Talespinning

Word Count:  388

Timothy had never been in the attic. His mother said it was filled to the rafters with goblins that ate little boys. He tried once. The door was of course locked and he never thought about going up there again. Goblins aren’t all that scarily real when you’re thirteen.

Now as a grown man with the burden of the death of the last of his parents, he had to clean out and sell the old house. It’s a sad time made sadder going through years of a house’s personal little treasures. Each with a patina of memory. Here were his Golden Books with the voices of mom and dad’s bedtime stories. The old metal kitchen table and chairs that have come back in style. His father’s easy chair that was off limits to anyone else. His mother’s cranberry glass imprisoned behind locked breakfront glass doors.

The basement and the garage were oddly the easiest. Tools were respectfully hung neatly on pegboards and so easily sorted and saved. Then Timothy tackled the attic.

He found the key in that catch-all kitchen drawer where everything important in our lives is kept. He felt a twinge of childish excitement as he flicked on the light switch and mounted the stairs. It had a musty smell as he’d expected. Some tables and chairs that he’d thought had been thrown away. A headboard from a bed he’d had as a kid. And boxes and boxes and boxes, all neatly labeled in his mother’s fine hand. He opened a box labeled the year he was born.

He sat crossed legged on the floor and read for almost an hour. Here were the goblins, the ghosts of her past. A lover. A man destined to remain a secret, locked in an attic away from the reality of her life that was a husband, a son. A home with an attic to hide him in.

Timothy started to cry. For his mother and a love she had to eventually deny but felt the need to hold onto like a birthday card. For his father…had he known?

He stopped thinking, looked up at the sound. Like whispers of giggles. Rushed tiptoed steps. He saw them, the real ones, just an instant before they set upon him with teeth long as nails and claws drawing blood.

From our own indefatigable Dorothee Lang, some questions at the half-way mark to this 100 Days Project that binds us together…

1.) From your own works so far, which day is your personal favourite?

#004/2012  “I’m Fast” without a doubt is my favorite. It’s one of the shortest but I feel that the horror of what the child is doing and the hint that gives insight into why is something that punches the reader in the gut. Second choice would be #003/2012 “High Dive” because it hits most of us with memory of the feeling of wanting to be accepted by your peers.

2.) What approach/concept for the 100 days did you have at the start? Did it change, and if so, how?

What I wanted to accomplish was to write flash fiction in a genre, specifically horror which is where I started when I was a teenager in all my reading and writing. The only change is that it’s harder to come up with that evil feeling every day. Sometimes, in trying to stick with the genre, the horror takes a humorous turn.

3) How do you feel about the 100 days of summer so far?

There’s such a wealth of extraordinary talent collected here it is humbling. Every day brings something intriguing, amazingly beautiful, conceptually outstanding, exceptionally creative. And the feedback and support of those involved this year has been tremendously inspiring and I know this personally, has kept many of us going when we think we have nothing more to come up with, nothing left inside.

Word Count:  210

His wife was a woman who believed in cliches. Before he could stop her she’d bit off her tongue, shot herself in the foot, and given her right arm away.

She cut off her nose just in spite of her face and put money where her mouth used to be. Gave an ear to town gossip, her eyeteeth for a ticket, and the thorn in her side got infected.

He was at his wit’s end. When she gave her voice to opinion he thought maybe all would be over and done.

He took her to dinner but she ate like a bird. She soon was as thin as a rail. He did what he could to plump her, to tape parts back on, but he was beginning to worry.

He took her to bed, whispered sweet nothings into the one ear she had left to listen. Saw a spark of the woman he’d married, a passion rise in her heart.

Slowly he undressed her and quickly undressed himself. His hopes fired up when her one arm reached out to pull him inside. Then just as both reached their height of excitement, and in front of his horrified eyes, her head exploded, rolled off and was lost somewhere under the bed.

Word Count:  338

He was old so nobody really listened. After a long sentence broken by blips of word-searching they snickered. Rich old white man. What does he know?

Is he senile? they asked one another. Rolled their eyes. Giggled and made rude remarks about wrinkles, his hair, his thin old-person voice, the fact that he talked to a chair. He was not a vain man and wasn’t aware that his hair sprouted like weeds from his head. He’d done his best to tame, to flatten but white hair is wiry with a will of its own. It gave him a disheveled, unkempt, even madman appearance. Though it wasn’t that different, he’d said with a laugh, of so many young men and women he’d seen on TV.

And the chair, well, he’d thought it clever. After all, Hamlet had held up and talked to a skull. It’s a metaphor, he’d explained to the mayor, you know, or a prop.

He frustrated himself, angry with his own slowness of mind. Each phrase retrieved from a memory sorted by years. He reminded himself of his grandfather, or even his own father in his later years. But he thought he’d been patient. He at least hoped he had been at the time.

He was there to speak for his best friend’s son’s campaign. Some district seat on the school board. He wondered why they thought he could help.

A has-been. Senile. Drunk or more likely dementia. A fool. Oh what eloquent derision they heaped on his head. The photo in the local paper, snapped at a time that even he had to admit made him look silly. Ah, age, he sighed. Better though, than the vicious strength of youth.

I wish you success, he told his friend’s son’s opponent and his friend’s son’s opponent’s supporters. And a very, very long life. They smiled condescendingly and whispered as soon as he left, thinking he could not hear. And he grinned at the thought of their future in an even more wicked way

Word Count:  378

I wanted to grow up to be a ballerina. Bobby next door wanted to grow up to be an oak tree. I never reached my goal but Bobby did.

My mother enrolled me in dance class and winced through every recital. Bobby simply refused to come back inside one warm summer night, planted his bare feet in the ground, held his arms up in stout branches and grew.

I admired his commitment. His willingness to adapt. Drinking his milk through his toes. Sleeping through the harsh New England winters to come back taller and stronger each spring.

We still played together, like catch and jump rope. Tag and hide-and-go-seek were impossible. I’d tell him everything I learned at school each day. “Don’t you miss it?” I asked. He shook his head no.

Bobby was a good listener. I told him about each boy that I had a crush on. Each one that eventually broke my heart. I’d sit in his shade and cry and cry  and he’d stand and listen. Then he’d say something silly to make me laugh. Carol, look, I’m a weeping willow! he’d whisper through the wind. His branches would droop leaves that waved like tiny flags. He was a good friend.

I went off to college. I’d come home for breaks and slip out to see him. I’d talk about literature and philosophy. I wasn’t even sure he could hear me, he was so tall. Where are the ears on a tree? Eventually I got married. Then my folks died, and I came back to clean out the house. And say goodbye to Bobby forever.

The weather understood the emotion of that finality of moment. Storm clouds moved in on the empty stage of my childhood. Memories misted in soft curtains of rain. I suddenly wanted to dance for him. It was the only thing I felt I could give back for all the years that he’d listened. Been my friend. So I danced for him, the best I could do. The lightning was my spotlight. The thunder my music. And Bobby applauded, his leaves an audience of clapping hands.

I bowed and looked up as he swayed in the strengthening wind. Ran for my life as he toppled and fell.

Word Count:  235

Tell your doctor if you experience hair loss, dizziness, loss of appetite, yellowing of skin or eyes…

That was her, the yellowing of skin or eyes. That was the side effect she’d had from the arthritis medication she’d been on for six months. She was a tester. It paid well. She’d started soon after she’d lost her job in the layoffs and couldn’t find work.

She got up and turned off the television. Rubbed at the sharp pain in her side that she’d noticed on the sixth day of testing for relief of the symptoms of menopause. She’d lied to get in. Been through and over it at least three years ago but the money was good. She found her notebook. Noted the time and rated the pain as a six out of ten. Duration was only ten seconds, but that was longer than ever before.

Tell your doctor if you experience acute muscle pain, lethargy, depression…

That was her, the muscle pain, right from day six and enduring the whole three months through. The lethargy too, and depression. She wrote in her daily journal, “too tired to go see Sarah and the kids. Will try to see them tomorrow.” The depression crept up on her slowly but she did write it down when she talked to her contact. Just as he’d suggested she do.

…or thoughts of suicide.

Yes, that had been her too.

Word Count:  197

Brothers. Sometimes close, sometimes not. Depends on how big a pain in the ass the younger one is growing up.

Teddy was a whiner. Three years younger, a span that hits hard on bedtimes, toys without small moving parts, crying or quietly planning revenge.

The warnings, the watch-outs!, the keep-an-eye-on, they all start to grind down any hope of a bonding. Any chance of a wink of shared knowing.

James plotted too. With the wisdom of three years over Teddy. With experience of eight to nine p.m. TV. With the freedom of riding his bike into town and a pocketful of saved up allowance.

His plan was unique and quite complicated. He fancied himself an engineer. Balance, weight, timing, all integral parts. All carefully thought out and tested. Poor Teddy did not stand a chance.

His only fault was in lying in wait. His only mistake was in execution. He waited too long, set the date too far in advance. Went back for one final test, not noticing how the weak plank had been moved. By Teddy who giggled in blackhearted glee as James was squashed by the beam he’d so carefully hung.

Word Count:  362

Like a moth, alit on the windowsill, ready to fly into the warm air of another summer Saturday night. With a little jump, she lands on the dewy grass of the back lawn. Lets her robe shimmer down to her feet. Dons the soft glow of the moon as a ball gown.

A twirl, a bow, another and another till she stands in the center of the dance floor. Looks around at the suiters, tall firs lining the walls. Smiles shyly while waiting for the first notes off the sweet violin. The high floating breeze of the flute. The ground swelling melody of the piano to wrap stanzas around her ankles to dance.

There’s Lacey. Flits like a firefly. Her boobies like two baby moons. Not right, her being out here. Her daddy asleep not knowing. Dancing, dancing like the tree frogs played fiddles. The owl watching with them big old eyes. I gotta hide. Can’t let her see me. I ain’t an owl but I watch. I can watch.

She reaches out, holds hands with the tip of a bough. Curtsies, smiles at her lover, the one she’s selected this warm summer night. She is light as a petal. Bright as a star.

Used to watch from the window up in my room. But here I pretend that it’s me. Me that she picks to dance with her. Like we used to play tag and hide-n-seek before. But Mama told me to leave her alone now. She’s growing up but I never will.

The moonlight is magic. The silence a song. She’s a curious moth to the moon.

That’s what I’ll do. I’ll catch her in a jar. Like we used to catch lightning bugs on these warm summer nights. I’ll catch her and hold her forever in a jar in my room.

And the dance halts so sudden, the fall is so swift that she barely has time to know what is happening. Just that he’s come out to play and she can’t get the words out in time to stop him. Her last breath a whisper of his name like a wisp of cloud into the moon.

Word Count:  437

“Not too tight,” she said, though it was useless. The rule was, when she turned herself over to him, he could do whatever he wanted.

She hated it. Pretended to love it. It was his thing, not hers. But the house in the high hills and the house on the ocean four states away made it worthwhile. The clothes, the jewelry, the whole lifestyle was what she had bought into. The price of it all was the pain. She was hoping the big payoff was marriage.

He would eventually tire of it, she had wrongly believed. Her young body was striped with the lash of the cat-o-nine-tails. Many, many times she thought she would leave him. When he built the “playroom” in the cellar. When he suggested he bring in another woman to join in their games. This last one she flatly refused and he never mentioned again.

“Prepare yourself for the weekend,” he said when he left Friday morning for his job in the city. She smiled through the dread. “I expect a fine dinner, rare roast beef and the best wine.” He kissed her goodbye and his tongue swept her teeth.

“How was the roast?” she asked when they had finished the meal.

“Excellent flavor,” he said. Then he scowled. “Unfortunately, it was served rather lukewarm.” He got up from the table and held out his hand. She shuddered but took it and followed him downstairs.

He tied her over the chair, her panties pulled down to her knees, just where he liked them. Her breasts had been pushed up and dangled outside of her bra. He brushed her body with his fingertips. Teased her breasts. Pulled her hair aside and kissed her cheek, his lips like butterfly wings trailed down her neck. Then stopped. “I’ll be back,” he said.

She heard the heavy door slam and lock. Imagined him walking up the stairs. This was the worst part–when he made her wait. The anticipation was almost as bad as the whip.

He didn’t come back in a half hour as he usually did. She guessed he was taking great pleasure in making her wait. He didn’t come back in an hour, then two. She called his name, pleading for him to return.

By the next afternoon she was near delirious. The thirst was unbearable. Every muscle in her body ached from the static position. She’d given up trying to free herself; it was impossible. With every strength she could muster she screamed for him, wished him dead.

What she couldn’t have known and wouldn’t discover, was that indeed, he was.

Word Count:  477

Mercy lived in terror that someday her four year-old son would kill her. From the day he was born, dragging his tiny fetal fingernails along the birth canal as he dug his heels in to push himself out, leaving scars that seriously burned every time she had sex with Frank, she understood that his purpose in life was to hurt her.

This same trait exhibited in his determined yet reluctant entrance into the world became obvious in his first months. He was his own evil twin. He cooed and babbled for his father, his grandparents, anyone else. He spit and screamed at her. She nursed him in the hospital yet the first day she brought him home and held him to her breast, he clamped down on her nipple so hard he drew blood. He opened his eyes and grinned as he sucked the pink milk.

No one believed her. She gave up long ago. Her husband sent her to a doctor for postpartum depression but the meds only made her sleepy and more prone to attack. She carefully worded her worries to the pediatrician who pronounced Mikey healthy and perfectly fine.

Mikey was a model child with others around but she was frightened to be left alone with him. He crawled like a spider that followed her feet room to room. He started walking then running then climbing and he came after her once with a toy tin truck.

She listened at the closed door when he played in his room. Never turned her back on him when they were alone in the house.

She enrolled him in daycare. Convinced Frank that Mikey would benefit from the challenges of a group setting. And he did, or seemed to mellow. Rarely was violent, yet the new quiet scared her even more. She thought he was sneaky and sly.

He woke with a fever one morning. She reluctantly kept him home from school. Gave him children’s aspirin, sponged his body with cool water. Whatever the doctor told her to do. Something inside stirred at the sight of Mikey’s pale face, his whispered resistance to all but a few sips of broth. She stroked his hair, damp with sweat.

“Do you think you would like a bit more broth?” she asked. He nodded weakly, attempted a smile. “Sure, mom.”

Mom. It sounded so sweet. He’d avoided calling her anything since he could talk. He didn’t cringe when she lightly kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” she said and hurried away.

A turning point, she thought. She couldn’t deny the warm feeling spreading over her straight from her heart. Maternal, she thought, so that’s what it feels like, and smiled. She realized the instant her ankle caught the wire but it was still the good feeling she held onto as she tumbled head first down the stairs.