52 Short Story Challenge

by

Christmas Eve in the Graveyard | A Short Story

Sebastian doesn’t mind the dead. He’s lived his entire life surrounded by towering stone tombs, crumbling brick walls, and iron fencing. It’s the living he has a harder time with.

He let Tim and Matthew leave early, to be with their families, and microwaved himself a slice of cold pizza. It’s best to do this ritual alone anyway. He’s not sure the others take the responsibility as seriously as he does and they talk too much. Sebastian prefers the silence of the night.

After pouring raspberry tea into a dark green thermos, he wraps his red woolen scarf around his neck, buttons his peacoat, and leaves his little stone cottage on the edge of the graveyard. He doesn’t bother locking the door. Nobody comes around after dark on Christmas Eve.

The tiny twinkling lights of his small decorated tree can be seen through the yellow frosted window, it makes him smile. Mother would be proud he’s carried on her traditions. He hoists the big burlap sack onto his shoulder and gives a nod to the glowing, full moon casting its light in rings through the thick grey fog.

Although it makes sense to start in the center of the graveyard and weave himself out like his mother taught him, he makes a quick detour to her grave. It sits in the furthest south corner under a sprawling oak tree draped in soft Spanish moss. The silvery strands of garland look like flowing water in the moonlight—ancient silken gowns.

Setting the bag on the damp grass, he unties the brown twine holding it closed. Gently, he pulls out a small pine tree clipping tied with a soft red satin ribbon—the prettiest piece for mother. Kissing it softly, he places it on the curling carved letters spelling out her name. Margery Higgins.

“Merry Christmas, mother.”

His voice sounds soft in the night and it brings with it a memory of her singing “Thankful Heart” while cooking split pea soup on the old gas stove. She’s got her bright red hair pulled back into a massive curly bun at the base of her neck, and she’s wearing an old tattered apron covered in stains. Her voice manages to be both soft and strong—exactly like her.

“With a thankful heart that is wide awake
I do make this promise every breath I take
Will be used now to sing your praise…”

Wiping at his eyes, he closes the bag and weaves his way to the large mausoleum in the exact center of the dense city of the dead. Passing hundreds of stone crosses, carved marble angels, and granite slabs, he at last arrives at a crumbling plaster tomb carved with over 50 names. Reading each one quietly to himself he holds within his heart a space of honor and love.

After he’s finished he opens the bag and places a large pine branch across the names. His fingers brush a soft patch of moss pushing through a splintering crack in the gravestone. He whispers into the night.

“Merry Christmas.”

Repeating this process he makes his way through his workplace and home, one of the oldest cemeteries in New Orleans. He takes his role as caretaker seriously. Around hour three his back feels tight and he stops to take a drink of his hot tea. Silence spreads around him in all directions, thick and cold.

A feeling wiggles its way through his layers and lands heavily in his chest. He’s running out of time to find her. He turned 40 a few months ago and although he’s told himself he’s fine on his own, visions of a woman walking beside him continue to haunt his dreams.

She’s got soft eyes and bright pink cheeks. They’d make the cottage a home again, filling it with music and laughter. He’d teach her how to honor those forgotten and she’d tell him nothing is impossible with love. The thought makes him smile, but it quickly becomes a frown. It’s too late. He’s out of time. He missed his chance.

A part of him wants to fall onto the ground and sob at the thought of spending another Christmas alone. His mother died 10 years ago and he’s tried so hard to remain hopeful, but loneliness presses in on him from all sides. Its crushing weight makes him stumble and almost fall.

He looks at the night sky, hoping for a sign, a bright star peeking through the foggy gloom or the call of a night heron signaling change, but the misty darkness remains still and silent. Sebastian wipes tears from his eyes and takes a big sip of tea, letting the warmth fight against the paralyzing fear which has settled firmly in his gut.

Flipping open his grandfather’s golden pocketwatch he confirms what he already knew, its almost midnight. He sighs. He better get to it if he hopes to finish before the first rays of morning light peak over the horizon and burn off the thick fog. Love must be given first in order to receive it. He tucks the thermos back into his pocket and continues.

Lost in his rhythm of reading names and leaving a pine offering on each grave, Sebastian doesn’t see the woman until he almost bumps into her. A thick scent of vinegar and roses fills the air and he clears his throat to announce his presence. She responds by turning slowly toward him with a graceful, smooth movement reminding him of a swan or crane.

Dressed in layers of smoky grey and black clothing, the plump woman has thick silver ringlets peeking out from beneath a dark, lacy bonnet. The word “matriarch” comes to mind. Her eyes are cloudy but contain a hint of blue—hydrangeas in autumn when the color has almost fully drained. 

She’s holding a white handkerchief covered in tiny pink embroidered butterflies. Sebastian finds his voice but it sounds shaky and small in the night. Almost a whisper.

“I’m sorry if I startled you. Not many people visit graves in the middle of the night.”

She doesn’t look startled and it’s a lame apology. He’s not sure he should be giving her one anyway. People aren’t allowed in the cemetery after sunset and he wonders if perhaps Tim forgot to lock the front gate. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The woman makes a small movement, a sort of slight wave, and the handkerchief blows from her hand and lands at his feet. Sebastian lifts it and gently shakes out a few dried leaves which instantly clung to the feathery soft piece of cloth. He hands it to her and she smiles.

“Thank you, dear.”

Her voice sounds rumbly—a snare drum in the night. He knows he should tell her to leave, but the softness of her eyes stops him. It’s Christmas, a time of magic and love. She must miss the person she’s visiting an awful lot to risk catching a cold or getting caught. 

He gives her his best reassuring smile. She’s standing at the foot of one of the oldest graves, a tiny brick house covered in cracks and adorned with a simple marble vase he sometimes fills with flowers. She speaks in a scratchy, dry voice—an old voice.

“I called him Benny and he called me Etta. In our 50 years together we never spent a Christmas apart. When love burrows its way deep into your heart nothing can stop you from finding each other again and again. My home is with him…always.”

The old woman smiles at Sebastian and reaches out her hand. It doesn’t quite reach him. Her voice rumbles louder now—cracking like weak thunder.

“You know what I mean, don’t you dear?”

Sebastian looks at his feet and nods. He doesn’t know the kind of love she’s talking about, but he wants to. The painful sensation of time slipping away vibrates through his body ringing like a brass bell. Where is she? Why can’t he find her? He presses the toe of his boot into the ground, making a round hole in the soft dirt.

The woman doesn’t move but, somehow, suddenly feels closer. Her eyes meet his and a rush of wind blows around them filling the air with swirling bits of dirt and dust. Sebastian closes his eyes and the woman speaks directly into his ear—a cold breath sending shivers through his body.

“It’s never too late for love. Don’t give up hope. She will find you. Keep your heart open. Magic happens for those who love and care for others like you do. Oh, dear, sweet, Sebastian. Don’t. Give. Up.”

In an instant, all is quiet and still again. Sebastian opens his eyes and isn’t entirely surprised to find he’s alone. Pulling out a small sprig of pine with tiny blueberries, he places it across the names Benedict Murray and Henrietta Murray—Benny and Etta. He smiles.

“Merry Christmas, Etta. I won’t give up.”

Throwing the burlap sack back onto his shoulder he moves to the next gravesite. This time he sings a little song.

“Stop and look around you
The glory that you see
Is born again each day
Don’t let it slip away
How precious life can be.”

Author’s note: With Christmas upon us, I wanted to write something sweet and hopefully touching for those reading during such a festive time. I hope you enjoyed my little ghost story and if you are feeling blue this time of year, please don’t give up. Keep being the loving beautiful soul you are and things will get better. Thank you for supporting me and lifting me up with all your wonderful comments on each of my stories. May your holidays be merry and bright!

Short Story Challenge | Week 51

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story where magic interferes in New Orleans. We had to include the words matriarch, throat, impossible, vinegar, apology, snare, choose, raspberry, microwave, and slice.

Write With Us

Prompt: Caught in the rain
Include: Las Vegas, radiology, etch, funeral, textile, sweep, wholesale, wildlife and English

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

Emerald Shoes | A Short Story

“supreme moon—
librate broken hearts
trapped in adolescence

fertile mourning fields
divine cooling light
deliver them to Freya”
-unknown poet

The rhythmic sound of my cell phone buzzing on my nightstand wakes me. I try to cling to the warmth of my dream, an image of a roaring fireplace in a cozy log cabin, but it fades away. The buzzing continues. I roll onto my side, unplug my phone and see Carly’s smiling face. It’s 3 a.m.

“Hello?”

For a few seconds, she doesn’t say anything and it’s enough to allow my brain to flash through an assortment of macabre images of blood and death. I haven’t heard from her in over 6 months and a lot could have happened.

Fully awake now, I sit up in the dark room listening hard. My body feels fidgety and strange.

Carly’s breathing heavy and I have a new terrible thought—maybe she didn’t mean to call me at all. Music plays in the background, a deep pulsing bass, and my heart matches it. When she finally speaks it’s in a small, distant voice I barely recognize.

“Do you remember how you always wanted emerald shoes?”

Of course I do. When I was small my mother read the story of the Wizard of Oz to me and I pictured Dorothy’s shoes as sparkling green and wanted an exact pair. I cried when I saw they were red in the movie. Carly’s the only person I told the story to—the only one I trust with embarrassing details of my childhood.

Why is Carly calling me? Our last conversation was strange and filled with too many pauses—too many things unsaid. Now, she’s calling in the middle of the night with a question I can’t help but read more into. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

My body tenses as I lean over and switch on the lamp. I keep my voice as neutral as I can, but I know it sounds shaky. I grab a handful of blankets and twist them in my left hand.

“Are you okay?”

Carly laughs. It’s a lousy attempt at sounding casual. If Jonas hurt her, I’ll kill him. I shouldn’t have let her go.

“I’m fine.”

I don’t believe her. The last time I saw her was over a year ago, the day before she moved. Jonas had spent months chipping away at my best friend, carving out pieces of her he didn’t like and replacing them with religious doctrine. When she left I barely recognized her anymore, and I wonder how much of her is left.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Vegas and I saw them—the emerald shoes. A dancer had a shiny pair and I thought…exactly like Harriet dreamed…exactly…”

Her voice fades out. None of this makes sense. Jonas controls everything she does and its way out of character for him to take her to Vegas. The alarm bells turn into sirens and I feel my body shiver at the thought of Carly alone in such a big city. I can’t come up with a single scenario in my head to make sense of any of this.

“Vegas! Why are you in Vegas? Where’s Jonas? Are you sure you’re okay?”

She ignores my questions and speaks in the same distant voice.

“The shoes are so pretty, Harriet. You’d love them.”

Jumping out of bed I pace across my faded yellow rug. Carly, my Carly, is calling me and talking about emerald shoes. The wall built around my heart to protect myself cracks slightly and I reinforce it immediately by reminding myself she’s gone. She chose Jonas. She left.

Vegas. The world of casinos, excessive drinking, Elvis impersonators, and drive-up wedding chapels. Wedding chapels. I fall onto the bed and close my eyes. Hardening my voice, I speak again.

“Why are you calling me Carly? It’s the middle of the night and you haven’t called me in a long, long time.  What are you doing in Vegas?”

She sniffles and I realize she’s crying. Why is my Carly crying? I want to run to her and save her…but no.

“The shoes, Harriet. I saw them and I…well…I thought of you. I always wanted to find a pair for you, but I never did.”

I’m crying now, scared for her. All the old feelings I thought I’d cleared away bubble inside me. The more I talk to her the greater the intensity. My voice floats to the ceiling and circles above me like a ghostly shadow. Carly speaks again and I picture her face. I don’t want to. It’s too painful.

“I…I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you.”

I think about you all the time, but you left me, Carly! You left me! The words dart and stab at me long after she hangs up. I try to call her back but it goes to voicemail. I roll into a ball and cry until my alarm goes off.

On the drive to work, everything is Carly and I slam my fists into the steering wheel in frustration. I’d finally stopped looking at her photos and had started healing. Now one phone call and our history waves at me from every car and window. Everything is Carly.

We met freshman year in English class and bonded over our love of Edgar Allen Poe. She drew a raven on my hand and I couldn’t stop staring at her green eyes. By the end of the first day, I knew how to make her laugh and did it as much as possible. My world became wrapped up in all things Carly.

It wasn’t until our junior year I realized my feelings were more than they should be for a friend, but it felt too late. I watched her date an assortment of guys, each eventually breaking her heart. I’d run my fingers through her coppery curls as she lay across my lap until the pain of the loss wasn’t so big.

At some point, it felt like a betrayal to tell her how I really felt. I wondered if she’d think I was only being nice to her because I wanted her for myself, like all the guys she dated. So, I stayed quiet. Even after we graduated and she met Jonas. Even when she told me she was moving away. I couldn’t tell her. I just couldn’t.

Pulling into the parking lot at work, I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I tuck my thick brown hair back in a bun and apply some mascara and lip gloss. It’s the best I can do today.

I still can’t believe I get to work at the independent bookstore in town. It’s my dream job and I love everything about it. Walking in the door the smell of the books distracts me and by the time I reach the back counter my heart isn’t screaming Carly anymore. It’s more like a whisper.

“Hi, Harriet.”

Trudi’s standing beside the espresso machine, smiling at me. Her curly blonde hair is braided today so it looks like a crown on the top of her head. Her lips are glossy and pink.

My legs freeze up for a moment, and a traffic jam inside my brain slows everything until I’m stiff and awkward. I’m smiling too big. I’m blushing. Her eyes are green and gold—sunset filtered through sweeping willow tree branches. I get so weird around her. I don’t know what to do with my hands.

“Would you like a peppermint tea?”

I nod, insecurity reducing me to a caveman. Don’t grunt or scratch yourself, Harriet. Take a deep breath. She likes you.

For months we’ve been flirting with each other, but I don’t trust it. What if she isn’t really into me, but just friendly? I don’t want to chase another Carly for years only to end up heartbroken and alone. I wish I could be sure.

Trudi fills one of the white mugs with hot water and adds two tea bags and a bit of honey. She’s wearing a silver ring on her right index finger with an oval piece of labradorite. I pull my necklace out of my sweater and wonder if she’s noticed we wear the same stone.

“Hey, I want to ask you something.”

Her voice is light and airy—no hint of nerves. She places the steaming mug on the counter in front of me and leans on her elbows. I try to look casual, but I’m shaking. I grab the mug with both hands and stare intently at the light brown water.

“My brother and some friends are throwing a ‘Save the Environment’ party on the rooftop of their apartment tonight and I wondered if you wanted to come with me?”

Carly. It’s the first thing I think and I hate myself for it. If Trudi would have asked me out yesterday I’d have jumped for joy, but now I feel torn. What if Carly calls? I hate how much hold she still has on me. Trudi places her left hand over mine so we are cupping the mug together.

“I don’t want any confusion here. I like you, Harriet, and this would be a date. Not a friend thing.”

I let my hand fall from the mug and Trudi grabs it. We smile at each other for a long time until a customer walks up to the counter beside me. She gives my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.

“No pressure. Let me know.”

She turns to the customer and politely takes their order. For a few minutes, I can’t walk. I’m upset I didn’t say yes right away. I’m confused about last night. If Carly had a family who cared I’d text them to check on her, but she doesn’t. All she has is me and Jonas. I don’t know what to do.

My boss comes over and I try to listen to what he says but my mind isn’t here anymore. It’s still on my ceiling at home. After a few hours of messing things up and fumbling around, he tells me to take the rest of the day off. I can’t find Trudi so I text her an apology. 

“I’m not feeling well. Let’s try again. I like you too.”

I don’t go home right away, but instead, drive to a spot along the river Carly and I used to go when we were upset. I park my car beside the boat ramp, take off my shoes, and sit so my feet dangle in the cold water. I say, fuck it, and call Carly. It goes right to voicemail again. I cry so loud I scare away the ducks who yell at me as they fly to the other side of the river.

“That’s right! I chase everyone away!”

Gathering up a pile of rocks, I throw them as hard as I can at the water. It doesn’t help, so I grab larger rocks and toss them. I scream and scream until a couple in a kayak pass and ask me if I’m okay. I tell them I will be. They offer to paddle over and sit with me but it makes me feel worse.

Driving home I consider changing and still meeting Trudi for the party, but the truth is I’m not over Carly. She’s my person. I know it deep in my bones and I can’t shake it. I can’t be wrong about this. I just can’t.

I stop at the liquor store and grab a bottle of wine, a huge bag of Hershey kisses, and a frozen pizza. Tonight I’ll feel sorry for myself and maybe tomorrow it will be easier. I need a good, long cry.

Holding the paper bag in my arms so the flimsy handles don’t break, I walk across the parking lot and down the sidewalk toward my apartment. As I get closer I see a woman sitting crosslegged on my welcome mat. Holding a box in her arms, she stands and takes a step forward. It’s Carly.

The world around me slows and sharpens. A blue jay on the fence ruffles its feathers and hops sideways. My neighbor shuffles his feet as he walks by carrying a stack of mail. A calico cat peeks out from behind the bushes and twitches it tail. I’m on high alert. Alarm bells ring in my ears and I almost drop my bag.

Carly’s cheeks are flushed bright red. She stares at a spot above my head. Neither of us seem capable of making eye contact.

Although I’ve dreamed of this moment, I remind myself it might not be what I think it is. The wall. She chose Jonas. She left. I take a step back and speak as loud as I can but it comes out in a shaky whisper.

“What are you doing here?”

She’s wearing a white sundress covered with tiny black ravens. Her curls are longer and they frame a slightly chubbier face. The redness of her cheeks spreads to her chest. She’s scared. I am too. She looks at the box in her arms and her voice is as shaky as mine.

“I left Jonas…”

The walls crack and the ground below me shifts. I reinforce it by taking another step back. I can’t have her in my life again. No. It’s not fair to assume I’d forget everything we went through and just let her back in. What does she want? A place to stay? A refuge from her life until she falls into the arms of the next man who tells her she’s pretty?

I take another step back. The bag in my hands feels suddenly too heavy and I set it on the ground. I wish the wine was twist-off so I could take a huge swig. I don’t know how to tell her to leave, but I’m not going to be used again. I deserve to be loved. She speaks louder and faster, the words tumbling into a pile on the sidewalk between us.

“I’m sorry, Harriet. I know I don’t have any right showing up here and I don’t expect anything. I promise. I…I just brought you something…”

Our eyes meet for the first time and I feel the walls crumble. I try and hold onto the pieces but they fall through my fingers onto the sidewalk as dust. She walks closer and closer. Run away! Yell at her! Do something! Her eyes are bright and clear—sparkling emeralds in a sea of golden stars. She’s close enough I smell her familiar scent—mint tea and lavender. 

“I really am sorry…”

Ocean waves. Rain falling on the roof. Christmas carols. She’s all the happy things and I’m falling.

She flips open the lid of the box and I see a shiny pair of emerald green shoes. My dream shoes. Nothing about this moment feels real and we both stand frozen in time—statues in a garden where life isn’t so complicated and weird. 

We are both crying but I don’t know if it’s for the same reason. I touch the shoes lightly and I’m surprised they don’t evaporate into smoke. They are real. She’s really here.

“Thank you…”

The words squeak out as a million questions race through my mind. I don’t want to leap, but my heart already has. As if waking from a dream, she quickly pulls me to her, squishing the shoes between us. Her mouth finds mine and all my questions are answered. Carly, my Carly, has found her way home to me.

Author’s note: I hope you enjoyed this sweet little story inspired by my true desire for everyone to find love. It’s a small nod to the Respect for Marriage Act signed this week and my commitment to supporting everyone in the LGBTQ community. Love is love. Let me know what you think in the comments below and have a wonderful week.

Short Story Challenge | Week 50

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story taking place when the phone rings at 3 a.m. We had to include the words supreme, emerald, careless, traffic, liberate, adolescence, lousy, wave, environment, and oval.

Write With Us

Prompt: Magic interferes in New Orleans
Include: matriarch, throat, impossible, vinegar, apology, snare, choose, raspberry, microwave, and slice

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

Full Moon Harvest | A Short Story

Laying on my side under a fluffy blanket, I stare at the tiny blue flowers embroidered on the white curtains trying to picture the face of the woman who stitched them. Father says she had straight honey-brown hair like mine with eyes as dark green as the spiky holly leaves growing behind our house. I don’t remember her at all.

What I do remember is the blood, red as the poisonous round berries, pooled around her body at the base of the towering willow tree. The bright, white moon reflected in the thick red liquid. The terrible swishing sound of the feathers.

It was an accident. Nobody knows why she left 3-year-old me sitting beside an empty wicker basket to climb the old twisty branches, but she did. She fell to the ground and it was hours before my father returned from working in the fields and found us. I was sitting silently beside the basket with the barn cat on my lap.

I lightly touch the three round scars on my left arm where the crow dug its talons into my soft skin. I wonder why I can’t remember her face but I can remember its oily black feathers were tinged with a hint of blue.

“Ayla, are you still awake?”

Father’s at my door so I close my eyes tight and don’t move. He wants to talk about me returning to school, but I can’t bear to face the guilt and shame in his deep, brown eyes. He thinks he failed me, but the truth is I’ve failed him.

He grabs my foot with his warm hand, giving it a gentle shake. Part of me wants to roll over and tell him everything, but it feels as if an enormous dam has been built around my heart and the truth would burst it open. My father doesn’t deserve the tidal wave of pain it would cause him, so I stay as still as I can.

Letting go of my foot, he moves around the room, trying to be quiet but the tiny glass perfume bottles on my dresser clink together as he opens and closes each wooden drawer. He slides a few books out of the bookshelf, ruffles the pages, and slides them back. He’s always searching my room for hints at what has changed between us, but it’s not an object to be discovered.

He moves to the window and I peek out from my blankets, taking in his broad shoulders and long greying hair pulled back with a light brown leather cord. He’s still in his faded blue bib overalls, the ones he wears every day for working on the farm. I wish I could reach around and grab the treasures out of the big front pocket like I did when I was little. 

I used to lay the items out across my bedspread and touch each one as if they belonged in a museum. The well-worn and super soft red paisley handkerchief—more pink than red these days. The round silver watch his father gave him when he inherited the family farm a few years before I was born. My mother’s golden wedding ring slipped off her finger before she was buried in the cemetery right outside of town.

He turns around and I catch a brief glimpse of his round belly and his bushy grey beard before shutting my eyes tight again. He kisses my forehead and I smell the lingering woodsy vanilla scent of the pipe he smokes every night on the porch before bed. My uncles join him, and on nights when the work hasn’t been too brutal, they all bring out their guitars and we sing together. It hasn’t happened in a while though. It’s been a rough harvest.

When father reaches the door I hear a gasping, choking sound I know means he’s about to cry. He shuts the door tightly before the sobs fully form and I wonder if he’s thinking about my mother or me. Either way, it breaks me and my eyes burn hot with tears. I hate the way things are.

Three months ago I turned 13 and the strangeness started. I’d shove it all back if I could, but once you learn a thing it’s impossible to not know it. Although the sneaking and lies are temporary, it makes me feel horrible. Tonight I hope it will be the last time I sneak out. One last full moon harvest alone at the willow tree. 

I’ve been laying fully dressed under the covers since nightfall, but everyone is up late because of the chaos caused today by my dad’s youngest brother. He likes to invent new ways to speed along the process of the harvest, and today he hooked up our old plow horse Checker to a new pulley system for shaking the almond trees. It didn’t work.

Checker got one of his legs tangled terribly in a rope and pulled it until the metal snapped. It spooked him so bad he ran far out into the wheat fields causing my father to lose several hours of work retrieving him. Although Checker only has a few cuts on his legs and chest, my father was terribly upset. I heard him punch the couch pillow when he came in for dinner, a rare outburst for him.

The farm isn’t doing well. I hear snippets of anxious conversations when my father and uncles don’t think I can hear them. They’ve discussed selling off parts of the land, but none of them want to lose any of the property their father and grandfather farmed. I wish I could help, but I’m afraid my problems only complicate matters. I’m a distraction.

Framed by wispy dark clouds, I stare at the large white moon outside and the calling inside me swells and grows until it’s almost a wail. I try to picture my mother’s face and how her lips would look making such a sound. No. All I see is bright red blood and blue-black feathers. Her face remains below the rippling waves, a blurry almost-image. I twist my blankets and wipe my tears onto my pillow.

The one face I can see clearly is Penelope, with her tiny upturned nose and bright pink cheeks. She’s the one who decided I was an outcast at school and spread the rumors about me kissing every boy in town. Penelope with the bright shiny golden hair. Penelope with the pretty homemade dresses and colorful satin ribbons. Penelope with a sharp tongue and mocking laugh.

I jump out of bed to stop myself from thinking of her hurtful words and walk quietly to the window. Pulling it open slowly, I lean out so I can peek at the porch to see if anyone is still sitting in the wooden rocking chairs. It’s empty. 

Throwing my legs over the window ledge, I drop to the ground and pull my grey work boots and a small wicker basket out from where I stashed them in the bushes. I slip on my boots, pull up the hood of my faded red jacket, grasp the basket handle tight, and take off at a run.

The farm looks different at night. All the noise, the sharp edges and straight lines, fade into a blanket of muted softness in the silvery light. I run past the large barn filled with sleeping animals, the row of hulking metal plows, and into the almond orchard. Twinkling stars dance amongst the rows of trees hidden occasionally by dark fast moving clouds.

Low grumbling voices call in the dark around me in a language I don’t understand and I spin in circles trying to see them. They are too quick. I feel their eyes watching me and it brings with it the familiar fluttering of fear in my chest. 

Can I trust them? Just because they call me to the place my mother died doesn’t mean they know anything about her. Hope feels dangerous, but I have it anyway. It’s sugary and heavy, thick like honey. I stop running and slowly walk.

At the end of the orchard, the shadow of the willow tree waits for me—a twisting dark shape reaching out with sharp leafy fingers. With even slower steps, I approach the massive gloomy tree and slip under its long hanging branches. The voices follow me, surrounding me on all sides.

Slanted beams of moonlight illuminate them as they come—tiny lunar spotlights. They climb out of the branches above me, tunnel in from the ground below, and walk out of the shadows. Little dark hairless men no bigger than my hand. Made of dirt and roots they have tiny, watery black eyes and huge flat feet. In an instant, their voices go silent.

Each carries an acorn out in front of them with both hands. Taking turns, one at a time, they run forward and throw it into the basket. The small, oblong nuts make a soft thunk as they hit each other. I watch the tiny men, searching their blank faces for answers, but they give me none. They seem content with completing this harvest ritual—giving me a gift I have no idea what to do with.

On the first full moon I heard the voices and followed them to the willow tree. I screamed when the little men appeared. They threw acorns at me as I ran away, pelting me softly on my back. The next day I searched the space under the tree and found no little footprints or acorns—nothing to prove it had happened at all. They didn’t call for me again for an entire month and I decided it had been a very vivid dream.

The second full moon when I heard the voices I grabbed a basket for the acorns. I sat perfectly still as they filled it, exactly like I’m doing right now. When it was complete, they stood around me waiting for me to do or say something. I froze. It felt too unreal, too terrifying, and so I did nothing at all.

Minutes stretched into hours and eventually I must have fallen asleep. I woke up the next morning in my bed with no memory of walking home. I ran straight to the willow tree and found the basket exactly where I left it. The acorns were gone, but I at least had some proof it had been real.

My mind cloudy and jumbled and my vision blurry, I try to count the little creatures as they slink forward, throwing their acorns into my basket. All I can focus on is the soft thud of the nuts hitting each other. After a few minutes, it occurs to me it’s rhythmic—almost a song. Am I missing a message? I listen harder.

The last little man throws his acorn into the basket and steps into the shadows, leaving the space below the tree silent again. They stand still, watching me. Blinking. I bring one of the nuts to my nose and sniff it. It smells of earth and sunshine. My moment has arrived so I clear my throat and speak.

“Thank you for these treasures, but I wonder if any of you can talk to me. I have questions…about my mom.”

My voice sounds shaky and small. The little creatures respond by stomping their tiny feet on the ground and making a low humming sound. It’s the sound of thunder far off in the distance. It grows and grows around me and a new sensation blooms inside my chest—a loosening. My shoulders fall slightly and my hands become limp at my sides.

“Ayla.”

A deep voice outside the tree speaks my name and it echoes around me. The little men repeat my name over and over—a  chant now matching the stomping.

“Ayla. Ayla. Ayla.”

The branches of the tree part and a face appears. It’s a beautiful man with high pointed cheekbones and brilliant sparkling green eyes. He reaches his large hand toward me and I let him pull me into the moonlight. My body vibrates with warmth and energy—I’m floating toward him.

Once my feet return to the ground I gasp. He isn’t a man, but rather the most majestic creature I’ve ever seen. Half-man, half-horse, he stands smiling at me with bright pink lips. I stare at his flowing golden hair, his thick palomino horse body, shiny black hooves, and swishing nearly white tail. Breathe, Ayla. Breathe.

“I’m Dawa and you’ve already met my helpers. I call them the Root Men, but they go by many names.”

He gestures to the little men who have followed me out. They stand silently in a circle around us and all at once bow so low to the ground their tiny noses touch the dirt. I’m not sure if they are bowing to me or him. I return the gesture regardless, bending at my waist and sweeping my arms out in front of me. A sound like giggling follows.

“I wish we could have met under different circumstances, Ayla, but I’m afraid you are in danger.”

He points at the darkening clouds and I see they are swirling. Deep black with a hint of blue. Feathers. Dawa’s voice is breathy and fast. He paws the ground with his front hooves.

“They are coming for you, as they did your mother.”

The words feel like a key turning inside me. Horribly, vividly, the memory comes. Its razor-sharp clarity knocks me to my knees and I cover my ears and rock back and forth. No. No. No.

Mother and I are on an apple hunt weaving through the rows of trees looking for signs the bright red fruit is ready to be harvested. I’m not paying attention though because our old barn cat Theo is chasing birds and I want to make sure he doesn’t catch one. A bright warm sun sits high in the sky and I’m wearing my favorite daisy sundress without shoes.

I chase Theo through the tall green grass of the orchard until he climbs into the branches of the old willow tree. The moment Theo reaches the top the sky around us turns dark. The sun has been replaced by inky black swirling clouds dancing, twirling, and falling. It can’t be right. The sky can’t fall. Can it?

Mother screams and runs to me. She sets the wicker basket below the tree, holds my face in her soft hands, and speaks slowly and firmly. Her dark green eyes are wide.

“Sit beside the basket and look toward the house. No matter what happens, do not look behind you. Do not move and stay quiet. Not a sound. It’s extremely important, Ayla. I need you to promise.”

I nod. We’ve played this game before. The “don’t move” game. Mother’s serious about it and I listen. She breaks off a low branch of the tree, holds it in her hand, and climbs. I think she’s going to rescue Theo, but he’s beside me now. He climbs into my lap and I close my eyes tight. 

I cover my ears, but the sounds wiggle through my fingers and I hear them anyway. Terrible low growls. Mother’s ragged uneven breathing. A ripping sound. Mother’s long scream.

A loud thump shakes the ground behind me. I don’t turn around, but I do open my eyes. A horrible creature crouches low in front of me with dozens of long spidery legs. It’s got bright yellow cat-like eyes and is covered with inky black feathers with a tinge of blue. Its tongue darts in and out of its tiny red mouth.

It grabs hold of my arm with one of its legs and three spiky nails pierce my skin. Mother would be proud. I don’t make a sound. I don’t move. I stay right beside the basket.

“Ayla!”

Dawa pulls my hands from my ears. Tears fall hot from my eyes. Mother was killed by these creatures and they are coming for me. The centaur grabs my shoulders and shakes them gently. His dark green eyes are wide and his voice is firm.

“You must come with me. Now!”

The little men have turned away from us and are facing the clouds. The sky is falling. It’s coming. Dawa grabs my hand and swings me onto his back. I hold onto his neck as he takes off at a run. When the creatures dive low behind us I don’t make a sound. Mother would be proud.

Author’s note: I ran out of time for this story and am disappointed it’s more of a first chapter again than a complete short story. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed meeting Ayla and stepping into her world for a bit. Let me know what you think in the comments below. Thank you!

Short Story Challenge | Week 49

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story about a family-run farm. We had to include the words temporary, invent, trust, horse, burst, pulley, dam, punch, and checker.

Write With Us

Prompt: The phone rings at 3 a.m.
Include: supreme, emerald, careless, traffic, liberate, adolescence, lousy, wave, environment, oval

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

Under the Sign | A Short Story

My feet won’t stop moving under the hard, wooden desk. It’s as if they have come alive and are set on getting me in trouble. I look at my brown spoonwood shoes in irritation and hiss at them as quietly as I can.

“Cut it out.”

Several students turn to look at me and I stare straight ahead, ignoring them. My feet stop moving but the jitters move up my legs and I know it will have to come out somewhere. I try hard to focus on the Old One in charge today, Mr. Hawthorne.

“Dandelion. Taraxacum officinale. Irish daisy. Monk’s-head. These bright yellow flowers can be used for many things, including immunity boosting and reducing inflammation. They are hardy regardless of the conditions you submit them to unless, of course…”

Mr. Hawthorne’s voice sounds rumbly and low, reminding me of the tired lion I saw on the class field trip to London last year. He’s reading from a dark brown leather book with thin yellow pages and his wire-rimmed glasses keep slipping to the tip of his pointy nose. My fingers have turned fidgety and I sit on them.

To distract myself, I count the hairs on Mr. Hawthorne’s big toes and wonder for the hundredth time why none of the Old Ones have to wear shoes. It seems wildly unfair. I’ve been to Headmaster Buckthorne’s office to discuss my objections to all the dress codes so many times the school secretary, Mrs. Yarrow, calls me a thistle in her side. I can’t help it.

I don’t like being in trouble, but it seems every school rule was designed to squash me and me alone. None of the other students seem to have as much difficulty doing what’s expected of them. My fingers wiggle loose from under me and find a home in my tangled, violet hair.

I wind a messy curl around my index finger until a hangnail on my thumb gets stuck and I’m forced to yank it out. It hurts and I hide the torn strands of hair inside my desk before anyone notices. It’s a good thing I have a lot of hair.

The jitters have exploded through me now and I can’t stop them. Slipping under the desk, I crawl across the floor of the library and sit crossed-legged under the farthest back table. Nobody seems to notice, or if they do, they don’t say anything.

My wings are bound inside the pale yellow uniform all fifth-year fairies must wear to prevent us from flying or doing magic. It’s not the best color to go with my dark violet hair, but far better than the ugly brown uniforms of fourth-year. The color I’m most excited to wear is the dark green of the eighth year because they get to have their wings out.

I discovered last year a way to still wiggle my wings a tiny bit under the bindings of the uniform. It’s not much movement, but it creates enough magic to amuse myself. Setting my pencil on the floor, I make it perform a complicated twirling dance number. I hum a song about three blind mice.

“Piper,” Mr. Hawthorne calls.

His voice is sharp and I snap to attention. Grabbing the dancing pencil, I slide out from under the table and run back to my desk. Mr. Hawthorne’s dark grey eyes watch me the entire time. He might be smiling, but it could also be a grimace. I’m not so good at reading faces. Tucking my pencil into my desk, I fold my hands and answer with my formal classroom voice.

“Yes, sir.”

His glasses have slipped again and his eyes are sort of crossed. I know better than to laugh, but a giggle brews dangerously in my stomach. I dig my nails into the tops of my hands to stop it.

“Can you answer the question?”

All the eyes in the room are on me. I swallow hard and speak as clearly and confidently as I can.

“23, sir.”

His eyes widen and he’s definitely smiling now. Pride surges through me although I know it shouldn’t because I didn’t know the answer. He rubs his hands together.

“Well…yes, actually. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

I purposely avoid looking at my best friend Rosemary, but I know she’s smiling too. She quickly scrawled the answer on her palm in bright red ink and flashed it to me as I passed her desk. Saved again.

Rosemary and I met when the school year started and Headmaster Buckthorne says we are “thick as thieves.” I know this is a dig at me, but I don’t care. Rosemary is the best thing ever to happen at Hollyhock’s Fairy School for the Highly Gifted. The best thing in all my years here.

Rosemary keeps her long black hair in two braids, tied with blue ribbons the same shade as her eyes. When she laughs she throws back her head and sticks out her round belly. She holds my hand and saves me when the jitters get too big. I’m not sure how I survived before Rosemary.

Mr. Hawthorne dismisses the class for lunch and Rosemary and I walk to the furthest part of the field behind the school to eat together. She’s got a large sandwich of honey and hazelnut, decorated with a tiny sprig of lavender. She cuts it in half and hands me the biggest piece.

“I’m not going back to class,” I say with my mouth full.

Rosemary laughs. It’s my favorite sound in the world.

“You always say that.”

I try to give her a serious look, but I don’t have one.

“I mean it today. I can’t take another minute. I’m going crazy.”

Rosemary takes a sip of hot tea from a thermos with tiny pink tulips painted on the side. The minty smell makes me a bit sad. It smells like mothers. I look at the ground until Rosemary speaks again.

“Where will you go?”

Jumping to my feet, I do a dramatic twirl before answering.

“Don’t you mean, where will we go?”

Rosemary’s face changes to a frown, but I pretend to not see it. Instead, I watch two butterflies chase each other across the field. My wings twitch wildly in their bindings.

“Oh, no, not today. My mom was upset last time. She cried and cried and made me promise never to go off without telling her again. She thought I died! I had to sleep in her bed for a week!!”

Short of sticking my fingers in my ears, I do everything I can to block this out. With a huge leap, I chase the butterflies across the field. I do a somersault followed by a cartwheel. A few of the smaller kids applaud and I bow. Rosemary can’t understand how much her words hurt. How could she? It’s not like she knows.

When I was 4 years old my mother had an accident. She came out of the bedroom of our small cabin in the woods and her bright green eyes had turned milky white. Her curly strawberry-blonde hair had turned grey and her peachy smooth skin had become bumpy and pale as snow. She was cold to the touch and unresponsive. I didn’t know what to do.

For two days I watched this chilly version of my mother wander from room to room, unblinking and silent. A neighbor finally stopped by for a visit and found me crying alone in a closet. It wasn’t until years later, Headmaster Buckthorne told me the truth about what happened.

My mother had been trying to complete a complex and illegal magical spell to locate my father, a soldier in the Fairy Force. He disappeared during an intense battle in the Sage Mountains a week before I was born. She used old and unstable magic. It changed my mother permanently, leaving me an orphan.

With no family to take me in, Headmaster Buckthorne brought me to Hollyhock’s Fairy School for the Highly Gifted a few weeks after my mother’s accident. He studies “magical amnesia” and is fascinated by my mother’s case. While he studies her and tries to look for a cure, I live in a room above the library and I’m allowed to attend this prestigious school.

I don’t care about grades or how great this school looks for future magical employers. I don’t think about my future at all. I do think about mothers. I think about them a lot.

Rosemary’s mother has beautiful red hair and bright pink cheeks. She puts notes in her lunchbox and makes sure she has a thick enough jacket when it’s cold out. I wish I had been enough for my mother, but I wasn’t. She wanted my father more than me. 

Sometimes I pretend she’s not locked up in the Hospital for the Incurable, but rather living with my father in a magical glen deep within the Blackwood Forest. I see them with a new daughter, one who sits still and follows the rules. They want nothing else than to be with her because she’s loveable and sweet. She’s nothing like me.

Rosemary’s smiling at me and I’m ashamed of my jealousy of her mother. I wish I could tell her about mine, but the words are locked inside me. They are stones buried far too deep to unearth. I touch her soft hair and dance around her.

“Well, I’m going with or without you…and it’s going to be amazing.”

I drag out the last word and I can tell this interests her. She sets the sandwich on her lap and stares at me with wide eyes.

“What is?”

Spinning, I wink and grin as wide as I can.

“You have to come with me to see.”

Rosemary frowns, but it’s not a real one. I can see a smile hidden beneath it waiting to come out.

“Oh, Piper, don’t do that to me. My mother will kill me!”

Fluttering my wings under my uniform I use a little magic to make a leaf jump into the air and land on her nose. She giggles.

“It’s going to be amazing.”

I sing the words and I know I’ve hooked her. She likes adventure as much as I do, maybe even more, and her mother forgives her every time.

Headmaster Buckthorne isn’t as forgiving and I’ll pay for my disobedience by losing my weekend flying privileges for several weeks and maybe I’ll have to clean the school bathrooms too. I don’t care. An adventure with my best friend is worth any cost.

Sitting on the itchy grass beside her, she leans close enough that our shoulders touch. Whispering our plans is part of the fun. Her breath tickles my ear.

“How are we going to get off school grounds this time?” 

It’s becoming a lot harder to escape as each time we do Headmaster Buckthorne blocks us, but last time he couldn’t figure out how we did it. I plan to use the same route.

“We’re going under the sign again.”

Rosemary sighs and crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn’t like this plan and I don’t blame her. The school sign sits on the edge of a steep cliff. Last time we removed our school uniforms and slipped through a small hole, but I didn’t realize how cold and fast the falling would be. It took a few minutes for our wings to open. Instead of fun and exciting, it was more like dangerous and scary.

“I don’t like the sensation of falling. It makes me dizzy and I don’t want to be in my underwear again. What if someone sees us this time? It was so cold!”

She’s right, but I’ve thought of all this already. I pull my leather school bag onto my lap and open it wide enough to show her what’s inside.

“What if we don’t fall, but fly instead?”

I’ve stolen two light blue tunics from the laundry room before my breakfast—the uniforms of the fairy garden workers. Our wings will be free for flying and we will be able to roam the grounds around the school without drawing too much attention to ourselves. Rosemary claps.

“You are amazing!”

“I know.”

I try not to look too pleased by the compliment, but my cheeks burn hot. It’s good to hear her say it. She grabs my hand and whispers as close to my ear as she can.

“Even in the tunics, how can we get out the front door of the school? Last time you got Basil to free a bunch of beetles from the garden and the chaos provided our distraction. We can’t do the same thing…it would be too obvious.”

Several second-year students in pale pink wander by us and I make sure my bag is shut tight. The bell rings and without another word, we pack our things and walk arm and arm back toward the main school building. I whisper as low as I can as we walk.

“Don’t worry about a thing. It’s all arranged. Luckily, Basil still likes me and he’s working on a very good distraction. Let’s hurry though, I don’t want to miss it.”

We walk through the large wooden double doors and into the main entryway, a cavernous room with a vast grey stone floor and a giant golden chandelier burning bright with hundreds of tiny candles. The two main staircases wind off to the left and right, along with several dark hallways. We see Basil waiting near the golden statue of the founders, Claude Mugwort and Bella Vervain. He’s not wearing his uniform.

Freckle-faced with bright blue hair, poor Basil has the unfortunate fate of being in love with me. He’s followed me around since year two and I’m afraid I’ve abused his kindness. When he sees me he blushes and gives me two thumbs up. I mouth “thank you” and the redness of his face seems to darken—is it vermillion or beet? My face reddens too, but mostly out of guilt.

Taking Rosemary by the hand, I lead her into a little alcove near the stairs where a picture of a bowl of lemons sits hidden from view. I press the third lemon with my pointer finger and a secret door opens revealing a closet filled with cleaning supplies. Rosemary gasps.

Growing up in a school that is empty part of the year, I’m probably the only student to know some of its secrets. It has many. A tiny magical blue light shines above us.

“Change, quick! We haven’t much time. We can store our clothes and my bag here.”

Rosemary and I untie our identical school uniforms and change into light blue tunics. They are a bit big for us, but we tie a few extra knots so they won’t fall off when we fly. Rosemary’s bouncing on the balls of her feet like me. We are ready. The sound of raised voices and the shuffling of feet fills the main hall outside.

“Not yet,” I whisper. “Basil will signal us with a whistle.”

The sound of voices grows louder, accompanied by the most lovely and intoxicating sugary smell. My mouth waters and Rosemary giggles beside me. A few seconds later we hear a short burst of sound, like a train whistle. It’s the signal.

We open the door slowly and walk out from the alcove. The scene before us makes us both double over in laughter. Basil is brilliant! 

The main entryway has been transformed into an oversized and elaborate butcher shop. Sausages, whole chickens, ducks, and pigs hanging from strings in every direction. Only, these aren’t dead animals. No, they are all made of candy. Chocolate turkey legs and cream-filled pork chops. Gummy hamburgers and malted meatballs.

Basil sits at a large wooden table in the center, eating a platter with a huge candy pot roast complete with fake glazed carrots and roasted red potatoes. He’s throwing bits of food at the gathering crowd who are stuffing their faces and screaming. We lock eyes for a minute and I mouth “I owe you.” He laughs and throws a peppermint onion at the approaching Headmaster Buckthorne. 

It’s almost too much fun to leave, but I don’t want Basil to have gotten into trouble for nothing. I pull Rosemary by the arm, through the screaming crowd and out the front door. It’s silent as we cross the lawn with our wings flapping awake behind us.

“Basil’s the best,” Rosemary says.

“What I have to show you is even better.”

I’m lying. The truth is, I have no idea where we are going or what we are looking for. I only know I have to get away from this place—both my home and my prison. A place so close to my mother, yet I’m not allowed to see her. A place I only get to escape when Rosemary comes with me.

The truth is, I don’t have the courage to go alone. I grab her hand and squeeze it. Guilt tears at my stomach. She’s got a mother who loves her. So does Basil. I’m going to get them both hurt.

Holding hands, we squeeze through the small hole, spread our wings and fly off together to find adventure.

Author’s note:  I know with confidence I’ll be writing a middle-grade fairy book at some point and perhaps the seeds for it are right here. I hope you enjoyed meeting Piper, Rosemary, and Basil. Thanks as always for your likes and comments—you have no idea how much they mean to me.

Short Story Challenge | Week 48

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story about a day in the life. We had to include the words identical, pot roast, decorate, sign, abuse, library, amnesia, butcher, submit and sensation.

Write With Us

Prompt: A family-run farm
Include: temporary, invent, trust, horse, burst, pulley, dam, punch, and checker

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

Chalky Hands | A Short Story

Harsh streaks of morning sunlight break through the thick grove of oak trees, casting bright lines across the towering ancient building before me. My time has run out. My final act will be incomplete. It seems fitting.

My hands, raw from rubbing the chalk into the rough stone of the cathedral steps, shake wildly. I ball them into fists and find they don’t fully close anymore. Everything hurts.

Drops of blood from my nose escape onto the concrete, spoiling my act of redemption, and I dab at them with the dirty hem of my dress. They transform into dark red smears polluting the ground and my art. Poisoning it.

Father Rudolph will be here any minute to make sure I’m gone before his beautiful parishioners arrive for Easter Sunday services. Nobody wants to smell the decay already clinging to my young ragged body. It’s a day for resurrection and lilies, not ashes and death. I’m not what anyone wants to see.

For three days I’ve knelt here, drawing and redrawing these images of the afterlife. I thought if I depicted heaven with as much detail as possible I’d be allowed in. If I got it right, the churchgoers would love it and I’d be saved. I’ve gone without food, water, or rest. My last desperate act. A final plea for forgiveness.

I doubt it will work. Some deeds are unforgivable. Blood can be washed from your fingers, even scraped out from under your nails with a wire brush, but the stain remains forever. At least for those like me.

A ticking sound fills the courtyard, loud enough to drown out the chittering of the birds. The sickness I caught when I arrived here three weeks ago has progressed faster and faster. My breathing has become slow and painful. It won’t be much longer.

Closing my eyes I see the face of the one I thought to be my true love and protector—Cyrus. The curve of his thin nose, the thick pink of his lips, and the soft blue of his uneven eyes. His heart beat strong and clear, but the love he had was for himself not for me. I figured it out too late.

He promised me life would be different after we smashed my mother’s head in with a shovel and buried her in the dark soil of the garden. It proved only true for him. He was praised as the “Witch Killer.” I was shunned as her filthy daughter.

I’ve been living in a small wooden house behind the church. The women in the black robes pray over me and tell me it’s never too late to love God, but they don’t see the darkness inside me—lust, hatred, and jealousy. They don’t understand the truth. I wish I was wrong.

The last time I saw Cyrus he stood smiling and holding hands with his pretty, pregnant wife—his thick fingers covered with gold rings. He glowed brightly with rebirth, his soul cleansed by the God of second chances. While I remain soiled—polluted and corrupted by my birthright of pain. My thin fingers are covered in scratches and dirt. 

Opening my eyes, I see a large hawk circle above my masterpiece. It casts its winged shadow over the colorful chalk images as if it knows the truth about me. It caws and I hear the demon of my mother’s shadow call out to me.

“You are nothing but a sponge soaking in the evil of the world.”

I escaped the prison of my childhood only to be sentenced to another. The badness inside me, the parts inherited from her, wriggling alive and venomous, make it impossible for me to expect anything but unhappiness. It’s hopeless.

This last-minute grand gesture, this final Hail Mary, will do nothing. I’m unredeemable. Unloveable. Tainted.

The truth lies in my fractured heart. This attempt at worship, a sacrifice worthy of wiping away my sins, have failed because at some point it morphed into vanity. It’s a ploy to get recognized and blessed.

Cyrus and his wife will be forced to walk through my images. The chalk will stick to their shoes and follow them home. He will have to see what he left behind. What he did.

I’m not truly sorry for what I’ve done. My mother was evil and deserved to die. I did what was right. We both did, but I’m the one who has to pay the price. I’m the sacrificial lamb.

Fatigue throbs at my temple, a relentless steel hammer pounding my brain. I can’t stop blinking. My back has become a cord knotted tight—rigid and unmoving. I’m unable to straighten or fully stand. Pain sings through every cell. The end is near.

Leaning back on my heels, I smile at my army of chalk angels covering every step; playing instruments, sitting, standing, wings outstretched, praising, and praying. I wanted to add a sheep in the meadow, more flowers along the picket fence, a parakeet in the hollow of the eucalyptus tree, variation to the clouds, and more feathers on the wings of the final angel. I wanted to do so much more.

Mother taught me to draw before I could speak. My thoughts have always been colorful pictures I could channel through a pencil or pen to make come alive. Chalk proved a bit harder to use, but perhaps it’s because the stakes are much higher. This time I hoped my images would buy me a seat at the heavenly table.

With a loud creak and a bang, the ornate double doors of the church open. I wrap my chalk into a burlap cloth and gather my sketches and rags. Throwing them into my tattered grey bag, I stumble to the bottom step and fall to my knees gasping for air.

Footsteps and voices head toward me but I don’t look. I’m a statue, the patron saint of “I’m sorry”—a pile of broken glass. Two shadows cover my body, shielding me from the world. A man speaks low, almost in a whisper. He’s close enough I can feel his warmth.

“It’s remarkable.”

Father Rudolph answers. He smells of fresh bread, coffee and frankincense.

“Would you like to meet the artist?”

“I’d be honored.”

I raise my face to them, but their white robes blur my vision and I focus on the opulent gold cords around their necks. Outstretched hands reach to touch mine and I present my palms, a rainbow of scrapes and colors. A pauper of the pavement.

“This is Amelia, the girl I told you about.”

The man sighs and covers his mouth. I wonder what he’s been told about me. He touches my shoulder gently and I see his hands are covered in bright gold rings.

“You’ve done a remarkable job.”

Warmth fills my heart for a brief moment—the sin of pride. I should not be so pleased with myself. Tears fill my eyes.

“Thank you.”

A hoarse croak. Did I speak the words or think them? Panic strikes my heart as the enormous bronze bell dances in the tower striking its thunderous note for all to hear. The time has come. This is no place to die. 

The mothers in wide-brimmed hats covered in colorful flowers will be here soon with their children. Little girls in lacy pink dresses with bright, clean braids. Little boys in pressed suits of baby blue with shiny black shoes. Fathers with handfuls of crisp dollar bills for the collection plate. All smiling and forgiven.

I gather my bundle into my tired arms and run. The bell chases me, thundering loudly the way my heart did when Cyrus touched me for the first time. As a missionary visiting our lands, he taught me about beauty and love. He told me we could be together in a place where my talent would be celebrated and appreciated. He showed me another way.

As I run through the manicured gardens, pain coursing through my chest, my thoughts are only of him. When he sees my drawings will he remember our night together under the stars? Will he remember the love we shared? Will he be sorry?

I make it to the garden behind the church, but my legs falter. Weakness forces me to collapse in a heap—a rag thrown onto the bricks of a crumbling stone statue. Is it Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes? Or Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of children?

A bystander with deep blue eyes and large soft hands touches my head gently. Is it Cyrus? Has he come to say goodbye? 

No. I don’t recognize the man trying to lift me, but I see the distress on his face. I’m a horror, a terrible nightmare made real. I don’t want him to watch me die. A tiny voice escapes through my dry cracked lips.

“Go…”

His eyes widen in surprise as mine flutter shut. Pain swallows me whole. I surrender to its tightening grip.

I couldn’t outrun or trick my way into a different destiny. Time always wins. The sky fills with clouds and I feel the raindrops on my closed eyelids. Does this render my army of chalk angels irrelevant? Am I truly not capable of being saved? As the breath leaves my body I realize the truth—I know nothing.

Author’s note: The young girl of this bleak story, Amelia, chases the enemy of time. Her last shot at redemption washes away in the rain, but she realizes it meant nothing. In the end, it’s not up to her to decide what happens. I hope you found something interesting or redeeming here. I’m incredibly thankful to everyone who reads my blog and comments. Thanks for believing in me even on the days I do not.

Short Story Challenge | Week 47

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story about chasing the enemy. We had to include the words demon, bystander, escaped, parakeet, destiny, hammer, singing, ash, cathedral, and heels.

Write With Us

Prompt: A day in the life
Include: identical, pot roast, decorate, sign, abuse, library, amnesia, butcher, submit and sensation

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

Late Night Visitor | A Short Story

A light touch on the bottom of my left foot drags me instantly from the rainbow haziness of the dream world to the very real darkness of my bedroom. I’m not alone. With a jerk, I retuck my legs into the safety and warmth of my colorful blanket cocoon and look around.

A wild wind outside my window batters the branches of the big oak tree casting wispy skeletal shadows along my purple walls. Everything else looks still and normal. Through the lacy curtains, the moon appears as a tiny crescent in a sea of black. When will this end?

Wiping tears from my eyes with the sleeve of my plaid nightgown, I realize I’m crying. My cheeks burn hot. I’m tired of feeling sad and scared. It’s not fair!

Burrowing my nose into the worn calico fur of my stuffed kitty Butterscotch, I breathe in the familiar sweet and musty smell. Snuggles by the fire. Hide-and-seek. Christmas morning.

As I’ve done the last ten nights in a row, I grab the red plastic flashlight from inside my pillowcase. I don’t expect to see anything but I make myself look just in case. I hold Butterscotch tight as I move the yellowish beam around the room.

Starting with my bookshelf, I scan my collection of rocks and figurines, moving along the floor past several mounds of dirty and clean clothes to the huge pile of stuffed animals. All fine. Unicorn poster. Tiny fake plant. Corkboard of Polaroids. Three empty cans of sparkling water and two empty Frito bags on the desk. Hello Kitty backpack spilling its contents out on the chair. Everything is where I left it.

My foot feels tingly and weird as if the imprint of the mystery touch lingers. Pulling the covers over my head, I sit under the blankets and use the flashlight to search every inch of my foot for clues—a fingerprint, scratch mark, or some tiny speck of goo. Nothing. It’s my normal foot.

For a moment I consider turning on the desk lamp and working on an essay for English class about the Giver, but my rumbling stomach has other ideas. I wish when I turned 12 last week my parents gifted me my future job instead of an event planner and a plain gold watch. I don’t want to make checklists, set goals, or make decisions. I know free will and emotions are supposed to be blessings, but I’m tired of them.

Tucking Butterscotch into the top of my nightgown, I tiptoe through the hallway toward my parent’s bedroom. I’m forced to pass the tall grandfather clock with its dark mahogany wood, sharp spiky top, and creepy drawing of the moon with a baby face. Its eerie ticking sound echoes in the silent house and I sneak a quick peek at the time before rushing by. The two ornate black hands point at the gleaming golden 12 and 2. Whatever keeps waking me is pretty punctual.

My parents sleep with the door slightly open and I peek in to see them both in their light brown wooden sleigh bed. They’re snuggled against each other under a purple and green checkered quilt and my dad’s snoring lightly. I watch them for a few minutes, seeing if they might be pretending to sleep, but they’re breathing deeply and don’t stir.

The first night I felt the touch on my foot I screamed with surprise and terror. My parents came rushing in, mother throwing on the light and father scooping me into his arms. When I told them what happened, dad checked the entire house for signs of anyone and mom gave me a cup of warm milk. I didn’t fall back to sleep that night or any night since. It’s almost becoming routine, which explains why I’m extra tired and hungry.

I rush down the stairs and take a quick peek into the living room for any signs of my foot toucher and, finding none, I head for the refrigerator. A small white bowl of leftover rice pudding sits on the middle shelf. Although mom will yell, I take it anyway. Pulling off the plastic wrap, I grab a spoon and head to my favorite squashy chair by the front window.

Snuggling under mom’s grey, wooly blanket and setting Butterscotch on my lap, I eat the sugary pudding and scan our quiet street. A tall silverish lamppost sits at the edge of our lawn casting a bright yellow glow around it. Cars sit quietly on driveways and grey garbage cans line the curb. Nobody is watering their lawn or jogging and I see no birds. It’s too early for much of anything.

The house next door has a huge maple tree and its reddish leaves dance in the wind as if alive. Dad and mom’s song plays in my head, spinning like the old record they bring out after they’ve shared a bottle of wine. Dad slips his hand around her waist and she puts her head on his shoulder.

Everybody’s feelin’ warm and right/It’s such a fine and natural sight/everybody’s dancin’ in the moonlight.

Across the street, our new neighbors have added a giant blow-up turkey to their yard for Thanksgiving. The wind has blown it sideways and its butt wiggles in the air. Abby would know the perfect joke. The thought makes the pudding no longer taste good. Don’t think about her, Brin. Just don’t.

Setting the bowl on the floor, I pull Butterscotch up to my face again. I don’t know why this is happening to me. I’ve googled “something touched my foot while sleeping” several times and it’s led me down some strange and winding paths. I could be suffering from any number of ailments from sleep paralysis to periodic limb movement disorder to restless leg syndrome.

One website said it could either be a bad omen or mean you were experiencing a spiritual awakening. Another said it’s a ghost or spirit and it’s important to cleanse your house with sage. I downloaded several ghost detector apps on my iPad but they proved useless and confusing. My parents have proved useless as well.

On the way to school a few days ago I told mom about my research, but she cut me off after a few minutes and pulled the car over. Clutching the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white, she stared intensely at me. It’s the look she uses when she means business. Her voice went all tense and low.

“Listen to me, Brin. Nothing touched your foot. You were dreaming. No, I won’t buy you sage or take you to the doctor. No, I won’t keep talking about this and if you keep googling stuff on your iPad I’ll take it away. Do you understand?”

I told her I do, but what choice do I have? For over a year now I’ve begged for a cellphone and if I have any hope of ever getting one, I know I have to drop it with her. She’s practical and has no patience for anything unexplained. Plus, she thinks I’m making it up for attention. She hasn’t said it directly, but I can tell.

Dad’s equally useless. He works all the time and dozes off after dinner, but I managed to catch him alone yesterday when he took the garbage can out to the curb. Without my mother around, I tell him about my research and ask him for his help. He grabs my shoulder and smiles.

“You just have an overactive imagination is all. It can trick your senses into believing anything. It can feel real, but I assure you it is not. Remember your imaginary friend…what was his name?”

Why does he have to bring him up? I whisper his name as if he’ll hear us talking about him.

“Mr. Croaky.”

“Right! You were convinced you saw him jumping around and hiding in the bushes. Now you are getting older and your brain does the pretending while you sleep instead of during the day. It’s part of growing up. It’s normal, kiddo. You aren’t little anymore. It’s good. You’ll see.”

It all comes back to me growing up. It’s all my parents seem to talk about these days. Last week my mother gave me a box and asked me to fill it for a children’s charity her work is sponsoring. When I filled it with old clothes she scowled at me.

“What about all these toys you have laying around? Barbies? Dolls? This mound of stuffed animals? You are a teenager now. It’s time to let stuff go.”

I cried and locked myself in the bathroom until she dropped it, but I know she’ll bring it up again. I don’t want to stop playing with my toys. I love them. They don’t get it. Abby was the person who did, but I was wrong about her. She’s the worst. The absolute worst.

Balling my hands into fists, I fight the memory but it’s like throwing up with the flu. It comes at me in a wave of ugliness and I don’t have the strength to fight it off. I press my nose to Butterscotch’s pink plastic one and feel the pain come roaring in.

It’s the 8th-grade science field trip and we stand on a wooden pier looking at the seals in the water. They roll around and bark at each other. Most of the other girls are trying to get the attention of either Cameron or Dylon by posing with their sunglasses and giggling like idiots. Not us. Abby and I are above such nonsense. I grab her arm and sing into her ear.

“Rolling, rolling, rolling, keep those seals rolling. Fisheye!”

Abby laughs but looks over at the students on the trip and blushes. She inches a little away from me, as she has done all day. Stepping closer and grabbing her arm, I create exaggerated British voices for the seals. Her body feels tense beside me. Stiff. Unmoving. Frozen.

“Oh, hi Cheryl, I didn’t see you rolling over there. Fancy a cuppa, mate?”

“Oh, hi Carol. Yes, I’d love one. I’m simply knackered. A cheeky fish kept me awake all night with its chittering.”

“What a bugger! Hey, did you change your whiskers, darling?”

“Yes, I waxed them with fish oil. It’s all the rage in Paris these days. Tip-top posh and all.”

“Oh, bloody brilliant!”

Abby doesn’t laugh. My British voice always makes her laugh. Instead, her cheeks turn bright red and she spins from me. My arm falls limply to my side as she walks over to the three most popular girls in our grade, Tracy, Stacy, and Pam. We’ve nicknamed them STP—Stupid Tall Pretty. She doesn’t look back.

For a brief moment, I think she’s gone to play a prank on them, but I know it’s not true. I saw it coming but tried to ignore it. Abby pulls a pair of round blue sunglasses out of her backpack. She didn’t tell me about those and we don’t have secrets. We didn’t have secrets.

The glasses are an expensive name-brand kind. Abby’s talking fast and running her fingers through her curly blonde hair. They all take turns trying the glasses on and taking selfies.

“Oh, Abby,” Tracy says, touching my best friend’s cheek with a bright red fake nail. “I never realized the perfect shape of your lips. You have to try this!”

She hands Abby a tube of pink lip gloss and she puts it on. The bubblegum smell is strong and sickly sweet. Stacy links arms with Abby and coos beside her in a stupid baby voice.

“Do you have Instagram?”

“Not yet, but I got a new cell phone last week and haven’t had a chance to download it yet.”

Another secret she didn’t tell me about. She pulls a bright pink phone out of her backpack and they all examine it. Apparently, it’s cool from the sounds they are making. I clench my fists tighter to resist the urge to rush over, grab it, and throw it into the ocean.

“You are too pretty to not be on Insta,” Pam says. “Let’s do a photo shoot for your first post!”

“You can use my scarf,” Tracy adds. “It matches your eyes.”

The entire time this unfolds I feel tears welling in my eyes, but I wipe them away and straighten my back. I won’t give up on my best friend without a fight. Okay, she suddenly cares what they think. I can play along.

Tucking my wild brown hair behind my ears, I walk to where they are all standing in a semicircle. Nobody looks at me but I flash the brightest smile I can muster. Abby looks miserable like she might be sick. I want to hold her hand and pull her away. You don’t have to do this, I want to say. Instead, I pull off my charm bracelet and hold it out in front of me.

“I’ll contribute my bracelet for the photos.”

A gift from Abby on my 10h birthday, she’s added new charms to the bracelet each Christmas and birthday since. The charms represent special memories we have; a pair of roller skates, two stars, a mermaid, bunnies, ice cream cones, and daisies. The girls all stare at it in silence while Abby looks at her blue converse. I see the sharpie heart I drew yesterday on the left toe is smeared.

“Uh, no thanks,” Tracy says. “What is it…iron?”

“I don’t think cheap metal is the look we’re going for,” Stacy says. “Plus, it’s kind of babyish.”

“It’s silver…”

My voice sounds tiny and they laugh. It’s the kind of laugh you can’t escape from, high and lifting and fake. I search Abby’s face looking for recognition, a hint at the girl I’ve loved since kindergarten. She looks away.

“The light’s better over here,” Pam says.

They walk away and I don’t follow. Returning to the spot where we stood moments before, I stare at the seals trying to make sense of what happened. It feels as if my heart broke in half and my face lit on fire.

I don’t know how I manage to keep the tears in, but I do until sitting alone on the bus ride home in the back row. While Abby rests her blonde hair on the shoulder of someone other than me, I let go and sob. Nobody notices.

The last ten days without Abby have been the worst of my life. She doesn’t look at me at school and won’t return my emails or phone calls. She missed my birthday. Dad says learning to cope with change is a requirement of growing. Mom says heartache gets easier with time and I’ll make new friends. It’s not getting easier, I don’t want new friends and I don’t want to grow up.

Tears come. I hate Abby for what she did to me. I hate getting older. Why must my life change? I liked the way it was. I’m sobbing now pressing my face into my stuffed kittie. A horrible pain stabs at my stomach and chest. Broken-hearted. Crushed. Gutted. When will it stop hurting this bad?

A familiar touch on my foot makes me jump and I pull my legs to my chest. A small man stands exactly where my foot sat a moment ago. He’s frozen in place with his hand still extended out in front of him. We stare at each other and his tiny dark brown eyes grow wider and wider. Neither of us blinks.

The size of a mouse, he’s dressed in dark green overalls with a light green shirt underneath. He’s chubby and smells of dirt and moss, like the logs by the creek behind our house. His cheeks are puffy and pinkish. I whisper quietly hoping to not startle him away.

“Are you real?”

“Are you?”

His voice isn’t squeaky, but deep, almost a croak. He lets his hand fall to his side and shuffles his dirty little bare feet. His toes are the size of a grain of sand.

“I think so. Why do you keep grabbing my foot?”

“You keep making a horrible sound and I want you to stop.”

What kind of sound do I make in my sleep? He points to the tears on my face and I suddenly understand.

“My crying?”

“I don’t know what you call it, but I don’t like it. You keep doing it. Stop it!”

He stomps his little foot as if to emphasis his point. It makes the tiniest of slapping sounds on the wood floor.

“Oh! Well…I’m sad and when I’m sad, I cry.”

“Well, get un-sad then.”

He stomps his foot again and I can’t help but smile.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Yes, it is.”

With a quick movement, he half hops and half climbs the blanket onto the arm of the chair. Looking at him closer I realize he’s much younger than I first thought, like a small, hairy child. He has freckles on his nose, long eyelashes, and bright pink smiling lips.

“See, you aren’t doing the loud sound now. You stopped.”

“Well, you distracted me.”

He claps and jumps up and down. Flecks of gold sparkle in his big brown eyes.

“See. Easy!”

“Well….the next time I’m not distracted, I will start crying again. I can’t stop it.”

“Why?”

“My heart is broken.”

Frowning, he hops forward and grabs onto my pointer finger with both hands, and closes his eyes. A faint tingling radiates from his touch and I close my eyes too. The sensation grows and grows, moving from my finger to my hand. It travels up my arm and across my body until soon every part of me feels warm and alive.

I’m standing on the banks of a wide gentle river that sings as it flows over hundreds of stones in shades of grey and white. Sunlight dances off the surface as tadpoles and minnows dart in and out of shadowy hiding places. Colorful ducks drift past and several round turtles scuttle off logs disappearing under the rippling water. A frog sits on my foot blinking up at me with wide, watery eyes.

My body feels as if all the sadness has been squeezed out. It flows away from me with the water. In its place, happiness bursts and blooms. I feel as I did when I was four years old. Free and silly. I splash into the water as a faint humming sound surrounds me. I open my eyes.

Sitting on the armrest of the chair is the creature I drew hundreds of times as a child. A wide green frog with kind watery eyes and a huge smiling mouth. He ribbits and sticks out his tongue. The little man has transformed into his real form. I laugh so hard I nearly knock him off the chair.

“Mr. Croaky! You’ve come back!”

He blinks but says nothing. I found him by the creek one day hiding in an old log. Mother told me she didn’t see him, but I knew he was real. When scary dogs barked at me on walks in the neighborhood, he’d hop onto my head to distract me. If nobody else could play, Mr. Croaky would show up and we’d go on adventures in the backyard. He came with me on my first day of school. He helped me meet Abby on the playground, hopping into her backpack and croaking until I came over and talked to her. I’ve missed my old friend.

The tingly feeling is fading from my body and I fear all my sadness will return when it does. I reach out to touch Mr. Croaky and he hops across me toward the other armrest. I hear a faint splash as something round and hard falls into my lap. A stone.

In an instant, I know things have shifted. Mr. Croaky has disappeared again and this time it’s forever. It doesn’t hurt like I thought it would, but it feels as if a part of me has left too. In its place though, I feel a spark of something new forming. A kind of hope which wasn’t there before. I think I’m going to be okay.

Picking up the stone I find the river still there when I close my eyes. It will be there for me whenever I need it. The sun outside rises slowly, painting the sky shades of gold and pink. Butterscotch falls to the ground as my mother comes in to tell me it’s time to go to school. I pick her up and gently place her back in the chair.

Author’s note: I rewrote the ending of this story for three days trying to find it. I kept having her whisked off to Neverland-type places so she wouldn’t have to face pain anymore. I wanted her to stay a little child so badly, but it’s not the truth. Although this ending broke my heart a bit, I know it’s the right one. I hope you enjoyed my story and I’d love to know if you remember your last moment of childhood. Did you have one? Have a wonderful week.

Short Story Challenge | Week 46

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story about the last moment of childhood. We had to include the words Thanksgiving, refrigerator, surprise, contribute, pier, bird, strength, iron, voices, and requirement.

Write With Us

Prompt: Chasing the enemy
Include: demon, bystander, escaped, parakeet, destiny, hammer, singing, ash, cathedral, heels

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

A Night at the Carnival | A Short Story

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

Her long red nails flash in the streetlight as she shoves me off of the curb and into the filthy gutter with a splash. My ankle bends at an unnatural angle, sending spikes of pain through my leg, I drop my cigarette. This night is turning to shit.

The roar of the traffic and my splitting headache drowns out the rest of what she’s yelling, but I get the gist of it. She’s pissed and I’m wrong. Story of my life. People crowd around us putting an end to any chance I had of defending myself. She got her big scene.

Leaning sideways, a sign behind her catches my eye—The Sassafras Carnival. It’s dingy with half the bulbs on the sign blinking and the other half burned out. Cigarette butts and beer cans press against the blacked-out window. A seedy dive. My kind of place.

I stand up and step onto the curb, trying to shake off the sickening smell of gasoline and garbage from my pants and shoes. She slaps my face hard and stomps away in shiny black heels. The crowd weighs in as they disperse with not-so-quiet whispers.

“Jerk.”

“Serves him right.”

“What a loser!”

My eyes are still on her. Her red dress trails on the ground, soaking up the wetness from the recent downpour and turning the bottom dark crimson. Her hair falls from its high perch, the wind blowing the red curls into a dancing frenzy. I want to go after her, or at least call to her, but my ankle hurts and I’m thirsty.

The double doors open easily, clearly greased, and I walk into the smoke-filled room. It’s deep and dark, the shape you’d expect from a place like this. Everything’s a shade of maroon or gold with lots of tassels and animal prints. It’s a mix of the Moulin Rouge and those safari-themed restaurants you find near big amusement parks. The faint sound of music can be heard far inside, but it’s mostly drowned out by the sound of people talking and laughing. I can disappear here. It’s perfect.

A waitress wearing a sparkling gold cocktail dress and balancing a tray full of empty glasses stops in front of me. Her hair is tucked inside an elaborate hat with feathers, but a few loose strands of auburn stick to her cheeks. What’s with all the redheads, I almost say out loud, but the look on her face isn’t welcoming so I shut my mouth instead.

“You want to sit at the bar or by the stage?”

She’s got the deep voice of a cigarette smoker and dull hazel eyes. I can’t guess her age behind the thick makeup but she has a no-nonsense way about her, suggesting she’s close to my age. No time for anybody’s shit. My kind of gal.

“Stage,” I say. “Who’s performing tonight?”

I hope my voice sounds like I’m a regular or like I know stuff about music. She doesn’t answer, striding away all gold sequined hips and shiny black shoes. I follow, limping slightly.

In another life, she’d like me. We’d link arms and she’d steer me to the best seat in the house. She’d know my drink order and have it to me in a flash with a playful wink. A lipstick kiss would be on my napkin. But this ain’t that kind of life. I’m a loser nobody and she’s really not interested.

The further we go into the place, the darker and hazier with smoke it gets. A long bar sits on the right side of the room, with crowds of people all trying to get the attention of a stunning young bartender with a low-cut leopard-print shirt and bright red lipstick. She’s laughing and moving fast.

Rows of colored bottles and stacks of glasses line the shelves behind her. Bright gold mirrors and blurry out-of-focus landscape pictures cover the rest of the wall, giving the impression that the bar is larger than it is. I catch sight of my face in a mirror and look away in disgust. The faint smell of bourbon makes me swallow hard. I need a drink.

At the end of the bar we curve right and the music, which I’ve heard faintly since walking in, now is unavoidable. I reach into my pocket for earplugs, a habit I’d taken to in the years I used to come to places like this, but realize I don’t have them anymore. Why is it so loud? My teeth feel the vibration and my head pounds more. This was a bad idea.

My brain finally registers the sound as piano music and I groan. A piano bar. Shit. Before I can stop it, a vision of my mother sitting straight-backed at our family piano rushes forward. I’m holding my sister’s hands and we are dancing around the room to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Sunlight reflects off the dozens of prisms hanging in the window, casting rainbows all around us. We are smiling like idiots. Like innocents actually, but what’s the difference?

I try to focus on the throbbing pain in my ankle, but more images roll forward with the music. The old stuffed dog on my childhood bed. The collection of seashells in the glass bowl on the coffee table from our many family beach trips. Mother’s dark green garden gloves hanging on a hook by the back door. The silly controversy over who ate all the candy mom hid in the pantry. The pang of the loss of my old life hits me and adds to the waves of pain I’m feeling. I stumble and grab the arm of the waitress.

“What’s the matter with you?”

She yanks her arm from mine and scowls.

“Sprained ankle.”

She looks at my soaked pant legs, sighs, and walks on weaving in and out of a sea of small, round tables in a complicated manner I find irritating and unnecessary. The tables are filled with couples laughing, talking, smoking, and touching each other. Anger erupts prickly and red, an apple with spikes in it. I bite my lip and clench my fists.

We stop at a table in the center of the room made of oxidized metal, orange in the dim light, covered with tiny scratch marks. I sit in one of the two chairs, high-backed and made of soft dark velvet. The waitress speaks directly into my ear sending shivers through my body.

“What will it be?”

The words don’t make sense because the piano music has reached a thundering crescendo and the memory of my mom on her deathbed stabs my chest. I bite back tears and look at the stage trying to calm myself. Get it together.

Two large black pianos sit on opposite sides illuminated by bright white spotlights. Both are played exuberantly by performers in cheap plastic masks covering only part of their faces. A zebra and giraffe in matching black tuxedos. What kind of place is this?

The zebra’s got a dark brown fluffy beard sticking out the bottom of its mask, thick bulging arms, and fingers covered in shiny silver rings. The giraffe isn’t wearing a shirt under the tuxedo jacket, but a bright red bra barely containing two perfectly round breasts. Her black curly hair sparkles with silver glitter. The waitress grabs my face and turns it toward hers. Her fingers are icy cold.

“What will it be?”

She speaks slowly as if I’m hard of hearing or stupid. At the moment I feel I’m both.

“Bourbon,” I say. “Neat.”

She’s gone in a flash as the animal players stand and bow. Applause crashes around me; smashing cymbals, screeching monkeys, juvenile catcalls, and relentless banging. My head falls onto the cool metal table and I squeeze my eyes shut waiting for the applause to end. It doesn’t. It increases and transforms into a strange repetitive rhythm. I raise my head and open my eyes.

A spotlight shines center stage on a new masked figure, a tall woman dressed in a sapphire floor-length gown with a slit ending at her hip. Curly red hair peeks out around an oversized peacock mask, colorful feathers fanning out from her face in all directions. Crazed morning glory in the moonlight.

She sways and twirls in time to the clapping, eyes closed, and arms outstretched with her palms facing up. I find my body reacting to her movements, wanting to move with her. When she drops her hands suddenly, the place falls eerily silent. My body turns to stone and I stop breathing.

It’s not until she’s seated behind one of the shiny black pianos that I find my breath return. I suck in the smoky air as she pounds on the black and white keys with an awkward and clumsy style, lacking any melody or form I’ve heard before. I expect people to laugh or jeer, but nobody does.

Everyone, including me, leans forward in their chairs transfixed by this peacock woman. Her feet and legs are bare, white as porcelain. She throws her head back and closes her eyes. Perfect pink lips hum a quiet melody in contrast to the piano playing. I find myself going limp.

A drink slides toward me and I lift it to my lips without taking my eyes off the peacock woman. I feel dizzy and light-headed. I take another long gulp of bourbon, draining my glass, and another slides in front of me almost immediately.

I look over to find a man sitting in the velvet chair to my right. He’s practically my twin with the same dark rings under his eyes, the same unshaven face, and the same black hair in bad need of a haircut. His clothes are different though, while I’m dressed in navy blue pants and a matching suit jacket, he’s wearing faded jeans and a grey t-shirt. He leans forward and I follow his lead. He smells of exhaust and diesel.

“Ya know her?”

It’s a gruff voice, but one I know as my own. Shaking my head no, I take out a cigarette from my coat pocket and my twin leans forward to light it. I take a long drag, feeling the realness of the tobacco burn my lungs.

“Look harder.”

I’m not sure if he means at him or the woman. Both are familiar but I’m not a fan of games or riddles. I drain another glass of bourbon from the several on the table and take another drag of my cigarette. Have I chased a white rabbit? Did I swallow the red pill?

“I don’t like this game.”

The second the words leave my lips the music ends. People leap to their feet in applause and my twin joins them. I watch his movements, my movements, and I wonder if I’m still laying in the gutter outside. Maybe I was hit by a car or hit my head on the curb. I’m in a coma or some shit.

“You’re not.”

He’s back in his chair staring at me with my own eyes. I reach for another drink and find the table empty. The show’s over and people are talking loudly all around us, the spell of the peacock broken. My twin grabs my hand under the table and squeezes it hard.

“You have to let her find her own way.”

I touch the spot on my cheek she slapped and blink away hot tears. Mother told me to look after her, but she doesn’t listen to me. She’s going to get hurt. He squeezes my hand a second time, much harder.

“If you don’t, she’ll never speak to you again. She’ll be fine either way, but you won’t. The choice is yours.”

Closing my eyes, I picture what letting go of her would look like. I’ve followed her around for the last ten years, barely doing much of anything else. She’s not a child anymore and neither am I. What if I decided to let her go? Would it give me permission to live my own life? I barely remember my dreams anymore.

“You okay?”

Lifting my head I find the waitress standing beside me. No sign of my twin. Wiping off tears with the sleeve of my jacket, I notice golden and amber flecks in her hazel eyes. They aren’t dull at all. I nod as she sets another drink on the table with a small white napkin. She smiles before walking away and I feel warmth explode inside me.

My sister will be okay. I drink in those words. She’s a peacock in a sea of pigeons. I need to get out of her way.

Sipping the bourbon I see a faint kiss mark on my napkin. Flipping it over I find a phone number scrawled in light blue ink. Maybe we both can be okay.

Author’s note: This week as I’m swamped with NaNoWriMo, I decided to cheat a little. During the start of quarantine, I created a FB writing group with the intention of working through all the prompts in “Write the Story.” It didn’t really take off and it was mostly me writing with zero likes or comments. I quit at prompt 14. I decided to resurrect the first one I wrote to see how far my storytelling chops have developed. The draft written back then was sloppy and about half this length, more a silly mashup of the words and less an actual story. It was fun to rewrite it and give it structure and I’m pleased with how it turned out. Let me know in the comments what you think and have a wonderful week.

Short Story Challenge | Week 45

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story about a strange request at a piano bar. We had to include the words carnival, apple, sprained, mask, juvenile, controversy, oxidation, twirl, awkward, and sassafras

Write With Us

Prompt: The last moment of childhood
Include: Thanksgiving, refrigerator, surprise, contribute, pier, bird, strength, iron, voices, and requirement

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

The Abandoned Church | A Short Story

“Destiny calls when the angel sings
Flitting in darkness with silent wings”
-scrawled on the back of a polaroid

Jagged mountains line the horizon in all directions like cardboard cutouts in a child’s diorama. Bright sunlight and low fog have transformed the sky into a flat white blanket inches above my head. I fear it will fall on me for what I’ve done, for what I’ve taken, but I’m not turning back. My bare feet sink deeper and deeper as I trudge along the sandy path. I’m close.

The old woman at the lodge fought a lot longer than the others. Dark brownish blood foamed at her lips and she convulsed wildly in her four-poster bed, but she kept breathing through the night and into the morning. A lingering sour smell clung to everything, making me gag several times. I tried to be patient, but time was running out. It won’t wait for me forever.

She screamed when I pried the photo album from her hands. Her stiff grey eyes focused sharply on mine and I could see the truth as a statement and a question. The soup, I almost said but decided it didn’t matter. Instead, I held a pillow to her face until she stopped struggling and took the small, black key from the pocket of her pale pink nightgown. It was warm as I tucked it into the pocket of my jeans.

In the dim morning light filtering through the white gauzy curtain, I found the polaroid on the thirteenth page behind a thin protective layer of slightly browning plastic. Peeling it back inch by inch, I freed it from its sticky prison. Turning it over I saw the flowy cursive black writing and smiled tracing the letters with my thumb. It’s true. Tossing the rest of the album onto the old woman’s motionless body I walked out.

I’m holding the photo in my left hand now and I pull it to my nose and breathe in deeply as I’ve done hundreds of times during the seven hours of walking. It smells like plastic at first, but if I wait it’s followed by another scent far older. My body shivers with anticipation and deep recognition of the heavenly aroma. Damp stone. Wet Earth. Home. It’s waiting for me.

As I walk I notice my vision has a filmy quality to it, a haziness I’ve come to associate with sleep. It’s got to be the hypnotic effect of the singing. I feel it like a hook inside my belly pulling and pulling. The others didn’t believe enough to hear it. It chose me.

The path narrows and clusters of yellow flowers sit like torches on either side of me. They smell faintly of honey and are near enough to brush my arms as I pass with feathery softness. Without the lights of the highway, I feel as if I’m already transported to another place. Whiteness in all directions. Stillness too. Nothing but the soft, tender voice calling me with words I feel more than hear. So close now. 

A turkey vulture cries and circles above me. Its distorted winged shadow stretches across the path and I resist the urge to look at it. The stories are real even if people don’t believe in them. It requires more than faith to get what you want. I’ve proven myself capable of radical actions. I’m willing to do what the others are not. I’m a true believer.

The steady regime of exercise, prayer, and meditation has prepared not only my mind but my body for today. Although I’m bone tired, it’s nothing like I would have been before I arrived at the lodge. The old woman taught me well and a spark of remorse threatens to ignite. I blow it out. She didn’t hear the song because she hasn’t suffered like me. Nobody has. It’s not my fault it didn’t choose them.

When the church comes into view it’s exactly like the picture. I pause to savor the moment, holding the polaroid beside it to compare the old image with the real thing. White walls with a slanted red roof. Square windows along the side with divided panes. A red steeple topped with a small silver cross.

I feel static energy course through my body as warmth, like lowering myself into a hot bath after a lifetime of freezing cold showers. It’s here. I found it.

Trembling, I force myself to walk slowly and steadily with my head held high. I didn’t come this far to make a bad first impression. After leaving the old woman’s room I changed out of my bloody clothes, braided my long brown hair neatly into two braids, washed my body, and dressed in a flowing white gown. I’d left all my possessions behind.

Plucking one of the yellow flowers, I add it to my hair and smooth the soft cotton folds of my dress. The scent of frankincense oil, woody and sweet, clings to my skin. Tears fall from my tired eyes. It’s all happening.

Three wooden steps lead to the door, but my feet have suddenly locked in place. They won’t move. It’s as if they are encased in iron bands. Using my hands, I pry each foot off the ground setting it on the step above. I repeat this for each step. It’s a long, hard process. Sweat drips off my forehead, leaving a trail of little dark brown circles in the wood behind me. When I reach the top I’m panting.

For days the haunting song has called me here and now as I straighten my back and stare at the red door the beautiful sound stops with a sudden crack. The silence envelops me and I fall to my knees. No! I’m too late.

Frantically, I struggle to stand and tug at the rusted doorknob with both hands. It doesn’t budge. Panic thunders through me, a storm of anger and frustration. Clenching my hands into fists I pound wildly at the rough door. Splinters tear into my skin and I taste blood in my mouth. 

“No!” The scream comes from deep inside, an eruption more than a sound. It comes with a blast of exhaustion as I fall back to my knees shaking with full-body sobs. How could I have failed? After all I did. The image of the old woman’s face swims in front of my eyes. The others too. How many died? I swat the memories away.

Falling to my side I feel a stabbing warmth between my breasts. The key! I’d attached it to a silver chain and tucked it into my bra. How could I have forgotten? Hysterical giggles come with the realization. It’s not too late! 

With a loud hiccup I stand, tucking a few loose strands of hair back into place. Embarrassment burns hot across my cheeks and chest. Several ravens caw loudly behind me but I don’t look back. Instead, I study the door.

Carved runes line the frame, deeply embedded in the wood with a slightly silver glow to them. The old woman would have been able to read them, but I can’t. I locate the keyhole, round at the top and straight at the bottom. Undoing the clasp on the chain, I pull it from my neck and insert the black key into the lock and turn it to the left. It makes a loud click.

Part of me expected music or bright lights to greet me, but when I push open the heavy door, I find neither. White light from behind me casts my shadow down a long, dusty aisle between rows and rows of dark wooden pews. It’s silent. Cobwebs hang saggy and thick from the rafters and it smells strongly of dust and mold. 

“Hello?” I call.

A slight scuttling sound at the far end of the church echoes through the room for a brief second before returning to silence. I take a step forward and watch my shadow move ahead of me. It seems more sure of itself than I do and I watch it for a few minutes, listening hard. All I hear are the birds outside. They seem frantic. I ignore them.

With slow careful steps, I move down the aisle. Tiny pebbles and leaves stick to my bare feet. Most of the pews are empty but a few have old hymn books or bibles flipped open on the seats. The pages look thin and faded. If I touched them would they turn to dust?

Reaching the wooden pulpit at the farthest end of the church I’m disappointed to find it empty. No candlesticks. No crosses. No adornments of any kind.

A single deep note sings out into the darkness to my left. I feel my heart swell with the sound. It’s here! With a swift, light movement I rush down a flight of stone steps and through a long dark hallway. Suddenly, I crash hard into a solid shape. A door. Running my hands along the splintery wood I find a cold metal doorknob. I turn it and pull it open.

At first, all I see is the lamp on the desk. It’s the kind suited for a lawyer’s office, a gleaming golden base with an emerald green lampshade. A single sheet of paper and a brass pen is set in the center of the polished wood surface. It’s such a strange sight I almost laugh, but a sound beyond the desk stops me. I gasp.

Metal bars separate the part of the room I’m standing in from a cement square cell with rusty silver bars. The inside is covered in writing and pictures, like those you’d see under freeway underpasses or the sides of trains. Sitting huddled in the furthest back corner is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. An angel.

Its deep blue eyes stare into mine and I feel the brokenness inside me stir like leaves in an autumn breeze. Its face looks carved from marble, smoothly perfect yet at the same time distorted and unnatural. It’s wearing a charcoal grey cloak covering most of its body and head. A single note escapes its ebony lips and I feel every cell in my body shudder in response.

Rising from the floor in a fluid effortless manner, it ruffles a pair of enormous dark feathery wings. Curving high above its head on both sides, they fall around it almost touching the floor. I imagine when they are open they’d easily stretch across the entire length of the church. A long, slender finger points at the desk and the pen zips across, clicking open.

Reluctantly tearing my gaze from the angel before me, I stare at the thick white sheet of paper. It’s written in a language I’ve never seen before, but I’m aware it’s a contract. A tiny flicker of doubt burns in my chest. An image of a red devil with spiraling horns, sharp black hooves, and bright yellow eyes flashes into my mind. Taking a step back I feel dizzy.

“Sign.”

It’s the voice I’ve heard in song calling, guiding, and luring me. The angel stands at the bars now. Hunger lives in those blue eyes, but also love. I sense it wants me and I want it too. I grab the heavy pen and sign as fast as I can, my name a blurry scrawl of black.

The bars snap away and I fall. Feathers flutter around me and the ravens outside scream. What have I done?

Author’s note: My story is a day late this week because after writing 3,000 words I discovered my main character was in the wrong story. She refused to do the things I asked of her and therefore the devil would not appear. As a result, I started over this morning and came up with this short story partly inspired by the amazing Netflix miniseries “Midnight Mass.” Please let me know what you think in the comments below. I truly appreciate every like and comment. Have a safe and happy Halloween!

A neighbor’s elaborate Halloween decoration.

Short Story Challenge | Week 43

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story featuring a deal with the devil. We had to include the words regime, album, torch, lodge, highway, sandy, rune, contract, taken, and suit

Write With Us

Prompt: A fortune cookie comes true
Include: numerology, hilarious, dictionary, recycled, brick, ocean, meaningful, garbage, star, origin

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

Afraid of the Dark | A Short Story

A long, razor-sharp claw scrapes against the round glass window sending Toothwort Button deeper into the folds of his enormous patchwork quilt. He tries to keep his eyes closed but they pop open as the wooden front door creaks within its minuscule frame. Rolling into a tight ball, he tucks his fingers and toes as close to his body as he can. His fluffy white beard tickles his knees.

Something’s in the house. He feels it inching through the room sniffing at the empty hearth, scraping by his collection of acorn caps, and bumping into his walnut shell bed. Maybe it will leave on its own, he hopes. Pressing his eyes tightly closed and covering his ears with both hands, he lays as motionless as he can, repeating silently to himself “please go away, please go away, please go away.”

When he’s certain some time has passed, he uncovers his ears and listens to the quality of the silence. The creaking of the door remains, but the shuffling and bumping has stopped. To be sure, he listens harder until he can hear the crickets outside and harder still until he can hear the faint babble of the creek.

Pulling back the edge of the blanket he peers around the dark circular room but with the thread-bare moon giving off only a sliver of light, all he can see are wispy shadows darting across the moss-covered ceiling. There’s still plenty of deep darkness where things could be hiding. He’ll have to light the lantern.

With careful, slow movements, he climbs out of bed, slips on his bright yellow wool slippers with upturned toes, and sneaks to the lantern beside the fireplace. It takes him three tries to get the match lit, filling the room with a sulfurous smell and a yellowish glow. After the shadows settle, he can see the room is indeed empty.

“Fiddlesticks and gumdrops.”

Not finding anything is the preferred outcome, of course, but it means he’s still afraid of the dark, and gnomes are not supposed to be afraid of the dark. The realization makes him feel like a silly fool. It’s a good thing he lives alone, for who would want to be friends with an old gnome with watery eyes and stubby fingers who is always scared. It’s laughable.

He kicks at a heap of dried calendula flowers sitting by the front door. In the morning he plans to use them to dye a fresh batch of wool yarn so he can knit himself a new sweater for winter. His old one is full of holes and, although it’s still comfy, has stopped keeping him warm.

Looking at the leafy shadows dancing around the walls of his house, he has an idea. What if he didn’t go back to bed tonight? What if instead, he decides to find out what’s so scary about the darkness? The idea makes him shiver with a kind of energy he finds both terrible and exciting. Maybe he can be brave. It’s worth a try.

Pulling on his old sweater, his bright red pointed cap, and sturdy brown boots, he grabs the rounded metal handle of the lantern and presses open the bark door fully to the night. For a few minutes, he stands on the threshold shivering. This is a very bad idea. A terribly stupid idea. But he’s going to do it anyway.

Toothwort Button lives in the center of a bustling ancient forest, but he rarely speaks to anyone. The creatures he meets are usually too much in a rush and gnomes don’t hurry. This time of year, when the leaves are crunchy and mushrooms are plentiful, there’s no shortage of things to do during the day. He might take a refreshing swim in the creek, forage for rose hips or the last of summer’s berries, or take a walk through the mushroom fields. 

Looking at the darkness around him now, however, he has no idea what to do. Everything is different in the dark—the trees more looming, the air thinner and harder to breathe, and the smells mustier and sharper. He takes a tentative step. Then another.

His boots look odd in the lantern light and he watches them walk over the dark soil as if they belong to someone else. Suddenly his face smacks into something sticky and he freezes. High above, a looming shape lowers through the canopy of trees, a large shiny wet body—a killer whale leaping through the dark to attack. 

This is exactly why he’s scared of the dark. He drops the lantern, closes his eyes, curls into a ball, and screams.

“Don’t eat me!”

“What?”

It’s a thin voice, not at all whale-like, and when he opens his eyes and looks up the creature has stopped a few inches above him. Dangling from a nearly transparent string, it rotates in a circle showing off its eight spindly legs and numerous shiny black eyes. The gnome wants to scream again but realizes it would be rude and instead swallows hard and takes a step backward.

“Are you going to eat me?”

The creature laughs, a soft and not-at-all unpleasant sound. Toothwort smiles and tries to look friendly, but his feet want to run. They wiggle inside his boots.

“Of course, I’m not going to eat you. The name’s Agaric. Agaric the Spider.”

It bobs its big body up and down, and although the small gnome finds it funny, he isn’t sure he should giggle so he swallows hard again.

“I’m Toothwort Button. Toothwort Button the gnome.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, but why are you out so late at night little gnome? You gave me quite a fright.”

The idea he could scare someone else made him giggle and this time he didn’t swallow it. The spider blinks its many eyes at him and smiles widely.

“I’m sorry. I was trying to find out why the dark is so scary. Do you know?”

The spider lifts each of its eight legs as if the answer might be found beneath them, and then shakes its head slowly.

“The dark is the safest time for me. I’m far more afraid of the light, so I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Thank you for not eating me.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck!”

The spider waves all its legs at him which makes Toothwort giggle again. He waves back.

“Thank you!”

Picking up his little lantern, the gnome holds it out in front of him, noticing how the rays of light form a star pattern casting thin straight lines into the darkness. As he walks on, it’s hard to make sense of all the shadows. He knows the forest is filled with rocks, sticks, leaves, tree branches, ferns, mushrooms, and acorns, but in the darkness, they all become unfamiliar lumps.

Squinting hard through the thick trees, he can make out tiny stars dotting the vast blackness of the night sky. While safe in his bed he imagines them as friends watching over him. However now, in the dark of the night, they look more like balls of fire about to flash through the sky to land on his head. Feathery fear prickles across his skin as he walks a bit faster.

A rustling sound in the tree above him makes him jump and freeze in place. He wants to run, but this time his feet won’t listen and stubbornly sit still within his boots. Raising the lantern shakily upward, he expects to see twin gleaming fireballs streaking toward him, but instead finds two sharply pointed ears, two large outstretched wings, and one sniffy wet nose.

This is exactly why he’s scared of the dark! He drops the lantern, closes his eyes, curls into a ball, and screams.

“Don’t eat me!”

“What?”

It’s a squeaky voice, not at all fire-like, and when he peeks through his fingers at the figure above him he finds it hasn’t moved any closer. In the darkness, he can make out soft brown fur and round black eyes. It wiggles its outstretched wings and yawns making a strange high-pitched peep. A red liquid drips from its furry chin.

“You…you…aren’t going to eat me?”

The thing blinks its watery eyes and Toothwort worries it might be crying. Did he hurt its feelings? Before he has a chance to apologize, the thing swoops gracefully and lands on the ground beside him. Toothwort yelps and closes his eyes again. Why must it be so close and why won’t his feet run?

“Of course not.”

It’s making a wet, slurping sound and talking with its mouthful. Toothwort slowly opens his eyes to see it taking bites of a mushy raspberry sitting beside the lantern. There’s sadness in its wide black eyes.

“I’m Puffball. Puffball the Bat. Sorry if I scared you. Everyone is scared of me. Some rabbit called me a ‘depraved monster of the night.’ Can you believe it?”

Toothwort can. Despite being furry, it’s kind of scary with those veiny wings and strange big eyes, but it’s clearly hurting. Brushing himself off and standing he remembers his mother always said “the cure for sadness is praise.” He clears his throat.

“Well, I don’t think it was nice of that rabbit to call you names. You are beautiful with those wide, thin wings. I bet you can fly super fast too. Also, you must be good at finding things because I’ve not found any raspberries for weeks.”

The bat stops eating and stares at Toothwort blinking for a minute until a huge smile bursts across its face. It makes him look a lot less scary and the gnome smiles back.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Toothwort Button. Toothwort Button the gnome.”

The bat pushes a piece of raspberry toward him, but he shakes his head.

“No thank you. I’m not very hungry.”

“What are you doing at night if you’re not eating?”

“Oh, I’m trying to find out why the dark is so scary. Do you know?”

The bat looks around the forest for a minute and shakes its head.

“The dark is the safest time for me. I’m far more afraid of the light, so I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

The gnome nods. It’s the same thing the spider told him. He wonders if anyone will know. Picking up his lantern he gives the bat a final smile and waves.

“Well, I better keep looking.”

“Bye! Good luck!”

The bat grabs the rest of the raspberry with its feet and swoops into the trees with a graceful back-and-forth motion. He’s scary, but nice too. Pressing the lantern up a bit higher in front of him he continues through the forest.

All around him are unfamiliar shapes and fleeting sounds. Scuttling sounds. Whooshing sounds. Big dark shapes. Small thin shapes. It seems the further he walks from the bat the more fear clings to him. It’s like a rumbling inside, a thunderous feeling climbing up and up from his wee toes to the tip of his bright red cap. Toothwort doesn’t like this at all. He hates it.

Although his feet are still moving forward, he wishes he’d never left the warmth of his bed. Why did he think the answers to why he’s scared of the dark would be found in the dark? All he’s managed to accomplish is finding new things to be frightened of. What if he meets a spider who isn’t nice? Or a bat who isn’t sad? What if he meets something far far worse than both.

Toothwort has always been fond of his ability to play make-believe and imagine things, but it’s not a worthy skill when you are in the dark. He puts together creatures he’s seen in new and frightening ways. A large warty frog with bat wings. A scuttling ladybug with huge rabbit feet. A firefly with spider legs, spitting flames.

It’s at this exact moment when all the fears inside him seem ready to rip through his body and come pouring out into the night, he hears a rustling sound right next to him. Freezing, he moves the beam of his lantern slowly to the left and finds a large, dark bush mere inches from his face. And it’s moving.

This is exactly why he’s scared of the dark! He drops the lantern, closes his eyes, curls into a ball, and screams.

“Don’t eat me!”

“What?”

It’s a soft voice, not at all monster-like, and it ramps up immediately talking faster and faster. Toothwort isn’t sure what to make of this rapid-fire voice in the bushes, but by the time it’s done talking, he’s standing and brushing dirt off his yellow sweater.

“Eat you? Eat you? What are you talking about? You are about to eat me? I can tell with your light…your stomping…your breathing! Let’s make a bargain. Okay? We can do that, right? Right?A deal? You don’t eat me and I don’t eat you. What do you say? Deal? Deal? Deal?”

As it repeats the last word over and over Toothwort sees a small nose poke through the bushes twitching wildly. It’s quickly followed by two almond-shaped black eyes, two small ears, a long slender body, and an enormous bushy tail.

“I’m Truffles. Truffles the Squirrel and I hope you don’t want to eat me. Do we have a deal?”

It thrusts a furry paw out toward the gnome.

“We have a deal.”

They shake enthusiastically until the squirrel, overcome with excitement, sweeps Toothwort up into his arms and swings him around in circles. It’s a bit scary, but also fun, and Toothwort laughs and laughs. They spin so fast that the gnome’s boots fly off his feet disappearing into the night.

“Oh, I’ll get ‘em! Sorry!”

With a bouncy leap, Truffles scurries around in the dark, bumping into things and rustling leaves. In less than a minute the boots are back on the gnome’s feet, but Truffles mumbles quietly under his breath hopping from one foot to the next.

“What’s wrong?”

“You don’t like me. I didn’t even ask you your name and now….”

The gnomes thrusts out his hand.

“I’m Toothwort Button. Toothwort Button the gnome. And I do like you.”

Truffles sniffs loudly.

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Wait? What were you doing before you came across me? Did I stop you from some big quest? I did, didn’t I? I ruined your quest. I spoiled your fun. I’m always doing that. I’m such a silly fool!”

Toothwort is smiling again. There’s something so enduring about this new friend. He’s comfortable around him. It’s as if the broken parts inside him, the things he doesn’t like about himself, don’t matter as much. Taking Truffle’s paw into his hand he wonders if maybe he has the answer he’s been searching for.

“Actually, I’m trying to find out why the dark is so scary. Do you know?”

Truffles jumps into the air, spinning and leaping.

“I do!”

Toothwort jumps to his feet and the two of them dance together, holding hands and moving in a circle, but this time Truffles is careful not to spin him so fast that his boots fly off. When the celebration winds down, Truffles gives him a hug and steps back.

“You are scared of the dark because you are alone. You need a friend and now you have one.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

For a moment Truffles and Toothwort simply smile at each other in the pale golden light of the lantern. Neither of them jumps when an owl hoots in a tree above them or when they hear the sound of a mouse scuttling nearby. They are simply content to smile at each other in the dark.

“Truffles, I have an idea! Do you want to come live with me?”

The second the words come out the old fears inside Toothwort spring forth as well. He was so certain a second ago of everything, but what if this new friend doesn’t want to spend all their time together? What if he already has a friend? Truffles has a strange look on his face.

“Do you need help cleaning? Like a janitor?”

“Oh, no! I mean…like so we can be brave together. So the dark isn’t scary all the time…We could live in my house…together…”

Toothwort feels tears about to spring from his eyes, but before they do Truffles pulls him close whispering “yes” into his bright red hat. Hugging, they stand in the dark for a long time both thinking about what it’s like to not be scared anymore and to have a friend.

Author’s note: This week’s story is dedicated to my darling daughter with big feelings. It might be a silly little tale but it’s full of lots of heart. Sometimes the darkness is shadows across the wall, but most of the time it’s dealing with loneliness and scary thoughts of not being good enough. May you find something here you can cling to.

Short Story Challenge | Week 42

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story with a good reason to be scared of the dark. We had to include the words a killer whale, depraved, janitor, bargain, dye, fool, heap, kick, praise, and quilt.

Write With Us

Prompt: A deal with the devil
Include: Regime, album, torch, lodge, highway, sandy, rune, contract, taken, suit

My 52-Week Challenge Journey

by

Room 313 | A Short Story

When I enter the darkened room he grunts and throws a fat, pale arm across his eyes to block out the beam of light from the hallway. Smelling strongly of the cheap whiskey sold in the bar downstairs, he’s spread out across a thin patchwork blanket, wearing only filthy brown pants cut off at the knees. I focus on the dried blood under his fingernails and crusted around his knuckles before shutting the door quietly behind me. There’s no rush.

“Wh-whoo’s t-t-th-ere?”

It’s mostly gibberish, a slurry mix of boozy sleepiness, but I understand the words from hearing them from hundreds of men over the past ten years. I slink through the reddish light given off by the old lantern’s nightlight until I’m near the foot of the bed. The sour smell of sex fuels the fury coursing through my body until I’m burning red hot with it. I wonder if he can feel the heat radiating off me.

I sit on the golden, velvet bench at the foot of the bed to unlace my black boots. He’s fallen asleep or passed out, I can’t quite tell. His heavy breathing, in and out, feels like a knife slowly tracing the length of my spine. While he’s sleeping in this comfortable room, Viv lays on a mattress in the cellar being stitched up by Doc Baker. Tearing my boots off, I fight hard to unclench my teeth and relax. There’s an order to these things. They take time.

My stocking-covered feet are cool on the wood floor and I close my eyes, traveling back to the windswept coast and swelling ocean waves of my childhood. My red hair whips around my freckled cheeks as the pockets of my yellow dress bulge with partial and whole sand dollars. The foamy white edge of the water laps against my bare toes as I watch a crab scuttle by with a missing claw. My sister sings sweetly to herself behind me—my happy little shadow.

This memory is before pappa came back from fighting the war in Texas with a dreadful dead look in his eyes. It’s a good one. The last time I felt truly safe.

“H-hey, dar-dar-lin’, ya-ya a t-tad ollllld fer m-me likin’.”

Propped up on his calloused elbows and clearly still drunk, he smiles at me with bloodshot eyeballs and cracked thin lips. There are bits of black tobacco stuck along his inflamed gums. I bet he spits blood. I won’t regret this. I never do.

“Need a drink?”

Standing, I lean forward and press my breasts together giving him the smile I know all men like. His hungry eyes travel from my lacey white corset to my thin, black knee-high stockings. Although I’m far from the age of my girls, he’s definitely noticing I’m not without my charms. He sits up and licks his lips. It’s showtime.

Crossing the room carefully and moving so my hips sway slowly, I take out a miniature glass bottle shoved in my garter and set it on the table beside the lantern. It’s hardly noticeable, this tiny bit of nothing filled with red dust. It could be paprika or cinnamon. It’s common enough that if he dares to look beyond my body it won’t raise any alarms, but he won’t take his eyes off me. They never do.

“I-I ain’t pa-paying n-no ex-extra…”

His slurred voice begs to differ, desperate and a bit whiny, but I’m not looking to provoke him. I’ve had my days of fisticuffs, of brawling on the floor when I couldn’t contain my rage, but I’ve outgrown those childish urges and can control myself. Mostly.

“Oh, this is on the house. For being such a loyal customer.”

Turning back to him I smile and lift my left leg so it rests on the edge of the wooden dressing chair. Slowly, while staring at his ugly face, I inch up the edge of my shortened petticoat until he can see the lacey ruffled top of my stockings. I’m giving him a little show, a rehearsed choreographed number honed after years of infuriating mistakes. Within seconds, he’s panting and drooling.

“May I recommend the bourbon? Best around.”

He watches me with twitchy fingers and I wonder where he stashed the knife he used to cut Viv up. It doesn’t really matter though because he won’t have time to retrieve it. Making a show of reaching deep between my breasts I pull out a small bottle of dark bourbon. Using my teeth I pull off the top and take a swig. He shifts. I can tell he’s enjoying the show.

With a little kick, I press off the chair and begin dancing around the room with the bottle in one hand, flicking up my petticoats with the other. The ghostly shape of bloody clothes peers at me from under the bed and I move away from them. Fury thrums through me as if I’m some divine instrument being played, but I know better. There’s nothing Godly about what’s about to happen.

Letting him touch my thigh as I pass, he moans deeply. If I wait any longer he might rush at me and I’ll lose control of the situation. Twirling back to the table where the lantern sits, I bend over to pick up a small lowball glass from the bottom shelf. With a quick practiced movement, I flick in the red powder before standing.

“Thirsty?”

Pouring the drink as I walk toward him on tiptoes leaning slightly forward, I swirl it around to mix it up. Once I reach him he takes the glass, swallows it back in one gulp, and smashes it against the far wall. He’s on his feet in a flash rushing toward me. I let him chase me a bit before jumping onto the bed and patting the space beside me.

“Be a good boy and lay down.”

He jumps on top of my body pressing his groin instantly against mine. Holding my breath as best I can, I allow him to kiss my neck and grind into me with frantic, wild, nearly rabid energy. I’ve been through this part enough to know I must do something to calm myself. I close my eyes and count backward from 30. I only get to 10 this time.

“Wh..wh..wh..?”

He’s stopped moving now so I roll him off of me. There’s foam at the edges of his lips and he’s begun to twitch. Wiping off my body with the edge of the blanket, I make sure to get all the places his grimy hands and mouth touched. He can’t move but his eyes have bulged out and I spit in his face.

“Wi…wi…witchcraft.”

It’s his last word and it’s honestly a bit disappointing. I prefer when they plead a little, beg forgiveness or ask why. He didn’t struggle nearly long enough and it makes me reconsider this almost humane way of killing the men who hurt my girls. Then again, it’s easier and far less disruptive to do it quietly. Better for business.

My heart beats wildly in my chest and I stand still to savor the moment. What used to be fear draped around my shoulders like a shawl now is power. I took his life because he deserved to die. Part of me knows remorse should still be there somewhere but I feel none. Maybe this makes me evil.

I walk to the window and pull back the thick red curtains to look at the street below. There are several horses still tied out front but most folks have gone home as sunrise is an hour away. Piles of dead leaves have blown against the buildings creating shadowy homes for the rats to hide in. The wind howls and whines to get inside with crackling claws and it makes me think of the first time I saw this godforsaken Gold Rush town.

Draped across the back of a stinky old horse, with my feet and hands tied with thick scratchy rope, I watched the town appear in the distance as a black silhouette against a layered sky of orange and gold—a late autumn sunrise. The man my father sold me to grunted “welcome to Bicknell” as the wooden buildings took shape and slowly came into focus the closer we got. Black crows circled high above calling out a warning I wish I could have heeded.

Bicknell is a grimy town made up of a single smelly street dripping with broken promises and broken men. The creaky wooden sidewalks slant towards the dusty road, so when the drunks fall down they roll into the dirt and piss themselves there. Summers are so hot the men become possessed, walking from the mining camps and descending upon the town like locusts—loud, angry swarms of hot-headed frustration. They fight and fuck in equal parts, filling the night with screams of agony and pleasure.

Still, I prefer the heat to the winters. When it rains everything swells, making the doors impossible to close and the feces from the outhouses run in rivulets down the backs of the buildings to form a sludgy mucky mud that sucks at your feet like a monster. You have to tie a cloth across your face to walk outdoors or else you breathe in the flies and the smell until it nearly eats you alive. The only way it’s comfortable inside is to keep the fires roaring and let the smoke do the rest.

The sheriff pays the small orphan boys to clear the shit from the center of the road and cover it with layers of hay so carriages can pass through. Sometimes these passerbys come inside—women in big-hooped dresses and men in crisp suits. They gawk at the shocking nature of our establishment, but it’s only luck separating them from me and my girls. Smiling, I take their money and spit in their food. They gamble, drink, and sometimes stay the night and pay for my discretion as they invite one of my girls to join them upstairs.

I’ve learned to profit from the lusty wills of the ignorant and to build a business where I feel less like the victim I was when I arrived and more like a protector. It’s not been easy as the miners drift in and out of this grimy soul-sucking place and I’m proud of who I’ve become. Madame O. Even the sheriff tips his hat when I pass him on the street. Nobody messes with me anymore.

My thoughts return to young Viv with her dark, black hair and almond-shaped brown eyes who has been working here less than two weeks. I found her laying behind the butcher shop with an eye infection so bad she was nearly blind. Doc Baker fixed her up for me, as he does for all my girls, but now she’ll have scars across her face. I’ll give her an exotic costume with a silk veil but she’ll have to learn how to take control of the situation better or she might not live next time. Some girls aren’t cut out for this work. I wish I wasn’t.

Closing the curtains I make my way through the semi-darkness to where the miner lay dead and motionless—a stupid nobody. He probably has family somewhere but they won’t ever know what happened to him. My boys will take him out in an hour and throw his body off the side of the mountain to be eaten by wild animals. My girls will clean the room and burn the bloody clothes. Tonight business will continue like nothing happened and only Viv will hold the haunting memories of what took place here for the rest of her life. May he rot in hell for what he did to her.

Opening the door I see Opal standing in the hallway with her hands in the pockets of her little calico dress. A freckle-faced kid who looks so much like my sister did when I left that I often have to restrain myself from pulling her to me and hugging her. I found her wandering alone one night outside by the garbage looking for scraps and made her a kitchen girl. I’ve tried to shelter her from the real business of this place, but here she is standing barefoot in the dim hallway. Darting around me she runs into the room with a slight giggle.

“What are you doing in here?”

She runs to the windowsill and retrieves a rag doll from the ledge but stops when she sees the man on the bed. He’s got black blood running out of his mouth and he’s shit and peed himself. There’s already a terrible smell. The girl sticks her thumb in her mouth and makes a scared little whimper.

“I left my dolly…”

“Why were you up here? You know you aren’t allowed up here!”

“Viv…she let me look out the window…”

Spotting the bloody clothes under the bed, she inches along the wall as if they might spring to life and attack her. I know she’s probably seen lots of horrible things before coming here, but my inability to shield her from another horror flashes red hot inside my chest until I’m shaking with rage. I rush toward her, but she runs from me with a terrified look in her soft green eyes. She’s scared of me.

“Come back here!”

“No! You’re like all of them!”

“Opal!”

It’s too late. By the time I reach the bottom of the winding staircase she’s run through the bar and out the front door which creaks and swings wildly in the fierce winds. Leaning against the wooden frame I search the darkness for signs of her, but I know she will run as fast as she can without looking back. It’s all she knows. I’m just another boogeyman, another villain in her story. Maybe she’ll find a real hero to save her. For now, I’ve got work to do.

Author’s note: This week I tried my hand at writing about one of my daughter Lola’s favorite time periods in history—1800s California during the Gold Rush. I loosely based the location on The National Exchange Hotel in Nevada City which claims to be the oldest continuously operating hotel in California. It was built in August 1856 under the name “Bicknell Block” and has survived many fires.

The photos I used are from a visit I took last year where I had lunch at the restaurant Lola, which was named after the infamous performer and all-around badass Lola Montez. She lived in Grass Valley from 1853 to 1855 where she performed her scandalous “spider dance” which was supposed to imitate a woman with spiders climbing within her petticoats.

This story is quite a departure from my sweet story of last week, but it was challenging and might be some of my best writing to date. Let me know what you think and thank you to everyone for your continued support.

Here’s my girl and me during her 4th grade trip to Malakoff Diggins. Aren’t we the cutest?

Short Story Challenge | Week 40

Each week the short stories are based on a prompt from the book “Write the Story” by Piccadilly, Inc. This week’s prompt was to write a story where the villain is really the hero. We had to include the words witchcraft, recommend, sand dollar, fisticuff, paprika, eyeball, nightlight, gibberish, infuriating, and dreadful.

Write With Us

Prompt: Tumultuous soulmates are on opposing sides of a conflict
Include: apothecary, bow tie, ladylike, sprocket, mushroom, scrounge, frenzy, match, oust, prisoner

My 52-Week Challenge Journey