The Paper

Sneaking in to  The 100 Word Challenge  at the last minute with my offering; a memory.

It lay on the front walk. Wrapped in an orange plastic baggie. I watch it from the window, that bright beacon, begging me to rescue it. 

It calls to me. “Look! The Times’ Crossword, and don’t forget the sudoku.”

I gaze at it as morning slips to the afternoon. “I’m the Sunday paper; comics, sales stuffers, coupons and news!”

The afternoon wanes, still it beckons. “Editorials?”

Just before the sun sets, I rise from my chair and bring it in. 

Turning the pages hesitantly.

I gasp at his picture; though I knew it would be there.

Under the heading: Obituaries.

After Shock

Living alone means you always know where your things are. There’s no one to put the sugar on the wrong shelf. Nobody to fold the kitchen towels, then stack them in the linen closet. Or, leave every light on in the house.

Living alone simplifies everything. No opposition when picking a movie. Meals made easier with only one set of taste buds to consider. 

Daily routines are never compromised by the needs of another. 

Then one day you stand motionless in the middle of a room and realize you’ve lost your way. It’s such an odd thing to lose. 

Why is the daily routine so important? You have no schedule to follow, no reason to have lunch exactly at noon. Or supper at six. 

Is it truly necessary to get out of bed by seven? Is it necessary to get out of bed at all? 

Old habits keep you moving. Hunger pangs remind you to throw a plastic tray into the microwave. 

The dark tells you it’s time to go to bed. The sun insists it’s time to rise.

One day you find you’ve lost your voice. It’s such an odd thing to lose.

Good morning no longer falls from your smiling lips. No one asks what you want to do today.

You look in the mirror at eyes that cried through the night while you slept. The lips in the reflection no longer to smile at you. 

The silence of the house surrounds you. Every movement you make echoes through the empty rooms that used to be your home.

Finally, you just lose it.

It, is such an odd thing to lose.

Farewell, Patricia

I received a message in my "other" box on Facebook. I seldom think to check there, so this message was three weeks old.  I didn't know the sender, but she asked if I was related to Patricia de Perez, as I had commented on a post she'd made. 

I answered no, not related just friends.

Her reply stunned me.  My friend had passed away, three weeks ago.  They were trying to locate her next of kin.

How did I miss her three week absence?  

Patricia was one of my first internet connects.  We followed each other on Twitter, when I finally succumbed to Facebook, we found each other there.

We shared a love for cats, often sharing pictures of our furbabies.  She was an advocate for shelter cats.

We liked and shared with each other many posts with mutually shared interests. She loved gardening and crafting.  She operated an online gift store.  She found beautiful pictures and put them on her Facebook wall.

Her sense of humor often made me giggle.

When I made a Facebook page for this blog, she liked it.  Patricia was often the first to "like" and comment on the page when I added a story. 

I never met her IRL. Now, I never will.  



Rest well my friend.  I miss you.

Unexpected Guests

This next part is not as serene as the introductory chapter found here.  Annag's life is about to change...

The sun had just begun to set when the clan hounds began to howl.

“Well, my daughter. I’m thinking that MacGoulan has finally arrived to take you away.” Donnchadh took Annag by the shoulders. “I wish only the best in life for you, child.” He blinked back the tears that threatened to escape. “I will sorely miss that sunset hair.” He gave her a great hug then turned quickly away.

Taog came forward to take her hand. They would greet his clansmen together.

The hounds had continued baying, louder and more excited. The laughter and chatter in the house matched their enthusiasm.

Until one of the hounds screamed in pain. And the tone of the baying changed from greeting to terror. Then fell silent.

As Donnchadh reached for his great broadsword, the heavy wooden door burst open. A dozen bodies poured through the opening.

Annag didn’t want to believes what she was seeing. This was not the MacGoulan. This was the stories told late at night to frighten children. These were nightmares come to visit.

“Wulver!” she heard someone cry.

The beasts were upon the gathering in an instant. Taog pushed her behind him as the monsters came. She heard he screams of women and cries of men realizing they were too far from their weapons.

Her father’s blade swung hard at the first wave, one beast yelped in pain and turned away. Then targeted another man with only a heavy chair for defense. The pain maddened attacker ripped it from him, and his arm that had wielded it.

Other men had reached knives or swords, but they were no match for fangs and the claws that grew from hand-like paws.

Taog had no weapon, he made no sound when his throat was torn by gnashing teeth.

Her mother, Mara had joined Donnchadh, an iron fire poker her weapon. Six of the beasts closed on them. Annag heard her father roar his rage just before the hand that held his blade was severed by knife like teeth.

She watched his heavy broadsword fall to the ground. His body followed, pulled down by three of the creatures. She didn’t see her mother being torn apart next to him.

Annag’s eyes were still fixed on the blade. She’d made no sound. Her terror had stolen her screams. But her body lunged for the fallen weapon. Once it was in her hands, she felt her fear turn to anger. With strength she didn’t recognize, she swung the blade.

One beast fell, the wound in its neck pouring blood. She swung again. A second beast snarled in pain. As it backed away, one of her clansmen stuck a knife between its ribs.

She spun around hearing her young sister’s scream. She swung again, but was far too late. A moan fled from her chest as she saw her sweet  sister’s head fall from her shoulders. Her grief fuelled fury made certain the beast that was responsible was headless a moment later.

She felt fire skate across her back. She turned, blade singing through the small space. The beast that struck her was already down. The man that slew it lay dying from too many wounds, a small smile gracing his face in that final act.

Annag didn’t know how much time had passed since the attack had begun. She only knew that it was suddenly silent. No more beasts came at her. No more screams of her clan. No more growls of the unnatural beasts.

As she became aware of her rasping breath, her racing heart, her eyes took in the horror before them. Her family, her people, dismembered, mutilated, all dead. The silence was broken by one last scream. She fell to the ground as it escaped her exhausted body.

Last Trip

Trifecta: Week Seventy-Two
Congratulations to the weekend winners!
And on to this week's word;
ALCHEMY (noun)

1

: a medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of the base metals into gold, the discovery of a universal cure for disease, and the discovery of a means of indefinitely prolonging life

2

: a power or process of transforming something common into something special

3

: an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting

Jackson had spent fifty years in the one room shack at the base of the mountain.  He'd married, once.  It hadn't gone well.  He found he preferred being alone to arguing over every detail of life.  

But there had been loneliness.  Until he found Ayrydd.  

He was going to see her today for the last time.  He owed her that.  

The pain running up and down his arm was getting worse.  His number was up, no sense in fighting it.  He just hoped he had enough strength left to hike up the foothills to her lair.

Jackson had no regrets, he was somewhere in his eighties.  He could still get around, until just lately.  Yep, a good time to die.

As he labored up the mountain, he pondered what alchemy made the air suddenly unbreathable.  His wheezing had alerted Ayrydd to his arrival.  She waited outside her lair, sparkling green eyes reflecting her knowledge of the reason for his visit.

He accompanied her inside.  They sat together the rest of the day in silent communion.  As the pain spread into his chest and his breath stuttered, he whispered a barely audible goodbye.

                   **************

Ayrydd sat motionless for several hours, grieving silently for her latest loss.  She pushed her snout into Jackson's still face, though she knew there was no life left.  Then, with utmost tenderness, she cradled his body in her forelimbs.  She carried him along a narrow passage to a small cavern deep within the rock.  

In the center was the bier she'd built for him only days before.  She laid him gently on the bed of dried branches.

Ayrydd gazed at his lifeless form a few moments longer before emitting a puff of flame.  The fire's glow danced along her golden scales as she bid her friend a final farewell.

Cleaning Day

Write at the Merge; Week 14

The Prompts:  This week, one of your offerings is the phrase “cellar door”. “Cellar door” is considered a perfectly euphonic phrase, some say the most beautiful in the English language.

I first heard it expressed as so in the film Donnie Darko, which led me to the following image for the other half of the prompt.

Mary worked the padlock free and pulled the cellar door open.  She'd put this off long enough.  Duke raced down the stairs, plumed tail waving, as she hunted for the light switch.

She could hear the dog snuffling below as she flipped the lights on and descended the wooden steps.  when she reached the floor, she saw Duke had made himself comfortable on an old blanket laying next to John's work table.

"You spent a lot of time down here with him, didn't you, boy."  Mary began sorting through the bits and pieces littering the table.  John had loved his model planes.  There were wings, wheels, and tiny rudders.  his tools had been miniature versions of  everyday tools.

From the floor beams that made up the ceiling hung dozens of completed models.  She gently tapped a propeller and set it spinning.

John had brought his son from his first marriage down here every other weekend until the boy had grown into a young man.  They'd spend hours together, John, the boy, and the dog.  Mary smiled sadly at the memory.  She knew she couldn't just throw everything out, John had taken such care with his hobby.

She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket, quickly tapping through her contacts, she hit dial.  John Junior's wife answered, Mary took a breath, "Hi, Elise?  This is Mary, John's step..."

"Mary!  Oh my gosh, how are you?  It's so good to hear from you!" Elise gushed, then Mary heard her muffled voice as she covered the phone, "Johnny, John!  It's Mary...yes, Mary!"

"Mary?  It's John, how are you doing?  I'm so sorry I haven't stopped by, I just..."

Mary finally spoke, "I'm doing okay, John.  And I understand, I never expected a visit."  She took a breath, "But, I could really use a favor right now."

"Of course, Mary, how can I help?"

"Well, I'm trying to clean up the cellar, and I honestly don't know what to do with your Dad's planes."  Mary continued, "I don't want to throw them out.  Are you interested in them, or know someone?"

"Wow, Dad's planes."  Johnny hesitated, "I would love to have them, but, Mary?"

She waited for the rebuff, "It's okay, if..."

"Mary, could Elise and the boys and I, if it's okay, all come over and help you with them?  The boys always loved playing with Duke.  He's doing okay, isn't he?"

Mary laughed, the first good laugh in more than a year. "Duke is doing great, and I would love for all of you to come by.  Any time."

Duke lay on the floor at her feet, one ear cocked, his tail thumping as though giving his approval.

I Am Not Afraid

Whee I got to pick the song this week!  I chose John Wayne by Billy Idol, you can see it here:  http://t.co/Tmt4JQg






“ I'm not afraid,” he’d said.

He didn't understand. It wasn't a matter of his fear, it was a matter of his choice. A choice that changed everything between them.

She turned her back and walked away.

“I am not afraid,” she told herself, “I am not afraid of being alone.”

It would be better that way. No hearts to distract her. No one to tie her down.

“Tonight, it changes. I keep my soul to myself. No more pretense of normalcy.”

She mounted the waiting pony, clutched the familiar hilt of the ancient sword.

“Just you and me, my love.”

Every Other Year

Week 2, hot air balloons and Nirvana...





Keb eyed his wife warily as they stood on the ridge watching the balloons begin their journey across the canyon. 

Keb and Fen had shared a heartfelt hug, but Jaya had just nervously patted the six year old boy's head as she loaded him and his belongings into the basket.

"You be good for your next mamma and pappa, Fen.  Just as you were for us."  Polite words.  

The boy smiled and waved, too excited about the balloon ride to notice Jaya's apathy. Fen turned to face his destination.  This third trek across the rift was just the next step of his growing up.

"Maybe, this time, Golda will come back to us."  Jaya strained to see the balloons that were floating their direction, children waving as they passed each other mid way.

"Jaya, you know it's unlikely, the..."

"But it could happen! It has before."  Jaya looked at him with desperate hope.

Keb kept his thoughts within. Their self-born daughter had left after her second birthday, just as she was meant to.  Jaya had grieved herself into depression, barely attending to the toddler boy they'd received later that day.

He'd prayed for a girl child two years later, in hopes that Jaya would come around. Four year old Fen had turned out to be a perfect fit for him. Jaya played her role, barely.

"Look! The balloons have landed, Keb!"  Jaya shook with anxiety. "Go see, Keb, see if it's her."

Keb followed the chart at the landing area.  With a smile and hug he collected his next cycle child. A six year old girl.

They returned together to Jaya's post. Keb's joy turned to despair at Jaya's crestfallen face.  She recovered enough to run one caramel colored hand through the girls curls.

"What pretty blond hair you have."

New Beginning

Mary politely refused invitations to parties.  Opting for a quiet night and light reading on the couch.

It was dark when the wet nose of John's dog nuzzled her awake, tail thumping expectantly.

"Really, Duke?" The tail thumped faster.

With a sigh Mary slipped into shoes and coat. 

Snow had fallen while she'd napped. Duke shuffled through the new fall, finally coming up with a frisbee, idle since John's death. 

Duke offered the old toy to her.

In the distance, a church bell tolled twelve.

She accepted the disk and threw it for the excited dog.

"Happy New Year, boy."

My take on the song.  The song is Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg:

If Wishes...

For the first week of  Write at the Merge, I play around with only dialogue.



"Why do you keep coming around?  You know you annoy me." 

"I'm here to keep ye company, sweetling, ye spend too much time alone."

"I like being alone. I particularly prefer being alone to being followed about by a fool who chose become a monster, so afraid of death he'd risk his soul."  

"T'wasn't a fear of death, girl.  And which path to immortality would ye have rather I'd chosen?  This seemed the least malicious, and was convenient at the time."

"None.  Immortality is an unnatural condition, I had it thrust upon me.   You could have died. It would have saved me the trouble of killing you eventually."

"Aye, true that. But ye've not killed me in the last four hundred years, no matter how often ye threaten."

"It's only a matter of time."

"Well, darlin', until that time I'll be droppin' in on ye.  Because ye  oughtn't be alone all the time.  Because sometimes ye need one that has known ye longer than anyone else.  One that can tell when the years have weighed too heavy for too long."

"You give yourself a lot of credit in the subject of my feelings.  What makes you believe you're an expert?"

"My continued existence.  And this continuing conversation.  I only wish ye'd look upon me as ye began to long ago."

"Long ago you were a man.  A man I had begun to trust, and yes, to have feelings for.  Your choice destroyed that man."

"I am still that man!  Look at me, girl!  I cheated death to stay for ye, I paid an ugly price, to stay with ye.  For the love of ye. I chose."

"You chose.  You chose to become something I cannot abide.  When I thought I might care about someone again, you stole him from me.  Had you died, I could have mourned you.  I could have had a funeral, an ending.  Every time you come around, you reopen that wound, it can never heal!  I wish you had died."

"Then, kill me.  Kill me and free yourself, lass."

"I wish I could.  But then I'd be alone.  All the time."


The Prompts:  the song below and the word: Wish

Time Gate

One of my writerly friends posted a picture of arbor, overgrown with vines.  This is the story that happened....

It was nearly dawn as Margy walked alone down the sidewalk. The path was uneven and empty but for the litter of earlier travelers. Her eyes watched her feet, but without seeing them. Her mind a confusing jumble of half formed thoughts and drug hazed images.

After too many losses too young, the embrace of narcotics became a siren call to her tired heart.

The figure behind her watched her stumble along. Her posture and inattention labeled her a target. The shuffling gait shouted to him, “None will miss this one. No one cares.”

Still, he was cautious, looking around for prospective witnesses. That caution was shattered by the careless kicking of a discarded soda can.

Through veil of drugs, Margy became aware of her stalker. Her body fought the drugged indifference of her mind as it struggled for self preservation.

Her feet quickened their unsteady pace, her eyes began to look for escape. They lit upon an overgrown garden in a long neglected urban park.

The arbor entrance was drenched in vines. The space beyond, a wilderness of wildflowers and high grass. In the slowly blossoming light, she could only hope for the cover of brush. She ducked through the arbor, her stalker just footsteps behind.

He stopped, confounded by her disappearance. The old lot was a tumble of weeds and trash cans. There was nowhere she could have have gone. No place to hide. Yet, gone she was.

Margy’s eyes adjusted to the brightening sky. The park was much larger than it had seemed from the street.

She cocked her head to listen, children, she could hear children laughing. As she ventured farther, she could see a playground.

A squeal of delight reached her. “Margy! Margy, over here! We’re so glad you made it!”

A smile flowed across her face, the first in years. As she started forward, she glanced at her feet. The pink lights of her favorite pony festooned sneakers flashed brightly with every step.