Written for the dVerse Prosery Prompt by Amy Woolard: “What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead”
“What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead? What does that even mean, Margie?”
“Oh, Nell. If I have to explain it to you, it loses its gravitas, its pathos, doesn’t it?”
“Gravitas? Pathos? I’m sorry .… when were you named chief cook, bottlewasher and poet laureate?”
Margie gave her friend a dismissive eye roll before turning her back, busying herself with little scraps of paper on her desk.
There was a time the two were like sisters, cherishing a bond they never found with anyone else. Now they barely recognized each other; their conversations were stilted to the point of being painful.
And it all came down to Nicole, a newcomer in their exclusive inner circle …. a renaissance woman and Margie thought she hung the moon.
“I miss us, Margie”
Intense silence. Spoken words were never as wounding.
Written for Weekend Writing Prompt #358 ~ Superscript
Just like something out of the evening news.
Did the attractive young woman, a former nurse and mother of one toddler, actually feed her little boy bleach or was it just a dreadful accident?
How could any jury not believe the clean-faced white woman in the proper skirt and blouse as she tearfully recounted the events of that horrific morning?
But they did believe her and only the most perceptible viewer in the courtroom or the living room caught the slightest cold-blooded superscript curl of her top left lip.
Bill stood at his open closet mumbling and cursing under his breath as he pulled out one pair of pants after the other. He was in a mood that has no definition or perhaps many definitions, none of them good. He was searching for something to wear for the funeral of his twin brother, Jim, who died suddenly on April 2. Had it been anyone else’s funeral, Bill would have just pulled out a suitable pair of pants and a dress shirt, but this was his brother and he said he needed his black suit. He couldn’t find it in the closet and he was getting angry but, of course, the errant suit was not the cause for his consternation. I walked to the closet and spotted the suit immediately. Handing it to Bill, I hugged him and kissed his cheek. As I ironed his shirt I could hear him crying softly. “Why’d you have to go and die, Jim?”
Bill & Jim at their childhood home, City Island, The Bronx, NY circa 1950
My husband encouraged me to write today; I didn’t want to …. I felt like I should sit by his side, hold his hand, cry with him but his tears and his grief have not hit home yet.
One minute he’s walking around the house in a daze, the next he’s playing LEGOs with our 4 year old granddaughter. It’s good for her to be here; she’s keeping him distracted.
You see, my darling husband Bill’s twin brother Jim died today around 12:30pm. His wife Lynne went upstairs to their bedroom and found him on the floor. She tried desperately to breathe life into him but he was gone. Just like that, alive one minute and dead the next.
Losing a sibling is so hard; losing an identical twin is unfathomable. I am Bill’s wife but his twin brother was his other half and I say that with nothing but love in my heart. They shared their mother’s womb, their crib, their playpen, their bedroom, their car. They went to school together, worked in the same marina together for many summers. Bill graduated Iona College first in his class; Jim was second. They even failed the army physical together!
They were on polar opposites of the political page and their taste in women couldn’t have been more different but in every other way, they were as one. Of course they looked the same and talked the same, they had the same laugh, the same sense of humor. They loved watching hockey and going fishing together. Now that will never happen again.
If you look at the last photo on the bottom of the page you’ll see them, two little suntanned towheads sitting side by side fishing with their older brother, dad and grandfather. Now everyone in that boat is gone except for my husband, Bill.
All I’m thinking about right now is what a great time Jim and Lynne had last week. They spent the whole week in North Carolina with their son, his wife and two teenage grandchildren. They texted photos of everyone on the boardwalk, arms around each other, looking incredibly happy.
Bill and Jim. The Twins. The Richy Twins. When people saw one, they saw the other. Now there’s only one and nothing from this moment on will ever be the same.
The smell of old cooking oil reheated too many times stuck in his throat and clung to every inch of the Chinese food takeout joint. He hated being here, his uncomfortable demeanor only making him feel ridiculously out of place. And why were there only two tables in the whole shop when there was clearly room for more. He felt naked, center stage, all eyes on him yet no one paid him any attention.
How the hell did he let himself get roped into this? His granddaughter, a 15 year old package of rebellion and maladjustment, talked him into a dinner out. He didn’t like eating anywhere but at home but he realized in the fourteen years since she was in his care, he’d never taken his granddaughter out to eat, not even for an ice cream.
He wondered if he resented her. In truth it was his daughter, the girl’s mother, he resented for running off like she did and leaving her year old tot with him. What kind of mother does that? One just a kid herself, stuck with an unwanted baby and a desperate need to be a teenager. Well, she took off one night and never came back.
Now, here he sat, waiting for this willful girl who was too much like her mother for her own good to return from the toilet. She’d been in there far too long and he sat staring at his past knowing she’d run off, leaving him alone again.
Allison arrived home to discover, propped up against her front door, a mysterious package addressed to her but with no return address; in these dangerous times, opening a strange package with no identification is a reckless thing to do and Allison isn’t the type to take chances, no matter how curious she was about this unexpected delivery.
Unlocking the front door, Allison gave the package one last glance and went inside but she couldn’t think of anything other than the box on her porch and eventually gave up, heading back out; the more she looked at the box, the more one sticking point nagged at her: the print on the hand-written shipping label looked extremely familiar.
Suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, Allison realized the handwriting was her father’s; a thousand thoughts flew through her mind as she tried to figure out what he could have sent her, finally coming to the conclusion that her dad must have packed away a few items for her which belonged to her late mother .… items of sentimental value …. before he sold the old family house and settled into a senior living facility.
No longer wary, Allison excitedly picked up the package and brought it into the kitchen where she placed it on the counter and with a knife carefully followed the taped-up folds until she was able to open the box; resting atop the packing material was a small envelope with her name on it written in the same handwriting as the shipping label and inside the envelope was a note which read, “Dear Ali, I remember how much you loved these and I wanted you to have them, maybe one day for your own little girl” ~ Love, Dad.
Puzzlement creased Allison’s forehead as she gently pushed away the bubble wrap to discover one of her favorite toys – a miniature playground set complete with working swings, a seesaw, monkey bars, a slide and sandbox; there was even the little family with their pet dog which she had named Tess.
Now all smiles, Allison carried the pieces into the sunroom and placed them on the side table next to her chair near the window; they looked so happy and gay with the sun shining on them and Allison sighed, not at all surprised to feel a tear running down her cheek.
Written for Ronovanwrites Ovi Poetry Challenge 40: Tragedy Ovi Rules: 4-line stanza, 8 syllables or less per line, first 3 lines rhyme,4th line must not rhyme. Additional stanzas keep the same rhyming pattern but do not rhyme each other.
Homeless living on the street Children with no food to eat People crying in defeat We are stuck in a hopeless mess.
Politicians always lying Innocents in war are dying Talk of peace but no one’s trying It all seems so fucking futile.
Playgrounds teeming with poison drugs Computer hackers spreading bugs Protestors being shot with slugs Has every person gone insane?
No clean water left to drink Can you smell that awful stink Our universe is on the brink The tragedies of a mad world.
Ruth looked up from her book and stared at her husband Fred as he fiddled with his iPod; at one time, he knew every little detail about that thing but now the device totally confused him and in frustration Fred cursed as he threw the iPod across the room yelling “Damn thing’s busted!”
Ruth sighed and retrieved the iPod, placing it on the table between their recliners and glanced sadly at Fred who sat in his chair looking straight ahead; Ruth asked herself “Where is my husband of 55 years?” because for her it was like he was gone, replaced by this ‘nowhere man’.
In an attempt to help Fred settle down, Ruth calmly suggested they look at the iPod together after dinner to figure out what was wrong but that only seemed to anger Fred even more and he shouted back at Ruth that he was not a child and she shouldn’t patronize him; when Ruth apologized and told Fred she was going into the kitchen to make dinner, he snapped at her saying it didn’t matter because he wasn’t hungry anyway.
In the kitchen Ruth wept silently; it was like this ever since Fred’s diagnosis of early onset dementia and now they squabbled over everything, especially things he used to do without so much as a second thought, like paying the bills, but these days he got lost walking to the bank on the corner.
Fred used to be very handy but now he couldn’t even set his alarm clock and when Ruth offered to sort out his meds for him, he lashed out saying he could do it himself but he mixed up the dosage and had a terrible reaction leaving him feeling hopeless and helpless.
Fred came into the kitchen and, without being told, went straight to the spot where Ruth stored her cutting boards and knives and started helping her prepare the salad, perfectly chopping vegetables and chatting amiably about a movie his friend Jack thought they might enjoy; the old Fred was back .… at least for the moment.
Yesterday, as I was driving up into the gated parking lot of a medical facility, I was faced with a dilemma: from my position in the driver’s seat, I was unable to reach the OPEN BUTTON. I stretched as far as I could, with no luck. Finally, I opened my door just a bit, reached out and successfully pushed the button. I closed my door, drove through the now open gate and went in search of a parking spot.
I found a spot quickly and, since we were early, my husband and I stayed in the car for a few minutes chatting. When I reached for my purse, my heart sank and I felt sick to my stomach. My purse wasn’t where I always keep it …. tucked into the space between my seat and the driver’s door. I’m sure you see where this is going. Yes, when I opened my car door to push the button which opens the security gate, I didn’t realize my purse had fallen out of the car!
Thank goodness I immediately figured out what happened and Bill took the short walk to the parking lot entrance to make sure my purse was still there. It was gone and when he returned empty handed, I almost pushed the panic button. Just like most women, my life is in my purse. It’s not big but inside was my cell phone, my wallet with my ID, driver’s license, insurance cards, credit cards and cash. My car key, a pen, lip gloss and Advil are also inside the purse. Not a lot of things but very important things. In fact, some are vital.
I tried to stay calm as Bill went into the lobby of the building to check with the security guard at the front desk. Against all odds, he had my purse in a box beneath his desk; nothing was missing. Bill had to sign for it and when he brought my purse back to me in the parking lot, I thought I would cry with relief.
All this transpired in the course of 10 minutes. Incredible good fortune which could have gone south just as easily and I was reminded of the classic line by Blanche DuBois from “Streetcar Named Desire” about the kindness of strangers. Whoever the person was who found my purse and turned it in to the front desk, I thank them with my whole being. They saved my life today and if that sounds like a ridiculous exaggeration, just think about what it would be like piecing everything together and then try not to push the panic button.
Alright, alright, alright! It’s time once again for a Six Sentence Story, this time incorporating the word ‘remote’. Here’s mine, with a few other prompts just for fun.
The reflection of my timeworn face in the bathroom mirror is harrowing, one I still can’t accept is me .… someone who was always strikingly attractive, impeccably dressed with my designer labels neatly tucked away and out of sight; these days I see only one person on a regular basis and he doesn’t give a shit what I look like as long as I have the money to pay him.
There’s that old twitch in my left eye, an unwelcome reminder that a killer headache and nausea are about to overtake me if I don’t eat some Skittles, a much more socially acceptable term than that hushed-up, dirty little name that makes all the so-called ‘well-adjusted’ people cringe as though in the presence of a leper; fucking hypocrites who gleefully suck up their gummies and hemp oil and legalized medical marijuana while sipping on their “superb organic Pouilly-Fiussé”.
My hands are shaking in equal amounts of excitement and desperation as I check out what my guy has delivered today – reds, blues and yellows – a difficult choice, to be sure, but the numerous voices in my head have made a unanimous decision: mellow yellow to match my jaundiced skintone and disposition; yes, I’ve read the headlinesand the fine print warnings – I’m not an idiot, you know, and that makes me laugh out loud!
Let’s see what’s in the magician’s box to fix this sallow complexion …. spackle-like primer to fill in the yawning crevices around my mouth, foundation with a bit of a dewy finish (or so the advertisements promise), creamy rosy blush for my cheeks, glossy brush-on plumper for luscious lips, pencil to fill in my threadbare brows, glittery highlighter to lessen the deep-set appearance of my eyes and layer upon layer of mascara on my straggly lashes.
Looking at my reflection once again, I see that I’m now back .… returned from the dead, if you will …. and I look sensational, provocative and sensual with just the right touch of promiscuousness, yet there are two burned-out, remote eyes blankly staring back at me.
I slip into my work clothes, ready for another night hitting the pavement, when I feel that familiar sensation and I’m faced with the recurring stalemate – whether I should just take all the pretty candy, lie down and pray I never wake up or put myself back on the meat market to earn enough money for another bag of Skittles; “Fuck it, I’m already dressed” I think as I pop a red and slam the door behind me.
Our host Björn at dVerse Poets has asked us to write no more than 144 words, incorporating the highlighted line from Tomas Tranströmer’s poem “After Someone’s Death.”
The night of my husband’s funeral was the loneliest point in my life. After everyone went home, I was totally alone in the house I shared with Ned for 12 years. I don’t ever remember the house being so cold and quiet. Moonlight engulfed our bedroom yet emptiness was all around. I sat on Ned’s side of the bed and ran my hands over his pillow. It was shockingly cold and my mind drifted back to this morning in Arlington. Row upon row of neat marble headstones, Ned’s fallen brothers in arms, all the names swallowed up by the cold. Hugging his pillow tightly, I cried for the first time in three days. There was a gaping hole in my heart, in my life, and I knew I would never be the same. I don’t ever remember the house being so cold and quiet.
Jenne, our delightful host at The Unicorn Challenge, has once again asked us to write something creative in no more than 250 words based on how the photo below inspires us. This is my response.
The pathway to my future seemed incredibly long and I could easily imagine myself escaping down a side aisle. What kind of thought was that for a bride on her wedding day?
“Well, we got lucky, sweetheart; the rain held off. Emme, are you ready? The musicians are waiting for my signal.”
I turned to face my father. “Daddy” was all I managed to eke out before the tears started. I hadn’t called my father Daddy in years.
Dad motioned for the music to keep playing and magically produced a handkerchief. “What’s going on, kiddo?”
“This doesn’t feel right, Dad. I’m about to marry Gregory because of a promise I made to Mom.”
“Emme, if you want to back out, I’ll stand by whatever decision you make. But it’s best for everyone if you do it now, not after you’re married.”
“But you spent so much money to make this day perfect.”
Dad put his hands on my shoulders. “Damn the money and damn the promises. All I want is for you to be happy. If you think this is a mistake, say the word. My car is parked right outside.”
“What about Gregory?” I asked biting my bottom lip.
“I’ll talk to him privately, Emme. Don’t worry about that.”
I looked at my father and quickly nodded. He reached into his pocket and handed me the keys to his car.
“Go on now. I have some explaining to do.”He kissed my cheek and took off down the path.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has once again challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story using the prompt word “nail”. This is my story.
When I first saw him I thought I was hallucinating (was this a real person or a fear-induced illusion?) and I knew I had to remain perfectly still and quiet – my very life depended on it.
I had no idea how long I’d been there – certainly long enough for my skin to have turned red, my mouth parched, my lips cracked and I remember being stung and bitten by insects and digging my nailsinto the palms of my hands to keep from crying out, but I recall now … we were picking flowers and berries in a sun-filled field … we had been following a stream and unknowingly wandered far from home when I caught sight of a bush hidden deep in a shady area; the plant was heavy with ripe blackberries and I couldn’t resist running to the bush, happily filling my bucket with the deep purple fruit.
I was busy plucking berries when I heard screams – not the usual giddy, playful squeals of young girls but awful shrieks of terror and I started to run back only to see my three sisters encircled by a group of Indians, hulking and menacing men, blocking the girl’s attempts to flee; they wore breechcloths across their midsection, moccasins and no shirts, their faces painted and their heads shaved except for a center strip of upright long hair and I knew immediately they were the dreaded Mohawk.
They tugged the girl’s long blonde hair, poked them with sticks and tore at their starched white dresses.
I wanted to shout out but was too afraid and I hid while my sweet little sisters were raped and raped and raped.
At 15, I was the eldest and I was supposed to protect them; how could I be such a coward?
Rochelle, our gracious host at Friday Fictioneers, has challenged us to write a story of 100 words or less, using the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Photo Copyright Alicia Jamtaas
Too many arguments, too many years of spiteful words. She’d had enough.
He walked into their bedroom where she was packing. “How can you do this, like it was nothing?”
“Like it was nothing? Do you really think this is easy, like tossing out yesterday’s leftovers?”
“Twenty-three years, Beth. You can’t throw that away.”
“Would you just let it be, Sam, and go to work.”
“I’ll see you when I get home, Beth.”
“Oblivious” she murmured.
Of course she was gone when he returned. Nothing left but remains of the day.
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge is asking us to write a Six Sentence Story using the word “pass”. This is my six sentence story.
The house is quiet tonight ….eerily quiet …. for all the lights are off and only the glow of candles shines dimly through the curtained windows, performing a ballet of shadows on the walls and ceiling; every so often a door softly opens, barely perceptible murmurings are audible, then the door gently closes as intermittent muted sobbing creeps up from the parlor.
I sit on my bed huddled under a blanket, a tiny flashlight flickering a pale yellow beam on my diary as I jot down my memories of the day; I must be quiet because my mother will be very upset with me if she discovers I’m still awake at this late hour.
My window is open just enough to let in some fresh air and the distinct smell of cigarette smoke wafts up into my room; I peek out to see my mother’s uncles sitting on the back steps silently smoking their unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes, their black armbands starkly visible against their plain starched white shirts.
I tip-toe across the length of my bedroom, praying the old wooden floorboards beneath the well-worn rug will not creak and ever so slowly I turn the glass doorknob; the hallway is dark but I can detect a muted light downstairs and I scurry nearer to the staircase railing for a better look as I sit there hugging my knees asking myself if I should creep downstairs and take a peek.
A few hours earlier the ambience of the house was much different, still subdued but active as delivery men came and went and acquaintances passed through the hallway into the parlor to pay their respects while my mother and the other women labored in the kitchen like mute worker bees, preparing trays of food for the constant flow of visitors, and my father, along with my uncles, positioned the many floral arrangements throughout the parlor; we children sat quietly on the two enormous matching sofas along the side walls, eyes downcast, confused and uncharacteristically subdued, occasionally glancing toward the walnut casket resting atop a platform in the center of the room and quickly look away.
Around 6:00 we were quietly whisked away into the dining room where we silently ate our supper, then returned to the parlor to continue our vigil; it had been a long and sorrowful day, the longest day in our young lives, for the family matriarch, my great-grandmother had died.
This is Enrico Caruso singing “Mamma mia, che vo’sapé” (“My mother, what did you know?”)
This recording was made in September 1920, less than a year before Caruso’s death. His health was failing and the recording equipment was, by our standards, primitive. Despite all that, the power and beauty of his voice remain unmatched.
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt has challenged us to write creatively in exactly 60 words, incorporating the word ‘vapid’. Using a few other prompt words, here is my 60-word response in the form of a Dectina Refrain and a Haiku Duet.
Old man with vapid thoughts and empty eyes lives in denial; puppeteers pulling strings feeding hypnotic untruths into flaccid, desolate brain on the outskirts of insanity. Old man with vapid thoughts and empty eyes
Gray, grayer smoke above the clouds in the sky no light shining brightly
Brown dying trees dried leaves lay at the roots no buds tacitly emerging
Dectina Refrain: This refrain is written as follows: 1st line – 1 syllable, 2nd line – 2 syllables 3rd line – 3 syllables, and so on for 9 lines; the 10th line is comprised of the first four lines as one stand-alone line.
As a former children’s choir director, I often rewrote the lyrics to favorite songs.
My days as a lyricist ended after being chastised by a pastor who accused me of ‘lacking imagination’ by using the same melody and ‘simplychanging the words‘.
Dectina Refrain: This refrain is written as follows: 1st line – 1 syllable, 2nd line – 2 syllables 3rd line – 3 syllables, and so on for 9 lines; the 10th line is comprised of the first four lines as one stand-alone line.
Don’t Worry About me I’ll be just fine Better without you Don’t write me an email Don’t send me anymore texts I don’t want you hanging around Take your toothbrush out of my bathroom Don’t worry about me I’ll be just fine
Three years ago my darling Nina, my life-force, my soulmate, was killed in a ghastly accident while riding her bicycle to the library. I’d offered her a lift but she declined; Nina hated my motorcycle, calling it a deathtrap.
I remember the call, the ambulance and police, the excruciatingly long ride to the hospital, the lonely wait in the eerily quiet emergency room, the surgeon’s voice .… his words that torment me day after day after day. My wife is dead, our all-too-short marriage erased.
I am lost, blindly wandering Gehenna. I shut myself off from everything. Well-meaning friends brought Nina’s bicycle to the studio where she taught ballet. I heard it’s a lovely memorial but I can’t bring myself to go by.
It’s time for me to leave, escape the painful memories and the desperation. Our friends stopped calling long ago and there’s nothing left to do. It’s time for me to go.
I remove my wedding band and place it on the dresser next to my phone and wallet.
“Will my motorcycle start up?” I wonder “Or has it died, too?” I grab my helmet and walk to the garage. My bike stands in the corner, covered by a tarp now buried under three years of regret and bitterness. I strap on my gloves, open the garage door and climb on my bike.
It is pouring rain; I have no idea where I am going. It doesn’t matter; I’ve stopped caring. Now I need to stop the heartache.
Hard to imagine life without her. When the hell did everything start to unravel?
He sat alone in the shell of their apartment nursing his second Dewars. Once upon a time this place was alive with people enjoying one of their famous dinner parties. He could hear the sound of her spirited laugh when someone told a dirty joke.
They were the perfect couple, the envy of all their friends. Theirs was an easy, comfortable marriage. They were in sync in their choices of restaurants, paint colors and the biggest decision of all .… neither one wanted kids.
“Good morning, Sunshine! Did you notice the wildflowers? It’s like they sprang up overnight. It’s awfully stuffy in here, don’t you think, Charlie? I’ll open the window a crack for some air if you promise to behave. One little yell from you and I’ll be forced to put your gag back in. Do you want that, Charlie? Ah, that’s a lovely breeze, isn’t it. Oh, now Charlie! You really shouldn’t have hollered like that! Just when I was gonna untie you. Why can’t you follow orders? That makes me angry. You remember what happens when I’m angry, don’t you, Charlie?”
Sammi at Weekend Writing Prompt is challenging us with the word “note”; in exactly 72 words, this is my response. 🍸
After thirty minutes and two martinis I began feeling paranoid. It was painfully obvious, at least to me, that everyone who saw me sitting by the bar thought I was either an elegant call girl just past her prime or a lonesome, tedious housewife who had been stood up.
I became aware of someone approaching. I looked up expectantly, smiling; it was just the concierge. Whispering discreetly, he handed me a note.
Lisa is serving as host for today’s dVerse Prosery prompt. We are to write a piece of up to 144 words and include the line “But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face”. This is my response for Lisa’s dVerse Prosery prompt.
We were living in Tennessee with my Aunt Luella and Uncle Boz after my mam and pap were killed in the South Carrollton, Kentucky train wreck of 1917. Just five days before Christmas and our family was torn apart. My mam and Aunt Luella were sisters; mam’s death nearly destroyed Auntie.
Back in January we all had such high hopes for 1917. My cousin Henry, Aunt Luella and Uncle Boz’s firstborn, was set to graduate high school in June, the first one in the family with that distinction. Aunt Luella was so proud of Henry, she couldn’t help smiling thinking of Henry’s bright future.
But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face.
Henry enlisted in the army one month before graduation. He died in the Battle of Cambrai on Thanksgiving Day.
When Ekon and Mosi awoke they were not in the same place as the night before. They were in a higher elevation; it was colder and there were traces of snow. They were laying in a rudimentary tent, comfortably covered in blankets with a small fire nearby. Shiga happily munched on a shrub to which she had been tethered. Besides the change of location, there was a much more obvious and puzzling difference in father and son: both had aged approximately five years. Mosi looked to be about 25 years old and Ekon’s hair and beard were now as grey as the mountain sky.
A group of strange-looking men emerged from the woods and started walking in their direction; immediately Ekon patted his chest, feeling for the vial in his wrap, and was relieved to find it where he always kept it; he placed one drop on the tip of his tongue. The leader of the group, who looked like nothing more than a dead tree branch, spoke in a senescent voice, explaining that two of his people, while out hunting, had found Ekon, Mosi and Shiga unconscious near the brook and brought them back to a safe clearing just outside their village. The brook had been poisoned years ago after a mysterious storm and the tainted waters resulted in a deep, years-long sleep for anyone who drank; there was no antidote that they knew of.
These men were the last of the Twigorian order of monks; they were learned men, wise in the ways of the universe, science and nature. They lived among the members of the ancient San tribe as leaders and teachers. The chief monk assured Ekon and Mosi they were in no danger. When Ekon answered in San, the monks were surprised but quickly discerned that Ekon possessed the power of the Jal’mboor. After the men had talked for a while, a few San women approached; they asked Ekon and Mosi to follow them into the village where they would be able to wash, don clean clothes and eat. Mosi immediately caught the eye of a beautiful young woman called Tayla and they exchanged smiles.
Ekon and Mosi listened as the San people explained their ways. They knew how to preserve food in such a way that it could be dried to last a long time and reduced to a compact size for easy transport and storage. They developed a shield of invisibility which allowed them to disappear at the first sign of danger, thus avoiding any conflict, violence or harm to themselves or their land. They were philosophers and great thinkers but lacked basic skills such as tool-making and construction. Their homes were straw huts and tents in a great state of disrepair and their boats were rotting; everything was falling apart.
Mosi and Ekon told the San people of their quest to reach the top of the Sky Mountain Pines. Many had tried but very few succeeded. It was a treacherous journey but the San promised to help if Ekon and Mosi did something in return: teach them to make tools to build homes, boats and proper implements for hunting, fishing and farming. The pair agreed and spent the next two years working with the San people. During that time Mosi and Tayla fell in love and he promised to return to her after they reached the summit.
The San warned Ekon and Mosi about the Sanguine Precipice, the Gralapthian Dragon Den and the bloodthirsty gorillas known as the Ikorana Buhangi. The monks gave Mosi and Ekon a map to help them safely pass the precipice. In addition, the monks presented them with the invisibility shield to evade the monstrous beasts along their way. Their promise and mission now complete, Ekon and his son prepared to leave the San people the following morning.
Shiga was loaded down with new flasks containing safe, clean water, sacks of food, blankets and the invisibility shield. Bidding Tayla farewell, Mosi and Ekon followed the monks until they were safely on the other side of the poisoned brook. At the last minute, Mosi fetched a dozen old water skins and filled them with tainted water. Now they were truly on their own, prepared but anxious. The higher they climbed the colder it became and they blessed the San women for the warm clothing they now wore.
The pair hiked for days, sometimes not uttering a single word. In one terrifying second, their silence was shattered by horrific screeches and savage bellows. They knew they reached the first deadly threat: the Gralapthian Dragons. The sound of enormous flapping wings filled the sky and father and son covered their ears from the deafening noise. Mosi grabbed the invisibility shield just before catching a glimpse of the nightmarish creatures; he quickly covered himself, Ekon and Shiga, gently stroking the terrified mule’s nose to keep her quiet. The Gralapthian hovered over them, sniffing the air with gargantuan nostrils. Mosi gripped the shield tightly to keep it from flying off in the great gush of wind caused by the dragon’s wings.
The Gralapthian angrily flew away only to return moments later, obviously in the hope of catching their prey unawares. Again Mosi almost lost control of the shield. The Gralapthian spewed fire in different directions and spittle like molten lava rained down but Mosi, Ekon and Shiga stayed put undercover and the dragons missed their mark. Disgruntled, the Gralapthian flew off beyond the high pines. Mosi and Ekon remained where they were until they were sure all was safe. When they felt the time was right, they carefully retracted the shield and secured it onto Shiga’s back. The shield had served them well and once again they silently thanked the monks.
At first Ekon kept a journal of the passing days and nights but eventually lost count. They walked for what seemed an eternity and Mosi questioned himself a thousand times over if this was only a fool’s quest. Lost in their thoughts, Ekon and Mosi were surprised when they came to a divide in the path. Unsure which direction to go, they consulted the San map but it was of no help. Not knowing which way to turn, they finally settled on one of the paths; it proved to be the wrong choice.
Rounding a bend they found themselves face to face with the much-feared kings of the mountain – the Ikorana Buhangi Gorillas. They were hideous beasts, a mutation of a gorilla and a rhinoceros. Ekon froze as the monstrous creatures slowly came closer, snorting loudly, beating their breasts and baring massive teeth. Mosi thought quickly and placed a drop of the Jal’mboor potion on the tip of his tongue.
To the bewilderment of the gorillas Mosi began speaking in fluent Buhangarian: “We are travelers. We seek no trouble. All we wish is to pass by safely.”
The largest of the gorillas growled: “How is it you can speak to us, human?”
“We are magicians. We can offer you whatever you desire. What is your greatest wish?” Mosi asked, covering his fear.
“To rip your body to pieces and eat you!” shouted the Ikorana Buhangi.
“But you can do that any time. Surely there is something you desire above all other things” countered Mosi. “I repeat – what is your greatest wish?”
“ABSOLUTE POWER!” roared the beasts. “RULERS THE UNIVERSE!”
“If that is indeed your greatest wish, I can instantly grant it. It’s as easy as drinking the mystical waters in these skins” and Mosi tossed the twelve old water skins to the gorillas. They greedily swallowed every last drop the tainted brook water and were poisoned before they hit the ground. The earth under their feet shook from the tremendous weight of the gorillas but Mosi and Ekon were safe.
Elated with their quick thinking and great success over the Ikorana Buhangi, Ekon and Mosi quickened their pace as they moved on. Their relief was short lived, however, when they reached the Sanguine Precipice. Never before had they seen such a narrow path or so steep a cliff. Mosi checked the San map and saw a widening in the path about four feet ahead. Crossing that short but deadly span would mean victory or defeat, life or death. They could not make one false move. Mosi believed he and his father could do it but he wasn’t sure about Shiga. The men decided to lighten Shiga’s load by dividing it among themselves. She stood a better chance without the extra weight. Slow as snails they placed one foot before the other, Mosi leading Shiga and Ekon gently pushing her rear.
Just as they reached the safety of the clearing, Shiga lost her footing and landed full force on top of Ekon who howled in agony. Working quickly, Mosi uprighted Shiga and tied her to a tree, then he returned for Ekon. As soon as he tried to lift his father, Ekon screamed and fainted; Mosi immediately knew his father’s back was broken. Mosi gently carried Ekon and laid him in the shade of the Sky Mountain Pines; it was only then that he realized they had made it to the summit. His quest was complete but at what cost?
Slowly, Ekon opened his eyes and whispered “We made it, my son!” Then quietly he exhaled and died. Mosi cried out in grief and Shiga softly brayed where she stood, still tied to a tree. Mosi buried his father on the summit of the Sky Mountain Pines, laying his trusty spear across the grave. Snow began to lightly fall as Mosi packed his belongings and secured them onto Shiga’s back. Now, knowing the safe route, Mosi and Shiga began their trek back to Tayla and home to the Sangala Valley. They left the summit without looking back.
Leyland spoke softly as he comforted his weeping wife, Willow.
“Hush, darling. Another season has come and gone and I’m still here to protect you and the children. I realize I had a couple of close calls but so far, so good. I never thought I’d say this but I’m thankful for my disfigurement; it’s kept me from being selected and close to you.”
Willow sighed. “I feel terribly guilty. There’s no chance I will ever be chosen and I fear for our friends and family.”
“I know, darling. I’ll check on Douglas today. Pray the family is all safe.”
Author’s Note: Leyland and Douglas are very popular evergreens sold as Christmas trees. One of the saddest things is seeing all the dead and forgotten Christmas trees discarded by the curb after the season. Next time you go looking for a Christmas tree, consider buying one with its root ball intact instead of one that’s been chopped down; you can replant it in your yard or place it in a pot. Your tree gave you so much joy during the holidays; why not give it a chance to keep living?And BTW, artificial doesn’t need to have a negative connotation!
Out of the blue the call arrived. It was late and I was beyond tired after a day of Christmas shopping and decorating. We were tempted to let it go straight to voice mail, but Gary thought it might be important.
“Gary? Hi, it’s Alice from the adoption agency. I hope you and Carol are sitting down! We have a baby for you! Can you come by in the morning to talk?”
Gary stood up; his face registered shock. “What? My God! Are you sure?” Completely convinced that something terrible had happened, I grabbed the phone from Gary. “This is Carol Wheeler. Who’s this, please?”
It was not bad news …. just the opposite. It was elating, magical, top-of-the-world, The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year news!
A baby in need of a home! A baby for us to love!!
“Yes!! We’ll be there! Oh, Alice. I’m so happy! Thank you so much!” I was rambling.
Dumbstruck, we stood there …. then pandemonium broke loose. Laughing, crying, hugging, kissing, dancing, tossing tinsel around the room like crazy people. Anytime would have been amazing but for this to be happening during the holiday season was wondrous!
We didn’t think …. or even care …. to ask “boy, girl, age, etc., etc.”? After eight years of trying to get pregnant and faced with disappointment each time, an incredibly strong and loving stranger was presenting us with the most precious gift imaginable.
“Gary, do you realize in a few days we will be a family of three?” I asked breathlessly.
IN A FEW DAYS!!
All tiredness forgotten, we raced to the attic for the plastic bins of assorted baby items. There in the corner stood the bassinet; it seemed to glow in the darkness. I believe at that moment I heard angels singing. We reverently carried it down to our room. I leaned into Gary, overcome with elated exhaustion.
And then the phone rang a second time. We stared at it, afraid to answer, sure it was Alice calling to say the baby’s mom had changed her mind, there would be no happy family for us.
I reached for the phone and wearily, warily said “This is Carol.”
“Carol, it’s Alice again. Sorry to bother you and Gary but there’s been a development.”
I closed my eyes waiting for the words I didn’t want to hear. Not now, not at Christmastime. Alice continued talking and I felt my knees growing weak.
Stunned, crying, all I could manage was a hushed “Oh, Alice! Are you absolutely sure? How could this be happening? Yes. Yes, I understand.”
I hung up the phone without even saying goodbye. I was already crying when I turned to face Gary. He held me close and whispered “Shh. It’s ok, honey. Everything will be ok. Another baby is out there waiting for us. It’s just a matter of time.”
On tiptoes, I reached up to give my darling husband a little kiss. I murmured “I love you”, my mouth just brushing his. I looked into his eyes and spoke, my voice breaking.
“Oh, Gary. There was a mix up at the hospital and Alice was given the wrong information.”
Gary started to speak but I gently placed my fingers on his lips to quiet him. I continued.
“Alice called just now to ask how we feel about adopting twins.”
I’m quite sure neither of us was breathing at that moment. Gary’s eyes grew wide as the realization sunk in and I let out a little laugh. Gary put up two fingers and mouthed the word “Two”. I nodded and replied “Two. Twin girls”.
We fell to the couch, a huddle of tears and laughter and hugs. Then I heard my love’s voice next to my ear: “I told you another baby was out there waiting for us!”
It’s Six Sentence Story time with Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge. Yeah, it is.
“Other” is a word that rhymes with mother, which also happens to rhyme with smother, which begs the question: “Am I a dreadful person for wanting to smother my mother ?”
Mother wasn’t a bad person; there was no physical abuse – just a major lack of tenderness which can leave greater, more permanent scars …. a perfectionist who found it very difficult to show warmth or affection, even to her children; I don’t remember her saying “I love you”, tickling me till I squealed or reading bedtime stories; what I do remember is proudly showing her a drawing I made in school with the inscription “Skyscrapers scrape the sky while butterflies flutter by”…. something my teacher called “highly imaginative and showing great vision” but mother said it was foolishness because butterflies can’t fly that high.
As a teenager I was forbidden to shave my legs but did anyway and not wanting my secret revealed, I wore jeans all the time, even to the beach in the middle of summer which also covered-up the fact that I used a self-tanner which turned my skin orange; mother watched as I scrubbed myself raw in the tub using a mixture of water and bleach – a humiliating experience – but it was at that time she discovered my shaved legs, causing her to explode like a slow gas leak and, of course, I was grounded but it was worth it.
Many days after arriving home from school I would find the contents of my dresser drawers dumped on my bed, simply because mother didn’t approve of how my clothes were folded; if I wanted to sleep that night, I’d have to put all my things away (or push them to the floor, which I often did) and I’d get hell the next day but it was a trip seeing her bulging veins and bugged-out eyes.
Years later when I had kids, mother would pop in unannounced and examine my house like the “White-Glove Lady” checking for dust; if my oven didn’t meet her standards, she would clean it (which, now that I have 20/20 hindsight, was a blessing in disguise because I ended up with a clean oven) and then she would depart as quickly as she arrived, leaving me with a spotless house but never once sitting down for coffee and a piece of pie or stopping to play with my children.
Lately I’ve been having a recurring dream about smothering mother with a pillow and when I wake up, I’m smiling; I guess my earlier question bears repeating: “Does that make me a dreadful person?”
Today she would find out if her entire life was a lie.
“Where to, Mrs. Carmichael? Shall I call for your car?” asked her ever-attentive doorman, Harold.
“Not today, thank you. Just walking up to Brooks Brothers to buy an anniversary present for my husband. It’s our 15th.” She remembered she also needed to make astop at her psychologist’s office.
“Congratulations, Mrs. C! You have yourself a nice day.”
Claire Carmichael smiled at Harold and walked the short distance to her therapist’s office on Earl Street. Ringing Dr. Brink’s doorbell, she waited for his ubiquitous snobbish greeting of “Enter!”
“Welcome, Claire. Last time you were here we discussed your suspicions that Jeremy was having an affair. Why don’t we pick up from there?” he suggested.
Clearing her throat and adjusting her skirt, she began. “I’m no longer convinced Jeremy’s cheating on me. I’m not saying that he’s never had affairs but something is different. Things have changed between us. They’re better. Jeremy’s calmer, more attentive, grounded. He’s home every night by 6:00 and we enjoy our weekends together. No more overnight, out-of-town business trips and I’m actually happy for the first time in years.”
“Interesting” Dr. Brink acknowledged. “And to what do you attribute this change in Jeremy’s character?”
“We had a long talk the other night and it wasn’t easy for Jeremy. He confided in me that he’s been having panic attacks for quite some time. He finally started seeing a psychiatrist who’s helping him tremendously. He’s on medication and takes an early lunch twice a week to see his doctor.”
“And you believe him?”
“I do” Claire replied, uncomfortable with her therapist’s skepticism. And she did believe Jeremy; his explanation was credible and heartfelt.
“Did Jeremy happen to mention his psychiatrist’s name?”
Feeling rather nonplussed she replied “No, he didn’t and I didn’t ask. That would be prying – information I didn’t need to know. Now I really must get going. It’s our wedding anniversary and I have errands to run.”
“Good luck, Claire. Ever vigilant!” he called after her.
When Claire stepped outside there was a chill in the air; the sky was mottled and gray. That session unnerved her and she lingered for a while smoking a cigarette wondering what Dr. Brink meant when he said “Ever vigilant.” Muttering “shrinks!”, she wrapped her coat tightly around herself and quickly walked to Brooks Brothers. She chose a pair of monogrammed cuff links; they were elegant and ridiculously expensive but Claire wanted Jeremy to know how proud she was of him.
Leaving the store Claire decided to go across the street to their favorite French restaurant and arrange for a special anniversary dinner to be delivered to their apartment. Looking up Claire’s heart skipped a beat and she felt dizzy.
Exiting the restaurant was Jeremy, his arm around a captivating young woman. They were laughing, embracing and kissing as they walked.
Stunned, Claire threw the box from Brooks Brothers into a trash can and hailed a taxi.
“Where to, your highness?” The driver was uncouth with a big mouth, both physically and metaphorically. He chomped noisily on a cigar and Claire could smell his disgusting breath from the back seat. But he probably never cheated on his wife, she thought, acrid bitterness stinging the back of her throat.
“Just drive” was all she said; the cabbie smiled greedily as he flipped the meter.
Monastic specters floated seamlessly between the leafless trees of the old forgotten cemetery. Round-eyed owls hooted from crooked branches while huge black crows swooped in and perched on weathered headstones. Sensing their imminent demise, the blind field mice scurried to and fro, frantically searching for safety. Alas, not fast enough for that one pathetic rodent chasing his own tail. The crow snatched him up and carried him off into the darkness. The weak and small have no rights in this most dreaded of places.
It wasn’t always this mist-enshrouded, wind-swept graveyard; many years ago the cemetery was a pastoral spot surrounded by blossoming trees and shrubs. It was lovely and visitors would come by frequently to pay their respects and linger for a while on a nearby bench.
High on a hill above the cemetery stood the Olde Dutch Church. The property was expansive with an outstanding view of the Hudson River. The focal point of the church was the belfry with its majestic wrought iron weather vane that could be seen for miles.
One parched and squally night in late October while parishioners were awaiting services for the feast of All Hallows’ Eve, a giant thunderclap boomed, followed by an enormous lightning bolt which struck the weather vane. The glowing gas particles coursed their way down to the belfry, instantly setting it on fire. Within moments the entire church was engulfed in flames, imprisoning all inside. Horrified townsfolk who were still outside tried valiantly to save their friends, to no avail. The church had become an inferno.
The wind blew sparks into the cemetery, setting the wizened trees ablaze. The smoke was black, the air thick with an acrid stench. Those outside the church fell to their knees crying pitifully, covering their ears to block out the agonizing screams of the tortured. Finally, after what seemed an eternity in Gehenna, the screams became pathetic whimpers, then stopped completely and an eerie silence followed.
Just then what was left of the church came crashing down, leaving nothing but a mountain of ashes and the grotesque, twisted remains of the once glorious weather vane.
Forty-seven souls perished that ghastly night. Nothing that resembled a body was found, nothing was left to be buried and the church was never rebuilt. Eventually people stopped coming to the cemetery. The only denizens there now are the unremembered interred along with the owls, the crows, the blind field mice and forty-seven specters seeking final rest.
The haunted wind is eerily unsettling this Halloween night, my friends …. or is it the wind?
The Elephant's Trunk 