April Fool's and Other Games

~Rabbit, Rabbit~

I participated in the 555 Story Challenge sponsored by Nicole Breit, creator of the Spark Your Story Lab.

The challenge was to write 5 new stories in 5 days on 5 themes as Creative Nonfiction/Memoir. The five themes were Origin Stories, The Emergent Self, The Body, Where the Heart Is, Nature + Spirit. She provided explanations, examples, guidance, and writing exercises to focus images and sensations into the condensed format. If you are interested in checking out the videos for the challenge, you can find the Day 1 Video HERE.

To read my five stories ...

shattered

 

"SHATTERED" Rabbit, Rabbit 20220701 ~ from my cubist period (this morning.)

I didn't do a June newsletter. It was July before I even realized it.

To be fair to me, June was quite busy. I still haven't figured out how retirement works. Twenty hours a week kind of messes with my head. I'll update the more personal stuff in July's newsletter. Sign up for Nessa's News HERE if enquiring minds want to know.

Let's try a TO DO LIST for July and laugh when I don't get any of it done.

Write 250 new words a day. Any words, as long as it’s not the same one 250 times.

Walk 30 minutes every morning. I’m going to aim for 7:30 since it’s so fucking hot later. Hell ain’t got nothing on NJ summers.

The Tree of Life embroidery project. It’s been a while. I’d like to do something on it each day.

Blog Post #1 - Rabbit, Rabbit each 1st. I had to add this so I can claim at least one accomplishment this month.

Blog Post #2 - Authors I Know. On or about the 15th. Introductions and reviews of actual writers I know.

Blog Post #3 - Writing update. 

Blog Post #4 - Book World Information, like science, history, and everyday life.

The Bastards’ Battle. Outline, scene list, synopsis. Something for gosh sakes.

Read. Something. I have so many books sitting on my kindle that are lonely.

Artist’s Date. Once a week. This weekend, I will gather my pencils and colored pencils in one place. Yes, I’m starting very small. Baby steps, baby.

* BONUS ITEM: One short story a month.

Cimmerian, part 1

Rachel brushed her teeth. She spit. White foam tinged with pink swirled down the drain. The sink needed cleaning. A glob of neon green toothpaste clung to the rim. Congealed liquid soap pooled around the faucet. She moved her eyes away from the mess and captured her gaze in the medicine cabinet mirror.

The shock of seeing herself brought tears to her eyes.

She couldn’t even remember the last time she had looked at herself. The image in the silvered glass did not match the picture of herself she had in her head. She tried to look away but stared at the person in the mirror the way you stared at an auto accident.

Her eyes were puffy, with dark slashes under the pocket of fluid. There weren’t many wrinkles, but gullies went from the corners of her nostrils and down beside her mouth. Corpulent flesh swallowed her eyes, nose, and lips. A wobbly turkey neck hung below her chins.

If she had looked at herself more often would she have been so shocked? Would she have been able to prevent the horror that stared back at her? How was it possible that anyone else could stand to look at her?

She cried great gulping sobs. Sounds escaped her mouth, louder than the water running from the faucet. She had forgotten to turn off the water. She cried harder thinking of the water she wasted, lost down the drain, never recovered. She sucked in her breath, held it, smashed her lips together and covered her mouth with both hands. When stars flitted in her vision, she allowed herself to breathe once more.

Pathetic much?

The empty house didn’t care how much noise she made or how loud she was. It wouldn’t even echo back at her despite its size. She was alone after decades of caring for others, and the house was not a solace. The house now belonged to her alone, but it had never been her home and was not her home now. She did not belong here. She never did. She did not belong to anyone, anymore. It wasn’t likely that she ever would again.

She slammed the lid of the toilet down. She sat. The cold plastic shocked her naked ass. She leaned her elbows on her knees, placed her chin on her fists and closed her eyes. The tingling of cut off nerves in her thighs woke her up. She stood, steadied herself with the sink and forced herself to look at her face again. She stuck out her tongue.

God, I hated being pathetic.

She was free to do whatever she wanted. She walked around the house naked: through the kitchen and into the basement. She laid on the beds in all four bedrooms. She went into the backyard. She dared the neighbors to peak over the fences. The spring breeze raised bumps on her skin. She went back into the house, crawled into her unmade bed and slept for the next three days.

Her cell phone rang several times. She texted brief responses back to her daughter and her sister, unwilling to chat. She had to maintain some contact, or they’d be on her doorstep. Seeing her relatives at the funeral had exhausted her.

The next time she looked at herself, her hair was greasy and stuck out at odd angles. She stank. Her cheeks smelled from where she drooled and hadn’t brushed her teeth. Now, she looked hideous: as bad as she felt. Her stomach grumbled. There was no food in the house, and she was hungry. She smelled. She couldn’t even consider going to a fast food drive-through.

Fine.

She forced herself into the shower. As soon as the water hit her face, she cried, drowning in the hot spray. She sat down, her legs unable to hold her up in her hysteria.  Her heart was breaking. She pressed on her chest trying to stop the pain she felt there. She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her cheek there. The water ran cold.

She rose, shaking; turned off the faucets. She walked wet into her bedroom. She grabbed her big, white terrycloth robe, wrapped in it, and crawled under the blankets. She’d eat later.

***

For this week's prompt at terribleminds - a song lyric I picked.

"Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again..." The Sound of Silence

yin and yang

Emma kicked the marigolds that grew along the crumbling sidewalk. She scowled at the dandelions growing in her uncut lawn. They were half mustard yellow and half faded white. She plucked one up and crushed the head between her fingers.

The front porch screen door slammed as her daughter, Sara, struggled out with her suitcases. Her turquoise capri slacks caught on a protruding nail and ripped. Sara ignored the damage, dragged the luggage across the dirty planks of the deck and down the stairs, bumping and banging the bags as she descended.

He leaned against his beat up jalopy, smoking a cigarette. He called it a classic, but he drove it everyday to his minimum wage job - if it started. He threw his butt on the ground. He smashed it out with the toe of his worn boot so it wouldn’t light the trash on fire.

Sara tripped in a concrete hole. Emma held out a hand to steady her. Sara leaned in to kiss her other on the cheek. Emma turned away, eyed the peeling paint around Sara’s bedroom window devoid of curtains. Sara’s lips fell on flaccid skin. She turned away from her mother and towards him.

He popped the trunk jangling the tin cans tied to the car’s bumper. He got behind the wheel, cranked the motor several times before it caught and started blowing black smoke onto Sara’s shins.

Sara lifted her bags into the cavernous compartment and slammed the lid. She climbed into the passenger seat. She waved to her mother as he pulled away from the curb.

Emma watched her daughter’s reflection in the dirty windows across the front of the house. Her image grew smaller as she moved right to left, then disappeared at the corner.

~ ~ ~

Sunshine filtered through shear lace curtains glinted on crystal wine glasses, a set of silver ware for twelve and two china gravy boats. Emma sorted through the gifts, placing them in bubble wrap and totes so they could be taken to Sara and John’s new home when they found one. Sara had plenty of space in her family room to store the items while they looked.

John moved the containers off of the table as Emma filled them. He smiled when Emma showed him items from her relatives: electric foot warmers from Uncle Bob, his and her back scratchers from Auntie Anne and yellow ducky sheets from cousin Mary. John held up a decorative figurine of the three monkeys. His brother Manny signed the accompanying card.

They took a break when the Timothy Mason longcase clock in the corner of the formal dining room chimed out three o’clock. They waited for the echo of fifteenth ring to still before the moved outside.

Sara brought warm chocolate chip cookies to them on the front porch after they finished their cataloging of the presents. They rocked in Emma’s chairs, inherited from her grandparents. Ruts marked the wooden slats. Sara sat on the swing like she always did.

A tear rolled down Emma’s cheek when she looked at Sara and John’s luggage stacked near the railing. Pink hearts covered Sara’s ID tag and smiley faces decorated John’s.

John handed Emma a crisp, cloth hankie. She blushed, got up and went to smell the coral tea roses growing by the stairs down to the sea shell covered path. Sara joined her, placed an arm around her mother and led her back into their ancestral home. John followed carrying the suitcases up to Sara’s childhood bedroom.

tightened up

Light flashed across my bedroom window. Magic bloomed.

Ectoplasm wafted over my naked feet. It formed a bat, larger than normal. It’s claws gripped and ungripped the wood of the foot board to the beat of my racing heart.

“Dracula greets the Green Witch.”

I touched my chartreuse hair. “What’s up, Drac?”

“The Beast bursts from the Netherworld.” Dracula took a breath. The air passed between his fangs and he whistled. “He hunts you.”

“Not new news, Drac.” I hefted my dead legs out of bed and touched the power points on the outside of each knee. Energy sizzled. I stood. When I faced Dracula, he appeared in his elegant vampire form.

“Gorgon fractured the prison of the House of Mirrors.” Dracula slashed his long fingers in the form of a “Z.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“He shocked his guards into oblivion.” Dracula stroked my white unicorn stuffed animal. “He captured Rust.”

Rust. The town of my birth. The place of my ancestors and my descendants. Ten generations in both directions.

My magically animated legs moved me closer to Dracula. I took the unicorn from his lifeless fingers. I touched the silver horn. It transformed. Ignis Fatuus, the sword of illusion, deception and confusion - Fool’s Paradise. I kissed the rainbow blade, slid it into its sheath. I rolled my shoulders, remembering its weight.

“He will crucify one person a day until you meet him in the mountains.”

“How do you know all this?”

Dracula blinked. There was no reason for him to blink. His eyes turned red, the black pupils fading to scarlet. Dracula wanted my blood.

“He sent me.” Dracula’s incisors elongated. He lunged in my direction. I thought of Rust. I moved a hair’s breadth in reality, folded space and time and flashed out of hiding.

the TWICE as LONG version

Fool's Paradise

What just happened?

A dog barked. Birds twittered. A cricket called from the other side of the wall.

Light flashed across my bedroom window. I lay on top of my blankets unable to sleep. I didn’t toss and turn, or tangle in the sheets. I was just too tired to sleep. I closed my eyes. Light strobed against my lids.

Magic bloomed.

A wisp of ectoplasm wafted over the foot of my bed, hanging over my naked feet. It thickened to form a solid bat, larger than normal. It’s claws gripped and ungripped the wood to the beat of my racing heart. Bats looked weird right-side up. Random thought. Not important. It ruffled its black, leathery wings, settled lower on its tail and spoke.

“Dracula greets the Green Witch,” Dracula said.

I touched my bright chartreuse hair. “Trite, baby,” I said. “What’s up, Drac?” I sat up, plumped my pillows.

“Dracula brings news of import.”

“Do tell.”

Talking to the vampire in his bat-form caused a stabbing pain behind my left eye. He slurred his words and had an accent.

“The Beast bursts forth from the Netherworld.” Dracula took a breath. When he converted to a mammal, he needed to breathe. Just one of those odd things about magical creatures. The air passed between his fangs and he whistled.

“He hunts you.”

“Not new news, Drac,” I said. “Gorgon has been grunting through the various planes of existence looking for me for several centuries.” I hefted my dead legs over the side of the bed and touched the power points on the outside of each knee. Energy sizzled and I stood. When I faced Dracula, his stood in his elegant vampire form.

“Gorgon fractured the prison of the House of Mirrors.” Dracula waved his elegant, long fingers in the form of a slashing “Z.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“He shocked his guards into oblivion.” Dracula lifted my white unicorn stuffed animal from my granny square quilt. He stroked the soft plush.

“Can you feel that?” I asked.

“You know I can not,” he said. “My skin has no nerve endings. None of my senses function in this form. I am dead.” He frowned.

“But, hey, you get to live forever,” I said.

“Droll.”

“No one says that anymore.” Some old creatures had a hard time adjusting to current times.

“He has captured Rust.”

I stopped smiling. Rust. The town of my birth. The place of my ancestors and my descendants. Ten generations in both directions, past and future.

My magically animated legs moved me closer to Dracula. I took the unicorn from his lifeless fingers and touched the silver horn. It transformed into my sword, the metal of the blade a mother-of-pearl rainbow, the hilt wrapped in soft white leather. Ignis Fatuus, the sword of illusion, deception and confusion - Fool’s Paradise. I kissed the blade, slid it into the sheath that materialised on my back and rolled my shoulders, remembering its weight.

“He has imprisoned the entire town and will crucify one person a day along the perimeter until you meet him in the mountains.”

“How do you know all this?”

Dracula blinked. There was no reason for him to blink. His eyes turned red, the black pupils fading to scarlet.

I moved a hair’s breadth in reality and saved my life. Dracula was starving. I don’t know how he had hidden it from me. He wanted my blood.

“He sent me,” said Dracula. His incisors elongated. He lunged in my direction. I thought of Rust. I folded space and time. I flashed out of hiding.

i don't belong

The narrow opening sucked me in. Bricks in shades of cranberry, pomegranate and plum laid in alternating patterns of Flemish bond and herringbone paved the ground and curved up into walls and archways that cradled dark, tinted windows three stories tall to form a cul-de-sac canyon with a waterfall on the butt end. The air was heavy with moisture. Breathing the thick air slowed my movements. I strolled among empty tables covered in blazing white cloths.

I sat at the very back, my back to a vine-covered backdrop hiding wireless speakers. Aaron Neville crooned through lush, mottled leaves, “...Life is too short to have sorrow, you may be here today and gone tomorrow …” I smoothed my hands across the clean, linen surface in front of me. The stiff fibers scratched my fingertips. The bartender placed a Virgin Bloody Mary in the center of the circle, an open wound in perfection. Heat stung my tongue, as I sipped the sharp, bitter cocktail. Ice cold condensation soothed my irritated palms. I wiped the wet onto my jean-wrapped thighs.

Couples meandered into my secret garden. The women in white silk blouses and jeweled skirts, toes peeking from strappy sandals, hair sleek, unmade-up make-up. The men wore collared polo shirts and Palm Beach slacks. Wrinkle-free. Stainless. Relaxed. Nondescript waiters addressed the invaders by name. They chuckled at quips. They anticipated needs. They provided the usual. They waited. I watched while I ate butter-tender sea scallops and golden potato hash, I absorbed fluttering fingertips, deep-throated laughs, crossed ankles and slouched postures, arms that rested around shoulders, fingers that plucked at loose necklines, lips that brushed at wrists and cheeks and whispered into ears. They felt my stares. They glanced my way. Their eyes slid off to the pool on my right. The fountain with its dancing water didn’t hold their attention, either.

the cure

Cookie cutter, assembly line houses made the streets the same. Built white bread, white picket fence whitewashed. Strangers could not tell one lane from another. Strangers were not welcome.

Once an orchard, a dairy farm, a hay field or cornrows, Mr. Levitt purchased land dirt cheap from families too exhausted to keep going for Veterans and their families with The American Dream. This was a Levittown.

They built four types of houses. Two kinds of one story houses: the little Kensington Rancher and the bigger Buckingham Rancher. Two types of two story houses: the smaller Cape Code called an Ardsley, and the larger Gramercy Colonial. Throughout the eight square miles of raped and ravaged land they built the same four houses. Rinse and repeat. Roads, sidewalks, lawns, and trees. Everybody lived in parks and the names of our streets started with the same letter or words as our home park. We lived in Garfield East and lived on Eastgate Lane which was just off of East River Drive. Ever clever.

The rules said, “No bushes or fences in the front yards.” It made it easier to play tag and kickball. We even got yelled at when our ball ended up on the neighbor’s front lawn. The old man actually came out his front door, all outrage and high dudgeon, tried to capture our ball before we could rescue it. When he beat us to it, he’d keep it until the next day. But since everyone had their own balls, we just kept playing.

In Winter, we built snowmen and igloos in our front yards, Dads competing as much as the kids. Snowballs flew over the top of cars slipping down the icy roads. It took hours and sometimes days for the plows to make it to all areas.

In Summer, we rode bikes with banana seats. When it rained and the sewers backed up at the end of our street, we waded in and swam in the flood waters. We drank out of garden hoses and ran through the sprinklers that wave back and forth like a liquid fan. We’d get called in for dinner and then be right back on the street. We stayed outside long after the lights came on.  

Not all was rosy and idyllic. We were infested with bugs. Maybe mosquitoes. Since we were kids, we didn’t know and we didn’t care. Not about what they were, anyway. All we cared about was the cure. All we knew was that we were lucky because we had a great game to play. On random afternoons, in the heat and humidity of a New Jersey Summer, the Bug Spray Truck would make its rounds. It was basically a large bug spray can on wheels. It would travel slow throughout the neighborhoods spraying huge, thick white clouds of poison and we would run behind it, laughing and sucking all of the noxious fumes.

blackout rules

Winter seeped into the stone walls, the thick wooden floors, the still air. We put our frozen mittens on the sill of the kitchen window. Ice clung to their woolen fibers. It only melted in the brief sunshine that hit the southern wall in the afternoon. The light through the thick panes of glass magnified a circle on the floor occupied by a dozing kitten. The war required blackout rules. No fires in stoves. No oil lamps lit. During the day, it was bright enough, especially with the sun bouncing off the snow, knee deep in the pastures, shoulder deep in drifts blown into corners.

We left a path from the woods. Footprints and evergreen needles alleviated the dull white on white landscape. Into the forest we went, early in the morning to take advantage of the light, to get our tree. We cut down the perfect Fir like we do every year. Only this year, there would be no candles on the tree. No sparklers allowed.

It stood center stage in the middle room. Tangy-sweet, rich evergreen scented our breath clouds. Hand-made glass ornaments, a Robin’s nest with three blue eggs and red ribbons tied in bows decorated its branches. I sat on the bed, wrapped in a feather quilt to keep me warm and stared at the tree while illumination still glinted on bulbs.

We gathered in the front room, close together. We ate liver, bread dumplings in a chicken broth. We ate in silence. Except for my Ur-Opa who snored in his back bedroom. We ate warm apple strudel drenched in honey. It had been a whole year since we had sweets. Normally, the honey from the combs in the orchard was sold for what little money we could get.

I layered several sweaters under my red wool coat. I slipped my reindeer boots lined with rabbit fur over three pairs of wool socks. My uncle Viktor brought the boots home with him from Norway after he had been shot in the left leg. His knee was shattered and he could no longer march so they sent him home. He felt a certain shame in not dying for the Fatherland but we were glad to have him back. My five other uncles all died on frozen battlefields in places that sounded like fairytale lands: Kursk, Westerplatte, Nibeiwa, Narvik, Gembloux.

We went out into the black night to see the stars, The Star, shining just beyond the reach of my fingers.

Christmas Eve in the dark.

We stood in the chamomile field, in the silent night. I wanted to sing. We always sang on this night. I opened my mouth. A buzz rolled through the mountain peaks. At first, I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from. It seemed to be everywhere at once and then I saw bright lights moving across the sky, a triangle of lights, a moving celestial tree. I clapped and laughed. My Ur-Oma grabbed my wrist, pulled me along behind her. I wanted to stay to see the Christmas spectacle.

Whistling followed us into the hall. The walls vibrated and shook as we sheltered in a corner. The bombs landed high in the alps.

it happened in the blink of an eye

The bell on the microwave dinged. The light went out and the humming of the motor stopped. Jason pressed the button on the bottom, right, front of the oven, depressed it into the plastic and metal box. The machine slid across the grey, laminate counter. It stopped when it reached the back wall, chipping the natural stone tile. The door popped open.

Jason reached in with his left hand and grabbed the plastic bag containing his mixed vegetables.  He pinched the hot, air bloated sack with pointer finger and thumb. He pulled on it, bringing it out. It hung in the air for a second. A burning sensation reached the pain center of his brain. Jason shook his hand. The packet of scorching pre-processed produce flew across the kitchen, landing six feet away in front of the brushed aluminum refrigerator.

Blowing on his fingers, he walked across the green, tile floor and grabbed a pear and apple decorated towel hanging from the oven’s handle. He bent and picked up his so-called healthy diet items with a swaddled right hand.

Using his teeth, he ripped a corner of the food pouch. The escaping steam scalded his lips and cheek. He dropped the open bag. Various vegetables of equal size but in assorted colors reminiscent of Autumn rolled and tumbled across the floor. Jason cursed. He stepped forward to wipe up the mess. His naked foot landed on some peas and carrots, smooshed them into a slippery mess, lubricating the space between skin and floor.

He flew backwards, flapped his arms, cracked the end of an ulna on a sharp corner, smacked his skull on the metal handle of a strawberry blonde cabinet, and landed on his sweat pants covered bony ass. Jason laid on the floor and stared at his knotty pine paneled ceiling. His stomach growled.

Revena's Revenge ~ this stinks

~ random scene from my novel ~

By the time she reached their neighbors' holdings, her feet were numb and her legs were tired. She stepped out of the creek where the women came to wash their clothes. She needed to find somewhere to hide herself very soon. The sun would be breaching the horizon soon. She would hide in the wash house.

The smell of the aging urine would be strong enough to mask her smell. A day of discomfort would be a small price to pay for her freedom.

Revena crept up to the building. There was no lock on the door because no one would want to steal anything in the building as it only contained barrels of urine fermenting in the building with no windows. While the liquid was valuable for bleaching the woolen garments everyone wore, it wasn't valuable enough to take. Not to mention the foul stench. Revena almost threw up when she first went in.

She covered her mouth and her nose with her shawl. She made her way to a back corner and scrunched down behind a large covered barrel of piss. There was enough room for her to lie down. She rested her head on her bundle. It was warm in the shed so she needed no cover. Despite the horrible smell, Revena fell asleep from her exhaustion. It was Sunday, so she knew no one would come here today to do any washing. Only the most necessary work was done on Sundays and washing was not one of the chores that needed to be done. She slept all day, not stirring until a mouse ran over her outstretched hand resting in the straw covering the floor.

She couldn't bring herself to eat in the shed. The smell was too bad and made her stomach queasy. Revena squinted through the boards of the building and saw no light outside. She rose from the floor and crept through the dark room. She knocked into one of the barrels and a wooden bucket fell to the floor. Revena stood still, holding her breath for several heartbeats. When she heard no other noises she continued more cautiously towards the door. When she reached it she edged it open and looked out.

Full night was upon her and no one was about. All was quiet and still. She left the shed and went around the corner and stepped into another body. She was grabbed around the waist and a hand was clamped over her mouth. She couldn't see the face of her captor but she could tell the person was a man who was much larger than she was.

She was dragged back to the bleaching shed, and pulled inside. She struggled to free herself but only ended up getting herself thrown to the ground, the wind knocked from her lungs as the body of her captor covered hers, his hand never leaving her mouth. Revena attempted to kick the man or knee him in the groin but he wove his legs around hers so she could not move. She tried to open her mouth enough to bite his hand but his hand was so large it kept her jaw closed shut. He was so heavy upon her she could not breathe.

Triple Play

Every other Sunday, I get a manicure and pedicure as my reward for walking an hour each morning. After, I head over to the pub next door for a solitary, but not lonely, lunch. I drink a couple of margaritas, and nosh on sweet potato fries while I write in my journal and read my current read.

Today, an unoccupied table next to mine holds the debris of its previous occupant littered across the white cloth surface. One place setting, not immediately noticed since there are three of everything, says I’m not the only person who eats alone.

Three white, small plates form a triangle. The bottom left plate holds three french fries, uneaten. No ketchup. The plate on the right features three half disks of tomato, each cut across the diameter, three different sizes. Three teaspoons, stacked one atop the other, rest on the third plate. The top spoon holds two candied cherries.   

Three elegant, rounded blue bottles of water stand guard where another place setting would be if a second person had sat across the table. Each bottle is open, the twist caps placed so they form the periods of exclamation points. The water level, half full, matches the top of the white and blue labels.

Three Origami boxes folded from paper napkins form a soft tower of white to the left of the bottles. Brown stains leak from one box to the next and onto the white tablecloth, a 3D Rorschach mystery. Leaning up against these packages, standing on their short sides, three crisp twenty dollar bills, stiff in their used state.

Under the table, the walnut chair legs end drag marks made through a circle of salt or sugar drawn on the red brick patio. A splash of red with radiating tendrils mars the grains like an open wound where the third Maraschino landed and came to rest.

Ten Teasers from Divine Death

Ten Teasers from Chapter One of my fantasy novel, Divine Death.

1. Aoife felt the walls of her hut closing in on her. She wanted to get out and move around in the woods.

2. "I have a sword." Aoife yelled over all of the noise. She knocked the hilt on the door jam for effect. One and Two jumped at the door, their nails leaving grooves in the wood.

"So do I." The stranger pounded on his side of the door with his sword. "Open up and we can compare. I bet mine is bigger than yours."

3. The black flapping beast that entered her cabin shed its skin to reveal a huge, blonde, mustached man.

4. "That’s One and Two. They’re wolf cubs. Very deadly, as you can see."

"Clever names. How long did you have to think before coming up with them?"

5. "They call me many things." He grinned, showing even, white teeth. "My name is Chlodovech." Chlodovech’s stomach rumbled.

6. The firelight reflected red dancing flames in his blue eyes.

7. "While you are still wet, you should go out and get more."

8. He got up, took the heavy wool garment, placed it over his head and shoulders and started to the door. One and Two rose to joined him.

9. "The storm looks to be passed us now," said Aoife. She pointed in the direction the clouds fled. "You can move on to your destination once you’ve eaten." She could hear the eagerness in her own voice.

10.  He put the pot lid aside and ladled porridge into the dishes. He handed one to Aoife and gestured for her to sit. "Later we can discuss indebtedness."

Tales on Tuesday – Mayberry R.F.D.

May Berry had lips as red as cherries. Her maid brushed her long black hair until it shown like ravens’ wings. Her skin, soft and alabaster white, helped create the image of a delicate damsel in need of constant care and protection. Her mother kept a close eye on her. 


Mother had big plans for May. Mother kept her ears open for the most eligible bachelors available in their social circles and even above. Mother was sure May would marry into the peerage as long as Mother could keep May pure and unblemished.


Mother made sure May never went anywhere alone so that her chastity could never be questioned. May did not walk the streets of London Town even with an escort. May only spoke of the weather or the current fashions. May stayed quiet because Mother said no man wanted a wife with her own opinions. At parties and balls, May smiled and nodded and planned. May had to find a way to get away.


May watched for her chance to get out of the house and away from her keepers. Her opportunity came one night in the Spring when a flu brought down almost all of their staff and everyone in the family except her. She waited until dark, dressed in a set of her brother’s old discarded clothes, snuck by Sally, her feverish and sleeping maid, and climbed out of her bedroom window. When she reached the ground, she looked up, amazed at her audacity. She starred in horror as her maid climbed down the trellis after her. The sick girl lost her footing, dangled for a moment then let go, falling to the ground.


Sally whimpered and moaned as she lay atop her twisted leg. May ran for help. It took six weeks before Sally was up and walking with a stick. During all of that time, May’s doors and windows were locked and big, burly guards stood by them. May felt bad about Sally’s accident so she gave up trying to escape. She went along with Mother’s plans but no one offered her marriage.


Mother decided May needed a new wardrobe for the biggest ball of the year. They went to town to visit the dress maker. It seemed like everyone that was anyone was at the shop on that day. Mother haggled with the shop owner over a special bolt of fabric. As the minutes went by, May got pushed towards the door. She realized no one was watching her. She slipped out and walked.


May found her self on Tower Bridge gazing out at the Thames.


“Beautiful, is it not?”


May did not look at the man who spoke to her.


“The river stinks,” said May.


“You do have an opinion.” The man laughed. “You never expressed one when we danced.”


May turned to see the Duke of Grafton smiling at her.


“I wanted to ask for your hand but I could not see myself married to someone with so little interest in the world. It appears I misjudged you.” The Duke took May’s hand and bowed, placing a kiss upon her gloved knuckles. “I am glad to see I was wrong in my initial view of you.”

~ What are Tales on Tuesday? ~

 Find out about Tales on Tuesday Here.

The prompt for next Tuesday, June 22, 2010 is “Hawaii Five-O.”

If you have a TV show based theme you’d like to suggest as a prompt, mention it in the comments.

If you wrote a short story for today, sign into Mr. Linky.

      

Tales on Tuesday - Rabbit My Friend

Rabbit, rabbit, my friends!


*** Update: Don't panic. You are not in hell. I had to change my template to get rid of DISQUIS. I'll fix it soon.

My Friend Rabbit

It took me a while, but I finally communicated with my friend, Rabbit. Reaching the dead is not easy. While I had some practice at it over the years, I couldn’t safely say I was an expert. Finding the quiet time I needed wasn’t easy either. With all of the people traipsing through the house at all hours of the day and night searching for the treasure, any ectoplasm I conjured dissipated each time a door opened and a draft passed through.

I bet you want to know about the treasure. You are not alone. The hunt began about six months ago. Rabbit had gone on safari to Ethiopia. One day last October, he sold me his car for air fare, stuffed a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts in his back pack (he liked to go commando – made traveling light easier) mumbled something about gold between goodbyes and he was off on another adventure.

When I went to clean his room before Samhain Eve, I found the walls covered in maps and arcane symbols. I hadn’t a clue what they meant and didn’t want to know if I could figure them out. I know Rabbit is a bit daffy.

Two days after Winter Solstice, he was back, tattoos on his face and hair half way down his back. He locked himself in his room, refusing to eat and ranting during the night, mimicking the sounds of jungle animals. This went on for six days. On the morning of the seventh, he came downstairs to breakfast, showered and shaved to show me pictures he had drawn of a golden treasure he had found and stolen in Africa. He hid it upon his return to home.

I listened while he wolfed down buckwheat pancakes doused in melted butter and good Canadian maple syrup. His eyes looked as thick and viscous as the syrup that ran down his chin as he talked around his food. I worried about his sanity while he worried about cashing in his cache. Once done filling his belly, Rabbit rose from the dinette table and came around to where I sat. He kissed me on the mouth, sweeter than usual, and thanked me for being such a good friend. He moved hips lips to my ear, anchoring my hair to his chin like a fly caught on fly paper. He whispered that my good deeds would not go unpunished, laughed his insane-person laugh and skipped up the stairs to his bedroom.

When he didn’t come down the next day and I had heard no noises during the last 24 hours, I cracked the door to his room to check on him. He was dead as a door nail. His laptop sat on his dead lap. As his last living act, he had blogged about his expedition and his hidden treasure. I posted an update, letting the world know that Rabbit had moved on. That’s when the hunt began.

Now, six months later, I just wanted the keys to Rabbit’s car so I could get out of there. Once I tapped into the great beyond, Rabbit told me the keys were in the coffee can above the refrigerator and have a great time. I responded thanks and will do. I got the keys, grabbed my suitcases and went out to the garage. I opened the trunk to toss in my bags but there was no more room, what with all that gold in there.

~ Tales on Tuesday Link ~

The theme for next Tuesday, June 8, 2010 is Dr. Who.

Here's the Mr. Linky for today's story:

We were camping with no internet service but I am back.

      

Tales on Tuesday – Leave It to Beaver

Barry was a baby beaver living in Bavaria. His mom and dad built sturdy, long-lasting beaver lodges. Barry wanted to be just like them. He tried to follow in the paths of their beaver tails, but he was told to stay home. He was told he was too bitsy of a beaver baby. He had a lot of growing to do to become a big beaver before he could learn to chomp a fat tree trunk and leave tooth marks the way his mom and dad left grooves in growing trees.

Why, he didn’t even have his buck-toothed beaver teeth yet. The other baby beavers laughed at Barry for thinking he was beaver enough to gnaw on trunks. The big beavers shook their heads at Barry’s big beaver attitude.

Bertha and Bartholomew, Barry’s mom and dad, just patted Barry on the head and told him to stay home like a good little beaver. He should keep safe in the excellent beaver lodge they built for him and his brothers and sisters. He should not embarrass them all by doing something well beyond his capabilities. Barry should consider their social standing in the beaver community.

While Barry’s parents were out chewing up wood and his brothers and sisters were taking baby beaver naps, Barry snuck through the beaver tunnel and swam into the dammed up pool surrounding his parents’ beaver lodge. Working like any self-respecting busy beaver, Barry created his own beaver dam and a fairly decent beaver lodge. Since he built in secret, no one knew it was his.

When he was done, Barry tried to tell Bertha and Bartholomew of his creation, but they did not believe Barry. They were quite angry with him for trying to take credit for someone else’s work. That was a big no-no in the beaver world view of things so Barry was punished by being sent to bed without his daily roughage.

Upset at his treatment, Barry swam away from home and went to live in a new forest where no one knew him or his parents. He became a famous beaver developer, building huge tracts of beaver lodges in the Levittown style in honor of his hero. When his parents passed him in the forest, he would turn up his tail and pretend he did not know them. This went on for many moons until disaster struck the woods where he grew up.

Forest rangers destroyed all of the beaver dams built by his parents. They drained the creeks and broke up all of the lodges. This caused Barry’s family to become homeless. When Barry heard about his family’s destitution, he invited them all to live in lodges he created.

I began my vacation Friday. My daughter brought me Nicholas. I will be babysitting all week while she goes to Florida with her husband. Saturday we went on this year’s first camping trip. We got back late Sunday. Monday, Nicholas and I tried to recover. Today, I spent all day visiting with my parents so they could spend more time with their great-grandson.

I forgot how much work a teething seven month old baby can be.

I am hoping to have some time this week to clean up my online life and go around and visit.

The wiggling wild man says hi. And I’m going to go get some sleep while I can.

~ Tales on Tuesday Link ~

The theme for Tuesday, May 11, 2010 will be “Speed Racer.”

Do you have a TV show theme to suggest for future Tuesdays? 

Leave your suggestions in the comments.

Here's Mr. Linky. Sign in if you wrote a story for today's theme "Leave It to Beaver.”

Be sure to link right to your story.