Category Archives: Splashes

Paved with Gold

Streets Paved with Gold?

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Paved with Gold“The streets are paved with gold,” they said. As if that’s something to be proud of. Wasting gold on cobblestones? Really??

 

“But… gold streets! That’s amazing!” They kept insisting.

 

But old Fritz knew better. Sure they looked pretty in the first glow of morning light, all soft amber and rosy pink, but that same glow reflected into every window, of a morning, and usually at least an hour before decent folk had tumbled out of bed.

 

Maybe if you were one of the lords and ladies up at the castle-keep at the top of the cliff, looking down on glowing streets was akin to a miracle. But those at the keep had heavy shutters and thick draperies to block out the light.

 

The commoners? Not so much. They had wooden slats and fabric curtains, maybe.

 

And those at the castle had wet nurses and nannies to soothe the babes and littles when the glow from the streets was blindingly bright.

 

Fritz, on the other hand, had lived a lifetime of assuring his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren that no, it wasn’t MOLTEN gold, and no, it wasn’t hot like lava, and just turn your face to the wall, kiddo, and sleep a little longer.

 

Streets paved with gold? Fritz had long considered moving to another village more than once. A village where the gold wasn’t flaunted, and the streets were paved with sensible things like brick cobblestones or gravel.

 

And yet… he couldn’t deny that the gold streets of the village where he’d spent ninety-three winters attracted a wealth (no pun intended) of tourists who were eager to spend their money in his shop, and the shops of his friends and family.

 

Streets paved in gold? Fritz weighed the concept in his mind a bit longer.

 

Then he rolled toward the middle of the bed he shared with Hazel, who – god willing – would mark her eighty-seventh winter in a few weeks.

 

He’d just sleep til the angle of the light changed, and the gold-covered streets no longer dazzled his aging eyes.

 

Photo Source: Facebook Flash Prompt Group
Copyright: viperagp / 123RF Stock Photo

I Pray on Christmas

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Copyright: <a href='https://www.123rf.com/profile_viperagp'>viperagp / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

 

I pray on Christmas

That the Lord will see me through

I pray on Christmas

He’ll show me what to do

 

I pray on Christmas

He’ll help me understand

And I pray on Christmas

He’ll take me by the hand.

 

Kathleen stared up at the status board, and couldn’t help letting out a frustrated groan. Her flight had been delayed. Again. She liked her life as a road warrior, for the most part. She got to stay in lovely hotels, spend time in all the great cities of the world, and, she would probably never run out of frequent flier miles and first class upgrades. Flight delays, however, were something she would never enjoy.

Still, there were times when she longed to walk through the door to her own home to a sloppy, drooly greeting from her dog, a nearly ancient flat-coated retriever named Parker. (He was named after her childhood crush, Parker Stevenson, whom she used to watch every week on The Hardy Boys. No one, she thought, had ever made a better Frank.)

She and old Parker had been through a lot together: the birth of her first daughter, who would turn nine just after the holidays, the miscarriage she’d had three years later, and the divorce that had followed two years after that.

When she and her ex had agreed that Clariel was better off with him and his new wife, Kathleen had gone home to bury her face in Parker’s soft black fur. When she’d missed out on the promotion that would have allowed her to travel only when she wanted to, Parker had licked the frustrated tears from her cheeks. And when her friends had all gone home after her surprise forty-fifth birthday earlier that year, she and Parker had shared the last slice of cake while watching a cheesy Hallmark movie.

Now, though, it was December – just a couple of days before Christmas – and while a delay of a few hours wasn’t a big deal any other time of year, she’d promised Clariel they’d spend the holiday together this year.

If only the weather in Denver would cooperate.

— Flight delayed. Stuck in Denver. Will text when I know more. –  She sent the text to her sister Maggie, who had also served as dog-sitter for the last eight days.

— Get a glass of wine. You’ll get here when you get here. – Maggie was always so laid back. Kathleen didn’t know what she’d do without her.

— Tell Clariel… — but she didn’t finish the text. She didn’t have to.

— Clariel’s with me. We’re baking gingerbread. –

— You’re the best, sis. –

— Damn straight. –

Kathleen took her sister’s advice and made her way to one of the bars in her concourse. She didn’t remember ever seeing a piano bar in this airport before. Maybe they were only open for the holidays –booze and music went a long way to calming stressed passengers – or maybe she’d just never noticed it before. Most of the time, she spent her layovers in the VIP lounge.

The bar was surprisingly empty when she arrived, so she chose a table near the piano. The man at the instrument was playing jazzy versions of classic Christmas tunes, and she smiled at him.

He smiled back, blue eyes twinkling and white teeth shining in the subdued lighting. “Got any requests?” he asked, after she’d ordered and received her glass of red wine.

“I don’t know… surprise me,” she challenged. Her favorite Christmas songs were pretty far from the old standards.

The piano player launched into an arrangement of “The Christmas Song” that Kathleen had never heard before, and she found herself relaxing.

“Lovely,” she said, when the last note had faded away.

The blue-eyed musician cocked his head toward her, as if he’d heard something familiar in her voice – maybe her slight southern accent – and was trying to make a connection. His smile broadened into a cocky grin. “Louisiana?” he asked.

“Texas,” she corrected.

“Even better. Okay, Texas, this is for you.”

He began to play a bluesy tune, one Kathleen had fallen in love with, years before, and she couldn’t help but hum along, tapping her foot to the beat.

Her phone chimed, alerting her that her flight was finally boarding, just as he finished the song. She dropped ten bucks in the glass on his piano, thanked him for the music, and made haste to her gate.

* * *

The night was cold, and the nearly-full moon high in the sky by the time Kathleen claimed her car from long-term parking. She texted her sister to let her know she was on the ground and on the way home, and then she lost herself in the music from the holiday station on the radio, singing along as she drove.

Her house was bright with Christmas lights when she finally pulled into the garage, and the scent of gingerbread wrapped itself around her as she exited the car and entered the house.

Maggie greeted her in the back hallway, Parker at her side.

“Hey sis,” she said, “hi, boy, did you miss me?”

The dog was too old to jump on her, but he pushed his face into her hand, and walked with her into the living room, where she saw her daughter asleep on the couch, the multicolored light from the Christmas tree playing over her face.

“She made chili for you, if you’re hungry,” Maggie said.

They went into the kitchen, leaving the child to sleep a little longer. Parker followed along slowly, and collapsed at Kathleen’s feet when she dropped into a chair. “Chili sounds great.”

The sisters chatted while the weary traveler ate, and then Maggie got up to leave. “I’ll see you Christmas morning,” she said. “Love you, kid.”

“Love you too, sis.”

Kathleen and Parker returned to the living room, where Clariel opened her eyes to ask, “Mom? Are you really home?”

“I really am,” she said. “You wanna go to your bed?”

“I’m good here,” the child answered. “But, I’d be better if you sang to me, like when I was little.”

You’re still little, Kathleen thought, but not for much longer.

She pulled an ottoman over by the couch and sat on it, trying to choose a song. Parker came and rested his great head on her knee, and she smiled, ruffling her daughter’s hair with one hand and her dog’s fur with the other.

Then she began to sing the song she’d heard in the airport piano bar.

I pray on Christmas

That the sick will soon be strong

I pray on Christmas

The Lord will hear my song

 

I pray on Christmas

That God will lead the way

And I pray on Christmas

He’ll get me through another day.

Notes: This piece was inspired by Harry Connick, Jr.’s song “I Pray On Christmas,” which was suggested by my good friend Debra Smouse. Photo Copyright: viperagp / 123RF Stock Photo

karaidel / 123RF Stock Photo

Flash-fiction: In Every Age

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<a href='https://www.123rf.com/profile_karaidel'>karaidel / 123RF Stock Photo</a>Cantor Sylvia never expected to be playing the guitar and singing ancient songs in the lounge of a starship, but then, she’d never expected to be on a starship in the first place. She was too old, they said. She wouldn’t last the trip from Earth to Centaurus.

And yet, here she was, sitting in the common lounge, staring out the huge window – viewports -they called them viewports –  at the streaking stars, her great-grandmother’s acoustic guitar resting against a belly that had seen a few too many latkes and maybe not enough salad in her lifetime, sharing the old songs with kids who would never remember that they came from Earth.

Actually, the Goldberg twins had been born under the dome at Curiosity Village, on Mars, and little Rachel Levi had grown up at Luna Colony. Earth might be in their blood, in their DNA, but it wasn’t where they were from. Not the way she was.

She played the chord again, and saw the children gathered around her focus their attention. And why not? They’d grown up with digital instruments: violins and cellos that relied on computer chips for their tone, guitars that made their sound through a wireless amplifier, and pianos that could be rolled into a cylinder the size of a zip-top sandwich bag. Her guitar didn’t have any chips, and it couldn’t be made smaller. It was wire and wood and care and love and history, and its lines were the only ones Sylvia had caressed since her beloved Harry had passed on five years before.

“I’m going to sing you an old song now,” she told them. “And you’re going to sing it with me. It’s in Hebrew. So, listen once, and then repeat.”

Mi yimalel gvurot Yisrael,
Otan mi yimne?
Hen be’chol dor yakum ha’gibor
Goel ha’am!

Their singing was tentative at first, as their tongues learned the shapes of the long-ago language of their people, but they repeated the verse and then moved on to the next, learning the words a line at a time, and then singing them as a cohesive verse.

Shma!
Ba’yamim ha’hem ba’zman ha’ze
Maccabi moshia u’fode
U’v’yameinu kol am Yisrael
Yitached yakum ve’yigael!

“But what does it mean?” Rachel asked.

Sylvia understood that what the little girl really meant was, Can we sing it in English?  She reached out and tugged one of the child’s strawberry-blonde braids. It was gentle. Harmless.  “My granddaughter used to ask me that, too,” she shared. “In English, it goes like this.”

Who can retell the things that befell us,
Who can count them?
In every age, a hero or sage
Came to our aid.

The little girl wrinkled her nose. “I like it the other way better,” she said. “It’s prettier.”

Sylvia’s eyes twinkled, and her face stretched into a broad grin. “You know what?” she asked. “I like it both ways. Do you want to know why?”

“Yes, please.”

She changed her focus to include all the children. “When we sing it in Hebrew, we’re remembering the old stories, the country and the planet where all our families originated. And when we sing it in English, we’re making our stories and songs accessible to new generations. Someday, maybe we’ll sing these songs in languages Earth has never heard – or Mars or Centaurus either.

She didn’t really expect the children to respond, but when she looked up, she saw the reflection of their parents in the glass of the window – viewport – whatever – for they had gathered around behind her during the singing.

“Can we do it again?” Benjamin Goldberg wanted to know.

“Yes,” Sylvia said. “Yes, we can.”

They say space is silent. They say that you could scream your loudest inside a starship, and never be heard beyond the hull. But on that night, Sylvia was certain, if there were any creatures who existed outside the warm and oxygen-filled atmosphere of their vessel, they would have heard the voices of children and adults lifted in song.

 

Notes: Mi Yimalel is a traditional Jewish song, and was suggested by my friend Joy Plummer.  Photo Copyright: karaidel / 123RF Stock Photo

Empty Sky Photo by Maia Habegger on Unsplash

Cold as Ice

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Empty Sky Photo by Maia Habegger on Unsplash

The winter ocean was dark blue and slate grey, and the waves were choppy and tipped with white, but Harmony didn’t feel the cold when she was swimming. And she was swimming, fast and purposefully, following the hiss of raindrops falling in the cold sea, and the rumbling voice she knew so well, except that this time, her thunder god, her Oskar, wasn’t merely calling her name. He was singing.

Vinterns frost har fångat min skog

I vitt ligger kullar och berg

Frusna fält där ängarna låg

Som bly ur himmelens färg  

The louder his voice became, the more intense was the precipitation. Rain was joined by sizzling sleet and hail that sounded like jingle bells.

She found him, sitting on a blanket of white fur that was spread across an ice floe. She knew he’d registered her arrival, but she let him continue the song, his voice vibrating through her and compelling her to move closer.

Vandrar kring i min vinters land

Längtande efter en värmande hand

Långt, långt bort är mitt paradis

Stelnad och kall är min själ

Som av is

Harmony folded her arms on the edge of the fur-covered ice, and rested her chin on top, keeping her tail in the water. Oskar met her eyes, and quirked his scraggly brows at her, hesitating for a moment.

“Keep singing,” she told him. “It sounds wistful; sing away the pain.”

The man who boomed when he spoke was so much softer when he was singing, that the siren in her couldn’t help but be drawn to him. She didn’t understand his language, but it didn’t matter. She comprehended the emotion.

Oskar acknowledged her request by falling back into tempo.

Tänd en glöd i min vinters land

Räck genom dimman en värmande hand

Visa väg till mitt paradis

Stelnad och kall är min själ

Som av is

 As the last note died away, so too did the ice and water that had been falling from the sky. Oskar patted the fur beside him, inviting Harmony to join him, and she accepted his wordless invitation, hoisting herself onto the ice.

He wrapped her in more white fur, pulling her back against his chest, and she relaxed against him, enjoying the warmth of his arms, of his body, of his breath tickling the back of her neck as he nuzzled her hair then lowered his head to place a gentle kiss on her shoulder.

She kept the tip of her tail-fin in the water. Later, she would allow herself to form legs – Oskar would keep her warm – but for now, just being held was enough. She stretched her head backward for an upside-down kiss.

They were quiet, just being together, for several minutes, and then Harmony rolled in Oskar’s arms and her tail melted away.

Their joining was mostly silent. Sighs and moans, soft murmurs, low rumbles. Words weren’t needed.

Afterward, nestled against Oskar’s chest once more, her delicate legs nestled between his more powerful ones, his arms crossed over her belly, her head tucked under his chin, she spoke again. “The song you were singing… what did it mean? Can you translate it into my language?”

The thunder god didn’t speak, but he hummed the tune once, and then again, and his voice flowed through her body and filled her as much as their joining had. He was silent for a moment. Then he wasn’t. Softly – well, softly for him – Oskar began to sing the song, in the language of the mermaids.

Winter’s frost has captured each tree

The hills are all covered with snow

Frozen fields wherever I see

And gray skies wherever I go

Wistful herself, Harmony interrupted the song. “I’d like to see fields someday. I’ve never been that far inland. Would you take me some time? It doesn’t have to be in winter.”

Oskar’s reply came in the way he held her tighter for a beat or two, then loosened his grip. He hesitated, likely translating the next part of his song for her, and then the music resumed.

Wandering in my Winter’s land

Longing once more for the warmth of her hand

Far away is my paradise

Bitterly cold is my soul

Cold as ice.

Under the furs, Harmony covered his hands with her own. “Paradise is right here,” she insisted. “Right now.” She turned in his embrace, kneeling between his legs so she could meet his eyes. “Paradise is every moment we have together. I will always come when you call.”

Oskar lifted his hands to the mermaid’s face, caressing her cheeks, pushing her hair back, and then covering her ears before he spoke. “IT IS NOT ENOUGH!”

“No, it’s not enough, but for now it’s all we have.”

“I KNOW.” He paused and smiled. His hands still protecting her ears, he said. “YOUR TURN TO SING.”

Harmony smiled. She knew Oskar wasn’t referring to music.

Their second time was full of passion and heat, and they were both panting when it was over, though panting eventually faded into softer, sleepier sounds.

Harmony woke to a full moon and a starlit sky. She stretched her arms and flexed her toes, and, reluctantly, she woke the sleeping thunder god. “I have to go,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”

She kissed him three times and then slipped back into the water and began the swim toward home, but his voice called to her under the waves, and she broke the surface to look back toward his ice floe.

Soft snow began to fall like stars that melted into the waves.

Light a fire in my winter’s land

Let me once more feel the warmth of her hand

Lead the way to my paradise

Bitterly cold is my soul

Cold as ice.

 

Notes: Inspired by the song “Som Av Is” (“Cold as Ice”) by Roger Pontare. Song suggested by Berkley Pearl. Photo by Maia Habegger on Unsplash

Danse Macabre via Flash Prompt

The Audition

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Danse Macabre via Flash PromptIt’s not like any instrument I’ve ever seen. Or rather, it is, but it’s as if I’m looking at its reflection in a warped mirror.

“I can’t play that,” I tell our Host.

His gaze feels like how I imagine it must be like when an anvil is dropped on your head. “Are you not a Cellist?”

“I am,” I say. “But that instrument looks more like a bass.” And not a double bass, either, I think. More like a quadrupal  – no – octupal – bass.

“And do you know how to play a bass?”

“In theory. A normal one anyway. I mean the strings are different, tuned in fourths instead of fifths, and G is the high string, but… the physics are the same. But this one… In order to play it, I’d need at least two more hands. Maybe three.”

“That can be arranged,” the Host replies, as blandly as if I’d asked for a glass of water.

A shiver goes through me. When I agreed to sub for my friend Karl on this gig, I had no idea what I was getting into. All I’d been told was to show up at the mansion on Aerie Drive just after dusk, and to wear black.

“It can?” I ask, inwardly pleased that my voice remains steady. (I’d been certain I would squeak.)

“Easily.”

The word lasts three times as long as it should, and then I feel it… my body is changing. My shoulders and rib cage are expanding and suddenly instead of the two arms I was born with, I have six, and when I move them, it’s as if I’ve always had six.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell the Host.

“Say nothing, Cellist. Just play.”

And suddenly the instrument makes sense, with its eighteen pegs and eighteen strings. I’m playing chords I never knew existed, and my body just knows what to do, where to put my fingers. The music and I are one being, and I feel like I’m flying, like I’m connected to the universe and it’s energizing me with every stroke of the bow, every press of my fingers against the wire and the wood.

When I finish my impromptu audition, my heart is racing and I’m breathing hard, and I can feel sweat on my brow and under all of my arms, but I don’t ask for feedback.

I don’t have to.

I know.

The Host remains silent for a long moment. When I think a moment can’t possibly be stretched any thinner he speaks the word “Brilliant.” The final ‘t’ is almost its own syllable. “Follow me to your room. You’ll do well here.”

I don’t mention that I thought this was a one-night gig, or that I have an apartment waiting for me. Somehow, I know I’ll never be going back to it. I belong here, now.

Here where the music will never stop, and there’s an instrument only I can play.

Naiad Spring via Flash Prompt

Star-Crossed?

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Naiad Spring via Flash Prompt“Hello, Naiad,” he chuckled. “How’s the water?”

It was the same greeting he offered every morning, as soon as her head broke the surface of the water.

And every morning, she gave the same response, “Jump in. See for yourself.” It might have seemed like a brush-off, save for the warmth in her voice and the flirtatious wink with which she punctuated her reply.

But all he ever did was flash his insouciant smile and turn away from her, walking into the forest until the sound of his hoofbeats was completely overwhelmed by the rushing of the falls.

She, of course, watched him go until the mist and spray coming off the tumbling river obscured his form. And it was a beautiful form. His top half featured a broad chest and muscular arms while the lower part of him sported chestnut hair, firm, strong hindquarters, and fetlocks that were positively swoon-worthy.

Their little ritual was repeated every morning, and the looks that passed between them grew longer, the tones of their voices more intense. Still, they never deviated from their script.

The day his lips found hers almost at the very second she surfaced – before he had straightened his neck and spine from bending to sip from her spring – was the day she knew she had to send him away forever.

“I don’t get it,” her sister shared. “He’s single; you’re single. What’s stopping you from just going for it?”

“You know that saying about if a bird and fish fall in love, where do they live?”

“Yeah, so?”

“How much more difficult must it be for a siren and a centaur?”

Her sister had stared at her for a full minute before throwing a rock past her head. The younger woman’s laughter rippled forth like the concentric rings on the surface of the water.

“What’s funny?”

“You are. I mean, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” When she didn’t reply, her sister asked scornfully. “Honestly, where do you think seahorses come from?”

Pinch of Stardust via Flash Prompt

A Pinch of Stardust

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Pinch of Stardust via Flash PromptI’ve always loved playing in the kitchen.

I remember all the times I watched as my grandmother and my mother and all the aunties would bustle around, measuring out ingredients and filling kettles, stoking the fire of the big old coal-burning oven and testing things for doneness.

Sometimes they’d give me some dough to shape. I never twisted it into the classic pretzel-shape everyone expected, though. Instead, I’d outline continents or trace the lines of constellations, then dab on the egg-yolk and sprinkle a bit of cinnamon sugar or salt, as my mood dictated.

I always suspected that they gave me the dough to keep me from seeing what they were really cooking.

But I knew.

Too many things that weren’t food came out of our kitchen.

Aunt Helen, for example, always baked the loveliest quilts, patchworks of strawberry, blueberry, and raspberry with squirts of lemon juice for a punch of color.

Aunt Delia poured galloping horses out of her kettle, and Aunt Patricia blended the most amazing stories – you could taste the voices.

Mom… Mom dabbled in a little of everything, but when she was at her best she’d toss a few ingredients into a hot saute pan, and out would come a complete outfit, inspired by the latest cover of Vogue or Elle or (when she was making something for me) Seventeen.

My grandmother, on the other hand – she had the real talent in the family. She’d layer things into one of the big lasagna pans, singing while she worked, and an hour or so later, she’d pull pots of African violets out of the oven.

She sang to them, too, of course.

But that’s a different kind of magic.

It took me a while to figure out my specialty. At first, I wanted to blend stories like my aunt, but we have different voices and different experiences in the world, so my stories are different than hers.

She blends things from root vegetables and sharp cheeses, red wine, fresh bread, and long walks in misty woods.

My stories… they’re made of other ingredients. Dark chocolate, spicy chili, sometimes a little wasabi, other times a whole, creamy avocado. And I don’t blend. Sometimes I saute, like Mom, and sometimes, I bake, like my grandmother, and often I use the crockpot, because some stories need to be stewed slowly… And I do sing while I’m working, sometimes.

Now, each of us has one, special, secret ingredient that we use when we’re in the kitchen. As with magicians, we don’t reveal what those ingredients are. Or at least, we would never share what others might be using.

But I don’t mind telling you what mine is.

It’s very simple, and incredibly hard to find, both at the same time.

It’s a pinch of stardust.

Trashed Flowers via Flash Prompt

Gladiolas

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Trashed Flowers via Flash PromptHe would bring them home in buckets. Roses, sunflowers, peonies, mums – whatever flowers were pretty and seasonable.

They were metal buckets. Garden pails, really. He would drop them near the door and call out that he was home, and I’d follow the sound to the foyer, running to his solid embrace.

I didn’t mind the roses, and I liked the tulips and irises and sunflowers.

But it was the gladiolas that I loved.

The first time he gave me glads, it was the night before his first deployment, and they were yellow.

“No ribbons, babe,” he insisted. “You’re allowed to be reasonably worried. But no ribbons. No signs. If you must keep a vigil, do it quietly.”

Well, I really wasn’t the ribbon type.

But before he left, I buried myself in his arms and breathed in his scent – fresh flowers, speed stick deodorant, Old Spice aftershave. I memorized that smell.

The next bunch of gladiolas were pink, brought to the hospital the day our daughter was born.

I asked if he would have preferred a son. “Nawp. Girl or boy, it’s much the same. We’ll raise her and love her, and she’ll know about writing and cooking and embroidery from you, and tools and gardening from me, and none of those pink screwdrivers, either. This baby will grow up knowing the difference between Philips and flathead.”

I laughed at that. “Don’t forget Allen wrenches,” I said. “She has to be the queen of flat-pack furniture by the time she heads to college.”

“And so, she will.”

And so, she was.

And the gladiolas kept coming, their tall green stalks and delicate pastel flowers witnessing every holiday and birthday and sometimes just because it was a day that ended in ‘y.’

And then they stopped.

He stopped.

At his funeral, I tore away the lilies and roses, and laid the gladiolas on his coffin. They looked me, our family, our friends, like I was crazy, but I did it anyway. And our daughter understood. She wrapped her arm around me and said, “Yes, Mom. That’s what he would have wanted.”

I couldn’t be around glads for a long after that.

When I turned fifty, a well-meaning friend sent a bouquet that had gladiolas in it. I gave her my brittle smile and thanked her politely. I also stuffed the whole god-damned bunch of flowers into the trash can outside the restaurant as soon as her leased BMW had pulled away from the curb.

A few days later, the bucket appeared near the front door. Metal. Galvanized. Full of yellow glads. I stared at them, convinced they were a mirage, but when they remained after several hours, I brought them all the way inside.

I caught a whiff of speed stick as I moved them through the house.

Being in a relationship with a ghost is a tricky thing. Sometimes, he can be corporeal enough to engage in sexual intimacy, but other times even a simply hug requires more substance than he can offer.

I can hear him speak, but no one else can, though our dog always follows the direction of his out-of-tune singing.

I don’t ask him Why or How or How Long.

He doesn’t push me to remarry.

Our daughter never questions my out-of-the-blue happiness, either. She never suggests I seek therapy, or find a new lover – one who has both presence and a pulse.

She sees the buckets of gladiolas in every possible color.

And she knows.

Fire Womb via Flash Prompt

The Tree

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Fire Womb via Flash Prompt“The Tree is the heart of the Forest,” they told me. All of them, the old Mothers, the old Wives, spun me their tales of loyalty and devotion, betrayal and desolation, love and loss, and time.

“The Tree is the heart of the Forest and the Mother is the heart of the Family,” they elaborated as the years went by and my marriage remained a barren one.

Despite my long years of adulthood, they spoke to me as though I were a child. They never say it outright, but their tones all imply the same thing. I, who have never carried a growing fetus within my womb, who have never pushed a mewling infant into this cold world, am somehow less.

Less of an adult. Less of a wife. Less of a person.

At home, sitting in front of the fire, I rail and rant and cry, and my husband wraps his solid arms around me, and assures me I am not less, but that I am actually enough.

He kisses away my tears and fury and we make love by firelight, our bodies coming together with no less of a thrill despite the familiarity of decades.

When he brings me to completion, I let my exultation resound, willing the Others, the Old Ones, the Grandmothers and Great-Grandmothers with their brooding eyes and clucking teeth, to hear it.

“Listen,” I think. “Hear this. I am full of Warmth and Joy and Love.

“The Tree is the Heart of the Forest, and the Mother is the heart of the Family.” I hear them chanting it in my head, and I banish their wavering voices and frowning mouths. I cast away their sorrowful faces etched with ancient worry lines.

They’re right, though.

The Tree is the heart of the Forest.

But its roots and branches dwell within me.

I will never be the Mother.

I am the Tree.

Accidental

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Bloody Glasses via Flash Prompt“So, what exactly were you doing with the dremel?” Detective Bloom had seen a lot of murder scenes before, but he’d before witnessed anything that was so gory and so pathetic at the same time.

The perp, Chaz French, pushed his blood-spattered spectacles further up his nose. His eyes were dilated, and his face was pale. Shock at what he’d done, no doubt. The M.E. would be done soon, though, and they’d be able to wrap the poor guy in a shock blanket and take him somewhere cleaner. Somewhere more secure. Somewhere without any power tools.

“Samantha has always had terrible sinus problems,” the man answered in a shaky voice. “But this last month with the high ragweed count and all, she’s been miserable. She wakes up choking on mucus, her head is constantly throbbing. She can’t eat or sleep or think. Miserable.”

Bloom noticed that the perp was still speaking of his dead wife in present tense. He hadn’t realized he’d murdered her. That happened a lot, with Accidentals. Eventually, the reality would set in, and they’d relive their violent act, but right now, French was as much a victim as his late spouse.

“Yeah, sinusitis can be rough. My girlfriend takes Benadryl every night, just to breathe.”

“Sam does that too,” French said. “It used to be just one – half a dose – but lately it’s been two, or even four – a second dose around six in the morning.”

“I hear ya,” Bloom said. “But tell me about the dremel?”

“Well, tonight, Sam starts begging with me, crying that she’s in so much pain, and she can’t breathe and she just wants to tear her head open to relieve the pressure. ‘Just do something, Chazzy’ – Sam always calls me Chazzy – ‘Please just make it stop.'”

“And you decided to drill a hole in her head?”

“Well, yes and no. See, we’re both history buffs and we’ve been reading this novel where a doctor recommends trepanning to fix a mental disorder.” Bloom gave the guy a pointed look, and French elaborated, “I know, acute sinusitis isn’t a mental disorder, but she’s my wife and she’s begging me for help, and what am I supposed to do? I wanted to use the power drill, but Sam suggested the dremel because it’s not as powerful, and would be easier to control.”

“Except it wasn’t?”

“Oh, it was. And I’d downloaded instructions from the Internet, so I had a guide, but… but, see, the vibrations, they started a kind of… well, Sam said it was a tickle.”

“A tickle?”

“And then she sneezed, and her head went forward and then the dremel was buried in her brain and still spinning, and oh, God! SAM! Samantha!!! I’m so SORRY.”

Spattered blood mixed with tears as Chaz French broke apart in front of Bloom.

The psych consultant arrived then, and wrapped the poor son of a bitch in a warm jacket before guiding him to the white van.

The medical examiner returned from the other room, then, her expression grim and her ashy color betraying her exhaustion. “Accidental,” she said to Bloom.

He nodded. “I figured. Anything else?”

“Yeah. We have got to get this home trepanation instructions off the web. This is the fourth one this week.”