Friday, May 10, 2019

Frontier's Edge

Prompt: Cut Throat | Word Count: 750 words Exactly | Genre: Historical Fiction 
Due 4/24

Frontier’s edge by Peggy Rockey
Mary Frary can see her breath, ghost-like exhalations that hover in the frosty air. It gives her something to focus on, something normal and sane to counter the unspeakable carnage that has come to her village. She pulls her elbows close to her chest, rubbing hands against goose-fleshed arms, generating brittle warmth against the biting, bone chilling wind.
She's dressed only in a long woolen gown, linen shift, and petticoats, sorely wishes for cape and hood. Mary is a woman to count her blessings, though, even in the direst of circumstances, and she thanks God her captors allowed her time to dress at all, before forcing her from her home into the middle of this freezing February dawn.
Inhuman cries of attacking Indians ululate across the town. Loud, rapid gun fire breaks out, along with incomprehensible commands shouted in French. A few of the homes at the north end of town have been set afire. The awful stench of burning flesh carries in the wind. Mary is too far away to hear screaming, and can only pray these neighbors were dead before flames consumed them.
The nightmare has come again. Indian’s are raiding Deerfield. The first time had been in 1675, back when she was thirty-three, seven months pregnant with three young children to care for, and an idealistic husband who had thought to settle out here on the edge of the Massachusetts frontier. They had evacuated Deerfield then, but had come back eight years later. Now she’s a sixty-two year old matron, and this is the fourth time she’s relived this nightmare.
She wants to be furious with her husband. To rant and rail at him for insisting on returning to this God forsaken place; where six year old Johnny was killed in the raid of ’75, their home and all their belongings burnt to the ground. Where son in law, Hezekiah, was struck down in the raid of ’90; their daughter, Hitte, in ’98.
But Mary finds it impossible to be angry at the man when she’s just seen his head split apart by a tomahawk. The same Indian ordered her to dress, allowed her to don shoes, while Mary tried to convince her granddaughter to cooperate as well.
Mercy would not be consoled into cooperation, though, and the Indian cut her throat in a single, savage motion. Scalped her in the next. Mercy’s long, thick braid dangles on a belt at his waist. Her blood is spattered on Mary’s gown and shoes.
Bile tingles the back of her throat, her chest is tight with the denied need to scream.
Mary is prodded mercilessly towards a large group of people, neighbors and townsfolk, all as stunned as she, and shocked into obedience. French soldiers in red and blue uniforms herd them towards the river.
The sun crests the horizon as they pass the cemetery. How the sun can shine when her world has plunged into such deep darkness, she can’t fathom. The glare is bright. Her pain brighter. She’s blinded by tears that fall in silent rivulets down her cheeks. Who will bury Samson? God, how will she live without him? Forty-four years they’ve been married. She loves him more than life itself. Even when he’d brought her out here to the frontier’s edge, where life is hard and loss is great, still they’d had each other and who needed more than that? He had lit up her world as the sun now lit up these snow-covered headstones.
Grief strikes her like a blow and she stumbles and falls. Mary almost welcomes the pain when she is grabbed from behind, pulled to her feet by her braid. She expects to be killed, like Mercy; instead she is pushed and prodded with the rest of the captives, guarded by numerous war-painted Indians and a full contingent of French soldiers.
A murmuring buzz teases Mary’s ears, sounds of crying, of whispered prayers and muted curses, of shuffling footsteps on frozen dirt and then on frozen ice as they cross the river. She pieces together the whispers enough to understand they have begun a long, forced march through the wilderness to Montreal, Canada.
She closes her eyes to the atrocities that continue around her, thinking instead of her two remaining children and her grandchildren, thankful they moved away from Deerfield in ’99, to be spared this violence. Mary Frary focuses on the ghost-like exhalations of her breath, suddenly bone weary and heartsick. She dearly prays she does not survive this trek.


Moondance by Peggy Rockey
Challenge Prompt: Tag | Word Count: 2500 words exactly | Genre: YA Romance
Due Date: 3/27/2019
It was almost nine by the time John pulled into the parking lot at the Blodgett Canyon picnic area. The lot was packed; he circled around twice before a car pulled out and he was able to park.  
“Nice ride,” said a guy parked next to him as John got out of his new ‘78 Ford Bronco; a graduation gift from his Dad.
“Yeah, thanks! She rides like a charm.”
“I’m sure. Not like ol’ Betsy here,” the guy slapped the side of his beat up ‘65 GMC pickup, “but she gets me where I’m going.”
John noticed the sleeping bag in the bed of the truck. “And a place to sleep, I see.”
The guy took a large gulp of beer. “Oh yeah; have bed will travel. Chick’s dig that!”
“I’m John Nelson, by the way,” he extended his hand, not recognizing the guy from high-school.
“Brad Peterson,” said the other. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?”
“I guess you could say that. I moved here with my Dad right after Christmas. It’s a damn sight colder in Montana in winter than it is in California, that’s for sure!”
“California? Dude! Are you a surfer?”
John groaned and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it amused him or pissed him off when people made generalities like that; why did everyone assume that all Californians were surfers?
Music, laughter, and loud, drunken conversations could be heard coming through the trees.
“I thought this was supposed to be a small party, but from the full parking lot and the dull roar I’m hearing, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
“Yeah! I think half’a Hamilton showed up tonight. You know how it is, you tell five people an’ they tell five people, an’ the next thing you know…”
“Half of Hamilton shows up. I get it. Guess I’ll go check it out.”
 It was late June, and dusk was falling as John made his way through the trees to the picnic area. It wouldn’t be full dark until well after ten. 
A red pickup truck with overhead lights, and speakers blaring the latest rock music, formed the focal point of the party. People were shuffling around two kegs of beer; couples were dancing in the spotlight. Picnic tables were spread around the area and John guessed there might be close to a hundred people there.
He recognized a few guys from the basketball team, lighting a fire in one of the camp rings.  It was still fairly warm, but the temp would drop sharply in an hour or two. The scent of pine needles and pot smoke hung in the air, competing with the smell of spilt beer and teenaged hormones.
He wasn’t sure why he’d come. He rarely drank and he hadn’t made that many friends since moving here. In a town as small as Hamilton, though, it seemed everybody knew him. A line from the song New Kid in Town played in his head; the Eagles could have written the song specifically about him.  
… Everybody's talking 'bout the new kid in town.
Looking around, he picked out the Vail kids a short distance away. They’d come from California too, he’d heard; and before he arrived, they had been the last New Kids in Town. 
They were clustered around a fire with some friends, the two older brothers drinking beer and passing a joint between them. The younger brother was making eyes at a pretty girl nearby. The sister was standing apart, her body moving to the music. She had a far-away dreamy look on her face, as though she’d tuned out her surroundings and was simply grooving to the music.
He’d had his eye on this girl for a few months now, ever since she started keeping score at the basketball games. If he was honest with himself, she was the only reason he had come to the party tonight. And not because of the rumors he’d heard about her, that she was easy and would have sex with anyone who asked.
She wasn’t beautiful, but John thought her striking, with her hourglass figure, long blonde curls and tanned olive skin. She reminded him of Farrah Fawcett from Charlie’s Angels.
She was so different from the other girls he knew from school, most of whom were here, wearing cowboy boots with straight legged jeans and tucked-in denim or flannel shirts. Jeannie had on bell bottom corduroy hip-huggers and a green tee that hugged her chest like her pants hugged her hips. “Satisfaction Guaranteed!” is written in big purple letters across the front of her shirt, and from the way guys were watching her, they're all wondering if it’s true.  
A new song started playing and she swayed her body to the rhythm, as if she didn’t care what others thought of her, but cared only for the music and the way it made her feel.
God, she was sexy!
Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance  
With the stars up above in your eyes
He recognized Van Morrison’s Moondance, and for a moment he let himself imagine she was dancing with him.
…A fantabulous night to make romance
'Neath the cover of October skies 
He loved to dance, and started swaying in tune with the music, though perhaps not with the same uninhibited abandon that Jeannie displayed. 
And all the leaves on the trees are falling,
to the sound of the breezes that blow;
He noticed the attention she was attracting from the girls nearby, throwing catty looks and gossip her way.
And I'm trying to please to the calling;
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
 He spotted two guys edging closer towards her.
And all the night's magic seems to whisper and hush;
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush
She seemed oblivious to the attention as she swayed and danced.
Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love;
 Can I just make some more romance with you, my love
She looked up just then. Right at him. As if she’d known he was checking her out, and it seemed to John that she is dancing with him. Her blue-green eyes pierce him with their focused intensity, as though she can see right past his outer appearance and into his very soul. 
Well, I want to make love to you tonight;
I can't wait 'til the morning has come
And I know now the time is just right;
And straight into my arms you will run
Her eyes lock on his, winsome and challenging. He blushes as the lyrics register in his brain, and the blood seems to rush downwards in his body. He turns away, aroused and flustered, but not before he sees her impish smile and an unexpected hint of shy vulnerability chase across her face.
Maybe he’ll get lucky tonight after all, he thinks, as any typical eighteen year old might, having just been tagged by those incredible eyes. 
Loud voices erupt nearby, and a fist fight is playing out between the two guys he’d seen eyeing Jeannie just moments before. By the time he crossed the distance to them, her brothers have stepped in between the two aggressors, effectively ending any violence before it could get more serious.
“Go on,” the oldest brother was saying to the two guys, “you leave my sister alone now. We don’t want you here.”
One of the guys decided to take the brother’s advice and wandered off towards the parking lot. John felt kind of bad for Jeannie; the guy had just been fighting over her, but obviously didn’t feel the need to fight harder.
At that point, most of the crowd lost interest and went back to drinking and dancing.
“She asked me to come here tonight,” said the other guy, “we’ve got things to talk about.”
“Not anymore you don’t. There’s plenty of other girls around; go find things to talk about with one of them.”
“God, Tim, just stay out of this,” said Jeannie, pushing her way forward.  “I asked Owen to meet me here tonight. It’s not my fault Dane showed up too.”
“I don’t care,” Tim responded. “I don’t want him around. He’s trouble.”
“Fine,” said Owen, with an angry sneer, “She’s not worth my time, anyway.” He turned away, and John grimaced in empathy at the hurt look she tried, and failed, to hide. 
Tim grabbed her by the arm, “this is what you get for sleeping with all the guys in town.”
“I haven’t slept with anyone,” Jeannie retorted indignantly, pulling her arm free and blinking back a sheen of tears. Under her breath she said, “No one’s ever cared enough to spend the night, let alone sleep with me. And just so you know, I’ve only been with these two since we moved here. Despite what the rumors would have you believe. They’re not true.”
She stomped away, and John found himself revising his opinion of her. His thoughts shifted away from ideas of getting lucky in favor of maybe just getting to know her.
He used the opportunity to introduce himself to her brothers. They knew him from school, but had never hung out together. They welcomed him into their group, exchanging stories about where they used to live in California and how they’d ended up in Hamilton, Montana. John liked them immediately; he thought they’d be cool to hang out with, and maybe become friends.
Jeannie came back, eventually, and John could see she was still upset. She was also drinking too much beer, too fast. He moved away, not wanting her to think he only hung out with her brothers to finagle an introduction to her.
He was thinking about calling it a night sometime around eleven when he saw the Vail boys heading for the parking lot, leaving Jeannie behind. He couldn’t believe they would just leave her, six miles from town with no one to drive her home.
He watched her roaming around the picnic area, making a trip to the outhouse and across to the keg, refilling her beer. She seemed less confident now that she wasn’t surrounded by her brothers, even managed to become less conspicuous as she realized she was alone.
He followed her, unobtrusively, when she finally headed for the parking lot. He was not far behind as Jeannie passed by Brad Peterson, who was sitting on his tailgate, laying out his sleeping bag in the bed of his truck.
“Hey, baby, wanna ride?” Brad suggested lewdly. John felt a strong urge to slug the guy, but Jeannie impressed him with the way she ignored Brad and kept on walking as if she hadn’t heard him.
Brad didn’t seem to notice John as he passed by and got into his Bronco. He waited until she was about a half mile down Blodgett Camp Road before going after her.
He pulled up beside her with the window rolled down. “Can I give you a ride?” 
She checked him out for a long moment, seeming to consider her options, then gave a slight shrug of her shoulder in acceptance of his offer.
She got in the front seat and they drove in silence for a while, he watching the road, she watching him. He wondered what she saw, with his short cropped blond hair and buttoned up shirt, so different from Owen's rugged bad-boy look that he thought Jeannie probably favored.
As they rounded a bend, John saw headlights shining up from the side of the road at an unnatural angle. He slowed down to check it out; a Volkswagen bus was down in a gully, nestled amongst a grove of ponderosa pines.
“Holy shit,” Jeannie exclaimed, “that looks like my brothers.”
It was them, sure enough, but how they got there wasn’t clear. He worried they might have hurt themselves in the fall, and it took him by surprise when he found them laughing uproariously, as if it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to them. 
“Oh, God!” Jeannie muttered, hanging her head sheepishly, trying to hide her amusement at their predicament. “I’d say it’s a damn good thing I didn’t go with them, wouldn’t you?”
John found their laughter infectious, but he managed to stay composed as he found a flashlight and called down to see if they were alright. Apparently they had swerved to miss a mule deer and plunged off the road into the gully. Luckily no one had been hurt.
“I can winch you out if you think your bumper will hold.”
The bumper held, and in about thirty minutes the Volkswagen was back on the road. John convinced Jeannie to ride with him as he followed her brothers home. 
“That was quite an adventure,” John said, as they came into Hamilton city limits. “Do your brothers always get into such mischief?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Maybe you’d like to come hang out with us sometime and see for yourself?”
“I’d like that. And maybe you’d go out on a date with me sometime?”
She didn’t say anything right away, and John worried that he’d asked too soon. 
“Why would a nice boy like you want to go out with a girl like me? I’m sure you’ve heard of my reputation?”
“What do I care about that? Obviously your reputation is based on lies and rumors, started by people that either don’t know you or are jealous of you. I like you. I’d like to get to know you better. I think if you got to know me, you might come to like me too.”
“I think unless my brothers like you it won’t matter, anyway. It seems Tim has the final say about who I go out with. He’ll probably try to scare you off, thinking you’re just like all the other guys who only want to get into my bed.”
“He won’t be far wrong. But it’s not the only thing I want. I’ll promise you this: if you ever do take me to your bed, I’ll stay with you all night; I’ll hold you until you fall asleep, and I’ll be there in the morning when you wake.”
He said this as they pulled up in front of her house.
“Would you like to come in,” she asked softly.
“I would, but no. Thanks. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you. But, maybe you’d go out with me next Friday?”
“Why don’t you come over tomorrow, we’ll see how you get along with my brothers. If they like you, then we’ll see.”  She stretched across the seat and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thanks for all you did tonight, giving me a ride and helping out my brothers.”
As he drove away, John was remembering the way she had danced to that song, thinking it had been a marvelous night for a moondance. And he wondered how early it would be acceptable to come over in the morning.


Ina by Peggy Rockey

Challenge Prompt: New Me | Word Count: 1200 words exactly | Genre: Romance
Due Date: 2/27/2019
He sits in church and watches her, week after week, sitting stiff and silent next to her stern, stoic husband. He is captivated by her beauty, her grace; by the elegant way she dresses and composes herself. She is tall. Wispy thin. Strands of silver in her dark, shoulder length hair catch the light, accentuating pale skin and dark eyes. Spider-like lines at mouth and eyes tell him she once knew how to smile. Elliot thinks she looks frail, but suspects there is strength at her core.
There is a profound sadness about her, as though she clings to a distant grief that now defines who she is. There is sorrow from his own past as well. A daughter, just seven year old, with dark hair and eyes, so like her mother, whose death, fourteen years before had broken his heart and driven his wife away. 
He watches as she stands with the congregation during worship, swaying slightly to the music, eyes downcast. Ina never sings. She rarely speaks, though she has a beautiful, lyrical voice.  
He knows this, because he'd dared to greet her once, last year, when she and her husband, Duncan, began attending this church. She had graced him with a shy smile, said "good morning" in a soft lilting voice. Had turned large, expressive eyes upon him, and Elliot had drowned in their deep, dark depths; held spellbound, even now, by her charismatic, lonely gaze. 
Since that one time of greeting, Duncan took care to always delay their arrival to the start of worship, departing as soon as service ended. Elliot saw that Ina was never allowed to linger, nor mingle with the crowd. Neither did they attend other church or community events. As far as Elliot could tell, Ina had no friends, nor family nearby.  
He wished…
He didn't know what he wished.
Ina sits in church beside her husband, still and circumspect. She does not like to draw attention to herself, especially not from Duncan. Try as she might, though, she can’t help but watch this man who watches her; this handsome man who always sits where he can silently observe her. She has noticed that he always sits alone, yet not apart, and never aloof. He smiles often, chatting and laughing with those around him. 
Ina admires the way he sings during worship, loud and clear with his fine, fine voice. His worship seems sincere; face and hands upraised to the Lord. Ina thinks he fairly glows.  
She remembers a time when she used to worship like that, offering praises to the Lord with a pure heart, an open spirit. But that was long ago. A lifetime ago. Before the accident that killed her child, her heart, her first marriage. 
By the time her heart had healed and she might have dared to sing again, she had already married this stern, stoic man who disapproved of so many things. Most especially public displays of emotion.
They have been married ten years, and Duncan has made her life a living hell. When they’d first met, she’d been so cocooned in her own remorse over the loss of her child, she hadn’t discerned what kind of man he was. She’d been drawn by his quiet demeanor, by the very stoicism that now repelled her. 
He was so very different from the fun-loving, outgoing, passionate man she’d lost when she’d lost her child. Duncan’s apathy, his dispassion, had suited her at the time. Once his cruel nature had been revealed, it was too late. She’d accepted it as due punishment for her part in her child’s accident, though she knew, deep down, she was not to blame for that.
She can feel Elliot’s eyes upon her, but refuses to return his gaze. It wouldn’t be proper to show interest in this man who is not her husband.
Duncan fumes in silence. Do they think he is blind? Do they think he doesn’t see the way they flirt with their eyes? His wife should know better than to draw attention to herself. He has taught her this lesson before.
All through service he seethes in quiet rage. He will not have his wife flaunting herself before other men. Must she make him chastise her again? 
Bile rises in the back of his throat, nausea and heartburn plague him as he considers the most suitable punishment for her immoral behavior. He is impatient now to get her alone in the confines of their home.
Church ends, and they drive in silence. Duncan seems more sullen than ever. He’s driving faster than usual, his hands gripping and ungripping the steering wheel. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw. A sure sign of agitation. 
Ina wonders what has set him off this time. Knows not to ask. She has grown used to the frequent silences he ekes out as punishment for whatever infraction he imagines she’s committed. She welcomes the quiet, though she knows from painful experience the violence that lurks just beneath the surface. Knows better than to breach his silence.
As they approach the driveway, she can see he is struggling to catch his breath; he's frightfully pale and has broken into a sweat, though it's quite cold. He parks, and they get out of the car. Now he’s clutching his arm and his face is drenched in sweat; bleached of color.
She comes around to his side, but he has worked himself into a rage and he backhands her with a painful slap.
He tries to speak, but his eyes have taken on a distant, unfocused glaze and suddenly he pitches forward, cracking his forehead on the concrete floor.
She tries, ineffectually, to rouse him, but he is unconscious; too heavy for her to lift.  
He is dead by the time the paramedics arrive. A sudden, massive heart attack, they said. Nothing she could have done.
The funeral is a quiet affair, just a few members from church. She pretends to mourn, but all she feels is relief. Her marriage to Duncan has been punishment enough for the death of her daughter. She thinks the time for punishment and mourning is past.
Finally, it’s time to start living again.
Six months have passed, and still he watches her. He’d been afraid she would stop coming. The black mourning clothes have been replaced with grays and browns and greens. The muted colors suit her. She’s even begun coming early to church, to mingle with him and others.
Today, when he follows the congregation into the hall, Elliot claims the seat beside her, in Duncan's empty chair.
Ina lifts her dark eyes to gaze up at him, graces him with a wondrous, tantalizing smile. The one that always took his breath away, before their daughter died and their marriage fell apart. 
When they stand for worship, Ina raises her voice in praise for the first time in fourteen years. Her voice is as beautiful as he remembers. The song catches in Elliot’s throat, and the tears begin to fall. He lifts his hands, giving thanks to the Lord for this second chance, this new beginning he thought would never come.
Finally, Elliot’s wish has come true.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

The Ghost In the cottage

The ghost in the cottage

Furious Fiction
First sentence must be 3 words exactly. Story must have a “first” and a candle. Must be less than 500 words. Due 72 hours from 8am Sydney AU Time on 2/1/19

Keira is afraid.

Something is pounding on the walls of the cottage outside, like the fist of an angry giant; insistent, demanding to be let in. There is a ghost outside as well, trying to squeeze in through the window. Candle light flickers on the window pane, and in it Keira can see her reflection, a four year old girl as pale as the ghost she imagines. Outside she can see trees, like monsters, looming and swaying in the wind. Knocking on the walls of the cottage. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Keira huddles in her overstuffed chair, clutches the thick sheepskin to her pounding chest as if it offers dear life. The ghost squeals like a banshee, wailing and screeching through the space between the wall and the window, and Keira feels like screaming in turn.

Mum had told her about banshees. Whispered yarns told by the dim light of a smoking peat fire; after supper was finished and the dishes put away. Da would scoff and tell Mum not to go on with such nonsense; “why frighten the wee lass with yer tales?”

The banshee screeches again, a deep keening sound that reverberates throughout the cottage. It reminds Keira of the awful wailing her Da had made, when the spirits had come for Mum at the first hint of spring. Had taken Mum and the babe to be with God in heaven above.

And now it seems they have come for Keira.

Her tummy clenches, roiling against the awful porridge Da had made her eat for supper. She is tired, but too frightened to sleep. She knows she is supposed to climb up to her bed in the loft, but she wants her Da. Wants him to come carry her in his strong, protective arms and reassure her that all will be well. Keira pulls the sheepskin up over her shoulders, shivering, and chewing on the frayed ends of her braid.

Suddenly, the candle is snuffed out and the cottage plunges into darkness. The door flies open with a gust of wind and rain. A dark billowy figure looms in the doorway, as if hovering in the space between the realm of the living and the dead. Keira screams in panic, certain that death has come to claim her. She finds herself frozen in terror as the apparition approaches; screams again as its icy fingers reach under the sheepskin and touches her skin. She feels herself raised in the air, and thinks her heart might burst from her chest, so fast does it beat.

“Shh, lass, shh,” a familiar voice cooes, and somehow she is in her Da’s arms, and he smells like horse and sweat and peat, earthy living smells that send the ghosts away, as her Da murmurs reassuring words in her ear and carries Keira up to her bed in the loft.

Saturday, February 2, 2019

Tell No One

Challenge Prompt: No One Can Know | Word Count: 1500 words exactly | Genre: Thriller/Suspense
Due Date: 1/30/2019

Warning: Contains violence; may be disturbing to some readers

The door to the shed creaked in protest as Suzi Bishop slid it open just far enough to take a cautious step into the dark, windowless room. A mysterious call had led her to this place, an unknown number on her iPhone and a male voice she didn’t recognize. "You'll find Haven behind the old condemned house where you played as children. Tell no one. Go there alone." 
She noticed shovels and rakes and other gardening tools hanging on racks and propped along the nearest wall. A riding lawn mower divided the interior of the shed. Dried, molding grass mingled with other fetid odors, and Suzi gagged at the overpowering scent of shit and vomit and blood.
She picked up a hefty, half-length shovel and forced herself to step around the lawn mower. She tripped over a rusting gas can and sprawled to the ground, where she fell upon a cold, hard body. She stifled a scream.   
Haven was dressed only in a filthy camisole and torn nylon panties. Blood and urine and feces had run down and dried on her bare legs, and there was new skin forming over wounds on ankles and wrists. The skin was raw and pink and puckered. Her face was bruised and beaten; mostly unrecognizable. Only the blue opal pendant that hung around her neck clearly identified her to Suzi, who had given the present to her sister on her nineteenth birthday.  
The day before she’d gone missing. Five weeks ago.   
Reason deserted her, and she sank back onto her knees, gathered her battered sister into her arms. Haven wasn’t breathing. Suzi’s chest and throat constricted with grief and anger and unacknowledged fear. "Oh God. Oh Haven.” The words came out as a whisper, yet they screamed and echoed inside her head. Haven remained as still and ridged as a corpse. 
“Oh God!” She repeated, trembling uncontrollably, rocking and stroking Haven’s hair. “Who did this to you?" 
Whoever had done this, it hadn’t happened here. There was no sign of struggle, no accumulation of waste or excrement or other debris. The stench came solely from Haven’s body. The space around her was clean except for dirt and cobwebs and mouse droppings.
Suzi tried to make a mental list of anyone she knew who might be capable of committing such atrocity, but failed. Not even the sick bastards at the behavioral health facility where she had been confined last year could have carried out such brutality, of that she felt certain.

Who knew that she and Haven had played here as children? She thought of the many foster homes they had lived in during their youth, but holding her sister in her arms as she was, Suzi found it difficult to connect cohesive thoughts together.
She pulled her phone out of her back pocket.
There was a text on the screen: TELL NO ONE
Panic struck. What was she to do? She looked down upon Haven’s battered face, overcome with a sudden rush of rage and resolve that overrode her fear.
Screw that!
She couldn’t just leave her here. She had protected and cared for her younger sister all their life; she would not leave her now. She unlocked the phone with her fingerprint, was just about to press the phone icon when footsteps sounded outside.
The small hairs on the back of Suzi’s neck prickled. At the same moment Haven heaved a huge gasping breath. Haven’s eyes popped open, and Suzi sensed raw fear emanating from the abused girl.
“Josh.” The name wheezed out of torn lips. 
“Shh, Haven,” Suzi pulled her sister up, protectively, to sit against her chest. Haven’s eyes, full of pain and fright, widened in recognition at the sight of Suzi. Her body relaxed ever so slightly, but immediately stiffened when a large man appeared, silhouetted in the doorway.
“Well, well,” his voice was low and insolent, “we meet again. Sister.”
Sister? There was only one person who would call her sister.
“Joshua Shelby,” she pulled the name out of memory, twelve years distant. “You did this?"
Motionless and silhouetted as he was, it was impossible to see the details of his face.
“We used to play in the old house, here, before they condemned it; do you remember?” He spoke in a soft, conversational tone. “We’d play hide and seek, and I’d always seek out Haven. It wouldn’t have been much fun to hurt you, since you were already broken.” His voice had a sneer to it, condescending and, Suzi thought, irrational. “But Haven, she was a bright star and I couldn't stand to see her shine. God, I hated her. With her pretty smile and her sweet ways.  She didn't see me like you did, like Mother and Father did. No matter what I did to her, she always came back, full of faith and trust. Like a damned puppy. Stupid, stupid girl.”
Haven had become extremely still and heavy against her. Suzi risked a quick glance and saw that her eyes were open and staring; forever unseeing. A fierce ache gripped Suzi’s chest.
“Why?” The question escaped out of the emptiness that had begun to descend upon her, like a fog. She found it difficult to breathe, and her eyes stung with unshed tears.
“Can’t you guess? I was ten years old, and already I knew my father hated me. And then you came along, you and your sister, and you were the apples of his eye. No one can know what it was like, when you came into my family and stole everything that was mine. My toys. My friends. My parents. You could do no wrong; he gave you everything. Everything I ever wanted, and never got.”
“We were just kids in need of a family.”
 “So was I!” The declaration came loud and deranged. She could hear the deep breath he took, as though calming himself. He took a step into the shed.  “Father never looked at me with anything but loathing, he couldn't stand the sight of me. As if I reminded him of something distasteful or shameful that he was forced to tolerate. Mother was just as bad. She never trusted me to do what was right, always watching me, as if she just knew I would do something bad.
“So I gave them what they expected. And why not? They seemed almost relieved when I started acting out, when I did cruel and selfish things, for wasn't that what they expected of me? It's why they sent you away, did you never wonder?”
She remembered. “But that was twelve years ago! Surely you haven’t harbored this hatred for all these years? You could have gotten therapy or counseling or…”
“Shut up!”
He took another step into the shed. Now that he was no longer silhouetted, she could see him more clearly; blood stained shirt; pallid skin; a tic twitching at his left eye. Spittle on his lip after his last exclamation. Cut, swollen knuckles.
It was this last sight that galvanized her into action. God, she wanted to hurt him! With fists and knuckles, like he’d done to Haven. Pushing herself away from Haven’s body, she grasped the shovel, but it had caught under Haven’s legs and Suzi couldn’t free it. 
He had just passed the lawn mower.  He was right in front of her now; laughing at her. His derision pissed her off. She wondered if he had laughed when he beat Haven to death.
Sorrow and panic and rage fought for right of place in her emotions, as she struggled and failed again to pull the shovel free. “Damn it!” she screamed, manic energy infusing her muscles. In a single, hurried motion, she barreled into him, knocking him off balance. With focused intensity, she grabbed hold of the gas can. It was heavy and sloshed with fluid. With both hands, she smashed it into his knees.
He fell into the lawnmower, clutching at his legs. “Ah, you bitch,” he screamed.
She swung the can up and behind her, allowing it to gather momentum and strength, when she saw the gun flash in his hands. The bullet grazed her arm just as the gas can pounded into his face, connected with a satisfying thud.
He was sprawled on the ground now, beside her dead sister. His gun a short distance from where he had fallen. Suzi barely registered the blood that dripped from her arm. Adrenalin pumped through her body. She felt the fuel sloshing in the can and in another burst of rage she lifted the can, pointed the nozzle down, and splashed the fuel over his head and shoulders.
Considering her next action carefully, but quickly, Suzi set the gas can down, pulled her phone and cigarettes from her pocket. She said a silent, heartfelt goodbye to Haven and tossed a lit match onto her murderer.
“Burn in hell, you bastard!”
She slid the door closed as the fuel ignited, and dialed 911 just as the screaming began.


Tuesday, January 15, 2019

911! What's Your Emergency

911! What’s Your Emergency – by Peggy Rockey

Challenge Prompt: That Will Not Be Necessary | Word Count: 1200 words exactly | Genre: Fiction
DueDate: 12/5/18

“You won’t believe how crazy it is here, today” Steven mentioned to Paige when she arrived at the office. “It must be true what they say about full moons.”

It was only noon, but the office was already buzzing with dozens of 911 operators talking into headsets, studying computer consoles and clicking away at keyboards.

“Yeah,” Paige agreed, “it’s one of the busiest days for dispatchers. The fact that it’s also Friday the 13th ought to just about tip it over the crazy scale!”

“I suppose it could be worse, though; we could be working in an emergency room.”

“Uh, no way,” Paige emphatically denied. “I can take it when I get a call from someone that’s bleeding to death, but if I had to actually see that, I’m sure I would just faint!”

“I know, right?” Steven concurred. “Just brace yourself, though. It’s gonna be a crazy day!”

“That’s okay,” she grinned widely, holding up a bag of Milky Way Midnight Dark Mini’s, “I have come prepared!”

No sooner had she plugged her headset into her console and settled it on her ear, that her call light began flashing. She paused only long enough to take a quick, composing breath before she pushed the button and invited the craziness into her day.

"911. What's your emergency?" Paige asked, her voice calm and professional. She saw on her screen that the call was coming in from a landline. The map began rendering a street view of a single family dwelling in an affluent neighborhood.

"It's my Mommy," a frightened little voice quavered on the other end, and Paige steeled herself, having learned from experience that calls from children were often the most heart-wrenching.

“What’s wrong with your Mommy?”

“I can’t find her,” the child whimpered, “she’s not anywhere in the house.”

“Oh, I see." Paige put on her most calming voice for the child. “Can you tell me your name?”

“My name is Benjamin. Benjamin Roscoe.”

“Okay, Benjamin. Where did you last see your Mommy?”

“She was in the kitchen.” His voice was a bare whisper. “Mommy and Daddy were yelling at each other and Daddy had a knife.”

“Daddy had a knife?” Paige parroted, surprised by the admission. She opened a new screen on her computer where she transferred the address and typed a quick note to dispatch police to the house. This was standard procedure, and Paige knew it well. Every call from a child required that police be dispatched to the caller’s location, regardless of whether the situation warranted it or not.

“Uh-huh. He was yelling at Mommy and waving a knife at her and I got scared and started to cry, but Mommy told me to go to my room and take a nap.”

“Is your Daddy there, now, Benjamin?”

“Uh-huh. He’s outside in the backyard digging a big hole. But I can’t find my Mommy.” Loud gulping sobs caught between ragged breaths, and Paige had to remind herself to stay detached.

“Take a deep breath, Benjamin,” the dispatcher instructed the boy, “it’ll be alright.”

Paige thought it sounded like a horror story. A man with a knife, digging a hole, and a boy's mother gone missing. Like a story someone made up to frighten little children. Or a nightmare the boy had had. She hoped the situation wasn’t as dire as it sounded.

“Did you ask your Daddy where Mommy is?”

“Nah-uh! I’m not supposed to go outside by myself.”

“Can you go call your Daddy from the door, then? I’d like to speak with him, if I could.”

“No!” Benjamin whispered, fear audible in the young boy’s trembling voice. “He yells at me sometimes.”

Paige’s sympathy expanded, and she sought to keep the boy calm. “Okay, Benjamin." Paige knew she had to keep the boy on the phone until the police arrived, so she asked the next question in the script. "Do you know your address?

“Yes. My address is Two One Free Free Vine Hill Lane.” The address matched what was on her screen.

“Alright then, Benjamin, I’m sending someone to your house who can talk with your Daddy and find out where your Mommy is, okay?”


“But I need you to stay on the phone with me until they get there. Can you do that for me?”


“Good boy. Can you tell me how old you are?

“I’m free,” came the reply, and Paige imagined a tow headed boy with arm outstretched and three fingers splayed. She smiled at the image, but her smile quickly faded at the sudden, jarring sound of a door slamming in the background, followed by Benjamin’s sharp, in-drawn breath.

"What's going on in here?" A deep, stern voice questioned. "Benjamin, what’re you doing on the phone? Who’re you talking to?"

Loud, heavy footsteps approached, overriding the quiet whimpering that came from the frightened boy. “Give me that,” Paige heard the gruff, masculine voice; pictured the phone being snatched from the boy’s hand. “Who is this?”

“Sir, this is 911. Benjamin called because he couldn’t find his Mother, and he was frightened. Are you his Father?”

“911? Benjamin! What’s wrong with you?” The voice, once stern with anger now seemed laced with amusement. The baritone voice put Paige in mind of a tall, looming man, and she could well imagine how a small boy might be frightened of him. “You don’t call 911 just because Mommy’s not here. She went for a jog, you silly boy! Honestly! I’m so sorry to have bothered you, Ma’am.”

“It’s no bother. But I do have the police on their way, so if you could just stay on the phone until they arrive…”

“The police! But that won't be necessary. As I said, she’s gone for a jog and should return any moment. Stop your crying, Benjamin, it won’t help bring her home any sooner.”

Paige cringed at the heartless words, and understood the boy’s trepidation and fear. “Really, sir. The boy was frightened. He said you were yelling at his Mother earlier, waving a knife, and when he woke up from his nap she was gone and you were outside digging a hole.”

“Oh, for goodness sake! Yes, we were having a heated conversation, but it was hardly a fight, and I was slicing a tomato for our sandwiches.” He grunted, then, “Up you go, Benji.” The nickname sounded affectionate and Paige imagined the little boy now cuddled in his Daddy’s lap.

“And the hole?” Paige prompted, just as the knock came at the door, and she heard the police announce themselves.

“I was planting a cherry tree in the yard.”

“Mommy!” Paige heard the happy sigh in Benjamin’s voice and the scampering of small feet across hardwood floor.

“Well then,” she said to the man on the phone, “I won’t keep you any longer. Have a good day.”

She disengaged, conflicting emotions chasing through her mind. She took a moment to pop a Milky Way Midnight Dark Mini into her mouth, savoring its rich chocolate flavor and the magic that brought her back and anchored her to the present.

In the next moment her call light started flashing again, and she pushed the button.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

A Garden By The Lake

A Garden by the Lake by Peggy Rockey

Challenge Prompt: Leftovers | Word Count: 500 words exactly | Genre: Romance
Due Date: 11/7/18
Warning: Adult Themes

"When are you going to let me take you away from this life and make an honest woman out of you?" Sebastian asked Isolde, pulling on his pants and removing an uncounted sum of money from his pocket.

"Just as soon as you're ready to bring me home to that nice ranch of yours out by the lake," Isolde responded with the same answer she always did. She was still lazing on the bed, naked torso draped with sweat stained sheets, limbs bathed in sunlight streaming through a high, narrow window.

"Ah, Izzie.”

Only Sebastian ever called her by that name, and Isolde thrilled when he used it. She could hear the affection, the possessiveness he felt for her when he called her by the pet name, and she longed to belong to him alone. Only Sebastian had ever made her feel this way in the twenty-seven years of her life.

“Why can't you just agree to be my mistress and let me set you up in a nice little cottage outside of town?"

"And just what do you suppose I would do with myself when you aren't there?" She pouted, wondering why he didn't know how much his proposal tempted her. How it hurt even more. Sometimes she wished he would just buy the damned cottage and move her into it, knowing her pride would never allow her to ask it of him, no matter how much she denied wanting it.

"You could plant a garden and learn to sew and cook and do other useful things," he suggested with a shrug.

Isolde rolled her eyes, seeing no reason to tell him she was quite proficient in such things. She rose from the bed and strolled across the room, unashamed of her nakedness.

"Sure and I could just see myself, pullin' weeds and shooin' away the rabbits from my vegetables.” She pulled on her dress, hooking the buttons while looking at her reflection in the faded mirror to make sure the bustle hung just right over her bottom.

Sebastian's throaty laugh delighted her. "That would be a sight to see!”

"You could buy me a gun and teach me to shoot," Isolde suggested with a mischievous grin, fantasizing about challenging his wife to a duel. They wouldn’t be relegated to this life of leftovers if his wife were dead, Isolde thought, with irreverence, though she daren’t speak it aloud.

Sebastian read the thought in her face, though, and he pulled her into his arms and held her. He fisted his fingers into her thick, blond hair. "Someday,” he whispered the unspoken promise in her ear. As he kissed her deeply, she tried not to let her heart believe, though it had been lost so very long ago.

Isolde put on her best unassuming smile and pushed Sebastian out the door.

An hour later, she was still dreaming about a ranch overlooking the lake, with a garden full of flowers and hope, when the next knock sounded at her door.