A conversation starter

Unable to interrupt the tantrum the person was throwing on the other end of the call, Gail held her phone out at arm’s length. With the other hand, she folded down three fingers, forefinger to her temple, thumb cocked, then pulled the imaginary trigger. Making the most grotesque face she could, she fell to her couch in an emotive death scene worthy of an Oscar. She was grateful she was only talking to her mother and not Skyping.

She heard the other woman take a breath and jumped at the opening.

“Where on earth have you been getting your information? No, I have not quit my job. I have also not emptied my bank account, and I’m not planning to beg on the street in rags.”

Sitting on the edge of her couch, Gail covered her face with her gun hand, listening with growing frustration. Mouthing a silent, “Oh. My. God,” she attempted another pre-emptive strike.

“Mother, it’s only a Religious Studies discussion group. He’s the discussion leader, not some doddering old fool sitting in the corner drooling on himself.”

Flinging herself into the back cushions, Gail shook the phone in both hands, trying to strangle it in effigy.

“No, Mother we are not being forced to read subversive, anti-Christian text. We are reading the NIV Bible, the very one you gave me when I graduated high school. We take the Parables of Jesus and discuss how they would apply to contemporary situations.”

She was now thrusting a pretend knife into the phone’s screen, while eeking the theme music from “Psycho.”

“You do realize I am a grown woman, right? Living on my own, paying my own bills, making my own decisions. Yes, Mother even making my own wrong decisions.

“Tell you what, you get your Esther Circle to pray for us, then your conscious will be clear when we’re all damned to hell.”

Gail listened intently to her mother’s final words.

“I love you too, Mom.”

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: Fool [noun \ˈfül\ 3  a : a harmlessly deranged person or one lacking in common powers of understanding]

Stepping inside the old, ramshackle house I instantly felt that tingle of anticipation. There was a treasure here waiting to find me.

Wandering through the crowded rooms of cedar and mahogany furniture, and tapestry covered divans, I ran my fingers gently over the blue flowers of a china pattern, and inhaled the words captured in the leather bindings of old books.

Histories and tall tales haunted each corner, but none lured me into their story. Pulled back to the front of the store, I stood in front of a long, low jewelry cabinent. The proprietress, a women of indistinguishable age, had brilliant emerald green eyes which held me in an almost hypnotic trance.

Crystal

Before I could speak, she had brought out a black velvet lined box which held two rosaries. One a magnificent strand of lead crystal stones, accented by a large sterling silver filigree crucifix. Coiled beside it, a humble string of well-worn, wooden ebony beads and crucifix.

With reverence and awe, I picked up the crystal rosary, thumbing each bead, counting through the decades. The facets of the stones felt cold and closed to me. A beautiful icon, a religious masterpiece, but it didn’t reach out to me. I returned it to its place in the box.

I stared at the other string for several minutes before finally holding it in my hands. Instantly I felt a warmth spread through my fingers and up my arms, engulfing my chest and seeping into my heart. I felt every prayer cradled inside the beads. Prayers for eager supplicants, for couples declaring their love before man and God, for newborns fresh to the world, for the souls of the sick and dying. Prayers of joyful thanksgiving and prayers begging for forgiveness. I knew this was why I came to this store.

Ebony

The emerald-eyed woman smiled knowingly at me. Wrapping my purchase in pale blue tissue paper, she handed the packet to me, holding onto my hands for a long moment. Finally nodding her agreement, she let go, waving as I left the store.

Sitting outside the store in my car, I carefully unwrapped my rosary. Sliding through my fingers, the beads felt familiar, as if they were crafted especially for me. A sense of well-being washed over me, and I relaxed for the first time in weeks. Maybe everything would be okay after all.

Dam burst

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

I own several rosaries and crucifixes, with more than two dozen in my collection. I’ve written about them before, and how even though I am a non-catholic I see them as beautiful pieces of religious art. I’m also intrigued with the notion that they are filled with heart-felt prayers. Who couldn’t benefit from more prayers?

The beast

The beast was getting bolder. No longer satisfied to strike under the shadow of night, he had begun attacking at will. Another daytime raid ended the lives of an entire family of seven, helpless to defend against his brutal might…they were all gone.

It was standing room only in the council hall. Voices were raised in anger and fear. The village couldn’t simply wait to be completely destroyed. Something had to be done, action must be taken to stop the monster.

The council chairman called for order, his gavel thundering over the shouts of the towns people. A subdued rumble continued, as the general of the army stood to address the crowd. He spoke of feeble security measures. Cautioning residents to stay indoors whenever possible, to travel in groups for safety, and to report any sighting of the beast to the nearest defense captain.

His speech was drowned out by an angry roar of disbelief. Calls for his resignation came from all sides. Demands for military force were made. Where were his men when these attacks took the lives of innocents? Counter measures were needed, this monster had to be stopped once and for all.

One lone figured walked slowly to the front of the gathering. Taking a position at the council podium, he stood quietly, his right hand raised until reluctant stillness blanketed the hall. Young and small of stature, his presence was regarded with skepticism and hesitance.

In a soft voice, he outlined a simple idea for dispatching the beast. All that as needed was a small group to join him in implementing his plan. If successfully carried out, the monster would no longer be a threat to the town. The proposal was solid and well-constructed. Though it carried a high risk to life, it was a straightforward strategy.

Cheers rang through the hall. The general clapped the would-be hero on the shoulder, and the chairman hardily shook his hand. Turning to the exuberant crowd, the general called for volunteers. Asking the strongest and bravest to step forward.

The shouting stilled, and the hall silently began to empty. Soon all who remained were the general, the council chairman and the lone figure.

The general claimed he couldn’t join in the plan, he was needed in the village. Without him the town would be lost in fear.

The chairman begged out saying he was needed to keep calm after the killing raids.

The would-be hero left the hall dejected, but determined. Gathering what he needed for his plan, he headed toward the beast’s lair.

His slight body and natural stealth worked in his favor. Silently he entered the den, and found the monster sleeping. Working quickly, he tiptoed around the giant, climbing slowly over its massive body to tie a large silver bell around his neck.

Once secured, he quietly made his way toward freedom, almost escaping before the beast awoke and found the intruder. Though dispatching the village hero with one swipe of his taloned paw, the beast could not remove the bell, his every step, every move, setting off an alarm. The sound, filtering down into the village valley announced the hero’s plan had worked. When he didn’t return, they knew he had made the ultimate sacrifice.

The beast fled, his reign of terror ended and the village safe again, the villagers gathered to honor their hero. Shame and regret haunted the residents for not stepping up and aiding their hero in his quest.

A monument was raised in the town square in his memory, a reminder to all of his service and bravery. Engraved in the stone these words:

“The strongest man upon Earth is he who stands most alone.”

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Leo challenged me with “The strongest man upon Earth is he who stands most alone.” – Henrik Ibsen. Work your post around this quote. and I challenged Chaos Mandy with “You can’t run away from trouble. There ain’t no place that far. – James Baskett”

*With an appreciative nod to Æsop

Funeral pyre

Stick by rigid stick
A wall built around my heart
Impenetrable

True love’s red, hot heat
Passionate, tempestuous
Ignited a blaze

A bonfire lit
Funeral pyre piled high
With old hurts and pain

Raising from the ash
A new heart tempered by flame
Indestructible

I also found another old, abandoned building. I would love to know the stories surrounding these places. Maybe, I’ll just have to make up my own.

A whole in the world

Storm front

Dune copse

Mountain of sand

In line

Estate mansion

Cranked

(Photos shot with a Nikon D60, using an 18-55mm, 55-200mm, 20mm f/2.8 wide-angle, 50mm f/1.8 prime lens, Nikon CoolPix S205 and/or iPhone4)

For more photos, please visit my Flickr photostream and my 365 Project Page.

I showed you mine, now show me yours

To see other city scenes from around the world, check out Unknown Mami’s Sundays in My City. Don’t forget to show the love to Mami and the other City contributors.

Best of the rest

More Weekly Winners photo galleries can be found at I am Lotus. Please leave a little comment love for our lovely hostess and the other WW photogs.

Hoping for more interesting shots next week.

Close to home

Week 7

1. chamberFtP, 2. hearts, 3. Valentines, 4. frogprince, 5. shelovesme, 6. hotchoco

Photo no. 4 was featured on this week’s post: Frog prince. Companion photos taken at the same location as no. 1, were featured on Catacombs and Lost in the tunnels.

itsy bitsy

Damn! It’s friggin’ rainin’ again,
That stoopid Super never did fix that leakin’ drain.
My web’s destroyed and the whole place is gonna flood.
Now, I’mma hafta shovel out all this stinkin’ mud.

Rule of thirds

The Trifextra prompt this weekend was to rewrite a famous story, poem, book, or fable in just 33 words. 

Frog prince

When you’re kissing frogs
Often times fairytales end
Before they begin

5, 7, 5

Haiku Friday is hosted by Lou at LouCeeL.

Awash in neon

An obligation few people could understand meant cleaning up messes even when they weren’t his.

A fine dusting of talcum powder death was washed off the glass table top. Rotten air, exhaled by contaminated lungs, black with lies, swept out the doorway. His meticulous attention to detail an attempt to erase all evidence of her from the room.

Turning off the lights, curtains open to a wash of gaudy neon, the stench of hotel illness hung in the air. He could still hear the sirens echoing in his head.

Her soul already dead, her body simply needed to catch up.

Robot Leeroy

100 Word Song, a writing challenge from Lance based on a weekly music prompt. Give 100 words, not 99, not 101. This week’s challenge is inspired by The Black Crowes – “Hotel Illness”.

Lost in the tunnels

His mail rattling with each step, the sergeant of arms strode with purpose into the cavernous hall. In one hand he dragged the submissive priest behind him, his other hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The whole while, the Prince watched the spectacle, a look of boredom on his face.

He slumped in his throne, one leg bent with his foot resting in the seat cushion, his opposite elbow set on the arm of the chair with his chin planted in his open palm. He visibly jumped when the sergeant flung the priest across the floor, whereupon the cleric slid to the bottom of the raised dais.

Lying in a crumpled pile, the priest mumbled incoherent prayers in between whimpers. Recovering from the surprise of the clergy’s sudden forced genuflection, the Prince straightened in his throne, assuming what he thought was a more regal posture.

“Your highness, the priest you summoned,” the sergeant bent one knee, tipping his helmet in salute.

“Did he tell you where the girl went?” the Prince leaned forward, only far enough to peer at the old man at his feet.

“He claims he does not know,” replied the sergeant while aiming an armored boot at the priest’s frail body. “My troops have ransacked the chapel, she is nowhere in the cathedral. We will find her.”

Rising from his throne, the Prince moved to sit on the bottom step of the dais. Stroking the old man’s head as he would pet one of his prized hounds, he murmured sounds of comfort. With the same reassuring hand, the Prince snatched a fist full of the priest’s white hair, pulling his head up to expose his pale neck. In his other hand a stiletto, kept hidden in his boot, was pressed against the old man’s jugular.

“You gave her sanctuary,” the Prince accused.

“No, sire, I did not, I could not,” the priest words almost too quiet to be heard. “I do not know where the girl is, I swear.”

“Take him,” the Prince released the priest, letting him dropped to the floor. “Either find out where he has secreted my bride or send him to his Maker.”

Taking a handful of the priest’s cowl, the sergeant dragged him back out of the hall. The Prince gestured to one of his other attendants, directing him to bring one of his consort to his bed chamber. If the sergeant returned with the missing girl, he would deal with her as only he could.

When the sergeant finished his interrogation, he found the Prince in his rooms, the unlucky consort’s pale and lifeless body on the floor in front of the brazier, her eyes open and unfocused. The sergeant briefly surveyed the scene in the bed chamber, quietly giving an order to the attendants at the door to remove the dead woman.

“What did you find out?” the Prince, smeared in crimson blood, didn’t bother to cover his own nakedness, a languid smile on his face.

Watching the prince trace random designs in the spatter on his chest, the sergeant forced down the urge to gag. A man accustom to ordered violence, the sergeant couldn’t comprehend the Prince’s lust for inflicting pain for pleasure.

“The girl went into the catacombs,” the sergeant assumed his customary deportment. “The priest gave her his rosary, a sign to the spirits to allow her passage.”

“Did she escape?” Finally looking up, the Prince used the bed covers to wipe off his hands.

“I ordered two men into the tunnels, but they were sent back, barely able to report,” the sergeant, shook his head, remembering how terrified his men were. “The spirits will only speak to you sire. They are aware you are seeking the girl, and won’t answer to any one else.”

“As it should be,” standing by a ewer of fresh water, the Prince allowed one of his attendants to wash the gore from his body. “What else did the spirits say?”

Giving his full report, the sergeant relayed that the spirits refused passage to any other without the Prince’s presence.

“You will accompany me to the catacombs,” ordered the Prince. Once the Prince was washed and dressed, he didn’t want to wait any longer to hunt down his wayward bride.

A troop of men stood guard at the entrance of the tombs. A low, moaning wind kept them far from the gate.

“They will tell me where the girl is?” the Prince asked his sergeant.

“That is my understanding,” the sergeant stood in the dark doorway, his sword drawn at the ready.

Pushing his way around the guard, the Prince moved into the pitch black. Followed by the sergeant and two torch bearers, he announced himself to the spirits.

Stumbling out of the gate days later, the sergeant was alone and near death. Fading in and out of consciousness, it was another week before he could speak coherently about what happened.

Once the Prince was in the labyrinth of tunnels in the catacombs, the spirits began speaking to him. Playing on his vanity, they easily separated him from the other men, telling him that he alone was worthy of their help. Lost in the dark, ghosts of  long dead kings buried within the tombs bolstered his false sense power and eminence. Leading him deeper, down into forgotten depths, the Prince was abandoned in the blackness, the voices of his ancestors taunting him for his pride and arrogance.

Outside the castle, far away from her past life, a young woman sat at a massive loom, weaving a pattern she created for her first commission as a full guild member. A well-worn rosary, a life-saving gift, hung from her belt. The town people whispered that she had the gift of a seer, able to speak to the dead, a skill she learned in the castle catacombs.

A continuation of this story: Catacombs

Peer prompted

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Janey challenged me with ‘Vanity working on a weak head produces every kind of mischief.’ (Jane Austen)” and I challenged Fran with ‘If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live without you.’ ~ Winnie the Pooh”