a sense of humor, my sister."  Stanislav sat back thoughtfully, staring out of the open window.   More of the branches seemed to be protruding into the open window, as if the tree were trying to climb inside.  "She never understood that our Druid blood is cursed."

"You should not have come, young man." Stanislav began chanting softly, and his head dropped forward to his chest.  Concerned, Stefan stood up.  A hungry black branch shot from the tree at the window, piercing Stefan's Achilles.  He screamed as a second branch pierced his wrist; a third tore through his throat, silencing him.  The rest of the branches impaled Stefan in a macabre embrace.

Stanislav watched sadly as the tree drained the blood from Stefan, then pulled the lifeless body over the window sill and deep into the soil, where the roots would feast upon the remains.  The tree was alive once more.  Bright pink blooms were rapidly sprouting  from the once dead branches,  and Stanislav felt the rush of health flooding his veins, healing his afflictions.

He would call his sister this evening, to thank her for her sacrifice.






The prompt is the third definition of the word 'blood'.



The prompt is a tree blooming with pink flowers, and a quote.  

Decision Point

Elena  still couldn't believe her luck.  Marcellus, guitar god of  Odin's Cult, had asked her onstage during the concert!  She had actually stood next to Marcellus, petrified to be all-at-once in front of the screaming crowd.   Thousands of hands extended into the air in front of her, swaying with the over-the-recommended decibel range of the music.  Marcellus even drifted over in the middle of his solo to stand next to her, just so he could give her a kiss on the cheek!   The crowd roared their approval, and Elena couldn't have dreamed of ever being so happy. Onstage with her favorite band and the most gorgeous guitar player ever!

Starstruck and giggling, she allowed herself to be led backstage to the dressing room, envisioning the door that would open for her as the girlfriend of a member of Odin's Cult. Did the girlfriends get their own special passes to shows?  She smiled to herself as she entered the room.  Marcellus closed and locked the door behind her, but it barely registered in her fantasy.

Instead, Elena barely withheld a squeal of delight when Marcellus began to speak to her.  That voice!  She wanted to tell this great man how awesome he was for bringing her backstage and how she was such a huge fan, but he put a finger on her lips.

"Here's how this works, love."  His suddenly brisk tone was jarring. "I am a rock star.  I have needs.  I don't need any sappy "I love you" crap.  I just need a warm body for tonight, because I don't like to sleep alone.  I will use you as I see fit, and then I will be on my way to the next city.  You will get a limo ride home, and maybe a free t-shirt.  It's entirely likely that you will never see me again. Do you understand?"  

Elena nodded slowly, her smile gone.

"Good." Marcellus stood in front of her.  "Then on your knees, love."



Concrit is very welcome!


This week's word is:

DOOR

3: a means of access or participation : opportunity

Cellar Door

"Certain words or phrases are infinitely more lyrical than others,"  Nigel was talking to himself again. Nobody else would respond; it was his house, and Nigel was a mean drunk.   It was all about the image with Nigel, and we were happy to play along.  We were all so full of ourselves that a sort of ennui had settled, so that all the days and nights seemed exactly the same, stretching out in a never ending nothingness. 

Until Charles brought a date to the party.   Some girl he'd met at the speakeasy he'd been frequenting of late; a perky, cheerful girl with an easy laugh. She wasn't really dressed for dinner, but we enjoyed our new plaything. She found Nigel's piano in the study, and began to play.  We all gathered round, grateful for the change of pace.  Nigel stood rigidly in the door, staring at Charles' date while she played, jaw muscles clenching.  The piano player was oblivious, but Charles had a smug look, as if he had bested Nigel at some sort of contest.

Nigel moved quickly to the piano and before anyone knew, he struck the girl hard on the side of the head, knocking her away from the piano.  She hit the ground hard, and Nigel kicked her in the head repeatedly, occasionally stomping on her.  All this with his martini in hand, and we just watched. Nobody moved. When it was obvious that the perky girl was dead, Nigel just stopped, breathing heavily. He gulped the last of his martini.

Nigel pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and threw toward Charles.  The rain of money startled us all, though none of us were so crass as to pick any of it up. Charles and Nigel stared at one another for a long moment, and we wondered why.

"The cellar door is at the end of the hallway," Nigel finally said, as he turned to leave. "You need to throw your trash in the incinerator." 





THIS IS FICTION.  I don't know a soul named Nigel, and would feel compelled to mock him if I did. Such things never end well. 



Prompt: Third definition of  "rain": 3: to take a lot of money in bill form and toss it up in the air. This is most effectively done at a strip club for the effect of raining one dollar bills on the dancers (and it makes them feel so pretty), or to snub a hater by throwing money into their face that then falls to the floor like rain (use this when paying a debt to a punk bitch who keeps asking for their money to the point that they are ruining your friendship or when dumping someone who has been bankrolling you for a while now that you're making money). 





The password is "cellar door" or a picture of a propeller.

Promises Are Made

He'd promised his mother. 

She lay dying that day, her body wasted, worn away by her countless worries and imagined transgressions. She had gripped his hand tightly, her face a rictus of anguish, her voice strong in resolve.

"Promise me! Now!" she hissed, and her son felt that he had had no choice.  As her life faded, Curtis promised.  He would join the priesthood, he vowed, and spend the rest of his life praying for the soul of his dear mother.  Those prayers, and the sacrifice of her only son, would ensure that she might rest comfortably in the arms of the saints in a way that had escaped her in life.

Curtis felt safe making that promise, secure in his resistance to the lure of feminine wiles.  In the twenty-eight years he had lived, he had never even felt a twinge of interest toward women. Or men, for that matter.  No sexual attraction ever seemed to infect him.  Over time, Curtis had begun to feel immune, vaccinated somehow against sexual urges.

After the funeral, Curtis sold the house and most of his possessions, intending the money to go to the Church.  It was only by chance that he passed the travel agency and spotted the poster.  A cruise of the Mediterranean, including a side trip to Rome. Curtis couldn't resist a visit to the Vatican, not with the priesthood awaiting him.

Yet as he stood in St. Peter's Square, admiring the Basilica, his gaze was arrested by a woman's legs, golden and glistening, as they passed him.  Curtis could not look away, mesmerized by their motion. His stomach fluttered, his breath caught in his chest, and he began following blindly, working up the courage to speak to her.   His mother would never forgive him, but God likely would. 




The prompt is the the third definition of the word "infect". 



Speaking of legs… we’re offering you a photo and a song this week. (I refuse to post the song, because I might lose my Headbanger mosh pit cred. Yes, that's a thing.)  Happy writing!
The photograph:

image courtesy of Dean McCoy Photography

Let's Play

"Wow, it's raining cats and dogs out there!  Sort of ruins the weekend mood, don't you think?"

"Mmmm?"  I was lost, deep within a dark mountain of paperwork.  We were short on staff and long on bookings at the office.  I was trying to juggle several accounts at once, pushing myself hard, in hopes of landing a promotion at the next performance review.  I had been up all night, with no end in sight.

"I said that I was going to slather my naked body in ranch dressing," David said from somewhere behind me.

"Sounds good." I really had no idea what he said. I hugged myself, rubbing my arms to get my cold blood circulating.

"Emily." 

I looked up at the sound of my name, to find David's face kissably close.  He touched my icy cheek, his breath warming my skin.

"You're always working,"  he said, his voice seductive. "Let's play."

"Oh, babe," I groaned, despondent. "I really need to get this done."

David just smiled as he left the room.  I tried to reimmerse myself in balance sheets once more. My eyes strayed several times to the window, the gray of the rain echoing my mood.   I sighed heavily in the silence. 

The sudden blare of the music startled me, and I turned around in my chair.  David was striking a pose in the doorway as the song "You Can Leave Your Hat On" played.  I stared.  My sweetheart was wearing my hot pink boa, a pair of electric blue platform shoes, and his old cowboy hat.

Nothing else.

The laughter burst forth from somewhere in my center, the warmth blooming and spreading throughout my body.  Tears fell from my eyes as the laughter expanded through my pores and brightened the dull of the day.  Jazz hands raised, my beloved danced wobbily toward me, encircling me with that hot pink boa and shimmying in for a kiss. 

"You win," I giggled, as he pulled me close.  "Let's play."




 


The prompt is 'juggle'--3: to handle or deal with usually several things (as obligations) at one time so as to satisfy often competing requirements




This week we’re honoring the genius of Dr. Suess, who was born on March 2, 1904.  Our two Seussical offerings are an image and a line from one of his books. Happy writing!

“I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees for the trees have no tongues.”
Dr. Seuss, from The Lorax

And because a birthday celebration should include everyone, if you don’t find either of these offerings inspiring, use your favorite Dr. Seuss quote or story as inspiration — just leave us a note letting us know what you chose!   I was torn, but ultimately I went with The Cat in the Hat, and their rainy day shenanigans. 

Sacrifices

This is fiction, Ma.

"Sacrifices must be made, Svetlana."  Gregor's voice was hoarse with fatigue and cigarette smoke, but he was firm.

Svetlana stared across the table at Gregor with bleary, half-closed eyes.  They had stayed up all night arguing, a bottle of vodka between them, but Gregor always won these kinds of disagreements.  He could exhaust a topic, spinning a web of words around her until there was no escape; she must give in to his demands. She had tried to leave him before, even moving to America, but he always found her.  Now he offered her a way out.

"How long did Nikolai give you this time?" Svetlana's voice was tinged with a weary resignation; always, Nikolai must be paid, because Gregor could not pass up a wager. 

"Until the end of the week."

"So soon?"

"Nikolai has a reputation, even here in America."

"What if I were to get another job dancing?"  

Gregor snorted at her idea.

"Svetlana, my dear," he smiled at her patronizingly. "You were a has-been before you ever stepped on the stage.  No, there is no other way.  The insurance company will pay double for an accidental death." 

She was too exhausted to get angry at his insult, and so she pushed herself up from the table and stretched, picking up her purse and rummaging through the contents. 

"Will it hurt?"  Her voice was small. 

"Not at all, Svetlana.  It will all be over quickly.  Then the insurance will pay me, and I will pay Nikolai."  He poured the last of the vodka, raising his glass toward her in a toast.  "I will cherish your memory forever for your sacrifice, my love." 

Svetlana picked up her purse, her hand still immersed inside, and the .38 went off with a roar that made her head ring.  Gregor slumped forward, the empty vodka glass shattering on the floor.  She stared at the blood spatter on the wall behind him, and waited for her neighbors to call the police. 

"Sacrifices must be made, Gregor."
 












Prompt:  The word is EXHAUST:  3a : to consider or discuss (a subject) thoroughly or completely  
  b : to try out the whole number of


 

Prompt

It stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there’s someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master.
—Ayn Rand

With Purpose

I was able to combine two prompts.  Yay me! This is fiction.

Josiah had always had an affinity for spiders.  His earliest memory was of watching a spider busily creating an intricate web in the corner of his crib.  That spider had been his only companion that day.  His mother, hardened by alcoholism and the family's extreme poverty, would loudly berate Josiah's always unemployed father for his idle ways as the two sat on the porch and got drunk.  In their need to escape, they often neglected Josiah, who would sit quietly in the corner and watch the spiders until they remembered him.  But Josiah wasn't lonely; he had the spiders for company.  Spiders were never idle. They were purposeful, and that resonated within him, and gave him comfort when nothing else about his meager life could.  He whispered his thoughts to the spiders in the darkness and was content. 

And now, at 97 years of age, Josiah still liked to watch the eight legged denizens of the world spin their creations, building in any available open space, like the corners of his basement.  He had been there watching a beautiful gray house spider last night,  when his heart seemed to seize up in his chest, and he fell, hitting his head against the cinderblock wall.  Since Josiah lived alone, nobody had come to find him fallen and unconscious on the cold basement floor, and nobody was coming to help him now. His heart was racing erratically, his brittle bones vibrating with each pulse, his breathing labored. He was too weak to pull himself into a sitting position, or to get himself up the stairs to the phone to call for help. 

He embraced the idea of dying as if it were a close friend returning from a long trip, and he held it close.  Josiah lay on the floor of his basement and stared up at the unmade ceiling, hoping to see a spider or two for company.The early sunlight peered into the small windows and hit the strands of a web, and he could see the large gray house spider from last night, staring at him as he lay helpless.  She wasn't alone, he realized. Everywhere he looked, he could make out the gleam of tiny eyes.  It seemed to Josiah that there were millions of spiders staring down at him from the rafters, waiting. He coughed, and his heart seized again. It wouldn't be long now, before it would stop beating altogether, and he was not sorry. He just kept watching the spiders.

The spiders began to crawl down from the rafters, and Josiah watched them flow gracefully down the walls toward him.  He wasn't afraid, he was mesmerized at their approach, and when they began to crawl up his legs and arms and over his torso and head, he wasn't afraid.  He felt somehow blessed, and comforted by their presence.  Josiah breathed his last while in their moving embrace, and the spiders, with a new purpose, covered their brother with a gossamer burial shroud and mourned.



The word for today is the third definition is idle.



For this week, your inspiration comes from two words (you are not required to use these words, though you may):
Gossamer: noun; a fine, filmy substance consisting of cobwebs spun by small spiders, which is seen esp. in autumn.
Affinity: noun; ( pl. affinities ) (often affinity between/for/with) a spontaneous or natural liking or sympathy for someone or something: he has an affinity for the music of Berlioz.

One Red Paperclip

Write on Edge prompt:  “I spy with my little eye” is a popular game with children, and their acute observation picks up items adults may not look at twice. This week, choose one of the 14 items in this “I Spy” game and use it in a fiction or creative non-fiction piece. This is fiction.



"We got a live one here, Sarge," Officer Jones joked as he stuck his head into Malcolm's office.  "The victim was one George Marsh, the alleged's husband of 37 years.  Preliminary cause of death appears to be beaning with a cast iron skillet."

Malcolm nodded as he stood, straightening his tie. He was anxious to begin his first interrogation as detective, and he took pains to put on a stern visage as he entered the room and sat down.

At first glance, Harriet Marsh looked unremarkable.  She was on the plump side, with a ruddy,round face, and gray hair pulled tightly back into a severe bun.   He read aloud the charges against Harriet.

Harriet nodded, and Malcolm made a notation.

"Were you read your rights?  Do you want a lawyer?"  

Harriet said, rather cheerfully. "No need for a lawyer. I committed the crime."

Malcolm scribbled her words on the paper, then put quotations around them.

"Mrs. Marsh, why did you kill your husband?"

"Well, dear, it started on Monday." Harriet's voice was a bit shrill, on the verge of mania.  "I spent all week cleaning the house, while George was away on business. It wasn't easy; I'm not as young as I used to be, but it needed to be done."

Harriet rushed on, her haste to explain herself overwhelming any caution. 

"I cleaned out all of the closets and the attic. I scrubbed the floors. I dusted the ceilings.  I polished the furniture. I swept the patio. I cleaned the cornices. I fluffed the pillows and turned the mattresses.  I vacuumed.  I scrubbed the toilets. bathtubs, sinks. The house had never been so clean, not since we first moved in. George never even noticed."  Harriet paused, her eyebrows raised, waiting.

"That must have been difficult." Malcolm encouraged, as he continued taking notes. 

Harriet beamed at Malcolm, then her eyes grew angry.  "George walked in the house and dropped his suitcase. I could not believe it.  No kiss.  No 'I've missed you' or 'It's good to be home'.  He went straight to the fridge for a beer, then to his chair to watch some TV."

"Was that when you killed your husband?" Malcolm paused to glance at Harriet. Wisps of hair had escaped from the severe bun and formed a wavering corona around her face as she shook her head.

"Oh no, George used to watch TV like that every night after work.  I was used to that."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, I was about to go back into the kitchen, when George put his hand in his pants pocket, and pulled out a red paper clip."

"And?"

"And then he threw that paper clip over his shoulder," Harriet seemed to expand, a sudden storm in the interrogation room.  She stood, indignant, her hair flying about her head, electric. "THAT MAN THREW THAT RED PAPER CLIP RIGHT ON MY CLEAN CARPET!!!!" 

Harriet threw herself across the table at Malcolm, her hands claws.

WOE: Gratitude

Write On Edge Prompt: Write a creative non-fiction or fiction piece this week focusing on gratitude. The piece doesn’t necessarily have to be linked to Thanksgiving, but allow the mood of gratitude to infuse your piece. If you find yourself unsure where to begin, start with the question, “For what or whom am I (or is my main character) grateful?” Yes, this is fiction.  Reports to the contrary, I do not own a broomstick.


"For what are you grateful, my child?"  the wizard demanded.  "Focus on that, and draw your spell from it."

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, pondering the wizard's words.  It seemed difficult to focus, with all the eyes of the Elders on me, but that was part of the test.  Sorcerers did not always get to cast their spells when they had optimal conditions.  For what was I grateful?  I let that question flow through my cells, and images began to pour into my mind.  There were so many that I began to feel dizzy from their rush past my consciousness.

My husband's strong arms. The smile of my child.  Hot food.  Warm fires. The laughter of children. Wildflowers on a hillside. A soft bed. The first taste of love, like wine.  Cool breezes on a hot day.  The first day of spring. Pickled beets. A roof over my head. My husband's kisses on the skin of my shoulder.

Gratitude filled my heart as I thought of all the gifts I had been given.  Suddenly the words of the spell burst from my lips without conscious thought.  My skin began to glow brightly in the darkness, and a translucent sphere formed around me as I stood in the center of the circle of Elders.

"Perfect."  The wizard's compliment made my sphere glow brighter. 

Kiss The Rain

Write on Edge prompt:  Weather can be a powerful catalyst in writing. Storms, sunny beach days, and days of rain can impact setting, plot development, and mood. This week, use rain as the inspiration for your fiction or creative non-fiction piece.  I was in a Billie Myers mood. This feels unfinished, but I am not sure where to take it from here. 


Drought had sucked the world dry, blowing the dust of dead things long dessicated into the tiniest of crevice.  And then one day, it began to rain.  When the first fat drops had plopped loudly onto the tin roof of her home, Elena had rejoiced. Laughing, she had scampered into the backyard, dancing as she pulled off her clothes and threw them on the grass. Racing through the rainfall, she remembered  hours playing in the rain, how the rain had whispered to her, her only companion. She washed her hair and body of the months of dust, and felt rejuvenated, like new.  The water flowed over her skin, like many hands caressing her body intimately while she twirled, feeling eyes upon her.  Elena fell asleep in the hammock underneath the protection of an oak tree, the rain falling around her. As she faded, she whispered a long-forgotten name.

A young man stepped out of the rain, his skin rippling as it took shape. He moved gingerly, as if unsure of walking, and made his way to Elena's side.   He stood a moment, watching her sleep, admiring her beauty.  A single drop of water fell from his fingers as he caressed Elena's cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, then met his.   They stared at each other a moment.  Elena's lips parted in a smile, and she opened her arms in invitation.  They fell into each other, mouths fused, as the rain fell around them.

Bibliophile

Write on edge prompt: You have 300 words this week to write about something new: a new character, the beginning of a new story, a new pair of shoes. Your piece can be fiction or creative non-fiction.  I am going with the non-fiction today.


When I was in my twenties and I had a moment or two, I would head for the nearest bookstore.  I would slowly wander the aisles, deeply inhaling that musty, woodsy smell that is distinctly literary.  My friends would find me running my fingers along the bookshelves, learning each book's unique form like a blind girl learning braille. If a particular title grabbed my attention, I would simply pull it off the shelf and cradle it in my arms.  In no time I would have a handful of selected books,  and I could hold no more.

If I were lucky, I would find a small alcove, a hallowed space with a chair or a stool.  I would sit and place the books I had gleaned from my walk in a stack next to me,  and my little area was transformed into the sands of a beach, each book a different shell gathered for exploration. 

I would hold each hardcover book in my hands, running my hands lovingly over the cover.  I would measure the heft and judge the weight of the treasure in my hand.  When I was satisfied that I had a substantial enough tome, my hands would carefully open the book, relishing the stiff snap of the binding.  Holding the book close, I would smell the pages, sighing happily at the ones which bore that faint vanilla smell of home.  Leaving the store with my books hoarded carefully in a bag or two, I always felt quite bold.

All the bookstores around our house have closed.  These days, I reverently open my boxes from Amazon, and pull each book from the box like the sword from the stone, searching for that same treasure hunting experience. 

But it is just not the same.