By Dawn Munro
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.
As much as it grieves me to think it, the evidence is mounting and I've spent too many years either part of law enforcement, or working with it to believe in coincidence -- enough is enough. I'm tough, but this is the last straw -- I deserve a whole lot better, and if I'm right, you deserve a whole lot worse for what you've said about me to others, and what you've done.
But that's not up to me. What is up to me is forgiveness, and I'm all out. Just as I am out of peace of mind, a most valuable thing, stolen by you and those so-called friends you keep.
I don't know how you sleep at night. I know I couldn't. Did you think I wouldn't find out? Your friends aren't as loyal as you think. In fact, they're a bunch of gossiping, back-stabbing hypocrites. If they gossiped about me, don't you think they would gossip about you, too? What's the matter with you? Lost your common sense when you lost any kind of integrity? It was done in confidence. That's what a friend is supposed to be -- a confidant. Look it up, smart-ass.
You are the only one who had a key. What did you do, come over on those nights you knew I'd be at work just to train my bird?
It won't do you any good. My parrot will NOT be around when Ross is over -- I'll make sure of it, at least until I can re-train her. So your little play-acting -- moaning and groaning like you were me enjoying sex was for nothing -- like your efforts to also teach Franny how to say, "Patty is a cheater".
Not funny, Donna. I trusted you. How could you think a man like my boyfriend, Ross, would be so gullible as to believe such a thing? From a parrot saying I was cheating on him, of all things! Your practical jokes have gone too far, and Franny is my beloved pet -- how DARE you!
It was a one-time slip-up, and it will never happen again. All you could accomplish by telling Ross, if he did believe my stupid bird, is to hurt him over one, single, drunken dalliance.
We're done. I was never into you anyway. I am not bisexual.
| Author Notes |
ROFL - I kill myself. Don't ask me where this one came from -- I haven't a clue. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. LOL! :))
XXOO Dawn |
By Dawn Munro
The old people have a saying--whatever you do will return to you threefold. Whether it returns three times as strong, or whether it just happens three times I've never been sure. All I know is, this night she is about to do something I've warned her she must never do. In our religion, an ancient, Irish based worship of the earth and everything in it, we live the law: "An it harm none do what thou wilt". In plain English, it means, do what you will, but don't harm anyone."
But he broke her heart, and she can't let go of her horrible torment; she believes he must be punished, and so must the witch who stole him from her.
We are Wiccan, and she is going to break a cardinal rule if I don't stop her.
<><><>
"Jessie, bring in the chairs, will you?"
The coven is meeting tonight. There's been much discussion about Mariel and her beau, the handsome Jack, from the small village of Alliston. They want to be married, but if it's allowed, Jessie thinks her life will be over.
"How many, Mom?"
"I guess about eight should do it. I don't think Marta and Bert are coming."
"Why not? Don't they usually attend these things?" Marta and Bert are elders, and never miss a meeting of the coven, although Bert sits it out while the women gather.
"Yes, but Bert wasn't feeling well. I talked to Marta this afternoon. She says he's having trouble with his prostate and doesn't want to travel far from his comfy Lazyboy." I wink, and the merry mischief I see reflected in her hazel eyes belies the seriousness of her intention tonight.
"Wait, are you saying there's nothing wrong with his prostate?" she smiles back at me--my daughter is nothing, if not a good sport.
"Jess, you know I would never contradict Marta," I say, but that's exactly what I'm doing. I'm lying to my daughter, as I lied to our elders--I did the best I could to keep Marta and Bert away because the rest of the coven aren't as proficient, can't read signs like they can. They would know.
"Boy, those two--I hope I'm as spry and full of vinegar as they are by the time I reach their age."
Bert's prostate really is troubling him these days, but I'm the only one who knows. Marta and Bert are both in their seventies, but their passion has yet to subside, and that, everybody in our group knows. That's what true love can do--it gives one such vigor that sex remains an integral part of one's marriage, even after the fire turns to warmly glowing embers.
Jessie is sure she loves Jack with that kind of passion, and Mariel stole him from her. But it's not the truth. The truth is neither of those young lovers ever knew my daughter existed, their eyes only for each other from the moment they met.
I pray Jessie will change her mind at the last minute. If she doesn't, I am doomed, far worse than poor, old Bert with his cancerous prostrate.
<><><>
"Blessed be, Sarah."
"Blessed be, Jessie. Where's Ramona? I've brought some muffins and I want to know where she wants me to put them."
"Oh, how nice. I guess you should probably put them out on the dining room table. Mom's already got a platter of sandwiches out there, and I added some teacakes I made this afternoon."
Wordlessly, Sarah follows Jess into the dining room. I watch them from behind the dining room door. Sarah never was much of a talker, but she's kind, and always helpful. I think sometimes it is witches like Sarah who get the worst of the ill treatment from townsfolk. She's quiet and a bit timid, and so they pick on her because they know she'll never defend herself, she'll just run away. Jessie, on the other hand, is not at all shy, and her big mouth has caused no small amount of grief in my life, or the life of our family.
But I love her, and it's her eternal life I am worried about this time. If she carries out her plan, if she even tries to begin the spell, the dark forces will have her and there's no way any of us will be able to stop them.
A witch's heart must always be pure.
I pat my pocket to be sure the small packet is still there. I'll have to be quick, because as sure as our crab apple tree attracts those mischievous children from town, one of the witches will try to stop me if they catch me. They're not Marta and Bert, but they are still able to see some things.
But this is my daughter, and I have to keep her from making a fatal mistake. If the potion works, she will pass out, and Grandmother will take me instead. It's a last resort, of course, but we are running out of time. As soon as the two girls leave the table, I slip in and deposit the contents into the cup Jessie always uses. It quickly coats it, and becomes invisible.
I step out onto the porch, calling my sweet Jessie to join me. I'll give it one more try because I don't want the fate that awaits either, any more than I want it for my daughter.
It is her heart that must decide, however. Once a young witch is past a certain age, it does no good to try to influence with words, even when that witch is your own blood.
Jessie follows me out onto the veranda, her beautiful face full of love for me.
"What is it, Mom?"
"Water, Jess. Water around the moon. See it?"
"Do you mean the mist? Yes, it's misty alright."
"Not mist, Jess, water, and it's a sign."
Her gaze is questioning; for just a moment, she doubts, but then I can see her mind working. She thinks it's a coincidence. She thinks I can't possibly guess what she's planning.
"What do you mean, Momma, a sign of what?"
"Grief, Jessie. Someone is going to be grief stricken, and very soon."
"How can water, or mist covering the moon mean grief? That doesn't make any sense." She is resentful now, as if she is still a child. Deep down she is guessing I might know after all.
"Oh, it makes sense alright. I've never seen it fail, and I've never seen it as powerful as it is tonight. You see, it is covering the moon, almost blocking out all light."
She shrugs, turns, and heads back into the house, pausing at the door, her parting words more hurtful than she can know. "Clouds do that too, and they don't cause any harm. They water our gardens."
Yes, Jessie, our gardens, where the dead are buried. Our family of witches who must never leave this sacred ground, thanks to one withered heart, one jealous old woman who tried to keep her son from loving a woman and leaving her, leaving his mother. It is almost Samhain, the time every year when the veil between the spirit world and this one is at its thinnest.
I watched you all summer as you wore your heart on your sleeve every time Jack was around. Please, Jess--change your mind!
But I hear her thoughts--she won't.
Drink the tea, then, my darling. Drink it now, before the coven gathers. Before Grandmother sees.
Grandmother, don't do this! For once give us mercy! She's not like you. She doesn't really want to harm Mariel and Jack with her spell. She's just hurt. You, you were evil! You wanted what was never meant to be yours.
Sarah's voice interrupts, urgent, panicked--
"Ramona, come quickly! It's Jessie; something's wrong! She's collapsed, and she doesn't seem to be breathing!"
She is breathing, Sarah. It is me who won't soon.
I look up once more to see the water blotting out the moon's gorgeous glow.
I pray Jess won't grieve too long. As I think it, I feel Grandmother's bony hand on my shoulder...it's time. From someplace far off, a howling begins, and the terrible darkness descends...
| Author Notes |
word count: 1,370
Several reviewers commented there's a very real religion based upon witchcraft called Wicca. I knew that, and I also know they really live by, "Do what you want, as long as you harm no one." Perhaps it's time to look up that ol' family tree...(muwaaahaha -*grin*) |
By Dawn Munro
Nobody gives a good goddamn if I live or die, and that's just fine with me. As far as I'm concerned the further I stay away from people, the better off I am, except when I can get a little help for some food for Bongo and me.
Bongo's my dog. One time somebody tried to 'rescue' Bongo from me. "Don't you want your poor dog to have a good home?" the lady asked, her perfume so strong when she leaned in, Bongo's eyes were watering like mine were.
"No, Mam, Bongo's fine, right here with me," I told her, trying not to choke on the flowery fumes. I swear; people have been known to say I smell a little high, but they ought to take a sniff of themselves once in a while. Anyway, Back to Bongo and the Avon lady. Would she listen? Of course not. Her type never do.
"But he needs a bath," says this snobby High Brow, "He could be so handsome with his coat cleaned up and brushed."
I think Bongo about had an Epileptic fit right about then. All I know is, I have to give that dog credit. What do you think he did? Lifted up his leg, right then and there, and started to whiz on her expensive shoes. She sure left in a hurry. Bongo and me had a good laugh, I'll tell you.
I mean really, what's wrong with people? Just because I am homeless doesn't mean I can't provide for my dog. And when it comes to Bongo, I'd starve to death before I'd let him miss one meal. But around here, there's plenty. The restaurants always have good stuff thrown away, and those times they don't, somebody or the other ponies up for a couple of burgers.
Now I'm not saying it's all rainbows and roses out here on the streets, but it's not as bad as some people think, either. At least there's no clock to punch, no scramble to come up with exorbitant rent, no boss with his hand up my skirt. The only ones down here likely to try something know better by now. Old Jackson took care of that, and right quick.
"Get your dirty hands off of me," I says when that horn-dog, Al Cheesley tried. But before he even had a chance to back away, down came this gnarly cane, looked like it was made from the branch of a thousand-year-old oak, polished to a high shine and so black with age it might have been ebony.
"Leave off, you filthy beast, lest I show you what the wrath of Cane can do!"
He's nearly seven feet tall, that old man, and he wears a lamb's wool coat made to fit someone much shorter, but with a head of grey hair so matted and tangled it looks more like a crow's nest, and shoulders as broad as a bridge, few will challenge him. His presence is dignified. He carries himself like the reigning King of our raggedy band of ne'er-do-wells, and his deep, bass voice rings with authority. He has legs as thick as tree trunks, clad in pants too short, and bulging at the crotch, as if to say if anyone will bed this damsel, it will be me. If he wasn't as old as Methuselah, I would have been worried, but Jackson is at least seventy-five. No one knows, exactly, because Jackson doesn't talk about himself a lot, but old Bertha says he fought for our country, even won a medal for bravery, but when he got home, his wife had shacked up with his next-door neighbor.
They say Jackson started the fire that killed the couple, but it was never proved. All I know is, he always has some tidbit of nourishment for Bongo and me, and even though we're nothing special in his eyes, this old, black man always seems to be around when we need him.
He's not right in the head, people say, but he's right for me and my Bongo.
Yes, life on the streets is nothing to brag about, but I wouldn't trade it, Bongo, or Jackson for a mansion in the richest district of our city. That's what people like Jackson fought for anyway--freedom--and freedom is exactly what we've got, here on skid row.
Me and Bongo, we like it just fine. Old Jackson seems content too.
By Dawn Munro
My pet is a cockroach named Harriet. I keep her in a bowl by my bed. Now, you'd think that a cockroach would roam, wouldn't you? But she doesn't. Harriet is extremely smart. She knows which side her bread is buttered on, and she knows her job is to stay close. You see, I hate other bugs, especially centipedes, and when it rains, the ugly creatures try to invade our space. Harriet is actually very pretty, especially for a species that's been around longer than the dinosaur.
But I have dusted the apartment with something called diatomaceous earth. It's all over the place, and I keep it down all the time. It doesn't hurt my cat, but it's deadly for bugs, and of course, that's what a cockroach is (although we only remind Harriet of that when she starts feeling a little antsy and wants to leave her bowl).
She's a good bug, most of the time, and she rarely gets sick. It's very inexpensive to keep a cockroach for a pet too--Harriet feasts like royalty on crumbs, and there are no vet bills to worry about.
Last fall I was a bit worried because she came down with a nasty cold, but my veterinarian wouldn't treat her. "I don't treat bugs," she said. I was a little upset because it seems to me all doctors treat bugs, but there wasn't much I could do. I fed Harriet some white tea, laced with a drop of cod liver oil, and thankfully, that cleared up her infection nicely.
Harriet is particularly fond of Prissy, our cat. Priscilla's diet includes steamed fish, and that puss is somewhat unladylike in the way she eats it. She likes to pull it off the plate, and Harriet gets to clean up after her. Of course, I do take Harriet out of her bowl sometimes--even cockroaches need exercise. But I always supervise.
She's getting fat. It seems to be a family trait. I think we all like our food just a little too much. But it's not all bad. It keeps her from going all bug-eyed over boys, if you know what I mean. They're all about those svelte cockroaches, and Harriet is holding out for a bug that will see her for her inner beauty.
We had a party for her fourth birthday last year, and man, that was a disaster! I had to sweep and mop all the floors to make sure there was none of that diatomaceous earth left anywhere, and then, as if that wasn't enough, the gang showed up and they didn't want to leave. My place is small--I don't have room for a hundred and ten cockroaches, or more. (I never did manage a head count.)
But I have to tell you, cockroaches sure know how to have fun. Harriet's friends and family were jitter-bugging all over the place. Her uncle owns a cockroach band, and naturally he offered to play for free when he heard about all the food we'd be serving. It's just too bad they have so many bad habits. A lot of them were carrying out doggie bags when the party was over, and some of them were pretty stubborn about leaving; tried to hide in my cupboards. Talk about rude! Those cockroaches had bad manners. It's hard to believe Harriet came from that family.
I mean, I wasn't about to commit murder, and they knew it. They took advantage. So it was a case of sprinkling food all the way out the door, and there was too much of it for Harriet to manage all by herself when they finally left--I had to clean that mess up too. I doubt we'll be throwing a party for her next year, which is really a shame because I think Harriet sometimes gets a little lonely for her own kind, you know? And Prissy is a different cat since that party--a little stand-offish.
Anyway, that's about it. Just remember, a cockroach isn't nearly as bad as everybody thinks. They are actually very polite, usually, and if you treat them with kindness, they'll work for free. Mind you, you will have to wash the dishes afterwards anyway, but hey, it beats wasting food.
~~~
| Author Notes |
704 words
Videos courtesy of youTube. |
By Dawn Munro
Lester brushed the silky fur until it gleamed. Presentation had to be just right, or the coveted blue ribbon would go to another puss.
"Lester! You git up here, boy."
His Momma was hollering for him again, as usual. "Shh, kitty, no noise. Stay right here. Momma cain't know you're here, or my ass is grass." He climbed the stairs from the basement like an old man, every step bringing him closer to another clout upside his head.
"Yes, Momma?" He tried not to let his fear show, but his lips trembled. Brown eyes, so like his dead Daddy's, widened, as his momma, clad in a blood-stained apron, approached.
"What in tarnation are you doin' down there, boy? Din't you hear me say you was to git some 'a that firewood Mr. Davis chopped fer us in here, an' pile it up proper beside this here wood stove? Do you want supper, or not?"
The headless chicken still quivered on Momma's cutting board.
"Yes, Momma. I hear. I'ma do it right now. Sorry, Momma."
"You bes' be sorry, boy, or I'll make you sorry. Now git to it, lickety-split."
"Yes, Ma'am." Whew, he'd got off lucky this time. No wallop, and no long lecture. The county fair was in town, and Lester had every intention of entering the cat show with Emmeline, his pretty, calico cat. The screen door banged behind him when he stepped from the porch onto the wooden stoop; he'd better hurry and finish this chore, or he'd miss the whole shebang. You had to fill out the entry form by noon, and the sun was already half-way to midday.
<><><>
"There. All done, Momma. Can I go now?"
"Where you so hot to git to this mornin', Lester?" His momma's skinny arm flashed out faster than a snake. The cuff was a token one, but it still stung, and before he could stop them, tears began to stream down both of his pale cheeks.
"N-n-owhere's, Momma. No-where's special that is!"
"Stop that snivellin', boy! G'wan then. But git back here before dark, you hear?"
"Yes, Ma'am, I will. Thank you, Momma, thank you." Lester hurried down to the basement. Grabbing a box he'd already prepared for the purpose, he carefully lifted his sweet cat into its cozy interior. "There now, Emmeline. Good kitty. You jus' rest there, nice 'n quiet. We got a ways to go." He tucked the box under his arm and hustled up the stairs. With any luck, his momma wouldn't notice.
The kitchen was empty.
<><><>
"What's in the box, honey?" The entry clerk was a white-haired lady, with arms the size of tree trunks.
"M-my cat, Ma'am."
"Oh, so you're wanting an entry form then; awful quiet cat. Can I see it?"
Lester set the box down on her table and lifted the lid. Her screams brought a crowd. "Child, you can't enter that! Don't you know it's DEAD?"
Lester burst into tears. His secret was out.
| Author Notes |
496 words - the word count here is wrong. I am 100% positive, and very frustrated with this continuous inaccuracy on Evil Eddie. I have a Microsoft program that includes a word counter. It is ALWAYS right. I also do a double-check with an online word counter, and if it isn't a long piece, I hand count - and I am a perfectionist.
About this latest posting, Re: the story, and not leading the reader along by the nose...in other words, treating the reader as if he or she has an imagination - professionals WARN against insulting the reader's intelligence. There are three secrets, not one... Here's the explanation - Did Lester perhaps find a dead cat, and was so in need of something to love, he took it home? Is Lester the one who killed the cat? (maybe a serial killer in the making?) It was written this way intentionally - a plot within a plot, within a plot. The contest instructions say we don't have to reveal the secret - here we have the secret of the cat's existence being guarded from Momma, the secret of the fact that the cat is actually dead, and the unrevealed secret of how it died. (Is Lester a disturbed child - one would think so...!) I also make reference to his "dead Daddy". In literary circles it is a well-known, favored method of building suspense and/or interest to compel the read - it's called innuendo - a complex plot. (plot within a plot is what we pay to see at the movies and in bookstores) This is a story I COULD continue. But there IS an ending, it's just not an in-your-face ending. The conclusion is, of course, Lester can't enter the cat show after all. Thanks for reading. |
By Dawn Munro
"They were lined up on the telephone wires again, Jim, staring. I felt their beady little eyes watching me all the time I was planting the corn."
"Bea, they were probably waiting for you to leave so they could nab some seed. Crows'll eat anything, but seeds? All birds want seeds, especially corn." He grinned.
Pompous ass. Thinks he knows it all. "Oh yeah, hotshot? Then how come they're still there, hmm?"'
"I don't know, Beatrice. Maybe they figure you're coming back, and they're waiting you out." He chuckled.
"Well, they're going to have a long wait. The garden is in. But that old Indian is responsible. Ever since he told me that the Crow Totem is powerful, that the crow is a messenger from the Spirit World, those birds have gathered to watch me plant."
"Listen to yourself. Seriously. Like they weren't around before you almost hit the old codger on Ravine Road." He sneered.
"Not like this, they weren't, James McAndrew. One or two, maybe, but never so many all at once."
"You're being ridiculous. I told you; you should have apologized. That's all it would have taken, you know. Now you're feeling guilty, and a few harmless birds are giving you the willies."
I want to wipe that smug look off your face so badly! "Fine. Dismiss me. That's all you ever do."
"I'm going to watch the game. You can sit out here and watch the crows, Bea. Count them if you like. I'm not arguing with you." His raised his eyebrows, shook a thatch of dark hair, smirked. "Honestly, woman, you're losing it. Giving an old Indian's story credence."
He was a handsome devil. She'd give him that. But his appearance had long ago lost its charm. James turned on his heel and left Beatrice fuming in the steamy kitchen.
Bea ran hot water into the sink, grumbling. Dinner had been the usual meatloaf and mashed potatoes, frozen vegetables on the side. It would be good to have fresh ones from her garden again. It was why she went to all the trouble every year. And him. You'd think she'd asked him to donate a kidney when she needed him to turn the soil for her. It wasn't like they didn't have a rototiller.
"Damn!" She hadn't paid attention; stuck her hands into the sink to start washing up and scalded both of them, right to the wrist.
The crows flew off. The setting sun painted the horizon the colour of burnt skin.
<><><> to be continued...
By Dawn Munro
the last bit of Part 1--
Bea ran hot water into the sink, grumbling. Dinner had been the usual meatloaf and mashed potatoes, frozen vegetables on the side. It would be good to have fresh ones from her garden again. It was why she went to all the trouble every year. And him. You'd think she'd asked him to donate a kidney when she needed him to turn the soil for her. It wasn't like they didn't have a rototiller.
"Damn!" She hadn't paid attention; stuck her hands into the sink to start washing up and scalded both of them, right to the wrist.
The crows flew off. The setting sun painted the horizon the colour of burnt skin.
Part 2:
Beatrice pinned the note to the refrigerator with a magnet clip. Gone to the post office. Please cut the grass before the sun is out and it gets too hot. Lately, Jim was becoming an absolute slob. He'd sleep until noon and then complain that it was too hot to work outside. They owned five acres, the country home Bea had always wanted; a sprawling, red brick bungalow with a walk out to the back yard from both the kitchen and their master bedroom. But the grass was almost gone to seed, it was so tall.
The thought of seed reminded Beatrice of the flock of crows yesterday, and a small shiver chased its way down her spine. I don't care what Jim thinks. Those birds are a sign of something bad to come, and that old Indian practically threatened me. As usual though, my loving husband scorned everything I said. And he takes everybody's side but mine.
A sudden dizziness washed over her. Beatrice paused, gripping the counter top for balance. Wow, she must not have slept long enough. Heaven knew, it was hard falling asleep the night before, what with Jim's snoring and the old Indian's face haunting her. When she had finally dropped asleep, her dream had been a weird one. Feathers floating. That's all she could really remember. But it had left her with a vague uneasiness. She really hadn't been driving that much over the speed limit, had she? And the old man just appeared out of nowhere. But you know they do that, Beatrice. The land between here and town is reservation land, and the bush comes right up to the gravel roadside. She had taken that corner too fast.
But Jim's nagging made me step on the gas out of spite, like only he knows how to drive.
The vertigo passed as quickly as it had descended.She grabbed the Subaru's keys off the hook beside the 'fridge. Funny, I don't even remember bringing them out to the kitchen. I could have sworn I left them on the table by the front door. Just like everything else Jim did, he'd made the stupid wall hanger and expected her to use it, to keep 'everything in its place'. God, the man is like an old woman sometimes. 'A place for everything, and everything in its place', he'd said, even though she'd told him the logical place for it was on the wall beside a door. Some Valentine's gift!
Beatrice slammed the front door behind her. Good. Maybe for once you'll get out of bed before noon.
The crows were back, this time boldly perched on the gravel drive. A few flew off as she stepped outside, but at least a dozen remained, eyeing her as she approached the Subaru.
"Shoo!" Bea hollered. "Go on, you bloody devils! Get out of here!" She waved her arms wildly, and the last crow took flight, cawing. It was all Beatrice could do not to run back into the house and shake her doubting husband awake, make him see she was not imagining things.
But maybe they were only close to the house because they were after the corn I planted yesterday. That's what Jim would say. Don't birds have to eat gravel so they can digest their food?
Her stomach suddenly heaved. But there's plenty of gravel on the roadside. She unlocked the Subaru and slipped inside, slid the key into the ignition and waited for the nausea to pass. Nothing unusual, she tried to assure herself. Too much coffee and too little breakfast.
But a stop at the hardware store in town for some birdshot would make her feel better. Daddy's Remington is still stored in the top closet of the guest bedroom. I'm glad he made sure I knew how to use it before he died.
<><><>to be continued...
By Dawn Munro
the last bit of Part 2 -- "Damn!" She hadn't paid attention; stuck her hands into the sink to start washing up and scalded both of them, right to the wrist.
The crows flew off. The setting sun painted the horizon the colour of burnt skin.
The trip to town was uneventful, and Beatrice was relieved. Somehow she'd been expecting those birds to appear again, maybe even tail her into town.
Maybe Jim is right. I really am cracking up! She giggled, the tension leaving her shoulders for the first time since spotting the crows lined up on the telephone wires. She locked the Subaru, and headed into the post office to pick up their mail.
"Good morning, Mildred," she said, greeting the middle-aged woman behind the counter with a cheerful smile.
"G'morning." Mildred's face was a study in granite. "What can I do you for this morning? After your mail?"
As quickly as her mood had brightened, Bea's optimism evaporated. Miserable hag. Somebody should tell her that her face won't crack if she smiles once in a while. "Yes, please. McAndrew. Beatrice and James."
"Of course. I know who you are." Was she imagining it, or did Mildred just sneer like Jim always did? Mildred shuffled away and returned -- in her hand, several regulation-sized, brown envelopes. "Just bills, looks like." She grinned.
Beatrice snatched the mail from the woman's hand. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, dear."
God, what a condescending witch! Bea hustled out the way she'd come in. The sun was rising over the brim of forest surrounding the small town. But to the east, over the lake, clouds were quickly gathering. She slammed the door of the Subaru and drove off the lot as fast as she could, the spinning tires flinging up dust and gravel, as if in protest.
Maybe I should forget the birdshot and get me some REAL ammunition.
Hidden from view among the trees, the murder of crows fluttered and cawed, their cries like some primal scream from the ancient graves of Apache warriors.
By Dawn Munro
from the previous (Part3) -- Maybe I should forget the birdshot and get me some REAL ammunition.
Hidden from view among the trees, the murder of crows fluttered and cawed, their cries like some primal scream from the ancient graves of Apache warriors.
"Two boxes of buckshot, please."
"Eh, yup. Plannin' on doin' some hunting, are ya, Bea? What're ya after, if I can ask?"
Nosey old geezer. What's it to him? Beatrice stared at Charlie Gibbons, stumped for an answer. He was an old friend of her father's, a hunting pal, and he knew full well there wasn't a lot in season right now.
"Uh, I meant birdshot, Charlie."
"Bit early for partridge, Bea."
"I know that. I really want it to scare off some pesky crows, is all."
The old man reached into his display and pulled out two boxes of birdshot ammunition. "Well, Beatrice, you know, birdshot can inflict an awful wound to a person, too, even fatal. You be careful, ya hear? Hell of a way ta go. The person bleeds out real slow-like."
"I know, Charlie. I'll be careful." He was looking at her like he didn't believe she wanted the pellets for crows. She paid, and beat it out of his store.
<><><>
The storm clouds had taken over the cerulean sky of earlier. It was going to be a doozy. Matches my mood. Thanks, people. The wind picked up, and Beatrice found herself struggling to keep within the speed limit once again. It wouldn't do to have it storming if the ravens came back. She wasn't about to try shooting while standing out in the rain.
Then, as she rounded a bend in the old county road, she spied them. They were clustered around the carcass of some animal, obviously enjoying a feast. She slowed, pulled over, still a good distance from the birds. As if by some signal unseen, the flock rose and flew off into the trees. Frustrated, Bea got back into the Subaru. She had come prepared, returning to the house before leaving for town. Her Daddy's Remington was nestled safely where she had placed it on the SUV's back seat.
She'd made sure to load it before leaving the hardware store's lot too. Now all Bea had to do was catch the winged devils, preferably far enough away from home that Jim wouldn't be filling her head with his griping and doubting. Crows were omens, and if she showed them she wasn't afraid, they'd leave her alone. She KNEW that old Indian had cursed her. Jim was WRONG. But she'd shoot them wherever she found them.
<><><>
"Where are we going, Grandfather?" asked the young Indian girl, tripping in her haste to keep up with the old man.
"We are going to help someone, Running Deer."
"Grandfather, my name is Deidre. You know that!" She grinned, secretly proud that her Grandfather still used her tribal name. "Who are we going to help?"
"Someone who has become lost, little one. Someone who doesn't know how to speak to the animals."
"Like we do, Grandfather?"
"Yes."
"So she got lost in the bush?"
"No. Not that kind of lost, Running Deer, the kind that poisons the mind, perverts the soul."
"OH!"
"Don't be frightened, child. We'll do what we can. Did you bring that contraption of yours, that cell phone?"
"Yes, Grandfather." Deidre smiled, hesitant. Grandfather usually frowned at her when she was on it, talking to friends in town.
"Good. We might need it."
<><><>
"How did you know?" They crouched beside Beatrice.
"The crows, child. They told me her hate had caused her to hunt them, and her fear made the gun misfire."
Bea's breathing was harsh, blood gurgling as she tried to speak. Half her mouth was gone. The Remington had backfired into her teeth. Blood was everywhere. The old Indian's kerchief lay on her chest, soaked.
"Is she going to be alright, Grandfather?" The little girl tried hard not to cry.
"Yes, if it is the Creator's will. And you will have a new name now. No more Running Deer. I will call you Brave Deer." He reached out to stroke his granddaughter's cheek fondly, the other hand still resting gently on Beatrice's shoulder.
The wail of an ambulance in the distance sent many crows flying deeper into the woods, the sound of wind beneath countless wings like a feathered requiem.
"I sent the crows to her, Brave Deer. I told her so, that day on the road, this same road where her hate made her drive too fast. Crows are Spirit Guides. I was hoping they would lead her to a peace she has lost, an understanding she once knew as a child. But like so many people today, she was afraid of what she didn't know, and this is what it led to."
He turned, now, and spoke to Beatrice. "Don't be afraid. There is nothing to fear but the pain, and it will soon pass." Bea's eyes closed, her struggle at last over.
"Run now, Brave Deer. Straight home. I will come soon."
"But Grandfather, will she be okay?" Deidre said, finally giving in to tears.
"Always, little one. Now go." He waved Deidre off, and she turned and fled. He began to chant, the prayer he had learned at his mother's knee.
The Spirit Guides would carry this woman's soul to its place of rest. That, at least, he could ensure.
By Dawn Munro
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
I am seriously wondering what has happened to cause the extreme and disastrous events that seem to plague me -- I am not one to attract negativity with pessimism, but I can't seem to shake the bad luck that is following me. Maybe it has something to do with the great fortune I have experienced in my life.
2019 was especially wonderful in some ways, but too, the opposite could be said to be true. Some of the things I called blessings were also devastating events -- every action (indeed) having an equal and opposite reaction. I keep saying that life is all about perspective, but I swear there is a pall over anything good that happens to me, some kind of demon following the events of my life, determined to change any optimism I have into total and complete pessimism. Even my faith, the beliefs I hold, seem to work against me at times.
I can't un-know what I know to be true, and yet holding onto those truths hasn't stopped the flow of negative interference, mind-blowing incidents and thoughts that effectively stem any contentment, never mind joy.
Is it madness? It must be because no one else seems to have the complaints I do (even though I seldom voice them, preferring to soldier on and do my utmost to ignore them). I woke this morning with this thought: I have nothing to live for...
And yet, I awakened (glass half full). Better than so many of my beloved animals, friends, and family... I have to believe they are all in a better place. Scripture tells us that all it takes to be saved is to accept Jesus Christ -- to believe in Him and to confess that belief out our mouths. I do and I have.
And I need Him now. I have seen Him in the face of one with great compassion, witnessed His acts in the laughter of children, heard His voice in the song of the wilderness.
Why, then, does that wilderness suddenly seem so barren?
"Come along, dear, visiting time is over. Back to your room. Supper will be served soon, and you will not want to miss it. Mac and cheese -- your favorite."
The orderly took my arm. "Better than crickets. Did you see the news tonight? The weather announcer was at some ridiculous place where they were raising crickets to EAT."
"Yes, I've heard that they are supposed to be really tasty."
He's nuttier than I am.
"That's what the announcer was saying. They always do some kind of dumb community story before the weather. Would YOU eat crickets?"
"I don't think I could."
"Me either. Even though they are supposed to be very high in protein. Much more than meat."
"Here we go, sweetie. Back at your room. I'll see what's on the menu for dessert. Why don't you change into your nightclothes until I get back?"
They have chocolate-coated crickets. "Won't you help me?" I gave him my best smile.
"Now, Dawn, you know that's not appropriate. You are quite capable of dressing yourself and if you really needed help, one of the nurses or any other female would be the one to assist."
I tried changing the subject. It was horribly embarrassing to admit I needed touch, and not from another woman either. "I am a poet, you know."
"I know, dear, and a good one." He was so kind. Was he truthful?
"I have the heart of a poet. I'm very romantic." He smiled, then, and turned to leave, and his broad shoulders and slim hips made me remember another man, a man I had trusted who had betrayed that trust in every way possible. Don't go. Please. PLEASE!
The door closed behind him and I heard his key in the lock. Nobody to advocate for me. No one. I have nothing for which to live.
Better grammar when I'm wide awake. I used the pen I had slipped from his pocket to stab myself in the neck. The carotid artery. It hurts, but it won't for long. Not like it must hurt to be eaten alive...
Poor crickets.
By Dawn Munro
His wife was sitting at the bar, waiting for him. Judging by the number of empty beer bottles in front of her, she had been waiting a while, either that or the bartender wasn't very good at his job.
"Hi, honey," she slurred as he approached.
"What happened to the car, Sheila?"
"I can explain, Mark."
"Wait -- let's get a table." The last thing Mark needed was someone overhearing what he figured his wife was going to tell him. He wasn't sure how he was going to handle it, but he knew he wanted to have a choice. It was late, so the place was pretty empty, but you never knew.
He chose a booth in the far corner of the tavern, and guided her to it. She was staggering, and his heart hammered. Be cool, Mark, he thought to himself. But he was becoming angrier by the minute. Sheila plopped onto the upholstered bench seat, barely managing not to fall when he let go of her arm. At least she's not a happy drunk tonight, he thought. He sat opposite her. "Okay -- explain."
Beautiful blue eyes drank in his face, and a tear slowly rolled down one luminescent cheek. "You know how you've been saying I should get my eyes checked," she began...
"Don't you do it! Don't you dare do it!" Mark bit his lip -- hard. Be cool. She needs help, not your anger, he cautioned himself. But this is it. It's as much my fault because I didn't help her sooner. I saw all the signs. I just chose to ignore them. "Spill," he said. "The truth, Sheila. No bullshit excuses this time. This is too serious."
She began to cry in earnest. "I didn't see them! I swear to God, I thought it was a garbage bag blowing in the wind 'til I was on top of them, Mark. It's dark out, and I was afraid I was going to be late to meet you and--"
"Stop, just stop!" he interrupted. "And for God's sake, keep it down!" Wide eyes stared at him, as she struggled to stop the sobs, and his heart was torn. He wanted to move to her side and cradle her -- he wanted to slap her in her face, her lovely, beautiful face.
"Calm down. I'll call our lawyer in the morning. But God-in-heaven, why did you LEAVE?" The last was an anguished cry, and heads began to turn. The bartender put his rag down on the bar and started toward their table. Go mind your God damned business, Mark thought.
"Everything okay, Officer?"
"Yeah. The wife and I are just leaving." Get lost.
"Where's your coat?" Sheila nodded at the coat rack by the washroom. "Stay here. I'll get it. But Sheila, this time we're going to be lucky if it's just rehab. You hit somebody, and you left the scene. It's not like when it was only a dog."
| Author Notes |
492 words
Thank you for reading. |
By Dawn Munro
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We heard something. Barry rushed to the window at the back of our bungalow and craned his neck to peer into the thick undergrowth of forest behind the house.
"What was that?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't be trying to find out, now would I?"
Gee, he must be worried; he never snaps at me like that. "I just meant it sounds like an animal. It's inhuman, Barry!"
"I know. It's a keening, a wail, like something is suffering badly." His face was ashen.
"You can't go out there."
"Debbie, I have to. The fire is miles away. I'll be fine."
"But the smoke! The air is full of it. We were already getting ready to leave." My husband was nothing, if not an animal-lover, especially of the little koalas that inhabited the woods close to our home. "We've been packing for the last half-hour."
He paused, turned away from the window and in three long strides, was in front of me. He took my face in his hand, slender fingers gently gripping my chin. "Deb, why did we build this house where we did? Why do we live here?" His gaze was intense, searching.
Your obsession, I wanted to say, but of course I didn't. "Because of the bears, babe. You wanted to live near the endangered koala bears."
"That's right, and I need to do what I can now."
The sound was closer, as if whatever it was knew that salvation lay in Barry Grey's hands. There was an oil drum beside the house, intentionally put there to collect rainwater. Maybe the smell had cut through the dense smoke. But the barrel was sadly depleted, as were the lakes and rivers, thanks to the months-long drought we'd had all over Australia. We'd been filling that drum every day since the fires began, but the hot, dry air soaked it up quickly.
"Alright. But I'm coming with you." Turning away, I headed for the linen closet. I took several towels from the shelves and rushed into the bathroom. There I soaked them as best I could.
"Great idea, honey. Come on!" Barry held open the porch door.
It wasn't a koala. It was a young kangaroo. Orphaned, I suspected. It seemed confused, but it stood its ground in the opening beyond the trees, and let us approach cautiously. Barry quickly draped the dripping towel around the young roo's head and shoulders. It clung to his hand.
"Get the car, Deb. I'll carry him." And so he did, as I drove around back to meet them. "Wait here with him. I'll get the bags." He placed the trembling baby in my arms, and I settled in the passenger side with the kangaroo on my lap. Once again came the horrible sound. Ear-piercing, so close, and heart-breaking. I'd never heard anything quite like it. I whispered reassurances as best I could, cuddling the roo close.
"Barry, fill the barrel with the garden hose. We have time," I called out. If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the gratitude I saw in Barry's splendid eyes. God, how I loved my man!
I bowed my head and began to pray for our home and all the creatures he loved, while he hurried over to the garden shed to fetch the hose.
| Author Notes |
Thank you for reading my fiction story. It is, however, tragically based on truth. Pray with me for torrents of rain for Australia. Please!!! Wild animals are actually losing all fear and approaching people for help. I am so sad! For all of Australia's inhabitants...
|
By Dawn Munro
It seemed all the talk about forgiveness and about guilt being unproductive was just that -- so much talk. Ditto for regret and mistakes.
Dorothy placed the pen down carefully beside the note. She stroked the rich mahogany of the desk; her grandmother's. She didn't want to ruin it, but this was the only place she could find where no one would bother her.
The shot rang out and her service revolver dropped from her hand.
| Author Notes |
An unprecedented number of suicides among service people, especially our police, prompted this story. They are just people, and they have the same stress in their personal lives that others do... And then there is 'on the job'...
Thank you for reading. |
By Dawn Munro
Marg had always paid attention to that 'inner voice', and it had never let her down -- until today.
She was a very spiritual person -- a born-again Christian who believed the Holy Spirit resided within her, that Jesus Christ 'spoke' to her.
Today, the inner voice whispered she was not forgiven for something she had done many years prior. It shattered her faith.
"How can this be true? Our Saviour died for ALL sin!"
"He did," whispered a new voice.
By Dawn Munro
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
"Well, there it goes, slicker than shit on the heel of a shoe. Thank you, Lord."
"Jess! Language!"
"Sorry, Mom. I'm just bummed out, is all. It seems, if it wasn't for bad luck, I would have no luck."
"Why? What's happened? There 'what' goes?"
"My peace of mind."
"You're not making any sense. God doesn't steal our peace of mind. We do that to ourselves by not believing."
"Mom, PLEASE. Do not start with all that Jesus crap again."
"Jessica Davis, you take that back! He perished for our sins! He deserves more than you taking His name in vain!"
"Yeah, well, He doesn't seem to recognize any of my efforts on His behalf. I volunteer my time at the soup kitchen, I give to the homeless, I tithe the required ten percent of any money I earn -- what more does He want?"
"Your heart -- all of it. That you follow Him."
"I'll be following Him alright. All the way to Oncology again."
"Oh no!"
"Yep. Found three lumps. One under my arm, another one on my shin, and a third one here, on my forearm. Mom, I'm scared."
"I know baby, I know. But now is not the time to turn your back on God. He will see you through. It's easy to offer our praise and thanks when everything is going well, when He's answered our prayers. But the true test of our faith is when we can still give thanks in spite of troubles. Come here. Let me hold you a while, just like I did when you were a child. We'll get through this together."
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you too, Jess. Now call the doctor -- see if he can take you right away. All this worry might be for nothing."
"I know. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Jesus -- forgive me?"
"He already did, baby. He already did."
| Author Notes | Thank you for reading. |
By Dawn Munro
The best way to avoid being misunderstood is to remain invisible.
It's my own fault. I never should have allowed him to stick around. But he rescued me, and I was lonely. So when he rooted through my collection of movies to lend one to his friends without asking permission, I merely objected instead of asking him to leave.
It was the beginning of a very long slide into despair and a state of confusion that lasted for more than twenty years. I don't blame him. He had nothing to lose. I, on the other hand, had everything on the line -- my self-worth was the cost. Once we allow ourselves to be abused in any way, it gets easier with every concession.
Twenty-plus years of false claims, of neglect and belittling, of looking the other way when others would claim an intimacy they did not own.
The road back is nigh-on impossible to travel, but I'm trying. All I ask is a little tolerance along the way, a bit of leeway, or benefit of doubt.
But then, not knowing my story, it may be too much to ask. I should have stayed in hiding.
| Author Notes |
One reviewer who has followed my writing since I first joined FanStory said this would be a good start to a book. (Thanks, Nancy Davis.) Since she busted me, here's the poem that goes with this -- I have too many novels on the go, but yes, this is intended as the start to another one, and here's the poem that accompanies it: (for those of you who wondered about the title)
Shades of Grey by Dawn Munro If you should ask me how I am today, I'd tell you that I'm fine; I'm doing well. But you should know that since you went away, I've been assigned a special kind of hell. I cannot breathe, still feeling you so near... I see you everywhere; I call your name. There's no clear danger, though at times I fear. My days, and nights will never be the same. As if you're close, I rush to point them out when simple things are lovely; then I cry. 'No closure' makes me desperate to shout - to scream at you to simply tell me why...? There's always colour somewhere seeping through, but you were mostly right, and I was wrong. How many times we argued points of view, though you would not concede, unless a throng would back me; saying you should listen well, that I appealed to plain, old, common sense. Instead, consigned to unjust, living hell, I'd be the one to drop all my defence. There's no such thing as only black and white! Now I will lie - you don't believe the truth. And leaving as you did just wasn't right; at least you could have left me my own youth, not stayed with me to rob us both of love, when you were never satisfied with us. You thought I didn't care, and God above knows I created more than one small fuss when you would not protect me - take my side. Why do you think I did that, anyway? But cowards always find a way to hide their black and white behind a peaceful grey. I don't deserve to suffer as I am. You should have made me know there was no hope. But then, perhaps, you didn't give a damn, and all I spoke was never more than trope... ~~~ There still exists that drop of colour... XX D Dawn. Thank you, as always, for reading, dear friends. The book is in the works. :) |
By Dawn Munro
Were it not for its purpose, the rustic cabin would have been considered cozy, even charming. Hidden away, deep within the forest, the dwelling housed many secrets.
They met in Costco while Sheila was waiting to be interviewed for a job along with dozens of other applicants. She had believed him when he said he had a job for her.
He wanted to show her what he would expect from her as the crew boss for a door-to-door sales team. He had flyers and maps, supplies she would need in his van, he'd said. It was broad daylight. She'd followed him out to the parking lot willingly.
But she had awakened in near-darkness, her head spinning from the chloroform that had yet to wear off.
"What incredibly soft skin you have, my dear. Like a baby's bottom."
Sheila trembled in fear, terror mounting as he stroked her cheek. She lay, fastened with thick rope, to a roughly-hewn, wooden table, hands and feet bound, gagged with an oily cloth. She whimpered, and her eyes widened as he pulled the ten-blade from his pocket.
"Don't worry, Sheila. I am a skilled surgeon. Your epidermis will make a fine addition to my collection." He pulled the gag from her mouth. He liked to hear them scream. "Shall I give you something to knock you out first?" He chuckled at his little joke.
By Dawn Munro
He saw her standing a few feet from the orchestra pit. She looked uncertain--as if she wasn't sure she should be there, like maybe there was someplace more important she was supposed to be.
And he knew he had to see her again, if only for this one last time.
She must have sensed him as he approached, because she lifted that wondrous gaze, those incredible eyes, and he saw what she had tried to hide the last time they were together. Love shone from the deepest depths, joy and happiness at the sight of him.
"Julia," he said softly, his words an unspoken plea, "how great to see you."
"Richard." His name on her lips, a caress. "How have you been, Richard?" He could see she was struggling to hide her initial reaction, doing her best to appear unflustered, but he knew her too well.
"Do you want the truth?" he asked her, and immediately he realized he shouldn't have. An invisible cloak descended, and suddenly she was the stranger she'd been that last night, the night she had broken his heart.
"Well, Julia, I've been well." He tried to recover, to hide his pain at her silent withdrawal. "And you? How are you?"
She shrugged, nervous, her graceful hands fidgeting with the buttons on her coat, with the evening's program. "I'm well too," she said quietly, lowering her gaze.
"Jules," he said gently, reaching out, intending to tip her chin to look at him. But she shied away, like a nervous colt, backing up until her legs were trapped by the seat back behind her.
He stiffened, and with a heart that felt like a hollow drum pounding pain, managed somehow to push the words from rigid lips, "Good, that's great," he said flatly. She glanced at him then, but he knew it was pointless. She'd made up her mind, and obviously nothing he could say was ever going to change it. He'd tried for weeks after that night, and she'd refused to speak to him, to even accept his call.
"Well, it was good seeing you again," he mumbled, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt. His pride stung deeply. "I guess we should take our seats then. They'll be dimming the lights any minute. I hope you enjoy the performance." He turned on his heel, before giving her a chance to reply, before giving her the chance to see how much she had wounded him, yet again.
"Richard," she called after him, but he kept going. It was no use. From her reaction to his intended touch, he knew it was over, finally and completely over. But he knew he couldn't sit through a whole night of a symphony orchestra performance with her just a few rows away. The temptation would be too much for him to try again. He had to get out of there. Long strides took him up the aisle and out the doors, just as the house lights came down.
*****
"Did you tell him?" her mother asked her sternly. Jules hid her face in her hands, chestnut curls bouncing as she shook her head.
"Julia Davis, you have to tell the man. You aren't being fair!"
They were in the Davis home, out in the kitchen where, through the years, many such intimate conversations had taken place between mother and daughter. Jules was grown now, and lived in her own small apartment uptown, but eventually she would have to return. She wouldn't have a lot of choice.
"I can't, Mom. He would stay with me. He would still want us to be married. How could I do that to him?" Julia's green eyes besought an answer from her mother's hazel ones.
Mrs. Davis softened her gaze, and tossing the dish towel over her shoulder, sat down at the table with her daughter. She took Julia's soft, youthful hands into her own time-worn ones. "Julia, honey, Richard loves you. Life is full of pain of all kinds. But a broken heart, that's the worst. You owe him the truth. He should have the right to make up his own mind."
"You don't understand. I know him--I know what he'd say. And I can't do that to him."
Joan Davis rose from the table and went back to drying pots and pans. It didn't make sense to argue with her daughter. She was stubborn, just like her father, had been since she was a kid, insisting she dress herself when she could barely tie shoelaces. Her mom understood that, but this time she was wrong.
Joan was an old fashioned woman, and as much as she took pride in her only child's independence, she knew Richard Franklin deserved to hear why Julia had broken their engagement, and not some trumped up reason about not being ready for marriage--about needing independence so she could pursue her career as a cellist.
Her daughter was terminally ill. It had broken their hearts when they found out. Joan was an adopted child, and her parents had never been given the information, but when Julia was diagnosed, they knew with certainty that somewhere in Joan's family tree there had to be the gene that carried Huntington's.
What bothered Julia was not so much that she was going to die. Huntington's disease was slow to progress--she might have as much as fifteen or even twenty years left to live after the symptoms had first appeared. No, what bothered Joan's daughter was the way it progressed, eating away at brain cells, causing terrible cognitive difficulties, mood swings, even psychiatric problems. As the disease grew closer to the end, abnormal writhing movements, ugly and devastating for anyone to watch, took over. Dignity was a thing of the past, and full-time care was required. Julia was determined that her young man would never see her in that condition, would never feel trapped by an invalid wife into a life of misery.
With a heavy heart, Joan knew what she would have to do. She had always been very lenient with Julia, even when she was a child--the girl's stubbornness had seen to that. She had tried very hard not to interfere when she grew into a young woman and moved away from home, even though she didn't want her to leave, saw no practical reason why she couldn't continue living at home.
But this, this was different--nothing in any of their lives had ever been so monumental.
When Jules first broke the awful news to them, when Joan and Dan Davis knew why their daughter suddenly began having walking difficulties and mood swings so unlike the sweet girl they'd raised, Joan had tried to persuade Julia not to break her engagement to the handsome lawyer.
Dan had sided with his daughter, telling Joan to stay out of it.
But God forgive her, even though her husband and daughter might never find it in their hearts to understand what she did, Richard Franklin deserved the chance to be with the woman he loved, and her daughter deserved as much happiness as possible before she died.
Joan intended to tell him the truth.
*****
The doorbell rang. Joan was anxious, but the die was cast. "Get the door, would you Jules? I'm up to my elbows in flour."
Julia had been reading by the fireplace. It was a bitterly cold February night, the night before Valentine's Day, and she'd come over to spend the night. Her parents were planning to leave early in the morning to head up to the old bed and breakfast they'd stayed in when they were a young couple. Julia thought it was very romantic, and was happy to help them out by looking after the family menagerie. A Springer spaniel, two cats and an aquarium of tropical fish made the Davis house a home as far as Joan was concerned.
She rose, and went to the door.
"Richard!" Jules was in shock. He was the last person she had expected to see.
"May I come in?" He was so handsome, his broad shoulders lightly dusted from the snow that had been falling all evening. He looked like he wasn't about to take no for an answer anyway.
"Of course, come in. I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting--" her voice trailed off as she studied his face.
"Not an unpleasant surprise, I hope," he said, his brown eyes drinking her in. "Jules, you can't brush me off again. I'm not going anywhere until we hash this out." He stepped inside.
Resigned, Julia took his coat. "Sit," she invited, brushing the snow off his overcoat and reaching to hang it in the closet. He removed his toe rubbers, leaving them on the mat beside the door. "Would you like something, a coffee, or maybe something a little stronger?" He was still standing over her, and his six-foot frame was dangerously near. She could smell his aftershave, and the familiar scent washed over her like a wave, creating such a sense of longing, she felt her knees buckle. Her heart was pounding in her chest so hard, it felt like it would break through any moment. God, how she had missed him!
"Julia, come and sit down with me. I don't want anything. I just want us to talk." He took her hand, and this time she didn't shy away. Joan peeked around the corner from the hallway, and satisfied, returned to the kitchen. Dan was upstairs napping--if he woke up and came downstairs she intended to read him the riot act before he could interfere.
Richard pulled Julia over to the comfortable sofa and they sat together, Richard still clinging to her hand like it was a lifeline. "Jules," he started, but she cut him off.
"Richard, I don't know why you think coming over here is going to make any difference--" It was his turn to interrupt her.
"Stop, just stop. This time you're going to listen to me." He looked into her eyes, tipping her chin up so she'd have to face him. She was trembling. "I had a visitor at my office the other day," he began gently, "and thank God she came to see me."
Julia was shocked--her face had gone pale. She started to speak, and he laid one long, slim finger against her lips, silencing her. "Just listen, okay?"
He paused, waiting for her to agree. Chestnut curls nodded her assent. A huge weight lifted from his shoulders. Maybe she would actually give him a chance, this time.
"Your Mom told me why you broke our engagement, Jules." Julia started to cry, the tears streaming freely, unchecked down both cheeks. Huge emerald eyes glistened as she looked into warm brown ones, and he put his arms around her. "How could you think it would make any difference to me, to us?" She buried her sobs in his massive chest.
"Babe, I love you. I've always loved you. It tore me up inside when you left me. I haven't been the same since that night." He hesitated again. He pulled away then, so he could look at her. "You love me, don't you?" When she didn't answer right away, he shook her gently, "Julia?"
She gazed up at him, her eyes fastening to his like she wanted to believe, so desperately, that somehow everything would be alright, that their love could make everything alright.
He was drowning in an emerald ocean, and it felt so good, so right.
"I know you love me. You don't need to say it. You never need to say it. Just don't ever shut me out again. Promise me!" He pulled her to him, as she answered, her voice muffled against his chest.
"But I'll be an invalid," she wailed.
"I'll hire a nurse."
"Kids, Richard, children," she cried, trying to free herself from his strong arms.
"We'll get a dog."
"Oh Richard," Julia sobbed, "I can't let you--"
"Shhh," he murmured, "you can't stop me Babe. I'll kidnap you if I have to, to get you to the altar." She pushed against him, hard, and for one moment, one agonizing space of time, he thought he'd lost.
She smiled at him then, her nose red, and the tears still trickling. "Dumb, jock lawyer, how in the world will you support us if you're disbarred? Kidnapping is a Federal offense."
He grinned back at her, drew her to him, and held her close. Never again would he let her go.
This was one argument that might never have seen a courtroom, but it was the sweetest victory Richard Franklin would ever know, and they both knew it.
| Author Notes |
Video courtesy of YouTube.
|
By Dawn Munro
Dusk fell. Ezra pulled the door closed. The screech of ancient hinges made him wince. I really must get out the oil can soon. Miriam deserves better. His wife of fifteen years lay on a futon-like mattress they'd purchased when they'd first moved out here. She was sick.
The hewn-log bed, a table and chairs, a wardrobe, and a wood-burning stove were the only furnishings the couple owned. Ezra had fashioned shelving from the trees he felled on their land for linens and towels, and built a cabinet of sorts for their dishes.The china was Miriam's inheritance when her mother had passed away. Fine china in a warthog cupboard, thought Ezra, chuckling. He'd teased Miriam mercilessly for weeks. Material things, they'd decided long before moving into the bush, were unimportant. It was the land they'd worked to afford; that, and a second-hand Jeep they used to go into town when supplies were dwindling.
But the small luxury of her mother's dishes made Miriam happy. Ezra had also built the stone fireplace from their own river rocks, and no mason could have done a better job. Their assorted pots and pans hung on hooks beside it, the only allowances they had made in moving from the city, plus their bedding, and a few books.
It was a frugal life, but it suited them, up until Miriam took ill. She was coughing and burning up with fever. It was why Erza was heading into town. They'd only been in Cedar Falls days before, but the locals had told them about a 'deadly' new virus that was spreading rapidly. "Covid-19" they'd called it. Ezra hoped they hadn't been exposed, but so many townspeople had been wearing masks, and Ezra and Miriam hadn't been. Neither had the clerk at the meat market they'd visited.
High time I bought something to keep us updated on world events, he thought. They'd wanted to live completely off the grid.
Lights flashed behind the Jeep, and a siren sounded. Crap, what now? thought Era, slowing and pulling over.
The patrolman approached his window. "License and registration."
"Of course, got 'em right here." Ezra reached for the Jeep's glove box.
"Take the license out of your wallet, please," said the policeman. Ezra fumbled, handed it over. Cops always made him nervous.
"Was I speeding?" Sweat beaded Ezra's brow. He swiped at it with a trembling hand.
"No, but your tag is expired." Shit, I forgot to renew it! "But it's only a few days past the date," continued the young officer, "so I'm not going to ticket you if you promise to get your new one right away." He handed the paperwork through the driver's window, just as Ezra sneezed. Droplets landed on the cop's hand and shirt.
"Oh, I will, officer! Thank you." Relief!
The officer scowled, reached into a pocket and pulled out a tissue. He wiped his hands. "Be careful, man!" Another pocket produced sanitizer. The droplets on his shirt-front went unnoticed as Ezra drove off.
| Author Notes |
500 words exactly - WP counted.
Thank you for reading. |
By Dawn Munro
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
I'm happy with how I live my life now, yet it seems every day, some asshole is still determined to make me miserable. Nila did. But only once.
I have nothing anyone should be jealous over--even my health sucks. "Walk a day in my shoes," I want to shout. Just one day and I'd be shocked if they didn't find you hanging from the shower rod in your bathroom.
I have sickle cell anemia.
But if you aren't some sloppy drunk sobbing into your cereal every morning, or a sleazy junkie, somebody is always going to think you're better off than they are.
When I was a kid, I almost shot myself. My old man kept his gun within easy reach. The neighborhood was aware there were plenty of drugs to be had at our house, and Brenden knew his stash was coveted by every motherfucker within a ten-mile radius. But coke and heroine is what kept us fed. It's what sent me to school with bruises, too, more often than not, when I went at all. My dad was mad-dog mean when he couldn't snort, and half the time he couldn't because the authorities were watching him.
Brenden Willis was a well-known dealer, but he was cagey, and always managed to outsmart the fuckers. Until Nila that is--that bitch not only caused my mom to drink like a fish, Nila's craving is what got my father caught. With all the bitches Brenden was doggin', you'd think one scrawny hooker wouldn't have made him so foolish. But to hear him tell it, her pussy was pure honey, and he was the bee. He never knew I heard him bragging to all his friends, but I did. The night she showed up at our house, at our HOUSE, where we LIVED, where my MOTHER lived, I shot the whore. What's a good son to do?
The cops busted Brenden before he could hide his drugs.
So now I live in foster care. It's not half bad--three meals a day, clean clothes, and no beatings from my new 'dad'. Everybody was convinced the shooting was an accident. They had me see a therapist for a while, but what a joke. All I had to do was let my bottom lip tremble a bit, call up some turtle tears, and that bitch would have given me the keys to the city.
Yeah, this life suits me.
But when Brenden gets out, he's about to find out there is a point to life after all, and it isn't drugs or skanks. It's the legacy you leave behind. And for sure I'm going to make the world a better place. My father won't live long enough to pass on anymore fucked-up genes, and I'm not talking about sickle cell.
I'm only fourteen years old. If the old man gets out early, and chances are good he will--he's smart--I'll have plenty of time to do this world a favor.
My legacy.
| Author Notes |
495 words
Thank you for reading. |
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