Mick looked out over the crowd. Well, as far as he could see with the lights in his face. She was out there somewhere, watching. Not much he could do about it. She’d paid to get in, just like everyone else. Still, it made his skin crawl.
The guys had teased him when the first letter arrived, delivered by a waitress who was not impressed by the middle band on the bill. There were times when Mick missed being the unknown opener. Not that he had complaints about their incremental success. It was better than his last two bands had managed. They made enough to pay bills and buy groceries – or whatever else his band mates might consider important. Mick liked to eat well. They teased him about that, too, though he wasn’t the one with a gut hanging over his belt. Maybe that’s why the girl had fixated on him. He had no illusions of being studly, but he was in pretty good shape, and he’d been told he had a nice smile. He smiled a lot on stage. Nothing made him happier than bouncing around with his bass, like Tigger on his springy tail.
“Aw, you have a fan.” Greg ruffled Mick’s hair. “Your first groupie.”
“The first with you lot, anyway.” Mick said.
David tore his attention away from the mirror. “Probably some lonely, fat chick.”
“Jealousy is an ugly emotion.” Mick smiled. “I like a woman who gives me something to hold onto. Those coked-out anorexics you prefer have no stamina at all.”
“Have a good time with that,” Greg said. “Just don’t let her follow you home. It’s hard to get them to leave once you let them in.”
Chela slapped Greg on the back of the head. “You’re the one who followed me, asshole.”
“See what happens when you get lost in the fog of lust? You wake up six months later and find out you stole the keyboard player from another band and married her.” Greg kissed his wife on the cheek and went out to do a last sound check.
“Don’t listen to them. It took courage for that girl to write you.” Chela smiled. “Relationships have started in stranger ways.”
Of course, that had only been the first letter. He’d received one at every show for the past year. His gut clenched whenever someone walked into the dressing room. The band insisting that nothing be brought backstage had not helped. The letters appeared on the stairs or the edge of the stage. Sometimes, they slid under the door. If he was lucky, he didn’t find them until the end of the night.
No one teased him now, and Chela definitely didn’t think it was romantic. Of all his band mates, she understood best. At least she had been able to identify her stalker, take steps to keep him away from her. Mick had no idea what the girl looked like, how old she was, where she was from.
She knew plenty about him, though. It was creepy as hell. It also made it impossible for him to date any of the women who expressed an interest in him. If a woman wore a scarf, he wondered if she was the one who’d written about tying him up. Multiple piercings had also lost their appeal, much as he tried to forget that particular letter. He couldn’t even go to the salon after the lavish description of how she would wash his hair. After one letter was delivered to his flat, Greg had rented an apartment and sublet it to him. Chela picked up his mail at a PO Box. One good thing had come from it. The landlord let him keep a dog. He curled up next to Thor every night. The big shepherd was fiercely protective of the man who’d rescued him from the shelter. It had taken a month before he could have friends over, but the loss of a social life was nothing compared to the sense of security Thor provided.
The one thing he wouldn’t let his stalker steal from him was his music. He threw himself into it with more dedication than he’d had since trying to convince his dad it was not just a lark. Several bands had tried to woo him away, but there was no way he’d accept. Even if Epic Stasis had not continued to be successful, in part due to the band trying to keep up with Mick’s increased skill, he would never leave the people who supported him through this ordeal.
A steady drumbeat brought him back to the moment. The audience clapped in time. Mick added the bass line. Chela built up to a crescendo, and David bounded out, his charisma brighter than any stage light. The music took Mick, fingers flying without thought, everything falling away until there was nothing but sound, a moment of pure joy.
After the first song, David looked out over the crowd. “This is our last show for a couple of months.” Boos greeted his announcement. “Don’t be like that,” he chided. “We’re cutting our first album for Tangier Records!” The crowd roared. “Enjoy whatever illicit thing you have in your pocket tonight. The next gig will be an arena with lots of security. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, folks.” The audience laughed.
Mick leaned into the microphone. “This next song is for my biggest fan. I wrote it just for you. So if you’re out there, sweetheart, come on up. It’s about time you got your due.”
The crowd looked around as the band began playing. A ripple formed as they moved aside, a sea parting for the prophet of doom. She was almost pretty, blonde, a little curvy, average, no one who would stand out in a crowd. She stared up at Mick with feverish intensity. He pointed at her and smiled. As David sang the first lines of Gone Away Fear, the officer at the bar nodded and stood.
21 June, 2009
08 June, 2009
Duty Calls - by Deborah
Prompts were: fish, jealousy, telephone call
Anna loved her job as a ranger in New York’s Harriman State Park. The years spent in college studying environmental science and law enforcement had been well worth it in her opinion. She didn’t earn much money, but she didn’t need to. She was able to catch trout for dinner several nights a week and the living quarters were provided for free in the immense and beautiful state park. It had been enough to support Robert as he chased his own dream of being a wildlife photographer. He was finally becoming successful at it and Anna was thrilled. Both of them not even thirty and they’d already achieved their career goals. Robert’s latest success had been as an associate photographer on a National Geographic photo shoot. Life was good indeed.
The shrill sound of the phone woke her at three in the morning. She was instantly aware of the empty space in the bed next to her. Robert had flown to Vancouver last night for a shoot in Scientific American; soon to be another feather in his cap.
“Yes?” she answered tiredly.
It was Steve, her boss. “Anna, sorry to wake you but we’ve got a situation on Crow’s Nest Mountain and you’re the closest ranger.”
She came awake instantly, grabbing the notepad and pencil on the night stand. “What is it?” she asked.
“Dispatch got a call from a guy camping up on Lorilard Trail. He’d set up camp tonight near a couple up there on their honeymoon or something, judging by the description. Said he and his family had run across them skinny dipping in the creek up there. Can you imagine doing that this time of year? That water’s got to be about 50 degrees! Anyway, this couple had been all lovey-dovey, but apparently there was a loud argument that started about an hour ago. The guy said he heard two gunshots and then no more yelling. He’s got his kids with him and didn’t want to check it out personally. They’re on their way back to the ranger station now. Can’t blame him - I wouldn’t risk it with my family around.”
“I hear you. I can be there in 15 minutes,” she told him. “How long ago did he hear the gunshots?”
“About 10 minutes ago now. I hope it’s nothing but we need to take a look. Radio me immediately if things don’t look right and I’ll call in backup.”
“On my way,” she said, hanging up the phone and reaching for the uniform she’d discarded next to the bed only hours before. Within minutes, she was out the door and in her Jeep. She headed down the drive and turned toward the road that led to Lorilard Trail.
The trail was used mostly by families and amateur campers. There was no real hiking involved; a rutted lane accessible to most cars led to campsites spread out about a half-mile from each other.
Her stomach clenched and tension settled in her shoulders. This was the least enjoyable part of her job. She could deal with the Eastern diamondback rattlesnakes, black bears, and the occasional rabid fox and lynx. But when you added people to the mix, nothing was predictable.
She found the couple’s campsite easily – they were the only ones in residence on the trail. She could see two bodies lying on the ground, unmoving. She approached slowly, drawing her service revolver as she exited her vehicle. The woman, wearing only panties, lay dead with her eyes open and a gunshot wound to her head. In her hand was a large caliber handgun. She was young and beautiful and Anna’s gut clenched at the thought of the wasted life in front of her. She turned her attention to the man lying face down next to the dead woman and realized he was still alive. His breath came in short, wet gulps. She leaned down and gently turned him over.
She looked at Robert’s face, as stunned as if someone had slapped her. He had a gaping chest wound where the bullet had entered his body.
“Anna…help me,” he whispered.
An angry, jealous haze colored her vision as the taste of bile entered her mouth. This was his trip to Vancouver? Was this also his trip to Wyoming two weeks ago? She stared into his lying eyes, her mind reeling.
Her radio crackled to life. “Anna, are you on the scene yet?” Steve asked.
Staring into Robert’s pleading eyes, she pulled the radio from her belt and answered, “I’m here and it looks like they shot each other. They’re both dead. You’d better call the State in. Take your time. These two aren’t going anywhere.”
“Ten four,” Steve answered.
Anna caressed Robert’s cheek and then turned him face down again, as she’d found him. She gently but firmly pushed his face into the soft, thick bed of pine needles and earth. He struggled feebly for less than two minutes and was silent.
Anna loved her job as a ranger in New York’s Harriman State Park. The years spent in college studying environmental science and law enforcement had been well worth it in her opinion. She didn’t earn much money, but she didn’t need to. She was able to catch trout for dinner several nights a week and the living quarters were provided for free in the immense and beautiful state park. It had been enough to support Robert as he chased his own dream of being a wildlife photographer. He was finally becoming successful at it and Anna was thrilled. Both of them not even thirty and they’d already achieved their career goals. Robert’s latest success had been as an associate photographer on a National Geographic photo shoot. Life was good indeed.
The shrill sound of the phone woke her at three in the morning. She was instantly aware of the empty space in the bed next to her. Robert had flown to Vancouver last night for a shoot in Scientific American; soon to be another feather in his cap.
“Yes?” she answered tiredly.
It was Steve, her boss. “Anna, sorry to wake you but we’ve got a situation on Crow’s Nest Mountain and you’re the closest ranger.”
She came awake instantly, grabbing the notepad and pencil on the night stand. “What is it?” she asked.
“Dispatch got a call from a guy camping up on Lorilard Trail. He’d set up camp tonight near a couple up there on their honeymoon or something, judging by the description. Said he and his family had run across them skinny dipping in the creek up there. Can you imagine doing that this time of year? That water’s got to be about 50 degrees! Anyway, this couple had been all lovey-dovey, but apparently there was a loud argument that started about an hour ago. The guy said he heard two gunshots and then no more yelling. He’s got his kids with him and didn’t want to check it out personally. They’re on their way back to the ranger station now. Can’t blame him - I wouldn’t risk it with my family around.”
“I hear you. I can be there in 15 minutes,” she told him. “How long ago did he hear the gunshots?”
“About 10 minutes ago now. I hope it’s nothing but we need to take a look. Radio me immediately if things don’t look right and I’ll call in backup.”
“On my way,” she said, hanging up the phone and reaching for the uniform she’d discarded next to the bed only hours before. Within minutes, she was out the door and in her Jeep. She headed down the drive and turned toward the road that led to Lorilard Trail.
The trail was used mostly by families and amateur campers. There was no real hiking involved; a rutted lane accessible to most cars led to campsites spread out about a half-mile from each other.
Her stomach clenched and tension settled in her shoulders. This was the least enjoyable part of her job. She could deal with the Eastern diamondback rattlesnakes, black bears, and the occasional rabid fox and lynx. But when you added people to the mix, nothing was predictable.
She found the couple’s campsite easily – they were the only ones in residence on the trail. She could see two bodies lying on the ground, unmoving. She approached slowly, drawing her service revolver as she exited her vehicle. The woman, wearing only panties, lay dead with her eyes open and a gunshot wound to her head. In her hand was a large caliber handgun. She was young and beautiful and Anna’s gut clenched at the thought of the wasted life in front of her. She turned her attention to the man lying face down next to the dead woman and realized he was still alive. His breath came in short, wet gulps. She leaned down and gently turned him over.
She looked at Robert’s face, as stunned as if someone had slapped her. He had a gaping chest wound where the bullet had entered his body.
“Anna…help me,” he whispered.
An angry, jealous haze colored her vision as the taste of bile entered her mouth. This was his trip to Vancouver? Was this also his trip to Wyoming two weeks ago? She stared into his lying eyes, her mind reeling.
Her radio crackled to life. “Anna, are you on the scene yet?” Steve asked.
Staring into Robert’s pleading eyes, she pulled the radio from her belt and answered, “I’m here and it looks like they shot each other. They’re both dead. You’d better call the State in. Take your time. These two aren’t going anywhere.”
“Ten four,” Steve answered.
Anna caressed Robert’s cheek and then turned him face down again, as she’d found him. She gently but firmly pushed his face into the soft, thick bed of pine needles and earth. He struggled feebly for less than two minutes and was silent.
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
07 June, 2009
Rescue Me - by Deborah
Prompts were: Fan, Fog, Fear
Tess was driving along Highway 21, heading back to Corvalis from a great weekend with her friends at the Oregon coast. She had completed a brutal round of mid-term finals at OSU last week and her reward was a relaxing weekend enjoying the sand and surf. She should have headed back hours ago, but the group had been having too much fun to call it quits until it started getting very late. Half past midnight, thick fog permeating the deep woods, Tess had begun wishing she’d driven back in daylight. She’d just passed mile marker 32 and was calculating how many more miles she had to go. She calculated and figured she’d be driving for at least two more hours.
A loud clatter startled her and she hit the brakes, thinking she’d run over something in the road. As the car stalled out she realized the clatter had come from her engine. She coasted to the side of the road, put the car in Park, and turned the key. Nothing. She tried several times more without any luck. Popping the hood release, she got out of her car and lifted the hood.
“This is stupid. Like I would know what I was looking for.”
She returned to the car’s interior and locked the doors, keeping the headlights on. At least the battery was fairly new and the lights could probably last a couple of hours.
Pulling her cell phone from her purse, she scrolled through the contacts and located the auto club’s number. Pressing “Call”, she mentally sent a thank you to her parents for enrolling her in AAA. The lady on the other end of the phone informed her they would dispatch a tow truck immediately.
A brief ten minutes after hanging up her phone, a rough-sounding truck rounded the curve and slowly passed her, pulling to the side of the road in front of her car. She couldn’t believe how quickly the tow truck had shown up. She’d thought she was in for at least an hour’s wait considering how far away the nearest town was.
Tess got out of her car and walked to the tow truck. In the glow of her headlights, she could see that most of the truck was coated in mud. The few clean spots showed rust and faded black paint.
The driver’s door opened with a groan. Apparently the rust wasn’t limited to the truck’s exterior, she thought.
The man who stepped out of the vehicle was tall and thin. He wore stained dark overalls and work boots. He seemed very pale but, then again, most residents of Oregon were. He walked toward Tess, staring intently at her face. She felt brief flash of unease which she pushed away. After all, she was the one who had called him.
“Wow, you made record time getting out here. I thought I’d be stuck half the night.”
He pushed his lank hair out of his face with thin fingers. It appeared so filthy that Tess couldn’t tell what color it was. She could see beads of sweat shining on his forehead.
“I was in the area,” he said flatly.
He walked over to her car and looked at the engine. Tess followed behind a few paces, a little surprised at his unfriendliness. Most of the people in this area were very nice. Maybe he was just irritated at having to work so late, she thought.
He scanned the engine for a moment and turned to her, “Looks like you lost your fanbelt.” He pointed to the car’s fan and then the place where the belt should’ve been. His breathing seemed unnaturally fast and heavy to Tess, considering he couldn’t be more than twenty-five.
She again felt fear begin to lick at her consciousness. She mentally chided herself, blaming the spooky setting and the fact that she was indeed alone with a stranger, miles from anywhere. However, the stranger had been dispatched to her by the auto club. It’s not like this was some creep who just happened to drive up and offer her a ride.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the driver. “I’ll hook it up and take you to Netarts. It’s about a half-hour from here.”
Tess nodded, wrapping her arms around herself to combat the wet chill of the fog. She watched as he hooked the tow-bar up to her car’s undercarriage. He worked very quickly and it was done in just a few minutes.
“Ready?” he asked and she nodded again.
He walked her to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. As she climbed up in to the truck, she noticed him staring at her legs and self-consciously tugged her shorts down farther over her thighs, quickly getting herself situated on the seat. As the door slammed, she was unable to prevent herself from jumping a little, even though she’d been expecting the noise. She glanced at the door and saw it did not have an interior handle. Her unease returned with a vengeance. On the bench seat next to her was a long length of rope. As the driver’s door opened, the dome light illuminated the truck’s interior and Tess saw the rope was wet with what appeared to be fresh blood. Heart racing, she looked up and met the driver’s eyes.
The smile that slowly spread across his face could only be described as evil.
Forty minutes later, a big red tow truck with “Hal’s Towing” emblazoned on the side drove slowly along Highway 21. Hal had been back and forth along the road around mile marker 32 and couldn’t locate the disabled vehicle. It was bad enough that AAA had called him in the middle of a sound sleep, but now it appeared someone had screwed up the location as well. He picked up his radio to call dispatch. Someone was going to be in very big trouble.
Tess was driving along Highway 21, heading back to Corvalis from a great weekend with her friends at the Oregon coast. She had completed a brutal round of mid-term finals at OSU last week and her reward was a relaxing weekend enjoying the sand and surf. She should have headed back hours ago, but the group had been having too much fun to call it quits until it started getting very late. Half past midnight, thick fog permeating the deep woods, Tess had begun wishing she’d driven back in daylight. She’d just passed mile marker 32 and was calculating how many more miles she had to go. She calculated and figured she’d be driving for at least two more hours.
A loud clatter startled her and she hit the brakes, thinking she’d run over something in the road. As the car stalled out she realized the clatter had come from her engine. She coasted to the side of the road, put the car in Park, and turned the key. Nothing. She tried several times more without any luck. Popping the hood release, she got out of her car and lifted the hood.
“This is stupid. Like I would know what I was looking for.”
She returned to the car’s interior and locked the doors, keeping the headlights on. At least the battery was fairly new and the lights could probably last a couple of hours.
Pulling her cell phone from her purse, she scrolled through the contacts and located the auto club’s number. Pressing “Call”, she mentally sent a thank you to her parents for enrolling her in AAA. The lady on the other end of the phone informed her they would dispatch a tow truck immediately.
A brief ten minutes after hanging up her phone, a rough-sounding truck rounded the curve and slowly passed her, pulling to the side of the road in front of her car. She couldn’t believe how quickly the tow truck had shown up. She’d thought she was in for at least an hour’s wait considering how far away the nearest town was.
Tess got out of her car and walked to the tow truck. In the glow of her headlights, she could see that most of the truck was coated in mud. The few clean spots showed rust and faded black paint.
The driver’s door opened with a groan. Apparently the rust wasn’t limited to the truck’s exterior, she thought.
The man who stepped out of the vehicle was tall and thin. He wore stained dark overalls and work boots. He seemed very pale but, then again, most residents of Oregon were. He walked toward Tess, staring intently at her face. She felt brief flash of unease which she pushed away. After all, she was the one who had called him.
“Wow, you made record time getting out here. I thought I’d be stuck half the night.”
He pushed his lank hair out of his face with thin fingers. It appeared so filthy that Tess couldn’t tell what color it was. She could see beads of sweat shining on his forehead.
“I was in the area,” he said flatly.
He walked over to her car and looked at the engine. Tess followed behind a few paces, a little surprised at his unfriendliness. Most of the people in this area were very nice. Maybe he was just irritated at having to work so late, she thought.
He scanned the engine for a moment and turned to her, “Looks like you lost your fanbelt.” He pointed to the car’s fan and then the place where the belt should’ve been. His breathing seemed unnaturally fast and heavy to Tess, considering he couldn’t be more than twenty-five.
She again felt fear begin to lick at her consciousness. She mentally chided herself, blaming the spooky setting and the fact that she was indeed alone with a stranger, miles from anywhere. However, the stranger had been dispatched to her by the auto club. It’s not like this was some creep who just happened to drive up and offer her a ride.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the driver. “I’ll hook it up and take you to Netarts. It’s about a half-hour from here.”
Tess nodded, wrapping her arms around herself to combat the wet chill of the fog. She watched as he hooked the tow-bar up to her car’s undercarriage. He worked very quickly and it was done in just a few minutes.
“Ready?” he asked and she nodded again.
He walked her to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. As she climbed up in to the truck, she noticed him staring at her legs and self-consciously tugged her shorts down farther over her thighs, quickly getting herself situated on the seat. As the door slammed, she was unable to prevent herself from jumping a little, even though she’d been expecting the noise. She glanced at the door and saw it did not have an interior handle. Her unease returned with a vengeance. On the bench seat next to her was a long length of rope. As the driver’s door opened, the dome light illuminated the truck’s interior and Tess saw the rope was wet with what appeared to be fresh blood. Heart racing, she looked up and met the driver’s eyes.
The smile that slowly spread across his face could only be described as evil.
Forty minutes later, a big red tow truck with “Hal’s Towing” emblazoned on the side drove slowly along Highway 21. Hal had been back and forth along the road around mile marker 32 and couldn’t locate the disabled vehicle. It was bad enough that AAA had called him in the middle of a sound sleep, but now it appeared someone had screwed up the location as well. He picked up his radio to call dispatch. Someone was going to be in very big trouble.
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
06 June, 2009
Keeping Up Appearances - by Deborah
Prompts for this one were: Lipstick, monitor, looking through a window
Her hand was steady as she applied the lipstick, concentrating intently on the task through a veil of tears. As she capped the tube, she inhaled an unsteady breath. Rummaging through the little bag of makeup produced some fine loose powder which she painstakingly applied with a soft sable brush. Next came the perfume. She opened the little bottle of White Shoulders and dabbed some on the inside of the wrist, the bend at the elbow. She could only apply it to the right arm as the left was covered in tubes and surgical tape from multiple IVs. The nail polish was also applied only to the right hand. Picking up a comb from the bedside table, she began gently arranging sparse gray hair. The chemotherapy had taken a toll on the once thick, curly locks. There wasn’t much left, but she’d do what she could.
The room was alien without the hum and beeping of the monitors. She could hear the gentle tapping of rain on the window and rose from the side of the bed to look outside. The drops rolling slowly down the glass pane mirrored the tears on her cheeks. A robin hopped along the lawn, looking for a meal in the wet grass. She turned back to the bed.
She placed a final kiss on her mother’s powdered cheek and walked slowly from the room, wondering how she was going to face life without her best friend.
Her hand was steady as she applied the lipstick, concentrating intently on the task through a veil of tears. As she capped the tube, she inhaled an unsteady breath. Rummaging through the little bag of makeup produced some fine loose powder which she painstakingly applied with a soft sable brush. Next came the perfume. She opened the little bottle of White Shoulders and dabbed some on the inside of the wrist, the bend at the elbow. She could only apply it to the right arm as the left was covered in tubes and surgical tape from multiple IVs. The nail polish was also applied only to the right hand. Picking up a comb from the bedside table, she began gently arranging sparse gray hair. The chemotherapy had taken a toll on the once thick, curly locks. There wasn’t much left, but she’d do what she could.
The room was alien without the hum and beeping of the monitors. She could hear the gentle tapping of rain on the window and rose from the side of the bed to look outside. The drops rolling slowly down the glass pane mirrored the tears on her cheeks. A robin hopped along the lawn, looking for a meal in the wet grass. She turned back to the bed.
She placed a final kiss on her mother’s powdered cheek and walked slowly from the room, wondering how she was going to face life without her best friend.
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
Talking To Edwin - by Deborah
Prompts for this one were: Grandmother, Birdbath, Encyclopedia. (This one was VERY hard for me - just couldn't grab a plot bunny as they went zipping by!)
My grandmother, Mildred Pearce, lost her mind in 1932 at the tender age of 20. She passed away last week after having lived 97 years, most of them spent in a state of mild but certain mental imbalance.
Born in 1912, Mildred had been a New York high-society girl; her name and picture had been a frequent sight in the gossip pages beginning with her debutante ball at the age of 17. After breaking many hearts, she'd stunned society by falling in love with, and subsequently marrying, a simple onion farmer named Edwin when she was 19. The birth of her son and my father, David, had occurred exactly nine months after the marriage, thus putting to rest the rumors of the marriage being one of necessity.
The stock market fell in 1929 but the effects weren’t fully felt by the New York farmers until a couple years later. Grandpa Edwin’s income had been suddenly cut by three quarters. He and Mildred had barely scraped by. Feeding young David had been difficult and the three of them went to sleep hungry more often than not.
Edwin disappeared in the summer of 1932. It was said that he simply couldn’t take the stress of providing for his family. No one ever heard from him again. Another rumor circulated that he’d gone off and killed himself, unable to bear the shame of not being able to properly care for his wife and child.
Edwin’s disappearance had a brutal impact on my grandmother. She tended to the farm herself, little David strapped to her back in a makeshift cradle while she went about her 18-hour days working the fields and bringing the produce to market where it fetched so much less than it had in past years. She ran herself ragged trying to keep the roof over their heads.
On top of all the hard work, she refused to accept that Grandpa Edwin was gone. Grandma had begun speaking to him as if he were still there, improvising his half of the conversations in a voice several octaves lower than her own.
My earliest memory of Grandma is a visit to her farm when I was about five years old. It went something like this:
“Well hello Tina! We’re so glad your daddy brought you to visit. Would you like to come into the kitchen? I’ve just made some oatmeal cookies. Edwin says I spoil my grandchildren but I told him that’s my privilege as a grandmother.”
We had entered the kitchen and I began getting down to business with the finest oatmeal cookies I’ve ever tasted. Halfway through my snack, Grandma had suddenly turned to the empty corner of the kitchen and yelled, “Edwin! How rude! Tina does NOT have a weight problem and the cookies are a treat! I’ll ask you to please mind your manners while we have guests present.”
And so it went with every visit to Grandma’s farm. Things would be going well and then she’d suddenly address Edwin as if he were standing right there in the room with us. At first it scared me but, as I got older, I found it rather entertaining. In every other facet of Grandma’s life, she was a strong and capable woman. But when it came to Edwin, she was a complete and utter looney.
The family sympathized with her. Whatever the truth was, whether he’d simply run off or killed himself, my grandmother had been stuck with a hard life but she made the best of it. The farm had started turning a profit again in the late 40’s. Grandma used the profits to invest wisely in the stock market as stocks were selling at bargain-basement prices then. Though she'd made a fortune, she never gave up the little farm in upstate New York.
Grandma’s will left me several acres of the farm, including the original farmhouse. The property is now valued at over a million dollars due to the nearest city’s encroachment. As soon as I discovered this, I thought about selling the place. But then I read her diaries, which she had also left to me in her will. One entry in particular stood out from the rest:
“July 7, 1932: I didn’t mean to do it. Edwin just made me so angry that I couldn’t help myself. Ninety dollars thrown out the window! It took me more than seven months to save that much. While David and I were at church this morning, Edwin happily handed over our savings to a traveling salesman pitching encyclopedias. I sacrificed so many things for myself and my baby to save that much - it was supposed to help us get through these hard times. My memory isn’t too clear on the details, but I know I was preparing our Sunday lunch in the kitchen. David was crying something terrible and wouldn’t stop. Then Edwin told me the money was gone, proudly showing me the leather-bound books. Something terrible came over me and I took the cast-iron skillet from the stove and hit him over the head with it as hard as I could.
He wasn’t breathing when he fell from the chair. Lord knows I didn’t mean to kill him but that’s what happened. I put the baby down for a nap and then went outside. I pulled the birdbath from the garden and dug a deep hole in the ground where it had stood. I put my dear Edwin in to the hole and buried him, replacing the birdbath when I was done.
I know he’s gone, but I still feel him right here next to me. I think I will always feel him here with me. After today, I will not again think about what I’ve done. I’m going to pretend none of it happened. Edwin is still here with me and will always remain so.”
I don’t think I’ll be selling right away. At least not until I have a chance to deal with the problem in the garden.
My grandmother, Mildred Pearce, lost her mind in 1932 at the tender age of 20. She passed away last week after having lived 97 years, most of them spent in a state of mild but certain mental imbalance.
Born in 1912, Mildred had been a New York high-society girl; her name and picture had been a frequent sight in the gossip pages beginning with her debutante ball at the age of 17. After breaking many hearts, she'd stunned society by falling in love with, and subsequently marrying, a simple onion farmer named Edwin when she was 19. The birth of her son and my father, David, had occurred exactly nine months after the marriage, thus putting to rest the rumors of the marriage being one of necessity.
The stock market fell in 1929 but the effects weren’t fully felt by the New York farmers until a couple years later. Grandpa Edwin’s income had been suddenly cut by three quarters. He and Mildred had barely scraped by. Feeding young David had been difficult and the three of them went to sleep hungry more often than not.
Edwin disappeared in the summer of 1932. It was said that he simply couldn’t take the stress of providing for his family. No one ever heard from him again. Another rumor circulated that he’d gone off and killed himself, unable to bear the shame of not being able to properly care for his wife and child.
Edwin’s disappearance had a brutal impact on my grandmother. She tended to the farm herself, little David strapped to her back in a makeshift cradle while she went about her 18-hour days working the fields and bringing the produce to market where it fetched so much less than it had in past years. She ran herself ragged trying to keep the roof over their heads.
On top of all the hard work, she refused to accept that Grandpa Edwin was gone. Grandma had begun speaking to him as if he were still there, improvising his half of the conversations in a voice several octaves lower than her own.
My earliest memory of Grandma is a visit to her farm when I was about five years old. It went something like this:
“Well hello Tina! We’re so glad your daddy brought you to visit. Would you like to come into the kitchen? I’ve just made some oatmeal cookies. Edwin says I spoil my grandchildren but I told him that’s my privilege as a grandmother.”
We had entered the kitchen and I began getting down to business with the finest oatmeal cookies I’ve ever tasted. Halfway through my snack, Grandma had suddenly turned to the empty corner of the kitchen and yelled, “Edwin! How rude! Tina does NOT have a weight problem and the cookies are a treat! I’ll ask you to please mind your manners while we have guests present.”
And so it went with every visit to Grandma’s farm. Things would be going well and then she’d suddenly address Edwin as if he were standing right there in the room with us. At first it scared me but, as I got older, I found it rather entertaining. In every other facet of Grandma’s life, she was a strong and capable woman. But when it came to Edwin, she was a complete and utter looney.
The family sympathized with her. Whatever the truth was, whether he’d simply run off or killed himself, my grandmother had been stuck with a hard life but she made the best of it. The farm had started turning a profit again in the late 40’s. Grandma used the profits to invest wisely in the stock market as stocks were selling at bargain-basement prices then. Though she'd made a fortune, she never gave up the little farm in upstate New York.
Grandma’s will left me several acres of the farm, including the original farmhouse. The property is now valued at over a million dollars due to the nearest city’s encroachment. As soon as I discovered this, I thought about selling the place. But then I read her diaries, which she had also left to me in her will. One entry in particular stood out from the rest:
“July 7, 1932: I didn’t mean to do it. Edwin just made me so angry that I couldn’t help myself. Ninety dollars thrown out the window! It took me more than seven months to save that much. While David and I were at church this morning, Edwin happily handed over our savings to a traveling salesman pitching encyclopedias. I sacrificed so many things for myself and my baby to save that much - it was supposed to help us get through these hard times. My memory isn’t too clear on the details, but I know I was preparing our Sunday lunch in the kitchen. David was crying something terrible and wouldn’t stop. Then Edwin told me the money was gone, proudly showing me the leather-bound books. Something terrible came over me and I took the cast-iron skillet from the stove and hit him over the head with it as hard as I could.
He wasn’t breathing when he fell from the chair. Lord knows I didn’t mean to kill him but that’s what happened. I put the baby down for a nap and then went outside. I pulled the birdbath from the garden and dug a deep hole in the ground where it had stood. I put my dear Edwin in to the hole and buried him, replacing the birdbath when I was done.
I know he’s gone, but I still feel him right here next to me. I think I will always feel him here with me. After today, I will not again think about what I’ve done. I’m going to pretend none of it happened. Edwin is still here with me and will always remain so.”
I don’t think I’ll be selling right away. At least not until I have a chance to deal with the problem in the garden.
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
The Last Winged Horse - by Deborah
Prompts: Bright light, feathers, something overhead (actually, it was "something overHEARD", but I misread it [desperately need glasses] and this is what happened).
She soars high in the clear summer sky, white wings beating lazily in the updraft from the green valley below. The sunlight brilliantly illuminates her pale coat and feathers, creating the illusion of a second, smaller sun in the blue sky. No hoofbeats can be heard in the air, though her strong legs mime a galloping motion. She lands gracefully in the flat meadow, hoofbeats now audible on the ground. She folds her magnificent wings to her sides and trots to the clear, cold water of the stream. She drinks deeply.
Suddenly she raises her head, nostrils flaring as she breathes in a new scent. Could it be...?
A glorious elk steps from the forest’s edge into the meadow and the mare’s eyes fill with sadness. For just a moment, she had thought it was another of her kind. But she is the very last of the winged horses and will never see another one such as herself. Born of the gods and sent to grace the world with their beauty, they have become hunted by men until she is the only one left. Slowly she walks to the base of a large pine tree. Folding her front legs under her, she settles herself among the fallen pine needles. She gently lifts one wing and tucks her head beneath it to doze, dreaming of her herd now long gone.
An old crone enters the meadow, walking along the streambed with slow, unsteady steps. She was once a very powerful white witch, but her powers are beginning to fade. She is bent with arthritis and her skin is ravaged with age. She was never attractive, not even in her youth. The years have only magnified her unpleasant appearance. The witch treasures beauty above all else, perhaps for having lived so long without it, and is dumbstruck by the exquisite vision of the sleeping winged horse under the pine.
Sensing her, the horse suddenly wakes, rising to her feet. They regard each other intently. She senses the crone will not harm her and cautiously approaches. The crone reaches out a trembling, wart-covered hand and lightly strokes the horse’s soft muzzle. The horse blows air gently through her wide nostrils, signaling her content. The witch’s eyes fill with tears as she beholds the grace and beauty before her.
“I am a witch and will grant you the ability to speak for I must know what it is like to live as such a beautiful creature.”
After a blinding flash of light, the winged horse is able to speak.
The crone asks her, “Tell me, is it wonderful to be so beautiful?”
“I once thought so but now that I am alone it brings me no joy. I am instead filled with fear and hatred for man. He has taken from me all I loved.”
The old witch is surprised at the animal’s answer. She expected to hear that happiness was found in being beautiful. She had been alone all her life and did not miss the company of others. She finds it very hard to understand the mare’s point of view.
“Tell me, my beauty, if you could become another animal and be again with others of your own kind, would you?”
“Yes, I would,” the horse answers immediately.
“I feel I have a couple of good spells left in these old bones and possibly a solution to both our problems. I could turn myself into a common animal of your choosing and then switch places with you. Would you like that?”
The winged horse thinks deeply for a moment. She knows she has no future as she is. She begins to imagine a future as something else…a future with a purpose.
“Yes, I would gladly become a different animal.”
The crone cannot conceal her joy. Oh, to become this beautiful creature! It is everything she’s ever wanted. “Are you certain, my beautiful friend? For this cannot be undone.”
“I am certain.”
“What animal do you wish to become? I can only make myself into something common; nothing as beautiful as you are,” the witch warns her.
The mare answers without hesitation, “I wish to become a rat.”
Sputtering in disbelief, eyes wide, the witch asks, “A rat?!”
The horse nods her affirmation.
After waiting a moment to be sure the mare is certain, the witch begins chanting ancient words. With a blinding flash of light, the witch is gone and a small grey rat stands in her place. Its beady black eyes regard the horse solemnly. The mare dances about nervously, hoping with all her might the next spell will also work.
The rat begins squeaking wildly and, in another blinding flash of light, the winged horse finds herself with her nose in the grass. Only the grass looks very big indeed. She sniffs at it and discovers scents she never knew existed. She is aware of her little pink nose and whiskers twitching rapidly. She is a rat - the spell worked! She looks up and sees the winged horse prancing about. The witch seems very happy with the spell also.
The horse dashes over to the stream, admires her reflection and gives a happy whinny. With one last look at the rat, the horse spreads her wings and lifts into the air, leaving the little rat behind in the grass.
The Crone, who is now a winged horse, loves her new beauty and freedom. It has been only two weeks since that fateful day in the meadow. As she curls up underneath the old pine, she hears something approaching quickly. Before she can get to her feet, her sleek white side is pierced by a long, wicked arrow. Pain clouds her beautiful dark eyes. Then another arrow. And another.
The last of the winged horses is gone.
The rat searches for and finds many others of her kind. They sense she is somehow different and allow her to lead them. She urges them to go into the towns and live among men. Soon they number in the thousands. They begin to wreak havoc on mankind, slowly destroying village after village with plague.
The war between men and rats still rages today.
Some say the rats are winning.
She soars high in the clear summer sky, white wings beating lazily in the updraft from the green valley below. The sunlight brilliantly illuminates her pale coat and feathers, creating the illusion of a second, smaller sun in the blue sky. No hoofbeats can be heard in the air, though her strong legs mime a galloping motion. She lands gracefully in the flat meadow, hoofbeats now audible on the ground. She folds her magnificent wings to her sides and trots to the clear, cold water of the stream. She drinks deeply.
Suddenly she raises her head, nostrils flaring as she breathes in a new scent. Could it be...?
A glorious elk steps from the forest’s edge into the meadow and the mare’s eyes fill with sadness. For just a moment, she had thought it was another of her kind. But she is the very last of the winged horses and will never see another one such as herself. Born of the gods and sent to grace the world with their beauty, they have become hunted by men until she is the only one left. Slowly she walks to the base of a large pine tree. Folding her front legs under her, she settles herself among the fallen pine needles. She gently lifts one wing and tucks her head beneath it to doze, dreaming of her herd now long gone.
An old crone enters the meadow, walking along the streambed with slow, unsteady steps. She was once a very powerful white witch, but her powers are beginning to fade. She is bent with arthritis and her skin is ravaged with age. She was never attractive, not even in her youth. The years have only magnified her unpleasant appearance. The witch treasures beauty above all else, perhaps for having lived so long without it, and is dumbstruck by the exquisite vision of the sleeping winged horse under the pine.
Sensing her, the horse suddenly wakes, rising to her feet. They regard each other intently. She senses the crone will not harm her and cautiously approaches. The crone reaches out a trembling, wart-covered hand and lightly strokes the horse’s soft muzzle. The horse blows air gently through her wide nostrils, signaling her content. The witch’s eyes fill with tears as she beholds the grace and beauty before her.
“I am a witch and will grant you the ability to speak for I must know what it is like to live as such a beautiful creature.”
After a blinding flash of light, the winged horse is able to speak.
The crone asks her, “Tell me, is it wonderful to be so beautiful?”
“I once thought so but now that I am alone it brings me no joy. I am instead filled with fear and hatred for man. He has taken from me all I loved.”
The old witch is surprised at the animal’s answer. She expected to hear that happiness was found in being beautiful. She had been alone all her life and did not miss the company of others. She finds it very hard to understand the mare’s point of view.
“Tell me, my beauty, if you could become another animal and be again with others of your own kind, would you?”
“Yes, I would,” the horse answers immediately.
“I feel I have a couple of good spells left in these old bones and possibly a solution to both our problems. I could turn myself into a common animal of your choosing and then switch places with you. Would you like that?”
The winged horse thinks deeply for a moment. She knows she has no future as she is. She begins to imagine a future as something else…a future with a purpose.
“Yes, I would gladly become a different animal.”
The crone cannot conceal her joy. Oh, to become this beautiful creature! It is everything she’s ever wanted. “Are you certain, my beautiful friend? For this cannot be undone.”
“I am certain.”
“What animal do you wish to become? I can only make myself into something common; nothing as beautiful as you are,” the witch warns her.
The mare answers without hesitation, “I wish to become a rat.”
Sputtering in disbelief, eyes wide, the witch asks, “A rat?!”
The horse nods her affirmation.
After waiting a moment to be sure the mare is certain, the witch begins chanting ancient words. With a blinding flash of light, the witch is gone and a small grey rat stands in her place. Its beady black eyes regard the horse solemnly. The mare dances about nervously, hoping with all her might the next spell will also work.
The rat begins squeaking wildly and, in another blinding flash of light, the winged horse finds herself with her nose in the grass. Only the grass looks very big indeed. She sniffs at it and discovers scents she never knew existed. She is aware of her little pink nose and whiskers twitching rapidly. She is a rat - the spell worked! She looks up and sees the winged horse prancing about. The witch seems very happy with the spell also.
The horse dashes over to the stream, admires her reflection and gives a happy whinny. With one last look at the rat, the horse spreads her wings and lifts into the air, leaving the little rat behind in the grass.
The Crone, who is now a winged horse, loves her new beauty and freedom. It has been only two weeks since that fateful day in the meadow. As she curls up underneath the old pine, she hears something approaching quickly. Before she can get to her feet, her sleek white side is pierced by a long, wicked arrow. Pain clouds her beautiful dark eyes. Then another arrow. And another.
The last of the winged horses is gone.
The rat searches for and finds many others of her kind. They sense she is somehow different and allow her to lead them. She urges them to go into the towns and live among men. Soon they number in the thousands. They begin to wreak havoc on mankind, slowly destroying village after village with plague.
The war between men and rats still rages today.
Some say the rats are winning.
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
05 June, 2009
Monkey in the Middle
Grizzled Bear and the Old Wolf sit on the porch, drinking in companionable silence. Neither of them are close to being old men, but they wear the titles well. Very few pack leaders make it to old, though the current Old Wolf has held the position for at least twenty years. Grizzled Bear has it easier. There are fewer bears to challenge him, and most of those that come around aren’t looking to run things.
Old Wolf wears his hair long, grey streaks stark against the dark brown. His clothing is loose, as if he could mask how muscular he is. Or maybe it’s to make the changing easier, in case he has to do it in a hurry. I’ve never seen anyone who could rush the Wolf, and I’ve no mind to. Thing like that should send a person running before it was too late. Once he’d changed, you’d be forced to stand still and pray you didn’t get noticed.
That tactic never did work on the bears. They aren’t inclined to chase you, but if you stay where you are, they’ll come right up to check you out. They try to get you to do something interesting, like a little kid at the zoo egging on the monkeys. If you move, the bear will either take offense and swat you, or decide you want to play – and swat you. If you stay still, they get bored and still swat you. There’s no winning with bears. Unless they’re in a good mood. Then they just ignore you and go about their bear business.
At least most of them do. Grizzled Bear is a different story. He likes to stir things up a bit from time to time, just to see what happens. You wouldn’t think it to look at him. He presents as almost normal, with short cropped hair barely touched with grey, always dressed like a cross between a hippie and your favorite uncle – just a little disheveled. His clothes don’t hide what he is, either. Shoulders and chest like that, strong legs and more fur than most men allow practically advertise what he is. I still don’t know how he goes from tall, lean guy to six hundred pound bear, but maybe that’s because I never had the guts to ask him.
According to all the old stories, Bear and Wolf shouldn’t be friends. The wolves like to run off any other were-folk in the area, or at least keep them confined to territory the wolves don’t want. If they’d had their way, the humans would have been run off all together. They don’t like the way we smell, the things we do to the land, the way we treat women and children. There’s not much we do right in their eyes, and I can’t say I blame them for thinking that way. Personally, I think they keep us around because they like our liquor stores and the supermarket.
The bears don’t care about us one way or the other. They don’t much care about the wolves' territorial boundaries either. They expect everyone to get out of their way whenever they come around. It’s always the men as come to town. After you’ve been here a while, you start to recognize them. Not that they look alike. They just have a way of moving, deliberate, relaxed, and quietly dangerous.
Nothing quiet about the wolves, at least not when they’re in a group. The young men are rambunctious – before Old Wolf beats them into shape or kicks them out. The women are a lot more laid back. Plus, they’ll talk to you without acting like you’re garbage. Or food. I never did like the way the boys looked at me. Still don’t. Well, except for Old Wolf. He’s not what you’d call friendly, but he’s generally polite. Maybe that’s why he and the Bear get along. They both know enough to pick their battles.
I’m not that smart. Standing in the street, looking up at them, I’d like nothing more than to shake the two large men and toss them out on their ears. But I can’t. For one thing, they weigh too much. For another, it’s their house as much as mine, on account of my letting them sleep there whenever they’re in town made it their de facto den. At least that’s what they say. I think they’re messing with me and just want me to think I have to let them hang out, because their other option is to go back and deal with their respective political situations, and they’d rather crank up my air conditioners and drink all my beer.
Come to think of it, I can’t say as I blame them for that, either. I do, however, want them to work for it. Last time I brought that up, they both told me how much they’d like to take care of me properly. By which they meant permanently. By which they meant they’d like to mate with me. At which point, I’d walked out and kept walking. I didn’t need the house. I’d walked away from it before.
Now I was back, and they were looking at me with twin amused expressions, waiting for me to pick which version of hell I’d like to spend eternity buying curtains for. I’ve always been able to find new and unusual ways to get into trouble. This tops them all.
___________________________________
Old Wolf wears his hair long, grey streaks stark against the dark brown. His clothing is loose, as if he could mask how muscular he is. Or maybe it’s to make the changing easier, in case he has to do it in a hurry. I’ve never seen anyone who could rush the Wolf, and I’ve no mind to. Thing like that should send a person running before it was too late. Once he’d changed, you’d be forced to stand still and pray you didn’t get noticed.
That tactic never did work on the bears. They aren’t inclined to chase you, but if you stay where you are, they’ll come right up to check you out. They try to get you to do something interesting, like a little kid at the zoo egging on the monkeys. If you move, the bear will either take offense and swat you, or decide you want to play – and swat you. If you stay still, they get bored and still swat you. There’s no winning with bears. Unless they’re in a good mood. Then they just ignore you and go about their bear business.
At least most of them do. Grizzled Bear is a different story. He likes to stir things up a bit from time to time, just to see what happens. You wouldn’t think it to look at him. He presents as almost normal, with short cropped hair barely touched with grey, always dressed like a cross between a hippie and your favorite uncle – just a little disheveled. His clothes don’t hide what he is, either. Shoulders and chest like that, strong legs and more fur than most men allow practically advertise what he is. I still don’t know how he goes from tall, lean guy to six hundred pound bear, but maybe that’s because I never had the guts to ask him.
According to all the old stories, Bear and Wolf shouldn’t be friends. The wolves like to run off any other were-folk in the area, or at least keep them confined to territory the wolves don’t want. If they’d had their way, the humans would have been run off all together. They don’t like the way we smell, the things we do to the land, the way we treat women and children. There’s not much we do right in their eyes, and I can’t say I blame them for thinking that way. Personally, I think they keep us around because they like our liquor stores and the supermarket.
The bears don’t care about us one way or the other. They don’t much care about the wolves' territorial boundaries either. They expect everyone to get out of their way whenever they come around. It’s always the men as come to town. After you’ve been here a while, you start to recognize them. Not that they look alike. They just have a way of moving, deliberate, relaxed, and quietly dangerous.
Nothing quiet about the wolves, at least not when they’re in a group. The young men are rambunctious – before Old Wolf beats them into shape or kicks them out. The women are a lot more laid back. Plus, they’ll talk to you without acting like you’re garbage. Or food. I never did like the way the boys looked at me. Still don’t. Well, except for Old Wolf. He’s not what you’d call friendly, but he’s generally polite. Maybe that’s why he and the Bear get along. They both know enough to pick their battles.
I’m not that smart. Standing in the street, looking up at them, I’d like nothing more than to shake the two large men and toss them out on their ears. But I can’t. For one thing, they weigh too much. For another, it’s their house as much as mine, on account of my letting them sleep there whenever they’re in town made it their de facto den. At least that’s what they say. I think they’re messing with me and just want me to think I have to let them hang out, because their other option is to go back and deal with their respective political situations, and they’d rather crank up my air conditioners and drink all my beer.
Come to think of it, I can’t say as I blame them for that, either. I do, however, want them to work for it. Last time I brought that up, they both told me how much they’d like to take care of me properly. By which they meant permanently. By which they meant they’d like to mate with me. At which point, I’d walked out and kept walking. I didn’t need the house. I’d walked away from it before.
Now I was back, and they were looking at me with twin amused expressions, waiting for me to pick which version of hell I’d like to spend eternity buying curtains for. I’ve always been able to find new and unusual ways to get into trouble. This tops them all.
___________________________________
Cross posted at Push Comes to Shove
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
Resurrecting Ra - by Deborah
Prompts were midnight, an old book, tattoo
The woman sits in a tent at a small table in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. It is late at night as she sifts through papyrus containing the lost chapter in the Egyptian Book of the Dead. The tent is gloomy, lit only by a single lantern.
Maggie O’Shea is an attractive, fit woman in her early 40’s, blessed with a complexion lacking any freckles despite her Irish ancestry and the copper-colored hair curling around her shoulders. She is kept company by the stray cat who had befriended her on the dig. Maggie’s become quite attached to him in these past months, providing him meals and allowing him to curl up in her cot at the end of the day. For nearly three months, she’s fallen asleep every night with her hand stroking his soft striped gray fur. He has helped combat the loneliness.
Maggie is completely alone in the world, close only to her academic pursuits. She is an only child and her parents, both respected for their archeological work, died in a tragic tomb collapse when she was less than a year old. She has come to know her parents only through newspaper accounts and their field journals. These small insights are enough to show her that her parents were good people, loving and light-hearted. She and their journals are the only physical evidence of their existence. And the tattoo. On Maggie’s back is an Egyptian hieroglyphic-styled cat which she assumes her parents gave her in a flight of fancy during the late-sixties when she was just an infant. She never minded it as it makes her feel closer to them. In fact, she acknowledges that she only became an archeologist to be closer to them in her own way. Today she continues her parents’ work based on their journals and is about to reach a level of fame they only dreamed of. Maggie has discovered what she believes to be the missing 4th Book of the Egyptian Book of the Dead written in 240 BC. She knows they would have been proud of her. The papyrus is old and fragile, but Maggie is able to translate it. Also hidden with the texts had been a fairly large sealed vessel, contents unknown, currently sitting on the floor in the corner of Maggie’s tent and awaiting her examination.
She is elbow deep in the fragile papyrus at a small camp table. She scolds the cat on the table who insists on being in the middle of things, but is glad for his company despite the careless paw prints across the delicate papers. Pondering out loud what she’s just read, she rambles, “So, according to the translation, some woman will bring Ra back from the dead after 220 deadly floods of the Nile, if that’s what they meant by ‘vengeful’.”
She pushes her glasses down her nose, revealing a keen intelligence behind the bright green eyes she inherited from her parents. She gazes at the cat without really seeing him, tapping a pencil to her temple. “Let’s see… historians agree that the Nile averaged one killing flood about every ten years… so, Ra would be resurrected any time between the years 2000 and 2040…I think.”
The woman looks at the cat, frustrated. “My degrees are in archaeology, not math.”
She glances at her watch, runs her hand through her hair and stretches her neck to ease the tension there. “It’s just about midnight and I’ve been at this for the past 16 hours. There has to be a mistake in my translation... the cat part has got to be wrong. I don’t see how this could have anything to do with cats.” She reaches out and pets the cat. “Any ideas, you?” she asks the cat. His answer is a purr.
“Let’s try it one more time from the top.” Maggie quotes from the papyrus, “‘The male Cat is Ra himself, and he was called 'Mau' because of the speech of the god, Sa, who said concerning him: 'He is like man and cat unto that which he hath made'; therefore, did the name of Ra become 'Mau.' She, red of hair and green of eye, born into the world adorned with the symbol of Mau will decree the release of Ra after 220 vengeful inundations of the Nile. If this text be recited over him, he shall triumph over death, and he shall escape from every fire, and none of the evil things which appertain to him shall ever be round about him; and his heart shall be bound to his liberator forever.’”
As she finishes reading the translated text out loud, the vessel on the floor begins to tremble. The cat slinks over to the vessel, wrapping his sinuous body around it. The sealed stopper on the bottle loosens, falls to the floor, and thick gray smoke pours forth, enveloping the cat. The smoke rises in a column and billows furiously, stinging Maggie’s eyes. The smoke takes on shape and substance; first of a cat and then of a man. A very tall, powerful man. The smoke finally clears and the man stands before her. He appears to be a glorious Egyptian warrior. She realizes the meaning of the text and the prophecy she has just fulfilled.
Maggie’s mouth opens and closes several times, emitting no sound. Finally, she finds her voice, “Well, shit.”
“I’ve waited a very long time for you,” he tells her.
Maggie is alone no more.
The woman sits in a tent at a small table in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. It is late at night as she sifts through papyrus containing the lost chapter in the Egyptian Book of the Dead. The tent is gloomy, lit only by a single lantern.
Maggie O’Shea is an attractive, fit woman in her early 40’s, blessed with a complexion lacking any freckles despite her Irish ancestry and the copper-colored hair curling around her shoulders. She is kept company by the stray cat who had befriended her on the dig. Maggie’s become quite attached to him in these past months, providing him meals and allowing him to curl up in her cot at the end of the day. For nearly three months, she’s fallen asleep every night with her hand stroking his soft striped gray fur. He has helped combat the loneliness.
Maggie is completely alone in the world, close only to her academic pursuits. She is an only child and her parents, both respected for their archeological work, died in a tragic tomb collapse when she was less than a year old. She has come to know her parents only through newspaper accounts and their field journals. These small insights are enough to show her that her parents were good people, loving and light-hearted. She and their journals are the only physical evidence of their existence. And the tattoo. On Maggie’s back is an Egyptian hieroglyphic-styled cat which she assumes her parents gave her in a flight of fancy during the late-sixties when she was just an infant. She never minded it as it makes her feel closer to them. In fact, she acknowledges that she only became an archeologist to be closer to them in her own way. Today she continues her parents’ work based on their journals and is about to reach a level of fame they only dreamed of. Maggie has discovered what she believes to be the missing 4th Book of the Egyptian Book of the Dead written in 240 BC. She knows they would have been proud of her. The papyrus is old and fragile, but Maggie is able to translate it. Also hidden with the texts had been a fairly large sealed vessel, contents unknown, currently sitting on the floor in the corner of Maggie’s tent and awaiting her examination.
She is elbow deep in the fragile papyrus at a small camp table. She scolds the cat on the table who insists on being in the middle of things, but is glad for his company despite the careless paw prints across the delicate papers. Pondering out loud what she’s just read, she rambles, “So, according to the translation, some woman will bring Ra back from the dead after 220 deadly floods of the Nile, if that’s what they meant by ‘vengeful’.”
She pushes her glasses down her nose, revealing a keen intelligence behind the bright green eyes she inherited from her parents. She gazes at the cat without really seeing him, tapping a pencil to her temple. “Let’s see… historians agree that the Nile averaged one killing flood about every ten years… so, Ra would be resurrected any time between the years 2000 and 2040…I think.”
The woman looks at the cat, frustrated. “My degrees are in archaeology, not math.”
She glances at her watch, runs her hand through her hair and stretches her neck to ease the tension there. “It’s just about midnight and I’ve been at this for the past 16 hours. There has to be a mistake in my translation... the cat part has got to be wrong. I don’t see how this could have anything to do with cats.” She reaches out and pets the cat. “Any ideas, you?” she asks the cat. His answer is a purr.
“Let’s try it one more time from the top.” Maggie quotes from the papyrus, “‘The male Cat is Ra himself, and he was called 'Mau' because of the speech of the god, Sa, who said concerning him: 'He is like man and cat unto that which he hath made'; therefore, did the name of Ra become 'Mau.' She, red of hair and green of eye, born into the world adorned with the symbol of Mau will decree the release of Ra after 220 vengeful inundations of the Nile. If this text be recited over him, he shall triumph over death, and he shall escape from every fire, and none of the evil things which appertain to him shall ever be round about him; and his heart shall be bound to his liberator forever.’”
As she finishes reading the translated text out loud, the vessel on the floor begins to tremble. The cat slinks over to the vessel, wrapping his sinuous body around it. The sealed stopper on the bottle loosens, falls to the floor, and thick gray smoke pours forth, enveloping the cat. The smoke rises in a column and billows furiously, stinging Maggie’s eyes. The smoke takes on shape and substance; first of a cat and then of a man. A very tall, powerful man. The smoke finally clears and the man stands before her. He appears to be a glorious Egyptian warrior. She realizes the meaning of the text and the prophecy she has just fulfilled.
Maggie’s mouth opens and closes several times, emitting no sound. Finally, she finds her voice, “Well, shit.”
“I’ve waited a very long time for you,” he tells her.
Maggie is alone no more.
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
This Week's Prompts: 1-Jun-2009
This week, we welcome a new member to the group. Karen's background is ad/tech writing, and she'd like to explore her creative side.
Welcome, Karen!!
The prompts for this week, chosen by Deb, are:
FEAR // FAN // FOG
(Deb's in an alliterative mood.)
As always, the rules are:
- Story must be 1,000 words or less. There is no minimum word count.
- Story must contain all three prompts, either literally or metaphorically.
That's it! Have fun, fellow Flashers, and feel free to post stories, comments, or various and sundry frustrations/rants here.
Welcome, Karen!!
The prompts for this week, chosen by Deb, are:
FEAR // FAN // FOG
(Deb's in an alliterative mood.)
As always, the rules are:
- Story must be 1,000 words or less. There is no minimum word count.
- Story must contain all three prompts, either literally or metaphorically.
That's it! Have fun, fellow Flashers, and feel free to post stories, comments, or various and sundry frustrations/rants here.
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
Blog Recommendation!
One of The Flashers' frequent contributors has been posting some gripping micro fiction on her blog. I highly recommend you check out her stories - I doubt you'll be disappointed. And if you enjoy her work, don't forget to leave her some love. Feedback is good for the soul.
Push Comes to Shove
Push Comes to Shove
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
28 May, 2009
Flashers in Spaaaaaace (Cyberspace, That Is)
'The Flashers' is a group of writers who are tasked with producing a piece of flash fiction (under 1,000 words) each week.
Members rotate the responsibility to provide the group with three simple prompts. All members write to the same three prompts each week, and each prompt must be incorporated into the story.
There are no minimums for word count—if the story can be told in less than 1,000 words, so much the better. But 1,000 words is the absolute maximum, and if any member dares to disobey, they will forever lose their ability to properly punctuate a sentence. At least, those who possessed the ability to begin with will lose it. Others will just be mocked repeatedly.
Members rotate the responsibility to provide the group with three simple prompts. All members write to the same three prompts each week, and each prompt must be incorporated into the story.
There are no minimums for word count—if the story can be told in less than 1,000 words, so much the better. But 1,000 words is the absolute maximum, and if any member dares to disobey, they will forever lose their ability to properly punctuate a sentence. At least, those who possessed the ability to begin with will lose it. Others will just be mocked repeatedly.
CLICK TO READ FULL STORY
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
