She ran, stumbling over rocks and tree roots. Her breath came in ragged gasps when she remembered to force herself to breathe. Her skin felt clammy. Fog was creeping in to blanket the cold, white light of the full moon. It misted her thin sweater with droplets of water. She didn’t notice.
She shivered, not from cold, but from fear, from abject error. Terror with a sharp taste. She didn’t know what chased her, but she knew it wouldn’t stop until her battered body lay dead on the ground. What chased her was relentless and evil. She burst through the trees and saw it. A spare, white building lit by an unearthly glow. Its dark, peaked supported a cross. Tall arched windows looked like eyes keeping watch through the night. Could she reach it in time? Footsteps padded behind her, getting closer, ever closer. She sprinted towards the doors of that small church on the glen. Her feet left wet tracks on the meadow grass. Her heart pounded in her chest. She pushed frantically on the thick wooden doors. They wouldn’t budge. “Who locks the doors to a church?” she thought. “And, why?” Crying now, she pounded on those doors with what was left of her strength. “Please,” she sobbed, “Please someone come. Open the doors. Let me in!” She heard a low growl behind her and turned. Bracing her back against the church doors, she faced her pursuer. Long, sharp canine teeth, saliva dripping in anticipation of the bite, dark matted fur, gleaming yellow eyes. Its fetid breath steamed as it panted. She was trapped. No hope. She braced for the attack… And fell into the foyer in a heap when the door creaked open. A young man with long hair, wearing a robe with a rope tied around his waist, held up a heavy cross. “Stop. I command you!” he ordered. “This one’s mine.” Carlo was sweating. Not from the heat. It was cool backstage. But he was a large Norway rat and he was nervous. He shifted his bulk so he could see upstage. The roof rats who were his principal dancers were warming up. Turning their focus inward, reviewing the choreography in their minds, trying to get into the zone for performing. The mice who made up the corps de ballet swarmed backstage. They were everywhere. Carlo wanted them out.
He signaled for his runner. She scurried over. “Tell the mice the house is open. We need quiet backstage. In fact, tell them to go back into the dressing room until you call them.” “But, their cue is right after the show starts,” the runner tried to explain. “Controlling those mice is like herding kittens. If they go back to the dressing room, we’ll never get them all onstage in time.” “No excuses,” Carlo muttered. He wanted to scream, but the audience would here, and the house was full tonight – of cats. Carlo knew his troupe would have to perform their best to keep the cats entertained. “Places in 15,” he said into his headset. “Only principal dancers backstage.” The music started. Carl cured the stagehand working the main drape, counting down 3-2-1 Go. The stage lights came on and the three principal dancers began their glissades and pirouettes. The crowd roared in approval when they performed pas-de-chats across the stage. Carlo allowed himself a smile and a sigh of relief. The cats were entertained. Carlo cued the corps. One of the younger mice ran onstage and froze, eyes wide with terror at the theater full of cats. Tears welled in her beady, black eyes. “I forgot my steps,” she whispered. “No excuses,” Carlo hissed. “Just dance. The audience won’t know if you make up your part. Just dance.” The mouse just stood, center stage, staring, her mouth quivering. The cats hissed and waved their paws, claws extended, in the air. Tails twitched. “The cats are getting restless,” Carlo said, mostly to himself. “Cue the next piece,” he ordered. “We need to keep the show moving.” Then he froze in horror as 200 cats jumped onstage and began to swat and bat at his dancers as they scurried around. The sound of purring reverberated when some of the cats captured their prey. It was mayhem. A roiling sea of terrorized mice surrounded by hungry cats. “We didn’t dance well enough,” one of the principal dancers moaned. “We didn’t keep the cats entertained.” “No excuses!” Carlo bellowed as he ran out the door. He had another show to run, and dancers to recruit to replace those he lost every single night. His audience was cats. What else did he expect? Our assignment in the writer's workshop today was to write something using the following words:
Nincompoop Guffaw Temptress Divine Cozy She Said, He Said Fall is a temptress,” she quoted A trickster with two faces A Janus Warm afternoons when Golden light bathes the hills Topped by puffy white clouds whispering by Evenings when The fog creeps in Blanketing the valleys In cool softness Making people yearn For sweaters and fuzzy socks A cozy blanket and a fire Divine “You are a nincompoop,” he guffawed and repeated with a sneer: “Temptress” “Golden Light” Divine” Cozy” Ridiculous! Summer is king The air is warm Bats crack Balls fly Beers and hot dogs rule Cheers and jeers ring out The boys of summer reign Baseball is divine Joe trudged slowly down the sidewalk towards the boarding house where he was staying. The wind was cold; he pulled his coat closer around his neck and shoved his hands in his pockets. He wanted a cigarette. Badly.
The strains of a piano drifted out from the club in the middle of the block. Jazz. The music pulled him in. Inside, the air was blue from smoke. He breathed deeply, taking in that cigarette flavor. God, he missed smoking. He took another deep breath, filling his lungs with second-hand nicotine. It was warm in the club. It smelled of alcohol, tobacco, and old perfume. The flor was scratched, the tables slightly sticky. A quartet was warming up their instruments at the back of the room. Stand up microphones gleamed in reflected light. Joe found an empty table and sat. He hung his coat over the back of the chair and put his hat – his favorite felt fedora – on the table. Sandy brought him his regular drink – whisky, neat – without asking. Joe signed. This felt more like home than the cold, dark boarding house with its hard mattress and thin blankets. There was no welcoming comfort that. Only cold charity. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. He watched the band start to play. As the song built, he closed his eyes and smiled. Drifting, Joe dreamed of dancing, lighter than air, his wife in his arms. As long as there was music, he could dream. He could remember when life was good. Before the explosion that took his wife, his home, and left him with pins and shrapnel in his back. Before he lost his job as a mechanic because he couldn’t bend. Before his hands shook when he tried to use a wrench. Before. As long as there was music, he could dream. He was home. Joy. Exhilaration. The unbridled freedom of a summer day and no more chores. The dusty wooden plank floors in the kitchen had been swept. The animals were feed and watered. At age 6, Bobby was happy he was too small to do the big chores like milking cows or driving the tractor across the field like his father and his older brother. He knew his mother would call him back in the afternoon to pick peas and shell them for dinner.
But for now – Freedom! Slamming the screen door, he pulled off his shirt and kicked off his shoes, leaving them in a heap on the stoop. Then he leapt off the porch and raced across the long grass punching his fists in the air, his face split by a wide grin that revealed a missing front tooth, a sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks. The grass smelled sharp. It was drying in the summer sun. Grass wasn’t a crop, so it wasn’t important to keep it watered or cut. The blades scratched his ankles as he pumped his legs and sprinted across the yard. He was a wolf chasing a deer. He was a lion racing across the plains towards an antelope. He had seen pictures of lions in one of his books. He smelled the lake, dank, slightly rotten, a little green. Like fish. Cool. His legs didn’t slow as he reached the edge. He ran straight into the water, kicking up drops, splashing, scattering the tiny fish that swam near the shore. Annoyed ducks quacked and scolded as they flapped their wings to fly away. Stopping, Bobby squished his toes in the cool, soft mud. He liked the way the mud felt between his toes. He squatted so he was up to his shoulders in the water, leaned back, and spread his arms. He floated, looking up at the blue sky. A few fluffy clouds floated by. Shade from the nearby trees filtered the sunlight o the water. The surface sparkled. He was a pirate and the lake was his treasure chest of twinkling jewels. After a while, he got bored. Flipping over, Bobby looked for fish under the surface. If he was very still, the fish would swim near. Maybe he could catch one. He let his arms dangle in the water, small hands ready to grab a fish. Bobby looked up at a sound. A plop in the water. A bull frog. Bobby kicked his feet and chased the frog. It was no contest. He waded out of the pond and flopped down in the grass. The sun felt good on his chest and his face. He spent all afternoon daydreaming. “Bobby, time to come home,” his mother called. “I need help picking peas. If you pick some cherries, I’ll make a pie.” Bobby loved cherry pie. He was called Robert now. He sat at his desk and stared out the window, daydreaming about that perfect summer day when he was 6, topped off with warm cherry pie and ice cream. He sighed. Standing at the jewelry counter in Mervyn’s, I admired a necklace with silver beads and a smooth red stone pendant. School had just gotten out for the summer. My friend Jane and I would be seniors next year. Wow. Our last year of high school. I was reveling in the freedom of driving and shopping with Jane. Without my mom chauffeuring me around. Or judging my decisions. That would come later when I got home with my purchases.
I was flush with babysitting money. I worked hard for those dollars and I was going to spend them well. I picked up the necklace, held it up to my neck, and looked in the small mirror that was standing on the counter. The necklace was so delicate. I liked the sheen of the silver beads and the smooth texture of the stone. Plus, red was my favorite color. I turned over the tab to check the price and my hand slipped. The necklace slithered down the front of my shirt. I froze. Panic and guilt showed on my glass face. I’ve never been able to lie. I shimmied a little trying to get the necklace to drop. It didn’t. Now What? No way was I going to reach inside my shirt while standing in the middle of Mervyn’s. I was mortified. Surely someone saw what happened. Weren’t there cameras and employees and watching teenaged girls loitering in the jewelry department? I was equally sure there were cameras in the dressing rooms, so ducking into one to retrieve the necklace was out. “Hey Inga, let’s go,” Jane called. “I’m done shopping.” In her code, that meant she had lifted something and wanted to get out of the store as fast as she could. Jane was way more daring than I was. We walked towards the door. With every step, I was sure we would be stopped by a security person. Everyone must know I had a necklace under my shirt. Two more steps and we were on the sidewalk. No one stopped us. “Come on, let’s go get cookies and I’ll show you want I lifted. Did you get something?” No, I thought, not on purpose. It wasn’t really stealing. I never wore the necklace. This piece is creepy. I submitted it to a literary magazine, but it was rejected. So, how blog readers, you get to see it for free!
The hair on my arms stands straight up. I hold my breath, afraid to move or make a sound. My heart pounds in my throat. I wonder if this is how a rabbit feels when stalked by a fox. I hear his raspy breath, the scrape of his shoes on the wooden floor, his slight limp more pronounced when he has been drinking. “I know you’re in there, you stupid bitch,” his voice slurs. “You can’t hide forever. I’ll find you and you’ll get what you deserve.” “He’ll kill me this time,” I say silently to myself and look around, desperately, for a weapon. There is nothing useful in my closet hiding place. Nothing sharp. Nothing hard. Just clothes. Not even a shoe to hit him with. Or a phone to call for help. His steps come closer, closer. I pray. Silence. I let out my breath. I hear the creak of the bed springs. I breathe in, exhale and breathe in again. I count, slowly, to 100. I hear a snort, then a wall-rattling snore. I let out my breath again. I crack open the closet door and peek out at the dark bedroom. I see a man-sized lump on the bed. I carefully unfold myself from my hiding place. My mind screams at me to run. Instead, I creep carefully around the squeaky floor board and crawl across the floor telling myself to move slowly, slowly, silently. At the bedroom door, finally, I run. And live another day. No way out. A terrifying thought. The stuff of nightmares.
A closed room with no windows and a locked door. Trapped. Waking in a dark room not knowing where I am. Trapped. Elsa woke up with a start, sweating and shivering at the same time. She tried to shake off the nightmare. At least she thought it was a nightmare. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the inky darkness and looked around. No windows. A locked door. Terror. She wanted to succumb to that terror. To lay down in a corner and curl into a fetal position. And wait. For what? Rescue? Or death? “What clear-minded confidence does it take to find a way out?” she thought. “I wish I knew.” “I need to change the reality of the situation,” she thought. “This closed room is not a trap, but a problem to be solved. Clues are in the room. Or are they just in my mind? Hinges on the door can be undone. A pin found on the floor can pick a lock.” Elsa’s brain swirled with possibilities. “Maybe the room is not a room at all. Maybe it’s a meadow surrounded by leafy trees and sunlight filtering down. Birds sing. Butterflies flit. Bees buzz. Flowers bloom. Breathe in that sweet and spicy scent. Its not a room at all.” “Am I going crazy? Is the reality I see the truth of how things are? Or is this just how I choose to see it? Am I in a dark, locked room?” From her fetal position in the corner, Elsa withdrew further into her mind. She skipped through the meadow and danced in the sun. The reality of the room was more than she could grasp. She was trapped. 1932
Amer scratched the stubble on his chin while he looked over the rusted bedframe he found sitting by the side of the road. Always a practical man, he found a use for everything. And lord knows, everything wasn’t much these days. “Now why would someone throw away a perfectly useful bedframe?” he mumbled to himself. He heaved the heavy metal frame into the bed of his equally rusted pickup truck. “I could cut this up and use it for scrap metal,” he thought. “Or, Adda Mae’s birthday’s coming up. First of June. She’d like a swing to put under the apple tree. He could see her gently swinging back and forth in the shade, shelling peas for supper. “That’s it, I’ll make Adda Mae a birthday present.” Amer had a small welding business. It used to thrive, but with so many people losing their jobs, now he mostly repaired tools and farm equipment. More often than not he was paid with a bag of turnips than with cash. There wasn’t much cash around these days, but at least they’d eat. Adda Mae had her vegetable garden and her fruit trees. They had a cow for milk, and a flock of chickens. “Yeah, they’d eat” Amer thought as he bent over his welding. He cut the frame in half and put it back together as a bench and back. Then, using left over pieces of metal, he built two side pieces to use as arms. He drilled holes in the arm frames and the bench, then threaded S hooks though the holes. He connected the S hooks with flat rods. He gave the swing a push with his foot. It swung gently back and forth. Satisfied, he closed the shed door and walked towards the house. “Needs paint again,” he thought as he climbed the wooden plank steps to the back porch and swung open the screen door. 1953 Bob drove to the junk yard with a pickup full of scraps from building his house. His father Clarence sat beside him. It was Clarence who spotted the rusted yard swing sitting at the side of the junk yard. “Bobby, look at that swing. It has life in it yet. You should take it home and put in your yard. A new-home gift for Ruth.” Bob smiled at the thought of Ruth’s smiling reaction to seeing a yard swing. He and Clarence unloaded his pickup and then heaved the heavy yard swing into the bed. They unloaded the swing in Bob’s work shed. Ruth never went out there. She wouldn’t see the swing until he was finished with it. Bob scraped and sanded the rusted metal, then painted it green. He found a couple of boards and cut them into arm rests, then bolted them to the arms. He and Clarence muscled the swing onto the back patio of the house they were building. “Wait till Ruth sees this” he thought. “She’ll love it.” 1990 Bob was tired. He had worked as a plumber for more than 40 years and his body remembered every damp basement and hot day building new homes. He sat in the yard swing and looked at the golf course, his cold beer sitting on the arm rest. New arm rests since he first refurbished it. And it was painted white now. He and Ruth were moving back to Washington where he grew up. He wanted to build a new home on the golf course. He had already joined the country club where he caddied as a boy. There was no place for the yard swing. “I wonder if one of my daughters wants it,” he mused. “Yes! I want the swing” Kathy screamed with joy. 2019 It is hot. Sweltering. I am sitting on the swing beneath my fig tree, the fig leaves tickling my cheek. The chickens are talking softly from the other side of the gate. Inside, the TV is on. Marc is watching the Warriors. I’m a casual sports fan at best. The intense and seemingly never-ending series of games bores and overwhelms me. Sitting outside watching the sky darken is a respite from the noise and the stifling heat inside the house. The screen door opens and Marc walks out. He climbs the steps and joins me on the swing, now rusty again. I need to scrape and sand and paint. The wooden arm rests are long gone. I wonder if I can figure out how to make and attach new ones. Marc and I swing gently back and forth watching the sky darken. “There! There’s Jupiter.” Marc points out the first light in the sky. Crows fly home. The sky gets darker. Night birds flit by. The chickens to go bed. We swing, enjoying the slightly cooler air, sitting on the yard swing that is older than me. I wonder which of our daughters will want the swing when we’re gone. “Who are you? What’s your story?”
I ask Eleanor, the only ghost whose name I know. She lives in the tower bedroom. She’s sad. She’s waiting. She won’t tell me for whom. I think its her beau, coming to take her away. He never made it. She waits, wearing her tea length lace gown. She stands by the windows and looks out. “Don’t tell anyone about me” she says. “Who are you? What’s your story?” I ask the man with the bowler hat. I don’t know his name. He hasn’t told me. He has a temper. He frightens me. He apologizes. He was passing through town and decided to stay. “Don’t tell anyone about me” he says. “Who are you? What’s your story?” I ask the frazzled woman who stays in the blue bedroom with the man with the bowler hat. They argue. She’s never satisfied, never happy. She’s warn down. She doesn’t like being dead. Or having to stay forever with the bowler hat man. Don’t tell anyone about me” she says. Who are you? What’s your story?” I ask the very angry man who walks up ad down the hall near the stairs. He tells me his story. He was pushed down the stairs by an angry woman. One of the women who worked in the house when it was a brothel. That’s where he died. “Don’t tell anyone about me” he says. “Who are you? What’s your story?” I ask the gentle old woman who stays in the north side garden. There is peace there. Tranquility. “That’s enough” she tells me, “peace and tranquility.” Then…..” I’m Charlotte. May I stay in your garden?” “As long as you want” I say. “For eternity. Nice to meet you, Charlotte. You are welcome here.” Don’t tell anyone about us” she says. No one will believe you. |
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