Moonlight

March 22, 2023March 7, 2023 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 6 Comments

She sat straight, legs crossed, palms filling with rising moonlight. Each in-breath had the cool chill of autumn night. Each out-breath had the warm hunger of her heart. Breathing in nightfall, breathing out hunger, she reminded herself that she was controlled by neither.

And yet, the moonlight had its plans.

The moon rose higher, and she felt her hunger rising to meet it. Her breath came faster now. New scents, new possibilities drifted on the night air, and she breathed them in, savored them through her sharpening senses. Her savoring turned to panting. As her breathing sped, swift and shallow, she found herself losing all count of in-breaths and out-breaths. Losing all sense of control. All sense of herself.

Her hunger howled within her, and as the last of her humanity slipped away, her limitations went too. She lost herself, but gained the night. She had no need for counting or control. She was the moonlight made into flesh and fur and fang.

And she was hungry.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

The Body

March 15, 2023March 1, 2023 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 4 Comments

As he stared out the window, he still found it difficult to understand how he hadn’t noticed. It’d lain in the long grass for weeks, decaying in its own putrescence, and all he had done was complain to the custodian about the smell from what he assumed was the drains. But it hadn’t been the drains. It had been an old man, lying dead no more than ten feet below his office window for approximately four weeks.

The police assumed he’d wandered behind the office block looking for a place to relieve himself after an afternoon in the pub. The autopsy indicated a heart attack.

The body had been found on a Saturday morning by a loose dog following the scent, so none of them had known about it until the following Monday. Andrew read about the man in the local paper the next day. He’d been married, with five grown-up kids and an army of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He’d lived in a small terraced house close to the office. His family had reported him missing after he failed to come home and the local police had carried out some extensive searches, but who would have thought to look in the long grass behind an office block? Andrew learnt the man’s name. Bernard Jones. He had been seventy-eight years old.

Andrew went to the old man’s house about three weeks after the discovery of the body. He had no real plan, just some vague notion of wanting to see where the old man lived. He had an unresolved sense of guilt. There were a few cars outside, with people in dark clothes milling around. It was only after a few moments he realized he was watching the man’s wake. A young man, smoking outside the house, noticed him and walked over.

“Can I help?”

“I’m just paying my respects to Bernard.”

“Oh, you knew him. I thought you might have been the press again. They’ve been hanging around for weeks now. It was the way he was found, you see. Come on in and say hello to Nan.”

“No, I must get back to work.”

“Please. Grandad had so few friends. It would be nice for her to see you. We’re just back from the crematorium.”

Andrew found himself being guided into a small house where the entire Jones family was gathered. It was a forlorn place, showing all too clearly that Bernard Jones had not been a rich man. He was gently steered into the front room, full of what his mum would have called knick-knacks. Plates with various pictures hung from the walls. Brass figures of dogs and horses stood on the mantelpiece above the gas fire. Photographs of the family were everywhere. Bernard might not have been rich in the financial sense, but he did have wealth of another kind. He was rich with family.

An elderly woman sat on a sofa. Middle aged men and women, teenage girls and boys and children were arrayed around the matriarch of the Jones family.

Andrew stood there awkwardly. He shouldn’t have been there. He felt like a fool. He should have just stood up to the young man outside. The conversation stopped and interested faces turned towards him. Mrs. Jones smiled at him. The young man spoke.

“Nan, this is one of Grandpa’s friends. What’s your name, mate?”

“Andrew Johnson.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Johnson. Bernard never mentioned you, but that’s no never mind. Come and sit beside me Mr. Johnson. It’s nice to hear stories about him. Makes me feel as if he’s still with us. We were married for fifty-six years you know. Never had a row, not ever. We didn’t have much money but we was happy.”

Andrew sat, trying desperately to think his way out of the situation he had stumbled into.

“So, how did you know my Bernard?”

“Well…”

“It wasn’t through the bingo was it? He loved the bingo, not that he ever won anything.”

The others around her laughed.

“No, it wasn’t bingo.”

“The pub then. He loved his ale.”

A ragged cheer went up in the room and several of the men raised their plastic glasses.

“No, it wasn’t the pub either.”

A plastic cup containing warm white wine was thrust into his hand. He took an involuntary sip just to avoid speaking for a moment.

“So where did you know him from then?”

There was no other answer than the truth and it spilled out of his mouth in an unchecked flow. The faces of the family changed to amazement and then to anger. Mrs. Jones sat on the sofa beside him with an expression of stunned bemusement on her face. Tears welled out of her eyes and coursed down the canyons of her wrinkled face.

Andrew was pushed off the sofa and landed on his knees on the faded carpet. The wine spilled out onto the shoes and stockings of Mrs. Jones and, as if in a dream, Andrew watched as the liquid trickled from the nylon down into her lumpy shoes. She sat as if not feeling the sensation.

The family jostled him, not quite drunk enough to strike him in front of the widow. He was forced from the front room and into the hallway. In a matter of seconds his jacket was torn and his tie pulled off. A few punches were thrown and Graham felt blood on his face. He was thrown out the house. He started to run. The crowd did not pursue him, perhaps in deference to their deceased relative. Shouted insults echoed in his ears.

He didn’t stop running until he reached the office building. He was deeply ashamed. The Jones family had reacted naturally to him. He had spoilt an important family moment. He walked round the side of the building until he stood directly below his office. He saw the indentation in the grass where Bernard Jones had lain. It was still visible. He laid down and started to cry.

∼ RJ Meldrum

The Taste of Soap

March 8, 2023February 26, 2023 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 9 Comments

Shirley hated the taste of soap, and she hated the smell of cigarettes.

“If you didn’t tell lies, you wouldn’t get the soap,” her mother reminded her when the girl complained.

Shirley would be instructed to hold the bar between her teeth for three full minutes. She would gag and drool and her drool would create amalgamated bubbles with the soap. The only positive aspect of the soap was that it smothered the smell of cigarettes that lined her mother’s clothing like stale satin.

The next time they were at the store, a very tall man with no eyebrows dropped an item into their cart when Shirley’s mother was not looking.

At the checkout, her mother questioned Shirley about the unintended purchase. When Shirley described what she had seen, her mother folded her arms and frowned. “Good thing ‘the man’ gave us soap. You will be tasting it soon enough.”

Shirley tried to protest, but her mother wouldn’t listen.

Later, as Shirley gripped the new bar between her teeth, she saw a horrible vision. She saw her father being held at gun point. “Dad’s in trouble,” she announced when her mother retrieved the soap from her mouth, “I saw it.”

“Keep up the lies and I will put this right back in,” her mother ordered, only she was putting the soap away and reaching for a cigarette.

Later that night, a call came explaining that Shirley’s father was in the hospital. Her mother paled and clasped Shirley’s shirt between shaking hands. “What you think you saw doesn’t matter now. We won’t speak of it again.” Her mother went to the hospital, leaving Shirley in the care of their neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, who promptly fell asleep in front of the television.

Left unattended, Shirley found the bar of soap and placed it between her teeth. She saw her mother sitting at her father’s side, gripping his hand and crying. Her mother was speaking, even though her father’s eyes were closed. She was saying, “Please don’t leave me….please don’t leave me alone with her.”

Once her father recovered, he was a changed man. He spent less time working and more time with Shirley. In her father’s company, Shirley rarely got into trouble. Her mouth was veritably soap-free with the exception of the time that she began speaking of the man with no eyebrows again. Her mother had instituted the soap punishment and Shirley experienced a vision of Mrs. Johnson sitting dead in her reclining chair in front of the television.

“What is it?” Her mother snapped, taking the soap from Shirley and noticing that the girl was more agitated than usual.

“I saw Mrs. Johnson. She was dead in her chair.”

Her mother snorted. “You’re insulted because she doesn’t want to play your foolish games with you, so you are making this up. I am sure she is fine.”

When the ambulance pulled up the following day, and Mrs. Johnson’s body was removed beneath a sheet, Shirley’s mother watched from her porch while having a cigarette. Shirley’s father decided to take Shirley away from the tragedy of Mrs. Johnson, much to her mother’s chagrin.

“Your father spoils you,” her mother scolded. “He is your parent, not your friend. He needs to be more of a disciplinarian.” Her mother began inviting herself on their excursions so she could “mold Shirley’s behavior.” Since they were often on the go for their outings, “molding” involved clandestine swats out of her father’s sight. Her mother couldn’t be expected to remember to bring the soap.

At a picnic, Shirley turned down her mother’s offer of pasta salad, saying she didn’t like it.

“Liar,” her mother’s anger rose quickly, and Shirley cowered, awaiting a sharp smack. Since her father was in view, her mother simply said, “I have seen you eat it before.”

Shirley was certain that in this instance, it was her mother who was not being truthful, but she knew better than to argue. She watched her mother consume a cigarette, knowing the woman would not forget that she had a punishment coming.

When they arrived home, her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her into the bathroom. “You know what lying girls get,” she said with vehemence and removed the soap from the cabinet. Once the bar was between her teeth, Shirley saw another vision. This time her vision was fueled by delirium, making it as confusing as it was horrific. She saw the tall man with no eyebrows approaching her mother. Her mother pursed her lips to exhale cigarette smoke and the man took that opportunity to turn into vapor and enter her mother’s mouth. Her mother wheezed, clutching her chest, gasping for air.

Shirley wasn’t sure what that meant, but she knew her mother was in trouble. Her eyes teared.

“Let me guess, you had another vision.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “We don’t talk about them. I don’t want to hear your lies.”

Shirley blinked back her tears and ran water in her mouth. Her mother looked at her accusingly. “Well did you? See anything?”

“No,” Shirley lied. She vowed to continue lying since she was not allowed to speak of her visions. Her lies became larger as her mother grew weaker. Eventually, Shirley no longer had to smell smoke or taste soap.

∼ Elaine Pascale

Drops

March 1, 2023February 26, 2023 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 6 Comments

With each tear that fell from her cheek, another drop of laudanum fell from the pipette. Chewing her lower lip, she wondered if the choice she’d made was a just one. Closing her eyes, she drew forth a fond memory of her once vital son laughing as he played – a sound she’s not heard in some time. Her knees buckled as her resolve strengthened. A few more drops and his pain would be ended. Climbing the stairs, the glass of apple juice trembling in her hand, she choked back her own wail of agony.

∼ Nina D’arcangela