Monday, October 22, 2018

Sunday Night Dinner

Challenge Prompt:Leftovers | Word Count: 500 words exactly | Genre
Due Date: 11/7/18
(This also is not the story I will turn in for the challenge, but I enjoyed writing it and maybe you will enjoy reading it)

“Margaret Jean, I’ve asked you three times to set the table; come do it now.” You know you’re in trouble when Mom calls you by your full birth name. I sighed, putting aside my well-worn copy of “The Outsiders.”

It was 5:45 and Mom was in the kitchen plating food. She barely acknowledged me as I came in and pulled a stack of plates out of the cupboard. She always told me not to try to carry all ten plates at once, but my eleven-year-old arms were strong, and I knew I could handle them.

“Ron, you and your brothers go wash up for supper,” Mom called into the living room where they were watching TV; then motioned for Kati to hang up the phone. “And round up Terye and Mary as well.”

I set out the napkins and silverware while Mom carried the roast in, placing the platter in a prominent position on the table. I went back for mashed potatoes, Mom brought in gravy and peas. Dad strolled in and took his place at the head of the table as I went after rolls and Jell-O. The four boys began filing in, followed by the three girls.

Mom and I took our places and conversations quieted for a moment while Dad praised the meal and took the first slice of roast beef. The chatter started up again. I could hear five distinct conversations as we began serving and passing dishes.

It was ritual. We ate at the table every night; always at 6O’clock. Now that we were all “grown,” the rules were simple: take what you want, eat what you take. Never take more than will be enough to go around; you can go back for seconds if there are any. Always take some of everything.

I noticed Ron only put about four peas on his plate. Good thing Dad didn’t notice, or he’d have ended up with another spoonful. Good thing for the rest of us too, because we had to stay at the table until everyone was done eating. Dessert didn’t get served until then.

“What’s for dessert?” Dad asked, mopping up the last bit ofgravy on his plate with his roll.

“Pineapple upside down cake,” Mom proclaimed proudly, as she initiated the stacking routine now that everyone was done eating. By the time she brought the cake to the table, all ten plates were neatly scraped and stacked at the end of the table, silverware precariously placed on top.

Mom divvied up the cake while the ice cream carton was passed around, and, since Dad was monitoring portion control, I knew there’d be some left when it came around to me.

Afterwards, I cleared the table and helped put the leftovers away. Terye and Tim were on dish duty this week, and they finished just as the NBCLiving Color Peacock announced the start of the Sunday night Wonderful World of Disney. It was all part of the ritual. And I loved it.

Leftovers

Challenge Prompt:Leftovers | Word Count: 500 words exactly | Genre
Due Date: 11/7/18
(this is not the story I will turn in to the challenge, but thought I would share it here anyway)

Leftovers were not common in our house when I was growing up. Even though dinner most nights might seem like a veritable feast, with eight kids and two adults and the occasional friend or three to feed, there wasn’t usually any leftovers. As I recall, the only meal that regularly resulted in leftovers was spaghetti, and that was because we always made extra. Spaghetti was one of those meals I learned to make at an early age. I was sixth of eight kids and by the age of ten I could make homemade spaghetti like a pro.

We always ate dinner at the table; always at 6 o’clock. Dinner back then was a noisy affair. There could be five conversations going on at any given time, and if you concentrated really hard, you could follow all of them, as long as you didn’t try to participate in any of them. I was a quiet, introverted child, and I was real good at listening.

At six o’clock the table would be set and everyone in their seat. If you were late, you might miss dinner altogether. The rules were simple. Pass the dishes clockwise. Take what you want, eat what you take. Never take more than what will be enough to go around. You can always go back for seconds, assuming there’s any left. Always take some of everything, even if it’s canned spinach or lima beans. Thankfully, Mom didn’t serve those often. Eat everything on your plate. Because God knows there are children starving in China that don’t have any food at all. And, finally, you don’t get dessert if you don’t clean your plate.

Wealways had dessert on Sunday Night. Right before the Disney movie came on. Buta two layer cake or two dozen cookies spread across ten or more people rarelyproduced leftovers. Even a half-gallon of ice cream didn’t last beyond one setting.Mom always divvied up the cake, but the ice cream carton would be passedclockwise, and as long as someone was monitoring portion control, you’d usuallyget some.
Everyone had to stay at the table until everyone was done eating. Then you placed your silverware on top of your plate and passed it clockwise, where the next person would place their silverware on top and stack and pass, until all the plates were stacked with all the silverware on top. Whoever had dish duty that night carried them into the kitchen to start washing.

Eventually my family split up and dispersed around the world. I moved into my first apartment and made that first batch of spaghetti for my boyfriend. Wouldn’t you know I made enough to feed an army, even though there were only the two of us!

Two husbands and a boyfriend later, the [step] kids have grown and now we eat dinner in front of the television. I still haven’t quite learned to cook for two, but I have grown rather adept at making new meals out of leftovers.

Born to be Wild

Challenge Prompt: The Robbery | Word Count: 1500 words exactly  | Genre: Adventure

Due Date: 10/3/18


Tess marvels at the gorgeous scenery along the coastal highway where she and Roger are driving on their way to the cottage. They’ve been dating for a about a year now, and Roger had suggested a weekend getaway to help rekindle their dying romance.

Born to be wild comes on the radio and Tess cranks up the volume. Not only is it one of her favorite songs, but it fills the awkward silence that has settled between them. The song epitomizes her feelings, and Tess sings along enthusiastically.
 
“Get your motor runnin’, head out on the highway. Lookin’ for adventure, and whatever comes our way…”
 
“Really, Tess?” Roger scowls, turning the music down. “I thought we were going to use this trip to talk. You haven’t spoken five words to me in the last hour.”
 
She rolls her eyes, forces herself to loosen her grip on the steering wheel. “You know I’m not very good at small talk. And anyway,” she points to the sign ahead, “we’re coming into town and I need to pay attention so I don’t miss the turnoff.”
 
Five minutes later she’s pulling the Lexus into a redwood lined driveway.
 
“What the hell!” Roger says, irritably, “I thought you said this place belongs to a friend of yours. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years.”
 
“She’s a co-worker, actually. Maria used to tell me stories about her and her brother coming here when they were kids. When I asked if they still owned the cottage, she told me I could use it whenever I wanted.”
 
The grounds were all overgrown weeds and bushes; the cottage a dilapidated single story structure with shingle siding that looks ready to fall off the walls. The porch appears in serious need of repair.

“The view of the ocean is spectacular, though, don’t you think?” Tess gestures expansively.
 
She parks the car, suggests they check out the cottage before unloading. “The key is supposedly under one of these porch boards.” As her full weight came down on the second step, the board cracks loudly and her foot crashes through. “Ouch!”
 
“Are you alright?” Roger helps steady her, and Tess leans into his slight frame for balance as she pulls her booted foot out of the hole, covered in cobwebs and splinters.
 
“Yeah, I’m ok,” she says. “Might as well look for the key.” Tess activates the flashlight on her smartphone. The light reflects back at her from the darkness and she leans down to peer into the gloomy space. “What is that?”
 
“It looks like a a box of some kind,” Roger says, holding onto Tess as she reaches down into the hole.

“I can’t get it loose.” She motions for Roger to help, and after a few moments they lift one of the boards away. 

Roger grabs the box with both hands and forcefully dislodges it from its burial place. “It’s probably some kind of ammunition,” Roger suggests, shaking the box and feeling its contents shifting around.

Tess roots around and finds the key. “Let’s see if it opens the back door.” 
 
It does, and soon they are inside a kitchen, with warm yellow walls and white cabinets and appliances. “At least it smells like Mr. Clean has visited recently,” Tess quips; “everything’s all neat and tidy.”
 
Roger sets the box on a table and Tess pries it open, revealing a purple bag with Crown Royal embroidered in gold stitching.  She pulls the draw string apart and opens the bag. “Oh my God!  Roger look at this.”
 
She tips the bag and gold coins come spilling out. Canadian Maples, German Krugarrands, Austrian Philharmonics, American Liberties. 
 
“Oh, wow! Where do you suppose these came from?” Roger’s face is shining with excitement. “There must be over a hundred coins here.”
 
“I imagine they were stolen,” Tess states dryly. Ever the voice of reason. “We should call the police, see if they have some record of a theft.”
 
“Ah, Tess! No! This is a fortune!” Roger fills his hands with the gold. “Just think what we could do with the money this would bring!” Tess thinks she can see dollar signs reflecting in his eyes. 
 
“Roger, we can’t keep this! What are you thinking? We have to call the police.”
 
“Why? Why do we have to do that?” Roger, deflated, scoops the treasure back into the Crown Royal bag.
 
“Because I’m not going to be an accessory to robbery.” Tess deftly takes the bag from Roger; drops it in the large purse she carries on her shoulder. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Propelling him away from the kitchen, she kisses him again, deep and passionate. “Let’s just focus on us for now, like we planned. Check out this cottage!”
 
They cross the living room, peer into a small bathroom. “It’s really not so bad.” She opens the door to one of the two bedrooms. “God, Roger, will you look at that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a round bed before!”
 
***
 
The front porch is completely torn apart when they return from a day of whale watching and antiquing the next afternoon. It’s the first thing Tess notices when she pulls into the driveway.
Roger seems oblivious to the wreckage. When she points it out to him, he doesn’t immediately grasp the significance. They go around to the back and find the door has been pried open and left slightly ajar.
 
“Stay here,” Roger whispers, finally attuned to the possible danger. Using his slight form, he thrusts Tess’ taller frame behind him.
 
Tess finds herself suddenly impressed with the sense of confidence he’s projecting, so at odds with his usual nerdy, insecure self. Roger is a computer programmer; he spends most of his time at a desk, and if he wasn’t programming he was playing computer games. He’s not overly strong, and his physique reflects his occupation. But he does excel at action-packed games and Tess knows Roger has great hand-to-eye coordination.
 
“Be careful,” she whispers urgently, placing a hand on his back as he cautiously pushes the door open and takes a step inside. 
 
Thwhack! 

They never saw it coming. One step into the cottage and a short, stocky man stepped out from behind the door and smashed a heavy flashlight into Roger’s face.
 
Tess screams as Roger crumples to the floor, blood spurting from forehead, nose, and mouth.
 
She goes into high alert after seeing Roger’s eyes roll back into his head. Tess focuses on the other man. He’s Latino, and, she thinks, inconsequentially, rather good looking, with that dark ruggedness that has always appealed to her.
 
He lunges for her and Tess puts her Tae Bo skills into action. Grabbing him firmly by his ears, she pulls his head down into her up-rising knee, surprised at the sudden pain when head and knee collide. Ignoring the pain, she again brings his face down into her knee; then lets him go, takes a short back step and follows up with a hard roundhouse kick to his groin.
 
“You bitch!” He yells, falling to the ground with his hands clutching his balls, tears of pain and rage streaming from his eyes.
 
Roger is still out cold beside him.
 
In a series of fluid movements, she pulls a set of fur-lined handcuffs from her purse, jerks his arms behind his back, crosses his wrists and hooks and latches the cuffs.  Even she would find it impossible to escape the fake cuffs with wrists crossed just so. 

“You should know better than to mess with me!”
 
“Christ, Tess!” He’s squirming on the floor like a fish out of water.
 
“What are you doing here, Hector? Maria did not tell me you were out of prison.”
 
“No? She told me you were coming to the cabin,” he said through gritted teeth. “I heard your Grandfather passed away last month. I guess he’ll never know how his favorite granddaughter convinced me to rob him of his gold.”
 
Roger sits up with a groan. “What’re you saying? Tess! You stole the gold?”
 
“Well, technically, Hector did. But Grandfather never reported the theft, so it’s not really stolen, is it? I should’ve just waited for the old coot to die. He never took the coins out of his will, after all, and he left it all to me!”
 
She heads out of the kitchen, quickly packs her belongings. Suitcase in hand, purse hefted on her shoulder, she turns for the door.
 
“You’re just going to leave me here?” Roger asks in disbelief. “How will I get home? What am I supposed to do with him?” He glances at Hector, still struggling to free himself from his restraint.
 
“Call the police? Report a robbery? I don’t know.” She tosses him a coin. “Maybe Hector will give you a ride.”

A wide grin spreads across her cold, beautiful face as she reaches for the door, a song forming on her lips. “Get your motor runnin… Head out on the highway… “

The Takedown

Furious Fiction: Must take place in an Airport; must have Spring and “it was empty” somewhere in it
Due 9/3/18

The Takedown

"Boss, we've tracked Sinclair to the men’s room in the Sky Lounge. We can spring the trap on him now and catch him with his pants down."
 
The radio crackled a moment before the response came. “Alright, Morris. Do it. Nail the bastard."
 
Morris was part of the task force team that had been following Sinclair's trail for months. When they got wind that the cartel leader of a large human trafficing ring was planning to return to the states, they had stepped up the investigation. Current intel had led them to the Tampa airport this morning, just before Airport security had tipped Morris off to Sinclair's arrival and subsequent stop at the men's room.
 
Morris checked the strap to his holstered gun, loosened for easy retrieval. He shouldered the door and entered the bathroom. 

The room was bright and stark, with one urinal and one stall.

It was empty.

“Damn it! He’s not here.”

“That’s impossible,” Cliff responded, “I haven’t taken my eyes off this door since Sinclair entered. There hasn’t been anyone else in or out.”

“Well he’s not here now.” Morris turned away, speaking into his radio to his team. “We lost him, guys. Spread out. He must have been tipped off somehow, and he may have disguised himself.”

Morris scanned the room again for any evidence that would explain Sinclair’s disappearance. Noticed one of the ceiling tiles askew. The one just above the empty stall. He motioned to Cliff.

Cliff held the stall door open as Morris stood on the toilet. He was just lifting the tile when it was ripped away from above. A booted foot came swiftly down out of the hole. It struck the task force agent in the head; sent him sprawling into Cliff. As the two men struggled to regain their feet, Sinclair dropped down from the ceiling onto the toilet and, in a fluid motion, flung himself straight at Morris, just as the agent was reaching for his gun. The gun clattered to the floor, and the cartel leader used the moment to push past the two floundering men, pulled the door open and rushed out of the room before either men could react.

Morris sprang to his feet and sprinted for the door, exiting just in time to see Sinclair shoving past travellers as he entered the tramway, gaining distance away from the agent.

“Travis, he’s coming your way,” Morris called into the radio as he took off in quick pursuit, “be alert.”

Morris could see Travis at the other end of the walkway, but Sinclair easily bowled the other agent aside as he flew off the tramway and took off down the concourse.

Morris was certain the man was going to get away, when an observant teenaged girl flung out her leg just as Sinclair passed, and sent the cartel leader sprawling, face first, into a heavy potted plant.

“It’s over, Sinclair.” Morris yelled, approaching the fallen man with his gun drawn. “You are going down!”


The DJ and his son

Challenge Prompt: The Cottage | Word Count: 1200 words exactly  | Genre
Due Date 9/19

The party was in full swing, and Daniel was enjoying himself. He thought it might be the first time in the year since Audrey left him that he could say that.
 
He scanned the room, past the couples slow-dancing to the song he’d just started. Past the diners lingering at the tables around the edge of the dance floor. Past the bar where a group gathered, drinks in hand, chatting animatedly.  Past the hallway and into a small room where children played.
 
There was Liam. Daniel’s joy and his despair. Just to look at his three year old son you’d never know he was deaf, barely able to communicate. Daniel was teaching him basic sign language, but what he really yearned for was a way to connect with the boy.
 
He noticed Megan kneeling on the playroom floor amidst a pile of stuffed animals and tonka trucks, watching her three-year old boy, Kyle, climb onto a toy car, and Liam pushing Kyle across the room. Daniel couldn’t hear their laughter over the music, but he saw it in their faces and in the ease with which they played. 
 
Megan’s long hair shone in the light. He could see a hint of red in the dark brown waves. As if she felt his perusal, Megan looked up and met his eyes across the distance. She smiled a broad, crooked smile and his breath caught at the sight.
 
Daniel felt his cheeks redden under her scrutiny. He smiled a shy smile back. He supposed his golden eyes were twinkling under his bushy eyebrows. He’d been told they did that when he was happy.
 
 The song ended, and Daniel started a fast upbeat song meant to draw a crowd to the dance floor; but not too fast, as he didn’t want to amp the energy much beyond where it currently was.
 
He’d met Megan just a few weeks ago, while emceeing a wedding she had attended. She’d said she was impressed with his professionalism and the quality of his equipment and music, asked if he’d be interested in emceeing a small gathering at her cottage. He’d been impressed with her quiet manner and good looks, and readily agreed.
 
They’d met several times in the intervening weeks, to go over the details of the party and discuss music and potential playlists. He’d felt a romance budding between himself and Megan, which was something he’d avoided since Audrey left.

Megan had encouraged Daniel to bring Liam with him on the three occasions they’d met at the cottage, and suggested he bring the boy to the party as well. It pleased Daniel to see Megan taking such an interest in his son. Liam was a well-mannered boy, shy and cautious around others; and though the child was completely deaf, Liam and Megan’s son, Kyle, had become fast friends.  

 In a little while it would be dark outside and the gathering would move beyond the walls of the cottage and onto the deck and the beach beyond, where the full moon would illuminate wet sand and crashing surf.
 
His equipment was set up so he could cater to both environments, inside and out. Daniel could see gas heaters placed around tables on the deck outside; a bonfire stacked close to the shoreline, ready to be lit. A cool  breeze drifted through the screen door, past a large fire burning in an open fireplace, near the DJs station, keeping Daniel warm. 
 
He turned his attention back to the playroom, where Megan spoke a few words to the babysitter, then left and went to the bar. Daniel turned his attention away from his son as he tracked Megan's progress across the room. He queued up several songs as she approached, so he could give her his complete attention. “Thanks,” he gratefully accepted the beer she offered him. “How are you enjoying the party?”
 
 “It’s perfect.” She smiled that crooked smile again.  “You’ve set a great mood with your music selections. Just look at everyone, laughing and dancing; who wouldn’t be enjoying this?”
   
They chatted for a while, completely absorbed in each other, until suddenly  the babysitter came rushing out of the playroom, frantically looking around. Daniel’s heart skipped several beats when he heard her calling Liam's name. Abandoning his post, he hurried over to the playroom, Megan right behind him.
   
"What's happened? Where's Liam?”
   
"He was here a moment ago.” The babysitter cried, "I only went to the ladies room. He was gone when I came back.”  She was wringing her hands with worry; “Liam; Liam, where are you baby?”
 
"Calling for him won't help,” Daniel scoffed. "He can't hear you."  Panic had taken hold of his thoughts. He couldn't focus.
   
Kyle came running up to them, wrapping his arms around his mom’s legs. “What’s the matter, Mama?” he asked, blue eyes wide with innocent curiousity. “Are you scared?” 
   
“We’re looking for Liam. Did you see him leave?”
   
“No. But I know where he is.”
   
“You do?” Megan’s pale face took on a cast of hope, “can you show us?”
 
“He likes it in the corner over there,” the boy pointed towards the far side of the room; but the corner was obscured by the bar and Daniel couldn’t see what Kyle pointed to.
 
None of the partyers seemed to notice anything amiss as they rushed past.
 
“Oh, thank God!” Daniel breathed a sigh of relief, seeing his son sitting on the floor, unconcerned and unaware that he had caused such a panic.
 
Liam appeared utterly transfixed by a strange lamp that sat in the corner of the room. The lamp was somehow attuned to sound, blue and green light  intensifying and fading to varying noise levels. Daniel had never seen anything like it before.
 
“Where did you get this?” Daniel asked Megan, amazement replacing the fear that had gripped him just moments before, now that he knew Liam was safe.
 
“My brother made it.” Megan picked up the lamp and handed it to him. “He calls it a sound reactive LED light. He’s such an electronics nerd. He found the instructions on YouTube if you can believe it. It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? I could probably get him to make one for you, if you like.”
 
The song ended and the lamp dimmed in the sudden quiet that followed.
 
“Liam,” Daniel touched the boy’s shoulder, crouching beside his son, intrigued by the green light that flared when he spoke.

The deaf boy made a guttural, laughing sound, and when the light reacted to the noise, Liam laughed again. Blue light danced and Liam made the sign for MORE. He laughed again and his face lit up as bright as the light. He wore a smile that Daniel had never seen on the boy’s face in all the short years of his life.

Liam looked up then, right into his father’s eyes, and Daniel felt his first real connection with his son. It brought a lightness to his heart as he thought of the possibilities he could do with such a tool.

Megan suggested they let the boys take the lamp to the playroom, and Daniel agreed, feeling an overwhelming desire to kiss this lovely women. But all he could think to say was “thank you!” 

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Frankie's Many Voices by Peggy Rockey

Prompt: Delete| Word Count: 1250 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction

https://12shortstories.com/2018/09/05/frankies-many-vo…-by-peggy-rockey/
Due September 5, 2018


“Tell me a story, Papa?”

It had become a ritual, this asking and telling of stories. It started when Lacey was but three, and she would sit upon her Father’s lap, gaze into his hazel eyes, and ask in her French accented English for her Papa to tell her a story.

Lacey was five now, and Frankie still loved the way she said Papa, with the accent on the last syllable, paPah.

“What story shall I tell?”

“Tell me about Aidan.”

“Ah. Aidan!” Frankie’s face became animated and his voice took on an Irish brogue. “Twas 1975, and Aidan O'Connor was just twenty seven when he first arrived in London. Sure and he came with such high hopes of joining an acting troupe. But, alas, poor Aidan didna make the grade."

“Oh, oui! I remember, Papa! He became a tour guide instead.”

“Indeed he did. Aidan put his acting skills to use on the grand double decker buses of London.”

“Like you, Papa, here in Paris?”

“That’s right, my smart girl. And, like I, Aidan took such delight in his work, for he was wise and imaginative and handsome, and all the ladies loved him.”

“And Max? Did the ladies love Max too?”

“But that is two stories, mon amour. Ah, very well.” Here Frankie’s mannerism shifted, to that of a serious, somber mien. “Max Brunner wast a fine man,” he said, in a German accent. “Max wast smart and creative, but he could also be unkind and somevat moody. Max moved to Vienna in 1981, before the grand sightseeing buses had come to that beautiful city.”

“Oh, but that was only four years before I was born!”

“Da, very goot! Max too wast a tour guide, but he wast employed on the Ring Tram, entertaining tourists with fun facts about all the fine sights along the Ringstrasse.”

“Will you take me there someday, Papa?”

“Only if you are a good girl,” Frankie replied, shifting his accent to that of a frenchman, Andre Duval, father of Lacey and lover of Elyse.

** *

“Tell me a story, Papa?”

“What story shall I tell, ma cherie?” Frankie asked eight year old Lacey, who snuggled next to her Papa, absentmindedly petting her stuffed teddy bear.

“Tell me about Nicolas.”

“Nicolas? But where have you heard that name?” Frankie rose from the settee, combing his long fingers through unruly chestnut hair and struggling to hide the agitation that name provoked in him.

“I heard you tell Maman, just yesterday, Papa. You said Nicolas Gaspar would live in Barcelona, and you had a funny accent when you said it, and it made Maman laugh.”

But Frankie could not tell his little girl that her mother had asked him to leave, because Elyse felt Andre was losing his love of life and said it was time for him to fly.

“I will have to tell you stories of Nicolas another time, ma belle.”

“Okay, Papa,” said Lacey, with the nonchalance she'd begun to learn from Elyse. “Then tell me a story about Frankie?”

“Frankie? But why Frankie? He is such a bore!” Frankie exclaimed, still in his French accent, which he had perfected in the ten years he had lived in Paris as Andre Duval.

“Because he is a mystery, Papa. You never tell stories of Frankie. But yesterday I saw his passport. It is blue, not red like Maman’s, and it has your photo on it.”

** *

“Papa, you’ve come home! It’s been so long. I’ve missed you so!”

Lacey was 11 now, and she still looked at Frankie with those adoring green eyes, her chestnut curls bouncing and bobbing as she pulled him down to the settee.

“I’ve missed you too, ma belle. Have you been a good girl in my absence?”

“Papa! Of course I have. I am always good. Now, will you tell me a story?”

“What story shall I tell?”

“I have not forgotten, Papa. Now you will tell me about Nicolas Gaspar.”

“Of course you would want to know about Nicolas!” Frankie complied, speaking now in a slight Spanish accent, his facial expression changing to reflect loneliness and boredom. “Perhaps you will remember, Nicolas went to live in Barcelona in 1993. He made his living telling stories of Catalonia to the tourists on Bus Turistic. Nicolas, he is a funny man, witty and independent…”

“Like Papa!”

“Si! But Nicolas had trouble making friends, because they all thought him to be conceited and a bit secretive, and he was very lonely.”

“Did he miss Andre?” Lacey asked, with perception beyond her years.

“He missed Lacey! Three years is too long to be away from my beloved daughter! Come here, and give your Papa a kiss.”

** *

“Ma Cherie! Just look at you. My goodness, you are all grown up!” The crowd at the JFK International airport streamed around them as Frankie hugged his daughter and enthusiastically returned her kiss on both cheeks. It was 2006 and he had not seen the transformation occur in his daughter, as Elyse had sent him on his way three years after his return from Barcelona. For she had found another lover and Frankie no longer fit into her lifestyle.
“I am twenty one now Papa. I have many stories to tell!”

“I just bet you do! Let’s get you home first; Wendy will want to meet you.”

“Oh, oui. Papa. I too am looking forward to meeting your new wife. But on the way home, you will tell me stories!”

“What story shall I tell?”

“Tell me about Lorenzo. Did he also work on a tour bus?”

“Indeed he did! Lorenzo Vecoli moved to Rome in 1999, adopted an Italian accent and took on the characteristics of an easy-going, adventurous saint!”

“Never! Papa, how could Lorenzo be a saint?”



“It’s what the tourists wanted! But it was getting much too hard to remember to be Lorenzo, and not slip back into Andre, or Nicolas.”

“Or Aidan, or Max?”

“You remember?”

“Oui, Papa; how could I forget your voices?”

“And which did you love best?” Frankie asked, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it anyway.

“Yours, Papa! Always yours!”

** *



“Papa?” Lacey’s voice was low, close; the breath of her words tickled his ear. Frankie thought she cried. But he did not want to see tears spilling from her beautiful green eyes, so he squeezed his own tightly shut. “Papa, please. I know you are awake.”

He opened his eyes at her entreaty and there she was, this beautiful girl who had grown into a mature woman, so like her mother, except Lacey was constant and her love for Frankie was true.

“It’s my birthday, Papa! Today I am thirty.” There was such sadness in her face, despite the forced cheer he heard in her voice. She sat on his bed beside him, and took his limp hand within her own. “Will you tell me a story?”

For Frankie, this was a good day, for he was lucid and he still remembered the ritual response. “What story shall I tell?”

“It does not matter to me, Papa. I just love to hear your voices. You pick one, and I will be content.”

But it was a cruel fate that struck Frankie with Alzheimer’s in his late sixties, so that now, at seventy, he could no longer remember the lives he had lived. And one by one the voices and stories were fading away, like files on a computer accidentally, irretrievably, deleted.

Monday, July 2, 2018

Sloopy

Prompt: Cats and Dogs | Word Count: 300 Words Exactly | Genre: Memoir


Thunder rumbled overhead. Trees swayed in the wind and rain. My little brother and I reveled in the wildness of this summer storm raging beyond the covered deck where we stood. Beside us, Sloopy’s head lifted, nostrils flared. Hackles raised. Then the little white beagle jumped to his feet, tearing madly across the deck, braying and barking as if he’d seen a cat. 

Jim’s quizzical blue eyes met mine before we ran to peer over the handrail. Lightning flashed, and we could just see Sloopy nosing around in the wet brush, where something was moving down by the creek. 

“What is that?” Jim’s voice cracked, high pitched with excitement.

“I can’t tell. Kittens, maybe?”

Sloopy was snuffling and wagging his tail, unconcerned by the storm; now surrounded by small fuzzy critters making odd chirping noises.

Then another slightly larger creature came out of the brush, growling fiercely. It stood on its back paws, dark stripe across white face, beady yellow eyes flashing. Abruptly it let out a vicious snarl and attacked our little unsuspecting dog. 

Wild shrieks of pain and violence echoed across the night. It just about broke my thirteen-year-old heart. Not thinking of our own safety, we ran as fast as we could, barefoot across the deck and down the stairs, trying not to slip or fall as we made our way towards the commotion.

“Don’t let your dog hurt those poor raccoons.” The stupid old lady that lived on the other side of the creek appeared, beaming her flashlight on the animals scurrying off into the brush. But our beloved beagle lay shredded in a pool of blood and rain, whimpering in shock and pain. And Sloopy died while Jim and I held him in our arms and cried, oblivious now to the storm raging around us.

Rain Rain Go Away

Prompt: I never knew | Word Count: 1800 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Due August 8, 2018


Mama used to like to say it was raining cats and dogs whenever it stormed like this when I was small. When the wind and rain came down so hard it near blew the trailer apart. Lightning would reveal Mama setting buckets out to collect rainwater leaking from the roof, while me and Dougie would make faces and giggle at each other, cause we never did see no cats or dogs in those storms.

The storm tonight puts me in mind of that old trailer. God, how I long for the security Mama gave us, no matter how false that security turned out to be. I wish I had one of them old buckets, too. I’d collect some of the rainwater pouring in sheets off the bridge. It’d be good to clean the mud off myself after I slipped down the embankment on my way home from the soup kitchen.

I’m sitting in one of my bag chairs, looking at my rickety tent and worrying about the rising river, ‘cause it sure looks like it might overflow before long. George’s tent is still pitched about three yards away, though, so I figure if the older man thinks it's safe to stay, I should take his lead.

Lightning streaks across the sky. There he is, standing before me as if I’ve conjured him out of my musings. Except… It’s not George. Nor anyone I'd served at the kitchen tonight.

A strong, distinctive scent of cologne drifts on the wind. Sudden anxiety overtakes me as broken memories bombard my mind; Daddy touching me, hurting me. My whole body is instantly trembling, and I struggle to remember I am no longer that twelve year old girl. Concentrating to slow my breathing delays the moment when recognition comes and I realize this isn’t Daddy standing before me, although the resemblance is strong.

"Dougie?”

“My name is Douglas.” I hear disdain, or disgust, in his voice as he surveys my surroundings. “What are you doing out here, Marilyn? It’s raining cats and dogs.”

At that I make a face at him, like I’d done when we were small, and that sets me off to giggling.

I catch the sneer on his face before he wipes it clear. I suspect my face has gone white as a ghost.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” I say, trying to regain my composure and hide the panic his sudden appearance has caused. I pat the empty chair beside me for him to sit. “You might as well come on in out of the rain. What brings you out on a night like this?”

He eyes the wobbly chair critically, but folds his tall, lanky form cautiously into it. “I was looking for you.”

“Yeah? You ain't never bothered to come lookin for me before.”

“How can you think that? Marilyn, we never stopped looking for you.”

“Really? Who were you lookin’ for me with? It sure wasn’t Mama. Last I saw her, she was lyin’ dead on the floor with a needle sticking outa her arm. Even though we all knew Mama didn't use drugs. How come it took you ten years to find me?”

“Listen, Marilyn,” he raises both hands in a gesture of peace, “I’ve got a suite at the Nines downtown. Let’s go get some food and get you into a shower. After you’ve had some sleep, we can make a fresh start in the morning. How would that be?”

The Nines! Huh! Little brother made it good in life if he can afford to stay at the most expensive hotel in Portland. I should be happy for him, I suppose. But, God, he looks so much like Daddy, in his suit and tie, all clean shaven and clean cut. Like the man in my nightmares.

I can imagine what he must think of me. Torn jeans and thrift shop dress two sizes too big, covering the three layers of shirts I wear for warmth. My thick golden hair dull and unkempt.

There’s that scent again. The same fragrance Daddy wore when he hurt me. That smell had been in the kitchen that day I found Mama, too. I want to shrink back into myself and hide.

But this is Dougie. Not Daddy. Surely my little brother isn’t here to hurt me.

“Why don't you just tell me why you're here?”

“Really, Marilyn; I must insist...”

“You ok out there, Mare?” George’s familiar, gravelly voice cuts across the wind. I feel my stomach begin to unclench slightly as the older man climbs out of his tent. His long gray hair blows wild in the wind. He has on a sweatshirt and thick pajama bottoms and his feet are bare. He is a most welcome sight.

I only met George a few weeks ago. He arrived the same day I set up my tent here under the bridge, when he pitched his next to mine. There was something about the ex-vet that put me at ease immediately; told me I could trust him implicitly. I’ve never met anyone like him. George exudes a sense of security I imagine a real father might offer a daughter. He calls himself my guardian angel. A few nights ago I even found myself telling him my story, though I’ve never told it to anyone else. Not in the ten years since I left home after finding Mama ODd in the kitchen when I was sixteen.

He hadn’t teased me about how naïve I’d been, thinking I could just go to Hollywood and become a famous actress. I thought it would be simple. I’d always done so well in drama and played the lead role in several productions. My school friends called me Marilyn Monroe; probably because of my beautiful blonde hair and slim, curvy figure. But I used up all my money on the bus ride from Atlanta, and once I’d arrived in Los Angeles I had no idea how to go about landing an acting job. I hooked up with a guy who suggested I do some modeling for him, but that put me in a bad situation and George says I was lucky to get away. I hadn’t shared the details with him, but I’m pretty sure he can guess.

After that I found refuge at a woman’s shelter and was so grateful for the care and protection I received that I began helping out in the kitchen, cleaning rooms, and babysitting. I was there eight months; until Daddy appeared one day and I managed to escape before he found me. Fear has kept me on the move since then, where I continue serving at shelters across Northern California and Oregon.

George clears his throat, bringing me back to the moment. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Uh. Sure. George, this is my brother, Dougie.”

“It’s Douglas.” The chair falls over as he stands, extending his hand to George. “Douglas Dempsey.”

The older man gives Dougie a long stare, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. It must have been a pretty firm grip, though, ‘cause I can see Dougie wince.

“Why don’t I leave you two to talk,” George suggests, “but holler if you need me.” He turns a look on Dougie and warns, in a low tone, “If you hurt her, you’re history.”

We remain standing after George leaves, and for a moment we just listen to the incessant rain and the muffled traffic on the bridge overhead.

“Dougie, how’d you find me?” I’d worked so hard to stay off grid.

“It wasn’t easy; I can tell you that. With no identify to trace, and no criminal record, it’s like Marilyn Dempsey never existed. Last week, though, a background check was run on you at the Portland Rescue Mission. I take it you volunteer there? Marilyn, what are you hiding from?”

The sudden change of topic takes me by surprise, and for a brief, unguarded moment I remember the little boy I’d left behind. I close my heart against it, though, not wanting to delve into the past I worked so hard to leave behind.

“Just tell me why you’re here, Dougie. Why now, after all this time?”

“Is it not enough that you’re my sister, and I’ve finally found you? God, Marilyn. I never knew why you left me, when Mama died. Father said it was because you were confused, and suffered from delusions. He would have gotten you help if you had stayed.”

I can imagine! Just like he helped Mama.

“Father’s a tough man, you know. He set high expectations for me, and even though I disappointed him, he gave me a good life, with education and privilege. Not something Mama could have ever given us. Or achieved on our own.”

There’s that disdain, again.

I see no sense in convincing him of the education and privilege I’ve gained in caring for others with the generosity of my time.

“So here’s the thing, Marilyn,” he’s all business now, “Grandma Dempsey passed away last year. She left an inheritance to us, and as soon as we present ourselves to her attorney we’ll split a half million dollars.”

I feel my eyes widen at the thought of so much money. “Wow!” I begin to understand why he’s taken the time to find me. “I take it we’re required to present ourselves together?”

His eyes narrow and there’s annoyance in his stance. I can feel tension radiating off him now, humming in the air like electricity preceding a lightning strike. “Will that be a problem? It’s a half million dollars.”

“What about Daddy?”

“Father won’t be there. You don’t even have to see him.” He looks away, studying the river and rubbing his neck. Another waft of cologne drifts my way. “Come with me, Marilyn. I’ve made all the arrangements.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance and the rain increases in fury. Like my heartbeat.

I hesitate for a moment, then make up my mind. It won’t right the wrongs of the past, but it would make me feel a whole lot better.

“Hey George! Did you hear! Dougie says I’m gonna be rich!”

Dougie visibly relaxes at this, and smiles when I ask, “What room are you in? I’ll pack my things and meet you there in the morning.”

He tries his best to persuade me to come with him right now, but eventually I convince him to go away.

“Well?” George pops his head out of his tent as soon as Dougie is gone.

“I think if you hadn’t been here tonight, I might have ended up in the river!” I shudder, and begin stuffing my chair into its bag.

“Marilyn Monroe, indeed!” says my new Guardian Angel, stuffing my other chair into its bag. “So, Spokane?

“Actually, I think I’d prefer Seattle.”


Monday, June 25, 2018

Hide and Seek

Prompt: Forbidden Places | Word Count: 1800 Words Exactly | Genre: Fantasy


The image came clearly into Etha’s mind. An Elbrus crystal, set into a niche in a cave wall, illuminating a portion of the sleeping chamber that Agua shared with his half-brother Pyre, and the other unattached young men of the Kuran tribe.

Too easy!” Etha sent the thought back through the mindlink, glancing over at Pyre to see if he had recognized the image as well. Her cousin, seated across from her, had his eyes closed and seemingly hadn’t heard her through the link. That was fine with her, Etha thought, triumphantly. Rising quietly, she left Pyre behind as she set off to claim the victory by being the first to find Agua at the location he’d projected.

It was a new game they’d invented to practice their skills of imagery and mindspeak. A game similar to one they’d played as children, hiding from the chosen one who would then seek them out. Back when they were children, they hadn’t known they had these gifts that allowed them to see out of the other’s eyes. In this new game, the chosen one would hide, sending images of their location for the others to find.

But Agua wasn’t in the room when Etha arrived at his bedchamber.

No fair!” She communicated her indignation through the link, annoyed with Agua’s mirth at having deceived her. He projected a new image to her, of Pyre sitting beside him in the meal room, sharing a mid-morning snack together. “You cheated!

It’s not cheating,” she could hear the smugness in Pyre’s thought. “You just didn’t use any of your other senses to confirm that the image was true. Otherwise, you would have smelled the aurochs roasting on the spit and known Agua wasn’t really in the bedchamber. You should come get some, it’s quite good.

No thanks. I’d rather see if Dar will let me go out to look for Sasha instead.

But her father would have none of that.

Sasha was an orphaned wolf pup she’d found and named on her way home from Riana Valley at the end of summer, four moons before. It was deep winter now, and Etha hadn’t seen Sasha for over two moons, not since First Storm had driven the tribe into winter sanctuary within the caves at Eagle Peak.

“Why can’t I just go check the traps, and see if he’s around?” Etha argued with her father when he denied her request. “I’m worried about him, Dar. He’s just a cub. Sasha can’t be more than six moons old, and he’s got no one to teach him how to hunt. How will he survive the winter?”


“Etha. I said no. It’s a wild beast. It’s instincts are to hunt and to kill. Just because it seemed friendly and followed you home, doesn’t change the nature of what it is. It could hurt you. I’ll not have you continue this attachment. It’s not safe.”

Angry and disappointed, Etha went to her bedchamber, rebelliously thinking of seeking out the wolf in her mind instead, thinking to use her link with Gaea.

Etha had discovered that she could bond with Gaea during her last training session at Riana, at the end of summer. By matching and melding her own rhythm and pulse with Earth’s vibrations, and imagining her spirit sinking down into the earth, she’d discovered a thriving labyrinth of interconnected roots and undergrowth. Tracing these up through earth’s crust and into living plants, she acquired a rare sight and awareness into the life that abounded in Gaea’s realm. She’d only done it the one time, and didn’t understand how this bond was to be used. The gift was so rare that neither Madra, the Rianan Leader, nor Madra’s sister, Celynn, had any idea how to aid in Etha’s training. Elder Celynn had strictly forbidden Etha to attempt to use this skill unless someone was present with her.

Even so, Etha was going to try it now.

She lay upon her bedroll, stilling her rebellious thoughts and opening her mind to Gaea, as she had learned to do. It took but moments to send her psyche down through the layers of earth, merging into the rhythm that she found pulsing through the undergrowth. Roots branched off into many directions, and Etha chose one that led westward, as that was the direction she’d last seen Sasha. She traced the vibrations up through earth’s crust and into the branches and the bushes not yet weighed down below the last two moons of snowfall.

Etha imagined the wolf curled up under a copse of trees, lying upon a soft bed of needles; away from the snow and the ice and the freezing wind. She imagined herself sitting beside him, stroking his soft fur with his head in her lap, though this was not a thing that had ever occurred before. Not in her lifetime, nor that of any living tribesperson, nor any ancestor that had come before.

She found him in a small cave at the far west of Eagle Peak. The mountain was riddled with such openings, though only eight entrances were large enough for the people to traverse, connecting to the inner pathways leading to the many chambers and caverns that gave home to the twenty-two families of the Kuran tribe.

“Sasha.” Etha excitedly whispered his name in her mind, filling her presence into the space surrounding the wolf; knowing herself connected to Gaea, and thus to the earth upon which he lay. The wolf’s pale green eyes opened, as if sensing her presence. His tail wagged, and she could hear the soft exhalation of his breath. She couldn’t touch him, but Etha could see him in her mind’s eye, his small body curled in a ball, head resting on crossed paws. His white fur gleamed in the thin light penetrating the den.

Scraps of fur and bone lay in the space beside him, the remains of some small animal he’d recently fed upon. Etha rejoiced in this triumph, evidence that he was learning the skills a young wolf would need to survive alone and hoping it would be enough to get him through the winter.

It had taken mere moments to find the wolf cub in her trance. Having satisfied herself that Sasha was safe and that she now knew where to find him, and that should could trace him at will, Etha rashly decided to see how far she could extend her reach.

Where ever bush or branch or leaf touched, there she could roam. Etha thought this must be what a bird might feel, soaring among the tops of the trees. Or she imagined a leopard, leaping from branch to branch. Etha had never felt such exhilaration before. She laughed in sheer joy, exalting in the freedom of movement and the expanse of Gaea’s world.

Finally, the forest tapered off to rock and boulder and ice, and she had to stop to assess her position. Etha hadn’t realized she’d gone so far east, nor climbed so high, so fast. She saw that she was near the South-eastern border of Kakaesia. Above her loomed the colossal ice wall that amassed over and between the mountain peaks, effectively closing off Kakaesia from the lands and the people that existed to the south. Etha knew she would find a similar border to the north as well, where the mountains were higher and the ice wall even thicker than it was here in the south.

Etha felt infinitesimal in comparison to the huge mountain towering above her, especially as she surveyed the ice and the snow that seemed to reach out beyond the bounds of the ridge in ominous proportion. Thick clouds had begun to close in around her, along with a heavy snowfall that impeded her sight.

Suddenly, she felt a tug upon her being. As though Gaea was trying to gain her attention, pulling upon her awareness and communicating some need that Etha failed to interpret. The pull intensified, an agitation that belied the odd quiescence that seemed also to have settled in the air around her, filling her with a heightened sense of immediacy that contrasted with the stillness.

In the next moment a tremor rocked the mountain, sharp and severe and violent. A rush of noise deafened her senses as a mass of snow and ice and rock dislodged from above, falling rapidly down from the ridge above and engulfing her in its wake.

Etha screamed in fear as her mind lost its hold upon Gaea and became submerged instead in the avalanche that she witnessed from afar. Having no experience with her gift, Etha didn’t know how to separate herself from the barrage that now pummeled her senses. She no longer remembered that she had a body, lying safe and warm upon a bed in a cave further west along this mountain range. Down and down and down she fell, tumbling and plunging down the mountainside until finally the avalanche lost its momentum and settled amidst a cloud of dust and dirt, and freshly falling snowflakes.

Stunned and disoriented, Etha struggled to gain back a sense of consciousness. Panic filled her mind, tricking her into thinking that she lay trapped under the snow and the ice. But through it all there was a sense of weightlessness, and she began to realize that if she truly was buried under the snow she would feel its weight. Should feel the cold.

But she did not feel these things.

She thought of Pyre, then, of what he had said about using all her senses to seek out the truth of an image; and as she thought of her cousin she regained an awareness of where she was. Of who she was. She forced herself to calm her racing heart, focusing and finding again the rhythm that was Gaea’s. Matching Earth’s vibrations to her own, Etha used it as a guide to return to her own body, lying in a bedchamber inside Eagle Peak.

She lay there for a while, deeply shaken and frightened by the experience. She thought of the joy she had felt, finding Sasha in the link, then soaring among the trees. But the memory of being violently dislodged from Gaea unnerved Etha, leaving her uncertain if she’d ever be brave enough to bond with Gaea again. Celynn would be furious with her.

After a time, Etha reached out to Pyre and Agua, seeking the familiarity of their presence in her mind. Surprisingly, she found them still in the meal room.

Etha! Were you hiding? We couldn’t find you.

No. Not hiding. But stay there, will you? I’m on my way and I’ll tell you all about it. Maybe see if Celynn can come, too. And slice me off a piece of that aurochs. I hear it’s quite good.

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

The Crossing


Etha was the first to arrive at the clearing, a heavy deerhide bag slung over her shoulder, a long spear that doubled as a walking stick held lightly in her hand. She was dressed for travel, in fur-lined leggings under a heavy goatskin tunic, and hide boots with thick soles made for long distance trekking. She loved to journey, and hoped the others would arrive soon.

Etha had come to the Riana Valley with her cousins, Pyre and Agua, four moons before. Here they’d been trained in the Rianan arts of mindspeak and imagery. The young tribeswoman had enjoyed her summer away, but she missed her family and the familiar environs of her home beyond the Kuran River, and she was ready to return.

Eventually, the others joined her, eight travelers who would escort Etha and her cousins to their home at Eagle Peak. Thin fog obscured the sun, which peeked out occasionally as they trekked steadily down out of the higher elevation of Riana towards the Kuran Riverlands. The mist cleared just as the sun edged along the horizon, and Etha saw a flight of vultures circling ominously above the next hillcrest.

“Hold up,” Tulie called out, gesturing for the travelers to slow their pace. Tulie was the unofficial leader of the group; she was the Rianan Heir and highly respected for her experience in teaching survival skills to the youth of Kakaesia.

As they crested the hill, they were astonished to observe a small wolf cub snarling and snapping in fury at a vulture as it swooped down and tried to land next to the mother wolf, which lay in a pool of blood, seeping from a fatal head wound.

“Oh, the poor thing,” Etha exclaimed, as the others came up beside her.

“It looks like she’s been gored by a hoof,” Pyre suggested.

“Maybe she attacked a herd of deer and got struck,” said another.

“I wonder what she’s doing this far west,” Tulie mused, as the cub scampered into a nearby den of rocks. "Wolves are so rare in this part of Kakaesia. Be alert. There could be others nearby."

“Curious little thing, isn’t it.” Agua admired, seeing the pup peering at them from the relative safety of its shelter.

This close, Etha could see it had pale green eyes and whitish, grey fur, like its mother; except the cub had a patch of brown fur on its chest and front paws. The markings were quite distinctive, and Etha recognized him from an encounter she had had with the young animal just a handful of days before; when she’d first learned to touch the spirit of Gaea and had celebrated the bond.

The young wolf locked eyes with Etha for a long moment, as if it remembered her too. Then, turning his gaze upon his dead mother, he gave a soft whimper and scooted away deeper into the rocks.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” Tulie decided. “Petya, you and Misha gather firewood. Bring enough to burn overnight in case there are other predators nearby.”

“What do you suggest we do with that?” Elder Celynn nodded towards the dead wolf. “It’s such a beautiful animal.”

“If we were on a hunt, it would go to whoever made the kill,” Tulie said, fidgeting in indecision.

“It would be a shame to damage such a beautiful pelt,” Pyre advised. “Davos, I hear you’re one of the best skinners in Kakaesia. Perhaps you would like it?”

It took quite a while for Davos to finish the job, and afterwards to move the carcass away from camp. They sat up late around the fire, admiring Davos’ stone and bone tools that he used so expertly; discussing the curing process that would render the pelt soft and pliable. It was quite late when the group settled down to sleep for the night.

Etha was awakened suddenly near dawn to the sound of a low, menacing growl emanating from a creature that crouched down by her leg, where it had slipped out from her bedroll. Small white teeth gleamed in the dark, beast eyes reflecting from the firelight. Etha’s heart beat erratically. She struggled to make sense of what was happening, when Pyre, in the bedroll next to Etha, used his gift to call fire and brought illumination to the scene.

Tulie was on her feet in the same moment, spear poised to throw at the creature. The wolf, however, was not growling at Etha, but at something on the ground near her exposed leg.

There, coiled and ready to strike was a large, poisonous viper.

“No!” Etha screamed, fearing the spear that flew past her head was meant for the wolf. Instead, it struck the viper dead on, causing the cub to jump back in shock, retreating quickly from the camp.

“That was close!” Agua exclaimed. “I thought the wolf was coming after you; but he may have saved your life!”

“I think so too,” Tulie sounded impressed. “I’ve never known a wild animal to protect a person before. That was amazing.”

Etha was pleased and captivated to see the cub still there in the morning, peering at her from its den. It looked hungry and forlorn. When she thought no one was watching, Etha approached the rock warren to leave a portion of her morning meal. The wolf didn’t even growl at her. She hoped the pup had been weaned off its mother’s milk and could eat the rabbit meat she’d shredded.

Agua tried to distract Etha when it was time to go, sensing her distress at leaving the cub behind, for it would not have occurred to her to try to capture or tame a wild animal. Not even one that had saved her life.


Tulie cautioned everyone to be on their guard against further wolves or predators, but aside from a herd of gazelle, there was no other sign of wildlife as they descended out of the forested hills and onto the open steppe that ran alongside the Kuran River.

Etha was enchanted when she noticed the cub following behind. Over the next few days, she found strategic places to leave bits of food for him, even though Tulie warned her not to do so. Tulie had even tried to chase the beast away when it came too near. The cub would run off to a place of safety, but Etha saw that it continued to follow them. Etha was no longer in a hurry to get home, for she had no idea what would become of the wolf when they arrived at Eagle Peak.

The river crossing ran fast and cold, but in the place of crossing it was only ankle deep and easily traversed. Etha was the last to cross, grieving to leave the cub behind, for she had grown attached to him. When she turned back, he was whimpering and howling at the river’s edge; clearly afraid of the water, and, Etha supposed, afraid of being left alone.

“Come on, Sasha,” She whispered the name, holding her breath with hope and desire. Then her heart leapt with joy when, at last, the wolf stepped boldly into the river and began a crossing of its own.



Friday, March 23, 2018

Earthsong

Earthsong 

Word Count: 2500 Words exactly Genre: Fantasy

Etha tread nervously behind the Riana Leader into the darkened interior of the cavern. Four other initiates followed behind, stumbling in the narrow passage towards an unknown destiny. Darkness swallowed light like a hungry beast. She imagined she could hear its inhalation and exhalation, feel it’s cold, musty breath on her skin. She’d never been here before. Not in all the time since she’d come to the Riana Valley for training and initiation into the elite group of the Appointed.

She brushed against the wall of the passage as it narrowed around her. She gasped as sharp rock bit into her skin like teeth, drawing blood that dripped slowly down her forearm. She wiped it against her doeskin tunic. Was Madra leading her into the belly of a beast? Would she be eaten alive, bones spat out after being sucked clean?

She shook her head, dispelling the notion, forcing her imagination into control.

Madra’s footsteps slowed, muffled in the close confines of the passage. Etha slowed as well, attuned to the leader’s movements. Tara bumped into her from behind, and from the giggles of the other girls, Etha surmised the rest of the girls had done the same with each other.

Etha sensed a shift in air pressure. It danced upon her skin, flowing around and above her, into a large, open space. Madra entered the chamber. Etha and the others followed behind.

Light filtered through the chamber like mist rising from a lake at sunrise, dim and hazy. Water dripped off thin columns of stone stretching upwards to the roof of the cavern, far above their heads. Her eyes were drawn to a small pool where bubbles rose occasionally from its depths with soft susurrations.

She could see the others shuffling about, uncertain, as she was, why they were here. What they were supposed to do.

At Madra’s instructions, the initiates settled on the ground around the pool. Normally Etha was confident and self-assured. She had always enjoyed, even thrilled at Madra’s lessons. Now she was uneasy, sensitive to the weight of the ancient mountain around her. Her heartbeat increased with anticipation, her stomach tightened, her mouth went dry. Every nerve in her body tingled, as if something momentous was about to happen

She lay on her back, arms outstretched, palms upwards, seeking to calm her nerves. Annoyed by the other initiates whispering irreverently amongst themselves.

"You may be wondering why I brought you here,” Madra said, her voice soft, modulated. Her words were swallowed by the cold, dark earth around them. By the pool that lapped at their feet.

As part of your training these past twelve moons, you’ve learned to mind-speak, with myself and your fellow Initiates.”

The words came in a soothing singsong tone. Etha realized the Riana Leader was no longer speaking aloud.

“Of all the initiates who arrived when you did, you are the only ones who have shown the ability to reach beyond the land of Riana, to mind-speak with family or friends in your own homelands. You are to be commended. Not all can achieve this skill.”

Etha took pride in this achievement. It was required if she were to be Appointed.

“There is one last lesson, one challenge left to complete your training.”

There was a pause. Etha’s thoughts raced. What more could her mind be trained to do?

“Today, I challenge you to mind-speak with Gaea, to tap into Earth’s essence and listen for Her voice.”

The small hairs on Etha’s arms and the back of her neck quivered. Fear mingled with anticipation. Etha had felt Earth’s pull upon her, knew herself drawn to Gaea’s power, though she had no idea the extent of that power or if she might control it.  

Madra’s voice sounded in her mind again. “Settle back, now. Close your eyes and set aside your fear.”

There was a pause.

“Tune out the stray thoughts that distract you from your purpose. Slow the rhythm of your breathing and listen.”

Etha could hear someone rustling nearby. Forced herself to concentrate on Madra’s voice instead.

“Breathe in... Hear the sound of your breath within you.”

Etha took a long inhalation through her nose. It sounded loud in her ears.

“Breathe out, slowly. Slowly. Allow your thoughts to leave the confines of your body, like the exhalation of your breath.”

Etha imagined her body floating in air and darkness. It felt strange to her. She wasn’t a bird, after all, she had no wings to carry her into the sky. Her eyes opened momentarily, taking in the dim light, the mist, the ancient column of rock lifting to the roof of the chamber.

“Breathe in...

She closed her eyes again. Tuned in to Madra’s whispered suggestions.

“Breathe out. Extend your awareness towards Gaea. Reach for the rhythm of Earth’s pulse. Feel it. Match it to the rhythm of your own.”

The stone floor was cold, it radiated through her deerskin tunic and leggings. Seeped into her skin. She felt the pressure of earth’s weight pressing upon her. Etha willed her consciousness to move beyond. 

Down. Down into the depths of the earth her spirit sank, immersing and submerging her soul with the land, though she knew her body remained behind, safe and guarded by Madra.

As she drifted, she felt another presence surround her. It touched her spirit with a jolt of recognition and in that moment her psyche merged and melded with Gaea's.

She was known; no longer alone.

Gaea’s lifeblood infused within her, seeking, burrowing into Etha’s innermost soul, even as Etha pushed outwards into Gaea. She fought back panic. This was a power far greater and more infinite than Etha had ever imagined.   

She gave herself over to the experience, losing all sense of self and time as she traced Earth’s lifeblood along its course. Like arteries and veins carrying blood through her body, she felt a slow, ponderous current that flowed, sluggishly, forcefully, ever outward, thrumming with a steady beat. Etha followed this current up through the earth, up and up and up, until at last, her senses found and infused with a living network of roots and tendrils and life.   

Within this network she felt her consciousness expand even further. Twisting and twining. Pulsing and surging. Upwards, outwards, further and further, until Etha’s senses stretched beyond her capacity to comprehend. She feared she might lose herself within this network, this immeasurable being that was Gaea. Power called to her, welcoming her, nourishing her own lifeblood, gifting her with an ability to see into a hidden realm she never knew existed.  

In this state, Etha was given freedom to explore the world through Gaea’s senses. Wherever bush or branch or leaf touched, there she could travel. She still didn’t have wings to fly, yet here she was, soaring among the treetops like a bird; more like a squirrel, leaping from branch to branch. In her minds eye she could see the Riana River below her, the river and the hills, the snow-capped mountains. She narrowed her vision and lowered her focus to stride upon the forest floor, like a leopard; strong, powerful, dangerous. She encountered Madra’s daughter, Tulie training survival skills to a group of initiatives. Tulie raised her spear at the sight of the leopard, but Etha sprang further into the trees, found a raven perched on a branch and took flight, winged at last, to soar over the Riana Valley.

She had never felt such exhilaration before, connected as she was with Gaea. There was power in this touch, the ability to see the outer world from within. She hungered for it in the same way her body hungered for food.

The hunger became voracious. The potential to traverse this hidden realm was overwhelming. Were there limits to how far she could go? How far did Gaea extend? This was power beyond her comprehension; she didn’t understand it. And the more she tried, the more panicked she became. 

Alarmed, Etha struggled against Gaea’s presence, closing off her senses to all but her panic and her need for self. She forced her thoughts back into the confines of her body, lying on the cold, hard floor at the heart of the Riana Caves. 

Consciousness returned and Etha’s eyes snapped open, and though they filled with the misty light of the cave, it took a moment to disengage her senses from Gaea.

She must have made a slight sound. Movement stirred beside her. A bright, warm light pulsed from a crystal held in Madra’s hand, illuminating the Riana Leader, giving detail to their surroundings.

“Where… where are the others?" Etha asked, as awareness settled around her and she saw she was alone with Madra. 

"I sent them away," Madra answered. "They weren’t able to reach a trance state like you did.” 

Etha nodded, disoriented, unsettled. "How long have we been here?” 

“The meal bell has chimed twice since we began. Are you able to speak of your experience? Did Gaea speak to you?”

"I... I don’t know."  She found she was not ready to share the experience just yet. Needed time to absorb what had happened. "No. I’m sorry”

“Are you certain? You were ‘gone’ a long time.”

“I don’t know.” She sat up, crossed her legs, set hands on knees, palm upwards. “Have you experienced it, yourself?”

“I have not. As far as I know, only three others in all the history of Riana have ever done so. There is no shame if you did not.”

Etha shivered as her sense of self slowly returned, even as she yearned to return to that hidden realm; a desire so strong and so at odds with her fear of being consumed by Gaea.

            +++

Etha fled, driven by the need to put distance between herself and the yearning desire to connect with Gaea that yet consumed her soul. Up the narrow passage she ran, scraping and bruising legs and arms against rough walls, loosing dirt and debris as she passed.

Finally, she made it to the cave entrance. She slowed her pace as she burst out of the passage, sucking in large gusts of air as she went, not paying attention to the path at her feet until she tripped upon an up-thrust root and fell, sprawling among the brush.

Day was fading to dusk behind a low layer of clouds, heavy with the scent of fallen rain and the promise of more to come. She stared up at the rapidly moving clouds while the ground remained solid and unmoving beneath her trembling body.

A small wolf cub scampered out from beneath a bush. The wild animal made eye contact with the girl and froze in place, then scooted back into the dense brush. The action brought Etha back into the moment, connecting her again to the here and now. She felt as though she had lost something precious and was just realizing its full worth.

The gray sky contrasted with the green earth around her. She lay under a spreading canopy of low hanging branches, embraced by leafy ferns and sharp, prickly brush. Sweeping hills and snow-capped mountains graced the horizon, a sliver of light reflecting off the Riana River, snaking its way through a distant valley and the forest below. Tulie was down there, Etha knew, training survival skills to a group of initiates. 

            The sound of a stream, swollen from recent rain, teased her senses, gurgling and swishing its way down a rock-strewn bed. The ground cover was wet, the earth soft and spongy under Etha's hand. She focused upon these sensations, remembering what it felt to be merged with Gaea’s lifeblood.

And with that simple contact she found herself attuning again to Gaea, and the hidden realm that, until today, she’d never known existed. 

Etha now knew that she could merge her psyche into the splashing waters of the nearby creek, to trace Gaea's lifeblood upstream, far to the North and the East, if she chose, where the glacial walls formed the borders of her homeland of Kakaesia. Or follow its winding course down to the Riana River, where it flowed into the Black Sea, where she’d traveled once with her family. Or she could sink her spirit down into earth’s soil, find and follow the network of roots and tendrils that existed, like a hidden realm, below ground.

For some inexplicable reason, this knowledge no longer filled her with the same sense of fear Etha had felt under the crushing weight of the mountain.

Here, in the open air, where heer psyche did not need to plow sluggishly upward through layers of mountain and cave, she could simply touch the Earth Root and enter Gaea’s hidden realm.

            Earthsong erupted around and within her, a celebration of Etha's awakening awareness to Gaea’s presence and this newfound bond they shared. Gaea exulted at the joining, and Etha felt the trembling of Earth’s joy rumbling deep underground, where Her lifeblood pulsed and sang. Etha rejoiced as well. 

A flock of birds took wing in wild abandon. A herd of gazelle bounded out of the woods and into the clearing below, full of grace and beauty. Trees swayed in rhythm to the dancing wind, rustling the leaves and swirling among the waters of the stream. Crickets and frogs lifted their voices, and a wolf cub sang out in unison, a grand chorus that echoed Gaea’s delight and celebration.

She could hear Gaea’s voice in her head. “I am known! I am no longer alone.”


The Deadline

The Deadline



The phone rang, shrill and startling in the silence of her home. It took three rings to find the phone, while she forced her mind back from the far distant past, and the desperate people she’d been writing about.

Reading the number on caller ID, she clicked the speaker button. “David, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me after eight? You’re lucky I even answered."

“Maggie, sweetheart! I hope I didn’t disturb you?”

“Of course you did! I told you my inspiration had returned and that I’d be writing. What do you want?”

“Ah, Mags, don’t be so harsh. You won’t believe it, but the History Channel wants your story. They loved your outline and are intrigued by the premise. I’ve scheduled a time for you to meet with them in the morning.”

“You're kidding?” she squealed, a rush of adrenaline pushing her to her feet. “That’s fantastic! Aren’t they like the eighth network you’ve been to!”

“Indeed it was, and believe me, this was not an easy sell.”

“Yeah?” She forced a deep breath, grounded in reality. “So, what’s the catch?”

“Well…” His voice cracked, and she heard nerves behind his hesitation.

“What? David! What have you done?”

“Well, they have a slot to fill next season, and they need to start filming right away. I told them you could have the pilot to them by Monday.”

“You did what!? Are you crazy? It’s Thursday. I’ve barely written ten pages.”

“That’s great, Maggie! And you’ve got your muse back, you said so yourself. I don’t see the problem?”

“David, one episode can be up to sixty pages; most pilots are two episodes. You expect that by Monday?”

“But you already have ten pages! You know you work best under pressure; especially when your inspiration is back.”


*****

Maggie's thoughts were flowing faster than she could type, her fingers flying over the keyboard at a furious rate. She’d been working practically non-stop for the last three days, alternating between feelings of elation that her screenplay was going to be aired on TV, despair that she would never finish in time, and self-doubt that it wouldn’t be good enough.

The phone rang; a disturbance completely at odds with the scene she was writing, and scattering it into the ether.

She should have silenced the phone, Maggie thought despondently, even as she turned the device over to read the caller id.

"Hey Mom," she sighed, answering the phone and pushing back from the desk.

"Hi sweetie. I thought I should check in with you. How are you coming along with your deadline?"

"Oh, God, I don't know," she lamented, at once glad for the opportunity to vent, while mourning the lost time. "I've got about twenty pages left to go, and it won’t be accepted it if I don’t have it, in person, at the Network by 8’oclock tomorrow morning. I’m not sure I’m gonna make it."

"Of course you will! Where’s your faith?”

“I left it behind in the last scene, when my characters started acting up and refused to go where I needed them to.”

“Haha, that’s funny, dear. Just give them a stern talking to and get them back in line.” She snickered at her own joke. "Have you eaten?"

"I'm too amped to eat. What time is it, anyway?"

"It's just after 7:00; you must be engrossed in your story."

"I am! I just finished writing the earthquake scene, killing off most of the tribal leaders who were holding a meeting inside the caves of their homeland, and destroyed tons of people in tents gathered outside. It's getting desperate for these people, because their whole way of life is coming to an end, and they're panicking, because they don't yet know what they're going to do."

"Ah, but you know what's going to happen?"

"Yeah, I've got it pretty well outlined, and I'm not too far off where I need to be, but I still have twenty pages more to go, and my characters aren’t cooperating.”

“You sound as desperate as your characters.”

“You’re telling me!”

*****

“Maggie? Maggie, wake up!” A warm hand on her back gave her an insistent shake.

“Hmm? What?” She found her eyelids heavy and crusted with sleep, her neck stiff, and her cheek pressed into the keyboard.

“Darlin, you’ve got to wake up. It’s Six-Thirty, sweetheart; we need to be downtown at Eight. Wake up, damnit!”

“David? What are you doing here?” She couldn’t shake off the fog in her head. The last thing she remembered, it’d been 4:30 and she’d sent the finished episode to the printer. Her brain finally engaged, and she came upright with a jolt, her eyes focusing on the clock. 6:33. “Oh, crap!”

“Please tell me you’re finished?” Her agent, and, incidentally, her best friend, asked in a tone that brooked no argument.

“It’s on the printer,” Maggie yawned and stretched, reaching over to collect the work.

There were only about ten pages there.

“Oh shit! No! No, no!!!”

David, ever calm, peered at the readout on the printer. “It’s jammed.” He looked at his watch, then at her disheveled, panicked state. “No, settle down. Listen, Mags, I’ll get this printed while you take a shower. As long as we’re on the road by Seven, we should be ok.”

Ten minutes later Maggie returned, stylishly outfitted and running a comb through wet, curly hair.

The printer was still jammed.

She pushed David aside, investigated the inner workings of the printer and finally found a tiny sliver of paper jammed in a place it should not be.

“There,” she sighed with relief as the machine whirred to life. “Thank God it’s high speed.”

Traffic was backed up when they arrived at the interstate at 7:35, no way they could make the deadline by that route.

Chancing surface streets instead, they encountered a string of green and yellow traffic lights, like an omen of goodwill, and arrived with just five minutes to spar