The Fireman

The mirror behind the bar stared back at me, and under other circumstances, the morose face staring back at me would have made me laugh.  The pathetic face was mine, however, so I just raised my hand so the bartender would bring me another beer.  Since there was no place better to drink away my sorrows over yet another failed relationship than a honkytonk bar on the outskirts of town, that's where I was.  My plan was to drink until I forgot the last year or so, and I was three beers in, listening to George Strait on the jukebox.

Yeah, they call me the Fireman, that's my name,

making my rounds all over town, putting out old flames...


"Would you like to dance?" 

I turned to glare at the baritone voice that interrupted my drunk. He was tall, his white shirt tucked into pressed jeans, and the gleam of his silver belt buckle had me blinking.  I looked up into some of the bluest eyes I'd ever seen, smiling at me from underneath a cowboy hat. I'd say that I was mesmerized, but it was likely that third beer. His skin was tan, his dark hair long enough to curl up at his collar. Whatshisname was no longer on my mind.

"I'm sorry?"  I asked, and my Cowboy leaned closer, his warm breath teasing my ear and sliding seductively down my neck. 

"I asked if you wanted to dance?" There was an invitation in his eyes.  "You look like you need to take your mind off your troubles."

"I'd love to," I hung my head in disappointment. "Except that I don't know how."

"Well, then, I guess that I'll have to teach you," Cowboy drawled, and held out his hand.  I was too stunned by his smile, and maybe too drunk, but I put my hand in his and let him lead me to the dance floor. He turned me in a circle and put his right arm around my waist, his hand pressed gently into the small of my back. The contact tingled, radiating warmth over me like a caress.  My Cowboy pulled me close, and took my other hand in his. Patiently, he explained what to do with my feet, using that gentle hand on my back to guide my movements, never letting me stumble. I finally relaxed and let him lead, and then I was dancing, encircled in those strong arms. I found myself staring into those blue eyes while the room spun.  I felt beautiful, desirable, glorious, as if every parcel of my being was in full bloom, and my feet would never touch the ground again. I laughed with my joy in the moment. This is how I wanted to feel, always!  My Cowboy stared at my lips, and anticipating a kiss, I closed my eyes...

...and opened them in the backseat of the taxi, the driver holding the door open. Confused, I let the man help me up the stairs, and tipped him extra.  Once I locked the door to my apartment, my legs gave out and I spent the night on the floor.  I woke up with cotton mouth and a jackhammer in my head, but my heart--that was whole, as if it had never been broken in the first place.  I never saw that Cowboy again, but sometimes I dream that his arms are around me, and we are dancing.





Yeah, so I was feeling nostalgic about George Strait retiring, and got a little carried away. And I am still a sucker for a man in a cowboy hat who can dance.   

***

Why should I be unhappy? Every parcel of my being is in full bloom.
― Rumi

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

Survival of the Fittest

The burning light above her seared her corneas, and Tess tried to roll to her side to shield herself from the pain.  It took her a minute to realize that she was unable to move, and another minute to understand why.  She lifted her head. She was naked and spread eagle, her wrists and feet were bound and attached to the floor.

"Son of a---!"  Hemmings had done what he'd threatened, and staked her out in the center of the courtyard Lord only knew where.  Tess' vices had once again done her in.  She should never have had that last drink with him, especially after she'd won that last hand.  Hemmings could not handle losing.

There was nothing to do but wait until he got over it and came to cut her loose.

Her mind was clearing, and she admired the luxuriant, verdant display hanging from the balconies above her. It was unusual to see any living plants these days, with the sun bearing down so viciously.  Or perhaps humanity didn't want reminders of what had been lost; the plants in this abandoned building seemed to be thriving. 

A rustling noise, like the forgotten whisper of leaves rustling in the wind, had Tess turning her head, trying to localize the sound. It seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, and whatever it was made her skin crawl.  There was nothing that she could see from her limited view, except the sunlight illuminating the vines above her.

A gurgling sound echoed through the courtyard.

"Hemmings, that had better be you!"  Tess was ready to do whatever she needed to do, make amends, beg forgiveness, sleep with the man--anything, as long as he got her out of here. 

The rustling was almost constant now, and Tess finally noticed that the fertile green vines were undulating down the balconies and walls toward her. She finally understood how these plants had thrived. She screamed then, until her vocal cords gave out.

Moisture hit her right hand, and she turned her head. Dark red blood, spilling from somewhere beyond her vision, was pooling, coagulating in the fine hairs on her arm, the puddle spreading closer to her cheek.  Tess turned her head and shut her eyes; Hemmings wouldn't be coming.

The first vine encircled her ankle. 

***

“Go oft to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

Tribute

"What do you want on your tombstone, Alice?" the Mad Hatter asked.  It was completely random, but Hatter was off his medications that day.  We were all used to it after all this time.  The tea parties still went on as scheduled, no matter what.  One had even been held the day of the bloody coup, when the Red Queen had been overthrown.

Alice pushed the oversized top hat back on Hatter's head so she could see his face.  His enormous blue eyes gazed back, and we all leaned forward a bit. Alice was like the sun, and those of us in Wonderland were drawn to her warmth. It was sometimes easy to forget that the sun can burn.

"I haven't given the matter that much thought," Alice began, curling a blonde strand around her finger.  "It's a weighty matter, a tombstone. I would say that the inscription should be a reflection of the personality of the deceased person, but I know that all of you will disagree."

"Of course we'll disagree!" The Queen of Hearts shoved her way among the rest of us, sloshing the red wine in her glass all over the White Rabbit.  "Off with 'er head!"

"No, my dear Queen, you mustn't off with anyone's heads these days," The White Rabbit delicately dabbed at his now stained fur.  Rabbit was so much more laid back since he started smoking the same stuff as the Caterpillar.  "Remember our last group therapy session?" 

The Queen had the grace to look a bit confused, and allowed a Knave to take her arm and lead her away.  All the remaining heads, still attached, turned back to Alice. 

"I suppose that I would like something along the lines of "I had a lover's quarrel with the world","  Alice's eyes became faraway, and we all fervently wished that we could join her. 

"But Alice," Hatter spluttered. "Some guy named Frost already took that one!"

Collectively, we held our breath. The Cheshire Cat completely disappeared. Alice frowned a moment, thinking as hard as she could. When she smiled, we all exhaled with relief.

"Why then, I guess that my tombstone should say, 'She had a lover's quarrel with Wonderland.'" Satisfied with herself, Alice poured another round of scotch, then passed the bottle.  She raised her glass.

"To friends!"  We all raised our glasses and then drank.  Alice slammed her glass to the table, laughed, and pointed at poor Hatter.

"Off with 'is head!" She shouted with glee. Struck mute with our fear, we watched them drag poor Hatter, now hatless, to the block.

I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.

~Robert Frost

Time

"What the hell happened to us?"

Laura was stretched out in her favorite chair, her neatly pedicured feet resting on the ottoman.  Her face was washed, her contacts in their usual resting place next to the sink, and I knew from experience that she would be drifting off soon after I started the movie.

"What are you yammering about?"  I sat on the couch, my own face devoid of makeup, trying to use the remote on an uncooperative blu ray player.

"We used to be out every Friday and Saturday, dressed up, partying all the time," Laura took a sip of her wine.  "We used to come home at dawn.  We used to wake up in strange places.  Now look at us--home on a Saturday, and at least one of us will be asleep within the hour.  It's not even nine!"

I nodded. I'd heard this song before. I finally got up to press the 'start' button on the blu ray player, since the remote wasn't cooperating. 

Laura sat up.

"Let's go out," she said.  "Let's go to a club and dance until they close. Let's drink and just have fun for a change."

"Laura," I sat down and picked up my glass of wine. "It takes you at least an hour to do your hair just the way you like it. We wouldn't get out of here before ten."

"I'll just leave my hair up.  Come on, you know that you want to go out!"

"You can't tolerate cigarette smoke in the bars," I counted on my fingers. "It gives you the sniffles, and people think you've been doing coke. The clubs will be packed, and there won't be any place to park close by.  We'll have to walk at least a mile, and you hate that."  I waited for a response, but Laura just leaned back in her chair and picked up her own wine glass.

"Yeah, you're right. Too much trouble."

We sat, sipping our wine in companionable silence.  

"Remember that time we started a fire in the ash tray at that dance club?"

We smiled at the memory.

"You know how we got when we were bored,"  I laughed.  We'd been quite rowdy in our twenties, always looking for a good time.  And finding it.  In our forties, Saturday night was a different chapter, in another book entirely. 



I know what sort of mood I was trying to convey, but I'm not sure that I actually accomplished it.  Concrit is welcome.

“Time is the longest distance between two places.”
~Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie

The Water's Edge

The sand felt clammy on her feet in the early hours of darkness.  The world was silent, except for the rhythmic murmur of the ocean as it caressed the shore.  She could have found her way blindfolded, as many times as she had come to the water's edge, but this would be the last time. Kala made her way through the dunes in the darkness; she didn't want anyone alerted to her presence.

Her father's voice sounded in her head, always angry.  The fresh lashes on her back began to throb in time with her pulse as she moved, and Kala allowed her own anger to bubble up from within her.  She curled up her hands into fists, punching at the restraints built up around her life.

A rustling of cloth alerted her to movement, so close to her that Kala held her breath. She would be beaten if found this far from the village, and probably killed.

"Kala?" Her mother whispered softly, and Kala nearly cried.  Tentatively she reached out in the darkness, finding her mother's shoulder, and was instantly pulled into an embrace. Her mother spoke softly in Kala's ear.

"It is ready. You must go now before your father wakes."

Kala's mother pulled her around the last dune, furthest away from the village.  In the last moonlight, she could make out the shape of her mother's secret canoe, and smell the tar used to make it seaworthy.  Tears pouring down her face, Kala turned to her mother, who placed a hand on her daughter's lips.

"This is my gift to you," she whispered.  "I have filled it with food, water. Take it and row until you cannot see the land, and then let the current take you where it may.  And I pray that you find that which you seek, my daughter."

Kala silently kissed the only hand that had cared for her, then began pushing the boat, the rising tide rushing to erase her footprints and send her on her way.  Her life lay beyond the water's edge now.

If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it in the sand near the water’s edge.
~Napoleon Hill

The Bells of St. Brigit

"The bells of St. Brigit's are calling tonight," she said, as I tucked her blankets in around her.

"Their mournful tolling rattles my bones," she whispered.  I held her hand, my tears falling.

"It was an early morning, a fine spring day--my beloved came home."

"In a box he lay, his uniform so carefully pressed. He is still my love, nonetheless. He looked only sleeping, yet did not respond to my kisses.

My tears would not wake him."

"My heart went into that grave with him. Yet here he stands, that we may walk together once again."

She held out her hand, and I pray they wander still.








“The bells of St. Brigit’s are calling tonight.” Use that with 100 words. I was reading about the Battle of the Somme, and this just sorta came with that.

Breaking Free

Clarissa's feet made no sound as she trod on dead leaves and other forest debris. The further into the woods she walked, the quieter the world became, familiar sounds falling away, until the only sound she could hear was the breath leaving her lungs.  Before Clarissa had stepped out of the sunlight and into the dim glow of the trees, she had wanted to forget the mess she had made of her life, before the drugs, before the men, before all the pain.

So she walked.

An old woman with a crack pipe had told Clarissa that she could find what she sought if she passed through the mists of the forest.  It had sounded like a good idea at the time. But she was no longer sure what she was looking for, and the further into the mist she passed, the more vague her memory became. Somewhere after that first hour, the memory of what she had been seemed to slide away, like the drops of moisture covering the trees.

Still she walked.

Her shoes had worn out some time ago, and her bare feet were aching.  Her clothes were shredded by stray branches, but Clarissa kept to the path.  Emptiness enveloped her, the trees mere shadows observing her through the mist. Clarissa had no sense of direction. She had no idea which way she was heading. 

Still she walked.

She'd know what she was seeking when she saw it, Clarissa was sure.  Or maybe there would be some sort of sign to let her know that she had arrived, that her journey was complete, that her quest was finished. She did not know.

But she kept walking.

And then, a faint gleam cut through the fog surrounding her. A spark of sunlight filtering through the branches led the way, and Clarissa staggered the last few steps out of the woods.  Now she crawled, her body worn away, and finally lay on her back.  Her eyes stared at the blue of the sky.

She was home.

***

“Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?”

― Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

The Bookmaster

Jericho Jones stepped out of the rain and into the cramped bookstore, and took a moment to slick his wet hair out of his face and pull a rubber band around it. His eyes scanned for anomalies, but all he could see were mountains of books, stacked high into the darkness of the ceiling.  A haze caught what little light there was, twisting the shadows and pulling his attention to the back of the store, where an old man sat.

He looked like somebody's frail grandfather, lost in a beige sweater that might have once fit snugly, his balding head reflecting the dim light. There was something quaint about the old man, a reminder of bygone days. He looked completely harmless, right down to the bifocals, a papery hand resting on top of a stack of old books.

Jericho wasn't a bit fooled. He was supposed to protect that guy?

"It's about damn time you got here, Jericho," Tiberius groused.  "You think I can take on an army by myself?"

"Old man," Jericho laughed. "I've seen you do just that."  He made his way to the island of light and found a chair.  He picked up the book lying on the seat, the title gleaming in the musty light.

"No, no!" Tiberius said. "That is just the book I was looking for.  Let me have that." 

"Are you sure about this book?" Jericho had to ask.

"Yes, yes! Give it to me! And whatever you do, stay in the light!"

Tiberius' intensity was disconcerting.  Jericho uneasily placed the book into the old man's hands before he sat down.  Tiberius caressed the leathery cover of the book, his fingers tracing the raised lettering of the title. He cackled, nodding his head and Jericho watched as the Bookmaster whispered over his chosen tome.

Then he opened The Selected Works of H.P. Lovecraft, and the monsters came out to play.




The prompt is the third definition of QUAINT.


The prompt is this quote:

“Sometimes legends make reality, and become more useful than the facts.”

~ Salman Rushdie

Flushed

Carl always seemed to leave the seat up on the time machine. Marion groused, she chided, she cajoled, and finally screamed at him over this habit, but it made no difference.  Carl just looked at her as if she were simple, and went on about his business, as if Marion had never said a word.

She had had enough. 

The two of them had built their original prototype together.  It was a labor of love, conducted over the many years of their relationship.  Marion had fond memories of the two of them huddled closely over their design, hands and hearts nearly touching.  It was Marion's idea to use water to operate the device; Carl's idea to use a toilet as a method of camouflage.  It figures, she thought. Lord knows he spent enough time in the bathroom. 

But it had worked.  

It had worked beyond their wildest expectations.  Their first trip had been just a brief jaunt to last week, Marion sitting on Carl's lap as he flushed.  They were giddy with excitement at their success, and celebrated like they had when they were first married. 

Carl was eager to begin leaping back and forth through the past. He had begun making longer trips, visiting long gone family members, and generally stalking famous historic figures.  Marion advised caution; who knew how much the past would be changed by their mere presence?  But Carl was a big kid at heart, with no thought to the havoc he might cause. 

And the bastard would not put the seat down on the time machine.

Marion really had no choice, she told herself.  It was for Carl's own good.  She set the time machine for the appropriate time; it would disappear forever.  Then they could go back to just being an old married couple.  Except that Marion hadn't counted on Carl figuring out her plan.  She hadn't expected him to burst in the door. 

She certainly hadn't expected her husband to throw himself on the time machine as she flushed the time machine back to 15,000,000 B.C.




The prompt is:

“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”
~ L. P. Hartley: The Go-Between (1953)

About Face

Zion Parker hated parties. Hated them with a passion usually reserved for sports rivalries and ex-girlfriends.  Now he found himself in the one place he never wanted to be.  A college party, no less!  He stood stone-faced against a wall on the far side of the room and stared out at a sea of heads bobbing in time to the blaring music.  Zion's head was throbbing with the beat, and the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled beer wasn't helping.  He just wanted some quiet, but the loud music seemed to extend throughout the house and into the neighborhood beyond. He was going to kill his roommate, as soon as he could find him in this crush. 

Someone bumped into Zion, and he looked down to see a small girl sprawled at his feet, knocked around by the dancing mob.  Dark hair was pulled back from an ethereal face as she stared, wide-eyed, up at him.  He was sure that he shared her look of astonishment, at least for a moment.  Then his goddess turned a pleasing shade of red and rolled over, trying to push herself up off the floor.  She got about halfway to her knees and fell a second time.  Concerned, Zion bent down to help her. The smell of her hair was an enticing mix of vanilla and lavender; it made him pause, and he couldn't help a small shiver of arousal as he spoke into her ear. 

"Are you all right?"

She turned toward him, her eyes laughing, and he could have kissed her lips right then, they were so close!  He missed the moment, and she turned those magnificent lips toward his ear.  Her warm breath sent tremors of passion rolling over his skin, leaving him momentarily stunned.  Zion realized that this lovely vision had spoken to him, but he hadn't heard a word.  She was kind enough to repeat what she said.

"You're standing on my hair." 

It was Zion's turn to blush, as he lifted his foot and then helped her to her feet.  But once she was standing there in front of him, her smile lighting up her eyes, he forgot his embarrassment.  He forgot everything. He decided that maybe parties weren't such a bad thing, after all.  He leaned over as she stood on tiptoe to breathe warmth into him once more, his hand possessively on her hip.

"Won't it be wonderful to share this story with our children someday?"

Zion thought it would be wonderful indeed.





The photo:

The quote:

From the Great Book

"May Gratitude
Be an unending 
verse in
the Everyday song
of our lives,
not only this single day.

It is right
that we daily
sing our thanks
in the Quiet between
Day and Night.
It is right
that great gusts
of thanksgiving
should
pour unceasingly
from our lips
in appreciation,
and that this
should be
a daily libation
for parched souls.

We pray for all
who have forgotten
the tribute owed
the deity, their
ungrateful blood
crying for release
from the darkness,
the muck
of their sorrows
that they may
forever
speak thankfully
to the skies
upon their release.
Amen."




The prompt is 100 words of fiction or nonfiction.  Strange what comes to mind in the quiet of the night, when you have a cat sleeping next to your monitor. 

Lights Out--Fiction

“Then the lights went out.” 

Giggling, Conrad gave Mrs. Hardy one more whack with his hammer before he paused for a breath.   His crisp white Oxford shirt was spattered and stained with blood, but he found a clean portion of his sleeve and wiped some of the gore off of his face.  Conrad felt a little sad that this shirt was ruined; he was having so much fun, and he wanted to preserve the moment somehow. 

He danced around the room, twirling and laughing, the hammer in his hand flicking bits of brain onto the leather furniture of Mr. Farnsworth's office.  He had never felt so free!  All of his burdens, all of his stress, had vanished the moment that hammer had cracked Mr. Farnsworth's temple.  The old man never saw it coming; he was too busy firing Conrad for complaining about his wages.  But Mrs. Hardy saw everything.  Mrs. Hardy screamed and screamed, but Conrad was sure that was only because her perfectly fake face was covering in the remains of Mr. Farnsworth's head. Girls were silly about things like blood spatter, Conrad knew.  He hit her with the hammer to shut her up, and was delighted when her skull exploded like a ripe cantaloupe. He hit her again and again, giggling and laughing with sheer joy, a child long denied splashing around in a puddle.

Conrad knew that his euphoria wouldn't last.  He knew that he was going to prison, probably to the gas chamber.

"And then the lights went out!" he cackled.

He had not one excuse for what he had done, was doing. It wasn't even his hammer--he'd grabbed it off of Bob's bench on his way to see Farnsworth. It was entirely possible that maybe he had gone crazy.  But while this feeling lasted, Conrad was determined to enjoy himself.  Carpe diem, as they say. Humming, he picked up the phone, dialed an extension.

"Mr. Crosby? Mr. Farnsworth would like to see you immediately in his office." Conrad hung up the phone, plopping down in Mr. Farnsworth's chair and spinning about.

"Then the lights will go out for you, Mr. Crosby!"




Yeah, I don't know where this came from, but the Muse said write it down, and you do what the Muse says or else.

Trust Issues--Fiction

"Will you catch me?"  That had been their game together.  Before each leap off of the monkey bars, Callie would holler those words at Jason, and he would catch her, even though they were five.

"Will you catch me?" She'd sang them as she leapt from the diving board into the pool one summer when they were ten.

"Will you catch me?"  She'd whispered them the night she'd climbed out of her bedroom window, when they were seventeen.  They'd tumbled into love as easily as they'd tumbled into friendship, and Callie thought that they'd always be together.
 
Will you catch me?  The words came from another time, but Callie heard them again, as if they were now.  She sat on a log amid a mass of dead leaves and stared at the road.  Will you catch me?  It had been a long time since she'd been back here, but nothing had changed.  Their last time together was still an open wound in her heart, and Callie bit her lip to bring herself back to the present.

Jason had always answered 'yes'.  He'd always been there for her.  Until he wasn't.  And Callie had been falling ever since.

Without Jason to anchor her, Callie had drifted so very far from who she was and who she wanted to be. She loved him, but she was determined to forget, and to move on. It had been ten years of silence then. Her own self-loathing had kept her away when she might have relented. But one day she knew that she would never recover herself as long as she stayed in Phoenix.  Because she still loved him. She needed to forgive herself, and she needed to forgive Jason.  There was no changing the past, but what about the future?  So she wrote him a letter, her heart in each and every word.  Then she came back home to wait.  Will you catch me?  

Callie heard the sound of the car's engine long before the car pulled into the parking lot next to where she sat, and her relief brought her tears to the surface.  The door to the car opened and Callie's heart skipped a beat at the sight of Jason. She stood, head down, as he walked around the front of his car and stopped.  She waited.  Finally, his hand was underneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his own.

"No more, Callie," Jason's voice was firm, his eyes cold. 

It was the answer she had expected, but to hear him say it opened the floodgates on her grief. She fell to her knees, the dead leaves swirling around her. 

"Callie," Jason continued, his voice softer. "He doesn't even know who you are, and you're his mother.   Before I forgive you for anything, you need to meet your son. Come home to us. For good this time."

Sea Tale

Killian Frost was not the kind of man women gave a second glance.  He wasn't handsome, but rather nondescript and bland.  His neatly cut brown hair did not catch the sunlight, his brown eyes were not soulful or poetic.  Most women let their gaze slide right over Killian, as if he weren't there, and spent their attention elsewhere.  

He preferred it that way.  It was safer.

Killian's life was also nondescript and bland.  He awoke at the same time each day, showered and dressed, fed his cat Socrates, and walked the 10 blocks to his office.  On the way he stopped at the local coffee shop and ordered a black coffee and a bran muffin.  He sat at a small table in the back corner of the shop and read the newspaper while he ate his muffin. The same routine, every day, except for Sundays.  Killian never had to think about what he was going to wear or what he was going to do; it was already decided. There was comfort in that routine, and a sense of safety as well.

"Hello handsome!"

Killian looked up from his newspaper, uncertain.  An icy blonde woman with a fake tan and brilliant blue eyes stood in front of him.  She pointed to the seat across from him.

"Mind if I sit down?"  Her voice rolled in like the tide, a swelling intonation that broke over him. He was speechless. Not waiting for a response, the woman pulled out the chair and sat. She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward Killian, who leaned back in his chair.   He was not sure what to do, but he was only halfway through his muffin. If he didn't finish it, he'd be regretting it all day.

"Name's Sam," she said, her smile catching a beam of sunlight like water.  "What's your name, sailor?"

"Um...it's Killian," he coughed a little, not used to speaking to other people. "But I'm not a sailor."

"Ah, Killian, does it really matter that you're not a sailor now?" Sam winked at him, her eyes dancing like ocean waves.  "You could fall in love with the sea tomorrow!"

"Uh...right." Killian did not know what to say.  He hadn't been to the beach in years, not since he was a small child. He didn't even know how to swim.  He wasn't sure how he was going to fall in love with the sea, or why.  But at the sound of Sam's words, Killian's heart expanded.  The sea was calling to him.  He could smell the salt, hear the gulls crying, and feel the roll of the waves underneath the deck of a ship.  He stared at the half piece of bran muffin, wondering if the barista would wrap it for him to go. 

He could already tell that his life was never going to be the same.





"The third day comes a frost, a killing frost." Shakespeare.  When I read this, I didn't have my glasses on, and so I read it as "killian frost" instead of 'killing frost'.  I liked the name.   I've also always wanted a cat named Socrates, but he hasn't shown up yet, except here. Constructive criticism is most welcome.

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.

Waiting for the Believers

Constance sat at the window in the dusty attic, watching the road.  She had been waiting there since Tuesday, but she had had nothing else to do.  The sun was just above the tree tops when the first car appeared.

"They're here!" she clapped her hands in delight, her joy infectious.  "They're HERE!"

Anticipation spread through the house like another contagion. From a second floor bedroom, Prudence twirled and leapt from bed to creaking bed.  The old rocking chair near the fireplace began to sway as Grandma hurriedly grabbed at her knitting.  Carolina ran from her room on the first floor, down the hall to the stairs and back, singing off key on purpose.  Paw began banging on the floorboards from the basement, just like he always did when he was disturbed.

"Calm down, everyone!  You'll wear yourselves out before they even get through the door!"   Patience sat in the breakfast nook, nervously fidgeting, while a stray dog barked loudly outside to herald the arrival of company.  She stared at the recently unlocked back door.  Patience could hear the narrator speaking from the back porch.

"Tonight's episode of Ghosts Galore will be spent in the Carver House, said to be haunted by the spirits of an entire family.  Sounds spooky! Are you ready to meet them?  We are!"

Patience stood, smiling, as the first paranormal investigator walked into the house.  A lady with a camera and long blonde hair politely smiled back, and Patience vanished. It wasn't much of a manifestation, but it was enough.  It was going to be a long night, but it just might be worth it this time.  If they made enough noise this time, maybe their house would be saved.

The startled scream brought the rest of the visitors into the house, cameras rolling.



The prompts are the words "anticipation" and "leap".  I was inspired to write this while sitting with my son watching another rousing episode of My Ghost Story: Caught on Camera.  That is currently one of his favorite shows. I have no idea why, except that his kindergarten class has been studying the Holy Ghost for the past couple of weeks. 

The Second Best Day

The second best day in Carly Joe Patterson's life began with the arrival of a lawyer.  She was in her new pajamas, sipping coffee on the balcony when a harsh knock interrupted her.  It was seven in the morning.

Carly Joe experienced a panic. Maybe the oil company had decided not to pay for her room after all.  She looked over the side of the balcony speculatively; too far to jump off the balcony into the river. She never should have chosen the El Presidente Suite, but she just couldn't resist the personal Mariachis. Or the free drinks. Those zombies were quite a treat.

The knock persisted, and Carly Joe just got tired of the sound.  She opened the door, staring into the face of the second most gorgeous man she'd ever seen. His piercing green eyes were smiling, and she felt like a prize filly at a horse auction.  Carly Joe shook her head; this man was obviously not looking to fool around.

"Y'all a bill collector?" she moved aside to allow him to come into the suite.  "Because I ain't got any cash.  Won't be paying for this room, either, if that no good oil company won't pay."

"Miss Patterson?" Smithson Coltrane smiled, offering his hand.  "I represent that no good oil company. I am here to discuss a settlement check."

Carly Joe shook the lawyer's hand.  She vaguely recalled talk of a meeting with a lawyer on the phone last week, when Jackson Coltrane had shown up at her trailer. She sat down at the table, wishing she'd ordered up breakfast.

Smithson Coltrane sat down across from her and opened his briefcase.  He removed a folder and slid it along the table toward her.

"My client feels this amount represents an appropriate compensation for the loss of your husband."

Carly Joe opened the folder and scanned the check inside. There were a few more zeroes than expected. Carly Joe smiled. She would never have to ask about bill collectors again.
 



The prompts were a quote from Rumi and a video by a well known metal mariachi band, Metalachi. 
Yes.  There is such at thing. 



The prompt is the third definition of the word ZOMBIE. 

Stargazing

Carolyn, Jake, and I had been sharing our dreams almost as soon as we could speak. We would spend hours during the summer, our backs on a blanket in the backyard of our homes, watching the stars turn in the sky and whispering our dreams, our hopes, our prayers.  Mostly it was just the three of us and our dreams.

Carolyn's dreams of a storybook marriage were shattered by an abusive husband with a gun.  We lost track of Jake. And my dreams died silently inside my womb on a beautiful winter morning.  My despair annihilated what dreams I might have had left, turning my consciousness into a silent, dense bleakness.  I stopped dreaming, grateful for the oblivion of sleep.

I had come back to the summer house because I wanted to be alone with my grief.  I wanted to wrap myself in a shroud, suffocate my anger, and quietly fade into the background.

It was sheer bad luck that Jake was renovating his parent's house next door.  Once a shy boy who never said a word, Jake was now outspoken in his insistence that I rejoin the world. He invited himself over. He brought me dinners, and fussed until I ate.  When I finally hollered that he should leave me alone, Jake had grabbed a blanket from the couch and dragged me into the backyard, where we now lay.

"Do you ever dream anymore?"  Jake asked.

"No," I finally answered.  "I don't dream anymore."

Jake wasn't looking at me, he was looking up at the night sky.  He pointed at some distant constellation, and my eyes followed.

"Some of the stars up there died a long time ago. They're nothing but cold, dead rocks now.  But the light they once gave keeps shining, night after night. There's comfort in that, I think."

"So?"

"So, Lisa," Jake squeezed my hand, a lifeline in the darkness. "Maybe you should start dreaming again."

Photo courtesy of http://writeonedge.com/

I am trying some rearranging out for size, well, just because.  One of those things is making sure that I remember to link up with Write At the Merge. 

Interlude

Sally sat quietly in the restored 1920s hotel lobby, waiting for the limo which would take her to the chapel. Occasionally she would pat her hair, just to make sure that her mop of brown curls hadn't escaped the clutches of the many hairpins the stylist had used.  Mostly she just sat as still as she could manage in a white dress, and let the music from a string quartet drift around her. 

She saw him, a study in grace, drift down the stairs into the lobby, his navy suit pressed to perfection, the white of his shirt a contrast to his chiseled, sun-kissed features.  Sally's breath caught in her chest at the sight.  His hair curled a little around the temples in a way that made her want to caress them. Their eyes met with a jolt of recognition.  And then he stood in front of her, his cool palm extended, his smile inviting.  With a smile of her own, Sally placed her trembling hand in his, and stood.

Immediately his other arm went around her waist, pulling her into his chest tightly.  His feet began a familiar waltz, and Sally giggled as she was whirled about. His arm felt solid and steady against the small of her back and she felt so brilliantly happy. She knew that she loved this man with all her heart. Her hand gripped his shoulder as if he were a life raft in her usual ocean of despondency.  This was where she belonged.  Their eyes were only for each other.   She offered her lips to his, her eyes fluttering closed.  Sally felt his lips barely graze hers; she made a small frustrated sound in her throat, and her lover chuckled.

"Patience, my love!" his voice chided.  Sally frowned; the admonition had seemed distant, as if time itself were separating them.  Her eyes flew open.  She could still feel the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, her lips still tingling. 





The prompt is the third definition of the word GRACE.

This prompt is to write about the spaces between.