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.
06 June, 2009
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.
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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
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