End of the Road 

A knock on the door.  Followed by six more.   Staccato wraps follow the first soft touch.  A solitary light shone in a living room. 

The full moon rises.   It lights the last house on the pavement.   The road falls to gravel and disappears into the woods.  The woods reaches around the simple house and its barn.  The white glow of the moon paints it better in the night than the Sun.  The door hides within a small porch, shrunk by the boxes and tables stacked around. 

The hand rises again.  The knocks continue six at a time.  Staccato beats. 

“Hang on baby! hang on…. We’ll get you help.” Brian looks down.   A face looks back.

“No one will open the door… it’s too late they’ll never open the door.” Connie voice fades.   Her jeans covered in blood.   The yellow t-shirt dirt covered and suddenly wore out. “It’s cold.  Maybe there’s blanket in this stuff.   Maybe morning…”

“I see someone.  They are in there.   They’ll help us.” Brian wipes his head.  A streak of blood runs down fron his forehead.  His face shows he doesn’t think help is coming. 

Brian returns to the door.  A series of knocks continues.   Each becoming a little more panic stricken. “Hello?! We need help.   Just call the police…  anything! Please!”

Connie is on the wooden porch. She is sitting against soft boxes that lean over toward her a bit.  She’s scared but holding on a brave front. “Sit next to me.  The morning.. They’ll see us.”

Shuffling sounds inside stop her.   The dragging and stopping catch their attention.  The door had three little boxes that show how dark the inside is but little else.   

“If you open that door, I’ll kill you both. Shotgun is in my hands.” The voice followed by a tapping on the other side of the door. “You live to see tomorrow…. I’ll habe to deal with Y’all then.   Stop banging or you’ll wake up the Dead!”

The shuffling starts again.   This time fading away.   The single light flashes out.   

The Moon –

I run.  A staggered path weaves between rock, trees and cactus.  My enemy is above.  I feel the eyes scanning the landscape. 

“Shadows are my friend.” I whisper to my fellow creatures of the night. “I will sleep on safety beneath your own nose!”

I want to laugh.  But sound travels to easily here.  Its bad enough I see my quarry.  But it’s myself dug in the hole hunted.   He can’t get what he can’t see.   The plan is working so far.

The clouds thin.  Moonbeams stretch out.  Rays of silver like nails in my coffin.  I hide with my back finding an uncomfortable Saguaro.  I watch the light chase the darkness.   Hope is a thin shadow.

My pulse rises to match a deep thumping heart.  If heartbeats slow maybe I can breath.  But for how long?

I turn my head to look.  

His face smiles back.  An oblivious look or game over expression.  If I could hear him.  I hate the distance between us.  Only in moving do I get to find out who wins this night.

“I would stab at you.  You hide too far away.” I look away from him. “There has always been a man within the Moon.  He stalks us all.   He had always been death. He will always be death.  Tonight, better be someone else’s turn.”

I curl into a ball and wait. 

Written as part of a challenge called Tale Weaver, details available  at https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/04/20/tale-weaver-116-the-moon/

Isabella

saccstry.deviantart.com

“You have candy?!  Give me candy and I won’t eat your brains.   Not right away.   I just need candy” Isabella circles like a puppy. Bright shiny eyes albeit a bit disturbingly colored.”I’ll be good.  Really! I need chocolate.”

Mr Mills looks awkwardly at the child. “Who have you this hairdo? And those contacts? They are horrible! You look like a Halloween doll! Where’s you guardian little one?”

His hands twitch as they tug at the sleeves of the blue ill-fitting suit. His eyes stay down away from the child.  His middle aged conditions knawl at him.  He wants answers but the child is obviously spoiled beyond belief. 

“I ate her brain.  She told me to take of my wig.   So i jumped up on her shoulders to chew hers off her head. I was surprised when it was real.” she looks around the room for an unseen need “I guess that’s what the screaming she was doing was all about. But I didn’t get my candy yet.   So where’s it at?”

“Rich imagination child. I’m here on serious matters.  It won’t take much more before in feed up with your game.   Isabella, be a good girl.  Go find Ms Maples….please.” His face is a tightrope.  The words filter through clinched teeth. 

“Ok, I’ll go get someone. Do you me too? Really she’s not much to talk to anymore…” Isabella kicks at the floor.  The realization that no candy is coming sinks in. 

“Yes, Isabella, I would like that very much.” Mr Mills watches her disappear. Little foot steps find a hallway and echo against dark wood panels.

He turns to look at the strange tapestry of a fox hunt on the wall.  “No wonder she’s so dark.”

A squeaking sound builds within the hall that Isabella chose.  He waits to turn.   The woman clearly kept him waiting for a reason.   No-one thinks child services ever sees these tactics.

“Here she is…Ms Maples.  You wanted to she her.   Here she is!” The little girl poses like the magician completing a trick.

“My God! What happened here?!” His voice quivers and fails. His face stretches and pales.  Dark holes once held eyes can’t move.  Slowly his body leans away.

“You asked.  I brought her to you.   Where’s the candy,  Mr Mills?” her voice starts to sing. 

Ms Maples is on a dolly.   Her skull sticking out, part of its skin covers what’s left of a face. Her pale skin shows signs of bruising.   Tied hands hold her together in a modified ball.  

“Oh please, give me the candy.  You adults are hard enough to deal with.  My sugar is low….I don’t know weekday I might do next.   Right, Ms Maples.” Isabella smiles. 

Mr Mills runs for the door.  Small feet move much faster than old feet. 

https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/19271780/posts/1404507520

#mindlovemiserysmenagerie

Writing Prompt 202 – The Other Me

I sit uneasy at the kitchen table.  While nothing was out of place, that is exactly the problem here.  I’m not going through all the trouble of cleaning when the dirty dishes rush back in the sink. The washbasin, a peripheral madness that draws clutter. 

But still, I imagine footsteps.   The girl and the invisible door are at play here.  She comes from the chamber of proverbial oddities. I have been there.   And truly owe several complocations in my life.   

Namely the other me.  This is where the cleaning comes from.   Its like a demented twin.  Everything I leave in my preferred state of chaos is ruined and organized.  I find the extra work of searching for any item in place doubles the wasted time organizing it. 

I use the corner of my eye to play a twisted game of mental tag. I like to refer to it as the needle in the dragon’s eye.  I’m just as likely to win as stabbing said dragon. The other me refers to it as the pariah and the marionette, the strings I only feel from tune to time.

So I nurse my coffee.   My mind is engaged in the intimate departure of logic.  Maybe the gravedigger’s maze is more accurate. The daylight has parted awhile back. I resist the dream connoisseur with more confessions from bedlam.

I’m drawn to the chair next to me sliding out.   I see his face… rather my own.  A waking nightmare continues. 

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/04/02/writing-prompt-202-its-all-in-the-title/

Tied Up in Others 

“Those words…. They were sharp as glass.  I can feel them still.” Dave’s voice monotone delivery fades away.

His mind churns them over and over.   Minutes to hours. His mind whittles away today with their harshness.

His place outside next to his garage.   Blank eyes look in the air for the answer to what consumes him.   His washed out blue eyes hide behind glasses.   Years have added wrinkles to better disguise his intent.  His salt and pepper hair match his close cut bread.  His pallid face blank from lack of conclusion. 

“I can remember… Her words started about me not doing something.  Her brown eye harden and bloodshot. I just thought… well, I can listen. But then I’ll think about the words.  I’ll start making dumb mistakes.”  Dave wave his hands explaining this to an unseen companion.

He sits back on his metal chair.  His breath pauses.  Fingers engage in hunting for a cigarette.  His lost addiction remains fresh to his body.

The chasm of what we do and how quickly it can change, spill before his feet.  A series of bumps shake his thoughts free.   

“I recon I’ll have to check on her.   She’s probably waking up.   She will probably be a little cross about the whole tired up thing.   She never was much for understanding.”  Dave looks toward the door leading in the garage. 

His eyes open a but more.   His head swivels side to side.   Inventory of his neighbors send important now. 

Dave slides forward in his chair.   Both arms come to rest at the edge of the chair to propel him up.   A simple motion seems like slow motion.   Dread suddenly checks on his face.  He had always hated confrontation. Maybe, it will be easier with her tired up a bit. 

The ordinary door leads to a garage more storage than garage.   Boxes of varies color and age stack toward lights and open rafters.   A path, five to eight feet winds through the maze of excess things. The bumping noise get more intense as he moves toward crudely made cage.  More chain link fencing leaned against cinder block wall.  A few metal poles keep an opening with a giant cocoon drifting side to side. A rap of fencing follows a soft bump.  Oddly hypnotic in motion.

“Grace, you are awake.  We didn’t have to go this way.   But now that we did… Get comfortable.   I’m not the best at things,  as you keep reminding me.  Well, I’ve had a few  hours to think it over. I’ll have to think some more about how we move on from here. Please, fur once let me think.” Dave sips at a coffee mug.  He smiles a tad. “I’ll be back in awhile. Don’t go anywhere.”

The Knife

The Knife you twist

It’s just my soul 

It’s only my feelings 

The knife you twist 

Harbors memories long lost 

Yesterday’s when tomorrow counted 

The Knife you twist 

reinforces childhood never leaves some 

pain is a commodity of empty love 

The Knife you twist 

no longer bares wounds within me 

The blood is drained, tears are 

The Knife you twist 

The only object that shows your feelings 

I hope you have memories still 

 The Knife you twist 

Makes your the perfect victim 

From your perfect lonely hand 

The Cabin -100WW

lake breeze races through the woods.   The misty morning lifts like a curtain to reveal a warn Sun.  Birds chatter with squirrels.  Small critters move about the old cabin.

Inside, a low groan.  A mind reassembled details.  Daylight brings pain to the eyes and head.  The forgotten trip here weights heavy.  

“Is he still here?” words too weak to be heard leave Rose’s lips.

Sikence answers her.  Even the shadows hide from her. 

“Who was he?….  How did he know me?…. Why me!”  Her consciousness plays tag with each question.  She lies still waiting.  But for what?

#100ww

written as part of a challenge called  100 Words Wednesday, details are available at https://bikurgurl.com/2017/02/22/100-word-wednesday-week-7/

The Bridge

Angry clouds rumble. The faint swirls of the remains drift through the knoll.  Smoke fingers break and disperse.  Front winds clean up the last of it.  Embers of trees sizzle as the brush of drizzle arrives.  The work of the lightning quelled by its rainy shadow.  Still angry clouds rumble.  Unseen hands throw rain bitterly to the fields.

Stephen runs from the woods.  His young eyes hope to spy a break in the weather.  Instead the weather spits harder.  He tucks his head within his jacket.  It’s turned collar worthless. Innocence of young eyes glow with a dull sheen.  His eight years are enough to know the way but unable to get by the bridge.

“Davey! Davey!”  Stephen raises his face to the rain.  A voice ripples in fear and wavers hope.  “Davey!  I know you are here!  Come help me!”  

Stephen looks left and right.  The darkness of evening has married the storm.  Scrapes of light imagine trees bending to point the way home.  Past a simple bridge.  Stonework arches and cobblestones rich for the beat of the hoof.  Passage home, a shilling.  A pound of gold couldn’t be harder to find.  To an eight year old, at least.

A solitary figure haunts the bridge.  Two little eyes glow in the distance.  He can sense fear. He can sense silver and gold.  He has a taste for lost children.  His dark face knows no light.  It’s twisted pointed nose of ebony hooks toward an uneven mouth.  Sharps of teeth wickedly part.  A bright red tongue flicks like a snake.   Tasting the air.  Salivating.  

He knows what comes next.  His tortured fingers with spiny barbs rub the sharp chin.  He stretches out angled thin arms.  Impossibly long arms.  They match the tree trunk legs.  By standing taller than a mortal, he keeps his post.  Watching always watching.

Stephen meets eyes with him.  Torrent, the troll holds fast.  Stephen drawn like candle to flame takes the first step toward the bridge.  A zombie walk where steps make links of a chain.   Torrent knows the game.  For silver they walk.  He can only eat one or two a month.  Greed of metal or greed of food, same curses inside.

“Sir?!  Torrent?  I need to be home.  My brother and father…. they follow me.  Please.” Stephen stats twenty feet distant.  His arms pull forward, palms up.  His nervous shake has valid reason.

“I taste you from here.  Yes, you have family.  I’ll eat them too.  No metal, no passage.  You come to my bridge!  I don’t come to you. Yes?”  Torrent picks at his teeth with his fingers.  “Got a bit of little girl left from breakfast.  You children are stringy here.  They should feed you better.”

“Sir, my brother and father are much bigger.  I’m not enough for you to eat….” Stephens voice fades.  

“Save it child!  I have been fooled by goats and people.  But today, I see you served with fresh straw from the underside of the bridge.  My claws will quickly shred your flesh.  You won’t be concerned much longer.  Finish that walk…. Stephen.  Oh yes, I know who you are.”  Torrent smiles a teeth grin.  His tongue flashes and disappears.

“How? How is that possible?  I’ve only seen you once.”  Stephens jaw forgets how to close.

“Davey, he told me.  Let him go then, his brother and father will be right along.  Your father has two boys or metal.  Davey went home first, young Stephen.  So you are mine now.  Simply put.  Your brother does speak for his older brother?  Right?” Torrent reaches out his hand. “Come boy.  Do as your told!”

Stephen looks behind him.  “Davey!  Father!  It can’t be?!”

The rain continues to pelt him.  The trees lose the color in the dark.  An eight year old walks to the bridge.

“Stephen, I’ll let you pass for the silver.  Or well, dinner.  Come here little boy!”  Torrent sees the eyes of the child are glazed.  The bitterness in his soul relaxes as he sees the prize for his learning of the treachery of man.

Torrent grabs Stephen by the throat.

Under the cover of the rain, a faint voice calls “Stephen!”

Davey looks for his younger brother.  His father follows behind him.  They pieced together a hobbled cart.  The bridge is the only way left.  They will find the price paid.

Tale Weaver #105: The Dark Side 02.02.17 – Our Song

I wake suddenly.   My arms and shoulders stiff.  A pale moon lights a room of familiar but tainted things.  Eyes search for what I know.  I expect you.  But no such luck.  A single thing is there for me.  

Whoosh, whoosh, Whoosh…. the wobbly fan pushes the stale air around.  

Our bed, a twisted mass of tired sheets.  Two flat pillows and a headboard.  If I could turn there would be dresser and a couple of nightstands.  The lights are all gone. They left out the window with the alarm clock. 

My restless ear listen for any trace of you.  The shuffling feet always give you away.  I wait.  I’ll manage to pull on the wires that hold me in place.  I reflect upon the splitting pain from the cocktail last served.  Something special…. you called it.

My dark home… Our dark home filled with divides from our own divides.  Its cold but wasn’t it always..  

I beg my brain to engage in the memory that ended here.   It refuses.  Instead, it amplifies the cracking of the house frame.  The clicking on of a furnace.  Traffic outside.  The branch against the house.  The one, I was supposed to cut..

The thought tatters and falls.  I sense you at the door.  You turned me away from it.   But we know you are there…

“What are you waiting for…. just get it over with! ” I break the silence with a terse stab.

“Baby, we can talk all night… But that ain’t getting us nowhere.” Her deadpan words hang in the darkness. 
*The last line borrowed from…

“Two outta three ain’t bad” preformed by Meatloaf, Written by John Steinman linked here https://youtu.be/k5hWWe-ts2s

Written as part of a challenge Tale weaver, details at https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/02/02/tale-weaver-105-the-dark-side-02-02-17/

Mythically Female

Photo credit: http://www.mythicalcreatures.com

Within every woman lies a mythical beast.  She portrays herself in a wrap of human clothing.  The flesh is an illusion.   Their hidden treasures include a path to Hades.  A rather rambunctious sojourn and longer than any ride should be. 

I raise a glass.  My bar patrons are rather oblivious to me.  The rest of the world is oblivious to them.   I feel ambivalent.  I should feel drunk.  I suspect my glass is defective.  Maybe ice has devoured the alcohol.

I cast my weary eyes to the barmaid.  Even brooding, they mock me.  I suspect last time may tip was insufficient.  

“Bitch.” I lose the words.  

She didn’t notice.  She does smile…

I’ll celebrate her hearing me.  My glass gives up the party quickly.

The ice melts but I spy creatures inside.  They must be female.  Chimera, Griffin, Thunderbird, Manticore, Roc.  They all suck the life out of me.  But maybe the worst of all awaits me at home.  She’s a hydra.  Spit out of the sea….straight from the gates of Hades.  Explains the icy salt water in the veins.

I will have another.  Maybe three more.  I need to gather my thoughts.  I hoped the alcohol would help.  Divergence rules the memory.  It protects me.  I hide from the facts.  Darkness is the cloak within me.

The clock draws slow.  I wait watching the treachery of the she beasts.  A look for a drink.  Boring conversation.. two drinks.   We wait for them to get desperate. They prey on our souls.  Chewing and demolition of the heart, not enough.

Nervousness hits like a wave.  My phone lights up.  It’s her.  My head hits the bar.

“Dear God!” I scream.

The whole bar looks at me.

I look at the phone.

She has three heads.  She has three heads.  

I used a machete.  It was a clean cut.   I saw it sorta roll to the floor.  It was over.

She really is a hydra.

The text….

‘I’ll be waiting for you’