Under a full moon

The moon is a jealous mistress

As long as he could remember, their families had been friends, living near each other, vacationing together, attending the same church and schools. He and their youngest daughter were only months apart in age, and it was a running joke with the adults that they would one day marry.

Still, no one was as surprised as them, when they did fall in love and become engaged.

In the months leading to their wedding, the women of the community gathered to help her craft her trousseau. The grand piece would be a quilt made for their marriage bed.

Listening to the hen talk of the elder ladies, she was inundated with horror stories of their wedding nights, of husbands more concerned with their own base needs and never their wives.

At the same time, the men were building the couple’s new home, outfitting it with handmade furniture meant to last generations. They were filling the bridegroom’s head with their own tall tales.

They saw little of each other during those long weeks, never alone, always with a chaperone. He began to sense a reluctance from her, a shyness easily mistaken for misgivings and perhaps a change of heart.

A fortnight before their wedding, their home was finished, the trappings and decorations in place, ready for them to make the house their home. He saw their marriage quilt for the first time. Saw the care and skill she took to make this beautiful duvet for their first night together. Still he feared that she was not glad for their pending union.

Where she once greeted him with a tender embrace, she now fairly cringed at his touch. Barely speaking, answering his questions with few words, or merely a shrug. He was not surprised when she slipped a note into his pocket the day before their ceremony, asking him to meet her at her father’s cornfield that night.

Fearing the worst, that she intended to break their engagement, he arrived at the appointed rendezvous with a heavy heart. He found the marker she mentioned in her note, and stood at the edge of the field, wanting but not wanting to find her.

Her list of cryptic directions crumpled in his pocket, he followed her ribbon trail into the cornfield, weaving among the stalks. As the satin slipped through his fingers, he realized it was the same she used to piece together their marriage quilt.

Dread filled him as he imagined her recent distractions as more than typical bridal jitters.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the clearing.

There she lay atop their quilt. Her ecclesiastic skin bathed in the pearlescent light of a full moon, wearing only a smile.

Still on his knees, he crawled into her arms as she helped tug off his shirt.

Dam Burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: …what is waiting for the full moon. Extra points for mixing mystery with romance.

The ending of this piece was written almost a year ago. I always wanted to rework and expand it, and this was the perfect opportunity.

Other side of the door

On the other side

After long days of dirty dishes and smelly laundry, piles of pet hair clinging to every surface and equally frustrating piles of bills, the weekend couldn’t arrive fast enough.

Before the sun rose on that summer Saturday morning, she was dressed and packed. The night before she filled a cooler with bottled water and Gatorade. After a quick stop at the corner convenience store for a bag of ice and a full gas tank, she was off.

She had spent her free time during the week online, searching for hiking trails within an easy drive. A few hours of fresh air, and physical activity that didn’t involve vacuums or mops, would be a welcome change of pace.

Armed with her camera, and an Aussie-voiced GPS, she pulled through the gate of the nature area eager to get started on her photo hike. The visitor’s kiosk at the trail head was decorated with maps and photos of area wildlife. A lack of other cars in the parking lot was a good sign. It meant she would have the woods to herself.

Her pack, filled with extra batteries and lenses, insect repellent and bottled water, was slung over one shoulder, her camera strap looped over her neck. The only thing left was to plug her earbuds into the MP3 player in her pack’s outer pocket and set her playlist.

The clearly marked trail led her deep into the scrub. The sun was rising higher and hotter when she stopped for a drink at a split in the path. The right fork led into the cool cover of the oak canopy. Turning onto the shaded route, the temperature immediately dropped.

Tugging out her earbuds, she listened to the sounds of woods, smiling at the music of nature. The further along the path she went, the more dense the woods became, and more sunlight was crowded out darkening the shadows around her.

She lifted her camera, aiming into the woods, hoping to capture an errant shaft of light or shy forest creature. As the auto focus twisted and turned, an unexpected image sharpened. Lowering the eyepiece, she squinted into the darkness finally making out the dim outline of an abandoned house.

Dropping her pack and camera, she left the trail, wending her way through the thick bramble. As she got closer to the house, her skin began to tingle, the hairs on her arms and back of her neck standing on end. Breaking through tangle of trees, she stepping into an unnaturally quiet clearing. All forest sounds ceased, the air stilled.

The windows, opaque with grime and age, gave away no secrets. The paint, once a vibrant orange was now a weak ochre, peeling in random patches. Drawn to the house, she took measured steps toward the front door,

The air around her crackling with anticipation, she reached for the latch, sparks jumping between her fingertips and the tarnished brass knob. Stiff from lack of use, the knob resisted her efforts to turn. Finally giving way, stale air rustled the dried leaves and dust at her feet, the hinges groaned their annoyance at being disturbed. Bracing her shoulder against the wood, she pushed her way into the house, the door slamming shut behind her.

The young couple walking along the trail were bundled against the cold wind. A mound of pine needles the man nearly tripped over turned out to be an old backpack. Rummaging through the pack, they found a weather-worn driver’s license. The woman recognized the name from the news. A local woman was reported missing the previous summer. Having gone out for a hike with her camera, she never made it home.

When they turned the pack into local authorities, neither mentioned seeing a faint light glowing in the windows of an abandoned house deep in the woods.

Dam Burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: What lies on the other side of the door

I’d do it again

Unattended

It was raining. Not a drenching downpour, more of an annoying, unrelenting shower. The parking lot was full, but I was lucky enough to find an empty spot in front of the Radio Shack, next door to the Food Mart.

I sat in my car for a while, rummaging through my coupons and hoping for a break in the weather. I didn’t have a lot of groceries to pick up, but it would be easier getting in and out of the car if I was prepared. As I reached into the back seat to stow my coupon file, I noticed the car parked beside mine. The windows were starting to fog, telling me there was someone inside.

Gathering my purse and flipping up the hood on my rain jacket, I opened my car door and made a mad dash for the covered sidewalk. Once under shelter, I pulled back the hood, shaking rain off my hands. I had to wipe water off my glasses on my shirt before my vision was clear again.

When I looked up I could see inside the car adjacent to mine. There were people inside, but at that point all I saw was a little boy who couldn’t have been three. He was leaning over the front seat, but kept looking into a car seat beside him. There was no adult with him.

We made eye contact, and he abruptly sat back in the seat, slumping down where I couldn’t see him. I walked slowly around to the side of the car, ignoring the rain, to see he wasn’t alone. A small baby was asleep in the car seat.

I was stunned. Here were two very young children, left alone in a car.

Not knowing what to do, I went into the first store, asking a clerk if he saw who was driving the car outside his business. He even made an announcement when I told him about the kids. No one claimed responsibility.

Still unsure what to do, I went back to my car. I could at least keep a watch over the kids until someone came back. Maybe who ever was in charge of them had just run into the grocery store for a couple of minutes.

I rehearsed my rebuke while I waited. After another 10 minutes, I made a decision I thought I’d never have to make, but one I’ve never regretted. I called the police to report two children unattended in a parked car.

After giving the emergency dispatcher my information and location, I agreed to stay where I was until a patrol car arrived. By this time, I estimated the children had been in the car, alone, for at least half an hour.

The officer had impeccable timing. He pulled behind the car just as an older woman walked up, presumably their grandmother, pushing a cart full of groceries.

My guess was that both kids were asleep when she arrived. Not wanting to wake them, or struggle with two small, tired kids in the rain, she just locked the car doors and went shopping, hoping they would stay asleep until she was done.

Once the officer arrived, I got out of my car, nodded to him, asking if he needed me to stay. He thanked me and waved me on. I don’t know if the woman was cited or if she was only given a warning. Regardless, I did hope that this was a harsh lesson for her, and was glad it didn’t end in tragedy.

Dam Burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: I didn’t want to do it

Blacksheep

Leaving town

“She had to know she’d cause a scandal,” Ralf paced across the porch, stopping occasionally to peel chips of paint from the dilapidated railing. “The Family couldn’t allow it.”

Hilda, Ralf’s common-law wife, was on the porch swing, a bowl of estate jewelry in her lap, meticulously prying gems out of their settings with a rusty pair of needle-nose pliers. Later, she’d melt the precious metal into one-ounce ingots.

“Maybe it’s just a phase.” Ralf raked long, tapering fingers through his wild, salt and pepper hair.

Sighing heavily, Hilda put down her tools, and set aside the bowl of deconstructed jewelry, patting the bench for Ralf to join her. Sitting down, he leaned over to lay his head on her shoulder. Pulling him in close, Hilda engulfed him in both arms.

Hilda stroked Ralf’s head, “she got in with that college crowd, and they turned her against us, convinced her the Family’s immoral.”

Ralf buried his face in the hollow of Hilda’s neck and began to cry softly.

Carrie, their only daughter and Family outcast, found them there when she came out of their house. All her clothes and belongings were packed into two worn, but sturdy leather duffel bags.

Ralf stood up, wiping his wet face on his T-shirt. Hilda went back to her work, ignoring Carrie.

“You’re leaving?” Ralf’s voice was thick with emotion.

“I have to,” Carrie shifted from one foot to the other. “Family Elders made it clear I’m not welcome.”

“You’re such a disappointment,” Hilda wouldn’t look at her. “You’ve rejected everything we’ve taught you, you’ve rejected us.”

Carrie shook her head, counting to ten before responding.

“I love you, I reject the Family,” Carrie pleaded. “I can’t keep lying and stealing. I want real friends, a real future. I’m tired of pulling up roots every time police discover the Family has infiltrated their town.”

Carrie picked up her bags, and descended the stairs. “Call me when you can,” and she was gone.

Rule of thirds

Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Scandal [noun \ˈskan-dəl] 3: a circumstance or action that offends propriety or established moral conceptions or disgraces those associated with it

Dam Burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: change and transformation

I want to go to there

Take me there

Pulling into the parking space, I can see the heat radiating off the black asphalt. Like shimmering, dancing ghosts skimming between the cars, little whirlwinds swirl in the dimming light.

Reluctantly I turn off the car, the cool breeze blowing from the dashboard vents is quickly replaced by humid ocean air.

I tug on my ball cap, tucking stray strands of hair behind my ears. As soon as I open the car door the rest of the air-conditioned cold is sucked out and I immediately begin to sweat.

With my camera strap looped around my neck, I lock the car and head toward the wooden stairs leading to the boardwalk that arcs over the dunes.

Along the fence and base of the risers, small drifts of sand form. If it weren’t for the desert hot winds, you could easily believe it was snow. Sugar white granules fill every nook and cranny, creating abstracted patterns on the wooden slats.

Bypassing the zigzagging ramp, I take the stairs two at a time, hoping to get to the beach in time. At the top of the landing, I can finally smell the sharp aroma of the ocean blowing off the Gulf waters.

It’s windy, and I’m grateful for my snug cap. Turning my back to the water, I take off my glasses, wiping the lenses on the hem of my T-shirt. The salt spray leaves a dull film on the glass. I kick off my shoes at the end of the boardwalk before descending to the beach. The air cools with each step down I take. At the base of the stairs I open my arms, face turned toward the sky, and breathe in the ocean.

Making my way along the shore, my skin begins to tingle. A mix of the hot sand and the cool spray of water mingles to leave a fine crust of salt on my arms and face. I lick my lips, tasting the tang of the Gulf.

The beach, soft beneath my feet, is more like powdered sugar than sand. Still warm and sun-baked, I feel it sift between my toes. I wade into the surf, letting the tiny evening waves gently wash the sand from my ankles and legs.

Clear emerald green in full daylight, the water is ever shifting layers of mysterious onyx in the deepening night. White-tipped waves curl over the shoals, churning up the sand, offering skittish pipers tiny morsels of seaweed and mussels. Their twig legs quickly skipping ahead of the ebbing water’s edge.

The seagulls are loudly protesting my presence, cawing their insults as they swoop and dive. They congregate on abandoned turrets of children’s sandcastles, surveying their sandy kingdom, impatiently waiting for me to leave.

Turning west, I see the molten heart of the sun slowly melting below the horizon. Syrupy strands of orange and gold sunlight course along the edge of the ocean, reaching out long tendrils toward the shore.

Light clouds, pale yellow and deep purple, spread across the sky. A lacy curtain drawn between the worlds, glimpses of paradise shine through the veil. The day begrudgingly giving way to the night.

After capturing a few fleeting memories within my camera, I find a dry patch of beach above the tide line. Sitting cross-legged, my body forming a perfect indentation on the sand, I close my eyes. I swear later that I could hear the final sigh of the sun as it drops below the edge of the world, coming to rest at the end of the day.

Dam Burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: Take me there

In reverse

Unknown going forward

After the initial determination, I read everything I could find. All that did was to scare me even more. One dire prognosis after another, stripping away every strand of hope from my grasp.

Since then, it’s been a book you read in reverse, so you understand less as the pages turn.

At first, other than his father, there was no one to talk with, no one I thought would understand. I feared that every one would look at him differently, treat him differently. So I said nothing. Even now, only a few trusted friends have been told.

He did changed. Not in a way you could say it was A or B, but in the way he reacted to a deviation in his routine, or by something odd he’d say that didn’t seem to fit the situation. Then there was the pacing, and sleepless nights.

Initially, I didn’t know how to help him. There was no magic pill, no big words to say, no waving of hands over him. There were no rules. This was never going to be a clean fight. There was no going back, only the unknown going forward.

What I did know is that I love him, unconditionally. I also know I can’t change his future, only be there to ease his way.

Oh, and I know I need to stop reading…

Peer Challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kurt challenged me with “Since then, it’s been a book you read in reverse, so you understand less as the pages turn.” – The Shins, “Pink Bullets.” and I challenged Alyssa Reyans with “Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants won’t help.” – Calvin and Hobbs

Rule of thirds

Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Clean [adj. \ˈkleen] 3 c: observing the rules: fair

Dam Burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: Free Write!

Dreamland

Not in Kansas anymore

I woke from the dream disoriented and afraid. Like no other dream I could remember, it was so real and still so surreal. I reached for the pen and notepad I keep at my bedside with the intention of writing down the details before all recollection of the night vision was lost.

Only the pad wasn’t there, nor the pen. Fighting the panic that was welling up in my chest, I realized that nothing of my surroundings looked familiar. Where my normal pale green bedroom walls were bright and welcoming, this room was dark and cold. The stone and mahogany were chilling. Sparsely furnished, all I could see was the bed where I woke, a small table by the bed and a large, mirrored wardrobe.

I recognized nothing in the room where I found myself. There were no photos on the tables or dresser, no paintings on the walls that gave me any clues. The window coverings, thick, ornate drapes, and the heavy brocade satin bedding, were nothing I would have selected for my rooms.

There was no television, nor radio. Even my clothing was strange.

Seeing a tiny crescent of light under the hem of the drapes, I pulled the comforter off the bed, wrapping it around my shoulders, and walked to the window. The stone floor was icy under my feet, but I couldn’t think of where my shoes might be.

Reaching for the tapestry edge, I pulled the material aside hoping to see something – anything –  from the window that looked familiar. The view, acres and acres of plush green lawn, was as disappointing as it was vast.

A quick survey of the room gave me three choices for the door out. Padding to the first door, trying to shield my freezing feet, I used the comforter as a rug as well as a robe. I pulled it open only to find a water closet. The smell suggested that there was no running water, a quick peek confirmed my dread at having only an open trough for a toilet.

The second door led to what I could only guess was a closet, though empty of clothing. The last door, and hopefully my way out, was locked. No show of force was enough to budge the barrier, and pounding on it only made my hand sore.

Leaning on the wood, my ear flat against the surface, I tried to discern any sounds, perhaps a voice from the other side. There was nothing. I was trapped inside a room who knows where with no inkling of how I got there. Slumping to the floor, my back to the door, I pulled the comforter tight around my body.

With no sense of time passage, I soon became very drowsy, succumbing to sleep.

Dreaming, I managed to worm my way through the small slit of a window in my prison. I lost my grip on the stone and began to tumble. The ground visible, it seemed like it would take forever to reach the bottom. There was only the terrifying feeling of falling.

At the moment of impact, I jolted awake.

Expecting to still be on the floor, instead I was back in my own bed, in my own home. Tangled in my bedding, I unwrapped the sweat-soaked sheets, and pushed to the side of the bed. Shaking my head, I tried to clear away the memories of the dream.

More and more of my nights were filled with these confusing nightmares. Each one more real, and harder to separate from my actual life. Was I really back home, or was this yet another reality? Everything looked right. The furniture, the knick-knacks and photos, even the clutter of dirty clothes and discarded shoes.

The last piece of the puzzle would be the view out of my window. Like a dead man walking, I made my way across the room. Remembering the scenery from this latest dream, I braced myself for an unfamiliar view.

I wasn’t disappointed. If I trusted my high school geography, Kansas wasn’t anywhere near the ocean.

Dam burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: Where am I and how did I get here?