I can't sleep. Not because clowns will eat me or anything. That's one thing I can certainly say has never made me shake in the metaphorical boots people keep going on about.
What has me shaking (in boots that I can only imagine are made out of snakeskin and look great on cowboys that I don't sleep with, though not by choice but most probably because of region) is the fact that my life now occupies a ten foot by 5 foot by 6 foot square in one corner of what will no longer be my living room. I'm sitting on a chair that will no longer be mine, typing on a keyboard that will no longer be mine, on a blog that hasn't been mine lately but is now being reclaimed, among other things.
Now let me be clear-- Hmm, now I'm channeling Obama...
Let me say this, then: I know I will be fine. "Fine," of course, being one of those words used to answer the questions of life that no one really cares to ponder too deeply, lest they learn something about themselves or others that may make them uncomfortable. So perhaps "fine" isn't what I'm trying to convey.
I will land on my cowboy-bootless feet. I will find love and happiness again. I will make it through these next few weeks and months, mourning the relationship and husband I'm leaving behind in my own way (which I'm also sure I'll learn how to mourn a 12.5 year relationship), learning once again how to be alone and enjoy my own company.
Some of this I'm greatly looking forward too. But there are definite things I will miss, not only about having a companion, but having had this specific companion. There will always be things I love about him, always memories I will cherish to my dying day, and always a place in my heart that he will reside in.
This is probably a given, and shouldn't need said, but I said it anyway, because I know, now that I am leaving, he will be reading.
So be it.
Hundreds, perhaps millions, of other people have gone through this and been "fine," cowboy boots notwithstanding. And even though some may disagree, I'm nothing if not rational and logical, with a dash of dreamer and romantic, with leanings toward optimism--ergo, I will be fine.
But at 1:30 a.m., when your brother and father are to arrive in 7.5 short hours to figure out how to fit your life into their respective vehicles...?
I don't feel fine at the moment. Which, of course, is to be expected in this kind of situation. I think. Maybe.
It's almost a shame Oprah's off the air. Almost. She'd be eating this stuff up, and probably trying to get me onto see Dr. Phil. Wouldn't that be fun?
But I digress.
I've never liked seeing my life in boxes. I'm a nester. I like to see knick-knacks of places I've been, or photos of people I love, or items that were once owned by those I loved. I love rows upon rows of books, separated by subject, alphabetical by author, from earliest to latest work published. Same for my music.
And my closet? I look forward to not sharing a closet! To have my clothing once again in color order, from darkest to lightest, on all wooden hangars, and further separated by season?
I know no one believes that I am a highly-organized person. Well, except those I work with which see me in action, attacking and reorganizing the supply closet, neat stacks of folders on my desk, stapler, scotch tape dispenser, and hole punch neatly lined up to one side of my monitor, little plastic bins for rubber bands, paperclips, and pens.
But most, if not all of my friends, have never known me without the other half, so I can't say I blame them for thinking we're just two big pack rats who can't file a piece of paper to save our lives! It's hard to have a system of organization when someone doesn't use your system of organization. Of course, having been raised by my mother, where I get this need to have everything hyper-organized, I also know that in and of itself can be an unhealthy life, and thus for the last 12.5 years, I haven't once made a stink about it.
Now I don't need to.
Of course, you, dear reader, are reading all this and thinking, "Wait--you're leaving him because he's disorganized and can't hang your clothing in color order?"
Of course not. There's more issues between us than Carter has liver pills. And perhaps, when wounds have healed, when hearts have begun to mend, and people won't see things as an attack but instead as the therapy and venting one needs in life in order to stay sane--then perhaps we can get into those things.
By then Armageddon may have happened, or the Mayans may have annihilated us, or a tsunami may take down the entire East Coast of the United States! But we'll just see how it goes, shall we?
I'm starting up and stepping out into my life. I'll be shedding some tears, perhaps getting too drunk on a few nights in the near future, and maybe even second-guessing decisions that have been made, not just recently, but long past.
But that is how I will grow, and learn, and live again.
I've missed you, blog. I've missed you, my audience (if, indeed, there still be one here waiting patiently for me to get my life back in order).
But mainly? I've been missing me.
And I'm coming back.
Just as soon as I find that apartment and unpack. And get my clothing hung in color order. And my books separated. Alphabetized. Color folder filing system...
Did I mention the new car that goes with my new life? Fucking Bambi. My new life also includes a call for the extermination of all deer. But that will be a short-lived campaign, I'm sure. I'm a sucker for those big doe eyes, like the rest of you.
Hello, world. I'm Jason. Welcome to My Life & Otherwise... Complete without cowboy boots in a neighborhood near you.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Good Night, and Good-Bye...
Week 27
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Lance challenged me with "the long kiss goodnight"; I challenged wintervixen86 (who has an awesome super-sexy man at the top of her page--not that that means anything when it comes to a writing challenge, but just thought you should know...) with "The neighbor needs help hanging up her Christmas lights--you know, the neighbor suspected of murder?"
This may be my last entry on this blog for a few months...
Good Night, and Good-Bye...
He placed the silver platter gently on the table before her, slowly lifting the ornate lid to reveal it's mirrored surface.
"What's this, then?" she asked, barely glancing up to acknowledge either him or the mirrored tray.
"It's called a... Um... I forget it's technical name, but basically it reveals your worldview through force of will. Sounds neat, yeah?"
"Hmph," was her reply. She gave it an appraising look. "How much was it?"
"Does it matter?" But of course he knew it did. "Anyway, the gist of it is, you gaze on to the surface of the mirror, focusing your will, and it shows the other person your view of the world--as if you were seeing it through their eyes!"
She laughed. "What? Sounds like a lot of hocus pocus. You got ripped off there, Jeremiah." She laughed again and refocused her attention to her knitting on her lap.
"No, no, he showed it to me, see? Watch, it's awesome, wait until you see this." He settled himself more firmly in his chair, the old wood creaking as he shifted. He placed one hand on either side, grasping the silver handles tightly, then focused his gaze on the mirror.
She jumped, losing her knitting needles as a flash of light shot up between them. "What the devil...?" She followed the light down from the ceiling to the surface of the mirror between them, then across at Jeremiah, whose gaze was focused squarely on its center. She looked down again to where it seemed his eyes were focused.
She grimaced as she saw nothing but light, but the longer she gazed, she began to make out shapes and images. A field. The field right outside their cottage, she realized. Small flowers popped up here and there, reaching for the blue sky filled with white clouds. There sat their home, smack-dab in the center--at least, she thought it was supposed to be their cottage. Suddenly a rainbow shot across that same sky, and she placed a hand over her heart as if to keep it within.
Then she laughed. "Jeremiah, you naive fool!" she practically shouted in her ecstasy. "Oh, my. Yeah, we live in rainbow land. Next thing you'll be saying there's a pot of gold just inside the barn doors."
The light went out as he looked across at her quizzically, gaze no longer focused on the mirror between them. "What?"
"When was the last time you saw a rainbow overhead, eh?" She shook her head disapprovingly. "I swear, you see what isn't there and miss what is there with those goddamn rose-tinted goggles of yours."
"Well, then, here--let me see what you see." He pushed the mirror closer to her side of the table.
"Piss off. I have to finish this knitting."
Jeremiah glanced at the half-made item in her lap. "Isn't that the same--"
"Yes, yes. I will finish it one of these days. Darn cheap needles you bought make it hard to do."
"Look, that can wait. Why don't you just--"
"Fine! Fine. If it means you can return this piece of junk and get our money back if I give it a whirl, then fine. Just grab these handles here, yeah?"
"Yep."
"And gaze into it all thoughtful like, yeah?"
"Uh-huh."
"Rubbish." But gaze she did. Jeremiah himself leaped a little as light once more shot from it's surface to the rough-shod straw roof above. He, too, followed the beam of light down from the rafters and onto the glistening surface of the mirror below.
Dead wheat. That was the first thing--yes, definitely dead wheat. She, too, was calling up the field out front. A drabber version of their home sat amongst the dead grasses, and the trees along the fence line, while green with foliage, showed a dead branch here and there, and a rutted, muddy path. The sky was overcast, a shoddy ashen color. No breeze stirred the scene.
"Millie," he cried. "That's not how it is at all!"
"The hell it ain't," she replied, not bothering to look up.
He watched as her scene drifted now, to the fields where they worked. Everyone looked half-dead, pale skin, blood shot eyes.
"Is that--is that supposed to be Floyd?"
"Darn tootin'."
"Come on, he isn't that sickly looking. In fact, he never--"
"Hush up, darlin'. You wanted to see the world how I see it? This is how it is. This is our world. Not some puppy-loving, unicorn-humping fairy tale."
"I never--" But he stopped. Then he placed his hands atop of hers as they still gripped the mirror. "No, sweetie. This is how it actually is." And he bent his head.
The light from the surface doubled in its intensity as he imposed his views atop hers.
"What? Oh, no, Jer--I don't think so." And she doubled-down.
And on it went. Scenes and faces flashed across the mirror. There was Floyd, first zombie-like, then a happy grinning fool, then a strange mix of the two, and then he was gone. The cottage, a bit worn looking, now newish looking, then worn looking, back and forth, back and forth.
Sweat began to pour openly from both their brows as they fought, will against will, each one sure that they knew what the world looked like, they knew how it should seem, they knew things the other didn't. Scene after scene, friend after friend, scenario after scenario flashed across the mirror as one thought of something, showed how they saw it, and the other quickly disagreeing, creating a nasty, twisted world. As they fought the once bright white light changed as well, flashing dim, sickly yellow, then an angry red, and bruised eggplant purple.
Neither knew how long they raged. Days passed. Weeks even. People stopped by, but they were lost among the battle, and quietly they would slip away, wondering what had happened to Jeremiah and Millie.
And then, it ended. Jeremiah gasped, released his hold on the handles of the mirror, and slumped back in his chair. He chest heaved, reaching for air, his sweat-drenched clothing sending up a stench. He wiped his forehead and placed his other hand on his chest as if to slow his heart beat.
Millie cackled in victory. "See? I told you how it was, but you couldn't listen, could you?" She, too, finally released her hold on the mirror and the light slammed down to its surface, leaving them both in the dank gloom of what little light could seep through the windows.
"What? No, it wasn't about--"
"Seems I was right, eh? It isn't all roses and kittens, is it? This is the real world, Jeremiah. This is how it is."
"No, look. I realize this is how you view the world, but--"
"You want me to show you again? Do you want to see how it is?"
"I'm just saying, I know that not everyone is nice. I know not everyone will always have something nice to say. I know it's depressing sometimes, but--"
"But nothing. I showed you. It was right there! Proof of what I said was right!"
"That was just a mirror--none of those things actually happened..."
"Whatever." She grabbed a knitting needle from off the floor, grabbed the half-finished scarf, and began once again the endless chore.
"Millie, I--"
"Now go return that piece of junk. We need the money."
Jeremiah lowered his head, shaking it in despair. He walked around to the other side, to Millie's side, and lifted her gaze to his.
"Fine," he said. "You win." And he gave her a kiss. A soft, tender, gentle kiss. Then he let go of her chin. He grabbed the mirror, stuffed it into his sack, and headed for the door.
"Jeremiah?"
He stopped, but didn't turn around.
"Jer? What's wrong? Where are you going?"
He turned his head, looking back over his shoulder. "I'm letting you have your world."
"What? No, wait--"
"Good night, my love. And good-bye. Please remember that I did love you." And he closed the door and walked out into the sunlight. Behind him, he could hear her screams, her wails, her angry taunts. His heart broke, but not his spirit. Never his spirit.
As he sauntered down the path toward the village, he heard her yank open the door and scream that she could change.
But he kept walking.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Lance challenged me with "the long kiss goodnight"; I challenged wintervixen86 (who has an awesome super-sexy man at the top of her page--not that that means anything when it comes to a writing challenge, but just thought you should know...) with "The neighbor needs help hanging up her Christmas lights--you know, the neighbor suspected of murder?"
This may be my last entry on this blog for a few months...
He placed the silver platter gently on the table before her, slowly lifting the ornate lid to reveal it's mirrored surface.
"What's this, then?" she asked, barely glancing up to acknowledge either him or the mirrored tray.
"It's called a... Um... I forget it's technical name, but basically it reveals your worldview through force of will. Sounds neat, yeah?"
"Hmph," was her reply. She gave it an appraising look. "How much was it?"
"Does it matter?" But of course he knew it did. "Anyway, the gist of it is, you gaze on to the surface of the mirror, focusing your will, and it shows the other person your view of the world--as if you were seeing it through their eyes!"
She laughed. "What? Sounds like a lot of hocus pocus. You got ripped off there, Jeremiah." She laughed again and refocused her attention to her knitting on her lap.
"No, no, he showed it to me, see? Watch, it's awesome, wait until you see this." He settled himself more firmly in his chair, the old wood creaking as he shifted. He placed one hand on either side, grasping the silver handles tightly, then focused his gaze on the mirror.
She jumped, losing her knitting needles as a flash of light shot up between them. "What the devil...?" She followed the light down from the ceiling to the surface of the mirror between them, then across at Jeremiah, whose gaze was focused squarely on its center. She looked down again to where it seemed his eyes were focused.
She grimaced as she saw nothing but light, but the longer she gazed, she began to make out shapes and images. A field. The field right outside their cottage, she realized. Small flowers popped up here and there, reaching for the blue sky filled with white clouds. There sat their home, smack-dab in the center--at least, she thought it was supposed to be their cottage. Suddenly a rainbow shot across that same sky, and she placed a hand over her heart as if to keep it within.
Then she laughed. "Jeremiah, you naive fool!" she practically shouted in her ecstasy. "Oh, my. Yeah, we live in rainbow land. Next thing you'll be saying there's a pot of gold just inside the barn doors."
The light went out as he looked across at her quizzically, gaze no longer focused on the mirror between them. "What?"
"When was the last time you saw a rainbow overhead, eh?" She shook her head disapprovingly. "I swear, you see what isn't there and miss what is there with those goddamn rose-tinted goggles of yours."
"Well, then, here--let me see what you see." He pushed the mirror closer to her side of the table.
"Piss off. I have to finish this knitting."
Jeremiah glanced at the half-made item in her lap. "Isn't that the same--"
"Yes, yes. I will finish it one of these days. Darn cheap needles you bought make it hard to do."
"Look, that can wait. Why don't you just--"
"Fine! Fine. If it means you can return this piece of junk and get our money back if I give it a whirl, then fine. Just grab these handles here, yeah?"
"Yep."
"And gaze into it all thoughtful like, yeah?"
"Uh-huh."
"Rubbish." But gaze she did. Jeremiah himself leaped a little as light once more shot from it's surface to the rough-shod straw roof above. He, too, followed the beam of light down from the rafters and onto the glistening surface of the mirror below.
Dead wheat. That was the first thing--yes, definitely dead wheat. She, too, was calling up the field out front. A drabber version of their home sat amongst the dead grasses, and the trees along the fence line, while green with foliage, showed a dead branch here and there, and a rutted, muddy path. The sky was overcast, a shoddy ashen color. No breeze stirred the scene.
"Millie," he cried. "That's not how it is at all!"
"The hell it ain't," she replied, not bothering to look up.
He watched as her scene drifted now, to the fields where they worked. Everyone looked half-dead, pale skin, blood shot eyes.
"Is that--is that supposed to be Floyd?"
"Darn tootin'."
"Come on, he isn't that sickly looking. In fact, he never--"
"Hush up, darlin'. You wanted to see the world how I see it? This is how it is. This is our world. Not some puppy-loving, unicorn-humping fairy tale."
"I never--" But he stopped. Then he placed his hands atop of hers as they still gripped the mirror. "No, sweetie. This is how it actually is." And he bent his head.
The light from the surface doubled in its intensity as he imposed his views atop hers.
"What? Oh, no, Jer--I don't think so." And she doubled-down.
And on it went. Scenes and faces flashed across the mirror. There was Floyd, first zombie-like, then a happy grinning fool, then a strange mix of the two, and then he was gone. The cottage, a bit worn looking, now newish looking, then worn looking, back and forth, back and forth.
Sweat began to pour openly from both their brows as they fought, will against will, each one sure that they knew what the world looked like, they knew how it should seem, they knew things the other didn't. Scene after scene, friend after friend, scenario after scenario flashed across the mirror as one thought of something, showed how they saw it, and the other quickly disagreeing, creating a nasty, twisted world. As they fought the once bright white light changed as well, flashing dim, sickly yellow, then an angry red, and bruised eggplant purple.
Neither knew how long they raged. Days passed. Weeks even. People stopped by, but they were lost among the battle, and quietly they would slip away, wondering what had happened to Jeremiah and Millie.
And then, it ended. Jeremiah gasped, released his hold on the handles of the mirror, and slumped back in his chair. He chest heaved, reaching for air, his sweat-drenched clothing sending up a stench. He wiped his forehead and placed his other hand on his chest as if to slow his heart beat.
Millie cackled in victory. "See? I told you how it was, but you couldn't listen, could you?" She, too, finally released her hold on the mirror and the light slammed down to its surface, leaving them both in the dank gloom of what little light could seep through the windows.
"What? No, it wasn't about--"
"Seems I was right, eh? It isn't all roses and kittens, is it? This is the real world, Jeremiah. This is how it is."
"No, look. I realize this is how you view the world, but--"
"You want me to show you again? Do you want to see how it is?"
"I'm just saying, I know that not everyone is nice. I know not everyone will always have something nice to say. I know it's depressing sometimes, but--"
"But nothing. I showed you. It was right there! Proof of what I said was right!"
"That was just a mirror--none of those things actually happened..."
"Whatever." She grabbed a knitting needle from off the floor, grabbed the half-finished scarf, and began once again the endless chore.
"Millie, I--"
"Now go return that piece of junk. We need the money."
Jeremiah lowered his head, shaking it in despair. He walked around to the other side, to Millie's side, and lifted her gaze to his.
"Fine," he said. "You win." And he gave her a kiss. A soft, tender, gentle kiss. Then he let go of her chin. He grabbed the mirror, stuffed it into his sack, and headed for the door.
"Jeremiah?"
He stopped, but didn't turn around.
"Jer? What's wrong? Where are you going?"
He turned his head, looking back over his shoulder. "I'm letting you have your world."
"What? No, wait--"
"Good night, my love. And good-bye. Please remember that I did love you." And he closed the door and walked out into the sunlight. Behind him, he could hear her screams, her wails, her angry taunts. His heart broke, but not his spirit. Never his spirit.
As he sauntered down the path toward the village, he heard her yank open the door and scream that she could change.
But he kept walking.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
- [Week 1: All of Me]
- [Week 2: Child's End]
- [Week 3: Seeking Bonds]
- [Week 4: Just So You Know]
- [Week 5: Justice & Mercy]
- [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
- [Week 7: Hell or High Water]
- [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
- [Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
- [Week 10: Set It Free]
- [Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
- [Week 12: Worth a Thousand Words...]
- [Week 13: On the Down...]
- [Week 14: Hey Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?]
- [Week 15: Forever Is...]
- [Week 16: Death of a Betsy...]
- [Week 17: Big Bad]
- [Week 18: Coffee: Hot, Black, & Strong]
- [Week 19: The Queen's Confession]
- [Week 20: The Witch of Picassoid]
- [Week 21: Me, Mouse-self and I...]
- [Week 22: "O, Great Genie..."]
- [Week 23: A Funeral for Sven]
- [Week 24: Priceless]
- [Week 25: Empty]
- [Week 26: Armageddon It]
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Armageddon It
Week 25
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Kurt challenged me with "The earth died screaming while I lay dreaming of you. --Tom Waits"; I challenged Sarah Cass with "There's a beak in my sushi."
Armageddon It
He closed the steel front door, slammed the locks into place, and yelled to the back of the house, "It looks like the Thompson's are gone!"
"No!"
"Yes." He sat back in his recliner and started paging through the leaflets that were scattered on the front lawn. "Doomsday is Here--Do You Need Jesus Now?"; "Needleson's: Security Today So You'll Be Here Tomorrow"; "Elect George McGruber for Town Marshall: He's the One with the Guns."
Susie came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a ratty dishtowel. "There's just no telling these days, is there? Guess I won't be getting the Chipmunk Surprise recipe anytime soon."
"Oh, I don't know. Looked like the back of the house may still be intact. Once the fire dies down a little, we'll go over, scrounge up what we can. Perhaps the kitchen is mostly intact?"
"My little optimist!" Susie seemed to brighten at the thought, however, a small smile creeping up at the corners of her perfectly made-up lips. "At least we know what all the noise was last night."
"I told them they should have installed those alarms." Fred tossed the fliers into the burn bucket by the old stone fireplace, then got up from the recliner.
"You men and your alarms," she smiled at him. "I'll take old Rusty over flashing lights and screaming sirens any day. By the way, has he been out yet?"
"Hmm? No, darling. Wasn't he just out yesterday?"
She heaved a sigh, the type that says "I know that you know that I know you were going to say that," and she spun around, heading back toward the kitchen. "I'll let him out. Though I will need you to run out to see if you can find some food."
"I'm on it, darling."
Susie finished rinsing the few dishes left on the counter, then picked up the plastic orange bucket and carried it toward the basement door. Placing it down gently, she took off her "Hello! Kitty" apron and hung it on the peg just so, then reached up to the shelf above and pulled down the revolver. Checking to make sure it was loaded, she stuck it in the waistband of her dress. Unlocking the door to the cellar, she picked up the bucket and started descending the stairs.
"Rusty? You awake, boy?"
As she reached the bottom, she flipped a few switches, shedding a pale sickly light upon the concrete floors and walls. Through the gloomy light, meager even through the gaps in the metal black bars that halved the basement, she could make out the hulking body in the corner on the other side.
"Rusty? Darling, I brought you some fresh water. Are you thirsty? I know it hasn't rained in a few days."
She saw the shape lift its head, and knew she had its attention. "Now you remember what happened last time, don't you? So you stay there, behaving just as you are now, and I'll pour the water into your dish, okay?" She kept her eyes on it for another few seconds, fingers unconsciously caressing the gun at her waistband. Satisfied it wouldn't be moving, she approached the bars, finally spying the water bowl in the opposite corner. After one more glance at the shadow, she tipped the dirty dishwater from the orange bucket through the bars. Some missed, but she was satisfied when the bowl reached the half-full point.
"Now Rusty, darling, try to make this last, all right? You know the longer we don't have rain--"
A loud roar, and almost before she knew it, the creature was across the basement, dirty clawed fingers reaching through the bars, trying to grab at her blouse. Luckily she had been paying attention, and as she jumped back from the bars, she only felt the breeze the hands made, the air wafting softly on her cheeks.
"Rusty! I'm ashamed of you! I was going to open the door so you could run around the yard, too!" She pulled the gun from her waistband, aimed, and fired a shot toward its feet.
"Yooooowwwwwwllllllll!" it screamed, collapsing to the floor, spilling the half-full bowl of water in the process.
"Tsk! Rusty! Didn't you hear me? Now what will you drink?" Giving one last shake of her head, she flipped off the switches, blanketing the cellar once more in darkness. Rusty's silent weeping following her up the stairs until she slammed the door closed.
"Hon?"
She turned to see Fred standing in the hall, a look of alarm plastered across his face.
"Everything okay?"
"It's Rusty. He spilled the only bit of water I could spare him. I swear, you may need to pick up another soon. He's a great crime deterrent, but sometimes--sometimes I think a good old-fashioned Doberman can't be beat. That's the third time this week he's tried to get at me through the bars! He may be too feral to train!"
"I'm sure it's just all the excitement from last night," Fred said, pulling her into a hug. "What with the neighbors house being set on fire, the giant cats prowling just outside the fences all night long--it can drive anyone a bit mad, you know."
"Maybe you're right," she sighed into his shoulder. "It's just... I don't know."
"Shh. I know, dear, I know." He kept her embraced a moment longer, then pulled her back to arms' length. "You know what I'm going to do for you today?"
She gave him a quizzical smile.
"Not only will I find the last can of coffee in the greater tri-state area, but I will get you two--yes, now hush--TWO new Rustys! Just the other day Dan down the street was telling me a whole pocket of the things were found under the bridge of old Interstate 95! As he's going down there today to get one, I'll just tag along and get us a few!"
"Oh, really? That sounds lovely, dear, but I'm not sure we need two Rustys... I mean, we need to feed and water them... Two seems like a bit much..." She trailed off.
"Nothing is too god for my Susie." He lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to stare deeply into his. "You hear me, dear. Nothing is too good for you."
He stepped out into the hall, grabbed a few guns and some other miscellaneous weapons that were sitting on the bench, then turned to face her once more. "The world may be dying, honey, but you and me?" He smiled that dazzling smile that she had fallen in love with so many years before, before marriage, before Armageddon, before... Well, before a lot.
"I love you," she said, tearing up quite suddenly.
"And I love you." He slid back the bolts and bars and opened the steel front door with an ease that belied his years. "See you soon."
He turned, and as he began closing the front door behind him, there was an explosion of light and fire...
Previous Challenges I have answered:
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Kurt challenged me with "The earth died screaming while I lay dreaming of you. --Tom Waits"; I challenged Sarah Cass with "There's a beak in my sushi."
He closed the steel front door, slammed the locks into place, and yelled to the back of the house, "It looks like the Thompson's are gone!"
"No!"
"Yes." He sat back in his recliner and started paging through the leaflets that were scattered on the front lawn. "Doomsday is Here--Do You Need Jesus Now?"; "Needleson's: Security Today So You'll Be Here Tomorrow"; "Elect George McGruber for Town Marshall: He's the One with the Guns."
Susie came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a ratty dishtowel. "There's just no telling these days, is there? Guess I won't be getting the Chipmunk Surprise recipe anytime soon."
"Oh, I don't know. Looked like the back of the house may still be intact. Once the fire dies down a little, we'll go over, scrounge up what we can. Perhaps the kitchen is mostly intact?"
"My little optimist!" Susie seemed to brighten at the thought, however, a small smile creeping up at the corners of her perfectly made-up lips. "At least we know what all the noise was last night."
"I told them they should have installed those alarms." Fred tossed the fliers into the burn bucket by the old stone fireplace, then got up from the recliner.
"You men and your alarms," she smiled at him. "I'll take old Rusty over flashing lights and screaming sirens any day. By the way, has he been out yet?"
"Hmm? No, darling. Wasn't he just out yesterday?"
She heaved a sigh, the type that says "I know that you know that I know you were going to say that," and she spun around, heading back toward the kitchen. "I'll let him out. Though I will need you to run out to see if you can find some food."
"I'm on it, darling."
Susie finished rinsing the few dishes left on the counter, then picked up the plastic orange bucket and carried it toward the basement door. Placing it down gently, she took off her "Hello! Kitty" apron and hung it on the peg just so, then reached up to the shelf above and pulled down the revolver. Checking to make sure it was loaded, she stuck it in the waistband of her dress. Unlocking the door to the cellar, she picked up the bucket and started descending the stairs.
"Rusty? You awake, boy?"
As she reached the bottom, she flipped a few switches, shedding a pale sickly light upon the concrete floors and walls. Through the gloomy light, meager even through the gaps in the metal black bars that halved the basement, she could make out the hulking body in the corner on the other side.
"Rusty? Darling, I brought you some fresh water. Are you thirsty? I know it hasn't rained in a few days."
She saw the shape lift its head, and knew she had its attention. "Now you remember what happened last time, don't you? So you stay there, behaving just as you are now, and I'll pour the water into your dish, okay?" She kept her eyes on it for another few seconds, fingers unconsciously caressing the gun at her waistband. Satisfied it wouldn't be moving, she approached the bars, finally spying the water bowl in the opposite corner. After one more glance at the shadow, she tipped the dirty dishwater from the orange bucket through the bars. Some missed, but she was satisfied when the bowl reached the half-full point.
"Now Rusty, darling, try to make this last, all right? You know the longer we don't have rain--"
A loud roar, and almost before she knew it, the creature was across the basement, dirty clawed fingers reaching through the bars, trying to grab at her blouse. Luckily she had been paying attention, and as she jumped back from the bars, she only felt the breeze the hands made, the air wafting softly on her cheeks.
"Rusty! I'm ashamed of you! I was going to open the door so you could run around the yard, too!" She pulled the gun from her waistband, aimed, and fired a shot toward its feet.
"Yooooowwwwwwllllllll!" it screamed, collapsing to the floor, spilling the half-full bowl of water in the process.
"Tsk! Rusty! Didn't you hear me? Now what will you drink?" Giving one last shake of her head, she flipped off the switches, blanketing the cellar once more in darkness. Rusty's silent weeping following her up the stairs until she slammed the door closed.
"Hon?"
She turned to see Fred standing in the hall, a look of alarm plastered across his face.
"Everything okay?"
"It's Rusty. He spilled the only bit of water I could spare him. I swear, you may need to pick up another soon. He's a great crime deterrent, but sometimes--sometimes I think a good old-fashioned Doberman can't be beat. That's the third time this week he's tried to get at me through the bars! He may be too feral to train!"
"I'm sure it's just all the excitement from last night," Fred said, pulling her into a hug. "What with the neighbors house being set on fire, the giant cats prowling just outside the fences all night long--it can drive anyone a bit mad, you know."
"Maybe you're right," she sighed into his shoulder. "It's just... I don't know."
"Shh. I know, dear, I know." He kept her embraced a moment longer, then pulled her back to arms' length. "You know what I'm going to do for you today?"
She gave him a quizzical smile.
"Not only will I find the last can of coffee in the greater tri-state area, but I will get you two--yes, now hush--TWO new Rustys! Just the other day Dan down the street was telling me a whole pocket of the things were found under the bridge of old Interstate 95! As he's going down there today to get one, I'll just tag along and get us a few!"
"Oh, really? That sounds lovely, dear, but I'm not sure we need two Rustys... I mean, we need to feed and water them... Two seems like a bit much..." She trailed off.
"Nothing is too god for my Susie." He lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to stare deeply into his. "You hear me, dear. Nothing is too good for you."
He stepped out into the hall, grabbed a few guns and some other miscellaneous weapons that were sitting on the bench, then turned to face her once more. "The world may be dying, honey, but you and me?" He smiled that dazzling smile that she had fallen in love with so many years before, before marriage, before Armageddon, before... Well, before a lot.
"I love you," she said, tearing up quite suddenly.
"And I love you." He slid back the bolts and bars and opened the steel front door with an ease that belied his years. "See you soon."
He turned, and as he began closing the front door behind him, there was an explosion of light and fire...
Previous Challenges I have answered:
- [Week 1: All of Me]
- [Week 2: Child's End]
- [Week 3: Seeking Bonds]
- [Week 4: Just So You Know]
- [Week 5: Justice & Mercy]
- [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
- [Week 7: Hell or High Water]
- [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
- [Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
- [Week 10: Set It Free]
- [Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
- [Week 12: Worth a Thousand Words...]
- [Week 13: On the Down...]
- [Week 14: Hey Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?]
- [Week 15: Forever Is...]
- [Week 16: Death of a Betsy...]
- [Week 17: Big Bad]
- [Week 18: Coffee: Hot, Black, & Strong]
- [Week 19: The Queen's Confession]
- [Week 20: The Witch of Picassoid]
- [Week 21: Me, Mouse-self and I...]
- [Week 22: "O, Great Genie..."]
- [Week 23: A Funeral for Sven]
- [Week 24: Priceless]
- [Week 25: Empty]
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Empty
Week 25
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Head Ant challenged me with "You are lost in an abandoned mansion. Doors are locked at every turn and nothing is what it seems."; I challenged Jordan with "You have been made ruler of the UNIVERSE. Not just the Earth, not just our galaxy--the UNIVERSE. In a limerick."
Empty
"Just face facts, will you? We're lost!"
"Not lost. Just... The road less traveled. That is the phrase, isn't it?" She paused. "Yes, that is the phrase." She laughed in delight and peered around the next corner. "Oooohhh..."
"Ruth, please, can we just get out of here?" But she wasn't listening. He saw the light of her flashlight fading around the corner. "Dammit!" He raced down the hall, eager to catch up, fleeing the shadows that encroached.
"Oomph!" He ran into her back, dropping his own flashlight.
"James!"
"Sorry!"
"Shh!"
"Please. There's no one around. It's the middle of the fucking night. Can we just--"
She placed a single finger to his lips, then raised her light to the ceiling.
His eyes followed the path of light, through the floating dust fairies, the beam scattering across a thousand facets of colored glass above them.
He shook his head as if coming out of a trance. "Ruth! Goddammit! You shine a light out the windows, we'll be caught for sure!"
She laughed again, a carefree sound, light and airy in the depressing darkness that surrounded them. "James, I swear, you wouldn't know a good time if it blew you." She started wandering away from him again, her light catching seven hundred other minute mysteries in the depths of the shadows.
He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, thoroughly exasperated. Picking his flashlight up from off the ground, he trailed after her, feeling glum and nervous.
A small breeze wafted through the room, tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He whipped around--
"James! Oh, James, you just have to see this!"
He rotated his light left and right, eying the pockets of darkness suspiciously before turning back to Ruth. "What now?"
"Look at this chandelier! Isn't it magnificent? All gold and silver, jewel embedded! Can you imagine the beauty when the candles are lit? Oh, I'm swooning, James, simply swooning!"
"I don't know how you talk me into this shit. Seriously, Ruth, who talks like that anyway? Now look, we came, we saw, we got lost--can we just climb out a window and-- Ruth? Ruth? Goddammit! Where are you?"
He swept the beam around, then clicked it off, hoping to catch the faint glow of her own flashlight. "Ruth?" Aw, hell, why am I whispering? "Ruth!"
He flicked his light back on--
"Boo!"
"Ach!" He dropped the flashlight, reeling backward, falling into a table.
Her heard her laughter.
"Yeah, very fucking funny, Ruth!"
"You should have seen... Oh my... Your face was priceless!" Her laughter continued to echo above to the great ceilings, down empty hallways, through long-forgotten corridors.
His menacing look was lost on her, in no small part due to the fact that his flashlight had rolled away somewhere and hers was directed at a large wooden door. "I wonder what's in there?" she half-whispered to herself.
"Help me find my light, will ya?"
"Hmm?"
"My flashlight? I dropped it when you went all Poltergeist on me?"
"We'll just use mine, no big deal."
"No, really, it's my dad's military-issued--"
"Hmm... It's locked. Who locks doors in abandoned mansions?"
"Ruth, seriously, we need to find--"
"Oh! Stairs!"
"What-- Ruth, wait-- Shit! My old man's gonna kill me if I don't--"
But she was already climbing the stairs. Cursing yet again, he quickly caught up--only to stumble into her once again.
"Jesus Christ, James! Watch where you're going!"
"Maybe if I had a flash-- Oh, wait, that's right! Someone made me lose it! What--"
"Shh!"
"'Shh!' my ass. Look, I--"
"Shut. Up!"
Creak...
"Oh, very fucking scary, Ruth. You found a squeaky floorboard."
"No, James, that--"
Creeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaak....
"--wasn't... Me..."
"Oh, I'm so scared I almost dropped my flashlight-- Oh, wait, that's right, I already did that. Ha-ha, funny, funny, let's go. We're leaving."
"So soon?"
They both jumped, and Ruth's flashlight flew out of her hands, over the banister, shattering on the floor below. They looked up to see a very, very old woman, holding a single candlestick, standing at the top of the stairs.
"I, uh--" James stammered.
"He... Umm..."
"You know, for burglars, you two seem very disorganized."
"No, no, no, we're not--" James started, nervously laughing in spite of himself.
"No, no, not crooks, Ah-ha-ha!" Ruth stammered in reply.
"Oh, I see. Just two teenage hooligans out to explore the great Abbey Mansion, then?" She raised her candle higher, spreading more light on their guilt-ridden faces. "Hmm, yes, I see. And, are we having fun, children?"
Ruth began stammering an excuse, "Well, er, we thought the house was empty, you see..."
"Yes! Right! Empty! Yes!" James chimed in enthusiastically.
Ruth elbowed him. "We meant no harm, honestly! I've just always admired this lovely home from the street, and--"
"And you figured since it was Halloween, you two would take a little 'ghost walk' of your own, eh?" The old woman cackled. "Ah, yes, yes. You two aren't the first, laws, no." She began to take some shuffling steps down toward them, free hand gripping the banister while the other, still clinging to the candle, lifted her nightgown just above her toes to keep from tripping. "Why, if I had a dime for every time some ragamuffins decided to waltz in..."
Ruth smiled tentatively at the old woman while James's frown deepened.
"We honestly are sorry," Ruth said. "We never would have-- I mean, we did think the house was empty--"
"It's all right, dearies. You aren't the first," she said, shuffling past them to continue down the stairs. "Lost, too, I'd bet my knickers," she cackled.
Their cheeks bloomed pink simultaneously as she turned to bring the light of the candle once more to bear upon their faces. She cackled again. "I thought as much." She turned again and shuffled down the last few stairs, Ruth and James hesitantly beginning to follow her down.
Thump! Creeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaak....
"Oh!" Ruth jumped back into James's arms. "Oh, sorry. Is there uh-- Is someone else at home?"
"House goblins, dearies. Nothing but house goblins," she said as she shuffled down one of the halls. She beckoned them to follow. "Come along, come along. Are you hungry? I know I get hungry wandering about..."
Ruth turned to James as they followed the weak glow, whispering, "Do you think she's going to call the police?"
"... get lost myself sometimes..."
He whispered back, "I told you we shouldn't have done this! My old man's gonna kill me!"
"... one hundred seventy-five rooms at last count..."
"She seems nice enough, though. Maybe she'll just laugh it off, let us out the back?" Ruth said quietly.
"... nephew tries to get me to use this electricity thing, but why bother...?"
"I'll never get into a good school now..." James mumbled aloud.
"James, please! She's not even upset about this!"
"Ah! Here we are. Now let's see if we can rustle you two kids up something nice to eat, yes?" She wandered about, lighting candles in different areas of the room, allowing the kitchen--such as it was--to come into sight.
The soft flames revealed a very 1950s looking fridge, a cast iron stove, pots hanging just above. Flower-print curtains fluttered in a slight breeze coming through the cracked windows, which were framed by yellowish cabinets. The wooden floors moaned as Ruth and James entered through the low arched doorway. The old woman was already digging through the insides of the fridge. "Are you kids familiar with pot pie? Of course, what am I thinking? I'll just heat these up on the stove, won't be but a minute." She lifted two tin pans out of the fridge and placed them on the large, heavy oak table that dominated the center of the kitchen, then turned to the stove.
"No, really, although it's very kind of you, we should just--" Ruth started.
"Yes, yes, we've been such a bother!" James jumped in. "We really should just be on our way. If you could just show us the door?"
"And we truly are very, very sorry--"
"Nonsense! You young kids, always in a rush," she said, waving her arms at them. She turned an ancient knob and flames whooshed up from the pilot light. "Won't take but a minute. Sit, sit! Keep a lonely old woman company, won't you? Sit a spell, I'll pour you both some fresh lemonade! Made it just this morning!"
James gave Ruth the evil eye. Ruth shrugged as if to say, "What do you want me to do? She has lemonade!" then made herself comfortable at the table. "That's very kind of you, Mrs...?"
"Oh, it's nothing, dearies. Half the time it spoils before I can even finish it all, so it's nice to have someone else here to drink some." She placed the large glass pitcher on the table, and pointed to James. "You, tall one. Reach up there and grab a few glasses and plates from the cupboard, won't you? Yes, right there. Careful now! That's my wedding china!"
James lifted out two plates and blew the dust off of them, coughed. "Um..."
"Now, now, just place them there. I'll grab some forks. You'll like this pot pie, yes! Used vegetables from my own gardens, I did!"
James placed the dusty plates on the table with a grimace and passed a look to Ruth, who simply shrugged again. The old woman bustled and fussed over the stove, stirring the contents of the tin pans occasionally.
"Oh, dear, I'm out of garlic!" she exclaimed. She shuffled over to a door in one corner of the ancient kitchen.
Thump! Creeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaak... Thump-thump!
"Young man, come here. Can you reach that up there?"
James moved around the table and stood beside her, peering into the blackness beyond.
"I'm not sure I see--"
"Just up there, dearie. You see?" A withered hand pointed beyond the gloom.
He shuffled deeper into the doorway, shrugging around the woman's frail body, eyes squinted. "Where-- Ahh!"
Thump! Crack! Crash! Thump-thump!
The woman gasped, and Ruth raced around to the doorway. "James! James! Oh my god, James!"
"Oh, dear, he seems to have fallen down the stairs!"
"You have to call the police!"
"I don't have a phone!"
"What!? James!"
"Oh, dear, oh, dear... That won't do at all!"
Ruth spun around to face the old woman and--
Was she smiling?
"You're next, dear!"
"Wha-- Ahh!"
The old woman shoved, and Ruth went tumbling down into the blackness.
***
Darkness. Everywhere.
A groan. She heard a groan. "James?" she whispered frantically. "James, is that you?"
She listened, but heard nothing further. She reached out, feeling, fumbling.
And then light...
She peered up at it, seemingly so distant, at a shadowy figure at the top of the stairs. "Hello?"
"Okay down there, dearie?" the old crone asked.
"Wha--" She turned, spotted James crumpled in a heap just a few feet in front of her in the meager light. "James!" She--pain! pain!--tried to get up, settled for crawling over, turning his limp body over.
"No broken bones, I hope?" came the voice from the top of the stairs.
"You-- You need to get help! He's.... Sweet Jesus, he's breathing! Oh, thank god!"
"Yes, very good. Very good."
Ruth tried once again to stand, but settled for turning her upper torso to face the stairs. "You have to get help! I think I broke my leg, and James is--"
"Alive?"
Ruth's brain was fuzzy, a faint humming in her ears. She scrambled to put it all together, but came up empty. "Yes, yes, he's alive, but--"
"Oh, good, very good. Spoiled meat is never good, you know."
"What? Please, you need..."
"Take a look around you, dearie."
"What? No, I need--"
Thump. Thump.
Ruth paused.
Thump. Thump. Slither...
She glanced up the stairs, but the old woman hadn't moved.
Thump. Thump.
No, behind her. The sound was coming from over there, where the light didn't quite reach...
Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.
The figure that came into view...
Empty eye sockets... Blood-stained cheeks... Only one arm... No legs...
She screamed...
***
The old woman closed the cellar door, smiling to herself. No need to run to the butcher's this week after all.
Clicking the locks into place, she then helped herself to a piping hot tin plate from off her stove.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Head Ant challenged me with "You are lost in an abandoned mansion. Doors are locked at every turn and nothing is what it seems."; I challenged Jordan with "You have been made ruler of the UNIVERSE. Not just the Earth, not just our galaxy--the UNIVERSE. In a limerick."
"Just face facts, will you? We're lost!"
"Not lost. Just... The road less traveled. That is the phrase, isn't it?" She paused. "Yes, that is the phrase." She laughed in delight and peered around the next corner. "Oooohhh..."
"Ruth, please, can we just get out of here?" But she wasn't listening. He saw the light of her flashlight fading around the corner. "Dammit!" He raced down the hall, eager to catch up, fleeing the shadows that encroached.
"Oomph!" He ran into her back, dropping his own flashlight.
"James!"
"Sorry!"
"Shh!"
"Please. There's no one around. It's the middle of the fucking night. Can we just--"
She placed a single finger to his lips, then raised her light to the ceiling.
His eyes followed the path of light, through the floating dust fairies, the beam scattering across a thousand facets of colored glass above them.
He shook his head as if coming out of a trance. "Ruth! Goddammit! You shine a light out the windows, we'll be caught for sure!"
She laughed again, a carefree sound, light and airy in the depressing darkness that surrounded them. "James, I swear, you wouldn't know a good time if it blew you." She started wandering away from him again, her light catching seven hundred other minute mysteries in the depths of the shadows.
He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, thoroughly exasperated. Picking his flashlight up from off the ground, he trailed after her, feeling glum and nervous.
A small breeze wafted through the room, tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He whipped around--
"James! Oh, James, you just have to see this!"
He rotated his light left and right, eying the pockets of darkness suspiciously before turning back to Ruth. "What now?"
"Look at this chandelier! Isn't it magnificent? All gold and silver, jewel embedded! Can you imagine the beauty when the candles are lit? Oh, I'm swooning, James, simply swooning!"
"I don't know how you talk me into this shit. Seriously, Ruth, who talks like that anyway? Now look, we came, we saw, we got lost--can we just climb out a window and-- Ruth? Ruth? Goddammit! Where are you?"
He swept the beam around, then clicked it off, hoping to catch the faint glow of her own flashlight. "Ruth?" Aw, hell, why am I whispering? "Ruth!"
He flicked his light back on--
"Boo!"
"Ach!" He dropped the flashlight, reeling backward, falling into a table.
Her heard her laughter.
"Yeah, very fucking funny, Ruth!"
"You should have seen... Oh my... Your face was priceless!" Her laughter continued to echo above to the great ceilings, down empty hallways, through long-forgotten corridors.
His menacing look was lost on her, in no small part due to the fact that his flashlight had rolled away somewhere and hers was directed at a large wooden door. "I wonder what's in there?" she half-whispered to herself.
"Help me find my light, will ya?"
"Hmm?"
"My flashlight? I dropped it when you went all Poltergeist on me?"
"We'll just use mine, no big deal."
"No, really, it's my dad's military-issued--"
"Hmm... It's locked. Who locks doors in abandoned mansions?"
"Ruth, seriously, we need to find--"
"Oh! Stairs!"
"What-- Ruth, wait-- Shit! My old man's gonna kill me if I don't--"
But she was already climbing the stairs. Cursing yet again, he quickly caught up--only to stumble into her once again.
"Jesus Christ, James! Watch where you're going!"
"Maybe if I had a flash-- Oh, wait, that's right! Someone made me lose it! What--"
"Shh!"
"'Shh!' my ass. Look, I--"
"Shut. Up!"
Creak...
"Oh, very fucking scary, Ruth. You found a squeaky floorboard."
"No, James, that--"
Creeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaak....
"--wasn't... Me..."
"Oh, I'm so scared I almost dropped my flashlight-- Oh, wait, that's right, I already did that. Ha-ha, funny, funny, let's go. We're leaving."
"So soon?"
They both jumped, and Ruth's flashlight flew out of her hands, over the banister, shattering on the floor below. They looked up to see a very, very old woman, holding a single candlestick, standing at the top of the stairs.
"I, uh--" James stammered.
"He... Umm..."
"You know, for burglars, you two seem very disorganized."
"No, no, no, we're not--" James started, nervously laughing in spite of himself.
"No, no, not crooks, Ah-ha-ha!" Ruth stammered in reply.
"Oh, I see. Just two teenage hooligans out to explore the great Abbey Mansion, then?" She raised her candle higher, spreading more light on their guilt-ridden faces. "Hmm, yes, I see. And, are we having fun, children?"
Ruth began stammering an excuse, "Well, er, we thought the house was empty, you see..."
"Yes! Right! Empty! Yes!" James chimed in enthusiastically.
Ruth elbowed him. "We meant no harm, honestly! I've just always admired this lovely home from the street, and--"
"And you figured since it was Halloween, you two would take a little 'ghost walk' of your own, eh?" The old woman cackled. "Ah, yes, yes. You two aren't the first, laws, no." She began to take some shuffling steps down toward them, free hand gripping the banister while the other, still clinging to the candle, lifted her nightgown just above her toes to keep from tripping. "Why, if I had a dime for every time some ragamuffins decided to waltz in..."
Ruth smiled tentatively at the old woman while James's frown deepened.
"We honestly are sorry," Ruth said. "We never would have-- I mean, we did think the house was empty--"
"It's all right, dearies. You aren't the first," she said, shuffling past them to continue down the stairs. "Lost, too, I'd bet my knickers," she cackled.
Their cheeks bloomed pink simultaneously as she turned to bring the light of the candle once more to bear upon their faces. She cackled again. "I thought as much." She turned again and shuffled down the last few stairs, Ruth and James hesitantly beginning to follow her down.
Thump! Creeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaak....
"Oh!" Ruth jumped back into James's arms. "Oh, sorry. Is there uh-- Is someone else at home?"
"House goblins, dearies. Nothing but house goblins," she said as she shuffled down one of the halls. She beckoned them to follow. "Come along, come along. Are you hungry? I know I get hungry wandering about..."
Ruth turned to James as they followed the weak glow, whispering, "Do you think she's going to call the police?"
"... get lost myself sometimes..."
He whispered back, "I told you we shouldn't have done this! My old man's gonna kill me!"
"... one hundred seventy-five rooms at last count..."
"She seems nice enough, though. Maybe she'll just laugh it off, let us out the back?" Ruth said quietly.
"... nephew tries to get me to use this electricity thing, but why bother...?"
"I'll never get into a good school now..." James mumbled aloud.
"James, please! She's not even upset about this!"
"Ah! Here we are. Now let's see if we can rustle you two kids up something nice to eat, yes?" She wandered about, lighting candles in different areas of the room, allowing the kitchen--such as it was--to come into sight.
The soft flames revealed a very 1950s looking fridge, a cast iron stove, pots hanging just above. Flower-print curtains fluttered in a slight breeze coming through the cracked windows, which were framed by yellowish cabinets. The wooden floors moaned as Ruth and James entered through the low arched doorway. The old woman was already digging through the insides of the fridge. "Are you kids familiar with pot pie? Of course, what am I thinking? I'll just heat these up on the stove, won't be but a minute." She lifted two tin pans out of the fridge and placed them on the large, heavy oak table that dominated the center of the kitchen, then turned to the stove.
"No, really, although it's very kind of you, we should just--" Ruth started.
"Yes, yes, we've been such a bother!" James jumped in. "We really should just be on our way. If you could just show us the door?"
"And we truly are very, very sorry--"
"Nonsense! You young kids, always in a rush," she said, waving her arms at them. She turned an ancient knob and flames whooshed up from the pilot light. "Won't take but a minute. Sit, sit! Keep a lonely old woman company, won't you? Sit a spell, I'll pour you both some fresh lemonade! Made it just this morning!"
James gave Ruth the evil eye. Ruth shrugged as if to say, "What do you want me to do? She has lemonade!" then made herself comfortable at the table. "That's very kind of you, Mrs...?"
"Oh, it's nothing, dearies. Half the time it spoils before I can even finish it all, so it's nice to have someone else here to drink some." She placed the large glass pitcher on the table, and pointed to James. "You, tall one. Reach up there and grab a few glasses and plates from the cupboard, won't you? Yes, right there. Careful now! That's my wedding china!"
James lifted out two plates and blew the dust off of them, coughed. "Um..."
"Now, now, just place them there. I'll grab some forks. You'll like this pot pie, yes! Used vegetables from my own gardens, I did!"
James placed the dusty plates on the table with a grimace and passed a look to Ruth, who simply shrugged again. The old woman bustled and fussed over the stove, stirring the contents of the tin pans occasionally.
"Oh, dear, I'm out of garlic!" she exclaimed. She shuffled over to a door in one corner of the ancient kitchen.
Thump! Creeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaak... Thump-thump!
"Young man, come here. Can you reach that up there?"
James moved around the table and stood beside her, peering into the blackness beyond.
"I'm not sure I see--"
"Just up there, dearie. You see?" A withered hand pointed beyond the gloom.
He shuffled deeper into the doorway, shrugging around the woman's frail body, eyes squinted. "Where-- Ahh!"
Thump! Crack! Crash! Thump-thump!
The woman gasped, and Ruth raced around to the doorway. "James! James! Oh my god, James!"
"Oh, dear, he seems to have fallen down the stairs!"
"You have to call the police!"
"I don't have a phone!"
"What!? James!"
"Oh, dear, oh, dear... That won't do at all!"
Ruth spun around to face the old woman and--
Was she smiling?
"You're next, dear!"
"Wha-- Ahh!"
The old woman shoved, and Ruth went tumbling down into the blackness.
***
Darkness. Everywhere.
A groan. She heard a groan. "James?" she whispered frantically. "James, is that you?"
She listened, but heard nothing further. She reached out, feeling, fumbling.
And then light...
She peered up at it, seemingly so distant, at a shadowy figure at the top of the stairs. "Hello?"
"Okay down there, dearie?" the old crone asked.
"Wha--" She turned, spotted James crumpled in a heap just a few feet in front of her in the meager light. "James!" She--pain! pain!--tried to get up, settled for crawling over, turning his limp body over.
"No broken bones, I hope?" came the voice from the top of the stairs.
"You-- You need to get help! He's.... Sweet Jesus, he's breathing! Oh, thank god!"
"Yes, very good. Very good."
Ruth tried once again to stand, but settled for turning her upper torso to face the stairs. "You have to get help! I think I broke my leg, and James is--"
"Alive?"
Ruth's brain was fuzzy, a faint humming in her ears. She scrambled to put it all together, but came up empty. "Yes, yes, he's alive, but--"
"Oh, good, very good. Spoiled meat is never good, you know."
"What? Please, you need..."
"Take a look around you, dearie."
"What? No, I need--"
Thump. Thump.
Ruth paused.
Thump. Thump. Slither...
She glanced up the stairs, but the old woman hadn't moved.
Thump. Thump.
No, behind her. The sound was coming from over there, where the light didn't quite reach...
Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.
The figure that came into view...
Empty eye sockets... Blood-stained cheeks... Only one arm... No legs...
She screamed...
***
The old woman closed the cellar door, smiling to herself. No need to run to the butcher's this week after all.
Clicking the locks into place, she then helped herself to a piping hot tin plate from off her stove.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
- [Week 1: All of Me]
- [Week 2: Child's End]
- [Week 3: Seeking Bonds]
- [Week 4: Just So You Know]
- [Week 5: Justice & Mercy]
- [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
- [Week 7: Hell or High Water]
- [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
- [Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
- [Week 10: Set It Free]
- [Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
- [Week 12: Worth a Thousand Words...]
- [Week 13: On the Down...]
- [Week 14: Hey Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?]
- [Week 15: Forever Is...]
- [Week 16: Death of a Betsy...]
- [Week 17: Big Bad]
- [Week 18: Coffee: Hot, Black, & Strong]
- [Week 19: The Queen's Confession]
- [Week 20: The Witch of Picassoid]
- [Week 21: Me, Mouse-self and I...]
- [Week 22: "O, Great Genie..."]
- [Week 23: A Funeral for Sven]
- [Week 24: Priceless]
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Priceless
Week 24
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Karla V challenged me with "Her heart broke as she handed the pawn shop owner her remaining glass slipper. How had it come to this?"; I challenged wMe with "Write a story that incorporates death, your favorite pair of underwear, chickens, and avoids the use of the letter 'b' ANYWHERE in your story."
Yeah, it's been a while; I had my hardwood floors being redone (so had to move out for a week and a half) only to finally GET home and have my monitor die, so... Yeah... But that's a different sob story. Here's the one you came to read...
Priceless
She pulled the hood of her cloak tighter about her face, pulled more of her hair forward. Yes, she could barely see where she was going, but it also kept them from seeing her, from noticing her. She took a whiff of her sleeve, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. Just enough of a stink to make her seem poor, but not too poor. The stolen cloaks' patches helped with the illusion...
But it would only work for so long. As she trudged down the dirty streets, the dim light of dusk hiding the hazards of the odd cobblestone and puddle of mud, she finally spied the sign: Ye Olde Pawn Shoppe.
Taking a deep breath, fingering the contents of her pocket, she went through the door, nearly jumping as a bell jingled near her ear.
Glancing around quickly--Good, empty!--she approached the counter, clearing her throat, even though she already had the owners attention.
She must be careful.
"Miss? You have some business I can help with?" The middle-aged man peered over the rim of his glasses, pen poised above his ledger.
She took a quick glance around the shop once more. "I have something... I need the money. I won't be back for it."
He waited for her to continue.
She knew as soon as she brought forth the slipper, all bets were off. If he was smart, he would wait until he sealed the deal before calling for the guards. If he was a shady-enough businessman, he wouldn't actually care except for what the slipper could bring him. If he was an honorable man...
They don't exist, her mind whispered.
"Miss?"
She gingerly--oh, so gingerly!--removed the glass slipper from inside the folds of her cloak and placed it gently on the table between them. She heard him gasp. She quickly placed it back under the safety of her cloak.
"Well?"
He stood, staring, open-mouthed. His jaw began working up and down, yet uttered no words.
"Listen," she hissed, reaching across the table and grabbing him by his collar, "you know who I am, you know what this is, and you know I don't have a lot of time. Are. You. Interested?"
He nodded.
"What can you offer?"
He pointed at her hand, still clutched about his throat.
"Oh, er... Sorry."
He shook his head at her, caressed his throat, then nodded. "Your highness--"
She reached out and slapped him before she even realized she was doing it. She recoiled, clutched her cloak about her and made ready to flee.
"I-- I--"
Realizing he was as shocked as she, she calmed slightly. "None of that talk, fool! Someone may hear you." She inclined her head toward the window to his side.
He nodded, his one hand now rubbing his cheek while the other still rubbed at his sore throat. "I-- I understand, your-- uh, Miss."
"Money. How much?"
"May I-- May I see it once more?"
She reached out again, this time keeping the slipper safely in her hands while he perused the item.
"This is actually it, isn't it? And you're actually her, aren't you?"
Her look, she noted, made him shiver. Perhaps she hadn't quite forgotten her stepmother's old tricks.
"Can I ask--why? Why did you kill the King?"
Why indeed? She had asked herself that many times over the past several nights, fleeing from the guards, the old king, the kingdom itself; sleeping in barns, old sheds, under the stars on cold, rainy nights; stealing clothing, food, shelter wherever she could.
But she knew why--what had started out as a fairy-tale-come-true had just been trading one hell for another: from being her stepmother's maid to being her husband's boxing bag; from sweeping out chimneys to hiding in them; from sewing up clothes so her step-sisters would have nice things to wear to sewing up bruises and cuts so she wouldn't bleed to death by her husband's hand; from the lowliest stone cottage to the highest towers, yet still a prisoner.
And that night, when he started beating their daughter? That was when her glass slippers became a weapon. When it struck the hard, unyielding stone walls and shattered into a thousand tiny knives, when the heel of her priceless footwear became the weapon to end his life, to end his reign of terror, to save her daughter from the hell she had never had a moment's peace from...
Yes. Priceless.
"Uh, your Maj-- Um, miss?" He practically curtsied, unsure of how to break her from her inner thoughts.
"What can you give me?"
"I'm not sure..."
"Look, I realize the type of customer you're used to can't afford something this nice. It may be one slipper, a single, but think of it--you are getting a piece of history! The Killer Queen's Glass Slipper! Pair to the one that killed the King!" She dropped her voice even further, so much so that he had to be nose-to-nose to even hear her. "You play your cards right, you could end up a very... very wealthy man."
When she saw his eyes light up, the same way her stepmother's used to light up at the sight of money, she knew she had him. The rest was negotiable...
Her heart broke as she handed the pawn shop owner her remaining glass slipper. How had it come to this?
How indeed... As much pain as those slippers had brought her, they had also brought freedom from her stepmother, had made her feel beautiful, had made her queen, for goodness sake! The happiest, yet shortest, days of her life...
***
She slipped out his side door and knew the clock was ticking. He wasn't a stupid man. He may wait an hour, maybe two, but that was all. Now that he had the slipper, now that she had her money, he would make sure she couldn't return for it.
"Ruby? Ruby?"
"Yes, momma." Her daughter crept out of the straw pile in the stable, just where Cinderella had left her.
"Come now, sweetie. We must leave this place at once."
Ruby obediently took her mother's hand, and through the darkness they walked.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Karla V challenged me with "Her heart broke as she handed the pawn shop owner her remaining glass slipper. How had it come to this?"; I challenged wMe with "Write a story that incorporates death, your favorite pair of underwear, chickens, and avoids the use of the letter 'b' ANYWHERE in your story."
Yeah, it's been a while; I had my hardwood floors being redone (so had to move out for a week and a half) only to finally GET home and have my monitor die, so... Yeah... But that's a different sob story. Here's the one you came to read...
She pulled the hood of her cloak tighter about her face, pulled more of her hair forward. Yes, she could barely see where she was going, but it also kept them from seeing her, from noticing her. She took a whiff of her sleeve, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. Just enough of a stink to make her seem poor, but not too poor. The stolen cloaks' patches helped with the illusion...
But it would only work for so long. As she trudged down the dirty streets, the dim light of dusk hiding the hazards of the odd cobblestone and puddle of mud, she finally spied the sign: Ye Olde Pawn Shoppe.
Taking a deep breath, fingering the contents of her pocket, she went through the door, nearly jumping as a bell jingled near her ear.
Glancing around quickly--Good, empty!--she approached the counter, clearing her throat, even though she already had the owners attention.
She must be careful.
"Miss? You have some business I can help with?" The middle-aged man peered over the rim of his glasses, pen poised above his ledger.
She took a quick glance around the shop once more. "I have something... I need the money. I won't be back for it."
He waited for her to continue.
She knew as soon as she brought forth the slipper, all bets were off. If he was smart, he would wait until he sealed the deal before calling for the guards. If he was a shady-enough businessman, he wouldn't actually care except for what the slipper could bring him. If he was an honorable man...
They don't exist, her mind whispered.
"Miss?"
She gingerly--oh, so gingerly!--removed the glass slipper from inside the folds of her cloak and placed it gently on the table between them. She heard him gasp. She quickly placed it back under the safety of her cloak.
"Well?"
He stood, staring, open-mouthed. His jaw began working up and down, yet uttered no words.
"Listen," she hissed, reaching across the table and grabbing him by his collar, "you know who I am, you know what this is, and you know I don't have a lot of time. Are. You. Interested?"
He nodded.
"What can you offer?"
He pointed at her hand, still clutched about his throat.
"Oh, er... Sorry."
He shook his head at her, caressed his throat, then nodded. "Your highness--"
She reached out and slapped him before she even realized she was doing it. She recoiled, clutched her cloak about her and made ready to flee.
"I-- I--"
Realizing he was as shocked as she, she calmed slightly. "None of that talk, fool! Someone may hear you." She inclined her head toward the window to his side.
He nodded, his one hand now rubbing his cheek while the other still rubbed at his sore throat. "I-- I understand, your-- uh, Miss."
"Money. How much?"
"May I-- May I see it once more?"
She reached out again, this time keeping the slipper safely in her hands while he perused the item.
"This is actually it, isn't it? And you're actually her, aren't you?"
Her look, she noted, made him shiver. Perhaps she hadn't quite forgotten her stepmother's old tricks.
"Can I ask--why? Why did you kill the King?"
Why indeed? She had asked herself that many times over the past several nights, fleeing from the guards, the old king, the kingdom itself; sleeping in barns, old sheds, under the stars on cold, rainy nights; stealing clothing, food, shelter wherever she could.
But she knew why--what had started out as a fairy-tale-come-true had just been trading one hell for another: from being her stepmother's maid to being her husband's boxing bag; from sweeping out chimneys to hiding in them; from sewing up clothes so her step-sisters would have nice things to wear to sewing up bruises and cuts so she wouldn't bleed to death by her husband's hand; from the lowliest stone cottage to the highest towers, yet still a prisoner.
And that night, when he started beating their daughter? That was when her glass slippers became a weapon. When it struck the hard, unyielding stone walls and shattered into a thousand tiny knives, when the heel of her priceless footwear became the weapon to end his life, to end his reign of terror, to save her daughter from the hell she had never had a moment's peace from...
Yes. Priceless.
"Uh, your Maj-- Um, miss?" He practically curtsied, unsure of how to break her from her inner thoughts.
"What can you give me?"
"I'm not sure..."
"Look, I realize the type of customer you're used to can't afford something this nice. It may be one slipper, a single, but think of it--you are getting a piece of history! The Killer Queen's Glass Slipper! Pair to the one that killed the King!" She dropped her voice even further, so much so that he had to be nose-to-nose to even hear her. "You play your cards right, you could end up a very... very wealthy man."
When she saw his eyes light up, the same way her stepmother's used to light up at the sight of money, she knew she had him. The rest was negotiable...
Her heart broke as she handed the pawn shop owner her remaining glass slipper. How had it come to this?
How indeed... As much pain as those slippers had brought her, they had also brought freedom from her stepmother, had made her feel beautiful, had made her queen, for goodness sake! The happiest, yet shortest, days of her life...
***
She slipped out his side door and knew the clock was ticking. He wasn't a stupid man. He may wait an hour, maybe two, but that was all. Now that he had the slipper, now that she had her money, he would make sure she couldn't return for it.
"Ruby? Ruby?"
"Yes, momma." Her daughter crept out of the straw pile in the stable, just where Cinderella had left her.
"Come now, sweetie. We must leave this place at once."
Ruby obediently took her mother's hand, and through the darkness they walked.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
- [Week 1: All of Me]
- [Week 2: Child's End]
- [Week 3: Seeking Bonds]
- [Week 4: Just So You Know]
- [Week 5: Justice & Mercy]
- [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
- [Week 7: Hell or High Water]
- [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
- [Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
- [Week 10: Set It Free]
- [Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
- [Week 12: Worth a Thousand Words...]
- [Week 13: On the Down...]
- [Week 14: Hey Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?]
- [Week 15: Forever Is...]
- [Week 16: Death of a Betsy...]
- [Week 17: Big Bad]
- [Week 18: Coffee: Hot, Black, & Strong]
- [Week 19: The Queen's Confession]
- [Week 20: The Witch of Picassoid]
- [Week 21: Me, Mouse-self and I...]
- [Week 22: "O, Great Genie..."]
- [Week 23: A Funeral for Sven]
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
A Funeral for Sven
It's writing challenge time, brought to you by Indie Ink. New writers are always welcome to sign up for next week's challenge by following the link above.
Week 23
My Challenger: Amanda
My Challenge: Why were you down at the river last night?
Who I am Challenging: Marian
What I Challenged Them With: Starting with the letter A, every next word should start with the next letter of the alphabet. You *must* cycle the alphabet at least four times, but you may continue further.... (She completely blew me out of the water with her answer--awesome beyond imagining! GO READ IT! Or, ya know, drop dead... Or something...)
A Funeral for Sven
"Sven Holmstrom-Lagerstrom."
"Excuse me?"
"Sven Holmstrom-Lagerstrom. Did I stutter?"
"Look, I... Um..." Hildegaard trailed off. Found the train again. "Grandma, look, the police found a dead, crisped up body floating in the river. Someone said they saw you down by the river that night. Do you think you could do a little bit better than ripping names out of Eric the Viking?"
"Eric who? Do I know him?"
Hildegaard sighed for what seemed like the nth time that night. The last thing she expected to be doing after commuting for three hours back from Manhattan was to be talking to her 97-year-old grandmother in a police holding cell. Never mind that her grandmother couldn't possibly have lit a man on fire and then dumped his body in the river--her nursing home was two hours away! Let alone having the strength to drag a body down the muddy banks!
"No, Grandma. I just--you just need to tell the police you weren't there, they must be mistaken, and this will all go away, okay? Okay, sweetie?"
"But I was there, child. You think my mind is going, don't you?"
Hildegaard looked toward the two-way mirror rather than allow her grandmother to see the truth in her eyes.
"You see, Gladys never did like fire."
Another trip down a forgotten memory. She turned once more to face her grandmother. "Excuse me?"
"Well, she didn't! She almost died in one as a little girl, you know. And when they read the will and it said that Sven wanted a traditional Viking funeral? She nearly died right then and there! Well, not then and there, of course. We all agreed in front of the lawyer that it probably just meant we would have to wear longenhergan. Then we went home and had one of Louisa's grandchildren do that... What's that thing called, dear?"
Hildegaard stood there, hands on hips, a look of anger and confusion warring across her face. "Grandma, you are making no sense whatsoever!"
"No, darling, really... Internets? Gosling something on the Internets?"
"You mean googling?"
"I'm not sure. Sounds like that might have been what she called it. And a wicked pedicure, if memory serves."
Hildegaard turned toward the mirror. "I'm seriously hoping one of you out there is taking notes. If this doesn't prove my grandmother's not a murderer, I'm not sure what does!"
"Don't raise your voice, dear. Use your indoor voice."
She slumped down in a chair opposite the elderly matriarch. "Sorry."
"Where was I?"
"Looking at goslings on the intranets." She laid her head down on her folded forearms in defeat.
"Oh, yes. Thank you, dear. Anyway, when we heard what the intranets had to say about, you know, traditional Viking funerals, well, Gladys was quite beside herself, as you can imagine." She cackled. "Oh, my. But what could we do? A last will and testament isn't something to sneeze at, you know. Have you seen my crocheting, dear?"
Mumbling through her arms: "No."
"No matter. Well, that meant the longenhergan was out--"
"Ma'am?" A policeman entered the room. When Hildegaard looked up, she could tell he was trying his damnedest to suppress a smile. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but could you please clarify something for us?"
"Why, sure, sweetie! What is it?"
"What is a l-... long-... longenhergan?"
"Why, you know... The helmet. The helmet with the horns! Only the very best Vikings wore them, you know."
"Of course. Thank you, ma'am." He turned and closed the door behind him, but not before Hildegaard heard the peals of laughter.
"You see, grandma? You see? They're gonna have to go for an insanity plea if you don't just tell them you weren't there."
"Don't be silly, dear."
"Grandma!"
"Where was I? Oh, yes, so, we all went back to Gladys's house, you know, friendship and comfort in times of grief, that sort of thing. We started baking a Vänskapskaka, you know, while we discussed the funeral--"
"A what?" she asked wearily.
"A Vänskapskaka. Oh, it's simply delicious! Remind me to get you the recipe--"
"No thanks, grandma."
"Ma'am?" started the policeman, entering again.
"It's a cake, dear. A traditional friendship cake. Take proper notes, now, young man, I hate repeating myself, you know. Good penmanship!"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, grinning from ear to ear.
Hildegaard's head slumped back down.
"You call that posture? You'll ruin your back, dear."
She waved one hand lazily in the air, then allowed it to flop back down on her tangled hair, head down, nose to table.
"So we, of course, looked into renting a boat."
Hildegaard didn't even bother asking.
"And you can't just have any boat for a Viking funeral, as I'm sure you are aware."
"A boat. For a funeral. Grandma, really."
"Hush, dear. So we called up Louisa's grandson again, and he was so sweet, oh, just so sweet! He ordered us on the bay a nice krigsfartyg! It was perfect! It even had a mermaid carved into the front--sent us pictures on Louisa's little phone thingumabob!"
"I'll ask before smiley comes back in--a krigsfartyg?"
"A boat, dear. Do you know none of the mother tongue?"
"You've been in the U.S. since you were two, grandma. Speak in English, for god's sake! We may get out of here before--" She glanced at her watch, then sighed. "Never mind." She placed her head gently back on the table.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes, dear. Taking very legible notes, yes?"
"Yes, ma'am. So we're to understand you purchased a boat--from which bay? The Chesapeake? The Hudson?"
"No, no, dear, it was another thing on the intranets, had a vowel? Oh, now I feel like Vanna! Is she still on the television, dear? Vanna White?"
"Do you mind?" the young policeman asked, gesturing toward the other empty chair at the table.
"Oh, and so polite! Hildie, dear, you could do to date someone so respectful and dashing."
"Listen, Smiley," she said, raising her head and glared at the officer. "We done here? Some of us have to work in a few hours."
"Just a few more details, ma'am. This is officially a crime investigation. You can never be to careful."
"Ibay? Obay?"
Hildegaard sighed. "Ebay, grandma?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so... But anyhow, it was very nice. He even had it 'rushed' to get it in three days! Such a sweet boy." She turned her aging head toward the policeman. "Such a nice young man."
"Please, ma'am, go on."
"With?"
"This ridiculous story, grandma."
"Oh, yes, yes. The krigsfartyg. Well, it arrived--on a tractor, if you can believe that! We were all there on Gladys's patio when they delivered it. We wanted them to take it right down to the water, mind you--"
"So, you were at the river?"
"Don't rush me, young man."
"Sorry."
Hildegaard rolled her eyes. "Grandma--"
"Dear, enough with the attitude. You'll never land a husband being so hostile all the time. Am I not right, officer?"
He shifted in his seat, stifling giggles once more.
"Now, the delivery man said he wasn't licensed to do that--you know, take it to the water for us, and the funeral home gentleman said he wouldn't deliver the body to the river either! Well, I was in a huff, and poor Gladys was fit to be tied! But then Louisa remembered she had another grandson with a pick-up truck! So soon we were on our way!"
"Do you know the names of these grandsons?"
"Oh, dear, I... Well, officer, I would hate for them to get into trouble on our behalf, but..."
"I can get you Louisa's phone number, officer," Hildegaard offered.
Her grandmother huffed at that. "Well... So, we all piled in, stopped by the funeral parlor to claim Sven, much to the funeral personnel's dismay, mind you, and headed off toward the river.
"Well, let me tell you, never was there a prettier sight! Gladys had brought some lovely flowers, as did I, and Hazel and Louisa had some old blankets! With her boy's help, we managed to get the boat on the water and arranged Sven just so...
"He looked so peaceful..." She trailed off.
Hildegaard watched as Smiley proffered a tissue. "Grandma?"
"Yes, dear," she sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"Not to seem insensitive, but... Well, it is two in the morning, and..."
"That late! Well, you don't say! My, my, my. Well," she sniffed once more, "as I said, Gladys was always afraid of fire."
"You covered that already," Hildegaard snapped.
"Young lady! I've half a mind to take you over my knee and slap you on the tubbenburbles!"
"Ma'am?"
"Buttocks, young man. Pardon my language." She gave a baleful glare to her granddaughter.
The walls and closed door did nothing to dampen the laughter from the outside hallway, and even officer Smiley couldn't hold back the giggles. Hildegaard sighed, this time in defeat.
"So I did it. I lit the match, and as we watched, Sven went to be with the good Lord, just as the sun was setting on the horizon. The boat caught the current, and before we knew it, it was all ablaze and drifting off around the bend..." Her eyes drifted away, her gaze in her mind's eye, watching Sven once more.
"So, to clarify, ma'am, you were down at the river last night?"
"For Sven Holmstrom-Lagerstrom."
Previous Challenges I have answered:
Week 23
My Challenger: Amanda
My Challenge: Why were you down at the river last night?
Who I am Challenging: Marian
What I Challenged Them With: Starting with the letter A, every next word should start with the next letter of the alphabet. You *must* cycle the alphabet at least four times, but you may continue further.... (She completely blew me out of the water with her answer--awesome beyond imagining! GO READ IT! Or, ya know, drop dead... Or something...)
"Sven Holmstrom-Lagerstrom."
"Excuse me?"
"Sven Holmstrom-Lagerstrom. Did I stutter?"
"Look, I... Um..." Hildegaard trailed off. Found the train again. "Grandma, look, the police found a dead, crisped up body floating in the river. Someone said they saw you down by the river that night. Do you think you could do a little bit better than ripping names out of Eric the Viking?"
"Eric who? Do I know him?"
Hildegaard sighed for what seemed like the nth time that night. The last thing she expected to be doing after commuting for three hours back from Manhattan was to be talking to her 97-year-old grandmother in a police holding cell. Never mind that her grandmother couldn't possibly have lit a man on fire and then dumped his body in the river--her nursing home was two hours away! Let alone having the strength to drag a body down the muddy banks!
"No, Grandma. I just--you just need to tell the police you weren't there, they must be mistaken, and this will all go away, okay? Okay, sweetie?"
"But I was there, child. You think my mind is going, don't you?"
Hildegaard looked toward the two-way mirror rather than allow her grandmother to see the truth in her eyes.
"You see, Gladys never did like fire."
Another trip down a forgotten memory. She turned once more to face her grandmother. "Excuse me?"
"Well, she didn't! She almost died in one as a little girl, you know. And when they read the will and it said that Sven wanted a traditional Viking funeral? She nearly died right then and there! Well, not then and there, of course. We all agreed in front of the lawyer that it probably just meant we would have to wear longenhergan. Then we went home and had one of Louisa's grandchildren do that... What's that thing called, dear?"
Hildegaard stood there, hands on hips, a look of anger and confusion warring across her face. "Grandma, you are making no sense whatsoever!"
"No, darling, really... Internets? Gosling something on the Internets?"
"You mean googling?"
"I'm not sure. Sounds like that might have been what she called it. And a wicked pedicure, if memory serves."
Hildegaard turned toward the mirror. "I'm seriously hoping one of you out there is taking notes. If this doesn't prove my grandmother's not a murderer, I'm not sure what does!"
"Don't raise your voice, dear. Use your indoor voice."
She slumped down in a chair opposite the elderly matriarch. "Sorry."
"Where was I?"
"Looking at goslings on the intranets." She laid her head down on her folded forearms in defeat.
"Oh, yes. Thank you, dear. Anyway, when we heard what the intranets had to say about, you know, traditional Viking funerals, well, Gladys was quite beside herself, as you can imagine." She cackled. "Oh, my. But what could we do? A last will and testament isn't something to sneeze at, you know. Have you seen my crocheting, dear?"
Mumbling through her arms: "No."
"No matter. Well, that meant the longenhergan was out--"
"Ma'am?" A policeman entered the room. When Hildegaard looked up, she could tell he was trying his damnedest to suppress a smile. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but could you please clarify something for us?"
"Why, sure, sweetie! What is it?"
"What is a l-... long-... longenhergan?"
"Why, you know... The helmet. The helmet with the horns! Only the very best Vikings wore them, you know."
"Of course. Thank you, ma'am." He turned and closed the door behind him, but not before Hildegaard heard the peals of laughter.
"You see, grandma? You see? They're gonna have to go for an insanity plea if you don't just tell them you weren't there."
"Don't be silly, dear."
"Grandma!"
"Where was I? Oh, yes, so, we all went back to Gladys's house, you know, friendship and comfort in times of grief, that sort of thing. We started baking a Vänskapskaka, you know, while we discussed the funeral--"
"A what?" she asked wearily.
"A Vänskapskaka. Oh, it's simply delicious! Remind me to get you the recipe--"
"No thanks, grandma."
"Ma'am?" started the policeman, entering again.
"It's a cake, dear. A traditional friendship cake. Take proper notes, now, young man, I hate repeating myself, you know. Good penmanship!"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, grinning from ear to ear.
Hildegaard's head slumped back down.
"You call that posture? You'll ruin your back, dear."
She waved one hand lazily in the air, then allowed it to flop back down on her tangled hair, head down, nose to table.
"So we, of course, looked into renting a boat."
Hildegaard didn't even bother asking.
"And you can't just have any boat for a Viking funeral, as I'm sure you are aware."
"A boat. For a funeral. Grandma, really."
"Hush, dear. So we called up Louisa's grandson again, and he was so sweet, oh, just so sweet! He ordered us on the bay a nice krigsfartyg! It was perfect! It even had a mermaid carved into the front--sent us pictures on Louisa's little phone thingumabob!"
"I'll ask before smiley comes back in--a krigsfartyg?"
"A boat, dear. Do you know none of the mother tongue?"
"You've been in the U.S. since you were two, grandma. Speak in English, for god's sake! We may get out of here before--" She glanced at her watch, then sighed. "Never mind." She placed her head gently back on the table.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes, dear. Taking very legible notes, yes?"
"Yes, ma'am. So we're to understand you purchased a boat--from which bay? The Chesapeake? The Hudson?"
"No, no, dear, it was another thing on the intranets, had a vowel? Oh, now I feel like Vanna! Is she still on the television, dear? Vanna White?"
"Do you mind?" the young policeman asked, gesturing toward the other empty chair at the table.
"Oh, and so polite! Hildie, dear, you could do to date someone so respectful and dashing."
"Listen, Smiley," she said, raising her head and glared at the officer. "We done here? Some of us have to work in a few hours."
"Just a few more details, ma'am. This is officially a crime investigation. You can never be to careful."
"Ibay? Obay?"
Hildegaard sighed. "Ebay, grandma?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so... But anyhow, it was very nice. He even had it 'rushed' to get it in three days! Such a sweet boy." She turned her aging head toward the policeman. "Such a nice young man."
"Please, ma'am, go on."
"With?"
"This ridiculous story, grandma."
"Oh, yes, yes. The krigsfartyg. Well, it arrived--on a tractor, if you can believe that! We were all there on Gladys's patio when they delivered it. We wanted them to take it right down to the water, mind you--"
"So, you were at the river?"
"Don't rush me, young man."
"Sorry."
Hildegaard rolled her eyes. "Grandma--"
"Dear, enough with the attitude. You'll never land a husband being so hostile all the time. Am I not right, officer?"
He shifted in his seat, stifling giggles once more.
"Now, the delivery man said he wasn't licensed to do that--you know, take it to the water for us, and the funeral home gentleman said he wouldn't deliver the body to the river either! Well, I was in a huff, and poor Gladys was fit to be tied! But then Louisa remembered she had another grandson with a pick-up truck! So soon we were on our way!"
"Do you know the names of these grandsons?"
"Oh, dear, I... Well, officer, I would hate for them to get into trouble on our behalf, but..."
"I can get you Louisa's phone number, officer," Hildegaard offered.
Her grandmother huffed at that. "Well... So, we all piled in, stopped by the funeral parlor to claim Sven, much to the funeral personnel's dismay, mind you, and headed off toward the river.
"Well, let me tell you, never was there a prettier sight! Gladys had brought some lovely flowers, as did I, and Hazel and Louisa had some old blankets! With her boy's help, we managed to get the boat on the water and arranged Sven just so...
"He looked so peaceful..." She trailed off.
Hildegaard watched as Smiley proffered a tissue. "Grandma?"
"Yes, dear," she sniffed, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"Not to seem insensitive, but... Well, it is two in the morning, and..."
"That late! Well, you don't say! My, my, my. Well," she sniffed once more, "as I said, Gladys was always afraid of fire."
"You covered that already," Hildegaard snapped.
"Young lady! I've half a mind to take you over my knee and slap you on the tubbenburbles!"
"Ma'am?"
"Buttocks, young man. Pardon my language." She gave a baleful glare to her granddaughter.
The walls and closed door did nothing to dampen the laughter from the outside hallway, and even officer Smiley couldn't hold back the giggles. Hildegaard sighed, this time in defeat.
"So I did it. I lit the match, and as we watched, Sven went to be with the good Lord, just as the sun was setting on the horizon. The boat caught the current, and before we knew it, it was all ablaze and drifting off around the bend..." Her eyes drifted away, her gaze in her mind's eye, watching Sven once more.
"So, to clarify, ma'am, you were down at the river last night?"
"For Sven Holmstrom-Lagerstrom."
Previous Challenges I have answered:
- [Week 1: All of Me]
- [Week 2: Child's End]
- [Week 3: Seeking Bonds]
- [Week 4: Just So You Know]
- [Week 5: Justice & Mercy]
- [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
- [Week 7: Hell or High Water]
- [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
- [Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
- [Week 10: Set It Free]
- [Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
- [Week 12: Worth a Thousand Words...]
- [Week 13: On the Down...]
- [Week 14: Hey Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?]
- [Week 15: Forever Is...]
- [Week 16: Death of a Betsy...]
- [Week 17: Big Bad]
- [Week 18: Coffee: Hot, Black, & Strong]
- [Week 19: The Queen's Confession]
- [Week 20: The Witch of Picassoid]
- [Week 21: Me, Mouse-self and I...]
- [Week 22: "O, Great Genie..."]
Sunday, September 11, 2011
The Growth of a Human Being...
First off, let's please note the irony of an atheist quoting an evangelical pastor.
“If we're growing, we're always going to be out of our comfort zone.” --John Maxwell
So noted? Good. Moving on...
Now, let's note Spike. He is the 19+ inch tall cactus you see just there on the right. When I received Spike as a gift about 6 years ago, he was two inches tall with a purple plastic flower glued to his top. He was purchased at a grocery store in that section where they retain all things green but not necessarily of the produce persuasion. I was in the hospital having a tumor removed from my spine (benign, of course), and husband knew of my love for all things plant, but not necessarily produce, related. It was one of those "I fall in love with you all over again" moments. Spike himself won't naturally bloom until he is somewhere between three and four feet tall, as is the wont of his species of cacti. If I ever want to see Spike dressed to the nines in this fashion, I must make sure Spike gets all the things he needs to be a fully productive member of his species: water (if sparingly), sunlight, proper soil. If I fail, Spike may die. He certainly wouldn't flourish and grow. And he will never, ever bloom if I, as his caretaker, fail in any way to provide for his needs.
Moving on...
A few years ago, there was quite the bru-ha-ha in our family as we were all once again planning our giant family get-together for the summer. And I say "giant" because when you have four siblings, each with their partners and various children and the total number of people in your immediate family exceeds twenty individuals--well, not many can relate to an immediate family of that magnitude (which is why some of the in-laws have adjustment issues when they first join our clan), and it's always quite the production.
But the bru-ha-ha happened because of the youngest sibling: she wanted to take a "moral stand." She was afraid her two children would see me and the husband in the same bedroom and ask questions--questions she wasn't prepared to answer. She was afraid they would somehow be introduced to the "gay lifestyle" too early, that it would seem as if she were "endorsing" our relationship (a very bad thing to do when you're a conservative Christian, as some of you may know), and didn't think she should have to explain to her children why Uncle Jason slept in the same room as Uncle Rich...
Needless to say, they never did come on that family vacation with the rest of us...
Anyway, a recent blog post by a Catholic woman has gone viral (see here) and it reminded me very much of the incident in our own family three years ago. Some excerpts from her blog post:
Am I allowed to say how scared I am that this woman is raising seven children?
At the pool this summer there were homosexual couples with children and, while I was polite as my own young daughters doted on the baby with two "mommies", I also held my breath in anticipation of awkward questions - questions I'm not ready to answer. My young daughters are all under the age of eight and they are not old enough to understand why a baby would have two women calling themselves "mommies".
...
When there were two men relaxing at the side of the pool unnaturally close to each other, effeminately rubbing elbows and exchanging doe-eyes, I was again anxiously watching my children hoping they wouldn't ask questions. They don't see Daddy do that with anyone but Mommy.
...
Two of my daughters were in the sandbox, one on the slide, the other on the swings, and as I lifted the baby out of his stroller I looked up to see four women laughing at a baby boy as he was swinging in one of those bucket baby swings. That seems harmless enough, but I'm so sensitized to the strangeness in my community that I've developed this ever-present jumpiness whenever I'm in public. Sure enough, two of the women, so happy to see a baby boy laughing, embraced and remained standing there rubbing each other's back in a way that was clearly not just friendly affection.
...
I find myself unable to even leave the house anymore without worrying about what in tarnation we are going to encounter. We are responsible citizens. We live by the rules, we pay our taxes, we take care of our things. I'm supposed to be able to influence what goes on in my community, and as a voter I do exercise that right. But I'm outnumbered. I can't even go to normal places without having to sit silently and tolerate immorality. We all know what would happen if I asked two men or two women to stop displaying, right in front of me and my children, that they live in sodomy.
But I digress. What I really want to talk about is the rampant "sheltering" that goes on in conservative communities. As if "parenting" has come to mean giving your children "selective" information about the world instead of trying to teach them to live and cope within it. To protect them from differing people instead of trying to teach them about the differing people of the world. To raise kids in a bubble so impenetrable, so strong, that when they do hit the real world, when they do find out that there are people out there who don't share the same view that they had growing up--well, they either
- fall back on that same mindset and continue to shelter themselves from the world (thus stunting their own growth even more than their "concerned parents" had...)
- go crazy, not knowing how to cope, and go off the deep end in various ways (i.e., having no knowledge of the dangers of over-drinking, of unprotected sex, or any number of other, easily explained social dangers),
- or they examine their beliefs, realize how they were failed as children by their uber-protective parents, and grow in the new sunlight of knowledge.
One of the (misguided? misunderstood?) recurring themes in the comments is the "if you're liberal, you should tolerate my viewpoint" persuasion. But the thing the right-wing doesn't seem to understand about tolerance is the fact that tolerance does not mean putting up with nonsense, does not mean putting up with ill-thought-out beliefs, does not mean letting them believe whatever the hell they want without challenge, especially if you are putting it out in the public sphere of a blog.
Tolerance IS ONLY ever meant to be the smallest part of patience. And when the patience has been tried, tolerance goes out the window. Tolerate is what you do when your two-year-old tried again to drink from a cup instead of his sippy-cup; or you tolerate the sales person who called during dinner only as long as it takes to get them off the phone; you tolerate a visit from some member of the family you dislike for the sake of a holiday, or some-such other type scenario. Tolerance is not letting you live in fairy-tale land where you get to tell everyone else how to live and making your religious preferences the rules the rest of us have to live by. We tolerate a plethora of beliefs in this country. We do not have to tolerate you trying to tell everyone else how to live, and we certainly do not have to stop holding hands just because of your failure to answer a child's questions, if indeed they even ask any.
It is not the rest of the world's job to protect your children from life. It is not the rest of the world's obligation to shelter your children. When you decided to become a parent, you assumed the role of care-giver, of knowledge-imparter, of teacher/guidance counselor/role model, and a plethora of other hats. It is not a parent's job to shelter children--in fact, that would be the exact opposite of being a parent.
In fact, that would be more the role of jailer; prison guard; totalitarian.
And in those conditions? Nothing ever blooms... Nothing good ever comes of it... Nothing productive ever will.
Unless you think the role of parenting is to stunt the growth, knowledge, and strength of the next generation...
The growth of a human being...
Friday, September 9, 2011
Just Two More Pussies...
For all you folks who are not on Facebook--you know who you are (Mom!)--the people that get a Facebook account, say "Hi!" twice in six months, delete your account, and then wonder what's going on in people's lives...?
Uh-huh. Don't deny it.
Anyway, we've recently become father's again:
Rio and Puck, brothers by birth and by havoc wreaked, came to us after their previous owner's dog tore through a basement door in an attempt to kill them (no one ever claimed dogs were a cat's best friend--I suppose now we know why...). And while they have managed to get into both Beaux's and Hawthorne's good graces with much less effort than I thought it would require, given their history with other animals, their capacity for all things destruction-oriented makes me think it's just my calling in life.
Having a calm, quiet, content animal, that is. But then again, I hear pet's do tend to take after their owners, and in that, I have no defense. (I can't help but wonder, though, if owner's just tend to pick animals with personalities much like their own...?)
While Rich likes to think I agreed to the name "Rio" for the long-haired orange cat in due respect and reverence for the dearly-departed River Phoenix (as if...), I mainly agreed because Rio is just like a river, with his rippling waves of fur, his rapid switches from calm and serene to all-out attack. It's a fitting yet cursed name, yes?
And then there's Puck, the medium-haired, cross-eyed, frock-wearing-wanna-be-Catholic scaredy cat. You breathe to hard and he leaps up like a deer and dashes off like a cheetah. He's loves-loves-LOVES to cuddle (until you breath...), so I thought a proper fairy-tale name was more suitable--you know, easily frightened yet full of love? Regardless of the fact that I completely forgot what a trouble-maker Puck was in literature, I certainly didn't expect Puck to know that. However, he can't seem to help himself, and thus he is aptly named after all. Climbing window screens, leaping on his brother, attacking Beaux, having stand-offs with the 60-pound half-pit Hawthorne... One can't help but wonder if it's the crossed eyes or just his attitude...
Be that as it may, we are now a 3-pussy household consisting only of dicks...
Go figure, as my father would say...
And in my defense, all I can say is at least this time, I wasn't expecting any girl cats...
Just two more pussies...
Uh-huh. Don't deny it.
Anyway, we've recently become father's again:
Rio and Puck, brothers by birth and by havoc wreaked, came to us after their previous owner's dog tore through a basement door in an attempt to kill them (no one ever claimed dogs were a cat's best friend--I suppose now we know why...). And while they have managed to get into both Beaux's and Hawthorne's good graces with much less effort than I thought it would require, given their history with other animals, their capacity for all things destruction-oriented makes me think it's just my calling in life.
Having a calm, quiet, content animal, that is. But then again, I hear pet's do tend to take after their owners, and in that, I have no defense. (I can't help but wonder, though, if owner's just tend to pick animals with personalities much like their own...?)
While Rich likes to think I agreed to the name "Rio" for the long-haired orange cat in due respect and reverence for the dearly-departed River Phoenix (as if...), I mainly agreed because Rio is just like a river, with his rippling waves of fur, his rapid switches from calm and serene to all-out attack. It's a fitting yet cursed name, yes?
And then there's Puck, the medium-haired, cross-eyed, frock-wearing-wanna-be-Catholic scaredy cat. You breathe to hard and he leaps up like a deer and dashes off like a cheetah. He's loves-loves-LOVES to cuddle (until you breath...), so I thought a proper fairy-tale name was more suitable--you know, easily frightened yet full of love? Regardless of the fact that I completely forgot what a trouble-maker Puck was in literature, I certainly didn't expect Puck to know that. However, he can't seem to help himself, and thus he is aptly named after all. Climbing window screens, leaping on his brother, attacking Beaux, having stand-offs with the 60-pound half-pit Hawthorne... One can't help but wonder if it's the crossed eyes or just his attitude...
Be that as it may, we are now a 3-pussy household consisting only of dicks...
Go figure, as my father would say...
And in my defense, all I can say is at least this time, I wasn't expecting any girl cats...
Just two more pussies...
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
"O, Great Genie..."
It's writing challenge time, brought to you by Indie Ink. New writers are always welcome to sign up for next week's challenge by following the link above.
Week 22
My Challenger: Courtney
My Challenge: Gandhi said "Be the change you wish to see in the world." What change would that be?
Who I am Challenging: The Drama Mama
What I Challenged Them With: Romantically Jabberwocky-ish (She totally nailed it, FYI--go take a read!)
"O Great Genie..."
Jill caught it in the air and also glanced at the holographic note on the cover. "How odd," she mumbled. "What year do you think this is from?"
"I dunno. Are the entries dated? When is the last one from?"
She flipped through until she found the beginning of the last entry. "This journal is over a thousand years old! Troy! Do you realize how valuable this must be?"
"I doubt that the person at the other end of that mailing address is still holding out hope."
"No, seriously! This could be from some missing persons case! We should really contact the police or something."
Troy laughed, and then mimed a communicator to his ear. "Hello, officer? We're hiking in Tibet and we found a journal! Could you please come right away? The guy went missing a thousand years ago and we're hot on his trail!" He laughed again. "Get serious. Look, we can make camp here tonight, and when we get back into town early next week, we'll look into getting that journal to someone, okay?"
She grimaced. "I don't know. It says this place is evil." She glanced around nervously.
"Seriously? You want to know evil? Climbing back down that mountain after the sun goes down. I'm not about to do that based on a thousand-plus-year-old note on the cover of a journal. Come on, we can camp right here in this old temple, under the benevolent gaze of the Adi-buddha. This place will protect us from any sudden storms that come up in the mountains this time of year."
"I suppose." Jill climbed up the old stone stairs and began to set up camp for the night.
***
She rolled over in her sleeping bag and stared at the small campfire they had started. She couldn't shake that nagging feeling of worry ever since Troy had tossed her his little discovery about an hour ago. Glancing over her shoulder at his slumbering form, she slowly eased herself out of the bag and removed the discovered journal from her backpack. Finding the beginning of the last entry once again, she began to read...
Quit being a silly scaredy-cat, Jill! she chided herself. She glanced away and grabbed a blanket, pulling it tight around her shoulder. Throwing a few more pieces of wood on the fire, and then inching closer to take in its warmth, she refound her place in the journal.
"Jesus, Troy! You scared the shit out of me!"
"Sorry. You all right?"
"Just can't sleep. I'm reading through this old journal. Good stuff, if you're into fantasy stories."
"So it's not even a real journal then, eh? Glad we didn't call the police." He smiled tiredly, then rolled back over in his bag. Jill waited until she heard the soft snoring before turning back around to the fire.
Quit being silly, Jill! Dear god, what would your father say if he--
"And how do you find the reading of my journals, child?"
She gasped. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod...
"There is no need to be frightened. Only the need to wish it, and I shall grant your request."
"You-- You-- You're..." She trailed off, already knowing how stupid this sounded, already knowing this couldn't be real.
"I am Beaufort Whitney Charleston the Third. That is my journal. I see you have decided to ignore my warning. But then again, the genie I had hoped to warn anyone against is long gone. And now there is only me. It has been many years since I had had company here in my prison."
Jill glanced over at Troy, who snored so peacefully amidst the booming noise of the Adi-buddha statue.
She turned quickly to face the statue once again. "I must be dreaming, right? Tell me I'm dreaming."
"Is that a wish?"
She gasped. "Nononononononononono!"
The statue chuckled. "Child, you must calm yourself. I'm sorry my attempt at humor has failed. I don't often get to use it, you see."
She gulped, found herself nodding. "I... uh..."
"Come now, my dear. Calm yourself. You should be delighted that you find yourself with the power to make three wishes, three glorious wishes, and to have a genie such as myself to make them happen. I assure you, I have no wish to see anyone else suffer my same fate."
"I can't really... I'm sorry... This just seems..."
A loud, booming laugh emitted from the statue. "Yes, yes, I realize. But there is no rush on the wishes. You see, I can stop time, keep Troy asleep, and let you take all the time you need to decide on the three most wondrous things you wish to make happen! I myself am going nowhere, of course. Ha, ha, ha!"
Jill cringed at the noise, cupping her hands over her ears.
And then it hit her--she had three wishes. She got to wish for anything at all.
She could make all her dreams come true.
Her eyes widened. Her heart raced. Excitement and hope filled her eyes, and she lifted her head to gaze into those cold, stone, lifeless eyes of the genie.
"My first wish, O great genie," she began...
Previous Challenges I have answered:
Week 22
My Challenger: Courtney
My Challenge: Gandhi said "Be the change you wish to see in the world." What change would that be?
Who I am Challenging: The Drama Mama
What I Challenged Them With: Romantically Jabberwocky-ish (She totally nailed it, FYI--go take a read!)
"And then it lists an address to someplace in Indiana." Troy flipped briefly through the pages. "Looks like a normal enough journal to me." He tossed the book over to his hiking companion.
Be forewarned. If you have found this journal, then I myself must have perished. I can only hope that you heed this warning, and leave this place immediately. This is a place of evil. Please forward this journal to the following address as soon as you possibly can:"
Jill caught it in the air and also glanced at the holographic note on the cover. "How odd," she mumbled. "What year do you think this is from?"
"I dunno. Are the entries dated? When is the last one from?"
She flipped through until she found the beginning of the last entry. "This journal is over a thousand years old! Troy! Do you realize how valuable this must be?"
"I doubt that the person at the other end of that mailing address is still holding out hope."
"No, seriously! This could be from some missing persons case! We should really contact the police or something."
Troy laughed, and then mimed a communicator to his ear. "Hello, officer? We're hiking in Tibet and we found a journal! Could you please come right away? The guy went missing a thousand years ago and we're hot on his trail!" He laughed again. "Get serious. Look, we can make camp here tonight, and when we get back into town early next week, we'll look into getting that journal to someone, okay?"
She grimaced. "I don't know. It says this place is evil." She glanced around nervously.
"Seriously? You want to know evil? Climbing back down that mountain after the sun goes down. I'm not about to do that based on a thousand-plus-year-old note on the cover of a journal. Come on, we can camp right here in this old temple, under the benevolent gaze of the Adi-buddha. This place will protect us from any sudden storms that come up in the mountains this time of year."
"I suppose." Jill climbed up the old stone stairs and began to set up camp for the night.
***
She rolled over in her sleeping bag and stared at the small campfire they had started. She couldn't shake that nagging feeling of worry ever since Troy had tossed her his little discovery about an hour ago. Glancing over her shoulder at his slumbering form, she slowly eased herself out of the bag and removed the discovered journal from her backpack. Finding the beginning of the last entry once again, she began to read...
Jill shivered and glanced up at the statue of the Adi-buddha. Had it's head... turned?
Tibet, May, 2346 BCE I'm not sure how much longer I have. Everything in my mind seems quite muddled, and I find myself phasing in and out of physical being. I will now attempt to recount the events of today, and hope that, at some point, someone may discover what has happened to me, to let the world know of this terrible danger, so that others may avoid this same fate.
It started when I came across this ancient monastery while on vacation in Tibet...
"I'm assuming the basic rules apply? No wishing for more wishes, no wishing the dead back to life, that kind of thing?"
The genie turned his head slightly to look me in the eye. A shiver ran down my spine as those stone, lifeless eyes met mine. And although he said no words, I took it as an agreement to my statement.
This one is different, I thought to myself.
You see, this was the seventh genie I had come across in my life. You may think me fortunate, but let me warn you, "wishing" isn't always all it's cracked up to be. The first genie I had freed from his "place of confinement" had been while hiking in Mexico, and quite by accident! Once I finally had the courage to take him up on his offer of three wishes (still thinking I was dreaming, or that it was an elaborate hoax of some kind), I made my first wish and was devastated by the results...
You, like myself, have probably imagined this scenario a hundred times over! "If I found a genie, I'd wish for..." Or the "If I had just one wish, I know I'd wish for..." Just keep in mind that old Chinese proverb, "Be careful what you wish for, because it might come true."
Being the altruistic, ever-optimistic human that I was, I had made the fatal mistake of wishing for world peace. Lofty? Yes. But I was young, a dreamer, and very naive in the ways of the djinn.
Because quite suddenly I was standing on a desolate, lifeless world, just me and my genie. (You can be forgiven at this point if Me and My Shadow has suddenly popped into your brain; it's happened to me countless times over the millenia...) Astounded at how "world peace" could result in such all-consuming death and destruction, the mischievous little gnome replied, "There is no peace in life. Life is a struggle, from beginning to end. For there to be world peace, there must be no life." Needless to say, my second wish was for negating my first, and my third and final wish was for the ability to find others like him, who had such power as to grant wishes.
Thus, I find myself here, before the seventh one I had found in my travels about the globe. Granted, not all of the genie were as devious and dangerous as the first--in fact, I counted myself lucky to have had such congenial wish makers, resulting not only in my multi-billion dollar estate, an overall lack of poverty and hunger in the world, twelve space colonies throughout our solar system, but four of my six beautiful children as well!
But this one, this genie... He was one to wish carefully upon. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was made of granite, sitting just inside a Tibetan monastery in one of the remotest places on earth, that gave me pause. Isolation typically gives me goosebumps, and having found this djinn had taken me by surprise--after all, I was only here on a personal vacation, for once not out on a lark looking for more wish fulfillment.
I realized then that the genie was still looking at me, his cold eyes boring through me, down into my soul.
Quit being a silly scaredy-cat, Jill! she chided herself. She glanced away and grabbed a blanket, pulling it tight around her shoulder. Throwing a few more pieces of wood on the fire, and then inching closer to take in its warmth, she refound her place in the journal.
"Jill? What are you doing?"
Walk away, I thought. Just walk away and leave this one well enough alone. But I couldn't. It had been over a year since my last wish had been fulfilled, and I needed my fix. It was like a drug, the all-powerful feeling that came with having your every (carefully thought-out) wish granted.
So I placed my backpack on the ground, rooted around for my journals (the very journal you find yourself reading at this moment, dear reader...) and began to peruse my list of unfulfilled wishes.
No... I thought, looking through the list. No... no... Ah-hah! I glanced up at the genie, who still had yet to utter a word. He simply stared at me.
"My first wish, O great genie," I began, "is for human doctor's to be able to find a life-giving cure, within the next five years, to every deadly disease, known and unknown, to all human beings in the universe so that all people may live long and prosperous lives to the end of their natural days and die only of old age."
You may think it silly, reader, to have to spell out such exact limits and guidelines, but I still was thinking upon that first genie I had met, and knew that if I were to leave any of the details open to interpretation, I could well find myself standing alone, once again, on a lifeless earth. After all, I reasoned, what better cure to disease would a djinn think of then to have no humans at all? No humans, no disease. Therefore, I was trying to tread very, very carefully.
And then I saw the nod. The nod of wish fulfillment.
However, being that I had given a five-year grace period, I had no idea at this point whether or not this wish would even be granted in the way I envisioned. Add to the fact that I find myself in the most isolated parts of the globe, I had no way to even turn on my cell to watch the news, to see if discoveries were even now being touted within these first few minutes of disease eradication.
I had done my best, however, with wish number one. I also then had five years to find another genie to reverse this wish if, indeed, disastrous results were to unfold. If I was going to make the world a better place, if I was going to effect change that was to help everyone on earth, I had to make sure I had back up plans.
I continued to stare at the genie. He continued to stare back. I could only trust that, as I was still standing here and he was still standing there, I had not made a wish that could be twisted or manipulated.
Still, I continued to wait.
"Jesus, Troy! You scared the shit out of me!"
"Sorry. You all right?"
"Just can't sleep. I'm reading through this old journal. Good stuff, if you're into fantasy stories."
"So it's not even a real journal then, eh? Glad we didn't call the police." He smiled tiredly, then rolled back over in his bag. Jill waited until she heard the soft snoring before turning back around to the fire.
Jill shivered. She looked up and saw those eyes staring at her.
"Your wish has been granted, human."
"You... You can talk?"
It gave a slight nod. It suddenly seemed more real to me, more alive, now that it had spoken. Still, I was quite shaken by the deep, rich, booming voice, especially within the confines of this temple. Something still didn't feel quite on the up-and-up. Nevertheless, I had two more wishes to make before I could be on my way.
"No shenanigans, right? You are making sure my wish is fulfilled as I intended it to be, correct?"
It locked eyes with me once more, then after a second gave a slight nod in the affirmative. "You have two more wishes to make, human, before I am free. Make your requests."
Before I am free? What does that mean? But I knew better than to ask. There was still a great deal I didn't know about these fantastic creatures, and until I found one a little more--friendly? congenial?--I knew I'd get no answers from this brute.
"Fine," I said. "On with the business at hand. My second wish, O great genie, is that all six of my children would be great leaders in the profession of their choosing, rivaled by none and experts in all that they endeavored to do, leaving them content and fulfilled throughout their lives."
Again, I waited. And again, I was rewarded with a slight nod. "Your wish has been granted, human."
I was dizzy with excitement. Oh, the power! I was practically giddy that I had just secured a bright and promising future for my offspring, lives that would be rewarding and fulfilling! I clasped my hands to keep them from trembling. "Thank you, genie."
It gave me that stony nod in return.
Now I sat. I contemplated. I made myself dinner over a small cooking fire, staring at the djinn as he continued to stare back at me. Hours must have passed as I gave thought to my final wish of this magical creature. He seemed quite unperturbed, happy to wait, happy to not wait. I thought about the eons that must have passed right here under his gaze, the millions of lives that have been born and died at his feet here in this temple.
And then it hit me. And to this day I wasn't sure why this wish, this desire had not come to me sooner. After all, hadn't every wish I'd ever made only been to improve my life and the lives of others? Hadn't each one since that first been only to bring about positive change in a universe that dementedly suffered? Why should I need to find a genie to make these things happen? Why couldn't I be the one to simply make them happen? Why couldn't I be the change the world so desperately needed? What was that ancient proverb? "Be the change you wish to see in the world"?
I stood up, shook the dust from my pants, and approached the ancient fairy creature. His gaze followed my every move.
"O great genie," I intoned quite dramatically, drunk on the idea of the power I was about to receive, "my third wish, my final wish of you, is for me, myself, to have the power to change the world, for there to be no need for myself to find a genie for wishes to come true." I was practically jumping up and down in my excitement, knowing that now, I had no need to choose my words so carefully--I would know exactly how I wanted my wish fulfilled, I would know exactly what change I wanted to take place! No more back-up plans, no more worrying about some evil creature twisting my words and meanings! I would be the one to determine what I meant!
And then--
Oh, dear reader, too late I recognized my fatal mistake. And suddenly I was looking at myself standing there and I realized...
Sweet Jehoshaphat, did I realized...
I watched as my former body approached my new body. "You now have the power to grant wishes, human. You can now be the change you wish to see in the world. As soon as another human finds you, and demands of you for wishes to be granted."
And with that, he walked away in my body... And I looked down to see that I, now, inhabited his former body.
Even now, as I write these final words, the granite of my new flesh grows hard. I'm thinking that I need a human presence to move, to give life to these limbs. As this pencil threatens to break in my now monstrous hands, as I try to delicately put down these words so that you, dear reader, may know...
Quit being silly, Jill! Dear god, what would your father say if he--
"And how do you find the reading of my journals, child?"
She gasped. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod...
"There is no need to be frightened. Only the need to wish it, and I shall grant your request."
"You-- You-- You're..." She trailed off, already knowing how stupid this sounded, already knowing this couldn't be real.
"I am Beaufort Whitney Charleston the Third. That is my journal. I see you have decided to ignore my warning. But then again, the genie I had hoped to warn anyone against is long gone. And now there is only me. It has been many years since I had had company here in my prison."
Jill glanced over at Troy, who snored so peacefully amidst the booming noise of the Adi-buddha statue.
She turned quickly to face the statue once again. "I must be dreaming, right? Tell me I'm dreaming."
"Is that a wish?"
She gasped. "Nononononononononono!"
The statue chuckled. "Child, you must calm yourself. I'm sorry my attempt at humor has failed. I don't often get to use it, you see."
She gulped, found herself nodding. "I... uh..."
"Come now, my dear. Calm yourself. You should be delighted that you find yourself with the power to make three wishes, three glorious wishes, and to have a genie such as myself to make them happen. I assure you, I have no wish to see anyone else suffer my same fate."
"I can't really... I'm sorry... This just seems..."
A loud, booming laugh emitted from the statue. "Yes, yes, I realize. But there is no rush on the wishes. You see, I can stop time, keep Troy asleep, and let you take all the time you need to decide on the three most wondrous things you wish to make happen! I myself am going nowhere, of course. Ha, ha, ha!"
Jill cringed at the noise, cupping her hands over her ears.
And then it hit her--she had three wishes. She got to wish for anything at all.
She could make all her dreams come true.
Her eyes widened. Her heart raced. Excitement and hope filled her eyes, and she lifted her head to gaze into those cold, stone, lifeless eyes of the genie.
"My first wish, O great genie," she began...
Previous Challenges I have answered:
- [Week 1: All of Me]
- [Week 2: Child's End]
- [Week 3: Seeking Bonds]
- [Week 4: Just So You Know]
- [Week 5: Justice & Mercy]
- [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
- [Week 7: Hell or High Water]
- [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
- [Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
- [Week 10: Set It Free]
- [Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
- [Week 12: Worth a Thousand Words...]
- [Week 13: On the Down...]
- [Week 14: Hey Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?]
- [Week 15: Forever Is...]
- [Week 16: Death of a Betsy...]
- [Week 17: Big Bad]
- [Week 18: Coffee: Hot, Black, & Strong]
- [Week 19: The Queen's Confession]
- [Week 20: The Witch of Picassoid]
- [Week 21: Me, Mouse-self and I...]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
